The Thirteenth Legion (A James Acton Thriller, #15) (James Acton Thrillers) (31 page)

“What is
this power you speak of?” pressed Flavus, fearing the old man may not be long
for this world, and he needing to know the complete truth before Elysium
claimed the tired soul that lay beside him.

“It is a
power you are not ready for. But one day mankind will be, and when he is, the
truth will be revealed, the power will be unleashed, and the dawn of a new age
for the species will begin.”

Flavus
glanced at the others, excited and confused mutterings rounding the room. “I
don’t understand.”

Ananias smiled,
patting his hand. “You’re not meant to.”

Flavus
felt his chest tighten in frustration, it replaced with concern when a coughing
fit overtook Ananias.

“I need
to see it, just one last time,” he gasped.

Flavus
turned to Atticus. “Bring it.” Atticus nodded, leaving with several of the
others to retrieve the skull kept in another room of Flavus’ home. Flavus
turned to Ananias, the old man having lived with him for years now. “What are
we to do?”

“Protect
it, seek out the others and protect them, but never bring them together until
you know you are ready.”

“Why?”

“The
results could be disastrous.”

“In what
way?”

“In ways
you cannot possibly understand. But in time, your descendants will.”

Ananias smiled
as Atticus entered the room carrying the chest, aided by another. It was placed
on a nearby table and Flavus rose, unlocking it with a key held around his
chest, lifting the lid, the original box revealed inside. He opened it, a
shiver rushing up his spine as the skull grinned up at him. Removing it from
the case, he returned to Ananias’ bedside and the old man smiled, a shiver passing
through his body as he reached up and placed a hand on the smooth cranium.

“Thank
you.” Ananias stared into the eyes of the skull, a tear forming. “Good bye, my
old friend.” His eyes closed and his breathing slowed, Flavus bowing his head
along with the others. Suddenly Ananias gasped. “Wait!”

Flavus’
heart slammed, startled. “Yes, what is it, my friend?”

“The
skulls. They must not be hidden away. They must be allowed to continue their
journey, to have their effect on man, to prepare them for the time when the
secrets can be revealed.” His hand left the skull and instead cupped around
Flavus’ cheek. “Promise me you will carry on.”

Flavus
held a hand against the old man’s. “You have my word as a soldier, and as
Legate of the Thirteenth Legion.”

Ananias’
eyes closed, a smile on his face. “My time has come. Yours is just beginning.”

And with
a gasp, he drew his last breath, the hand slipping from Flavus’ cheek to rest
on the skull that had meant so much to him.

Off the coast from the Denier Installation, Iceland
Present Day

Proconsul Kennedy stood at the prow of the boat, the cold of the
North Atlantic going unnoticed as he peered through the binoculars at the
bright lights in the distance, their drone having failed for some reason.

He
sighed.

He had
always wanted the position of proconsul he now occupied, since he was a
teenager and had learned the truth from his father, a member of the Triarii and
the council member responsible for the British Museum skull. He had been
ambitious, always done well in school and graduated from Oxford top of his
class. A career in politics had given him the political and business
connections he had felt would aid the Triarii in the future, and then he had
made his bid to replace his father upon his retirement.

He had
been granted the position, and the rest was history.

A
history known only to those within the Triarii.

He
rarely saw his old classmates now, but when he did he was forced to be vague
about what he had done, having settled years ago on telling them he couldn’t talk
about it, it classified government work.

This
always shut them up, and impressed them.

He had
been proud of his work, of what he had dedicated his life to, but now it was
all falling apart.

Under
his watch.

He was
just glad his father had passed before the troubles began in earnest with the
incident in London.

As one
was apt to do in these situations, he not only blamed himself, but also
searched his memory for something he could have done differently.

He
should have been tougher.

He
should have rooted out the Deniers long ago so today would never have happened.

Why do
they insist on being so reckless?

As he
watched the lights glaring in the distance, reflecting off the clouds above, a
small part of him wanted them to succeed in harnessing the energy, another part
wanted them to fail, to have the entire area torn apart in a massive explosion,
putting an end once and for all to this debate.

The
truth would be discovered when ready to be revealed.

Of that,
he had no doubt.

He had
reread the digitized versions of the ancient scrolls referring to Ananias’
final words, words he hadn’t read since he was a boy. He believed the scrolls,
they written as historic accounts, not opinions, and preserved over the
millennia by his predecessors.

And Ananias
had referred to thirteen skulls.

The
legend of Ananias had been of an old man with the ravings of a lunatic, because
for centuries there had been no other skulls found, and for over a millennia,
housing the Oracles of Jupiter and Zeus together had resulted in no harm, unlike
what Ananias had assured them.

Which
was why when the third skull was found and brought to London, no one had
thought twice about putting it with the others.

The
result had been devastating, and with over a thousand years having passed, the
warnings of Ananias had been forgotten, few reading the scrolls that far back
as they were so fragile.

