Spokane, Washington
Exhausted after days of travel and being on the run, Avery slept through most of the trans-continental flight, stretched out on one of the plush couches in the rear mid-cabin. She awoke to the pilot’s announcement that they were on final approach to Spokane and that local time was 11:47 p.m. Pacific Daylight Time. As Martiel had promised, the flight from Glasgow to Spokane International Airport had lasted about eight hours, which was exactly the time difference between the two cities, so instead of waking up to a new dawn, Avery found herself at the tail end of the same fateful day that had started with her visit to the Louvre and her discovery of the secret of the Brazen Head.
It was as if time had stood still.
She roused herself, splashed some water on her face and tried to straighten her rumpled clothing before heading up into the forward cabin where Stone and Martiel were seated in the same chairs they had occupied at the flight’s start. The latter was staring at the screen of a laptop computer, occasionally typing in messages. After a quick glance, which revealed that he was browsing the Immortal Mysteries Forum, Avery took the seat across from Stone.
“What did I miss?” she asked in a low, conspiratorial whisper.
“A lot of grandiose monologuing and fiendish cackling,” Stone said with an indifferent shrug. “You’re lucky you slept through it.”
Martiel uttered a short, humorless, but not particularly fiendish laugh, and then snapped his laptop shut. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do. You won’t provoke me with schoolyard taunts.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” Stone replied, shooting Avery a wink. “He really does like the sound of his own voice. I spent eight months at that black site in Romania undergoing ‘enhanced interrogation techniques,’ but I swear, eight hours of listening to him go on about Big Data and the Zionist banking conspiracy...that’s torture.”
Avery knew Stone well enough to grasp the significance of the comment. Stone had survived those long months of imprisonment by studying the behavior of the men guarding and interrogating him, so that, when the opportunity for escape finally presented itself, he had known exactly which weaknesses to exploit, which buttons to push. By referencing his earlier captivity, Stone was telling her that he had spent the last eight hours learning Martiel’s patterns of behavior, studying his microexpressions, his tells, judging his reactions, learning what made him tick and what absolutely set him off.
Even without Stone’s astute powers of observation, Avery knew that Martiel’s repeated assertions of intellectual superiority indicated just the opposite—a textbook inferiority complex. It was the only explanation for why he had brought Stone and herself along, even though doing so might jeopardize his plan. He couldn’t help himself. He was like Marty McFly in the Back to the Future movies—pathologically driven to prove himself, even when doing so played right into the hands of his opponent. Stone, a master at social engineering, would be able to play Martiel like a fiddle.
And yet, Stone had completely misjudged the significance of the Brazen Head in Martiel’s grand scheme. What if the Immortal really was as smart as he claimed to be?
Nothing more was said as the jet finished its descent, touching down a few minutes later and taxiing to a private hanger away from the small terminal. When they finally received permission to unbuckle their seat belts, Martiel’s demeanor became cold and ruthless.
“I’ve treated you as my guests up to this point,” he said, “but I’m afraid that will change now. When we disembark, we will be met by a group of men who have sworn themselves to the success of this mission. They are military veterans with combat experience. I would strongly suggest that you refrain from provoking them, or for that matter, interacting with them in any way. Suffice it to say, any attempt to escape or draw attention to yourselves would be met with an immediate and disproportionate response. Do I make myself clear?”
Avery, suddenly feeling a little less confident, nodded. Stone didn’t respond at all.
“Then let’s be on our way, shall we?” Martiel rose, slung the backpack containing the Brazen Head over one shoulder, and started for the door. “If you stay close to me,” he added without looking back, “you just might survive to see the sunrise.”
Stone reached out and took Avery’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Stay close to me,” he said. “Everything will be okay.”
Martiel’s goons were waiting just outside, and they were exactly as advertised.
The men, half-a-dozen of them in all, reminded her a lot of Billy Sievers, though more in the way they carried themselves than in their overall appearance. All were Caucasian though that seemed to be their only common trait. They sported a variety of grooming styles ranging from barely kempt to clean-shaven and bald as a cue-ball, but they all looked poised for action, eyes constantly moving, looking around for any potential threat or target.
A white van with the logo of a popular television news channel was parked behind them near the open door of the hangar, and as Martiel started toward it, the six men collapsed around him, none-too-subtly sending an unspoken message to Avery and Stone that they should keep up with him. Martiel climbed into the back of the van which, despite its outward appearance, contained no broadcast equipment. The rear passenger seats had been removed to create a large cargo area, which was mostly empty aside from a row of black plastic Pelican cases stacked up in the middle.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Martiel said, clearly speaking only to Avery and Stone. “It’s about forty minutes to where we’re going. Unfortunately, we’re done riding in style.”
Avery got in after him and followed his example by sitting on the floor with her back against the sidewall, knees drawn up and toes just touching the cases. Once Stone was inside, two of the men got in the front seats while the rest boarded through the rear door, the last one pulling the door shut behind him. Although there were windows front and back, Avery’s line of sight was completely blocked. It felt like being sealed in a tomb.
The van pulled away and began the journey to what Avery assumed was the Mystic server farm. The ride seemed to take a lot longer than forty minutes. The precarious seating arrangement amplified every turn and every bump in the road. The van possessed little or no insulation against road noise, making conversation at any volume below a shout impossible, but none of the occupants seemed interested in conversing. Yet, as bad as it was, Avery was dreading what would happen when the van reached its destination.
