

# From the Back Cover

FROM USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR J. ROBERT KENNEDY COMES THE PROTOCOL, A GLOBE-SPANNING, HEART-POUNDING ACTION ADVENTURE TWO THOUSAND YEARS IN THE MAKING!

"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J. Robert Kennedy."

For two thousand years the Triarii have protected us, influencing history from the crusades to the discovery of America. Descendant from the Roman Empire, they pervade every level of society, and are now in a race with our own government to retrieve an ancient artifact thought to have been lost forever.

Caught in the middle is archeology professor James Acton, relentlessly hunted by the elite Delta Force, under orders to stop at nothing to possess what he has found, and the Triarii, equally determined to prevent the discovery from falling into the wrong hands.

With his students and friends dying around him, Acton flees to find the one person who might be able to help him, but little does he know he may actually be racing directly into the hands of an organization he knows nothing about...

# **About J. Robert Kennedy**

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller list in the US and UK since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months.

He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy."

_Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer_

Find out more at www.jrobertkennedy.com.

Join The Insider's Club to be notified when new books are released.

# Books by J. Robert Kennedy

### The James Acton Thrillers

The Protocol  
Brass Monkey  
Broken Dove  
The Templar's Relic  
Flags of Sin  
The Arab Fall  
The Circle of Eight  
The Venice Code  
Pompeii's Ghosts

Amazon Burning

The Riddle

Blood Relics

### The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

Rogue Operator  
Containment Failure  
Cold Warriors

Death to America

### The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

Payback

### The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

Depraved Difference  
Tick Tock  
The Redeemer

### Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

The Turned

**THE PROTOCOL**

**A James Acton Thriller**

**Book #** **1**

by

### J. Robert Kennedy

THE PROTOCOL

By J. Robert Kennedy

Copyright © 2011-2014 J. Robert Kennedy

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Third Edition

3.1

# Table of Contents

The Novel

Thank You from the Author

Newsletter

About the Author

Also by the Author

For Espie, Niskha, Mom and Dad.

PREFACE

The crystal skulls referred to herein are real and have been confirmed to be of unknown origin and unknown method of manufacture by top scientists at Hewlett-Packard.

"And he bearing his cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull, which is called in the Hebrew Golgotha: Where they crucified him, and two other with him, on either side one, and Jesus in the midst."

John 19:17-18 King James Version

"All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dream with open eyes, to make it possible."

Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Lawrence of Arabia

London, England, 1212 AD

"Papa! Help me, please help me!"

Lord Richard Baxter picked himself up from the ground, his knee torn open, the wound demanding attention, its sting ignored. Consuming all his thoughts were his daughter's desperate cries as they tore at the night like a dagger, slicing through the tortured wailing surrounding him while fire engulfed home after home. With the smoke choking him, the heat searing his lungs, he held the sleeve of his tunic over his mouth and raced toward the pleas of his precious daughter. Tears streaked the soot on his face, his eyes irritated by the smoke and the mental image of his daughter's plight overwhelming him.

As he pushed through the carnage and destruction, he wondered what could possibly remain of his family home, a home paid for in blood six years earlier while saving King John's mistress from brigands. His heroics had earned him the King's thanks and a Lordship over a small plot of land. As a member of the council he kept a home in London and with the taxes he now collected from his new territory, it afforded him the luxury of improving their lot, the result the modest home he now enjoyed with his beloved wife and daughter. As he stumbled forward, the pain in his knee too much to now ignore, he couldn't help but conjure images of his wife and daughter, desperate, any happy thought of them shoved aside with horrid imaginings of them burning alive, his name on their lips, asking why he hadn't been there to save them.

It crushed his heart, the thought of not being there with them in their hour of need. His work had run late, very late, and if it weren't for the unexpected happenings at the council he would have been home with them, able perhaps to save them from the plight they now suffered. He had sent a messenger to let them know he'd be late, but that was of no comfort to them now.

They're dying because of you!

He had been in the council chambers, meeting with the elders to discuss the latest discovery when a terrific explosion had leveled the once mighty walls. He had been one of only a handful to survive, and was in the process of trying to rescue those still trapped in the chamber when word had reached him of what was happening outside.

Then his only thought was to get home to his family.

What he had found had rendered him speechless. As far as the eye could see almost every structure had been flattened. Twisted bodies lay strewn about, fires springing up all around him, spreading fast, lighting the thatched roofs of the houses left standing.

He rounded the smoldering embers of what was once a proud stand of trees to see flames devouring the last remaining section of his house not knocked over by the blast. His servants were desperately trying to douse the flames with water from the nearby well, but it was of no use. The house was a loss, the hellish flames consuming every surface as if possessed by an unquenchable thirst.

His daughter's screams reached him from inside.

"Lord Baxter!" yelled his valet. "Thank the good Lord you are all right. I had feared the worst."

"My daughter—"

"She is trapped inside, m'Lord, and we are unable to reach her. I'm afraid your wife was killed in the initial conflagration."

Richard's chest tightened at the news of his dear wife's death, his eyes filling with tears as his heart silently broke, but another cry from his daughter had him cautiously approaching the roaring fire as he pushed his grief aside, knowing if he didn't act quickly he would lose all that remained of his wife. Trying to shield himself from the intense heat with his hand, he retreated, the flames licking the night air as if searching for another taste of the blood it had already claimed.

"Papa!" The pain and desperation in her voice tore at his heart as he could imagine his wife, crying from Heaven for him to save their daughter. He ran toward the entrance of the home, determined to salvage what remained of a once happy family, but was grabbed by two of his servants.

"M'Lord, 'tis suicide to enter!" one cried. "You will surely die!"

Wresting himself free, he neared the door when the front wall collapsed inward, silencing the terrified voice. He fell to his knees and sobbed, his fists slamming into the ground as all hope, all dreams of the future died in that moment as his will to live left him. The servants pulled him to safety and to the body of his cherished wife. He looked upon her still form, her lower body charred from the flames, and wept as he pictured the agonizing death she must have endured. He gazed upon her face and noticed her neck, twisted and broken, and prayed it happened before the burning, this small comfort lessening his anguish only slightly as his chest heaved with sobs, his family wiped from existence with one swing of an unforgiving, and unknown, broadsword of evil. He raised his hands to the heavens and prayed for God to care for their souls and to eventually reunite them all.

Soon.

A throat cleared behind him, causing a momentary flash of anger to rush through Richard's body as he reached for his sword, rage consuming him as his tortured sole demanded retribution, demanded that all things die so there was no possibility he could ever experience joy or happiness again, his entire being overwhelmed in grief and self-pity.

Control yourself.

He sucked in a deep breath, holding it as he again looked to the heavens, silently praying for easy entrance into the celestial paradise for his loved ones. Rising to his feet, he wiped the tears off his face before turning to see who had interrupted him.

It was his manservant. "Yes, what is it?"

"I am so sorry to intrude in your hour of grief, m'Lord," his trusted man said quietly, his head bowed, "but the council page has said that your presence is required immediately. I told him that you were unavailable, but he was most insistent."

Richard raised his hand, cutting him off. "Tell him I will be along in a moment." He turned back to his wife, knelt down and placed one last tender kiss upon her forehead, then rose to fulfill his greater duty, a duty handed down for over a thousand years.

London, England, Present Day

Clive sat at the central security station of the British Museum with his black Nike-shod feet crossed at the ankles on a corner of his desk and his chair tilted precariously back, his long ponytail suspended in the air. His bony hands were clasped behind his head revealing the beginnings of yellow sweat stains under the armpits of his almost threadbare shirt. His mother had told him to replace it, but he hadn't seen the need. When he had his jacket on, which was all of the time when outside of this room, nobody could see his armpits anyway. He had told her to mind her own business then wondered why he'd ever agreed to move back into the old family house.

The room hummed with the fans of the computers, almost drowning out the annoying buzz of the overhead fluorescent lighting. Banks of monitors surrounded him, each alternating between different areas of the museum. Various entrances and exhibits flashed by revealing security guards on patrol, empty corridors and lonely displays. Clive had worked here so long the priceless works of art and the artifacts of mostly forgotten ancient civilizations had lost their allure and fascination.

The only screen that interested him now was the one showing the Man-U football game.

So engrossed was he that he didn't notice the car pull up to the Montague Place entrance or its lone occupant dash to the maintenance door, sheltered from the incessant English rain by the jacket pulled over his head. He rang the buzzer.

Clive nearly fell out of his seat. He killed the game and looked at the monitor demanding his attention. The jacket protected the hunkered over figure from both the rain and the camera. Clive punched the intercom button.

"The museum is closed, sir."

"Clive, it's me, Rodney! Let me in, I'm freezing my bollocks off!"

Clive laughed and tapped in the code to open the maintenance entrance. A buzzer sounded and he watched the door open as Rodney pushed against it. A moment later his friend appeared on the inner corridor camera, shaking the rain from his jacket and running his hands through his hair, the water puddling around his discount-store Oxfords. Rodney flashed a grin then mouthed something at the camera prompting Clive to punch up the audio.

"—E-R-P! Double O-L, Liverpool F.C.!"

Clive pressed the intercom button. "United's goin' to kick yer arses!"

Rodney flipped him the bird then continued toward the security station. Clive laughed and turned the game back on, propping his feet on the desk corner again. A few minutes later he heard a knock at the station door. He reached under the desk and pressed the entry buzzer. The door opened behind him.

"Hey, Rodney, United's up by one!"

He kicked off the desk, spinning his chair to face the door, keeping his eyes on the game as long as he could. As his chair completed its spin he turned his head around to see the barrel of a gun pointed at his chest. The gun fired and a stinging pain radiated from the center of this chest as he was hit. He slid from the chair into a heap on the floor, and the last thing he saw before the world blackened around him was his friend of five years standing over him.

On one of the monitors, Liverpool tied the game.

Andes Mountains, Peru, One Week Earlier

Garcia swung the pickaxe against the cave wall. The clumped dirt and rock sprayed back at him, mixing with the sweat glistening on his head and soaking through his shirt. "Este trabajo de Puta me lleva al Diablo," he muttered under his breath. _I feel like a mule. I don't see the Americanos getting dirty._ He swung again and another spray of dirt flew back from the wall. It was slow, hard work, but the professor had said there may be a secret room on the other side. Garcia respected the professor. _He gets dirty_. At first he had only agreed to be a guide, his deeply ingrained superstitions being too strong to participate in disturbing the ancient home of the ancestors. But the professor had a way of making him feel at ease so he had agreed to help with the heavy labor. Now he was beginning to regret it. Another swing and this time the axe almost came out of his hands as he broke through.

Excited, he cleared away more dirt, exposing the other side. After a few minutes of digging with his hands he was able to stick his head through the hole he created. The pungent smell of centuries of rot and decay almost overwhelmed him. He couldn't see anything. Then he remembered the flashlight on his belt. He fumbled for it, his fingers numb from swinging the axe, his heart pounding in excitement. Finally finding it, he shone the light through the hole as he stuck his head back in. At first, he saw only more dirt, then, as he played the light around, it struck something shiny. He focused the light and gasped as two disembodied eyes glared at him.

Garcia jumped back and tripped over his axe. As he hit the cave floor his flashlight flew out of his hand. "El Diablo!" he muttered as he stared at the hole in horror. He scrambled to his feet. "El Diablo!" he screamed as he ran down the narrow passage back to the surface. "El Diablo!"

Professor James Acton was on his knees, carefully brushing dirt away from what looked like an intact clay pot. One of his students, working in the same grid, carefully sifted the soil for any small shards. Students in other grids, each cordoned off with twine staked at the corners, were painstakingly removing over five hundred years of earth burying what Acton hoped would turn out to be an ancient Incan city.

This was the part of the job he loved—getting his hands dirty. Teaching in front of a class full of students was a close second, but taking those same students out of the environment they were familiar with then sticking them in the middle of what was now nowhere but where once an ancient civilization thrived—it was indescribable.

The excitement on the young faces when they discovered something, even as simple as a clay pot, brought joy to his heart each time that he prayed wouldn't diminish with repetition. His hunch that this city was actually here had been proven several years ago when he and a single grad student had received funding to confirm if an ancient Spanish map were accurate.

And it had been.

Exactly.

He had wanted to stay, to tell the university to forward his mail here, to the middle of nowhere, but of course returned to begin the long fight for funding a real, long-term dig. And now they were here, half a dozen of his best students, funded by the university, various endowments, and some well-off parents of the lucky ones.

It was a shoe-string budget, but he didn't care. What they were learning was invaluable, much of it routine, but some of it puzzling with no explanation as of yet. And that was what he lived for.

The unexplained.

He sat back on his haunches, his grid forgotten as he gazed at their most puzzling find yet, not twenty feet away.

It makes no sense.

He leaned back and stretched when screams erupted from a nearby cave at the top of an embankment on the other side of the camp. He jumped to his feet, rushing toward the hillside when one of their local hires, Garcia, burst from the entrance and tumbled down the hill to the camp below, striking his head on a small rock, opening a gash on his forehead.

"Señor Professor! El Diablo esta en la cueva! El Diablo is in the cave!"

Acton reached him as the terrified man's eyes fluttered then shut.

"Get some water and a med kit over here, now!" He knelt beside the unconscious man, examining Garcia's body for broken bones and finding none. One of his students, Robbie Andrews, arrived with a canteen of water and the medical kit. Acton opened it as he eyed the now moaning Garcia.

He soaked a cloth in water then started to clean the wound. Garcia moaned louder as the cool liquid revived him and gradually he came to, trying to sit up. Acton held him down.

"Drink," he ordered, holding a canteen to Garcia's lips. The still weak man drank gratefully and when he had his fill he pulled away. Acton handed the canteen to Robbie, then waved the rest of the gathered students away. "Let's give Garcia some space, shall we?" The students moved off, he knew disappointed, but his main concern was the health of their hired help, a man who had impressed Acton repeatedly over the past few weeks as he had taken on more and more duties, despite his deep reservations of disturbing "the ancestors". Acton sat beside him, a calming smile on his face and placed his hand on the man's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Now, tell me what you saw. And remember," he said, looking down at Garcia with a reassuring smile, "you're safe now."

Garcia breathed a deep sigh. "Señor Professor, I see the Devil in the cave!" he said in his thick Peruvian accent, the fear still tingeing his voice despite Acton's assurances of safety. It was clear the man's superstitions had got the better of him, and it was something Acton had dealt with across the world. Superstitions were pervasive in all cultures, including Western, but especially so outside of the "First World". It made hiring local help difficult sometimes, but usually the almighty dollar would win out.

Until one day you stumbled upon something that would send them into a panic and you'd suddenly find your camp devoid of workers.

He feared if he couldn't calm Garcia down, they just might lose the limited help they managed to attract up to this remote location, which at the moment included only Garcia, two guards and one driver who brought their supplies.

"Tell me exactly what happened." Acton continued to smile as he pressed slightly harder on the gash, trying to stem the flow of blood.

"I was digging at the wall like you ask me to and I finally get through—"

"You got through?" Acton and Robbie looked at each other with excited smiles. "What did you see?"

"El Diablo, I see El Diablo! I look through the hole and I first could see nothing so I get my light and then I can see. I see two red eyes looking at me. It was the Devil, Señor. I swear! I run outta there."

Acton was skeptical to say the least, knowing Garcia's superstitious nature. Whatever he had seen however was enough to send this poor man into a panic. And two red, glowing eyes had to be something; perhaps a reflection off of some jewels. The thought of what Garcia might have found had his own heart racing, but for now he had to calm the man whose breathing had quickened its pace.

"Two eyes?"

"Yes. Come, I show you if you not believe me!" Garcia pleaded.

Acton knew the best way to calm Garcia was to humor him. Expressing any doubt in what he had seen would insult the man's honor. Besides, regardless of what Garcia thought he had seen, Acton had no doubt he had seen something, and he was just as eager to find out what that might be, as Garcia was to prove he wasn't lying.

"No, you rest here. I'll go and look myself." Acton rose and started up the path leading to the cave entrance. He motioned for a couple of students to watch Garcia and for Robbie to follow him. "Grab some gear." They soon arrived at the entrance and crawled through the narrow opening of the cave discovered the day before behind a heavy growth of bushes by a couple of amorous students. Once inside, the narrow passageway opened up allowing the professor and Robbie to walk upright, but single file, deeper into the damp, dripping cave. Two hundred feet in, they found the hole Garcia had been laboring at all day. Acton shone his flashlight through, coughing at the overwhelming stench. At first, he too saw nothing.

Then he gasped.

Fort Meade, National Security Agency Headquarters

Echelon chewed through, as was its mandate, every phone call, e-mail, fax and telex message sent either by land or satellite from its laboratory in the National Security Agency building. Its Dictionary watch list was programmed to listen and look for certain hot words such as "bomb" or "anthrax." Any such messages or calls were flagged for review, which depending on the priority of the words and number of hits in a particular conversation or sequence of communication, meant either immediately reviewed, or put on a file to be reviewed possibly months later. The call from Peru at 17:52 Eastern Standard Time was immediately reviewed:

[CLASSIFICATION TOP SECRET UMBRA GAMMA PRIME]

[DICTIONARY HITS: CRYSTAL, SKULL, ACTON, NEW YORK]

[SOURCE ILC INTERNATIONAL LEASE CARRIER INTSAT-ALPHA]

[CALL ORIGIN: LIMA, PERU, ROAMING CELLULAR PHONE 212-555-7723]

[CALL DESTINATION: NEW YORK, NY, USA, LAND LINE 212-555-8838]

[# OF SUBJECTS = 2]

[SUBJECT IDENT: CALLER1 = ANDREWS, ROBERT IDENT SRC = TELCO]

[SUBJECT IDENT: CALLER2 = ANDREWS, JOHN IDENT SRC = TELCO]

[START OF TRANSCRIPT]

[CALLER1] "John, it's me, Robbie. Can you hear me?"

[CALLER2] "Barely, man. Where are you?"

[CALLER1] "I'm still in Peru, on the dig with Professor ACTON."

[CALLER2] "Oh yeah? I didn't think I'd hear from you until you got back. What's up?"

[CALLER1] "ACTON shut down the dig and sent us all to Lima for the night so I thought I'd call and see how you and Dad are doing."

[CALLER2] "We're fine. Dad's starting to recover from the stroke. I really wish you could be here but he understands how important getting to work for ACTON is. How're things going there? Why the shutdown?"

[CALLER1] "He found something. Something pretty cool but we're not allowed to talk about it. Only two of us have seen it."

[CALLER2] "What is it?"

[CALLER1] "I'm not supposed to tell, John. If ACTON found out I'd be kicked off the dig!"

[CALLER2] "How would he find out? I'm you're big brother man, come on!"

[CALLER1] "Okay, okay. We found a CRYSTAL SKULL, perfectly preserved in a hidden chamber. It's incredible John, I've never seen anything like it before."

[CALLER2] "A CRYSTAL SKULL? What the hell is that?"

[CALLER1] "According to the professor a few of them have been found around the world but nobody knows who made them. He was extremely excited when he first found it but then he seemed to get scared."

[CALLER2] "Scared?"

[CALLER1] "Yeah, I don't know why. Maybe he doesn't want to attract attention what with the problems down here. Anyway, my cellphone is starting to die so I'll say goodbye. Tell Dad I love him and I'll see him as soon as I'm back in NEW YORK."

[CALLER2] "Okay, you be careful down there."

[CALLER1] "I will, bye."

[END OF TRANSCRIPT]

Washington, DC

"What a day!"

James "Jimmy" Masters swirled his glass containing three fingers of an eighteen-year-old Ardmore single malt, the distinct aroma of smoke bringing back memories of his stay in Speyside, Scotland, several years ago with his wife. He raised the glass, toasting the empty rear of his limo, and took a long drag of the harsh liquid. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt as he felt his reward begin its job, his entire body enjoying the effects. He leaned back into the plush leather and closed his eyes as he let a long sigh escape.

His phone rang.

"Shit!"

He left his eyes closed, debating whether or not to answer. He knew he had to; his job was too important to let calls go unanswered. But at the end of a long day like today, he yearned for what it must have been like decades ago when cellphones and car phones didn't exist.

Downtime!

That's what he needed, desperately. Downtime.

A second ring.

When he had agreed to take on this job for President Jackson, a longtime friend, he hadn't realized how much work there'd be. And neither had his wife. She was tolerating it better than he had feared, and he tried to take her with him on business trips whenever he could and schedule an extra day or two of "alone time" when possible, but intelligence conferences, especially surrounding black ops like he was involved with, weren't always held in the most hospitable of conditions.

Three rings.

He sighed and put the leaded Steuben crystal glass on the drink tray and retrieved his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket that lay tossed on the seat beside him.

I can't wait until Jackson's administration is over and I can get fired.

He knew no matter what he did while Jackson was President, his job was safe, for he was there for one specific task, one the American public could never know about, one that even his own wife knew nothing about. One that had been handed down to him by his own father.

He pressed the talk button. "Masters."

"Sir, we have an Umbra Gamma Prime document here for immediate review."

"I'll be right there." He hung up the phone and pressed the button to lower the glass partition separating him from the driver. "Jerry, turn us around, I need to get back to the office, fast." His chauffeur of many years radioed the escort vehicles as Masters raised the partition, picked up his glass and gripped the overhead handhold.

The mini-motorcade's lead Lincoln Navigator cut left, jumped the median and blocked oncoming traffic. The Town Car limo locked up its brakes and followed, jostling its well-prepared VIP as the trailing Navigator cut across, assuming the role of lead vehicle. All three vehicles turned on their lights and sirens, leaving a trail of burnt rubber, smoke and a dozen confused drivers in their wake.

Umbra Gamma Prime.

It was one of the highest classifications of Top Secret there was in his business. In fact he had never had one cross his desk since he had taken the job, despite dealing with countless terrorist threats—both domestic and abroad—and having sent teams across the world in secret.

But tonight, on a night when there was nothing going on in the world that he could think of that would warrant such a high classification, he was being called back to read a file that couldn't even leave his office due to the high level of security.

There was only one thing he could think of that might have triggered this level of security, and it had his heart racing the entire fifteen minutes it took to arrive at his office.

"Sir, here's the communiqué." A Marine aide handed him the dossier and took his jacket. The dossier was sealed and tied with a red and white ribbon reading "TOP SECRET UMBRA GAMMA PRIME—DIR SPC OPS EYES ONLY."

"No interruptions." His aide closed the door as Masters entered and headed for his desk. Sitting down, his leather-backed chair exhaling under him, he glanced around the large office to make sure he was alone, then removed a device from his top desk drawer that resembled a small tape recorder. He pressed a button to activate the Radio Frequency Interference Generator to disrupt any visual or audio bug in his office, which, despite the device's effectiveness, was swept three times a day and after any visitor. The Umbra Gamma Prime document in his hands, however, demanded every possible precaution against someone eavesdropping.

Breaking the seal, he opened the dossier and scanned the identified keywords. His eyes shot wide open as his suspicions were confirmed. He skimmed the conversation then read it again, carefully, making sure he hadn't misinterpreted it. His heart slamming against his ribcage, he hit the intercom button on his phone. Static. Cursing, he turned off the jamming device then hit the button again. His aide answered.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get me Darbinger."

"Right away, sir!"

White House Chief of Staff Lesley Darbinger ran down the corridor leading to the Oval Office. He stopped just before the door and took several gasping breaths. _This is ridiculous. I need to get back into shape._ He used to jog five miles a day, but not anymore. No more time. _But winded at 200 feet?_ These days he felt he did more running _in_ the office than outside. _And it clearly isn't enough._

"Is he in?" he panted as he stepped into the outer office.

The fifty-something woman behind the desk looked up and stuck a pencil in the tight bun on top of her head. "Yes, sir." She picked up the phone. "Mr. Darbinger to see you, Mr. President." She hung up and nodded toward the door. "Go on in, Mr. Darbinger." A Secret Service agent opened the door to the oval office and Darbinger stepped through.

Stewart Alfred Jackson sat behind his desk reading a briefing paper. He tossed the folder on the oak desktop and laid his glasses down as Darbinger entered. They had met at Yale over thirty years ago and had been close ever since. Darbinger had worked on his gubernatorial, senate and presidential campaigns. With everything they had been through together over the years, Darbinger knew Jackson trusted him implicitly. He was his friend, his confidant, and his sounding board. He was the man he told all his secrets to. He was the man Jackson trusted more than his own wife.

And today, both of their lives were about to change, forever.

"What's on your mind, Les?" Jackson asked as he circled the desk and motioned to one of the leather couches.

Darbinger sat down to his friend's right and glanced around the office, making sure they were alone, and taking in the history represented by every object that adorned it at the same time. He leaned forward and lowered his voice as he realized he was about to add to that history.

"Mr. President, I just had a conversation with the Director of Special Operations."

"Jimmy Masters?" Jackson asked as he sat on the opposite couch.

"Yes, Mr. President." Darbinger lowered his voice further. "He thinks they found it."

Jackson leaned forward. "Found what?"

Darbinger tried to steady his breathing as his heart raced, shoving blood through his system at too quick a pace, the excitement and terror of the moment almost overwhelming. He took a deep breath and looked in his friend's eyes.

"The final missing skull."

17th Street, Washington, DC

Billy sat up in bed and looked around to see what had woken him, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Sunlight poured through the window. A little too much sun for 6:00 a.m. A glance at his alarm clock showed a flashing _12:01_.

"Shit!" He jumped out of bed, realizing it was the sound of nearly every electronic device in the apartment beeping as the power came on that had woken him. Running to the dresser, he grabbed his Tag Heuer watch. _8:15_. "Shit!"

He rushed to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face then ran his wet fingers through his sandy-brown hair, trying to make it look not too obvious he had skipped the shower. Swishing some mouthwash he found a clean pair of slacks on the floor and thrust his legs in. Running back to the bathroom he spat the mouthwash into the sink, grinned at the mirror to check his teeth for last night's dinner, then pulled on a pair of socks from the floor. He grabbed the dress-shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door he had planned to iron the night before, but had put off, and tried to will the wrinkles out with his hands. Tossing a tie around his neck and a blazer over his shoulder, he bolted from his apartment with his electric shaver, trying to shave a weekend's worth of growth off before his first day on the job.

This is all I need, to be late on my first damned day! Dad will kill me!

He hailed a cab and jumped in.

"Where to, buddy?" asked the cabbie in a thick Middle Eastern accent.

"The White House."

The cabbie looked in his rearview mirror, eyes narrowing. "Aren't you a little young to be working there?" he asked as he cranked the wheel, pulling a U-turn and surging them toward the hallowed residence.

Billy shrugged, gripping the "Oh Jesus" bar, debating if he should put his seatbelt on. "Intern."

"Ahh, that explains it," replied the cabbie as he floored it, blasting through the red light. Billy's eyes bulged as he yanked on the seatbelt, a little too hard, the tensioner halting him in his haste. Easing back on the belt, he eventually got himself secured, but only minutes later he was at the rear entrance, shoving a few bills through to the driver and jumping out, rushing through security and toward the rally point for the new interns.

He skidded to a halt, gaping at a line that zigzagged like an international arrivals area and threatened to spill out into the hallway if any more arrived. Surrounded by the excited buzz of dozens of young interns getting to know each other, he soon realized he needn't have worried about being late his first day. Everyone was being fingerprinted, photographed, swabbed for DNA, and retinal scanned. Even a voice sample was taken. _Man, what's next, a semen sample?_ His watch beeped noon as he arrived at the front of the line.

"Name?" asked the bored clerk.

"William Augustus Guthrie."

"Guthrie?" The clerk snapped his gaze up. "As in the former Speaker of the House?"

Billy nodded and lowered his voice. "Look, I'd kind of like to keep that quiet."

The clerk nodded. "Yeah, good luck with that." He waved him on. "Next!"

Billy moved down the line and placed his hand on an electronic palm scanner. Giggles from behind him drew his attention. Two girls still in line ogled him. They giggled again. He blushed. One of them pointed at his feet. Looking down, his left pant leg was partially tucked into his sock. And it didn't match his other sock.

Shit!

He quickly fixed his pants, resigned to having to go through the rest of the day with mismatched socks and a pair of co-workers who were aware of his predicament. He tried to put some people between him and the girls as the last couple of interns who had been even later than he finished being processed.

Then a tour he had been looking forward to for years finally began.

He studied every room and corridor in awe, his chest pounding in excitement as the White House intern tour wound through the building. He had been here years before with his father, but had been too young then to appreciate it. When the administration changed, his father didn't take him back to the White House again. "When they're voted out and our people are in, then you can go back," he recalled his father saying. That had taken eight years. Now he was back, but to work.

Eighteen years old, working in the White House. Shit yeah!

"Rough morning?" a voice asked from behind, startling him out of his reverie. He spun on his heel to see one of the girls who had been laughing at him earlier. Blushing again, he nodded.

"Yeah, my power went out, so...you know?"

"My name is Rachel," she said, extending her hand.

"Billy." He shook her hand nervously, realizing he was probably as crimson as a lobster.

"Next time you do the laundry, Billy, you should match your socks after they dry," she said smiling. "That way that doesn't happen," she said as she pointed at his feet. She laughed again and walked back to her friend who was trying to cover her own cackle with her hand.

Bitches.

They giggled some more then he heard Rachel say, "But he _is_ kinda cute!" to which the other one nodded and laughed again as she tugged her friend toward the group that had moved on.

Very hot bitches.

1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina  
A.k.a. "The Unit"

Command Sergeant Major Burt "Big Dog" Dawson expertly flipped each of the several dozen burgers on the charcoal grill while sweat glistened off his chiseled chest, partially revealed by a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt. The aroma of grilled meat filled his nostrils and his stomach growled. _I love barbeque._ It was a perfect summer day. The sun shone down out of a crystal clear sky, the light breeze taking the edge off the heat. As he flipped the final burger something hit him in the back of the head.

He swung around, ready to defend himself.

"Sorry, Mr. Dog, I didn't mean to hit you." The small boy grabbed the beach ball that had gone astray and ran back to the group of waiting kids.

"No problem, Bryson," he called after him. _Mr. Dog. Now that's funny._ His buddies in boot camp over twenty years ago had filled out his initials, BD, to "Big Dog". At first he couldn't stand it, but eventually it grew on him, especially once it had been shortened by most of his team to BD. It was better than some of the other nicknames he'd heard over the years. He now led Delta Team Bravo, a team of the most highly trained black ops specialists the U.S. Military had to offer. The 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, a.k.a. Delta Force, had been created in the 1970's as an answer to the growing problem of international terrorism. Since the Iran Hostage Crisis debacle—which if you asked insiders had more to do with political interference than poor training—they had served with distinction in many operations the American public knew nothing about. This was their lot in life—to do spectacular things, under the radar, for no credit, and the promise of complete deniability if something went wrong.

Dawson had served with Delta Team Bravo for over seven years and had been on missions in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo, Serbia, the Sudan, Syria, Iran and others. All had been successes in two ways. One, the mission was accomplished and two, nobody knew they had been there. His men were fiercely loyal to him, and he to them, having been through hell together too many times to remember. All were NCO's, Non-Commissioned Officers—sergeants of various stripes—command structure being fairly loose among each team, but ultimately there was always one man in charge, and for now it was him. The officers at their HQ planned the missions, the Non-Coms executed them.

Today was one of many family barbeques the team hosted behind The Unit in the secluded complex on Fort Bragg where they could train away from the prying eyes of the public or regular forces. Normally they weren't all able to be here, but today was a rare day. A roar of laughter erupted from one of the picnic tables, a reaction to a joke that likely couldn't be repeated in polite company, a.k.a. the wives and girlfriends, who sat at another table talking amongst themselves. Dawson had only ever been married to The Unit and the way his life was going, he expected it to remain that way.

He checked the burgers again. _Almost ready._ He laid the buns out on the grill to toast them. More laughter from the table. He looked over and saw the comedian was one of the two new guys, Trip "Mickey" McDonald. _Speaking of bad nicknames._ Mickey's huge ears stuck out of his head like Prince Charles'. One comparison to Mickey Mouse during training and he had been saddled with "Mickey" ever since.

What's so funny?

Sometimes he missed the old days when he wasn't the boss. He'd be sitting at that table with his men, laughing and telling one of his blue jokes from his extensive repertoire.

