“No idea. They drugged me. I woke up in this small room, no windows. I can hear the city noise, though.”
“I will find you.” Jack’s voice boiled with emotion. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will save you, I promise you.”
“Jack,” Mia said, “Those guys who jacked us last night were FBI.”
“I know. How deep do you think this goes?”
“Deeper than you can imagine. Jack, do not help them,” Mia pleaded.
“What choice do I have?”
“Jack… you have to stay alive for the girls, protect the girls… I’m already dead.”
“You’re not dead!” Jack yelled. “Don’t say that. You survive, whatever happens, do you hear me? You fight!”
Mia grew quiet. “Jack, you can’t let him get that box. You know he’ll kill us both once he gets it?”
“That’s why I have no intention of giving it to him. But Mia, you have to tell me what is inside.”
“Jack, I can’t.”
“I saw Jimmy. He told me about the prayer books, about some kind of drawing-”
“Where did you see Jimmy? I don’t understand-”
The car door opened. Cristos stood there, his hand out, wanting the phone. “We’ve got to go.”
“Jack, promise me something,” Mia pleaded. “Don’t look inside.”
“I love you, Mia.”
“I love you with all my heart, Jack. Please tell the girls I love-”
And the phone was snatched away, closed, and tucked back into Cristos’s pocket.
Jack felt powerless, manipulated by Cristos. “Do you have any intention of telling me what we are doing?”
“You’re going to lead us down to the evidence room of the Tombs,” Cristos said. “And you’re going to steal the evidence case.”
CHAPTER 26
The boy was eight years old when his father gave him the small red leather book. It was a book provided only to those whose hearts were deemed pure, whose future would be one of devotion to their religion, their people, and the earth.
The book, used by the Cotis monks, contained pages filled with prayer, but through the simple act of wetting them, a blank page would be revealed, a secret tableau where one’s thoughts and words could be written and concealed as the paper dried. Informally called the Book of Souls, it was nicknamed so because its true heart was only known by its owner.
As the son of the high priest and ruler of Cotis, Suresh was blessed not only with pure blood but also with a mental and physical aptitude that the village had not seen in decades. He was mentored by scholars and holy men, warriors, philosophers, and poets who honed his mind, body, and spirit to form a young man who would one day take the place of his father as the ruler of Cotis.
As life moved on and the student attained enlightenment, then assumed the role of the high spiritual leader of Cotis, his writing evolved. No longer would it be of just the past but now of the present and the future.
Suresh grew into a powerful young man, strong, intelligent, with a supreme focus that allowed him to absorb his teachings and to excel at every discipline, be it hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, mathematics, spirituality, or philosophy.
But with his sharp, curious mind, Suresh realized that he needed to see the world beyond the confines of his family, their wealth, and the ancient kingdom of Cotis.
Against the entire Tietien council’s demands, Suresh chose to go on a pilgrimage, to see the world beyond their simple ways, beyond their forest home of temples and nature. His father begged him to stay, explaining that he had glimpsed his future and feared for him losing his spirit to the darkness of the outside world. But Suresh explained that if he was one day to rule, then he needed to do so with a global perspective, not one of isolation.
The open-air market was abuzz with life early in the morning on a cloudless day in the small town of Rashivia, just over the Cotis border in India. Sitting at the foot of the Parshia Mountains, the town was middle to lower class, except for the northeast section, where enormous lakeside homes were built for the wealthy who spent their summers away from the chaos of Delhi, Mumbai, and Calcutta. Vendors with pushcarts piled high with produce, dried meats, breads, clothing, spices, orchids, and tools filled the crumbling makeshift sidewalks and alleyways. Small shops with open windows and doors lined the dirt roads. Crowds of people swarmed about; the singsong voices of the merchants hawking their wares filled the air. Suresh walked among the sea of people, feeding off of the energy, feeling the vibrancy of life around him. He marveled at the diversity, at the differences between this part of the world and his home just a short distance away. He reveled in his new freedom, cherishing his escape from the ritual, from the routine that he now saw had stifled his understanding of the world.
Stepping under the woven tent of a produce merchant, Suresh flipped a coin to the hunched-over old man behind the cart and grabbed an apple. Taking a bite, savoring its sweetness, he looked out across the sea of people to see a young woman racing through the streets, her long, lithe legs seeming to make her float above the unpaved dirt road. Suresh watched as her long black hair drifted behind her, bouncing in rhythm to her every stride. Her face was pure and innocent, like a fresh orchid.
But he was shaken from the moment as he realized that she was on the run. Two men, large and equally fast, were ten strides back and closing. Without thought, Suresh charged from the bazaar, cutting through the aisles and past the merchants out into the open streets. People turned to watch, but their attention was distracted by the competing chaos.
The young woman led her pursuers down the road, kicking up a small dust storm with her long, quick strides. Suresh was ten paces back and closing when the woman cut down an alley bordered by two six-story decaying buildings, the two men right behind her.
Suresh rounded the corner to find that the trail to freedom was suddenly cut short by a high wall covered in razor wire.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the woman leaped onto a Dumpster, launching herself up onto the rusty fire escape that climbed the side of one of the brick buildings. Her hands caught the ladder, and she swung herself in a perfect arc, like an Olympic gymnast, forward, backward, gaining momentum.
But her long legs were her downfall. The first pursuer jumped and caught her by the ankles. She desperately clung, but his two-hundred-pound weight was too much. They both came crashing down to the filth-covered ground, the girl’s head hitting the pavement hard. She rolled around, dazed and confused, as blood began to blossom through her ink-black hair.
The second man grabbed her roughly by the neck, seeming to ignite a new fire within her, and she rolled up her fist and hit him squarely in the eye, kicking him hard in the stomach as she turned to run. But the first man was there, stumbling to his feet, reaching into his jacket, and pulling a stun gun. She dived to the right to avoid the two metal prongs, but it was too late as they jabbed her in the neck and ended her struggle.
She fell to the ground in a heap as the two men paused, gasping for breath.
They never saw Suresh come up behind them. They never saw the snap kicks and round-house punches that came from his oversized fists. Both were unconscious before they realized they were under attack.
Suresh crouched and examined the woman, checking her pulse, examining the wound on the back of her head that seeped blood.
He turned and flipped open the first man’s jacket to find a holstered Glock pistol and a cell phone strapped to his belt. Suresh rifled through his pockets and pulled out a small amount of cash, keys, and his wallet. The man’s name was Arthur Patel, and his address was fifteen hundred miles south in Mumbai. His ID said he was a special envoy to the Indian government.
He took both men’s guns, popped out the clips, quickly dismantled them, and scattered the pieces. Without knowing the circumstances, he had no intention of hurting these men any further.