When the van slowed and then came to a full stop, she thought the moment of truth had arrived, but it soon became immediately apparent that this was only a temporary halt.
Martiel leaned close to her and whispered. “Not a word. Understand?”
Avery nodded. She didn’t know what she would be able to accomplish with just one word, given the circumstances, but then she became aware of the flashing blue and red lights that were just visible in the narrow sliver of the windshield that she could see.
Police cars, she realized. For a fleeting instant, she felt a surge of hope before realizing that this was what Martiel had been talking about.
The driver rolled his window down and spoke to someone outside. “Evening, deputy.”
Avery could just make out the voice of a man—presumably a law enforcement official. “Road’s closed, fellas. Haven’t you heard?”
Martiel got up suddenly and came forward, leaning over the driver’s shoulder to speak to the deputy. “We’re here to interview the leader of the protest.”
“They aren’t giving interviews. Even if they were, we’re not letting anyone inside the perimeter.”
“We’ve made special arrangements. Check with your superiors. Tell them Thom Martiel is here.”
The deputy paused. “Of course. We’ve been expecting you. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Avery’s heart fell, though she shouldn’t have been surprised that Martiel had followers working inside law enforcement. The Myrmidons’ investigation into the Dominion had revealed a concerted effort, both by that group and other anti-government and white supremacist organizations, to infiltrate state and local police agencies, particularly in rural areas.
“Thank you,” Martiel said. “Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”
As the van started forward, Avery thought she could hear shouts of dismay, probably other reporters—actual journalists—who had been turned back at the barricade. Martiel remained where he was as the van rolled ahead slowly, only to stop again a few seconds later.
Another unfamiliar voice came through the open window. “How’d you guys get past the cops?”
“We had a special press pass. The name is Thom Martiel.”
“Mr. Martiel. It’s an honor to finally meet you in person.”
“He’s a regular alt-right rock star,” Stone muttered, which earned him an angry hiss from one of the other men in the back seat.
“What do you need us to do?” asked the man outside.
“Just let us through and keep doing what you’re doing. This will all be over soon. When the sun rises tomorrow, it will shine on a new world.”
“Amen to that, brother.” A few moments of silence followed before Martiel clapped the driver on the shoulder and the van began moving again.
Avery wasn’t really sure exactly what was going on in the world outside the van, but she could feel the tension inside increasing by degrees. There was an eagerness for what was coming, but also anxiety. The men, as Martiel had pointed out, were veterans of combat; they knew, in ways that Martiel himself could only imagine, all the things that could happen to them once the bullets started flying.
Martiel half-turned to face them all. Avery thought he was going to make some kind of inspirational speech, but all he said was, “Phase one.”
One of the men reacted immediately by popping open the nearest Pelican case and taking out a battered old Betamax video camera. It was a relic, probably not even functional, but Avery guessed that didn’t matter.
The van stopped again, and this time Martiel moved to the side door, popped it open, and stepped out with the ersatz cameraman right behind him.
As soon as they were outside, a male voice, electronically amplified, probably with a bullhorn, said. “Stop right there, or we will open fire.”
“We’re journalists,” Martiel shouted. “We’re here to interview Mr. Spaulding about the protests.”
“Don’t come any closer,” warned the voice. “We will open fire.”
Martiel stuck his head through the door again. His face was a mask of barely contained rage. “Somebody tipped them,” he snarled, and then his gaze fell upon Avery. “And I think I know who.”
Tam! Avery thought, feeling a measure of satisfaction. He’s talking about Tam. She figured out what he was planning and warned the people at Mystic.
“I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way. Phase two, now.”
“They’ve got the numbers on us,” cautioned the driver before anyone else could move. “And we don’t have the element of surprise anymore. They’re giving us an out. Maybe we should take it.”
“Absolutely not,” Martiel shot back. But then he seemed to pause. His eyes returned to Avery. “I’ve got an idea. Watch for my signal.”
Then, before she could even yelp in protest, he reached out and snared her wrist, yanking her across the van and out the door. She would have fallen face first on the pavement if Martiel had not maintained his grip on her arm. He pulled her up and then wrapped his left arm around her midsection, holding her against his body. She could feel something hard and cold pressing into the side of her neck as he stepped away from the van, using her as a human shield.
Her first look at the outside world was a shock to the system. The van had stopped about fifty yards from a gate that blocked the road. The road led to an enormous building—only two or three stories high, but longer than several city blocks—which Avery assumed had to be the Mystic server farm, or at least part of it, but the gate was not the only thing standing between Martiel and his destination. Several concrete K-rail barriers had been dragged across the road just behind the gate, and hunkered down behind them were at least a dozen men wearing dark military-style uniforms and brandishing assault rifles.
Martiel started advancing.
“Stop, or we will open fire,” the voice repeated, the words tinged with a barely perceptible quaver of fear.
“Put down your weapons, or I’ll kill her,” Martiel shouted, practically screaming, right next to Avery’s ear.
For the first time since France, she felt truly terrified.
The man with the bullhorn kept repeating his warning, his voice growing more strained with each step forward. “We know what you want. We are not going to let you come in here. We will open fire.”
“Then you’ll kill her, too!” Martiel screamed back. “Is that what you want?”
“Don’t come any—”
Before the disembodied voice could complete the warning, Martiel suddenly threw himself flat on the ground, pulling Avery down with him. As he dropped, he shouted, “Now!”
And then everything went to hell.