_Shit! The cheese._ He hastily peeled off slices from the stack next to the grill as he heard Mickey laughing hard.

"So, what did BD do?"

"Well, you'd never believe it, but BD is a very chivalrous man," said Smitty, a long-time member of the team. This elicited several guffaws from the men, even a raised eyebrow from Dawson. "So anyway, this hostage just wouldn't stop screaming. He kept telling her to shut-up, that he was there to rescue her, but she wouldn't believe him."

"Yeah, and she had taken one of those self-defense courses," chimed in Mike "Red" Belme, his second-in-command. "You can see where this is going, eh?"

"Don't tell me—"

"Yup, as soon as he cut her bindings she kicked him in the balls, kneed him in the nose then ran out of the building screaming at the top of her lungs," finished Smitty.

Dawson winced.

"Luckily I'd already taken out the hostiles so she was safe, but the local Yemini's had no clue what she was saying," explained Carl "Niner" Sung, probably The Unit's best sniper. Korean-American, he had earned his nickname in a bar fight years ago, a redneck calling him "slant-eyed" and Niner embarrassing him by slinging back a few of his own including "Nine Iron." The man was so irate he took a swing. The resulting brawl had resulted in several arrests—after the team had left the bar. From then on he had insisted his nickname be "Nine Iron" which had been shortened to Niner over the years.

"She was half-naked in the middle of a bunch of burqa clad women! The locals—" Red's face now matched his nickname as he tried to stifle his laughter to tell the story. Losing the battle, he motioned to Smitty to continue.

"Yeah, the locals were about to start stoning her when BD comes stumbling out of the building she'd been held in, cupping his boys."

"So he grabs her, throws her into this piece of shit Toyota truck we'd commandeered and drives away," said Red. "But the chick starts screaming again and tries to get out."

"Yeah, but this time BD's not havin' any of it. He backhands her in the face and knocks her out cold!" said Niner.

"No shit?"

"No shit!" laughed Niner. "I'm tellin' ya, Mickey, I saw it through my scope. Out cold."

Smitty nodded so hard his sunglasses fell off their perch on top of his head. "Yeah, so after we get picked up at the rendezvous, she's nursing a bloody nose and Big Dog is nursing a set of sore balls. And you know what he said?"

"What?"

Everyone at the table said in unison, "From now on, I don't go anywhere without a cup!"

Dawson smiled as his men exploded in laughter.

And his boys twinged at the memory.

"Burgers are up!" he announced. Cheers from the kids preceded their stampede to the grill as he rationed the burgers onto Styrofoam plates. He was about to fill up a plate for Bryson when his cellphone rang. _Shit!_

He flipped it open. "Speak."

"Mr. Jones, I need you at the flower shop for a delivery." The monotone voice on the other end signaled the pending end to the afternoon's festivities.

"Five minutes." He snapped the phone shut and motioned to Red, his friend and comrade for over ten years. "I have to go, you take over."

"No problem, BD." Red took the lifter from Dawson's hand and smiled at his boy Bryson as he held out his plate. "I'll hold down the fort 'til you get back."

"Thanks. Have the boys watch the beers, I have a funny feeling we're going to be busy soon."

Red nodded. "Will do."

Dawson crossed the field to the parking lot and climbed in his prized 1964½ Mustang convertible in original Poppy Red. The engine roared to life with a turn of the key and minutes later he was pulling into the HQ parking lot, wondering what the presumed mission would be and where.

Anywhere would be fantastic.

As he covered the short distance to the Colonel's office, he only hoped for one thing. That it was interesting. He wasn't a big fan of surveillance missions—too much ass sitting. He preferred the adrenaline fueled infiltration type missions, ones where hands got dirty, weapons got fired, C4 was put to its intended use.

At the end of the day he wanted to have done something useful for his country, something that would make a difference, even if the general public never realized it had ever happened.

He passed through the outer office, the Colonel's secretary Maggie not there. _Odd._ He knocked on the inner office door.

"Enter!"

Dawson pulled the door open and stepped inside. "What's up, sir?" he asked as he closed the door behind him. Colonel Thomas Clancy, the head of Dawson's unit, sat behind his desk, fishing a cigar out of an antique humidor that occupied a prominent position on his desk exposing his one last vice. An impressive array of medals and awards decorated the walls, revealing a career that had only recently involved a desk.

Never being one for formality when within the confines of his office, Clancy grunted an acknowledgement as he ran the cigar under his nose, inhaling the intoxicating smell. "I don't know," he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"Thank you, sir." Dawson sat down. "You don't know?"

"You were specifically requested by Control." Clancy snipped the tip off his cigar. "Beyond that, I have no idea. I'm out of the loop on this one, Sergeant Major."

Dawson didn't like the sound of that. Clancy was a commanding officer that Dawson respected—not just the rank and position, but the man. He knew whenever he was on a mission Clancy had his back, but with the Colonel out of the loop—which was rare—he couldn't trust that he and his men wouldn't be left hung out to dry should something go wrong.

He had asked for interesting, and it looked like he may get it, the old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times" coming to mind.

"When do I get briefed?"

"He's waiting now." Clancy flicked his butane lighter and carefully lit the cigar, rapidly puffing until he was satisfied it was completely lit. Placing the lighter back on his desk, he took a long drag and exhaled, letting the smoke waft over his face, allowing him to enjoy the fragrance one more time. His ritual finished, he turned back to Dawson. "Report to the comm center and don't report back to me until Control says to. Understood?"

Dawson rose and snapped to attention. "Yes, sir!"

Darbinger Residence, Washington, DC

"What's on your mind, dear?"

Lesley Darbinger looked up at his wife of over twenty-five years, spotting her look of concern. Nora knew him well enough to know something was wrong, and despite his best efforts, he was unable to hide this afternoon's news.

"Anything you can talk about?"

Darbinger swirled the cognac in his glass, watching the viscous fluid stick to the edges. _Good legs._ He looked up at his wife and smiled. "Oh, nothing wrong," he reassured her. "Just finishing up some old business." He knew damned well she would read right through the lie, she knowing him too well. Besides, cognac this early in the day was always a dead giveaway to something being wrong. Jackson had sent him home shortly after the news had been delivered, the President himself cancelling all of his appointments for the rest of the day. Her joy at seeing him home so early—something rare these past few years—had been short-lived, his gloom obvious.

Old business.

He was tired of this business. It wasn't his, it was never meant to be. He had merely joined in something his best friend had thought important. He would be lying to say what he had become involved with for friendship's sake hadn't become important to him as well—very important—but it had never been all-consuming like it was for Jackson.

For Jackson it was an obsession.

"Old business?" She frowned and sat down beside him. "You don't mean—"

He cut her off with his finger. "Remember, we don't say their name. _Ever_."

He could see the color drain from her face as she nodded, a look of fear clouding her eyes he hadn't seen in years. The fear she felt was one of his few true regrets in life. He should have never told her all those years ago why he had been so troubled, but he had. After all, she was his wife, and she deserved to know what was bothering her husband. She had understood, never truly believing, but when the rift had come between Jackson and the Triarii, and Jackson's actions had put their collective lives at risk, she had been shaken to her core.

And he didn't blame her.

"Are we going to be okay?"

His heart ached as he saw the fear, her bottom lip trembling slightly as she asked the question. He smiled, trying to convey confidence, strength, neither of which he had at the moment.

"They can't touch us now," he replied as he patted her hand. "But a thirty year journey may finally be about to end."

"You promised me it was over before, Lesley," she said, her tone suddenly firm from anger. "After that Smithsonian incident, you promised me. I don't want to go through that again."

It was one of the few lies he had ever told her, telling her it was over, that he had left that part of his life behind. But he knew deep down she didn't believe him, but like a good partner had indulged the lie, realizing it was told for her benefit, to try and mollify her fears.

But it was still a lie.

"Like I said," he repeated, "they can't touch us now."

She rose and left him alone, the fear and anger in her posture clear as his thoughts drifted to the Smithsonian incident that had changed their lives almost ten years ago.

He sighed, draining his glass.

Ten years of lies and deceit might finally be coming to an end.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Burt Dawson didn't have much time to pull together his thoughts. His briefing from Control was true to the word—brief. Which was quite often the case in his business so no red flags were raised. He would still rather be reporting to Colonel Clancy, but apparently the secrecy of this op was so tight, even their regular Ops Center wasn't going to be used, instead it being controlled from elsewhere. Where, he wasn't privy too. All he needed to know was that his team's comms would all be patched through to this secret Ops Center.

Which meant they were completely cut off from those he trusted at The Unit.

Again, unusual, but not unheard of.

What Control had told him could be seen as justification for all the secrecy. Apparently a homegrown terrorist cell had stolen a highly classified DARPA project during shipping. It along with the perpetrators had fled the country to a training camp they had set up in Peru. Buzz had it they were planning multiple attacks on American targets around the world and at home.

Their orders: infiltrate the training camp, recover the stolen item, interrogate the prisoners, and once identified, eliminate them if they were on the President's Termination List.

A straightforward mission that he had done at least a dozen times if not more. The only difference this time were the terrorists. All apple pie eating American men and women—university students who had fallen under the spell of a madman named Professor James Acton.

Dawson's orders for Acton were different. Once the item was retrieved, Acton was to be executed immediately—he was already confirmed on the Termination List.

Dawson wasn't sure how he felt about the mission—he had even asked if Control would rather the targets be captured and returned to the United States for prosecution. The suggestion had been angrily shot down, the orders reiterated. The only explanations for the reaction that Dawson could think of were that either what they had stolen was too secret for them to remain alive now that they had seen it, or that the President didn't want word of a bunch of American born and bred students hating their country so much that they'd spill innocent blood to further their aims.

Aims of which he had no idea what they were.

Remember 9/11 and how young those hijackers were.

He sometimes had to remind himself that the bad guys weren't always men who had experienced enough of life to know they didn't like it. Too often today it was young people who were still popping pimples and hoping to pop cherries that were being pulled into extremist activities.

It was sickening.

As he pulled up to The Unit and watched the young kids running around playing, he couldn't help wonder if some bastard in their future, like this Professor Acton, would corrupt their young, innocent minds, and have them hating the very country their fathers were fighting to protect.

Professor Acton is mine.

He parked, not looking forward to what he was about to do. He strode up to the party and noticed a couple of burgers still warming on the grill. Red walked up to him.

"Hey, BD, burger?" he asked as he put one together. Red, nicknamed for the red hair he shaved off with a bowie knife whenever a hint of it showed, was the second highest ranking member of Delta Team Bravo, Dawson's second-in-command, and his best friend of almost a decade. He had been named godfather to Red's son Bryson and spent many a holiday dinner at the Belme household as part of their family.

Which meant Red knew his friend too well. His eyebrows narrowed as he handed over the burger. "What's up?"

Dawson took a monster bite, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. "We've got a mission," he finally managed after swallowing enough to talk without revealing the ongoing mastication process.

"When do we leave?" asked Red, turning toward the group now in the third inning of a softball game.

"Now."

"Okay, I'll break the news."

Dawson stopped his friend. "No, I'll do it. Let the kids blame me and not Bryson's dad." Red smiled gratefully but stayed by Dawson's side as he walked into the group of operators, better halves and children.

"Hate to break up the party, folks, but we've been called up." A string of "aws" came from the kids, this not being the first time they had been disappointed. He hated it whenever this happened, which in today's insane world was too often. His men gave hugs to their families and loved ones, then headed into The Unit to be briefed.

Somewhere Over the Pacific Coast

The Chinook MH-47E helicopter raced toward the Peruvian coastline, its two Textrom Lycoming engines pumping out four thousand shaft-horsepower and propelling it at over 180 miles per hour as Command Sergeant Major Burt "Big Dog" Dawson, mission-designate Bravo One, took a knee amidst his men. He inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing in the intoxicating smell of the fumes, a smell he would never tire of. His men leaned in, each cocking an ear for their final briefing.

"This is the primary target," Dawson bellowed over the thunder of the rotors and the rattling of the hold. He held out a photo labeled 'Professor James Acton'. "He must be captured alive so we can recover the item. Eliminate the guards and any other resistance."

"What's the item, Sergeant Major?" asked Mickey.

"Need to know, Bravo Six!"

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" Mickey flushed a little, Dawson eyeballing him for a brief second. Mickey had hesitated to carry out an order on the last mission and an enemy combatant had got the drop on one of the guys. He had taken a round in the vest and survived, but three inches higher he would have been dead. It hadn't been necessary to chew Mickey out, he had learned his lesson. Dawson knew he'd never hesitate or question orders again.

"The primary objective is to capture the target alive and recover the item. Video will be sent to Control and they'll determine if the remaining targets are on the Termination List. Intel has them as members of a domestic terrorist cell. This Professor Acton is their leader. Apparently he's convinced these students to join him in his cause. Remember, just because the hostiles are young doesn't mean they're innocent. The only difference from any other mission is this time they're American, but no less a risk than any other Islamic fundamentalist cell we've taken out before. These people hate their country and our way of life. They mean to destroy it from within, and we're here to stop that. If they're on the Termination List they'll be eliminated. According to UAV overflights, the camp is lightly guarded at night. They are to be eliminated first by Overseer who will be dropped off one mile from the camp. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" they answered in unison.

"Five minutes to Overseer drop," the pilot announced over the comm.

Dawson activated his tactical throat microphone. "Acknowledged." Looking at his watch, he rose, ending the briefing. "Five minutes to the drop. Check your gear!"

Andes Mountains, Peru

Professor James Acton entered his cabin, followed by Robbie Andrews. Though austere, the cabin was the only bit of luxury in the camp. Its plywood walls had narrow gaps between each board that let the cold Andes wind whistle through during the night, his kerosene heater merely taking the edge off. Acton walked over to the only cabinet with a lock in the entire camp, his heart already beginning to race. What they had found was remarkable. He had of course heard of the crystal skulls, the most famous of which, the Mitchell-Hedges skull, was on display at the Smithsonian.

And as far as he knew they were all fake.

Testing had shown they were carved by nineteenth century European craftsmen, then sold off as Aztec, Incan or Mayan relics to unsuspecting collectors. There were rumors of testing at Hewlett Packard that had confirmed at least one to be of unknown method of manufacture, but he had never taken the time to determine whether or not that story was true.

Frankly he never cared. They were sculptures made by modern man.

But their discovery here turned everything on its head.

This carving was found in a temple dug out of the side of a mountain, trapped for most likely five hundred years minimum, centuries before any European craftsman could have fathomed to create it.

If it weren't for the original discovery that had made this entire dig unique, protected under a tarp nearby until they could arrange for its return to the university, he might immediately jump to the conclusion that this crystal sculpture was indeed carved by the ancient Incans. Which had him wondering if the Hewlett-Packard story was true, and how many of the skulls discovered over the years were actually genuine relics.

Taking out the key, he unlocked the cabinet and carefully pulled out a case from the bottom shelf. Placing it on a table, he sat down at the lone chair and opened the case. Inside was a package carefully wrapped in cloth. He gently unwrapped it, revealing the translucent life-size crystal skull. Holding it up to the light, he gently caressed the smooth cranium.

"It's beautiful," gushed Robbie. He had returned earlier in the day and this was the first chance he had had to see the skull since its discovery. Acton had sworn him to secrecy so he wasn't even allowed to talk about it with the other students on the dig. After the evening campfire had broken up, where they ritually collected together and discussed the day's discoveries, he had pretended to need to talk to the professor about something so as not to raise suspicions. Acton saw through his intentions immediately, but decided to indulge his young protégé.

"Yes, it is." Acton rotated the skull, the light from the gas lantern reflecting off the crystal, casting a breathtaking display of ever changing colors and iridescent shapes on the plywood walls.

"Can I hold it?" asked Robbie. Acton nodded and handed it to him. Robbie carefully took the skull with both hands and held it up to the light. Brilliant shades of red, orange and yellow resembling a stunning sunset collected in the eyes, the design of the crystal making it appear as if it were staring directly at him. Robbie shuddered. He handed it back to the professor, slightly shaken.

"Are you okay?"

Robbie nodded unconvincingly. "Yeah, just a little creeped out, that's all. I can see why Garcia flipped out when he first saw it."

Acton nodded. "Yes, it can be very unsettling in the right light. It was probably used by ancient priests to instill fear in their subjects." He carefully placed it back in the case then locked it in his cabinet.

"I have no doubt it worked," said Robbie as he rose. "I'm going to go relieve Paul at the cave."

"Okay, if Sandy doesn't relieve you in two hours go get him," said Acton. "You know he's got a habit of sleeping through his alarm."

Robbie smiled. "After seeing that thing, I don't think I'll be able to sleep for a while." He opened the door and stepped outside. "Good night, Professor."

"Good night, Robbie." Acton closed the door behind him and lay down on his cot. He didn't think he'd be able to get any sleep, either. As he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable but really trying to settle his jumbled mind, he became increasingly frustrated. He couldn't stop thinking about their two discoveries and what they meant. The first turned modern thinking of ancient Incan contact on its ear, the other was an interesting curiosity, which would set the conspiracy theorists aflutter as they speculated how primitive Incans could carve something apparently not possible back then.

This is why I became an archeologist!

He sat up, realizing there was no way he was getting to sleep while his mind refused to relax. He reached over to his Coleman lamp and turned up the gas. The cabin flooded with light, his belongings casting eerie shadows on the plywood walls. He climbed out of his sleeping bag, shook out his boots to rid them of unwanted visitors that might have crawled in, then put them on. He unlocked the cabinet, removing the case. He'd just lifted the lid when a noise outside made him pause. Carefully closing the case, he turned down the light and went to the door.

About one mile away, Niner, designated Overseer, and his spotter, Gerry "Jimmy" Hudson, had been dropped off by the Chinook and were already double-timing it into position. Jimmy earned his nickname when the team found out he had been editor of his school newspaper. Red started calling him Jimmy Olson and the name stuck. Jimmy wished they could have chosen another Superman character, but when Spaz joined The Unit, he thanked his lucky stars.

The sniper team wore heavy Ghillie suits designed to make them nearly undetectable to the enemy. Each was customized by the operator to their own liking. Since there was the potential of spending hours or days in these outfits, someone else's idea of a one-size-fits-all suit just didn't cut it. When they neared the top of the hill they hit the ground and crawled the rest of the way, the extra canvas in the front of the suits protecting them from the hard rock and dried brush underneath.

Niner quickly set up his weapon while Jimmy checked the camp below and completed his range card. In less than a minute, they were ready.

"Overseer in position," Niner said over the comm as they surveyed the camp, Niner through the scope on his rifle, Jimmy through his finder. They were far enough from the camp that any shot would reverberate through the valley below, making them almost impossible to locate. Several cabins were clumped together not far from a ring of tents. A dig site was cordoned off about three hundred feet south that had Jimmy a bit confused as to its purpose.

Are they looking for something?

Jimmy filled the details in on his range card and picked the first target, putting his curiosity aside for the moment. A burst of static through the comm was followed by the go ahead from Dawson. "Overseer, Bravo One, proceed, over."

"Roger that, Bravo One, Overseer beginning to oversee!" Niner flashed a grin at Jimmy then they both looked through their scopes, readying for the first target.

"Two targets, Target One, Sector A from TRP I right fifty add forty!" said Jimmy rapidly in a harsh whisper as he looked through his finder. Niner shifted slightly, the ground racing by in his scope as he searched for the target.

"Roger, Sector A, from TRP I right fifty add forty."

"Single target, dark fatigues, smoking cigarette carrying AK."

"Roger, single target, dark fatigues, smoking cigarette, carrying AK," repeated Niner as he looked for the target through the scope of his M24A2 SWS Sniper Weapon System. He located the target just as the man stamped out the cigarette. "Target One identified! I have two mils crotch to head, confirm."

"Roger, two mils crotch to head, dial five-hundred on the gun."

Niner adjusted his weapon. "Roger, five-hundred on the gun, indexed!"

"Wind left to right, three mph, hold one-eighth mil left."

"Roger, wind left to right, three mph, hold one-eighth mil left," he repeated as he dialed the final setting. He gently squeezed the trigger, the recoil hammering into his shoulder. Jimmy could feel the ground vibrate from the shot. He loved that feeling. The target collapsed in a heap as they both smiled. "Broke one-eighth mil left."

"Center hit, stand by," replied Jimmy.

"Roger, center hit, standing by," acknowledged Niner as he waited for the next target from his spotter.

"Target two, Sector B, from TRP I left sixty add twenty."

Acton peered out the door to see what it was that had drawn his attention. He scanned the camp and didn't see anything out of order except one of the damned guards asleep on the job. Giggling emanated from one of the tents, clearly some extra-curricular activity going on in the shadow of the Andes. Several fires from earlier in the evening were now smoldering embers, wisps of smoke rising into the night sky. He looked to the other end of the camp where he knew a guard should be stationed. At first he didn't see him, but a moment later spotted him walking along the perimeter, smoking a cigarette. Acton breathed a sigh of relief and was about to go wake up the other guard when the one he was looking at dropped to the ground in a heap.

Then he heard the rotors of a chopper.

Looking at the night sky he spotted the silhouette of the helicopter clear a rise to the south, it obviously coming in for a landing. He opened his mouth to shout a warning to his students, but stopped himself, realizing all he would do is create a panic. His National Guard training and Gulf War I experience told him the guards had been eliminated by a sniper, which meant they were under observation right now. Screaming kids running around the camp were likely to get shot, but if they were rounded up peacefully from their tents, they might just survive the night.

And there was one last hope.

If he could draw their attackers after _him_ , his students might just be ignored.

He knew there was only one reason they had come—the skull. He also knew that between the corrupt police and the various rebel factions who were nothing more than gangs, there were plenty who would stop at nothing, including killing, to get their hands on something of value. That was why he had given the strict orders to his team to tell no one about their discovery.

Someone had obviously not followed his orders.

So he ran, skull in hand, hoping the sniper might spot his escape and direct their comrades after him. He might then be able to bluff his way out of the situation, bribing them with the petty cash and the promise of more back in Lima, while his students still slept in their tents. He could care less what happened to him, all he cared about were the students who had come with him, who had trusted him to keep them safe.

The students he knew deep down he was about to fail.

As he sprinted away from his cabin, he figured the best place to lead them was the cave where the skull had been found. Behind the hole Garcia had dug had been a small chamber that led into a much larger one. If he lead them in there they might have a chance. He took the long way to the entrance, a winding path shielded from the camp by brush and scattered trees. Running from tree to tree, he crouched between each. Looking down at the camp he saw the attackers setting up a perimeter as four of them raced to his cabin.

As he approached the cave he saw Robbie and cursed, having forgotten he had sent the boy to guard the entrance. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against a rock, sound asleep. _Won't be able to sleep for a while, eh?_ Acton had wanted one of his own he could trust to make sure no one else, especially one of the hired guards, went in the cave looking for more valuables. Now he wished the boy was asleep in his tent below, but it was too late. He bent over and shook Robbie's shoulder, his presence changing things.

Now I need to try and protect him.

Robbie nearly jumped out of his skin. "Professor, what's wrong?" he asked as he removed his iPod ear buds. "I didn't hear you coming."

"I thought you were asleep." Acton helped Robbie to his feet.

Robbie shook his head. "You know me, Professor, I can't live without my tunes!"

Acton cut him off. "Listen, the guards are dead and a chopper just landed in the camp. I think they're here for the skull. Come with me." They ran inside the cave and once far enough in that he felt safe the flashlights wouldn't be seen from outside he turned his on and Robbie did as well.

"A chopper? Do you mean military? Whose?" asked Robbie as he ran behind Acton, his flashlight bouncing off the walls.

"I don't know. Rebels, Peruvian police. Definitely professional and well-equipped." Acton stepped through the hole and into the first chamber. It was perfectly cubic, ten by ten by ten feet. The walls as well as the floor and ceiling were made of one-square-foot tiles. Some of the ceiling tiles that had fallen centuries before lay broken on the floor. In the center was a tall, narrow altar on top of which the skull had been discovered.

"Why don't we just hide the skull and go back out? They'll never think to look in here."

"Because if they don't get what they want, they'll probably kill us. We need to stall for time and have them focus on us."

Robbie stopped. "Kill us?" he stammered. Then he apparently caught up to the conversation. "Focus on us? Are you nuts?"

"I'm hoping they spotted us coming in here. Maybe they'll ignore the camp and just follow us, that way nobody else are witnesses." Acton shook his head, realizing how ridiculous his plan was as he said it aloud. _We're all dead._ "They've already killed the guards and we've seen before where camps have been wiped out just so that no witnesses are left," added Acton as he turned around and grabbed Robbie by the shirt to get him moving again. "That's why I gave strict orders to tell no one about this. It's too dangerous." Acton watched Robbie's face turn gray as if he were about to vomit. "What's wrong?"

Robbie hesitated. "It's my fault. I told my brother, John. He must have told someone."

Acton shook his head. "I doubt it, not unless he knows some Peruvian police or paramilitaries." Acton moved to what had once been a hidden chamber in the floor and placed the case inside. "Give me a hand." Together he and Robbie moved a large tile that had been pried away earlier in the day back over a hole in the floor. It had been discovered by accident when someone dropped a canteen, the hollow sound underneath demanding further exploration.

With the skull hidden to his satisfaction, Acton grabbed a pickaxe left on the floor then began looking for a hiding place for him and Robbie. There was another chamber beyond this one, exactly twice its size. They went in and crouched behind a large stone altar that stood in the middle, the only structure in the room. They turned off their flashlights and listened as the stench in the air made breathing difficult. Robbie's breaths came faster and faster as panic set in.

Dawson and Mickey searched the cabin while two of the team stood watch outside. Dawson flipped over the cot as Mickey tipped the cabinet over to see if anything was underneath. A complete search for Professor Acton and the package yielded nothing. Dawson radioed his other men. "Bravo Team, Bravo One. Does anyone have eyes on the target, over?" A string of "negatives" replied. "Start rounding everyone up for interrogation and send video to Control. Bravo One out."

He triggered his comm and switched channels. "Control, Bravo One. Come in, over."

"Bravo One, Control. Go ahead, over."

"Control, package and target not located. Do you have anything from the UAV, over?"

"Negative, Bravo One. UAV malfunctioned as op began, replacement has just arrived. All vehicles still accounted for and infrared shows nothing outside the camp. Your target is still onsite, over."

Dawson kicked the cot again in frustration.

"Roger that, Control. Beginning interrogations, over."

A different voice replied, his words sending shivers up and down Dawson's spine. "Bravo One, Control Actual. Targets are confirmed on the Termination List. Eliminate when interrogations complete, over."

Shit. This isn't going to be pretty.

"Roger that, Control Actual. Bravo One, out." Dawson stepped out of the cabin to begin the grim task ahead of him.

London, England

In a dimly lit, underground room on Fleet Street in downtown Old London, twelve people sat at a long, oval-shaped marble table. They faced a series of integrated eighty-inch plasma displays mounted on the wall at the foot of the table. Six high back leather chairs lined either side of the table with a thirteenth chair at the head. Behind that chair a large symbol had been carved into a slate wall—two thin horizontal lines on top of each other with a third, thicker and heavier line below, curved slightly upward.

In the chair at the end of the table sat Derrick Kennedy, a tall, lean man with silver hair. He calmly puffed on his 1937 Cuban La Carona cigar as he watched the operation unfold in front of him. The unique aroma of the tobacco from Cuba's Veulta Abajo, a district that is to cigars what Bordeaux and Burgundy are to fine wines, filled the air. Eleven of the twelve other chairs were occupied with people in various levels of excitement.

"If they do recover it, what do we do?" one of them asked.

"You know what we do. We implement The Protocol once again," answered another.

"The Protocol, isn't that a little bit of an overreaction?" exclaimed the first.

"Maybe, but we've kept the plans current."

"But we don't know their intent!"

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course we know their intent! Remember who we're dealing with! This is the same tosser—"

Kennedy leaned forward. "We are the Triarii!" his booming voice grabbing everyone's attention, spinning them from the monitors. "Just as our forefathers did for generations, we swore an oath to do whatever it takes to prevent what may happen if they do successfully recover it. The Protocol may not have been executed in our memory, but if it is to be executed, then it shall be. No matter what the cost to us, or to those who get in our way!"

On the screen, one of those being interrogated fell to the ground, a green pool of infrared blood forming beside the body.

Andes Mountains, Peru

Mickey glanced at the crumpled body at his feet, his face revealing no emotion. _My God he looks young!_ He looked away, turning his attention to the other prisoners. The rest of the team were redeployed to hold the perimeter leaving Red, Spaz, and himself to stand guard as Dawson interrogated the prisoners behind one of the cabins. Mickey had been on dozens of missions, killed probably as many terrorists during his short time with Delta, and many had probably been even younger than these students.

But this was the first time they were Americans.

He knew it shouldn't make a difference, but it did. These were the very people they were supposed to be protecting, not killing. But domestic terrorism was a growing problem, mostly with Muslim converts, but Timothy McVeigh was American and Christian—and he hated his country enough to take 168 innocent souls.

He glanced at Spaz and could see he was troubled too. They all were, even Dawson. He could tell by the way he was talking that he hated what he was doing, and Mickey knew him well enough already to know that Dawson was doing the dirty work so none of them would have to live with it afterward.

He'll suffer the nightmares, not his men.

But Mickey knew though Dawson might suffer the worst, the rest of them witnessing this massacre wouldn't rest easily either. When they had taken the pictures of the prisoners and transmitted them to Control, he had been surprised by how quickly the orders had come back to eliminate them, almost as if they had already known who was here.

Or they didn't care who was here, they just wanted them eliminated.

It had him wondering what the hell the item was that these terrorists had stolen, and how important it must be. Dawson was right to snap him back when he had asked what it was—it was none of his business. And if it were hush-hush enough to kill all these American terrorists without a trial, it was probably best that he didn't know.

Dawson barked at another of the terrorists. "Where's the professor?" he shouted at the next one who was crying and staring at her fallen friend. "Where is he?" He pressed his gun against her forehead.

"I don't know! I don't know!" she cried. "Please God, don't let them kill me!" She fell to her knees and tried to hug Dawson's legs. "Please! I have a son!" Dawson kicked her onto her back, straddled her and placed a bullet between her eyes.

Mickey looked away again, noticing Red and Spaz both had their backs to the proceedings, their eyes scanning the surrounding area. He wondered if their prisoners knew that they were dead regardless of whether or not they talked. He had to admire their dedication. To watch your friends die beside you, and still not answer the simple question of where their leader was hiding, showed a loyalty he had rarely seen. Loyalty to one's God he had seen, but to a leader? It was rare. Even Osama's men spilled pretty quickly for the most part.

"If someone doesn't start talking, you're all dead," said Dawson calmly. Mickey turned back and Dawson pointed to the injured Peruvian. Mickey pulled him out of the group and shoved him to the ground at Dawson's feet. "Where is the professor?" he asked firmly.

"I-I do not know!"

Dawson knelt down in front of the trembling man and put his hand on his shoulder. "What's your name?"

"G-Garcia!"

"Tell me, Garcia, where _could_ he be hiding?"

"I do not know, I swear to God I do not know! Dios mio salvame!"

"Kill him," said Dawson as he rose to his feet, motioning to Mickey. Mickey had almost learned the hard way what could happen if he hesitated to carry out orders. When an order was given, there was no time to think it over, no debate in whether or not you should carry it out. An order should be followed immediately in combat situations where moments could mean the difference between life and death. If you trusted your commander, you had to trust that the orders were legal, and that they were in the best interest of the mission.

And he trusted Dawson implicitly.

He walked over to Garcia and raised his weapon, catching the look from Dawson indicating he wasn't to shoot until actually ordered to.

"The cave!" yelled Garcia. Dawson spun back toward him and motioned Mickey to stop.

"What cave?"

"He could be in the cave!" stammered Garcia, pointing up the hill.

Mickey looked up to where he was pointing and could barely make out the entrance. Dawson motioned to him and Spaz. "Check it out."

Acton tried to calm a hyperventilating Robbie who couldn't stop muttering, "It's my fault, it's my fault," when something echoed through the chamber, his heart joining the race Robbie's was already in.

Footsteps.

"Quiet!" he said in a harsh whisper. "They're coming!"