But the
digitization effort he had pioneered when becoming Proconsul now afforded him
that luxury, and what he had read was fascinating. All he had read before were
references and copies, copies that were incomplete or incorrect, written by men
influenced after the disaster, probably in an attempt to protect the legacy of
the founders.

But Ananias
knew too much to have been what was previously thought.

Thirteen.

He had
predicted the number of skulls.

He had
predicted disaster if they were joined.

And he
had told the founders to seek out and protect the skulls, allowing them to pass
through the hands of men until they were ready, at which point their power
would be harnessed and the dawn of a new age would begin.

He
sighed, the lights appearing to get brighter on the horizon, though it could
just be his imagination.

Martin,
don’t screw this up.

He had
faith in the skulls, had faith they were here for a purpose, and he couldn’t
believe they would wipe man from the face of the earth should something go
wrong. Whoever or whatever had put them here had a purpose. What that purpose
was, he didn’t know, though it couldn’t be to destroy. Not on a global scale.

Perhaps
they merely destroy those who aren’t ready.

He
frowned.

We’re
not ready.

“Sir!
We’re experiencing some sort of interference on those bands you wanted
monitored. Sounds like somebody is transmitting but it’s encrypted.”

Kennedy
lowered his binoculars, returning to the warmth of the bridge. “Source?”

“No way
to know, not with our instruments.” The Captain nodded at the shore. “But if I
had to guess.”

Kennedy agreed,
it the only logical answer.

“Do you
think they know the professors’ friends have arrived?”

Kennedy nodded.
“Without a doubt.”

“Should
we join them?”

Kennedy shook
his head. “No. We’ll let them deal with the Deniers, and just pray the skulls
remain unharmed.”

“And the
professors?”

“Are of
no concern to us.”

Lower Level, Denier Installation, Iceland

Dawson booted the door open, Niner stepping inside, he quickly
following, his weapon raised as he scanned left to right, Niner the opposite.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

He heard
the same echo across the hall as Spock and Leather did the same. They had no
idea where the professors were being held, which meant they couldn’t bypass any
of the nearly dozen rooms along the hallway leading from their entry point. It
was slow work that meant more hostiles would be on the way, yet it was
necessary.

It also
prevented someone from coming up behind them.

Yet so
far every room had been found empty, merely storage or office space.

Apparently
everyone was watching the show.

Or
pursuing Atlas and the others outside.

He hated
having one of his men out there without Delta backup, but Leather’s men were
excellent, all ex-Special Forces, mostly British SAS, so they were good. Damned
good. And they’d have the big man’s back.

He
smiled.

There
was no
way
he was fitting in that vent.

“Company,”
hissed Niner, the sound of footfalls echoing in the hallway.

“Prepare
to engage,” whispered Dawson as he took a knee in the doorway, Niner just
behind him, standing. Across the hall, Leather and Spock did the same.

And they
waited.

The
boots on institutional linoleum continued to get louder, the first black-suited
guard appearing moments later, followed by three others.

They
held their fire.

Until
the first man spotted them.

“Open
fire!”

A series
of quick bursts and the four were down, not a shot returned.

“Let’s
clear this damn corridor.”

He
booted open the last door on the left, Niner rushing in, the room clear once
again. Stepping over the bodies, they reached the end of the corridor, it
splitting off in two directions. To the right were another half dozen doors and
a dead end, to the left a corridor with several others branching off, and more
doors.

With
windowed rooms.

“This
way looks more important.”

Spock,
covering their rear, spoke up. “Didn’t the last intel suggest they went
willingly?”

Dawson
nodded. “That’s what Fang relayed, yes.”

“Then if
they went willingly, they’re probably not being held in a room as prisoners.”

“What
are you saying?”

“You
know those two. They’re always at the center of the action. I’ll bet Niner’s
salary that they’re in that control room we saw.”

Dawson
pursed his lips, thinking. Spock was right. If Acton had any say about it, he’d
be right in the mix, trying to do something to either stop what was going on,
or make sure whatever was going on didn’t destroy the damned island.

And
searching room by room was taking too long.

“Okay,
let’s find that control room.”

He took
point, the others staggered behind him, Niner covering their six as he headed
toward a rather serious looking door at the end of the corridor.

Somebody
stepped into the corridor, weapon raised, lead belching toward them. Dawson
leapt to his left, the butt of his weapon leading, shattering the glass of one
of the offices. He hit the floor hard on the other side, Niner landing on him a
moment later as the distinctive sound of MP5s responding filled the air. Dawson
jumped to his feet, leaning out the shattered window and adding his own fire.

Leather
and Spock were prone, pouring on a steady stream at the junction ahead, the
barrels from several guns making appearances around the corners as their
opponents fired blindly.

And missed.

For now.

“Fire in
the hole!” shouted Niner, pulling the pin on a flashbang, tossing it down the
corridor. Dawson stepped back, his Sonic Defenders protecting his ears from the
deafening explosion.