Acton heard Robbie slap his hands over his mouth to quiet himself, Acton's own heart pounding so hard he was sure anyone listening carefully would hear it. He peered around the altar, trying to see who was coming, and spotted a shaft of light from a rifle mounted tactical flashlight as it shone into the room. The attacker entered the chamber cautiously, aiming his weapon as he looked for them. All of a sudden Robbie jumped out from behind the altar before Acton could stop him.

"I surrender!"

The man aimed his weapon at him, training the light on his face. "Where's the professor?"

Robbie gulped. "H-he's not here. He left for Lima when he heard you coming."

"Bullshit!" was the barked reply. "All of the vehicles are accounted for. Where is he?"

Robbie held his hands up in front of him, trying to shield his eyes from the light as Acton desperately tried to think of some way to rescue his foolish but brave pupil.

"He didn't take a Jeep, he took one of the horses!" he cried as the man pointed the gun to his head and Robbie fell to his knees.

There was a pause, then the cold reply. "You don't have any horses." Another pause then a sharp report of a single shot roared through the confined space. Robbie crumpled to the floor, his head hitting the ground, facing Acton, the tactical light shining on his head revealing his still open eyes as they stared at his professor, his protector, blood trickling from the head wound.

Rage surged through Acton. Knowing he was going to die, he gripped the pickaxe tightly and came out from behind the altar with a roar. He swung the axe high around as he did, and before his target could react the axe had buried itself deep in his thigh. The man screamed out in pain and collapsed. Acton used his foot to push him away from the blade so he could remove it for another swing. He swung again, this time at the man's head, but as he did his opponent turned to avoid the blow, the axe instead broadsided him, knocking him out cold, leaving a panting Acton straddling his opponent's body.

"Mickey!"

Acton jerked his head toward the voice. Someone else was running toward the chamber. Grabbing the now prone man's weapon, he ran to the entrance of the room. As soon as he saw the man's partner he opened fire, hitting him in the stomach. He went down immediately. _There'll be more_. He knew death awaited him if he tried to leave the cave so he made a split-second decision.

He snatched two grenades off the belt of the unconscious man and ran to the entrance of the chamber. Lights were moving at the mouth of the cave now. Pulling the pins, he threw them toward the entrance then ran back behind the altar and waited.

The resulting explosion rocked the room. Acton had covered his ears, but hadn't been prepared for the volume resulting from the confined space. He was disoriented momentarily then slowly regained his bearings, struggling to his feet. He stumbled back to the entrance and looked down the shaft. It was completely blocked, the cave having collapsed. He was safe.

Until the oxygen runs out.

Dawson heard the explosion and spun around in time to see a puff of debris spew out of the cave entrance. _He must be in there._ He activated his comm as he redirected the rest of his team to the cave.

"Control, Bravo One, come in, over."

"Bravo One, Control here, go ahead, over."

"Control, we believe the subject is either terminated or trapped inside a cave. It will take some time to clear through the debris to confirm. We have two men missing, presumed on the other side of the debris. Request permission to begin rescue operation, over."

"Negative, Bravo One. A supply truck is due at the camp in an hour and we can't risk you being seen by the locals. The package will be safe in the cave if the professor does indeed have it with him. Once the area is clear again we will send in a properly equipped team, over."

Dawson was about to object when another voice cut in over the comm.

"To hell with the locals!"

Dawson recognized it as Control Actual, the real man behind the mission, the other voice merely somebody in an ops center. This was the man who had ordered the deaths of the terrorists now at his feet, several more awaiting their fate. The calmer voice responded.

"Sir, with all due respect, if our guys are caught there it could create an international incident. Right now they will execute their orders and make it look like a rebel raid. Nothing will point back to us."

There was a pause as Dawson kept his expression free of the shock he was feeling. To hear this type of argument over the comm was almost unheard of. It was clear to him that Control Actual was obviously not in the same room as the Ops people, and also had no experience in proper comm procedure.

"Bravo One, Control Actual. Execute the terrorists then return to base, over."

"Roger that, Control, Bravo One out."

As he turned to fulfill his final orders, Control Actual's voice erupted from his earpiece as if the man were whispering heavily into the mike. "All these years of searching. We're closer than we've ever been, and now we're stopped by a supply truck?"

Dawson turned his back to the prisoners, his eyes narrowing. "Control, Bravo One. I didn't copy that, over?"

"Shit!" was the response. "Disregard that, just follow your orders. Control, out."

There's definitely something I'm not being told.

He turned back to the prisoners, their eyes looking up at him, pleading. He shoved the emotions aside, the heart shouting at him to not follow through, but he knew his disciplined mind would win out. It always did. The orders were legal, the Termination List valid, the targets on it, these innocent looking students actually domestic terrorists training to kill his—and their—fellow Americans.

He quickly placed a single bullet in the heads of the remaining prisoners and radioed his men to rendezvous at the rally point for pick up. Red ran up to him and came to a stop, staring at the crumpled bodies. Dawson looked his old friend in the eyes. "Control gave the orders. They were all on the list."

Red nodded, saying nothing, the look on his friend's face mirroring the confusion swirling through his own mind.

These kids didn't seem like enemy combatants.

The team, less Niner and Jimmy still on station, and Mickey and Spaz still trapped in the cave, boarded the chopper in silence. Minutes later the sniper team was retrieved and they were racing toward the coast and their ship sitting in international waters. Nobody was speaking, nobody was making eye contact with anyone else. Dawson knew they were all disturbed by what had happened, but also about leaving their comrades behind.

"There's a civilian supply truck arriving in less than an hour so we were ordered out," he said to the group, none privy to his conversation with Control. "We'll be heading back with the proper equipment as soon as the area is clear. We'll dig them out and get them home in no time."

His words were meant to be reassuring, but he knew that Mickey and Spaz were only part of what was troubling the men. It was the same thing troubling him. The kids? Terrorists? Students? He didn't know what to call them. All he knew was they hadn't acted like terrorists; they had acted like scared, innocent children.

But Control had said they were on the Termination List, so he had followed his orders. There was no reason to not do so, and with the explosion in the cave and loss of communication with two of his men, it certainly suggested somebody was willing to fight back.

Perhaps Professor Acton was the only real terrorist?

It pissed him off that the bastard responsible for all these young deaths was probably the only one to survive their assault.

If I ever get my hands on you, you're dead.

Andes Mountains, Peru

Acton aimed the tactical light on the liberated weapon around the chamber, settling on one of the portable battery-powered floodlights that had been used earlier when exploring. Flipping the power switch, the chamber flooded with light, momentarily blinding him. Blinking rapidly, his eyes slowly adjusted then he checked to see if the soldier was still unconscious before stripping him of his weapons and communications gear. He bound the man's hands and feet with plastic ties he found in the soldier's utility belt, then inspected the leg wound, beginning to treat it with the man's med kit.

As he tore open the man's pants to gain access to the wound, he had mixed feelings. He had heard shots before he collapsed the cave, and he knew his students were most likely dead. This man had killed Robbie in cold blood—unarmed, surrendering.

Why? All because of that stupid skull?

But the man, clearly a soldier, had asked for him.

" _Where's the professor?"_

If they were truly after the sculpture, wouldn't he have asked, "Where's the skull?" or "Where is it?"

No, for some reason they were after him. But that made no sense. He wasn't special, wasn't worth any money to ransom, and had been here for weeks. It was no coincidence these soldiers had arrived after the skull had been found.

But why? Why kill kids over a crystal sculpture?

He poured some iodine over the wound, causing his patient to come to suddenly. The man began to struggle against his bonds and Acton pushed the man's chest into the floor. "Take it easy, you've got quite the hole in your leg and a nasty gash on your head as well."

"What happened?" asked the man, still confused as to the situation.

"I sealed the cave. Your friends are going to take a long time to get to you, Mickey is it?" He looked at the man's ears. _Must be._ "Who are you and why are you here?" He was answered by a glare. "Not going to talk, eh? So be it." He applied a pressure bandage to the leg wound then poured some more iodine on the head wound. Dressing it he decided against giving the man some pain killers. _Let him suffer._

Finished, he searched for markings on the uniform. Nothing. He picked up the sidearm and removed the magazine. Fully loaded. Reinserting the mag, he cocked the weapon and pointed it at Mickey's head. "Ready to talk now?"

Mickey remained silent.

"I'm not afraid to use this, and, yes, I know _how_. I was in the National Guard when I was younger, learned how to fire all kinds of neat toys." He looked down at his prisoner. "No, you black ops boys don't talk. Too bad." He raised the gun and brought the butt down on Mickey's head hard enough to knock him out cold again.

Now to find a way out of here.

He returned to the cave entrance and inspected the debris. It would take him hours to dig through, and he didn't know what was on the other side. _Time to Indiana Jones it._ He picked the axe up off the floor and tore the sleeve off his shirt, wrapping it around the pick. Next he took a lighter from the soldier's utility belt, lit the shirt and held it out in front of him. _No fuel so it won't last long._ He went to the far end of the chamber and held the torch up to the wall. Carefully watching the flame for any movements from wind, he slowly made his way across the wall. _Nothing._ He came back along the bottom of the wall and halfway across the flame suddenly started to whip and crackle as it changed direction. He knew the only thing that could cause that was air blowing from somewhere under the floor.

He moved the torch along farther and it returned to normal. Sweeping the flame slowly around the stone seams, he didn't see anything. Looking down at the floor, he saw a crack. He moved the flame over it and the flame sputtered again. Then it went out. _Dammit!_ He reached into his belt and pulled out his flashlight. Turning it on, he shone it down at the crack. _It must be another hollowed out floor section!_

He ran back into the other chamber and grabbed the pry bar that had been used to remove the stone tile earlier in the day. Jamming it into the groove in the floor, he leaned on top of it. It took almost all of his weight to get it to lift, but once it did he was able to work the pry bar farther under the stone. He then knelt down on the bar. The stone rose up and he swung it out of place with his hands. Sweating, he collapsed backward on the floor, panting.

Shining the flashlight into the hole, he stuck his head in. _Definitely not a hiding place. This is a tunnel!_ He took the pry bar, retrieved the case containing the skull and checked one last time on his prisoner. _He'll survive. Bastard._ He then lowered himself into the tunnel, pulling the cover stone back in place should anyone decide to follow.

The tunnel was dank, dark, and grown over with centuries of roots. Lined with the same tiles as the chambers, some had collapsed in, forcing him to dig and tear his way through, pushing forward with the flashlight shoved out in front of him several feet at a time. After what felt like well over an hour, he came to a completely collapsed in section and paused.

What the hell do I do now?

He looked back and could see nothing, his entrance sealed, blocking any light, then looked forward again. He knew if the tunnel continued past the collapsed portion, then the tiles might just continue a foot or two beyond the blockage. And if the tunnel were to end, then it should end in another chamber, or perhaps even outside.

He shoved the pry bar through the damp soil and heard a noise that had him freeze. Cocking his ear, he tried to place the sound, but couldn't. He pulled the pry bar out and for a split second he could have sworn he saw a shaft of light. He turned off his flashlight, drowning him in the pitch black of his potential tomb, then thrust the pry bar through again. He quickly pulled it out, his eye near the hole, and a grin spread across his face as indeed sunlight was momentarily visible until the soil collapsed in again.

He turned the flashlight back on and began to dig at the dirt, pushing it to his sides as he inched forward, pulling the case with the skull on one side, the flashlight and pry bar on the other. Reaching forward with his hands, he pulled fistfuls of dirt and roots, there no evidence of tiles here to support the narrow passage. Finally he broke through with his right hand, the immediate sensation of fresh cool mountain air on his damp, dirt covered hand was instantly recognizable.

With his heart pounding in excitement and exhaustion, he rapidly clawed the final two feet, shoving the case out the hole, then pushing his head out into the sunlight. His ears filled with the sounds of nature so devoid in his confined space, the only other sounds that of the rocks and dirt tumbling down the side of the hill toward the camp below. He froze, realizing their attackers might still be nearby. Scanning the area, he saw no movement, so pulled himself forward the final few feet. The slope was loose and with a yelp he spilled down the steep grade, head over feet, finally sliding the final dozen feet on his back, feet first.

He froze, knowing full well anyone within several hundred feet would have heard his descent. A slight breeze swept across the camp, gently swaying the low brush, the only sounds the chirping of the birds and the flapping of the canvas on the tents. If their attackers were here, they were hidden and quiet.

Dusting himself off, he made his way into the eerily silent camp. The bodies of five of his grad students lay in the center of the camp along with Garcia. Each had a bullet in the head. His chest tightened and the muscles in his body slackened, his hands dropping the forgotten case and pry bar.

My God, what have I done?

He collapsed to his knees and sobbed, covering his face, then grabbing the back of his head as he doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit. This was his fault, of that there was no doubt. His Dean and best friend, Gregory Milton, had told him it was too dangerous an area, but Acton had convinced him he was wrong, that the area was too remote for there to be trouble. Milton had given in as he usually did, not out of weakness, but out of trust for his friend.

This time Milton had been right.

I was too pigheaded to listen! I should never have brought them here!

The gnashing of gears and the roar of a diesel engine caused Acton to leap to his feet and run for cover. He looked to the far end of the camp and watched the supply lorry lumber around the bend of the only road that led to civilization. When the driver came into sight he honked his horn several times and waved out of the window as he did twice a week.

Acton emerged from behind the cabin and ran to the body of his oldest grad student, Jason. He pulled his wallet out of his pants, grabbed the case with the skull, then ran to the truck as it pulled to a stop.

"Good morning, Professor," hailed the driver, opening his door. "Sorry I am late."

"Don't get out!" yelled Acton as he ran to the truck. The driver stopped halfway out of the cab as Acton rounded the truck and jumped in the other side. "Let's go, now!"

"Si, señor," said the confused driver as he returned to his seat and closed the door, putting the still running truck back into gear. "What is wrong, Professor?"

"They're all dead," muttered Acton. "They killed them all."

"Who?" The driver's face clouded in fear as his gaze darted to his rearview mirror to see if they were being followed.

"I don't know. Rebels probably," lied Acton. He knew damned well who had done it.

But why would my own government kill for an ancient artifact?

Mickey had propped himself up against the altar when he came to. The batteries powering the floodlights were failing, the light gradually dimming as the hours passed. The sharp pain in his leg had eased to a dull throb. Now he had no feeling at all. The bleeding appeared to have stopped thanks to the professor. Every fifteen minutes he tried his radio again, to no avail. The hole in the floor the professor had used to escape was only ten feet away, the tile slightly out of alignment, but he was too weak to make the attempt. He knew his team wouldn't leave him behind; it would just be a matter of time before they came for him.

In the meantime, he had plenty of time to think. At first it had been spent looking at his surroundings, trying to figure out if he could go out the same way the professor had appeared to. The fact he hadn't returned suggested he had escaped successfully. He was of mixed feelings on the matter. If it wasn't for the professor having attacked him, he wouldn't be where he was. However if it wasn't for the professor, he'd be dead now. The professor had treated his wound quite expertly, which was probably what had stopped the bleeding. _The guys will pick him up outside._

For the first few hours he had stared at the corpse of the professor's partner. The eyes were still opened, and from his position against the altar, they looked like they were staring at him. He had finally tired of this at one point and struggled over to where the body lay and closed the eyes. This effort had exhausted him and he had been forced to lie beside the body for some time while he caught his breath. _This was just a kid._

He realized that didn't mean much nowadays. Kids were just as likely to be terrorists, and this kid wasn't much younger than he was. And if the professor was such a bad guy, why had he bothered with saving the life of his supposed enemy? Something wasn't ringing true here. When he was in the camp, the only weapons he saw were on the two guards that Niner had taken out, and they looked like local hires. Shouldn't the students have been armed? Shouldn't they have at least had weapons in their tents? And why when they exited the helicopter had they been jumping through what looked like some sort of archeological dig site?

If this was a terrorist training camp, it was the worst equipped one he had ever seen.

But if these weren't terrorists, then why were they on the Termination List? That list was one of the most carefully vetted lists the country had. It was one of the few that actually authorized agents of the government to kill on sight, no questions asked.

And he had been on missions where they had indeed done just that.

And they had all left him with a feeling of satisfaction.

But not this time.

This time something wasn't right, and during the hours of waiting, a pit formed in his stomach as he became convinced they had made a terrible mistake.

His comm crackled. He squawked his comm three times and waited. He heard three squawks come back at him. _They're close!_ About ten minutes later he heard the scraping of shovels at the cave entrance.

"Anybody in there?"

"Just me!" he tried to yell, only now realizing how parched he was.

"Identify yourself!" commanded the voice.

He tried to reply but couldn't. A few minutes later, somebody broke through and entered the chamber. He didn't have his weapon, the professor had taken it or hidden it somewhere. A flashlight shone in his face and he squinted to see who was behind it. A moment later Red grabbed his shoulder.

"Good to see you, man. We thought you were a goner!" He held a canteen up to Mickey's lips. He drank as much as he could without coughing. When he had enough he pushed the canteen away.

"Spaz?"

Red shook his head. "Dead. We found his body under the rubble. He was shot." Red cut his bindings then helped him up, slinging Mickey's arm over his shoulders. "The target?"

"Not here, he escaped out that tunnel hours ago," Mickey said, pointing to the shifted tile. "You didn't get him?"

"No. But we will."

Mickey nodded, his previous doubts forgotten as he thought of his friend Spaz, dead.

You will be avenged, my friend.

St. Paul's University, Maryland

Gregory Milton's pen tapped on his desk rapidly as his mind raced. He had been Dean of St. Paul's University for four years and though he enjoyed his job, what he was working on now was one of the lesser enjoyable aspects of the job. As he sat in his high-back leather chair, his head against the sumptuous leather, he stared at the oak beam casings in the ceiling, his mind sifting through endless permutations on how to start yet another speech at an alumni dinner without it sounding like all the others.

I hate speeches.

It wasn't that he was scared to talk to a group of people, it was simply that he found it a waste of time. Any information he could convey could also be done in an email, saving untold dollars hosting people just to try and get even more dollars out of their wallets.

But alumni, with checkbooks, expected to be wined and dined and made to feel important. Which unfortunately they were. Without the alumni, their small university would be far more humble than it already was.

So he soldiered on, trying to pick a clean joke from his head, his preferred rude jokes came out instead. _They'll kick me out of the state for some of those._ He pulled at his thinning hair in frustration when he jumped at the buzzing of the intercom.

"Yes, Rita?"

"Two men here to see you, sir."

"Send them in." _More damned alumni. Time to kiss some ass._

He rose to his feet as his two guests entered. He covered his surprise with a smile. Both were clearly government. Dark suits, ties, shoes and glasses. _Suits and shoes too cheap to be alumni._ He offered his hand.

"Hello, gentlemen, I'm Dean Milton. Call me Greg." The first agent shook his hand, the other hung back at the door.

"Dean Milton, I'm Special Agent Jasper and this is Agent Lambert," said the first agent. "We're from the State Department."

"State Department?" Milton motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk as he felt his chest tighten. State Department meant something foreign. Which meant something must have happened to one of his students while out of the country. _Jim?_ His mind was racing to conclusions without any facts. _Stay calm!_. "To what do I owe this honor?" he managed, keeping his voice steady.

"It's about the archeological team you have in Peru," said Jasper as he sat down. "I'm afraid there's been an incident."

"Incident?" Milton froze behind his desk, hovering over his chair, his fingers spread across the blotting pad there more for decoration or the occasional scratch pad for numbers rather than its original purpose. _Incident. Not accident._ His stomach churned and his mouth began to fill with bile. He swallowed. "Are they okay?"

Jasper took a deep breath. "I'm afraid not, sir, they're all dead."

"They're dead?" Milton collapsed into his chair, his mind reeling at the news as flashes of his best friend and their years together consumed him, and the few but recent memories of the excited students he took with him on the expedition—an expedition he had said was too dangerous to go on. _Oh Jim! Why did I let you convince me!_ He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "All of them? How? How did it happen? When? Who did it?"

"It appears that there was a rebel attack on the camp. There were no survivors however Professor James Acton is missing. Have you heard from him?"

"They're all dead?" Milton shook his head, trying to come to grips with what he had just heard. "All of them?"

"Except the professor, sir. Have you heard from him?"

Milton took a moment to compose himself as the Agent's words echoed through his head. His students were dead. His best friend was missing, and probably dead as well. No, the agent hadn't said that last part, but that interpretation of events was all he could think of. _Jim!_ His eyes glassed over and he removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing them dry. He sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, just last week, his regular weekly check in. He sent me a Blackberry message from Lima once a week. It was cheaper than a phone call. There was no service where their dig was so he drove into the city once a week. The expedition was on a shoe-string budget so there was no money for a satellite phone."

"Did he mention anything unusual in his last message?" asked Jasper.

"No, he said the dig was going well and that there were some interesting finds, ancient Incan I believe."

"Anything in particular?"

"No, nothing." Milton's blood pressure was rising as his frustration level reached critical. _What's with all the damned questions?_ "What does any of this have to do with their deaths? I thought you said rebels did this?"

"Just routine questions, sir. Perhaps if the rebels had thought they had found something of value it may explain why they raided the camp. As it is, they took all the supplies and vehicles, but not before killing everyone."

Milton placed his forehead in the palm of his hand and massaged his temples. "The families. Have they been notified?"

"Not yet, sir. We can take care of the notifications for you," replied Jasper.

Milton shook his head, a lump unlike anything he had ever felt before pushing up his throat at the thought of what was to come over the next hours. "No. They were all students here, it should fall on me. The bodies?"

"They'll be arriving in Houston this afternoon. We'll coordinate with the families to have the bodies sent to the appropriate locations." Jasper rose from his seat. "Here's my card, sir. If you hear from Professor Acton please contact us immediately."

"Yes, yes I will." Milton shook his head in disbelief. Jasper placed the card on his desk, then he and his partner left. Milton pushed the button on the intercom.

"Yes, sir?"

"No calls, and cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day."

"Yes, sir. What reason shall I give?"

"J-just do it, Rita!" cried Milton as he turned off the intercom, his head hitting the blotter as tears burst forward, creating tiny puddles on the paper while his shoulders heaved. He pushed his head up from the desk and looked at the two photos he kept on the corner. One, he with his wife and daughter, the second with his best friend of almost twenty years, arms around each other's shoulders as they crossed the finish line of the New York Marathon years ago. As the memories of that day flooded out today's nightmare, he half cried, half laughed, as he remembered Acton coming back for him and helping him the last few miles, he having grossly overestimated his own fitness level.

He reached out and pulled the photo closer as the tears poured down his cheeks, his breaths, ragged, now beginning to ease as he forced himself back under control.

He pressed the button for the intercom.

"Rita, please bring me the files on the students in Peru."

"Yes, sir," came the voice, subdued from his outburst earlier.

He turned his chair to face the window, clouds filling the sky as rain seemed to be on the horizon.

Please, God, take care of my friend.

"Is it done?" asked Jasper as they climbed into the back of their surveillance van.

"Yes, while you were talking to him," replied Lambert as he closed the doors. "We now have complete audio, video and electronic surveillance of his office. Any phone call, email, anything, and we'll know it."

"Excellent. Now we wait," said Jasper as he dropped into his seat and put his feet up on the console, closing his eyes and interlocking his fingers over his stomach as Lambert aped him.

"You really think he's going to be dumb enough to call?"

Jasper opened his eyes. "Why wouldn't he? This is his school, his best friend from all accounts, and if he's innocent, he's got nothing to hide."

" _If_ he's innocent," emphasized Lambert. "Are we sure of that?"

"I hardly think a university professor is going to kill his entire team with automatic weapons, leave dozens of different foot prints and steal his own vehicles," said Jasper.

"Maybe he was in on it, though?"

Jasper realized his underling desperately wanted Acton to be involved in some way and that this conversation would never end unless he threw him a bone. "Perhaps."

Lambert smiled smugly and clasped his hands behind his head. "I thought so."

Jasper sighed and closed his eyes again.

Rookies!

Lima, Peru

Acton peered around the corner of the dilapidated warehouse. The dock bustled with cranes loading massive containers onto even more massive ships, forklifts and transport trucks moved around in organized chaos, and crew chiefs yelled at their teams in their quest to keep the docked ships in port no longer than necessary. It had taken him hours to get here, his Peruvian driver having abandoned him on the road out of fear of the rebels Acton said had committed the massacre.

On every dig he always placed his passport, credit cards and a stash of cash in a local safety deposit box for safekeeping. This time had been no different and he had retrieved his belongings only minutes ago from a local bank. He was now flush with cash and ID and fewer supplies than he'd like, there being no time to shop around after he found out the ship he now stared at was the only one going in the direction he needed for the rest of the day.

Despite there being hundreds of people in sight, he figured none would notice him if he acted with purpose. He strode briskly toward the gangplank of the massive container ship he had confirmed was heading to Mexico, and with one final look around he raced up the stairs. He cringed with each step as the entire structure swayed and scraped against the hull, making a noise that, if it hadn't been for the incredible din coming from the loading docks, would have been heard by everyone. Once at the top he again scanned the docks for anyone watching then sprinted between some containers. Just as he ducked between the containers two crewmen came around the corner, talking animatedly in a mix of English and what he recognized as Tagalog.

He pressed himself into the rusted grooves, trying to disappear. They walked by his position, apparently only interested in their tall tales of the previous night's activities, oblivious to his presence. When they were gone he breathed a sigh of relief and tried to relax. _Only a few more hours until we leave harbor._ Once at sea he would worry about how he was going to survive. For now, he knew he just needed to get out of Peru and back to where he had friends who could help him.

He moved deeper into the maze of containers and sat on the deck where he was sure he couldn't be seen. He gazed up at the stacks of containers towering above him, the sky barely visible above. Opening his gym bag, he surveyed his provisions. Half a dozen bottles of water and two PowerBars.

Three days to Mexico with nothing but your nightmares to keep you company.

Washington, DC

"William Guthrie, this is Mr. Darbinger, the White House Chief of Staff," said the orientation leader assigned to him, finally introducing him to his boss after two days of orientation.

Billy gulped and extended his hand. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

"Likewise, Mr. Guthrie," said Darbinger, as he shook Billy's hand. "I'm not sure if you remember me, but I met you at your father's house about three years ago for his retirement party."

"Of course, sir, I remember." Billy flashed back to that night, desperately trying to remember Darbinger. It had been a whirlwind of disinterest for him, being paraded around as the brilliant son who would one day carry on the legacy. It had been the end to an illustrious career for his father, though, after having served in the Air Force for ten years then turning to politics, first as mayor, state assemblyman then congressman. His last five years he had been Speaker of the House and had retired when his wife had been diagnosed with cancer.

"It was that night I asked your father to have you come work for me when you were old enough," said Darbinger. He looked at Billy closely. "You don't remember that at all do you?"

Billy blushed and shook his head. "I'm really sorry, sir, but I met so many people that night."

Darbinger laughed. "Don't worry about it. I was a teenager once too." He turned back to the orientation leader. "Get William set up at a desk and make sure he's well looked after." He then turned back to Billy. "If you need anything, feel free to come see me. I told your father I'd look out for you."

"Thank you, sir," said Billy, "I will."

Billy was led to a cubicle and shown the basics then handed a massive binder to read. "This should take you the rest of the day," said the orientation leader. "It's not to leave the building."

Billy nodded, eyeballing the massive tome, thinking it would easily last him a week or two. As he began to read through the orientation binder, his eyes glazed over and he found himself drifting as the boredom took over, life at the White House not as exciting as he had thought.

This is definitely not like the movies.

There was a knock at his cubicle "door" and he jumped in his chair, spinning to see who had interrupted his daydreaming. He immediately recognized the woman, but took a moment to place exactly who and what she was. Once he remembered, he straightened even more in his chair. It was the Chief of Staff's secretary, Sheila Norton

"William," said Sheila, holding out a legal-size envelope, "I need you to take this to the President's secretary. Hand it to her personally and have her sign the receipt."

"Yes, ma'am, right away!" Billy jumped out of his chair, taking the manila envelope, and rushed down the hallway. Turning a corner he ran headlong into Rachel, his fashion critic. He dropped the envelope and, much to his horror, the cup of Starbucks Café Latte with low-fat skim milk she was carrying landed right on top of it, spilling its contents.

"You loser!" she yelled. "Why don't you watch where you're going?" She picked up the coffee cup and headed to the nearby bathroom to wash herself off. He picked up the envelope, his chest tightening at the unfolding disaster, then immediately beelined for the men's room to try and dry it off. Many paper towels later and several minutes under the hand dryer were of no use. It was obvious something had spilled on the envelope.

He had to do something, but what, he wasn't sure.

I can't bring the file like this to the President's office!

Panic began to set in and his breathing increased rapidly. It was still his first week and he had already screwed up in a huge way. He was about to hide in a bathroom stall until he figured out what to do when he suddenly remembered one of the stops on the intern tour.

The supply room!

He stuffed the file under his sport coat and headed to what he hoped would be his salvation. Finding a matching envelope and looking around, he untied the red string that held his now stained envelope. Inside was a document with several photos clipped to the front. He pulled it out and was about to put it in the new envelope when he stopped.

"What the hell is this?" he asked aloud then quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard him. He flipped through the photographs, each of a different person. _They're dead!_ His stomach churned. He steadied himself and looked closer. Most had a bullet hole through the head and all had _Terminated_ written across the bottom except the last photo. It showed a man with _Target Status Unknown_ written on the bottom. He looked at the name. _Professor James Acton._ He hurriedly stuffed the photos in the new envelope, realizing he was probably not supposed to have seen them. His heart raced.

God, please don't let them find out I saw these!

Lesley Darbinger ran his fingers through his hair, then massaged his temple with his thumb as he sat on a couch in the Oval Office, talking to his old friend sitting across from him. "It would be nice, though."

"What?" asked President Jackson.

"To not have to be watching over our shoulders constantly."

Jackson nodded. "Yeah, ten years of hiding in the open. I'm afraid that if this doesn't get resolved before my term is up, they won't hesitate to remove us. They wouldn't dare while I'm in office, though."

"No, _you_ they wouldn't," agreed Darbinger. "Me on the other hand...."

Jackson leaned toward his friend. "Don't worry, your position protects you, as well. We're too visible to eliminate. Besides, this will soon all be over."

Darbinger nodded. "You know, when you first approached me about stealing the Smithsonian skull I thought you were mad."

Jackson chuckled. "Yes, but you came around soon enough. You knew it was the right thing to do. The only way to accomplish our goal is to take control of at least three of the skulls." He leaned back and stretched his arms across the back of the couch. "We know from our own history the power of the skulls when brought together. The fire of 1212 was a cleansing fire brought by God. He wants the skulls brought together, and he has chosen us to be his servants."

"Amen," nodded Darbinger, hiding his discomfort at his friend's increasingly fervent religious beliefs. They had both attended the same church for years, but over the past ten, his friend had let his religion intensely dominate his life. He had taken to praying for guidance on major issues, much to the annoyance of those around him. Darbinger flipped through the folders sitting beside him, looking for the mission report from Peru. It wasn't there. "Shit, I must have left the report on my desk. I'll go get it; you'll want to read it."

"I'll be here," said Jackson as he rose and returned to his desk. Darbinger headed to his office and rifled through the stack of folders where he thought it should be but didn't see it. His pulse ticked up a notch, knowing full well that if anyone got their hands on that file and leaked it, they would all be going to jail for a long time. He started to search his office with more fervor and came up empty.

"Sheila!" he yelled. His assistant poked her head into his office. "There was a file on my desk, where did it go?"

"I had it brought to the Oval Office just a couple of minutes ago," she replied. "I figured you wanted it so I had Billy bring it." Darbinger frowned. "You didn't get it?"

"No."

"That's odd, he should have been there by now. Do you want me to find him?"

Darbinger's heart sank.

Why did it have to be Billy?

"No, I'll take care of it."

Somewhere on the Pacific

James Acton awoke with a start. He glanced around, looking for what had woken him, but he was alone. It was dawn of the third day. The ship would be arriving in Mexico that afternoon if they were on schedule. He could see the ocean from his vantage point and could tell they were in a heavy fog, yet the Captain kept the engines at full steam, sounding the horn repeatedly.

Moron.

He checked his supplies only to reconfirm what he already knew. He was out of water and had been since early yesterday. The salt air was making him thirsty and he had finished his water in half the time he had expected. He knew he needed fresh water, especially since he would need to be at his peak when trying to get off the ship.

Rising from where he had lain, he stretched the kinks out as best he could. He slung his bag containing the case with the skull over his shoulder and cautiously headed toward the crew tower at the stern of the ship. It took him quite some time, moving from container to container, being careful to not be seen. The chance of any crew being amongst the containers was slim, but he also had to make sure he wasn't seen from above.

Eventually he reached the final row of containers. He could see a tap against the wall he had seen men drink from earlier in the trip. It was tantalizingly close, but also completely in the open. Opening his bag, he removed two of the empty water bottles. He unscrewed their caps and shoved them into his pocket. With one last glance around he raced across the open space between the containers and the tap.

He reached the wall without being seen and turned the tap on, placing the first bottle under the stream. The tap seemed impossibly slow, but it was probably just his imagination. His heart hammered in his chest as he swapped the second bottle for the first and started to drink down the filled bottle.

His thirst quenched for the moment, he refilled the first bottle and turned to leave when a fist slammed him directly on the nose. His eyes watered from the searing pain. He tumbled backward, striking his head on the hard metal deck. Darkness overtook him.

Someone yelled at him then smacked him across the cheek. Acton opened his eyes, the world a blur around him. He tried to touch the aching spot on his head, but discovered his hands bound to the arms of a flimsy chair.

"You know what we do with stowaways?" yelled the man who had just hit him. Acton looked about as his vision cleared. It was a storage room. _More like a garbage room._ Some supplies were haphazardly stacked in one corner, but the rest of the room was littered with various pieces of wood and machine parts. It probably hadn't been swept in years. _Martha'd be pissed._

He recognized his assailant as one of the Filipinos he'd seen earlier. His friend was in the corner staring at the skull. "What is that?" said the first one, pointing to the skull. "How much it worth?"

"Nothing," muttered Acton, reading the unmistakable greed in their eyes. "It's just a trinket."

"He's lying," said the second. He placed the skull on a nearby table and pulled out a long machete. "Now I show him what we do with _lying_ stowaways." His partner laughed and turned his head to look at the skull. Acton knew he had to act fast. Raising his feet off the floor, he kicked the man in both knees, the kneecaps snapping with the blow. The man collapsed, screaming in agony. His partner looked in shock as Acton rose as far as he could in the chair and propelled himself backward. He smashed the wooden chair against the wall hard enough that it broke into several pieces, freeing his arms.

Acton picked himself up off the floor just as the second man came at him with the machete. He ducked to avoid the first swing and punched the man in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. As he doubled over Acton kneed him in the face then pushed him to the ground. Grabbing him by the shirt, he punched the man in the nose several times.

Acton swiftly bound the now unconscious man and stuffed a rag into his mouth. The other writhed on the floor. He tied his hands and gagged him as well before grabbing his case and placing the skull back inside. With the case back in his bag, he listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he cautiously opened it.

He made his way along the dark hallway toward what looked like natural light coming from a stairwell at the end. He reached the steps and looked up, seeing a door open to the outside and nobody around. As he reached the top of the stairs an announcement came over the PA system that they would be docking in half an hour. He gingerly touched his head and winced. He knew he would have to evade the crew as his assailants would surely be discovered soon. Racing across the deck, he again hid amongst the containers. He went as far into the maze as he could and sat down to rest.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but fell asleep, exhaustion and the mild concussion taking over. He awoke to the sound of the ship's horn as it was towed into dock by the relatively tiny tugboats. He looked around to make sure he was still alone, then took up a position where he could monitor the gangplank for a chance to escape unseen. It took almost half an hour to dock, but once the all-clear sounded, the crew departed quickly, probably heading directly to the nearest whorehouse to catch or spread some new disease. His two attackers were nowhere to be seen. _They must still be tied up._ He took one last look around then, as calmly as he could, walked off the boat with no one questioning him.

17th Street, Washington, DC

Billy had been trying to forget the events of earlier, but it was no use. His mind was consumed by what he had seen, the photos of the dead people, executed, and the knowledge that his own country was involved, his own president. He sat on his couch, staring at the television without really watching it, for hours, until he finally realized he had to eat. He ordered pizza and waited, his feet up on his table, a privilege his mother never allowed him at home, as he watched CNN, trying to distract himself with new horrors from around the world. Seeing the nightly news was a habit his father had drummed into him years ago that he hadn't been able to break, and since he worked at the White House, he felt it his duty to keep up on world events.

His stomach rumbled. He patted it and looked at his watch. _Forty minutes._ Yes, he could have ordered from a thirty minute pizza place, but quality took time, and a Chicago-style deep-dish pizza was worth the wait. _But forty minutes?_ The doorbell rang. He flew at the door then gathered himself, trying not to appear too excited. Checking the peephole, he saw the deliveryman tapping his foot and eyeing his watch. He counted to three then opened the door.

"Hello, sir," said the teenager as he handed over the box. "That'll be twelve-fifty." Billy handed him fifteen bucks.

"Keep the change," he said, feeling good about the decent tip, the events of earlier rapidly disappearing from his mind, replaced by the aroma of Italian sausage and onions. The kid smiled and took off down the hallway toward the elevator. Billy closed the door and sat down on the couch in front of the television, his stomach growling in anticipation. He grabbed the remote to un-mute the television. His jaw dropped. On the screen was a picture of the same man he had seen in the file.

"— _developing story. CNN has been able to confirm that Professor James Acton was not among those found dead in Peru. A State Department source is quoted as saying that Acton was not among the bodies found and his whereabouts are currently unknown. We will keep you posted—"_

He paused the TiVo, the image of the man staring back at him as his face blanched, his pizza forgotten.

St. Paul's University, Maryland

Milton was still in shock from the news of several days before. The phone calls he had made had been the most grueling of his life. He wished he could have notified the families in person, but most of the students who had been killed were from out of state. The nightmares he had experienced the first night had convinced him to not even try sleeping the next two. Every time he shut his eyes he kept seeing his friend of so many years being killed.

I never should have let him go!

He was exhausted. He took another swig of his double cream, double sugar coffee, the caffeine struggling to keep his systems going. As he shook his head to try and wake up, the intercom on his desk rang. Pushing aside the speech he was working on for the memorial service, he hit the button.

"Yes, Rita?"

"There's a phone call for you, sir, they won't say who it is," was the reply over the speaker.

"Take a message, I'm busy." Milton hit the intercom button to end the conversation. A minute later his Blackberry vibrated on his hip. He grabbed it and read the message: _Answer your phone Corky._

He gasped and almost dropped the Blackberry onto the floor. He was about to pick up his phone when the intercom buzzed again. "Sir, he's really pers—"

"Put him through!" yelped Milton, grabbing for the phone.

"Yes, sir, line one."

He hit the button. "This is Dean Milton."

"Hi Greg, it's me Donald." Milton was confused. Only one person knew him as Corky, an old nickname from their college days together he'd rather forget. And that one person was not named Donald. It was James Acton.

"Donald?" asked Milton. He knew the voice was Acton's but he decided he better play along. "Good to hear from you. It's been a long time."

"Too long my friend. I'd like to meet if you've got the time."

"Are you in town?" His heart was pounding now. Something was definitely wrong. "Where can we meet?"

"Remember where we crammed for English Lit finals? Can you meet me there, say eight p.m. tomorrow?"

"Yes, I'll see you there tomorrow."

"Okay, good bye, old friend."

"Good bye." Milton hung up and sat back in his chair, confused. _He must have thought someone was listening._ He hit the intercom button. "Rita, cancel all of my appointments for the rest of today and tomorrow." Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes as a big smile spread across his face.

Jim's alive!

In a telephone repair van parked just off the campus, Agent Lambert nodded. The screen in front of him flashed the confirmation. _98.3% positive match._ "It was Acton all right."

Jasper smiled. "We've got him."

A moment later, snoring rumbled through the speakers.

Somewhere along the Mexican Border

Acton sipped on a water bottle, trying to keep himself cool, as the car he had hired headed for Nogales in the scorching heat. He had used some of his remaining cash and his near perfect Spanish to take care of a few things including a ride to the border in a vehicle that redefined the term 'beater'. He adjusted himself for the umpteenth time, trying to find comfort in the threadbare backseat, but finally gave up to the spring poking through the cushion. Fortunately exhaustion won out, and he soon fell into a restless, nightmare filled sleep.

Visions of his students being tortured, pleading for their lives, watching as their classmates were murdered one by one tormented him. Robbie trying to save him from the gunmen, dying for his efforts needlessly. Of poor Garcia, his crumpled body left in the middle of the camp, never to return to his wife and seven kids.

" _I'm sorry!"_ he cried over and over to visions of his students glaring at him, asking him why he had run and not tried to save them. Why _he_ had survived, and no one else.

Acton jumped in his seat, suddenly awake. "I'm sorry!"

"Sorry for what, señor?"

Acton looked around him, regaining his bearings. "Where are we?"

"Nogales. We have arrived, señor. The border is just ahead." The driver pointed toward a long lineup of cars.

Acton frowned. He knew his passport would be on a watch list and couldn't afford to have it scanned at the border crossing. Before he could open his mouth, his driver turned in his seat to face him. "Perhaps, señor doesn't want to be seen crossing the border?"

_How'd he guess?_ Acton nodded.

"No problema, señor!" said the driver smiling broadly, revealing four beautiful teeth. "For a price, I can get you across, no problema!"

Acton sighed and pulled out his wallet. _Is it illegal to sneak back into your own country?_

New York City, New York

"BD?"

Dawson looked up from his laptop at his friend, Red. Both were sitting on opposite sides of a large rectangular table in a hotel suite near JFK. They knew from the phone conversation Professor Acton had earlier that this was where he was heading; his friend Milton had booked a ticket to New York shortly after the call. They had arrived only a few hours ago as an advance team and had set up a base of operations in a hotel overlooking the airport. The remaining team members were being transported with their equipment by a C17 and would arrive within a couple of hours. Dawson leaned back in his chair, turning his attention to Red.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something, off the record?"

Dawson already didn't like where this was headed, but Red and he had been through too much too many times to deny him at least the privilege of asking the question. It didn't guarantee an answer however. "Go ahead."

"Off the record," Red said, then hesitated. "Shit, BD, those were just kids!"

Dawson's jaw steeled. "You don't think I know that?" Red was about to say something else when Dawson raised his finger to stop him. "We had our orders and Control confirmed them over the comm during the mission. We follow orders, that's what we do. We don't know who those kids were or what they were doing, but Control must have had a reason."

"I know but—"

"Remember Yemen?"

"What, when you got hoofed in the balls?"

Dawson allowed himself one chuckle. "Same mission, earlier in it. Who were the hostiles?"

Red nodded. "Kids. Teenagers."

"Exactly. And they had no problem trying to kill us and we had no problem killing them. And remember nine-eleven? How old were those bastards? Mostly early-twenties? The world is a harsh place, my friend. It's up to us to try to clean it up a little for Bryson."

Red smiled at the mention of his kid. "I'm never letting him out of the country." His computer beeped at him, demanding his attention. "We've got a hit in the airline reservation system."

"What is it?" Dawson rose from his chair and rounded the table to where Red had several laptops set up.

Red spun one so Dawson could see the display. "Acton just booked a flight from Phoenix to New York, leaving in less than an hour."

"Using his own ID? That's pretty bold. Can you hack the security system and get some eyes on him?"

"Just give me a minute." Red's fingers flew over the keyboard and several minutes later they were looking at the airport security cameras. After a few minutes of scanning Dawson leaned in and hit a couple of keys, backing up to a camera angle that had just flipped by.

"There he is," said Dawson, pointing to the security check lineup. "Zoom in on him."

Red highlighted the image of Acton to enlarge it. They watched him empty his pockets as he went through security. He set the alarm off and was scanned manually with the wand. Security had him remove his belt and go back through. After he cleared, he put his belt back on then picked up what appeared to be a wallet, watch, and keys. He then walked out of view of the camera.

"Did he check any luggage?" asked Dawson.

Red looked up the baggage claim info in the reservation system. "No, no luggage."

"And he doesn't have a carry-on," said Dawson. "Where the hell is the package?" He began to pace the room. "Backtrack his movements through the airport, see if he handed it off to anyone. We have no idea how big this terrorist cell is, he could have contacts there."

Red deftly manipulated the camera angles and archival footage to track Acton back from security to the bathroom, back out of the bathroom to the ticket counter and finally to the taxi drop off outside where he could be seen exiting a cab. He wasn't carrying anything.

"He must have done a handoff to somebody before arriving," said Red.

"Get the ID number off that cab. I want to know if they made any stops along the way or if the target said anything that might indicate where the package is."

"Yes, Sergeant Major." Red hammered at the keyboard and within minutes had the number of the cab, the company, and the cabbie's name. Along with the motel he had picked up his last fare at. Red searched a classified database containing the location of pretty much every camera in the country and located one across the street from the motel at a bank machine. He pointed at Acton entering the cab, empty handed. "Maybe he ditched it somewhere?"

"Maybe," replied Dawson. "Looks like we're going to have to retrace his steps."

Though Professor Acton was at the top of his personal hit list, Dawson had to admit his admiration for the man's abilities was growing. At first he had assumed a simple geek professor considering his subject matter, and his weekend warrior status hadn't exactly impressed him, though it was better than what most citizens did. But he had managed to take out one of his men, wound another, evade capture and find his way from Peru to Phoenix without being detected.

The man had skills.

And a lot of luck.

Mickey was a lucky hit, and if it weren't for the cave-in, Spaz would have survived. And if they hadn't been ordered out of the area by Control, they would have definitely captured Acton.

And sent him on to the next damned life.

But here stood their target, bold as brass—since there was no way he could know they had been ordered to keep him off the watch lists—getting on a domestic flight, using his own ID, without what appeared to be a care in the world.

Which meant he had done something with the stolen DARPA object that had him certain he was now bulletproof. And he was right. Until they recovered the object, they couldn't kill him.

What would I do?

He racked his brain until something finally clicked. "Can you check the shipping companies to see if they have any packages going from Phoenix using Acton's name?"

"That'll take some time," replied Red. "Would he risk it, though? What if it got lost?"

"It's what I would do if I were him," said Dawson. "He's got to know that we're after the package and not him. By separating himself from it he's betting that we won't terminate him until he reacquires it."

And he's right.

"I'll start with the major carriers and work my way down," said Red as he began to hack each individual system and scan the manifests for Acton's name.

"We're going to need boots on the ground to retrace his steps," said Dawson, activating his comm as he returned to his seat.

Time to figure out what the hell he did with that package.

Somewhere in U.S. Airspace

The men sat solemnly, the roar of the engines doing a poor job of drowning out their thoughts of Spaz. His flag-draped body was in the hold, watched over by his good friend Clint. The team had been held at sea for several days until apparently their masters had cleared them to return to home soil after the Peru story hit the newspapers, making any further return to the site impossible. Barely a word had been spoken the entire flight until Mickey finally broke the silence.

"How did he get the nickname 'Spaz' anyway?"

Niner frowned. _That kid talks too much._ Mickey was left dangling for a few moments before Niner finally decided it was best to fill him in. "Ever see 'Revenge of the Nerds'?"

"Who hasn't?" replied Mickey.

"When we get back I'll show you the tape we made at the party celebrating his making The Unit."

"What happened?" Niner didn't answer so Mickey looked at some of the others. A smile creased Smitty's face. Mickey looked at him. "Well?"

Smitty, whose own nickname had come from his voracious appetite for pancakes, laughed. "Shit, that's a night he always wanted to forget!" A few of the others chuckled. "Spaz got so floor lickin' pissed that he put Michael Jackson's 'Beat It' on the player and then started to imitate the dance from 'Revenge'. It was one of the funniest damned things I've ever seen!" The chuckles transformed into outright laughter. The nervous tension finally broken, the men reminisced about some of the other escapades they had enjoyed with Spaz.

"Bravo Transport One, Bravo Command. Come in, over." Marco was catching some rack time when the communication came in over his headset, Dawson's voice startling him awake. He glanced around. Most of the other men were laughing. Mickey winced between laughs, gripping his leg as Spock adjusted his medication.

"Bravo Command, Bravo Transport One. Go ahead, over."

"Bravo Transport One, we need you to land immediately. I want a four-man team in civvies in Phoenix. Further instructions once in position, over."

"Roger that Bravo Command. Will find nearest strip and notify you. Bravo Transport One, out."

Marco went to the cockpit and notified the pilots, then returned to the passenger area.

"Hey, Marco, where'd you get your name?" asked Mickey, his words slurred slightly from the Demerol.

"Someone found out I played polo," he replied.

"No shit?" Mickey laughed. He turned to Spock who had just checked his dressing. "And you?" Spock cocked one eyebrow at him. Mickey roared in laughter then passed out.

Marco pointed to Smitty, Niner and Jimmy. "Gear up for a civvie street assignment, we're going to Phoenix."

The four of them started stripping out of their fatigues as the C17 banked sharply to the left and descended. A private charter was arranged at their drop-off point, and within minutes they were winging for Phoenix, arriving within the hour.

Marco pointed to Jimmy as their jet came to a stop at the airline's private terminal. "Get us some wheels. I'll check in with BD and see what the mission is." Jimmy nodded and exited the aircraft as Marco contacted command. His comm beeped in his ear.

"This is Bravo Command. We're sending you the data now. Find this cab driver. We need to know where he picked up the target, if he made any stops, and whether or not he ever had a package with him, over."

Marco watched Niner tapping away on his laptop. He looked up and nodded. "Bravo Command, Bravo Team Phoenix. We have the data. Will contact you when target is acquired. Phoenix, out."

Niner hacked the cab company's GPS tracking system and soon found the cab Acton had taken earlier. "He just left the airport, about ten minutes out."

"Let's go," said Marco.

Niner closed up the laptop and they disembarked as Jimmy pulled up in an Escalade. Niner shook his head as they climbed in.

"What are we, pimps?" he asked Jimmy.

In his best rapper's voice, Jimmy replied, "Yo mo fo, don't you be dissin' my ride or I'm gonna have to take you outside and serve up a can o' whoop ass!"

Niner looked at him. "You're so _white_." The others started to piss themselves with laughter in the back seat as Marco activated the GPS on his laptop, tying into the real time feed for the cab's locator.

"Let's go. Looks like he's about twenty minutes away."

Jimmy floored it, launching the men into the back of their seats.

Make that fifteen.

New York City, New York

"BD, I've got it!" It had taken two hours, but Red finally had a hit. Dawson jumped from his chair, tossing his comm on the table as he joined Red at the laptop. "A package just left a collection point for the Phoenix airport. It was sent by James Acton to Pedro Gonzalez, Professor of Archeology in Madrid."

Did he really think he'd get away with that?

"Relay the coordinates to Bravo Team Phoenix and have them intercept the package," ordered Dawson, the adrenaline flowing as all the pieces were beginning to come together. "Have Clint and Atlas reported in yet? I want them to eliminate Professor Acton when he arrives in New York as soon as we have confirmation of the item's retrieval."

"They're on location already. His flight should be arriving any minute."

"Excellent."

Dawson wished he was at the airport to remove the professor from existence himself, but it wasn't to be—his current job more important. He heard chirping from his headpiece on the table and reached over to pick it up. Pushing it into his ear, he heard the call repeated.

"Bravo One, Control, do you read, over?"

"Control, Bravo One. Go ahead, over."

"Bravo One, we have a possible security breach on this end that needs to be taken care of," said the voice. "Send one of your men to Washington immediately, instructions have been sent via secure transmission. Control, out."

Dawson looked at Red who nodded. "Encrypted packet just arrived for you, Sergeant Major." He brought up the transmission on his laptop and spun it toward his commander. Dawson entered his password and read the file.

"Holy shit!"

"What?"

Dawson held up a finger and finished reading the transmission, leaning back in his chair when he was done. "This thing is way bigger than we thought."

"What do you mean?" asked Red, his fingers suddenly freezing over his keyboard.

"This terrorist cell, the one we've been having our doubts about?"

"Yeah?"

"They've got one of their own working in the White House, not two hundred feet from the President!"

Acton awoke as the flight began its descent into New York. He tried to stretch his arms and legs in the cramped seating without much success. Putting his shoes back on, having removed them shortly after takeoff, he gave his lap belt a tug as he tried to mentally prepare himself for what might be next. He was sure he had been watched, and no doubt they had flagged his ID, but the fact he hadn't been intercepted told him whoever was after him wanted the skull. After struggling overnight through the desert sand and bitter cold, he and his cadre of illegals had made it to a road where his companions hid behind a dune, waiting for a prearranged truck to arrive. Since he was an American, he decided to just hitch a ride and within minutes was picked up by a rig headed to Phoenix.

Once there, he paid cash for a room at a motel, cleaned up and put on a fresh set of clothes purchased from a nearby thrift shop, then found a store with a FedEx drop-off where he put the riskiest part of his plan into motion, a plan he had developed while on the ship from Peru.

But did it work?

When he had arrived in Mexico he had Googled the skulls, reading up as much as he could on them, eventually finding an expert who didn't appear to be a quack.

In England.

If they hadn't found the package he sent then he should be okay getting off the flight.

But if they had?

His heart hammered against his ribs, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he realized if his ploy hadn't worked, he was most likely about to die. As the plane taxied then stopped, waiting for the gangway to extend, he repeated the same two words over and over.

Stay alive!

Phoenix, Arizona

Jimmy gunned the motor and cut in front of the FedEx van their new orders had sent them to intercept. He slammed his brakes on, blocking their target, as the other three Bravo Team members jumped out with weapons drawn, pointing them at the panicked driver.

"Get out of the truck!" ordered Niner, tapping his gun on the window. The driver raised his hands and climbed out, his blue shorts revealing his clearly shaking knees. "Open the back!" The driver shuffled sideways to the back, never taking his eyes off the gun pointed at his head. He groped for the handle and, when he found it, twisted it then pulled the door up, revealing hundreds of packages inside. "We're looking for this package number," said Niner as he handed him a tracking number. The driver nodded, still shaking, and climbed into the back of the truck. A minute later he found the package and handed it to Niner.

Niner double-checked the tracking number and the information shown on the package. Professor Acton's name was written clearly on the label. Looking back at the trembling driver, he raised his weapon and cold-cocked the terrified man on the side of his head, rendering him unconscious. He returned to the SUV, handing the package to Marco.

"Bravo Command, Bravo Nine, we've recovered the item, over," said Marco, activating his comm as the rest of the team climbed back in. Jimmy quickly put several miles between them and the FedEx truck then Marco had him pull into an area of warehouses and stop. "Everyone out, I have to confirm the contents." The other team members exited the Escalade, leaving Marco alone.

He had been cleared to open the package by Dawson, but no one else was to see what was inside by order of Control. As the other team members milled about outside the SUV, he carefully examined the package for booby traps, then used his utility knife to cut open the packing tape that encased the plain brown box. Opening the top he removed the packing material inside, his heart pounding with the excitement of finally finding out what this entire mission had been about. _What was worth killing all those people for?_ He didn't know what to expect, but when he had removed enough of the packing material to reveal the item he shook his head in disbelief.

What the hell is this?

Clint and Atlas fell in behind Acton as he left the secure area of the airport. When Clint had been assigned this mission he had relished in the thought of killing the man who had taken his friend. Spaz had been the one to give him his nickname when he had joined The Unit, both of them loving old movies, Spaz always acting out parts with Clint doing incredibly bad impressions of the characters' voices—one of his worst being Dirty Harry. He smiled at the memory then frowned.

This is for you, buddy.

"Bravo Eight, Bravo Command. Do you have him, over?"

Clint tapped his earpiece. "Bravo Command, Bravo Eight. Affirmative, moving into position now, over."

"Roger that, Bravo Eight. Eliminate the subject. Bravo Command, out."

Clint looked at Atlas with a nod, their orders confirmed. He could feel his heart pick up a few beats as they closed the gap between themselves and their target. Rarely had he killed in revenge, not for something so personal. Killing terrorists in revenge for 9/11 was one thing. But killing the man who killed a buddy, who killed Spaz?

That was completely different.

But he had to keep his emotions in check, otherwise he might blow the mission. Killing him would be easy. Killing him and getting away with it was the hard part.

They were both dressed in suits with long overcoats. Clint had his hands in both pockets, the bulge from his silencer-tipped weapon now pointing at the target. They quickened their pace. As they did, a man crossed in front of them pulling a carry-on and staring at a map of the airport. Atlas shoved him out of the way as they stumbled over the case and Clint knew their cover was blown as he looked up to see their target make eye contact.

Acton turned to see the commotion behind him. One man was on his knees, a case he had been pulling knocked over on the floor. Two men were stepping over him without a second glance. Acton looked down and saw one of them had his hand in his pocket, something metallic showing. _A gun!_ Acton looked up at the man and nearly fainted when he saw him staring directly at him. Acton whipped his head back around and picked up his pace, his heart slamming against his ribcage as if he were running a marathon.

Clint was about three feet behind Acton, Atlas to his side and slightly back. Clint slowly squeezed the trigger, there no way he could miss at this distance, and in the din of the airport, it would barely be noticed. Red had already disabled the cameras in this area, and any footage that might show them would be scrubbed by Ops.

Spaz's murderer was about to die, another terrorist leader was about to answer his maker.

"Abort, abort, abort!" came Dawson's voice through the comm system ear buds. "Do not eliminate the target!"

Clint's chest immediately tightened as his finger left the trigger. He casually broke to the left as Atlas went in the opposite direction, disappointment shoving the exhilaration he was feeling aside.

Goddammit!

Acton was now panicked and about to run. Blood roared through his ears, adrenaline rushed through his veins causing his entire body to shake as his heart pumped so fast he could feel himself becoming faint. Looking again over his shoulder, preparing to turn and fight, with what he had no idea, he stopped.

Both men were gone.

He looked around but they were nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined it? _No, that was definitely a gun._ He sucked in several deep, slow breaths, calming himself, then resuming his walk, albeit at a brisk pace, to the car rental counter.

And smiled. So far, his plan was working.

And they definitely don't have the skull.

"The bastard, he must have sent a second package," said Dawson, respect for his adversary ratcheting up another notch. It had been close, Marco's reporting of the package merely containing rocks coming in mere seconds before their target was about to be eliminated.

Too close.

He turned to Red. "Run a check, see if you can find another package he might have sent. And I want Atlas on a flight to Washington to plug that security hole."

Dawson sat down and connected to Control to relay the news. He hadn't anticipated much resistance in Peru, and they certainly hadn't received any except from the Professor. _He's a smart one._ He wouldn't underestimate him again. His doubts on whether or not they had been sent on a bullshit mission were diminishing. The terror cell had a student inside the White House and Acton had sent a decoy package, clearly proving there actually was an object that needed to be retrieved.

What the hell that object was, he still had no clue, except that it was some type of crystal material.

" _You'll know it when you see it."_

Dawson shook his head.

What the hell does that mean?

17th Street, Washington, DC

After what had seemed an endless day, Billy was finally heading home. His chest was still tight, his palms sweating as he walked toward his apartment from the corner store where he had grabbed a microwaveable hoagie. _I shouldn't have seen that!_ Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked back over his shoulder. He could see a man walking behind him who seemed to be looking down the street, perhaps for a cab. He quickened his pace.

The footsteps quickened their pace as well. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest. He started to run. Dodging into an alleyway, he ran toward the other end. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man follow him into the dead end. His attention on the man behind him, he didn't notice the discarded tire in front of him until he tripped over it, landing on the ground.

As he scrambled to get up, he was hauled to his feet and spun around, his back facing the man. In one swift motion the man covered his mouth and pulled his head back, stifling his scream. Something moved across his throat then a warm liquid pulsed down his neck onto his chest. It took a moment before the pain registered and he realized that his own blood was pouring from his now slit throat.

The man threw him to the ground and, as Billy lay there bleeding out, he stared helplessly as the man took his wallet, keys and watch. Just before he lost consciousness he heard the man say something.

"Bravo Command, Bravo Seven. The target has been eliminated, over."

New York City, New York

Milton exited his cab on 71st Street, his head hunkered down behind the collar of his jacket. He hurried into Central Park and headed to Strawberry Fields. He glanced behind him then broke into a run. He had flown out that afternoon to New York after delivering the eulogy, and had been traveling around the city by cab, subway and foot, just in case he was being followed. His paranoia had become so intense he was now suspicious of everyone. His chest was pounding and he could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, fueling his panic further. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he slowly calmed down. He eased to a jog then eventually a brisk walk, trying to catch his breath, cursing his desk job.

Remember where we crammed for English Lit finals? Can you meet me there?

Almost twenty years ago, as a grad student, he had taken Acton, a promising sophomore, under his wing. They had been virtually inseparable ever since. They'd jog through the park almost every morning and engage in deep philosophical discussions while sitting on the benches or lying in the various green spaces.

Strawberry Fields lay in the most beautiful part of Central Park. He had discovered it before it became known as that, before Ed Koch dedicated it to John Lennon, before its upgrade, and before people flocked to it. By the time he'd met Acton, that had died down and it became their escape from the throngs that were New York City.

When he had offered Acton a teaching position at the college four years ago, he had been afraid it would affect their relationship, but it hadn't. Yes, they had their fights, some loud ones—including the one preceding his latest expedition—but those had only served to strengthen their friendship. Acton was a well-respected archeologist and the alumni loved him. He had ended up being perfect for the position.

Twenty years ago I quizzed him for his English Lit finals on that bench.

He came to an abrupt stop and looked around again. No one. _Including Jim._ He eyed the bench where they had sat that night. His Blackberry went off, sending his pulse racing again.

Look under the bench.

Inching toward the bench, he sat. He tried to casually reach under it with his left hand and feel around. Almost immediately he felt something taped underneath. It came free with a little effort. He hid it in his hand and brought it up, palm inward, shielding it from view of anyone. He crossed his legs and, with his leg now blocking his hand from view, turned it over to see what had been underneath the bench.

A cellphone!

He nearly jumped out of his skin as it vibrated in his hand. Flipping it open, he brought it to his ear as casually as his shaking hands could manage.

"Don't say anything, you're being watched," said the voice. Milton looked around but couldn't see his friend. "Go and visit our angel, you know where she is, and wait for me to call you there. Cough if you understand."

He coughed.

"Okay, see you soon my friend." The line went dead.

Milton got up and walked east, deeper into the park, toward Bethesda Terrace. His heart drummed in his chest and blood rushed through his ears. _Calm down. Inhale. Exhale._ He tried to ignore the people around him, but he couldn't help wondering which ones might be following him.

17th Street, Washington, DC

"What have we got?" asked Detective Raymond Wheeler of his partner, Detective Justin Schultz, as he ducked under the yellow police tape. Wheeler's slightly portly figure wasn't the model of police fitness, but twenty-five years on the force quite often led to that, especially since he hadn't been chasing perps in over ten. Detective work was less physically challenging, but a hell of a lot more interesting. He'd been partnered with Schultz for most of his time as a detective and, much to his chagrin, Schultz had managed to avoid the spare tire.

"One DB, probably a mugging," said the medical examiner. "I just got here. I'll know more when I get a look at him."

"Mugging, eh?" Wheeler knelt down and lifted a corner of the sheet draped over the body. "Any ID?"

"No, no wallet, keys or watch," replied an officer.

Schultz turned to the officer. "You were first on the scene?"

"Yes, sir."

"If this is a mugging, then why was this made a priority homicide call?" asked Wheeler.

"Not by me," said the ME. "That was our overzealous friend here." He jabbed his thumb at the officer behind him.

Wheeler looked at him. "Well? Are you just wasting my time or are you going to speak up for yourself?"

The young officer looked nervous. "Well, sir, it's like this. I'm ex-army, did two tours in Iraq, and, well, this doesn't look like a mugging to me."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at the cut, sir," he said. "That's text book, exactly the way we were trained to take someone out from behind, with no noise."

Wheeler approached the body and pulled aside the sheet. He looked closely at the wound. _The kid's right. This was no mugging._ He looked at the ME. "What do you think?"

The ME knelt down and examined the wound. "Could be. He moves to the top of my list. I'll contact you as soon as I know more, probably a couple of hours."

"Run his prints right away, too. I want to know who this kid was."

New York City, New York

"Is that a cellphone he picked up?" asked Lambert, staring at the video footage transmitted by one of the trailing agents.

Jasper leaned over Lambert's shoulder as he peered at the monitor in front of them. "Yes it is. Can we listen in?"

"No. None of our agents in place have a parabolic."

"Shit!" Jasper pointed to a young agent in the back of the van. "Turner, take a parabolic and get out there now!"

"Won't I look kind of conspicuous, sir?"

"To hell with conspicuous, we need to hear that conversation!" yelled Jasper. "Go!"

Turner grabbed the parabolic dish out of an upper cabinet and exited the back of the van. He dodged the heavy morning traffic on Central Park West and sprinted into the park. He felt like an idiot. There was no way to be inconspicuous while carrying a one-foot diameter circular cone. As he neared the bench where Milton had just been, he received instructions over his earpiece as to where the target was now heading. He finally spotted Milton just as he reached a fountain. He saw him look down at the phone and flip it open, placing it to his ear.

Turner looked around for a hiding place. _No goddamned way am I standing in the open pointing this thing._ Running behind a nearby tree, he propped the dish on a branch and pointed it toward Milton as he put the headphone in his ear. Static. He aimed more carefully and he could make out a few muffled words but nothing else. Just static.

It's the damned fountain!

Raising his hand to his mouth, he activated his comm. "Sir, I can't hear a thing, the fountain is drowning everything out!" He didn't have to be there to hear the string of curses at the other end.

"Get back here."

"Can you hear me?" asked Acton.

"Barely, the fountain is pretty loud," replied Milton, relieved to hear his friend's voice again.

"Good, that means they can't hear us either. Listen old friend, I'm in danger and so are you just by talking to me, but I had no choice."

"What are you talking about? In danger from who?" asked Milton, bewildered.

"I'm not sure. I think they were our troops, some sort of black ops thing. They killed everyone at the camp and they almost got me."

"Our own troops? I was told it was rebels after your supplies or something you had found!"

"Who told you that bullshit?"

"Two State Department agents came to my office four days ago and told me what happened," explained Milton. "They said you were missing and wanted me to contact them if I heard from you. I didn't of course."

"Good. They may be in on it. Listen carefully. For some reason I think they're after what we found in Peru."

"What did you find?"

"A crystal skull."

"A crystal skull? Like Mitchell-Hedges?"

"Yes, exactly!" said Acton. He suddenly sounded like a teenage boy describing his first car. "It's beautiful! I've seen pictures of them of course and had a chance to see the one in London up close, but I've never held one in my hand. It's the most incredible thing I've ever seen."

"I'm sure it is, Jim, but why would they want to kill you over it?"

"I have no idea, but I think I might know who would. Problem is I need cash."

"I thought you would so I brought some."

"Listen," said his friend, his tone becoming more serious. "They killed everyone, and they're probably after me. If you want out, now's the time to get out. I won't judge you."

"Jim, you've known me long enough to know I don't leave my friends hanging," replied Milton. "Now, how do I get this money to you?"

"First, we have to lose whoever's tailing you."

Milton listened to the plan then snapped the phone shut and tossed it in the fountain. He looked around again, trying to spot any pursuers, but gave up. There were just too many people in the park. He walked briskly toward the nearest subway station, went down the stairs, paid his fare, then made his way out onto the platform. He scrutinized people descending the stairs, but no one stood out. _Too many suits._

His train arrived and he waited until the last second to jump aboard, hoping he might surprise whoever was following him. He took a seat and tried to look inconspicuous. Not hard considering this was a New York subway car. Nobody looked at anybody as they just tried to ignore their surroundings and make it to their destination with as little interaction with their fellow passengers as possible. He grabbed a newspaper from the seat beside him and buried his head behind it.

Turner and Jasper had both followed Milton into the subway station. When the train arrived, Turner boarded right away, just in case Milton tried anything last minute. Turner could always get off at the next stop if needed.

There he goes.

Jasper smiled to himself. _Predictable._ He made his way back up to the van and waited for Turner to let them know when he got off. In the meantime though, they at least knew which direction to travel. "Let's head south."

Washington, DC

"Detective Wheeler, this is Mendosa from the Medical Examiner's Office."

Wheeler stopped chewing on his foot long hot dog with the works and handed the pile of artery clogging fat and calories to Schultz who looked at it with disdain. "What have you got, Doc?" he said as he pulled out his notepad and pen.

"We had a hit on the John Doe's prints," said Mendosa.

"He was in AFIS?"

"No, he was in the Fed's Employee database. You're not going to believe who this kid is!"

"Who?"

"William Guthrie," said Mendosa, "son of former Speaker George Guthrie. The kid started Monday as an intern at the White House."

Wheeler scribbled the information onto his pad. "Still think this is a random mugging?"

"No," agreed Mendosa. "I've examined the wound and our young vet was right. This was a professional hit made to look like a mugging."

"Okay, I'm going to go see the congressman," said Wheeler. "You keep me posted." Closing his cellphone, he grabbed the hot dog from Schultz. He was about to take a bite when he realized he had lost his appetite. He threw it in the garbage can nearby and motioned to his partner. "This case just got a whole lot more interesting."

"How?"

"Our victim is a VIP."

Wheeler explained as they made the drive out to Chevy Chase, Maryland. This was the part of the job he hated. They both hated. Telling parents that their kid was dead. It was one thing when it was a gangbanger—it was expected. But a clean cut kid, barely out of high school, working at the White House?

It just wasn't supposed to happen.

They pulled into the long drive of the Guthrie residence and parked near the main entrance, the house huge. _It's good to be the king._ He often wondered why it was that politicians, no matter how rich or poor they were when they went into office, always managed to somehow leave wealthy.

Couldn't be corruption of course.

Guthrie he knew from the papers had married money, so his current situation was clean. But what his son was mixed up in, he had no idea. A professional hit meant either he had dug himself in deep with some bad characters, or this was a hit to send a message to Guthrie, Sr.

Wheeler and Schultz crossed the drive and climbed the three steps of the main entrance, an impressive columned affair with a massive double, carved wood door. Wheeler was about to knock when the door swung open, a man he instantly recognized as George Guthrie, the boy's father, standing there, his eyes red, his face flushed.

"What do you want?"

Anger and pain tinged his voice, and Wheeler realized the poor bastard already knew why they were here.

"I'm Detective Wheeler, this is my partner Detective Schultz, Metro PD. We're here about your son."

The man's shoulders sagged and he turned away from them, leaving the door open as he shuffled deeper into the house. Wheeler looked at Schultz and shrugged, then followed Guthrie.

They found him in a sitting room, trying to console his wife and fight the tears welling in his own eyes. He took a moment to steel his nerves as he placed his wife in a chair and turned to face the detectives.

Wheeler cleared his throat. "I take it you've heard?"

Guthrie nodded, his bottom lip trembling for a moment. "We just received a call from a friend who thought we already knew."

"I'm truly sorry you had to find out that way, sir. As soon as the identity was confirmed we drove over. In fact, I'm surprised anyone knew before we did."

Guthrie ignored the observation. "All I want to know is how my boy died."

"This may be difficult to hear, Mr. Guthrie," said Wheeler as he motioned to a chair. "It appears to have been a professional job, made to look like a mugging."

Guthrie dropped onto the chair, his legs giving out. "Professional?" he asked. "But, why? He was only eighteen!" This elicited a wail from his wife.

"It's early in the investigation, sir," replied Wheeler. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

Guthrie stood up and faced Wheeler. "I'm sure you know who I am. I still have a lot of friends in this town. If anyone gets in your way, stonewalls you in any way, you call me. I'll open any doors you need. I want my Billy's killer caught."

"Yes, sir, you'll be the first I call."

Grand Central Station, New York City

Milton jumped off the subway at the last second, again hoping this would help. He had taken the subway daily when he lived in New York, but hadn't been on it for over a decade. He didn't miss it. The throngs of commuters made it difficult for him to reach the main floor of Grand Central Station. Once finally there, he headed through the Hyatt Hotel entrance directly toward the main floor bathrooms. He saw one that had a yellow sign in front, indicating it was closed for servicing, and walked confidently toward it then entered. He closed the door and, as his friend had promised, he found a piece of wood by the door. Wedging it between the door and the entrance wall, he tested it to make sure the door couldn't be opened.

He went to the back of the bathroom, climbed up on the counter and pushed on the window. It swung open easily. Again, his friend had planned this perfectly. Milton struggled out the window. _Jim obviously forgot I sit behind a desk for a living._ The last time he had climbed out a window was after nearly being caught by his high school girlfriend's father in her bedroom.

It had been easier then.

He heard someone try the door handle to the bathroom. The board did its job. Whoever it was began pushing hard on the door, pounding on it and apparently throwing their shoulder into it. After a few moments of panic thinking he might be caught, Milton squeezed through the window. Dropping unceremoniously to the floor of a service corridor, he ran toward a door at the end below a lit red exit sign. He shoved the handle and burst through onto Lexington Avenue, much to the surprise of a few passersby.

He dusted himself off and looked around. The green Prius he was told to expect was there. _Jim, even running for his life he thinks of the environment._ He ran over and climbed in. The car sped off before he had a chance to even say hello.

Turner finally broke through the bathroom door as the piece of wood blocking it splintered then snapped. He ran in and noticed the open window. He jumped up on the counter, pulled himself through, then dropped to the ground. He looked around for Milton, but couldn't see him. He ran to the exit at the far end and looked up and down the busy street as he emerged. Milton was nowhere in sight. He radioed in, cursing to himself.

"I lost him."

"They shouldn't be able to track us in here."

Stuck in traffic in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, Acton finally felt safe. He had been traveling for hours to make sure he wasn't being followed. He had chosen the Prius not for environmental reasons, as he was sure his friend thought, but for the fact that the incredible gas mileage meant he wouldn't need to stop for gas whereas anyone following him would. Also, the terrific pickup from a dead stop meant he could accelerate through traffic quicker than most vehicles.

He looked at his friend and smiled. "Thanks for coming."

"I'm just glad you're alive." Milton turned to face him. "Now, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, or am I going to have to beat it out of you? I've never been so terrified in my life!"

"Quite the adrenaline rush, eh?" laughed Acton.

Milton scowled.

"Okay, here's what happened. Last week on our dig we found some hidden chambers inside a cave. It looks like the ancient Incans had bored out a huge chunk of the hillside to make these things. The carvings and whatnot were impressive in themselves, but inside, on a stone altar, was this." He reached into his pocket and took out some Polaroids.

Milton's jaw dropped. They were carefully taken close-ups of the skull from various angles. He held the photos up to look at it closer.

"It's beautiful," he whispered, "in an almost eerie way." He flipped to a photo showing the hollowed out eyes. "This looks just like the Mitchell-Hedges skull." He flipped to another picture.

"Exactly the same as far as I can tell," agreed Acton. "Completely smooth, no tool marks."

"Where is it now?"

"On its way to London, God willing," replied Acton. "When I was in Mexico I FedEx'd it using one of my student's IDs to an expert on the skulls there."

"Who's that?"

"Professor Laura Palmer of the British Museum. She's been studying the one they have for years and is known as _the_ expert in these things. She's apparently examined all of the ones known to exist that are accessible," explained Acton.

"What do you mean by accessible?"

"Some are in private collections." Acton looked ahead as the traffic stirred again. "Okay, we're almost out of the tunnel. You brought the money?"

"Yes." Milton reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. "Nine thousand nine hundred dollars, the most I could withdraw without flagging a government inspection." He handed it to Acton.

"I think it's five thousand now," said Acton as he took the envelope.

"What? Are you sure?"

"I think they changed it recently." Acton stuffed the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket. "You might be flagged, but they're not looking for you."

Milton tried to put on a brave face. "Well, the important thing is you're now flush with cash. I assume you're going to London?"

"Yes, there's a midnight flight."

"How are you going to get through security?"

"They're not after me, they're after the skull. They must know by now that I don't have it so I'm probably safe for the moment."

"Let's hope so." Milton nodded toward the pocket Acton had just put the envelope in. "There's also a new Visa and bank card from the university in there. If you have an emergency, use them. Hopefully they won't think to trace them."

"Hopefully, but these guys are pros."

"Any idea who they are?"

"I don't know. They must have been some type of Special Forces. They came in by helicopter, were well armed, state-of-the-art equipment, well disciplined," recalled Acton. "I shot one and pistol-whipped another. That one I spoke to, his English was perfect Bronx."

"You're sure they were ours?" Milton shook his head. "I can't believe that. Why would our government want to kill you over this?"

"I don't know, but don't forget, our _government,_ as you put it, doesn't always know what these black ops guys do. It could be some rogue element that the administration doesn't even know about."

Milton was still shaking his head. "I just can't believe it. You're sure it wasn't the Shining Path or some other rebel group? They've killed a lot of people."

"No, they don't have equipment like this." Acton looked in his rearview mirror to see if they were being followed. "I think we lost them." He took the exit for JFK.

"You're not worried about them knowing you're on the plane?"

"A bit. I'll just have to hope they're not willing to shoot down an airliner full of people. They're after the skull anyway, and right now they don't know where it is. I'll try and lose whoever is waiting for me in London. I can't believe they'd want to risk an international incident at the airport. My guess is they haven't even notified the regular authorities to watch for me since that would raise too many questions."

When they arrived at the airport, Acton battled his way to the departure drop off area and jumped into a spot as another car pulled away. He turned to Milton. "I don't want any more help from you. If they ask you questions, tell them the truth."

Milton shook his head again.

"Listen, I don't want you to get hurt," pleaded Acton. "Too many have died already. Promise me."

Milton sighed. "Okay, Jim, I promise." With that, Acton popped the trunk and left the car. Milton climbed out as well. Acton gave his friend a quick one-armed thumping hug, grabbed a hockey bag from the trunk, and strode into the terminal, not looking back, silently praying his friend would be okay.

Entering the terminal Acton studied the boards to confirm the midnight flight to London. It was on time and leaving in two hours. He approached the counter and purchased a ticket. He knew he would be tracked on this flight since he had to use his passport so he decided to use his credit card, reserving the cash for when he arrived in London. His ticket bought, he headed for customs to find several of the scanners down and the crowds getting frustrated. Finally cleared, he arrived at his gate with little time to spare. As he headed down the gangway, he took one last look over his shoulder and could have sworn a man was looking directly at him as he talked into his wrist.

"Bravo Command, Bravo One-Two. Subject has cleared customs, over."

Red grinned as he accessed the reservation system, Dawson packing up their equipment having correctly guessed the Professor was heading out of the city by air. They had pre-positioned teams at all the major airports, then it was just a matter of him showing up at one of them.

And he had, just as predicted.

"Recall the other teams. Have them rendezvous at the base. We'll head out once you find the reservation. And tie up that loose end. Control says he's on the Termination List."

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

JFK Airport, New York City

As Milton guided the Prius through the chaos that was the JFK loading and unloading zone, he started to shake as the realization of what he had been through sunk in. _Get a grip!_ He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Someone stepped in front of his car and he slammed the brakes on. The person, dressed in a dark suit, flashed a badge as he walked up to the passenger door. He knocked on the window, pointing at the lock. Milton reached for the switch to unlock it then hesitated.

"Open the door, sir," said the man in a firm tone.

I have to get out of this alive.

He glanced in his side view mirror and saw a gap in the traffic. With the car still in drive, he took his foot off the brake and hit the gas. The car's electric motor thrust it into traffic with a force he hadn't expected. _Maybe_ that's _why Jim chose this car?_ Dodging in and out of the lanes, he tried to put as much distance as he could between him and his would-be passenger, whom he could no longer see in his rearview mirror. As he exited JFK he started to breathe a little easier. _I've got to ditch this car._

He didn't see the black Ford Expedition following several car lengths behind, his would-be passenger inside, watching on a laptop the red blip from the tracking device stuck to his door.

Milton saw a car rental place just outside the airport. He parked the Prius in a lot just down from it and walked back. As he entered the rental office, the Expedition pulled in and parked, its tinted windows blocking a view of the interior. Within minutes he was waiting out front for the car to be brought around for the customary inspection. He signed the paperwork and climbed into the Ford Focus. He gunned the motor and left the parking lot, a little disappointed in the power after having just experienced the extra torque available in the Prius' bottom end.

The SUV pulled out and followed. Milton drove for about half an hour then pulled into a gas station. Inside, he bought some chocolate bars, chips and Diet Coke. _Just for the taste of it._ He asked for the bathrooms and the attendant pointed to the back. Milton left his bag on the counter and headed to the bathroom. He didn't look back as the chime sounded at the opening of the entrance door.

Entering the bathroom, he cringed at the pungent odor of stale urine. He used his foot to kick the lid up, not wanting to touch anything, and relieved himself. _Man, I've been needing this!_ He was just about done when the door to the bathroom opened. He looked over his shoulder, surprised because he was sure he had locked it.

"I'll be just a minute."

No response. He zipped up his fly and turned around. There were two slight popping sounds then a searing pain in his chest. He fell to the floor, one hand gripping his chest, the other trying to hold on to the sink. A few seconds later he was prone on the floor, bleeding out. The man calmly walked out of the bathroom, the chime on the door signaling his departure.

The life draining from him, Milton reached for the Blackberry on his hip and pulled it loose. With his last few ounces of strength, he typed a message into it, pressed _Send_ , then collapsed, the device landing in the now large pool of blood. Bright spots of light flashed before his closed eyes as the life sustaining oxygen stopped reaching his brain. Then nothing.

Classified Airstrip

On a military airstrip twenty miles away, in a closed hangar at the end of the runway, members of Delta Team Bravo loaded equipment onto a Gulfstream V, while nearby, Dawson studied the screen of one of Red's several laptops.

"Confirmed, BD, he just boarded."

"Okay, wheels up in five minutes!" Dawson ordered. Outside, the wind whipped around as a Black Hawk helicopter touched down. The massive doors of the hangar opened and it taxied through. The Bravo Team members who had been tailing Milton jumped out and ran toward the G-V. The computers were packed up, stairs stowed, and the door sealed, leaving empty tables and a lone helicopter.

The G-V's mighty engines powered up, filling the cabin with engine noise as they taxied out onto the airstrip. Dawson looked out the window to see a flatbed truck pull up to transport their chopper to base. There would be no record of it ever having been there. He laid his head back onto the leather seat and let out a deep breath, preparing himself for a few hours of rack time. _Who knows when I'll get the next chance?_ Around him, his men did the same.

Looking at the two new members of his team, Stucco and Casey, he nodded in approval. He hadn't worked with them before, but knew from their records they would make fine additions. Mickey would be hard to replace; he was so gung-ho and loyal he would execute orders without question, now that he had learned his lesson with the Smitty incident. He was relieved to have found Mickey alive in the cave when they returned to search. It would take months of recovery, but he'd make it back—he was tough. Spaz was another story. Just thinking the kid's name made him smile. _That guy was the life of the party_. He had already told Spaz's wife about the unfortunate training accident. He hated having to lie to the families, but it was necessary for operational security. What made it worse was they knew they were being lied to.

But if all went well, they'd have their revenge by tomorrow.

The thought had a smile spread across his face, and he was asleep before they reached cruising altitude.

Somewhere over the Atlantic

Acton stared at the seatbelt warning light, waiting for it to go out as the plane climbed toward thirty-five thousand feet. Finally the gentle gong rang through the cabin. Acton immediately whipped off his seatbelt, rose and approached the nearest flight attendant. "Do you have any Internet terminals that I could access?"

"Yes, sir, on the upper deck there are several." She pointed to a curving staircase a few feet away.

"Thanks," he said as he rushed toward them. In Mexico he had only had about fifteen minutes to find out to whom he should send the skull. Once he had found out Professor Palmer was the foremost expert and was in London, he had headed for the courier's office. Now he needed to complete his research.

As he neared the top of the stairs he noticed a row of terminals lining one wall. All were taken except one. He quickly sat in front of it. He brought up Google and typed in _professor laura palmer british museum_. Google responded with 197,000 hits. _Shit._ He scrolled through the entries until he found who he was looking for. One click brought up a picture of a woman with her hair tied back and sleeves rolled up, working on a dig site in the desert. _Not bad._ He scanned the biographical information.

Dr. Laura Palmer had several degrees, including Archeology, Ancient History and Literature. She was a Professor of Archeology at University College London, had held a position at the British Museum for over ten years and was well respected in her field. She lectured all over Europe and North America, and was currently on a dig in Egypt.

Egypt!

He scrolled through the document to try and find the date it had been written. _Two years ago_. Some more searching confirmed she was currently at the university lecturing as he had thought. He spent the next few minutes entering notes into his Blackberry on contact names, numbers and addresses he might need. When he was done he turned it off, knowing he wouldn't get a signal here nor when he'd have a chance to recharge the battery. Next, he pulled up a map of the Heathrow terminal.

Now to figure a way out.

Fifteen thousand feet above him Delta Team Bravo slept in their G-V. Several thousand feet below, and about an hour behind, followed a C17 with their heavy equipment. Six hours behind, Jasper and Lambert sat in US Airways coach, trying to sleep while a baby wailed in the seat behind them. Finally Lambert gave up and opened his complimentary bag of mixed nuts. As he munched away he realized he was thirsty. _Salty!_ He flagged the attendant and asked for a Pepsi.

"Is Coke okay, sir?"

He nodded. _Same shit, different flies._ She brought back the half-size can of soda and poured it into a glass of ice then placed it on his tray table.

"That will be three dollars, sir." Now he realized the scam. He fumbled for his wallet and paid her, grumbling the entire time. Finishing his peanuts then his mini-Coke, he searched for more things to entertain himself with. He turned to Jasper.

"Sir?"

Jasper opened his eyes without raising his head and looked at his younger partner.

"What?"

"Any idea why Acton would run to England if he was innocent?"

"No."

"Do you think he had something to do with it?"

"No."

Lambert nodded then grabbed the in-flight magazine and flipped through it for a couple of minutes.

"Sir?"

"What?" This time Jasper sounded slightly exasperated.

"Uh, nothing, go back to sleep."

"You've woken me now, what is it?" asked Jasper, clearly frustrated with his underling.

"I was just wondering something."

"What?"

"Have you ever been to England?"

"When I get my gun back I'm gonna shoot you."

"Yes, sir."

Washington, DC

Detective Wheeler had never worked on a case this high profile before, but now appreciated all the resources it granted him. They had worked through the night and were now running on adrenaline and Red Bull. Every minute of video footage from every store in the area had already been pulled and reviewed. They had the killer on tape but his pulled-up collar, pulled-down ball cap, and blacked-out shades rendered him impossible to identify. This had at least confirmed it was definitely not a random mugging. Billy had been targeted.

One wall Wheeler had run into however was the White House. They had refused to give him any information regarding the boy until he had placed a call to Guthrie. Fifteen minutes later, Wheeler had an appointment with Billy's boss.

After clearing security, Wheeler and Schultz were led to a waiting area where they sat for several minutes before being shown into an office where they were greeted by the victim's supervisor.

"Lesley Darbinger," he said as he pumped both of their hands in a double grasp. "Pleased to meet two of Washington's finest." He motioned toward a pair of chairs in front of his desk as he leaned on the edge of it.

Wheeler sat in the chair and looked up at Darbinger. _Classic assertion of power technique, always be higher than your opponent._

"We're here about the death of one of your interns, William Guthrie."

"Billy's dead?" Darbinger's shoulders slumped as his jaw dropped. "But I just saw him yesterday!"

"You didn't know?" asked Schultz, surprised.

"No, I've been in closed-door meetings all day." Darbinger looked at the floor, shaking his head, then looked up. "What will I tell his father? Does he know?"

"Yes, we've already notified the family," replied Wheeler.

"How did he die?"

"He was murdered."

"Murdered!" This seemed to catch Darbinger off guard. "Do you know who did it?"

Wheeler shook his head. "Not yet, but it appears to have been a professional hit."

"Professional? What do you mean?"

"Military style," explained Schultz. "Head held back exposing the jugular. Throat slit, left to right, deep. He bled out within a minute."

Darbinger shook his head in disbelief. "This is terrible. Does his father know?"

"Yes, sir, as I said, I've met with his parents already."

"Of course you did, sorry," replied Darbinger. "I'm just a little shaken up. How can I help you?"

"Well, sir, Mr. Guthrie had started here Monday, and within his first week he is killed in what looks like a professional manner. We believe that's too much of a coincidence," said Wheeler. "Was he exposed to anything here that maybe he shouldn't have seen?"

"No, he's just an intern, he wouldn't have clearance to see anything."

"Well, just the same we're going to need to talk to everyone. We'll conduct the interviews here to make things easier for you," said Wheeler.

Darbinger nodded. "Of course, I'll see you get full cooperation."

RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48th Fighter Wing

"Welcome to Lakenheath, sir. I'm Sergeant Berkin. The Base Commander has ordered me to take care of all your needs while you're here."

Dawson nodded at the sergeant who greeted him at the bottom of the G-V's steps. Since Dawson was dressed in civvies, he forgave the "sir" and surveyed their surroundings. They had taxied to the far end of the tarmac, separate from the other air traffic and prying eyes. "Status, Sergeant?"

Berkin pointed to three Humvees waiting nearby. "These are yours to use while you are here. In the hangar behind us are the civilian vehicles you requested, a civilian chopper, and we've freed up this building over here for your men to stay in." He pointed at a beat-up building several hundred yards away. "It's unoccupied, but includes a rec room, comm room, and small infirmary. I've had it fully stocked. Should accommodate any of your needs."

"Very good, Sergeant," said Dawson. "Notify me when my C17 arrives." He grabbed a handful of the gear the team had unloaded and headed to one of the Humvees. The sergeant ran after him.

"A C17, sir?"

"Yes, a couple of hours out. Make sure you have enough men available to unload it as well as assemble and arm an Apache." Dawson was impressed—only a brief moment of shock registered on the sergeant's face. He would have been told to follow orders, no questions asked, then to forget they were ever there.

He's probably wondering what the hell black ops are doing in England.

Dawson threw the equipment in the back of one Humvee then returned to the plane for another load. Red approached him, carrying satellite communications gear. "When we're done have the new guys Stucco and Casey take one of the civilian vehicles in that hangar and set up surveillance," said Dawson.

"We'll be up and running in fifteen minutes."

The sergeant watched as the men unloaded the plane. One man walked by with a case of grenades. "Christ, are we invading?" he muttered.

"Sergeant!"

The sergeant spun toward the voice.

"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to use those two God-given hands to help us?" asked Dawson.

The sergeant gulped. "Right away, sir!" he yelped as he ran toward the pile of off-loaded equipment.

Heathrow Airport, London, England

The delay seemed interminable as Acton waited for the doors to open so the passengers, already jostling for position, could disembark. He sat quietly in his seat, waiting for the mass to flow forward. Eventually the door opened and the passengers shuffled toward it. _Like cattle. No wonder it's called steerage._

Acton eventually exited the aircraft and headed to baggage claim. After another eternity, his hockey bag emerged. He battled through a senior's tour to get to the carousel, grabbed his bag, tossed it over his shoulder and headed toward a bathroom without looking around. He wanted to give the impression he didn't think he was being followed—just in case he was.

Once inside he locked himself in a handicapped stall and unzipped the bag. He quickly changed his clothes, donned a hat and sunglasses, then took out several large shopping bags from the hockey bag. He folded the hockey bag as small as he could and placed it inside one of the shopping bags. Stuffing his old clothes into the remaining bags, he exited the stall, went to the sink and washed his hands. Then he waited.

It didn't take long for someone to leave one of the other stalls and approach the sink. The well-dressed, slender man stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie.

"Excuse me," said Acton. "Would you happen to know how to get to Buckingham Palace?"

The man looked at him, surprised the universal etiquette of never talking in a men's washroom had been violated. In a heavy French accent he said, "Sorree, but aye am a touriste ici as well."

"Really? Where ya from?" Acton walked out of the bathroom with the man who he noticed hadn't washed his hands, trying to make it look as if they were old friends to anyone who may be watching.

"Aye am from Neece," replied the man, not making much effort to hide his displeasure at the situation.

"Really?" said Acton, uncharacteristically animated. "I've never been to France, myself. Don't speak the language you see." As they walked out of the terminal together, the Frenchman approached a cab. The cabbie popped the trunk and helped him load his luggage, then looked at Acton.

"Are you traveling together, sir?"

The Frenchman looked horrified.

"Sure, why not?" said Acton, handing over his bags. Before the Frenchman could protest, Acton climbed into the backseat. "Come on, _mawn amy_! Let's get a move on!"

"The Dorchester, s'il vous plaît," the Frenchman ordered with a scowl.

Much to the Frenchman's further horror, Acton looked at him with an astonished expression. "Dorchester? You're kiddin' me! I'm stayin' there as well!"

The cabbie pulled out into the early afternoon traffic, trying to stifle a smile. The Frenchman buried his face in the glass. Acton had a big, childlike grin on his face.

"This is gonna be great!"

Inside the terminal, a man in a business suit entered the bathroom he had seen his target disappear into several minutes before. He searched the opened stalls then looked over the tops of the closed ones, much to the annoyance of those inside. Not finding who he was looking for, he ran out of the bathroom, raised his wrist to his mouth and activated his comm. "He's gone! The subject is not in the bathroom!"

The White House, Washington, DC

Rachel sobbed when Wheeler told her about Billy's death.

"Did you know him well?" asked a worn-out Wheeler. They had been interviewing staff and interns all morning and he was already exhausted from being up all night. The drab, windowless room provided was not helping.

"N-no," she sniffed, "I didn't. Actually, I feel terrible about this, but the last time I saw him I called him a loser."

"A loser? Why?" asked an equally tired Schultz.

"He had bumped into me in the hallway and spilled my coffee."

"How'd that happen?" Schultz was now thoroughly bored. _Spilled coffee? How much more of this crap do we need to listen to?_

"He came running around the corner with a file and ran right into me," explained Rachel. "I yelled at him and went to the bathroom to clean up."

Wheeler stifled a yawn. "Why was he running?"

"I don't know. He had a priority file in his hands, so I guess he was making a delivery."

"Do you know what was in the file?"

"No, but I do know it was covered in coffee when I last saw it." Rachel blew her nose. "I think he changed the folder though because when I came out of the bathroom I saw him leaving the supply room."

"Do you know who the file was addressed to?" asked Wheeler, suddenly waking up.

"No, but that hallway leads directly to the President's office."

Control Actual slammed his fist on the desk. _This is getting out of hand!_ He watched on the screen as the two detectives excitedly talked to each other about what they had just discovered. _This needs to be stopped, now!_ He called Dawson.

The Dorchester, Park Lane, London

As they pulled up in front of The Dorchester hotel, a porter in a crisp white uniform opened the door and the Frenchman, whom Acton had learned was named Serge, jumped out of the cab as if freed from a cage. Acton was still talking and the cabbie was still trying to keep a straight face as he climbed out to help with the luggage.

"Do you have dinner plans tonight, _Surge_?" asked Acton.

"Non, I mean, yes, I do. I am sorree, but I already have ze plans!" yelped Serge, wincing at the massacred pronunciation of his name.

"That's too bad." Acton was enjoying himself thoroughly. "Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Per-aps," answered the Frenchman who followed the porter into the hotel lobby with his luggage. Carrying his three shopping bags, Acton entered the hotel behind him. _No way I can afford this place!_ He gaped at the intricate woodwork and marble that ran throughout, everything in immaculate condition, only its 1930's architecture revealing the true age of the hotel.

He walked up to the check-in counter with Serge and interrupted him talking to the concierge. "Excuse me, where are your bathrooms?"

"Over there, to your right, sir," replied the concierge, pointing.

"See you in a few minutes _Surge_ , nature's callin' again!" Acton flashed Serge a grin then raced off toward the bathroom.

"You said you have a reservation, Monsieur Savard?" asked the concierge. "One moment while I look that up for you."

Serge looked after the departing American, then turned to the concierge. "I'm sorree, but there 'as been a terrible mistake. I am at dee wrong 'otel!" He motioned to the porter to bring his luggage and walked toward the exit as fast as he could, muttering, "Je _déteste_ les Americains!"

Atlas had just handed over his boarding pass for a flight to London when his cellphone vibrated. He snapped it off his belt, flipped it open and put it to his ear while nodding to the attendant who had just returned his pass.

"Where are you?"

"Just heading for our rendezvous."

"Change of plans, we have two more problems that need to be taken care of. Details have been sent to your phone."

With that the conversation ended. Atlas turned around and walked out of the jet-way he had just entered. He tossed his boarding pass to the surprised attendant and said, "Sorry, I just remembered I hate England."

Acton entered the washroom and laughed for the first time in almost a week. Now that was fun. I can't stand the French, bunch of cheese-eating surrender monkeys. He checked himself in the mirror then reached for his Blackberry. Turning it on, he looked up the number for the British Museum. As he scrolled through the list it vibrated in his hand. A text message. He pressed the button to read it.

they got me tell wife daughter i love them bye old frnd

Acton's chest tightened as he collapsed backward against the wall and fell to his knees in shock. The Blackberry slid from his hand and onto the floor as he put his head in his hands and sobbed, his shoulders shaking as his stomach hollowed itself out. His best friend was dead, and it was his fault, of that there was no doubt.

I never should have brought him into this.

As he sucked in ragged breaths between sobs, he recalled meeting Milton for the first time in college. Milton had been working on his PhD when they met at a cross-country meet. Even with "Corky" settling down, getting married, and having a kid, and Acton gallivanting around the world on one archeological dig after another, they had always remained close. He had even been named godfather of their daughter.

Those bastards. They have to pay!

His sorrow soon turned to anger, a warm rage building inside him as his breathing came under control, the salty tears slowing as he became consumed with the thought of bringing those responsible to justice—and death. He was now determined to find out what was going on. With nothing left to lose except his life, which at the moment didn't feel much worth living, he picked himself up off the floor, retrieved his Blackberry, then washed the tears from his face.

The White House, Washington, DC

"Glad I caught you gentlemen before you left."

Wheeler and Schultz had just signed out and were still filling their pockets and holsters with the various accoutrements of their trade they had been forced to check upon their arrival, when Darbinger jogged up to them.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Darbinger?" asked Wheeler.

"Just wondering if you found out anything? Any leads as to who may have killed our Billy?"

Schultz nodded and opened his mouth to speak when Wheeler cut him off. "No, dead end for now, I'm afraid. But we'll keep looking."

Darbinger frowned. "That's too bad. Well, I'm sure no one from here is involved," he said as he opened the door for them. "You gentlemen have yourselves a great day!"

Schultz watched Darbinger head toward his office then turned to Wheeler. "What do you think?"

"I think," said Wheeler as they headed to the visitor's parking lot, "that he knows more than he's telling."

Schultz nodded. "But how the hell do we accuse the Chief of Staff of the President of the United States of holding out on us?"

Wheeler shook his head. "I don't know, but I do know who to call next."

"Guthrie?"

Wheeler nodded as he reached for his phone.

Triarii Headquarters, London, England

Over the intercom system the collection of members sitting around the table listened intently.

"The subject was identified leaving his flight, but was lost when he went into the toilet," related the voice on the other end of the line. "Review of the security tapes show that he left the bathroom in disguise with another man, then got into a taxi with him."

"So he has a contact here already?" asked one of those around the table.

"It would appear so, sir," agreed the voice. "We're trying to track the cab to see where they went. We'll also backtrack the contact to see what flight he came off and get his name. We should have that information shortly."

"Contact us when you do."

"Roger, out."

The room fell silent. Everyone looked to the man at the head of the table, Derrick Kennedy, Proconsul of the Triarii. He tapped the ashes off the end of his cigar, a frown spreading across his face. "This is the first time that two skulls have been in the same city since that BBC cock-up," he finally said, recalling their closest call in years.

In 1996 the BBC had done a documentary on the skulls, bringing two of them to England for scientific study. The Triarii had managed to replace the London and Smithsonian skulls with fakes before they were shipped. The resulting embarrassment had forced the British Museum to remove the skull from display. Unbeknownst to them, the skulls had been switched back to the real ones upon their return.

"A bullet was definitely dodged there," agreed a woman to his right responsible for the Paris skull. "We've always relied on the holders of the skulls to either jealously guard their secret or be considered barmy. Now we have a professor in London with the final missing skull, far too close to another genuine skull, and we don't know what his intentions or that of his accomplice are."

"We should take immediate action to remove the British Museum skull," said another. "Since it's my responsibility to protect, I'll put my plan into action to have it removed, tonight. Agreed?"

There were nods around the table then all looked at the Proconsul. Unlike the others, he wasn't convinced there was foul play afoot. He had no doubt as to what President Jackson and his Special Forces were up to, but not so when it came to the Professor. And as long as the Professor had the skull, he felt they were safe, at least for the moment.

He shook his head. "Not yet. Let's wait and see what our centurii find out."

"Yes, Proconsul."

Institute of Archeology, University College London, Gordon Square, London

Acton entered the lobby of the Institute of Archeology at the University College London campus, still carrying his shopping bags, and walked up to one of the students milling about.

"Can you tell me where Professor Laura Palmer is?"

"Yes, sir, she's lecturing right now, I believe. Room two-twelve, up those stairs, to the right."

Acton thanked the young man then headed toward the stairs and quickly found room 212. His heart was pounding as the final part of his plan was hopefully about to come together. And the fear in knowing that either way, he had no idea what to do next. He looked through the window and was taken aback when he saw her, realizing she was much more attractive than she had appeared in the desert. She was holding up an old earthenware jar with a slender, alabaster arm partially revealed by a cardigan that had slipped up to her elbow. He followed the arm to her hand and noticed with a satisfaction that surprised him at a time like this that there was no ring on _the_ finger.

Finally he tore his gaze away to look at the jar. It looked Babylonian, about 2000 BC. _Impressive._ He knocked on the door.

She looked over and saw him through the window. An immediate light of recognition showed on her face, along with a smile that could stop hearts—and it did. She rushed over, opened the door, and stepped into the hall.

"Professor Acton, I've been on pins and needles waiting for you!" she gushed.

"You received the package?"

"Yes, this morning," she replied. "I was gobsmacked to receive something from you. I had just finished reading your article on surviving Incan culture in Archeology magazine last week. And the spread they did on you in National Geographic, last year, when you were on the Yucatan peninsula, is still one of my favorites. When your parcel arrived I was so excited, but then when I read your note not to open it until you arrived...I was gutted!"

Slightly embarrassed but also flattered, Acton lowered his voice. "I need your help."

"You need _my_ help?" she asked. "I'd be happy to, but first I must introduce you to the class." She started to turn back toward them, but he grabbed her arm. Startled, she swung around and stared at him.

"Nobody can know I was here. I need to show you what was in that package. Is there a place we can talk?"

"Yes, my office. But what is this about? I'm in the middle of a lecture."

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I found another skull."

"Class dismissed, I'll see you all next week!" she yelled through the open door as she grabbed his arm and rushed him toward her office in another wing of the building. Not a word was said between them until they reached her office where she closed the door behind them, locking it. He pulled down the blind to cover the door's window then they both closed the horizontal blinds on the other windows. He looked around for any other exits or windows passersby could see through as she went to a filing cabinet, unlocked it and lifted a box out. Satisfied no prying eyes could see them, he joined her at the large oak desk that occupied the back of her office.

"Show me!" she said, her voice quivering with excitement as she placed the package on her desk and pushed it toward him.

He unlocked the case and carefully unwrapped the skull. She cooed in awe as he held it up in the light. "It's brilliant!" He hadn't had time to look at it closely since he'd been on the ship and nodded in agreement. It was beautiful in an almost eerie way. Completely translucent, it was a life-size, heavy solid piece of crystal that took both hands to hold.

"The jaw's moveable." He moved the fingers that supported it to demonstrate to Laura. As he turned the skull, light from the room shimmered and reflected off it, sending a kaleidoscope of patterns onto the walls and ceilings, surrounding them much like a prism. The skull itself had a myriad of strange lines within it, giving it a vein-like appearance, whereas the facial structure and jaw were perfectly clear. It was as if the sculptor had wanted to give the appearance of a brain, of intelligence. The veins in the crystal distorted objects on the other side like an eerily beautiful fun-house mirror. The hollowed out eyes and grinning face made him shiver.

"Where did you find it?" she asked as he handed it to her.

"At a dig in the Andes in Peru."

She ran her expert fingers over the smooth cranium. Acton knew she was trying to feel the telltale marks of a carver's tool, and equally knew she would find none. She adjusted a desk lamp to get more light and continued her inspection as he related the story of the dig in the mountains.

"They were ancient Incan ruins, a fairly large community from what we had unearthed so far. Everything was pretty routine, but fascinating nonetheless." He sat down in one of the guest chairs as she examined the skull. "The first unusual thing we found was evidence of thirteenth century European nobility."

She looked up from the skull. "What? That's impossible! That area wasn't discovered until early sixteenth century!"

"I know, that's what didn't make sense, but there was no doubt about it. First we found clothing and some trinkets that clearly dated from that era. If it weren't for the clothing I could have believed that the other items were just heirlooms that some Spaniard had left, but nobody in sixteenth century Spain would wear thirteenth century British garb."

Palmer sat in her leather chair, apparently momentarily distracted from the skull. "How could this be? We've known for years now that Columbus wasn't the first to discover America. The Vikings had discovered Newfoundland five hundred years before."

"And we know that European fisherman for at least a couple of hundred years fished the Grand Banks in secret, not wanting people to know where they got their easy catches from," added Acton.

"But we've never had evidence that Europeans had gone to South America, certainly not Pacific coast South America."

"I know, which is why I thought maybe this was some fluke, some shipwreck or something that had washed up on shore and they found the items and brought them back to their city," explained Acton. "But then we found the skeleton."

London, England, 1212 AD

Lord Richard Baxter surveyed the curious scene in front of him. The four walls of what was once the council's strongest and most secure building were flattened, but all outward, as if some great force from within had knocked them all down as it tried to escape. The night sky was filled with smoke as fires still burned in the distance, but this particular area had been so devastated that not much remained to burn. As he looked about him it became evident that whatever had caused this disaster had originated here hours earlier.

He had been in the council chambers, the celebration of the skull's arrival still going strong, when word had come of the strange noise it emitted when placed on a pedestal with its companions. He had thought little of it when their most learned scholars were dispatched to investigate. Minutes after this report the explosion had occurred.

The skulls in their charge had already been recovered and taken to their backup location under heavy guard. He had ordered them kept separate upon their arrival at their new location in case their union had somehow caused the terrible event. At first he couldn't believe it, but seeing how the walls had been knocked down as if from within, and the skulls had remained untouched in the center of the chamber, he realized it must somehow be.

He shook his head and spun on his heel, heading to a meeting with the surviving members of the council. The memories of his fallen wife and daughter's screams were still fresh in his mind but his mourning would have to wait. He knew what must be done, but it would be hard to convince the others.

He entered the room, the others—the few that remained—already seated. He took his regular seat and when the meeting was brought to order, he immediately rose to be recognized.

"My fellow council members, this is a difficult time. We have all lost loved ones, but more, we are directly responsible for the destruction of our beloved city of London, and nearly half its loyal, innocent residents." Heads bobbed around the table, the faces long with shame and anguish at the knowledge. "There is nothing that can be done to undo what has happened, however there is a way to prevent this from ever occurring again."

"What is it you propose?" asked his good friend Jonathan.

"I propose that this new arrival, the third skull, be taken away, and permanently disposed of." Protests erupted from around the table and Richard held up his hand to quiet them, if only for a moment. "And any future skulls that may be found."

"And just how would you dispose of them?" asked Jonathan, their friendship being tested.

"I propose that this third skull, and any further skull, be sailed to the west and over the edge of the Earth, so it may never harm another living sole."

"Absolutely not!" Jonathan's fist slammed into the table. "We have been protecting the skulls for over a thousand years! What you propose is preposterous! Blasphemous!"

Richard shook his head. "No, Jonathan, it is the only way." He looked around at the others sitting at the long table. Some still bore injuries from the previous week's fire. The reports now indicated thousands had died with most of London wiped out. His was not the only family devastated and he was determined to prevent it from ever occurring again.

"When our ancestors came here with the original skull we believed it to be the only one. Then centuries later a second was discovered, and this was considered a great gift. Now a third has been delivered to us and look what devastation it has wrought! No man here can look me in the eye and deny that the third skull is responsible for this!"

There were several nods and grunts of agreement, but no one yet was willing to back him verbally.

"But we are sworn to protect the skulls! What you propose goes against the very purpose of the Triarii!" Jonathan protested.

"No," said Richard softly, trying to calm Jonathan down. "That is where you are wrong. We were sworn to protect the original skull by the Emperor, not the others. Our predecessors took it upon themselves to extend that oath to all other skulls that may be found when we discovered the second skull. Once we realized there may be more, a decision was made to actively seek them out and protect them, but it was not our original mission."

This finally elicited a response from William, one of the oldest surviving members of the council, official records keeper, and chronicler of the deeds of the Triarii.

"He's right, Jonathan. According to the scrolls, when the second skull was discovered the council decided to actively seek out any other skulls that may exist and protect them from the unworthy. If that council could change our mandate, then this council can change it yet again."

"Thank you, William," nodded Richard.

"But what he proposes...." Jonathan was quieter now that William had spoken, but still shook his head. "It's madness!"

"It would be madness not to," replied Richard.

"But who would undertake such a mission?" asked another.

"I volunteer," answered Richard. "I have nothing left here except my duty and honor. And I can think of no greater duty or honor than preventing a disaster such as has befallen us from ever happening again."

"But you would never return! It's suicide!" exclaimed Jonathan.

"It is my life to give and God's to take," he replied as he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I propose that this council pass my resolution forthwith so that I may leave without delay."

The nods of agreement were unanimous this time, but few had the courage to meet his gaze, knowing what they were about to agree to meant the death of their companion.

Chevy Chase, Maryland

George Guthrie shook his head.

"I can't believe it. Lesley Darbinger?" He sat in a high-back leather chair in his den, the two detectives sitting across from him.

"Yes, sir," said Wheeler. "We both got the definite impression that he was holding out on us. That and the fact your son worked for him and was carrying a coffee-stained folder into a supply room, then was later seen with a matching folder that didn't have coffee on it, leads us to believe that he stumbled onto something he shouldn't have."

"How?"

"He must have switched envelopes and seen what was inside when doing so," explained Schultz. "We think that this switch was discovered and they had him eliminated."

Guthrie sank back into his chair. "Where was the file heading?"

"It looks like the President's office."

"Do you have any proof?"

Wheeler shook his head. "No, and I'm not sure how we can get any. If this were indeed something sanctioned from within the White House, you can bet they've covered their tracks."

Guthrie nodded. "So, my son's killer may go free." He clenched his fists and slammed both of them into the arms of the chair he was sitting in. Taking a deep breath, he reigned in his anger. "Okay, I'm going to make some calls. If Darbinger did this, I'm sure Stew—I mean the President—didn't know. I'll see if I can get in touch with him. If all else fails, I'll call in some markers and have a damned Senate investigation into the matter convened. I won't stop until we get to the bottom of this." He stood and motioned the two detectives toward the door. "I'll call you as soon as I have something for you."

"Thank you, sir," replied Wheeler. He and Schultz headed out the door and toward their car.

Schultz looked at Wheeler. "You realize if Darbinger is behind this, we'll never be able to touch him."

Wheeler nodded. "Perhaps. But Guthrie still has a lot of pull in this town."

"Maybe, but he's liable to get himself killed just for nosing in. This kid saw something he shouldn't have and they killed him for it. They obviously think they're untouchable. Guthrie should be careful."

Wheeler tossed the keys to Schultz. "You drive, I forgot to ask Guthrie about how Billy got hired in the first place."

"How's that important?"

"I want to know if it was general knowledge whose son he was." He headed back to the door as Schultz climbed in the driver's seat and turned the key. The car turned over a few times, but didn't start.

Wheeler heard this and spun around as he yelled, "No!"

Schultz didn't have time to react to the warning before he turned the key again. This time the car started, the sound of the engine immediately overwhelmed with the gut wrenching roar of hatred as an explosion tore through the car, the flames rushing out from under it sending a shockwave that sent Wheeler flying back toward the entrance of Guthrie's house. Shrapnel from the gutted car tore through everything in its path, including a small piece that sliced Wheeler's arm.

He picked himself up just as Guthrie ran out of the house.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as he grabbed Wheeler to steady him.

"Justin!" cried Wheeler at the now roaring fire that was his partner of seven years. He fell down onto a porch bench, grabbing his head and pulling it down toward his chest as he tried to control the sobs that desperately wanted to be heard. Several of Guthrie's staff ran toward the scene, one with a fire extinguisher that proved of no use.

They're too late.

Wheeler looked up at Guthrie, rage written all over his face. "They have to pay."

"And they will."

The Ritz, 150 Piccadilly, London

Serge toweled himself off in front of the window as he looked out at the London skyline. The view was magnificent and he was starting to think switching hotels was not such a bad thing. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and was about to head back to the bathroom when he heard a knock at the door. "Who ees eet?" he asked. He had ordered a massage to unwind from his experience with the Americain, but was told she wouldn't arrive for hours.

"Room service, sir," replied the muffled voice.

"But I did not ordare anyting," Serge replied, pulling on a bathrobe.

"It's champagne, sir, complements of the hotel."

_Ahhhh, excellent!_ He unlocked the door and, just as he began to turn the knob, the door was shoved open from the other side, knocking him to the floor as two men rushed in. One quickly closed the door and locked it while the other stuffed a rag in Serge's mouth before he could protest. They then bound his hands and feet with plastic ties and in less than a minute he was sitting in a chair, terrified, as he watched the men search his room.

One of the men stood in front of him, staring through his sunglasses before ripping the gag from Serge's mouth. "Where is Acton?"

"What? What are you talking about? What ees an Ac-ton?" asked Serge, trembling in his chair, desperately trying not to urinate.

"Don't bugger about, mate," replied the man. "We saw you meet him at the airport and get in a taxi together. Now where is he?"

"That stoopeed Americain from the aeroport?" Serge asked incredulously. "I've never met eem before today!"

"Bollocks!" The man removed his sunglasses and leaned in toward Serge. "I guess we do this the _hard_ way."

Serge pissed himself. _Merde._

Triarii Headquarters, London, England

"He knows nothing, sir," said the voice over the speaker. "The professor apparently approached him in the bathroom and ingratiated himself upon Mr. Savard."

"Could he be lying?" asked the British Museum member.

"No, mum, I'm quite certain he isn't lying. As soon as I threatened him he urinated himself and told us everything. He even switched hotels to avoid him."

"Very well, keep us posted," said the Proconsul as he hit a button, cutting off the conversation. "I'm not convinced there's malevolence here."

"He never reported his find, he's actively hiding from us, he's been using disguises," said the British Museum member as she counted off on her fingers. "What more evidence do we need? He is trying to either bring the skull to someone for their own purposes or he has a purpose of his own. Either way we can't take the risk that three or more skulls may come together. The Protocol is clear. If two or more skulls are at risk of coming together, then the Triarii Council must take action to prevent this."

The Proconsul listened quietly then leaned forward. "You are right. Even just three skulls together have resulted in disaster in the past. We cannot risk an unknown rogue element with an unknown agenda to have access to the skulls." Nods of agreement circled the table. "I do however think it is premature to activate The Protocol. We should however switch the British Museum skull." He turned to the British Museum member. "You proceed tonight."

"Yes, Proconsul."

Professor Palmer's Office, University College London, Gordon Square, London

"Skeleton?" exclaimed Palmer. She shook her head in disbelief, as though unsure she had understood him correctly. "You found a thirteenth century European skeleton at an Incan dig in the Andes?"

"Yes, Professor," grinned Acton. "It was incredible, but there was no doubt. He was buried in a combination of Incan and European traditions. He was wrapped, but there was also a golden cross buried with him, held in his hands on his chest."

"He was buried as a nobleman?"

"Yes."

"Incredible!" exclaimed Palmer. "And please, call me Laura."

Acton smiled, relieved to be finally able to talk to someone about what had happened over the past week. "Call me Jim."

"Thank you," she nodded, smiling back. "Now," she asked, lifting up the skull, "how does _this_ fit in with your story?"

"Well, I noticed that the body was oriented pointing directly at a recently discovered cave entrance on a nearby hillside. At first I didn't think much of it, but had one of my students do some exploratory digging."

"And this was inside?"

Acton nodded. "Yes, deep in the cave there was evidence that dirt had been packed by hand against the far wall so we had one of our guys start to dig at it. It took a couple of days, but he finally broke through to a chamber on the other side and then saw this. Scared the shit out of him," laughed Acton, recalling Garcia's panicked ranting. The memory cast a shadow over his face as he remembered Garcia was now dead.

"What's wrong?" asked Laura softly.

"When I saw what we had I realized we might have a problem. If word got out, we could end up with every nut-job on the planet swarming our camp which would draw too much attention from rebels and other elements. So I shut down the dig for the day and had everyone go to Lima for some R and R," continued Acton. "I completed the excavation myself and put the skull into that case and locked it in my cabin. They arrived the next night."

"Who?"

"The men in the helicopter. They had to be military, probably Special Ops guys, Delta Force maybe. I saw them take out our guards before they landed, probably with a sniper. I grabbed the case and ran into the cave just as their chopper landed. At first I thought it was the Peruvian police coming to loot our camp or fake some kind of hostage situation for the ransom, but then two of them came after me."

"What did they do?" asked Laura as she put the skull down and walked around the desk.

"They," Acton's voice cracked, "they killed everyone."

Laura gasped. "But why?" She pointed at the skull she had placed on the desk. "Why would they kill for that? It's just a piece of quartz crystal!"

"I have no idea, but these guys were professional, well-armed, well disciplined," replied Acton. "And they've killed again since then."

Laura sat down in the chair beside him. "Again?"

Acton nodded. "My best friend, Professor Gregory Milton." He pulled out his Blackberry, scrolled to the message and handed it to her. Her hand immediately went to her mouth as she read it. Tears filled her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, James," she said as she passed the Blackberry back. "How did you escape?"

"Myself and one of my students, Robbie—he'd been standing guard at the cave entrance—hid in the chamber where we found the skull. He tried to save me by telling them I wasn't there, but he was shot. I took the guy out with a pickaxe. I used his gun on another one and then some grenades to collapse the cave entrance."

Laura looked on wide-eyed. "You killed one of them?"

"I had no choice, I just reacted. It was him or me. I did a stint in the Guard when I was younger so it was just the old training coming back," explained Acton. "Anyway, I found a hidden passageway that led to another entrance in the side of the hill. When I got out I found that the camp was empty and everyone was dead, executed. The supply truck arrived shortly after and I was able to get to Lima.

"Whenever I'm on a dig I get a safety deposit box at a local bank and put all of my papers and some emergency cash in there, so I picked up that stuff and stowed away on a ship for a few days until it docked up the coast in Mexico. I sent the package to you, snuck across the border, and in Phoenix sent a decoy package. From there I went to New York and made contact with Greg. I caught a flight to London, ditched them at the airport, and came here."

"Amazing," said Laura. "I have to confess something." She reached under a pile of papers on her desk and pulled out a newspaper. She flipped a few pages in and pointed out an article to him. _Archeological Team Massacred By Rebels_. "You've been big news. It says you were missing and presumed dead. When I got the parcel from you I realized you were alive, but wasn't sure whether or not I should contact the authorities."

"You—"

"No, I didn't," reassured Laura. "Against my better judgment I decided to hear what you had to say. As I said, I've followed your work for years and couldn't believe you had anything to do with what happened. Now that I hear your story—I'm not sure what to think."

"You don't believe me?"

"No, it's not that, I do believe you!" she said. "I've just never met anyone who's gone through this type of thing, and I have to admit I'm scared just having you here."

"You're right," said Acton as he rose. "I shouldn't have involved you. I don't know what I was thinking. I'll leave now."

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back onto the chair. "No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I'm scared, but I want to help, if I can. Which brings me to my question: Why me? Why did you contact me?"

"Because according to what I've read, you're the one expert on these things who isn't considered a quack."

She laughed. "Some of my colleagues might disagree."

"What can you tell me about the skulls? Why would someone kill over one?"

"Well, let me say that this wasn't the first time someone has died because of the skulls."

The Ritz, 150 Piccadilly, London

Maria leaned against the doorframe, closed her eyes and sighed. _I'm the one who needs the massage._ She was exhausted from fending off a group of Japanese businessmen who thought all massages should have happy endings. She opened her eyes and looked down at the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, then at the room number. _Right room._ She looked at her watch. _A little late. Perhaps he fell asleep?_ She knocked anyway rather than risk getting in trouble for not showing up for an appointment. There was no response. She knocked harder and called into the door, "I'm here for your six p.m. massage, sir!" Still no answer.

Or was there?

She thought she heard a moan. She pulled out her access pass and swiped it, opened the door and peeked around the corner.

"I'm here for your massage!" she called out again. This time she definitely heard a noise. She pushed the door all the way open and lifted her massage table through. As she cleared the frame she let the door close behind her and walked into the room. She saw no one, but heard the moan again from the bedroom. Immediately her thoughts were of another perverted client. She peered around the door of the bedroom and screamed at the scene that greeted her, dropping the massage table onto the glass table in the center of the room, shattering it.

There was blood everywhere. Splattered on the walls, the ceiling, the carpet. So much that she couldn't believe whoever it belonged to could have survived. Her heart thumping, she began to back out of the room when she heard the moan again. She rushed for the suite door, afraid whoever had done this was still there. Reaching the door, she stopped. _What if they need help?_

She inched toward the bedroom. Again she heard a moan. Peering around the doorframe, she saw a man who was making the sound. He was tied to all four posts of the bed naked and bleeding from his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, arms, chest, legs, feet, even genitals. He had a rag stuffed in his mouth and was barely conscious. She removed the rag and he turned his head to her.

"Bloody hell!" she exclaimed. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Ac-ton," he whispered.

"What? What did you say?"

"Ac-ton," he said, a little louder.

"The man who did this was named Acton?" she asked. He looked at her and passed out. She immediately lifted the phone and called reception. "Call nine-nine-nine, someone has been hurt very badly in room six-one-two. Send an ambulance immediately." She paused a moment then added, "And the police."

Detective Chief Inspector Hugh Reading entered the bedroom of the suite and whistled at the scene before him. A tall, large-framed man, he cut an imposing figure to those who didn't know him, but those who did knew he was intensely loyal to his subordinates—and had a legendary penchant for tea.

After serving over twenty years, he was nearing retirement. Not that he wanted to retire. He loved his job. It would be a true _forced_ retirement. It was his life. Divorced long ago, he had decided ruining his life by devoting it to the job was better than ruining the lives of an entire family, so he hadn't remarried or even tried. He had seen a lot of things over the years, but this was something new. He could tell just from looking that this was going to consume him for the coming days.

The staff member who had phoned it in was sitting on a chair, being comforted by a WCI as the coroner's staff zipped up the body bag, preparing to transfer it to a gurney. Blood was everywhere. _The poor bastard never had a chance._ He looked at the floor to make sure he wasn't stepping in any of it and was surprised to see there wasn't much, just the odd splatter the crime scene guys had already marked and photographed. Surveying the room, he looked at the splatters on the bed, ceiling, walls, and lamps around the bed. _There's something odd about this._

"Okay, what do we know?" he asked the room in general.

Immediately Detective Inspector Chaney approached him. His slight yet athletic frame made him seem tiny compared to his supervisor. "His name is Serge Savard, French national, arrived on an Air France flight today at eleven-thirty a.m. Miss Barnaby here discovered the victim when she came to give him a scheduled massage at six p.m. TOD was several minutes after that."

"After?"

"Yes, guv. He was apparently alive when she found him."

Reading looked around the scene again. "Somebody survived this?"

"Not for long, guv. According to her, before he passed out he said a man named Acton did it."

"Acton?" He looked at Miss Barnaby and approached her. He motioned for the WCI sitting with her to leave and sat down beside the distraught woman. "Miss, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Reading of Scotland Yard. I'm leading the investigation into Mr. Savard's death. Can you please tell me again exactly what happened?"

She relayed the story to him, ending with her phone call to the police.

"And he said a man named Acton did it?" asked Reading.

"Yes."

"Those were his exact words? 'Acton did it.'?"

"Well, not exactly. I said something like 'Who did this to you?' and he said 'Acton'. He said it twice to me before he died," she replied confidently.

"That's all he said? Acton. Just that one word?"

"Yes, sir. All he said was Acton, twice."

"Thank you, Miss." He patted her on the knee and got up, heading over to the bed where Chaney was examining the plastic ties that had bound the Frenchman. _What happened here?_

"The coroner said that this went on for hours," explained Chaney. "You can tell by the blood splatter. Some of it's dry, some of it just starting to congeal. The dry stuff is from the beginning of the torture, the fresh stuff toward the end. Whoever did this certainly knew what they were doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, to keep somebody alive that long while torturing them with this much blood, they would have to be professionals wouldn't they?" Chaney said. "I mean, one wrong cut and you hit an artery. Then he's dead and of no use. This guy was still alive when he was found."

Reading nodded. _Impressive._ "Did you notice anything else?"

"Such as, sir?"

"The blood splatter."

Chaney looked around the room then back at his boss and shook his head.

"If no arteries were hit, why the splatter?"

Chaney's jaw dropped. "I can't believe I missed that. Could there be a second victim?"

"Possibly, however my guess is the splatter was part of the torture," explained Reading. "Your victim needs to see blood, to think he's going to die. Small, precise cuts, especially where the victim can't see, don't scare once the pain is gone. Cut the person, and whip your scalpel toward the wall, the blood splatter is there for him to look at the entire time. Keep doing that for hours and you get a scene like this."

Chaney winced, clearly disturbed by the image. "Sir, how—"

"How do I know this?" asked Reading. "I wasn't always a copper." With that, he swung around and exited the room, Chaney scurrying after him. "We need to find this Acton person. He's the key to this. Let's trace the victim's movements starting with how he got here. We need to figure out what happened between him getting off the aircraft and arriving here. Somewhere along the way he met this Acton person who either killed him, or knows who did."

Heathrow Airport, London, England

Jasper leaned back in the cab seat and closed his eyes, exhausted from their long flight. And from his partner's constant chatter.

"Scotland Yard," he said.

Lambert, though tired, was apparently too excited to rest. He pressed his head to the window, eagerly taking in as much as he could. "Have you ever been to London before, sir?"

"No."

"Did you know that it's actually called New Scotland Yard?"

"No."

"Yeah, the original burnt down so they had to build a new one."

"Lambert?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"You _do_ know that I will get my gun back eventually?"

"Shutting up, sir."

Jasper managed to catch a few minutes of peace before the cabby announced their arrival. Lambert paid and they grabbed their luggage, entering the large, bustling facility. They presented their credentials to the desk sergeant.

"You the yanks we've been expecting?"

Lambert nodded as the man called up to the Detectives' Office. A few moments later he put the phone down.

"Sorry, sirs, but the Chief Inspector isn't available at the moment. Would you care to wait?"

"Wasn't he expecting us?" asked Jasper. "The State Department was supposed to arrange a meeting to discuss a very important matter."

"Yes, sir," replied the Desk Sergeant. "Your people called here earlier but the Chief was called away on urgent business. Don't worry gents, shouldn't be long. I'll have a cuppa brought for you."

"Coffee please," replied Jasper. "And lots of it."

The Sergeant frowned, his thoughts clear. _Coffee? Uncivilized!_

Professor Palmer's Office, University College London, Gordon Square, London

As Laura explained the little that was known about the skulls, the overcast sky had turned into a heavy downpour, and sheets of rain driven by gusts of wind rattled the windows. A lone desk lamp cast a gentle glow on the office.

"Most of the skulls we know about are fakes," she said, "believed to have been made by European craftsmen in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including the ones located here and at the Smithsonian."

"The one here is a fake?" asked Acton.

"Yes. According to tests performed for a BBC documentary it's one of those that was created in Europe within the past two centuries."

"You sound doubtful."

She sighed. "James, I studied that skull for years and I swear the things they said about it during the study just don't match up with what I've seen."

"Such as?"

"Well, they said that you could see the tool markings from polishing equipment that dated from the past two centuries," explained Laura. "I've examined it for years and never found even the minutest trace of any markings. I also studied the one at the Smithsonian and found it to be the same."

"So, how do you explain it?"

"Better equipment? Incompetence maybe?" she suggested. "I don't know. Anyway, here's what we do know. Most of the skulls that are considered genuine were found in Mexico, Central and South America. It is believed that they are some sort of ancient religious icons from the Mayan, Aztec, or Incan civilizations, or maybe even from more than one."

"We were at Incan ruins, so that would fit."

"Yes, it would," she agreed. "The indigenous people of the area believe that the skulls have magical healing powers, but nobody really knows what they were used for. Some claim that if you bring them together and shine certain colors of light at them they give off energy patterns that match the human brain and can even affect time as we know it."

"You're kidding!"

"Remember those quacks you talked about?" Acton laughed as she continued. "The lore surrounding the skulls is varied and most of it unbelievable. Some believe there are twelve genuine skulls, others thirteen, and that bringing them together will mark the dawn of a new age. Others believe that bringing them together will destroy the world. Still others believe it will send a signal to aliens. The fact is, nobody knows what they do because nobody really knows where they came from."

"But, I thought they came from the Aztecs, Mayans and Incans?"

"That's where many of them have been found, but those cultures didn't have the technology to create them." Acton looked at her, puzzled. "In fact, even today we don't have the technology to create the genuine ones."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean just that." Laura got up from her desk and went to one of the bookcases. Turning on a switch that lit the beautiful oak shelves from end-to-end, she scanned several volumes, pulled out a binder, and returned to the desk. "In 1970, the most famous skull, the Mitchell-Hedges skull, was given to Hewlett-Packard to do some testing on it. Their labs in Santa Clara, California, were renowned for crystal research and leading experts were involved in the testing. What they found was astonishing."

Acton leaned in. "What did they find?"

Laura smiled, seeing the eagerness in his eyes. _He's hooked_. "As you may be aware, crystal has a natural axis. This axis is the natural orientation of the molecular symmetry of the crystal. When carving crystal, modern carvers will always determine the natural axis of the crystal and carve _with_ it. If you carve against it, or against the grain if you will, the crystal will almost always break, especially a piece the size of one of these skulls. The genuine skulls are all made of a single piece of crystal, which in itself is quite amazing, but even more so, the genuine skulls were carved _against_ the axis, which is unheard of. No one to this day has been able to duplicate this. Not even with the use of lasers."

Acton let out a low whistle. "Amazing. How do they explain this?"

"They can't," replied Laura. "But that's not all they found. They also determined that there were no markings whatsoever on the skull to indicate that any kind of tool had been used in the carving of the skull. They hypothesized that it could have been roughly carved with diamonds and then a solution of silicon sand and water used for the detail work. There's only one problem with this explanation though."

"What's that?"

"It would have taken over three hundred years to complete."

The British Museum, London

Rodney looked down at his friend Clive who lay motionless on the floor with a look of astonishment still on his face. He hated having to do this to him, Clive truly was a good friend, but he had no choice—it was his duty. He pulled him into a storage closet then picked up his chair and sat on it while examining the monitors. At the back gate a truck pulled up to the loading dock. He hit a few keys on the console and the large metal door of the loading dock rolled open, the truck driving in seconds later. He watched on the monitors as it followed the ramp down into the underground shipping and receiving area. It backed up to a platform then bumped the lip. The door to the back of the truck burst open and six men exited, the driver remaining in the truck. Rodney closed the front gate and watched on the monitors for the other guards patrolling, then radioed the go ahead as each area was cleared.

The team rapidly made its way to one of the storage rooms and waited for Rodney to enter the code to open the door from the control room. The door buzzed open then the men entered, closing the door behind them. Two headed directly to the third row of shelving, another two grabbed a wheeled ladder and followed them. The remaining two covered the door.

"There it is," said the first man, pointing to the fourth shelf about twelve feet up. The team with the ladder locked it in place and two men rushed up the steps. The first to arrive grabbed the box and handed it to the other. He opened the top to make sure what they were looking for was inside. Underneath the velvet wrapping the grinning face of a skull stared up at him. He shivered. Covering it back up, they transferred the skull into a backpack then replaced the original with the fake skull used on the BBC documentary. No one would ever know they had been there. They descended the ladder and ran to the door, the second team placing the ladder back where they found it, then they waited for the all-clear signal.

Rodney checked the halls again then sent the signal. The team raced back to the loading dock, boarded their truck and exited the underground garage through the doors Rodney opened for them. When they were clear he closed the doors and breathed a sigh of relief. _Done!_ Looking around to make sure there were no signs of what had just happened, he rose from his chair and walked to the closet. Pulling Clive out, he removed the tranquilizer dart from his friend's chest, placed the chair on its side again, then hid his gun in his bag. He took out another gun and stuck it in his belt behind his back.

Kneeling down beside Clive, he slapped him gently on the face.

"Clive, wake up!"

Nothing.

He slapped him a little harder.

"Clive, wake up!"

This time Clive moaned.

"Wake up, mate, you fell out of your chair and hit your head!"

"Wh-what happened?" asked Clive groggily, rubbing his eyes then looking up at Rodney. "You shot me!" he cried as he grabbed at his chest, looking for the wound. He started to panic and scurry backward on the floor.

Rodney laughed. Pulling the gun out from his belt, he pointed it at him. He squeezed the trigger and a flag snapped out with Liverpool F.C. emblazoned on it. "I'm sorry mate. I guess I scared the shite out of you on that one. You fell right out of your chair and hit your head pretty bad. You've been out for almost fifteen minutes."

"Really?" A bewildered Clive rubbed the back of his head, wincing when he felt the lump that had formed. "I could have sworn...." He looked at his chest, seeing he was clearly not shot. Still confused, he extended a hand. "Help me up, you wanker."

Rodney laughed again and pulled his friend to his feet.

"Complete success, Proconsul. Nobody will ever know we were there. Our inside man will wipe the tapes showing our presence."

"Very good, Centurion," said the Proconsul, looking at one of the team member cameras showing an image of the mission commander. The operation at the British Museum had been monitored by the council through camera feeds from their agents' headgear and had gone like clockwork. "Move the item to its secondary site and await further instructions."

"Yes, Proconsul, we're on our way—"

The view from the camera shifted unexpectedly as the team leader lost his footing. Shouts of confusion rang out as the truck swerved wildly, tossing men in the back of the truck around. They were all abruptly thrown forward as the vehicle screeched to a halt.

"What's going on there?" yelled the Proconsul. He hit a button in front of him and the view split to all of the different camera angles available.

"I'm not sure, Proconsul," was the reply. "What the hell is going on up there?" the Centurion shouted into his mike to the driver. There was no answer. The camera showed the commander getting up and approaching the back doors to the truck. He was about to open them when they exploded outward. Three men standing in jeans and plaid shirts with balaclavas over their faces rained gunfire into the truck.

In the Triarii chamber the onlookers watched, stunned, as each camera view either went dead or dropped to the floor, the entire scene unfolding in less than a minute.

Then there was silence.

Dawson climbed into the back of the truck and looked around, his gaze landing on a bag he thought might contain what they were looking for. Stepping over the bodies, he approached the rear. When one of the occupants to his right moaned, Dawson put a bullet in his chest. He opened the bag and looked inside. _Are you kidding me?_ Immediately the words from Control Actual echoed in his head. " _You'll know it when you see it."_ But this wasn't it. At least it shouldn't be. The Professor still had the item from Peru as far as they knew. And this looked like some carving belonging to a museum.

Why the hell did I just kill seven men over a crystal skull?

Under orders from Control his men had set up surveillance on the Triarii Headquarters—the apparent home of the Professor's terrorist cell—when they first arrived, and when his team reported the vehicle leaving, he had ordered it followed. This had proven a wise move, allowing them to ambush the terrorists as soon as they had left the museum. But nothing was making sense. This skull certainly fit the loose description of knowing it when seeing it and being made of crystal, but he refused to believe his country would have him chasing trinkets.

But if these terrorists are actually a cult, it might make sense.

Perhaps they were stealing crystal objects, including the DARPA project, all over the world? At the moment he could care less about what was in the bag, except that Control had instructed that they retrieve whatever was stolen.

It's as if they knew exactly what was going to happen.

He took the bag and left the truck, his men jumping into the two SUV's they had arrived in, leaving in opposite directions. They would meet up later after switching their vehicles and clothing to confuse London's cameras.

"What the hell just happened?" asked one of the council members.

"We've been betrayed," said another. "How else could they know what we were planning and when?"

"Who would kill our men so coldly?"

"We know who," said the Proconsul, leaning back in his chair. He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray on the table in front of him, the taste no longer pleasing him. All eyes were now on him. "We've known this day could come when the one who betrayed us once would betray us again."

"Are you sure?"

"Did you see their equipment?" asked another. "They had to be Special Forces. Those outfits were for the benefit of the cameras on the street."

"There's one way to know for sure," said the Proconsul as he punched a button on the control panel in front of him. "Get me our friend in Washington."

"Right away, sir."

The room waited in anticipation, no one saying anything, all fearing their worst case scenario was about to be confirmed.

"Go ahead," said a disembodied voice through the speaker. It would have been chilling if he didn't know who he was talking to, the subterfuge necessary however as not all at the council table knew who was speaking, and if there were any uninvited listeners, their contact's safety was paramount.

"This is the Proconsul."

"Yes, sir."

"Seven of our men were killed minutes ago. The British Museum skull has been lost."

"I know, I just heard. The operation was carried out by his forces."

"What are his intentions?"

"I believe he intends to bring the skulls together."

"If that _is_ his intention, he may need to be dealt with."

"I understand."

"We will speak again." The Proconsul severed the connection.

"You do realize who you're talking about killing don't you?" asked the Paris member.

The Proconsul nodded as he took in a deep breath.

"Anyone who gets in our way is forfeit if necessary."

The Dorchester, Park Lane, London

Chaney stopped and gaped at the surroundings as Reading walked purposefully toward the front desk of the Dorchester. Savard's plane tickets had been booked through an agency and a quick phone call had determined that he was originally scheduled for a stay at the Dorchester, not the Ritz where he was found. Chaney was about to comment to his boss when he noticed he was now standing alone. He rushed to catch up.

Reading was just flashing his warrant card to the concierge behind the desk. "DCI Reading, Scotland Yard. This is DI Chaney," he said, glancing at his underling. "We were wondering if you've seen this man today." He motioned to Chaney who pulled a blow up of the Frenchman's passport photo out of a manila envelope and showed it to her.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir, I haven't. May I?" she asked, reaching for the photo.

"Of course," said Chaney as he handed it to her. She took the photograph and walked away, showing it to several others. Another man nodded and returned with her.

"This is Michael. He says he saw him earlier," she said, introducing the porter.

"DCI Reading, DI Chaney," repeated Reading as he took back the photo and held it up. "You saw this man?"

"Yes, sir, this afternoon. I took his bags in from a taxi and waited with him while he checked in. Then he said he was at the wrong hotel and rushed out. I followed him with the bags and put them in a taxi for him. Then he left."

"He said he was in the wrong hotel?" asked Chaney.

"Yes, sir, quite strange if I do say so, sir."

Reading turned to the desk clerk. "Can you confirm if a Mr. Serge Savard had a reservation here today?"

She punched a few keys on her computer and nodded. "Yes, Inspector, he had a reservation for the next three nights, booked a fortnight ago." She hit a few more keys. "It looks like the check-in process began and then was stopped for some reason. The agent who was on duty is on break now. Do you want me to get him?" Reading nodded and she rushed off.

He turned back to the porter. "Was there anything else unusual about his behavior that you can think of?"

The porter thought for a moment. "Well, I thought it kind of odd that he left his friend here."

Reading stopped. "His friend? You mean he wasn't alone?"

"No, sir, he came with someone else, an American, I believe," explained the porter. "He asked where the toilets were and then went off in that direction," he said, pointing toward the bathrooms. "It was then that the gentleman in the photograph left."

The concierge approached with another in tow. Before she had a chance to speak, Reading cut her off. "Do you have security cameras here?" She nodded. "We'll need to see the tapes from this afternoon immediately."

They were led to the security room, a cramped affair with one lone occupant who was quickly filled in on the situation and had the lobby footage from the time of the check-in displayed within seconds.

"That's him there," said Chaney, pointing to the video monitor at the Frenchman in the lobby. "And that must be the man he arrived with." Again he pointed to the screen, this time at a man carrying shopping bags and heading toward the bathrooms. A couple of moments later the Frenchman scurried toward the doors.

"Okay, show me the entrance camera for a few minutes before so we can see how they arrived," ordered Reading.

"No problem, mon," said the security technician, a black man with a thick Jamaican accent and dreadlocks tucked into a Rastafarian Tam hat. He punched up a different camera view and time code.

"There they are." Reading pointed at the two men entering the building. "Back it up." The image reversed and they saw the men exiting a cab. "Stop it there. Zoom in on the taxi, I want the number." The image froze and the tech zoomed in on the top of the cab. "Got that?" Reading asked Chaney.

"Yes, sir," he replied as he jotted down the cab number and company name. "I'll call right now and find out where the pickup took place." He went to the other side of the small room to place a call from his cellphone.

"Okay, now move it forward inside the lobby and see if we can spot our mystery man leaving."

The tech laughed. "Mystery Mon, yaw, gud name for eem!"

Reading grabbed the back of the man's chair and swung the startled tech around to face him. "This man is wanted for questioning in the brutal murder of someone earlier today, so you will excuse me if I fail to see the humor!" Reading glared at the cowering tech.

"Sorry, sir," replied the tech in perfect English without a hint of his Jamaican accent. "I didn't know." He switched the camera view back and played the image at double time. A few minutes later they saw the same man with the shopping bags heading toward the doors. The tech switched the view to the entrance and they watched as he got in a cab. "Would you like the taxi number, sir?" he asked, looking up at Reading sheepishly. Reading nodded. The tech zoomed in on the cab number and Reading jotted it down.

"Can you give me a printout of his face?"

"Yes, sir." He backed up the image frame by frame, looking for a good face shot. When he found one he zoomed in on it and hit a button. It appeared in the printer tray moments later. Swiveling in his chair, he grabbed the photographic paper off the tray and spun back toward Reading. "Here you go, sir."

"Thank you." Reading looked intently at the picture. _Who are you?_

Chaney flipped his phone closed and turned to Reading. "Got a hit on the taxi, guv. They were picked up at Heathrow."

"Okay, tell them we're on our way and to have the video tape ready," said Reading, striding toward the door. He tore the other cab number off his pad and handed it to Chaney. "And find out where this one went."

Fleet Street, London

Dawson and his men parked their SUV in an alleyway and climbed out. Two of his men opened a manhole cover then they all descended into the London storm drainage system, walking several hundred feet before Dawson looked up at the next access point. Climbing the metal rungs, he tentatively pushed the manhole cover up and carefully surveyed the surroundings. Seeing everything was clear, he pushed it aside and looked up.

A vehicle was parked directly overhead. He climbed up a few more rungs, then knocked on the bottom. An access door opened and Smitty looked down at him.

"Pardon me, sir, but do you have a reservation?" he asked in a fake British accent.

"Yes, it's under Hugh, Mr. Eff Hugh," said Dawson, handing him the bag. Smitty smiled and took it then grabbed his commander's hand, pulling him into the truck. The cube van, as it turned out to be, had benches on either side. The second team, led by Red, was already there. The rest of the men rapidly exited the drainage system and soon the manhole cover was replaced, the hatch closed and the truck on its way out of the city. A quick detour into some woods and their chopper would take them back to base.

Nothing but a routine exercise.

Dawson considered himself a moral man. He had killed for his country before. Many times before. He had even been forced to kill civilians occasionally, but they were never innocent bystanders. They had been in his way, sheltering a target, lying to him, whatever. They were always guilty of something. This was the first mission, however, where he had serious doubts. When Acton had fled to England, Control had provided further intel on the terrorist cell. Apparently their main base of operations was in London, the US cell simply that—a cell—one small part of a much larger organization aimed at bringing down the West.

But he still had a hard time reconciling that homegrown terrorists could be organized across continents, with so many willing participants.

And the man at the hotel? He had tortured targets for information before, but this man knew nothing, despite Control Actual insisting he did, ordering the initial torture, and the final, brutal acts that would haunt him for the rest of his days. His morality was being challenged, but every time he started to feel guilty about what he was doing, he was forced to think back on what had happened to this point. The students in Peru were on the Termination List—and you didn't get on that by accident. The Professor had killed one of his men, and seriously wounded another, then fled not to his University and the authorities, but to the very city his terrorist cell was centered in—London. And he had sent a decoy package, which proved he was hiding something—if he wasn't, there would have been no need for a decoy.

As well, his cell had managed to insert an operative inside the White House, only feet from the President himself, which had to mean they had more contacts on the inside. And now a group of armed men had left the very headquarters Control Actual had briefed him on and committed armed robbery, stealing a sculpture from a museum.

It was this skull that was now gnawing at him. Control had said in the initial briefing that the object was actually a top-secret crystal, part of the Structural Amorphous Metals project that was stolen from a DARPA lab several months ago while in transit. It was moldable, making it very unique; a new form of crystal that had incredible military applications.

" _There isn't a government on this planet that wouldn't kill to get their hands on it."_

The entire idea of moldable crystal had sounded like BS to him, but it wasn't his job to question the science. It was his job to recover the item. And now for some reason he had a crystal skull sitting in a bag between his knees, seven more were dead, and he had more doubts than ever.

"Problem, B.D?" asked Red quietly. He was sitting directly across from him at the back of the truck. Dawson knew Red could tell this mission was eating at him. It was eating at all of them. He rarely gave any sign of his true feelings in front of his men, but Red could read him like a book.

Dawson shook his head. "No, just tired."

Red nodded. "You and me both."

Dawson could tell he wasn't convinced.

Heathrow Airport, London

Detective Inspector Chaney pulled the car up in front of the administration building of Heathrow airport. He and Reading climbed out and headed toward the entrance, both taking a moment to look up at the never-ending flow of planes landing and taking off. The smell of jet fuel filled the air from the over one thousand flights per day Heathrow handled. They flashed their warrant cards at the guard and entered the building. As they approached the reception desk, a man called to them.

"DCI Reading and DI Chaney?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Reading, "and you are?"

"Jeffrey Tilson. I was told by The Chief to escort you to the security center. I'll need you to sign here," he said, motioning to an electronic pad on the reception desk, "and then stand here for your picture to be taken." Chaney signed the pad and stood for his picture, Reading followed. A moment later the guard at the reception desk handed them two laminated security passes with VISITOR emblazoned across them.

"These must be visible at all times and you must have an escort at all times. We have over sixty-eight thousand employees and can't recognize everyone!" he said laughing. Chaney nodded as he clipped it on his shirt pocket.

"This way, gentlemen," said Tilson as he jogged toward an open elevator. He held the door open for them, waving off a few people who tried to board. Swiping his security card through a card reader, he punched a code and hit the button for _B3_. An LED readout scrolled _"Restricted Access. Doors Will Not Open Again Until Level B3"_ as the elevator began its descent.

When the doors opened again they were met with glaring artificial lights and two heavily armed guards who inspected their cards. They swiped them and continued. Tilson led them down the long corridor and into a glass walled room filled with hundreds of monitors being watched by as many personnel. Leading them over to a side office, he knocked on a door that read Chief of Security.

"Enter!" a voice boomed from the other side.

Tilson opened the door and the three men entered. A large, well-built man in his fifties rose from behind his glass and chrome desk and approached them with a polite smile.

"DCI Reading, DI Chaney, may I present Mr. Arthur Pleasance."

"A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen." Pleasance extended his hand first to Reading then to Chaney. "Have a seat please." He motioned to two chairs in front of his desk. "Do you have time for tea?"

Chaney was about to answer no, when Reading interrupted. "There's always time for a cuppa." Pleasance nodded to Tilson who left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Do you have the tapes ready for us?" asked Reading.

"Yes, I do. I had my people pull the footage for the entrance where you said the taxi picked him up. Our facial recognition software matched someone to the photo of your man you sent us." He hit a few keys on the keyboard and nodded toward the large screen on the wall. "Here are your two subjects getting into the taxi."

"That's them all right," said Chaney, nodding in agreement.

"Can you back it up and see where they came from?" asked Reading. Pleasance nodded and tapped some keys. The footage showed the men exiting the cab, unloading their bags, then walking backward toward the entrance of the airport. He switched views again and they traced the men back to a bathroom where the image showed them exiting together.

"Do you have cameras in the loos?" asked Chaney.

"Of course not, that would violate privacy laws," replied Pleasance as he tapped a code into his keyboard. A view of the bathroom popped up. He reversed the tape and the two men could be seen talking before the Frenchman headed backward toward a stall. The other man waited at the sinks for a couple of minutes, then backed into a stall himself.

There was a tap on the door.

"Enter!" roared Pleasance. Chaney jumped in his chair.

Tilson entered with a tray holding a tea service for the three men. "Ahh, thank you, Jeffrey." Tilson put the tray on the Chief's desk and exited the room. After serving his guests, Pleasance turned back to the monitor.

The Frenchman entered the bathroom after their John Doe who then exited his stall backward. "Wait," said Chaney. "He's changed clothes and is carrying some sort of large bag there. The later footage shows him with three shopping bags and definitely wearing something different."

"You're right." Pleasance reversed the footage further and switched the view back to the entrance of the bathroom.

"Can you track him back to which flight he got off of?" asked Reading.

"Yes." Pleasance smiled. "Watch this." He hit a few keys and the system zoomed in on the face. It plotted the required facial recognition points, then the software followed the subject back through the various camera angles, through the main concourses, security, the baggage claims area, the arrivals area and finally right to the gate he first appeared at.

Reading gave out a low whistle. "Impressive. Now what can you tell me about that flight?"

Pleasance switched to another computer and entered the time and gate number. "It was a British Airways flight from New York," he replied. "One moment and I'll pull up the manifest information." A few more keys and the list appeared on his screen. He scrolled through the names then shook his head. "Savard was not on this flight."

Reading shook his head. "No, we have him arriving on an Air France flight around the same time. And judging by the footage we saw and the witness statements we've taken, I don't think he knew this man at all."

"Wait a minute. You were also looking for someone named Acton?"

Reading nodded.

"Here he is. James Acton, US citizen."

Reading slapped Chaney on the shoulder. "Now there's a break!" He turned to Pleasance. "What more can you tell us?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. That's all we're given by the airlines. It will take a court order to get the rest. You guys can run him through Interpol probably quicker."

Chaney looked back at the screen, disappointment evident on his face. "He's obviously trying to hide from somebody," he said. "He changed his clothes and bag."

"Yes, I agree." Reading rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. "Now, if you were following me, and I went into a bathroom and never came out, what would you do?"

"I'd go in to see if you were still there," replied Chaney.

Reading turned to Pleasance who was already tapping away at his keyboard. "Way ahead of you." A few more keystrokes and he looked up at the display. The video moved forward, showing the Frenchman and the New York passenger leaving together as if they were best friends. A few more passengers came and went then another approached, looked around as if to see if he were being watched, then tentatively pushed open the door. Pleasance switched the view and they could see the man search the stalls then run out of the bathroom. Pleasance flipped the view again and they saw the man exit the bathroom and put his wrist up to his mouth, his eyes wide and lips moving quickly.

"He's being followed!" exclaimed Chaney.

"Yes," agreed Reading, "and since he's talking to someone, by more than one person. Can you get me a picture of his face, please, and email it to my DI's mobile?"

Chaney handed Pleasance a card with his number.

"Wait a minute, who's that?" asked Chaney, pointing to the screen. Another man came out of the same bathroom and activated a comm.

"Someone else was following him!" exclaimed Pleasance. "What the hell makes this guy so popular?"

"I don't know, but one of these groups found Monsieur Savard," said Reading.

"But how?" asked Chaney.

"Just a second," said Pleasance as he furiously typed away at his keyboard. When he found what he was looking for he leaned back in his chair as his eyes widened in shock. "Someone broke into the surveillance system."

"Well that explains how they found Monsieur Savard. Can you trace it?" asked Reading.

"No, and that's not the only thing," said Pleasance. "It was hacked by two different people within minutes of each other."

"Then the question is—" began Reading.

"Who found him first?" finished Chaney.

Professor Palmer's Office, University College London, Gordon Square, London

Acton sat back in his chair, flabbergasted. "Three hundred years!"

Laura smiled. "Amazing isn't it?"

"I'll say," he replied. "So, basically what you're telling me is that either some ancient civilization had a method more advanced than lasers to create these things, or each was created over ten generations?"

"Or aliens brought them."

"Haw haw."

"Some people believe that. Some even believe the skulls are millions of years old, left over from some ancient precursor civilization that we've yet to find a trace of," said Laura. "Still others believe they were sent by God to test our faith."

"So, essentially, nobody really knows," said Acton. "What do you believe?"

Laura paused for a moment, then answered carefully. "Over the years I've come to believe that some things are not meant to be understood until we're ready. As a scientist I'm not much of a believer in religion, the church, and the Bible, but part of me believes there is something out there that is greater than us. Whether these skulls were put here by a so-called god or were created by people from Atlantis, I don't know. I do know that we have no idea why they are here or why they were created, but maybe someday we will reach a level of technology or evolution where we will know. When that day comes, all will be revealed."

Acton looked at her, expressionless. She stared back at him, waiting for a response. _Does he think I'm off my rocker?_

Acton took in a long, deep breath and adjusted his position in his chair. "Well, Laura, I've only been around this thing for a week and all _I_ know is that I want to get as far away from it as I can. It has cost me the life of my best friend, the life of over a half-dozen of my students and helpers and almost my own life. Either someone wants this thing at all costs, or they want it and _me_ at all costs, I don't know. But until I do know, I can't risk losing it because it could be my only bargaining chip for staying alive."

Laura nodded. "And you have no idea who it could be?"

"No. In Peru they definitely seemed to be American Special Forces of some type. My friend Greg said that agents from the State Department had been in his office. We know he was followed to New York because he's now dead. I can only assume that I'm being followed, but the fact that I'm sitting here alive, talking to you, tells me that for the moment they don't know where I am."

"For the moment," repeated Laura. It sent chills down her spine. She knew that associating with Acton could put her own life at risk, but at the same time she was drawn irresistibly to either him, or the skull sitting on her desk. _Or both._ He reminded her of her brother, someone she trusted without question. "What about going to the authorities here? You're far from the States now, maybe they can help you?"

"What am I supposed to say? That I think the United States government is trying to kill me and everyone I know because I found a skull that came from outer space? They'd help me all right, straight into the loony bin!" He shook his head in frustration.

Laura looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry, I just thought...."

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blow up," he said in a soft voice, leaning toward her. "You're the first person I've been able to really sit and talk to about this and all of my emotions are starting to come out. I've needed to vent and ask questions and yell and cry and everything else that someone should do in this situation and instead I've been running for my life for almost a week now."

She looked up at him and smiled. "I understand, I guess I forgot what you've been going through and why. You're right of course. The police wouldn't believe you for a second. We need to try and find out who is after you."

Acton let out a deep breath. "God, I'm so exhausted. I haven't slept properly in a week. I've only showered twice, I think, and you know what? I don't think I've eaten in three days other than that rubber thing they called chicken on the flight, but eating some type of petroleum byproduct doesn't count, does it?"

Laura laughed and stood. "No, it doesn't. We need to get you cleaned up and rested. Let's go back to my flat and we'll figure out what to do from there. First, let me grab a couple of books for research."

"Are you sure you want to get involved any further than you already are?"

"Absolutely." Laura grabbed several books off the shelf and turned to him. "I want to find out who killed those poor kids and why these skulls that I've spent my career studying are worth killing for if they're supposedly fake."

London Morgue

"Extensive bruising and surface cuts over most of his body, knees, elbows, nose, as well as almost every bone in both hands and feet broken," explained the coroner to Reading and Chaney who stood on the opposite side of the autopsy table containing the body of the Frenchman. "But, most interestingly, the bones were broken one at a time. See?" He moved toward an X-ray of the hands and feet. "You can see that the bones are broken in different places. If they had been broken together there would be some pattern, a line, that the breaks would follow. In this case, however, the breaks are all over the place, as if someone wanted to cause the most amount of pain possible, and knew exactly how to do it."

"A professional?" asked Chaney.

"Definitely someone who has been trained in torture techniques or had enough medical knowledge to do this," agreed the coroner. "Now, the bruising and broken bones aren't all." He pointed toward cuts made on the chest, arms, legs and scrotum. "These were made deliberately shallow enough to cause pain when the nerves were hit and to bleed slowly so he wouldn't die quickly. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."

"Cause of death was loss of blood?"

The coroner nodded. "Yes, which is sort of puzzling, if you think about it. You torture somebody for what I believe was three hours, you obviously have the expertise to do this without killing him, why do you leave him alive? I mean, they obviously knew how to kill him. We may have been able to save him if we had gotten to him a little earlier. Why would the person who did this risk having him survive?"

"Sadistic whacko maybe?" offered Chaney. "He's a nutter who doesn't care if he's caught or doesn't think that he can be?"

"Maybe," said the coroner. "But here's the strange part. I detected morphine in his system."

"You're joking!"

"I don't joke."

"Why would he torture someone for so long then put them out of their misery?" asked Chaney.

"Almost as if he began to feel some compassion for his victim," replied Reading.

"But the torture," said Chaney. "You'd have to be off your nut to do something like that!"

Reading shook his head. "No, you're ignoring the fact that we know the man he was with earlier in the day was being followed by more than one person." Reading pulled the photo out and pointed to it. "He was talking to someone. That means there are two people or more involved which suggests this is not some psychopath working alone. These are professionals. This level of torture is professional, military. They didn't care if he survived because they knew there was no way in hell we could ever trace them. The morphine suggests that they were doing a job, it wasn't personal. When they had what they wanted, they ended his suffering."

"Can I see that?" asked the coroner, pointing to the photo. Reading handed it to him. The coroner looked at it for a moment. "Follow me, you're not going to believe this."

He pulled off his latex gloves and tossed them into a garbage can as he headed out the double swinging doors, Reading and Chaney following. They walked down the hallway and entered the crypt, all shivering at the cold. Inside there were seven bodies still bagged.

"What the hell happened tonight?" asked Chaney.

"You guys haven't heard? There was some sort of gang massacre. All seven of these guys were ambushed and shot in their van." The coroner went to the fourth body and unzipped the bag, revealing the face. "Look."

Reading and Chaney approached the body and looked down at the face. The coroner held the photo up to it. It was the same man.

Laura Palmer's Flat, London, England

"I don't think anyone followed us," said Acton as he looked down on the street below Laura Palmer's apartment. Located within walking distance of the university, it had only taken fifteen minutes to arrive, with only a single umbrella to shield them from the rain. Acton closed the blinds and returned to the entrance. Laura flipped on the light as Acton stepped out into the hallway and took one last look down the stairwell.

"Good! Then maybe they don't know where you are right now."

"For now at least," he said, removing his shoes and jacket.

"Tea?"

"Sure."

Laura headed to the kitchen leaving Acton to survey his surroundings. It was a small, two-bedroom apartment, kept very neat and nicely decorated with artifacts and furniture from around the world. The couch looked incredibly inviting.

Laura entered the living room where Acton had sat down. Smiling, she took a seat beside him, curling her leg up so she could face him. "You look exhausted. The shower is over there," she said, pointing toward the bathroom. "Why don't you freshen up, change your clothes and I'll order us some Chinese."

Acton nodded. "A shower sounds great." He sighed then took an exaggerated sniff of his armpit. "I think I need one!" Laura laughed and playfully slapped him on the shoulder.

"Go clean up, stinky, and I'll order some food. Anything in particular you'd like?"

"If they've got a good moo shu pork I'll take that, otherwise anything is fine, as long as there's some meat in it," he said as he got up. "If it's all vegetables I'll just be hungry again in half an hour."

Acton closed the bathroom door and ran the shower as he stripped out of his clothes. He took a whiff and almost gagged, sending a silent apology to all who had been exposed to him since he left Phoenix. He took his time, not sure when his next opportunity might be, and when done, luxuriated in the heat, simply leaning against the wall as the water gently massaged him.

There was a knock on the door that snapped him back to reality.

"Is it safe to come in?" asked Laura.

"Yes."

The door opened. "I found some clothes for you. Hopefully they fit."

"Thanks!"

The door closed and Acton shut the water off, quickly toweling himself dry then donning the fresh clothes laid out for him. _Definitely not her style._ He put them on and they fit surprisingly well. After admiring himself in the mirror for a minute he exited to find Laura at the door paying for the food. He quickly stepped back so the delivery boy wouldn't see his face. When the door closed he rounded the corner and met her in the kitchen.

"Well, don't you look better!" Laura leaned in and sniffed. "Smell better, too!"

Acton laughed and looked around. "How can I help?"

"Go sit in the living room, I'll take care of it."

Acton headed to the living room and took the same seat on the couch. He was still exhausted, but clean. "Whose clothes are these?"

"They were my brother's," she said as she appeared around the corner. "He lived with me a few years ago."

"Where is he now?"

"He died three years ago when we were on a dig in Jordan," she answered as she put the food down on the table and took a seat across from Acton.

"I'm terribly sorry," said Acton. "I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay, it's not your fault," she said. "There was a cave in, he was killed instantly." She finished setting up the food and continued. "About a year ago I finally boxed up his stuff, but could never bring myself to donate it to charity."

Acton nodded. "It's tough to lose someone you love, especially under tragic circumstances."

Laura shook her head for a moment. "Okay, enough talk, let's eat and try to figure out what to do next."

Acton agreed and took a taste of the moo shu. _Soooo good. But raw cow would probably taste good right about now._

New Scotland Yard

"We're looking for this man," said Jasper as he handed over a folder, Chief Inspector Manning finally seeing them after several hours of waiting. "His name is James Acton and he arrived from New York today."

Manning opened the folder and put his glasses on. "Acton, eh? That sounds familiar for some reason."

"Our office would have already sent you the name earlier," offered Lambert.

"No, that's not it. Just a moment." Manning rose and left the office. Jasper watched as the door closed behind him. _Now what?_ He was getting frustrated. And tired. The coffee wasn't helping anymore.

A few minutes later the door opened and Manning entered, frowning as he handed a file over to Jasper. "I knew the name sounded familiar."

"What's this?" asked Jasper as he opened the file. Lambert leaned in to look as well. It contained an Interpol printout of Acton.

"We just ID'd him from some footage taken at a hotel," explained Manning. "He's wanted for questioning in regards to a murder that took place, today."

"Murder?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact the DCI in charge of the case is here now. I'll put you in his office and have him come see you right away."

Jasper nodded his thanks as he tried to process this new information. _Murder? Could he have been involved in those deaths in Peru?_

"Okay, one of the people looking for our John Doe character was topped tonight in a gangland style shooting with six of his mates?" asked Reading.

"That's what it looks like," confirmed the coroner.

At that moment the doors to the crypt swung open.

"There was nothing gangland style about this shooting, gentlemen," said the young man who came through the doors. DI Nelson was rising quickly through the ranks and Reading could tell just by looking at him he wasn't pleased about losing the case. _It's not all about credit, lad._ Nelson handed Reading a folder. "As you can see from these stills from the security cameras, this was a professional hit."

Reading opened the folder and flipped through the pictures as Chaney looked over his shoulder. "I'll need to see the video."

"No problem, guv, if you'll come with me I'll bring you up to speed." He headed toward the doors with Reading and Chaney following. Minutes later they were huddled around a view screen, the video playing before them both brief and shocking. It showed a white cube van enter the frame from the left then get cut off by an oncoming SUV. Four men with automatic weapons jumped out of the SUV and killed the driver, then took up covering positions as a second SUV entered the frame from the left, behind the cube van. Four men exited, three setting up position at the doors as the fourth placed something on the back door and hurriedly moved to the side of the truck, out of view.

There was a flash and the doors swung open. Immediately the three men opened fire for about ten seconds. When they stopped firing, the one in the middle climbed into the back of the truck and exited a few seconds later carrying a black bag. All eight men jumped into their vehicles and left in opposite directions. The cube van was left sitting in the middle of the frame.

"Were you able to pull any faces off this?" asked Reading.

"No, guv. They were all wearing balaclavas," replied Nelson. "Numbers were obscured, but I doubt they would have led anywhere."

"Have you tracked them?" asked Chaney.

"We're in the process. We're also tracking back the box van to see where it came from. You'll want to see this." He motioned to a table behind them. On it were laid out body armor, weapons, night-vision equipment, cellphones, radio headgear and much more.

"Looks like they weren't so innocent," commented Chaney. "Were they on their way to a hit and got hit themselves?"

"Like I said before, the blokes in the four-by-fours were pros. You can tell by the way they took up their positions. It was done with military precision. The victims were equipped as well as any military unit I've ever seen so I don't know what the hell is going on," explained Nelson. "And look at this," he said, picking up one of the guns. He removed the magazine, ejected one of the bullets and handed it to Reading.

"What's this?" asked Reading as he held up the bullet that looked more like a needle.

"Tranquilizer dart. All of them were armed with these; they had no live rounds on them. These blokes weren't killers."

"Their enemies certainly were." Reading handed the dart back to Nelson who returned it to the table. "Any gangland tats or other markings on the victims?"

"They all had this tattoo on their inner left wrist," replied Nelson, handing them a photo of a tattoo on one of the victim's hands. "It's actually very small, about half an inch wide." The tattoo was two horizontal short lines with a thicker, slightly wider third line, curving upward.

Reading looked at the photo. _I've seen this somewhere before._

"Have you run it through the database?" asked Chaney.

"Yes, nothing."

"Any ID?"

"We're running their faces through all of our databases, hopefully have something by the end of the day," said Nelson. "Oh, that reminds me. Upstairs asked me to give this to you." He reached into his stack of folders and pulled one with Reading's name on it. "They were delivering it to the morgue the same time I got there so I said I'd give it to you." He handed the file over to Reading. "Apparently there's two Yanks here who want to talk to you about him as well. They waited for the Chief for several hours and now he's handed them off to you."

When Reading flipped it open, he found the complete Interpol file on one Professor James Edward Acton. Reading smiled.

Now I know who you are.

"Professor James Edward Acton," announced Reading. He handed the folder over to Chaney. "He had to register in Oman for an archeological dig six years ago which means his face made it into Interpol's database. We know who he is, the questions now are, why is he here, who is following him and why was Monsieur Savard tortured and killed?"

"And how does the ambush of the van fit in?" added Chaney.

Reading nodded. "Nelson, I want you to find out where that van came from and where—"

"Sir!" yelled one of the men manning the Yard's central communications system. "They've just found the first getaway vehicle!"

"Send armed response units immediately," ordered Reading. "Surround them, but wait until we get there."

"Yes, sir!" The man returned to his station and plugged back into the network, relaying the orders.

Reading was already heading toward the door, Chaney following him. Nelson stood there, not sure what to do. Reading, without looking back, called, "Coming, Nelson?"

Nelson smiled. "Yes, sir!"

Laura Palmer's Flat, London, England

Acton woke with a start to find himself half lying, half sitting on the couch, covered by a blanket. He looked at his watch and was surprised at how early it was until he realized he had forgotten to set it to local time. He looked for a clock. _12:45 a.m_.

"Have a good sleep?" Laura sat on a chair across from him, reading one of her books, a single lamp on an end-table providing the only light.

Acton stretched and nodded. "Yeah, thanks. How long was I out?"

"Just a few hours. You really should take the spare bedroom and get some rest. This will wait until morning."

Acton shook his head. "No, I'm fine, and besides, I don't think they're waiting."

She nodded. "I think I may know who _they_ are."

Acton leaned forward, suddenly fully alert. "What have you found?"

"I've been going through these books. I knew there was something in one of them that I just couldn't remember and it was driving me nuts. And I think I've found it." She opened one of the books to a page she had marked and handed it to Acton. "Last paragraph on the left."

Acton read the passage:

Many ancient relics that were deemed to have power handed down by God or a pagan god have had groups organize as a result that either worshipped the item or swore to protect it. One obvious example is the Holy Grail, apparently protected by the Knights Templar. The Crystal Skulls were no different. It has been documented that over two thousand years ago, Emperor Nero assigned a legion of his best troops to protect what was described as the Oracle of Jupiter. Discovered in what is now modern day Israel, it was delivered to the Emperor as a gift. Nero became obsessed with the skull and believed it was communicating with him. He was convinced it was the voice of the most powerful Roman god, Jupiter. Nero ordered the Thirteenth Legion to take the skull as far away from Rome as possible and to guard it with their lives. It is thought this Thirteenth Legion fought its way north, trying to reach modern day England, the farthest the Empire's domain had reached. During this struggle, most of the front line and second line troops were lost. The third and most experienced line, the Triarii, is said to have disappeared, never to be seen again. Rumors of their existence persist to this day however, with some believing they did reach their ultimate destination and settled anonymously in England, their descendants now fulfilling their ancient promise.

Acton closed the book and sat back in his chair, in fascinated disbelief.

"Do you really think that the people after me today could be descendants of a two-thousand-year-old Roman legion?"

"I know it sounds fantastic, but think about it. How long have the Masons been around, the Knights Templar, the Illuminati, the Catholic Church for that matter? All are organizations created around a central theme that have sustained them for centuries if not millennia.

"This skull was believed to be handed down from the gods. Just the belief that something has divine powers is an extreme motivator. If a grilled cheese sandwich that looks like the Virgin Mary can sell for $34,000 on eBay, then imagine the influence a crystal skull that your Emperor has told you spoke to him, could have.

"Then imagine that more started to show up over the generations. As each one appeared, it would only serve to renew your faith. Even here in England to this day there are Druids and others that worship pagan gods. Monotheistic religion has not taken complete control."

Acton let out a deep breath, trying to fathom what Laura was saying. "It's incredible to think that people could worship something for so long, but then again, we've seen it time and again throughout history, especially among primitive societies. I guess it's not that much of a stretch for people of two thousand years ago to believe that this was sent by God and then to indoctrinate their descendants with the same beliefs."

"Yes, and if they are indeed here, today, their original mission of protecting the Oracle of Jupiter may have expanded to include all of the skulls," continued Laura. "They must think that you are some kind of threat to them because you found a skull that appears to have been missing for over seven hundred years."

"I don't understand, though, why so many people have to die because of it," said Acton, thinking of the last text message from his friend. "So many have died that someone has to pay. Two-thousand-year-old cult or not, they need to be brought down before others get hurt."

Laura's face grew concerned. "How do you think you can single-handedly take down an organization that has lasted over sixty generations? It could be huge."

"Every snake has a head," said Acton. "Cut off the head, and the body dies. If I remember my Roman history, the Triarii were the third and final line of defense in a legion. They were the most seasoned, experienced troops, and there were only a small number of them. If they've kept the same structure, there may only be a dozen or so of them at the top, with the rest just underlings with no real power or knowledge. Wipe out the Triarii and everything stops."

"How would you ever find them?" asked Laura, looking very worried about where this was heading.

Acton held up the skull. "I have bait." He looked at Laura for a reaction. Her expression wasn't what he had expected. _She almost looks...horrified!_ Acton couldn't understand why she wouldn't want to take down an organization that had killed so many innocent people.

"How are you going to 'wipe them out'?"

"I'm not sure, but first we need to identify them," said Acton, "and then try and get them on tape, I guess, admitting their guilt. After that, we could take the tape to the authorities and let them take action." The more Acton explained his plan the more ridiculous it sounded. _There's no way in hell they'll admit what they did on tape!_ "Okay, maybe we need a better plan."

"We?"

"Well, I guess I just sort of assumed...."

"Of course I'm in," said Laura. "Not necessarily for the same reasons you have, but for a more selfish reason."

"What's that?" asked Acton.

"Self-preservation. People around you have a nasty habit of turning up dead, and I don't intend to be one of them."

Fleet Street, London

"Is everyone in position?" asked Reading as he exited his car and approached the mobile command set up just out of sight of the discovered SUV.

"Yes, _sir_ ," replied the Armed Response Unit commander. "Just waiting for _your_ orders, _sir_."

Reading could hear the disdain in the man's voice. He didn't blame him. _God knows there's enough glorified DCI's about that have never even shot a gun._

"Do we know if anyone is in the vehicle?" asked Chaney.

"Can't tell, _sir_. Cameras showed people exiting the vehicle, but the windows are all blacked out so there could still be someone inside."

"And the other team?" asked Reading. En route, word had come of the location of the second SUV.

"They are in position as well, awaiting _your_ orders, _sir_."

Reading chose to ignore the attitude. _For now_. "Proceed, Commander."

The ARU Commander spoke into his mike. "All units, stand by, proceed in five... four... three... two... one... _Execute!"_ From down the street yelling erupted and ARU agents raced out from around the corners of buildings, surrounding the SUV.

"Occupants of the vehicle, armed police! Open the doors and come out with your hands in the air!" ordered one of the men over a megaphone. There was no response. "This is your final warning, come out with your hands raised immediately!" Again, no response.

He motioned to one of his men who approached the driver's side door at a crouch, all the while aiming his weapon at the window. When he reached the side of the vehicle he used a small mirror on an extendable pole to check to see if the door was wired. Satisfied, he put the mirror away and with his back pressed against the vehicle, reached up with one hand to grasp the door handle and pulled.

The blast blew him into several pieces. The ARU officers surrounding the van were thrown backward as if tugged by ropes attached to their backs. The three closest on the sidewalk side hit the brick building with full force, breaking most of the bones in their bodies. They died instantly. Those on the other side landed across the street on the sidewalk, their body armor having protected them for the most part.

"Team Two, abort! I say again, abort!" The ARU Commander shouted into his mike. There was no response. "Team Two, this is Team Leader, what is your status?"

There was still no answer then a burst of static followed by, "Team Leader, this is Two, some sort of detonation has occurred. My men are down! I repeat, my men are down!"

Reading was already on his phone calling for medical support to both sites and a bomb disposal unit while Chaney and Nelson ran toward the downed men.

"Be careful of secondary explosions!" yelled Reading after them. He turned to the ARU Commander. "Commander, set up a perimeter, half a mile in all directions. Nobody gets in or out without being spoken to." The commander nodded, showing a bit more respect. Reading saw the change in attitude and smiled. "Falklands War," explained Reading. "I've been around guns since you were popping pimples."

"Yes, sir," stammered the Commander. "Sorry, sir."

"Execute your orders."

"Yes, sir!" he snapped to attention and ran off to organize the arriving backup units.

Reading strode toward the flaming wreckage that was the SUV.

How many more have to die and why?

The Triarii chamber was rocked by what felt like a sudden earthquake, sending a momentary panic through the room until the noise died down and they realized they were still intact. The Proconsul looked up at the ceiling with an eye to seeing if it were about to come down on them. Plaster dust filled the air, small cracks evidence of the stress the structure had just been put under, but nothing else seemed to suggest impending doom.

He looked to the man on his left. "Find out what happened!"

The man jumped to his feet and ran to the chamber doors. As he left, the phone rang, echoing through the now silent chamber, all eyes turning toward the device as it rang. Something that never happened. The Proconsul looked at his display confused.

Who would have this number?

He hit the intercom button to put the call on speaker.

"Did you get the message?" a disembodied, electronically altered voice said on the other end.

"What message?" asked the Proconsul.

"I think you know what I'm talking about. I wanted to remind you that I know where you are."

The phone went dead.

He pressed the button, cutting off the dial tone as everyone looked at each other in stunned silence, several lips trembling in fear, his own chest tight with the implications.

At that moment the doors to the chamber flew open and the previously dispatched member ran back in. "There were two car bombs, one across the road, the other a half mile away," said the breathless man as he returned to his seat. "Apparently there are a lot of dead police."

The Proconsul frowned then pursed his lips as he let out a heavy breath. "I believe we have a bigger problem than we thought," he said. "It is obvious now that we must take immediate action." His eyes travelled the room as he made certain every single one of the council realized the importance of the words he was about to say.

"Implement The Protocol without delay."

All of the members stood and bowed to him, then left. Remaining seated, he contemplated the situation, and wasn't pleased. He had lost one skull under his watch tonight. He couldn't risk any more. They had to be taken into safekeeping for now, until this crisis could be resolved.

He feared, though, what that might involve.

_Six more dead._ Reading clenched his jaw, anger seething inside him as he watched the ambulance personnel loading the injured men onto gurneys. _We need to find Acton!_

"Guv," said Chaney behind him. Reading turned. Chaney was covered in blood having saved one man by sticking his fingers in a wound and pinching a ruptured artery, then when ambulance personnel had taken over, immediately moving on to the next wounded person he could find.

Sometimes Reading forgot Chaney had once gone to medical school then dropped out. After seeing so many bodies come through the ER he'd decided he wanted to be out on the street trying to prevent the crimes that sent the victims to the doctors.

"Nelson just got a call. They found out where the box van came from."

"Where?"

"The British Museum. We have footage of the vehicle leaving there ten minutes before they were hit. We're still backtracking where they originally came from."

"Okay, you and I will go to the museum and see what they were doing there," said Reading. "Nelson! You take command of the situation here and keep me posted!"

"Yes, sir!" acknowledged Nelson from down the street where he was examining the wreckage of the SUV.

Chaney popped the trunk to their car and fished out a change of clothes. Quickly donning a fresh shirt and tie, he ducked into an alley to change his blood soaked pants. Not having a new suit jacket, he'd have to go without until he made it back to The Yard. He climbed into the car, Reading already waiting for him.

British Museum, London

"Look." Clive pointed to the monitor showing a car pull up and two men exiting the vehicle. They watched the younger one approach the glass doors and peer through, knocking on the glass as he reached in his pocket and pulled out a warrant card. He held it up to the nearby camera.

Rodney pressed a hand to his stomach. "Coppers!"

Clive glanced at his friend. _What's eating him?_ He leaned into the intercom system. "Who's closest to the Great Russell Street entrance?"

There was a crackle then a voice responded. "Paul here, I'm about fifty feet away. What's the problem?"

"There's two coppers at the door. See what they want."

"Roger, I'll check it out."

A few moments later Clive and Rodney watched Paul jogging toward the doors. He inspected the cards through the window and lifted his radio. "They're coppers, all right, and they want in."

"Okay, just a moment." Clive hit a few keys on the keyboard and they watched Paul open the door. The two men entered and Paul closed the door behind them. Clive reactivated the locks as he and Rodney watched the three men. They spoke for a few seconds then Paul lifted his radio again.

"They said there was some sort of murder tonight that involves the museum and they want to review the tapes. I'll bring them up to the control room."

Rodney turned pale as he watched the three men disappear from the view of the camera. Clive noticed.

"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, nothing, I'm just feeling poorly. Maybe something I ate." With that, he left the control room and headed for the bathrooms.

Clive chuckled and looked back at the monitors, watching Paul escort the police to the control room. _A murder?_ He rubbed his chest where the Liverpool flag had hit him and was surprised at how much it still hurt. _How hard did he hit me with that thing?_

Rodney ran to the bathroom and entered a stall where he knew there were no cameras. He pulled out his cellphone and dialed. When the line picked up there was silence. His heart was beating so fast he tried to calm his nerves.

He knew the system would only allow him two attempts to get the code right before it would block his number from ever calling again. As calmly as he could, he said, "Seventy-Four Sixty-Two Oh One." There was a pause then ringing as the call was directed elsewhere. He breathed a sigh of relief. The next pickup had a human at the other end.

"Yes," was all they said.

"I need guidance, something has gone wrong."

"One moment." Again, the call was redirected.

"Yes?" said the new voice.

"The police are here, something about a murder. They want to review the tapes," said Rodney.

"Have you had time to erase them?"

"No, not yet. The plan was to erase them over the rest of the shift, but Clive hasn't left his post yet."

"Very well," said the voice. "Our team was eliminated by outside forces after they left."

"Eliminated?" asked Rodney in shock. "As in topped?"

"Yes," replied the coldly calm voice. "There is nothing more you can do there. I want you to leave immediately."

"Yes, miss." The line went dead and he put the phone back in his pocket. _Now I need to get Clive to open the rear entrance so I can get out of here._ He returned to the control room and as he entered he saw the two policemen and Clive looking at the monitors.

"Oh, hi, Rodney. Feeling better?"

He nodded.

Clive motioned to the two guests. "This is DCI Reading and DI—. Sorry, I'm terrible with names."

"Chaney."

Rodney shook the proffered hands. "Rodney Underwood."

"Apparently a truck left the museum tonight and was attacked," Clive said to Rodney. "I told the detectives that they must be mistaken as we haven't had any deliveries or pickups tonight. Here's the footage for the loading dock." The tape raced backward, the time code in the bottom of the screen counting down.

"Stop!" said Chaney. "Back it up a bit." Clive let the tape play forward a little more slowly and they could see a cube van exit the loading dock. "There it is."

"I'll be—" Clive looked at the time code. _That was when I was out cold!_ He rubbed his chest and glanced at Rodney, who looked nervous. _What is going on here?_

"Let's see the rest of the footage," said Reading. "I want to know what they were doing here."

"Yes, sir." Clive turned back to the monitors. He brought up the footage and they all watched as it played out in reverse.

"What room is that?" asked Chaney as they watched the men disappear for several minutes inside a room. "Are there any cameras in there?"

Clive shook his head. "No, sir, it's a storage room for the archeology department. The only way in or out is that door so we have no cameras in there."

"Show me that room," said Reading.

"Rodney, you show them the room. I have to call the Archeology Head to let them know so they can come down here to see if anything is missing."

"Yes, okay." Rodney realized he wouldn't be getting out of this situation anytime soon. "This way, gentlemen." Reading and Chaney followed Rodney out of the room as Clive grabbed a binder of emergency numbers and found the home number for the Archeology Head. He was relieved Rodney was out of the room and with the police. _Something isn't right here. He had to have let them in._ Again he felt the pain in his chest.

He found the number and dialed. He was surprised when the phone picked up right away and the person sounded wide-awake. "Sorry to disturb you at this hour. This is Clive Obrock, I'm security chief for the night-watch at the Museum. It appears there has been a break-in at the archeology storage room and we'd like you to come down here, right away. The police are already here." He listened to the response on the other end. "Okay, we'll see you in fifteen minutes, Professor Palmer."

Paris, France

It was a beautiful, quiet night on the Seine in Paris. The restaurant hummed with quiet dignity, no loud drunken conversations ruining the evening. A string quartet played in the corner, loud enough to be heard, but low enough to not be intrusive. The lighting was just right for an evening of romance, which is exactly what Henri was hoping for. He looked across the table at his beautiful date, not believing his luck. Having blown his entire week's pay on this, he was going to enjoy it.

Henri was sipping his wine when his phone rang. "Pardonnez moi," he said to his companion. He fished it out of his pocket and took the call. "Allo?"

"Thirty-two. Sixteen. Oh Seven. Execute Red," was all he heard.

"I'm so-ree baht you must av de wrong numbare," he said then hung up.

His heart sunk. It was a call he had never expected to come, not in his lifetime, but now that it had, he was torn between duty and booty. The woman across the table from him was gorgeous and way out of his league. The only reason she sat there was because she was a friend of a friend, and he had talked him up to be some bigwig at the museum.

If she only knew I was a janitor.

He sighed, knowing duty had to win, absentmindedly scratching the tattoo under his watch. He forced a smile across the table. "Désolé, je dois y aller." _I'm sorry, I must go._

He rose and headed for the door, stepping outside and taking one last look at his date as she stared at him through the window, clearly stunned at these turn of events. He himself couldn't believe what he had just given up, his hopes for a steamy evening suddenly shut down by something his grandfather's grandfather had gotten the family mixed up in.

He climbed in his car and pulled out into traffic, smiling as he saw his date rushing out the front door, hailing a cab as a waiter could be seen at their table through the window, shouting most likely about the bill not being paid.

A quick drive and he was soon at the Museé du Quay Branly parking lot. He gunned his two stroke Citroën up the small ramp and parked it on an angle, taking up two spots. Grabbing a bag from the backseat, he slung it over his shoulder, approached the employee entrance and waved his badge at the guard. The guard, his head buried in a newspaper, didn't even look up as he reached to push the buzzer.

"Bonjour, Henri!" said the guard.

Henri smiled. "Bonjour, Jacques! How did you know it was me?"

"That piece of merde you drive can be heard a kilometer away!" Jacques replied as he flipped a page and refolded the paper.

Henri smiled. "Sorry, mon ami, but it is all I can afford on this meager janitor's salary!"

"If you'd stop turning down the promotions maybe I'd have some sympathy for you!" retorted Jacques as he shook the paper.

Henri laughed and headed to the employee locker room. When he arrived he opened his locker, put his overalls on, then went to the janitor's storage and retrieved his cart. Emptying garbage cans and ashtrays along the way, he eventually made it to one of the antiquities storage rooms. He ran his pass through the swipe lock and it opened. Pushing his cart inside, he closed the door then lifted the bag out of the cart and strode to a row in the far back. He opened a cardboard box on the bottom shelf and moved the packing material aside. A grinning skull looked up at him.

He shivered.

He opened the bag, revealing another skull. He swiftly switched them then put his bag, with the genuine skull in it, in the garbage bag on his cart. He left the room, whistling and finished his rounds, thinking of the beautiful woman he had left on the Seine.

I wonder if I called her would she meet me for a late coffee? The poor girl must be so disappointed.

Laura Palmer's Flat, London, England

Laura hung up the phone and turned to Acton. "There's been a break-in at the museum. I have to go down and identify what's missing."

"I'll come with you," said Acton, getting up off the couch.

"Are you sure that's wise? What if someone sees you?"

"If they knew where I was they'd have been here by now, and I don't think it's safe to stay in one place for too long. But we do need to hide this somewhere," said Acton, holding up the bag containing the skull.

Laura nodded and smiled. "I have just the place." She walked to the living room table and knelt down beside it. "Press those two corners in," she said, pointing to the corners at the end nearest Acton. They were of a different color wood, but didn't look like they should be able to move. Acton pressed on them. They didn't move. Laura pressed on the two at her end and with a click all four corners came free. He pushed them down as far as he could at the same time Laura did. This turned out to be about two inches. Laura then grasped two sides of the tabletop and twisted clockwise ninety degrees.

"Grab this side and pull up and toward you when I do," she said as she moved to the left and grasped the side of the table opposite Acton. "Ready?"

Acton nodded.

"Now!" They both lifted and the tabletop split in the middle as it rose, then came outward toward them.

Acton stood, amazed at the sight of the two-foot square hole in the center of the solid block of wood that made up the body of the table. "Incredible!"

Laura smiled. "It's ancient Chinese. The wood is thick enough that it won't sound hollow, but you can hide a fair amount of stuff inside like important scrolls, jewels, or in this case," she paused as she held up the artifact, "one crystal skull."

Acton smiled as she put the skull into the cavity. They reversed the procedure and returned the table to normal.

"Nobody will find it in there," she said. "Now let's get to the museum. I'll be able to show you the other one as well."

The Himalayas, Nepal

The only noise in the monastery was the heavy breathing of the sleeping monks. Eight in a room, they had a simple wooden bed with a blanket to keep the cold at bay. A small stove near the far wall provided welcome warmth. Chen was lying on his bedroll when a sudden vibration coursing through his body woke him. It was as if his entire skeleton was pulsing from the spine outward. It took him a moment to realize what it was. He glanced around to see if anyone could see him. All clear. He reached under his bedroll and removed the satellite phone hidden there. He unfolded the antenna and hit the _Talk_ button.

"Forty-four. Sixteen. Oh Three. Execute Red."

Chen's heart pounded in his chest as he hung up and hid the phone among his robes. He had known this day might come, but had never expected it to. Standing, he walked down the long passageway leading from the sleeping quarters to the main temple. Inside, he found the Lama kneeling in front of a large golden statue of Buddha. He walked up and knelt beside him, clasping his hands, giving reverence to that which had guided him for so many years.

"Father, I am so sorry to interrupt, but I must."

The revered monk beside him remained facing forward. "What is it, my son?"

"I cannot explain why, but I must take the Crystal Oracle. It is for your protection and its preservation."

"I understand my son," said the Lama. "If this is your destiny, then you must fulfill it. Go in peace, with my blessing."

Chen nodded and rose. He entered one of the side chambers and approached the Crystal Oracle, it sitting on a pedestal, surrounded by candles. Taking a burlap bag from under his robes, he placed the sculpture inside, then walked directly out of the temple and began the long trek down the mountain, unsure when, or if, he'd ever return.

British Museum, London

Rodney waved to the camera when they reached the storage room door and a buzzer sounded as Clive let them in. The three men entered and looked around. "Doesn't look like they took anything," said Rodney.

Reading and Chaney continued to look, apparently unconvinced.

"Maybe it was a security drill?" he suggested. "In the morning they'll fire us all for having failed?" He laughed nervously.

The only response was a grunt from Reading. They walked up and down the aisles and saw nothing out of place. As they made their way back to the entrance, Reading stopped and pointed to the floor by the rolling ladder. "Look."

"What is it?" asked Chaney.

"The marks on the floor look fresh, like someone forgot to take the brake off." He knelt down and picked up some of the shavings from the concrete floor, rubbing them between his fingers. "How often is this room cleaned?" asked Reading.

Rodney looked at the floor. "I'm not sure, once a week maybe?" Reading stared back at him. "I'll find out." He turned away and called Clive on his radio.

"How's it look in there?" asked Clive.

"Everything looks fine. They want to know how often the floors are cleaned."

"Every week, you know that! You let them in last night."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot, sorry. I'll let them know."

"Okay, and tell them Professor Palmer will be here any minute to check over the inventory."

"What?" Rodney almost shouted into the radio. He looked over uneasily at the detectives.

"Is there a problem?" asked Chaney.

"N-no, just nerves, I guess," said Rodney who turned back to his radio and whispered. "Why did you call her?"

"Procedure. I'll have Paul bring her to you."

"No!" said Rodney in a loud whisper.

"What?"

"No, I'll go get her, I'm not that far from the entrance," he said, trying to calm his voice. Then he raised it a little more for the benefit of everyone in the room. "I think we can trust the police alone in the room for a couple of minutes." He glanced at them with a forced smile. Chaney nodded back at him.

"Fine, but you better hurry. Looks like she's here," said Clive followed by a pause. "That's strange, she seems to have brought someone. Just a min—"

Rodney cut him off. "I'm on my way!" He headed to the door and glanced at Reading and Chaney as he fumbled with the handle. "I'll be back in five minutes." He closed the door behind him then sprinted toward the security entrance.

Laura and Acton approached the security entrance and pressed the buzzer. The rain had let up but a heavy mist still dampened the night air. A moment later a voice came over the intercom. "Security."

"This is Professor Palmer. Apparently there was a robbery?"

"Yes, Professor," replied the voice. "Who is with you?"

"A colleague from the United States."

"Name please."

She looked at Acton and whispered, her head turned away from the camera, "They can't possibly be looking for you here." He nodded. She turned back to the intercom. "Professor Acton."

"Very well, your escort will be there momentarily. Please wait." The connection fell silent. They only had to wait a moment before they heard a buzzing sound then the door burst open causing them both to jump back.

Rodney almost flew into the two people standing at the door.

"Sorry, Professor Palmer," he stammered. "Just a little excited you know, what with the police here and all." His hand shook as he offered it. "I'm Rodney." She shook his hand and before she could introduce the other man he cut her off. "Nothing seems to be missing, I'm not sure if you're even needed." He noticed the man standing beside her. "Professor Acton! What are you doing here?"

The two professors looked at each other. "How do you know who I am?"

Rodney realized he had made a terrible blunder, but it was too late now. "I, um, I must have seen your face...shite, just a minute." He walked away from them and dialed his cellphone. His radio crackled.

"Rodney, what's going on down there?" asked Clive. "Why aren't you bringing them in?" Rodney reached down and turned off his radio.

"Yes?" said the voice.

"Acton is here!" whispered Rodney.

"What?" exclaimed the other voice, the first time Rodney had ever heard it carry emotion. "Are the police still there?"

"Yes. What do I do?"

"The police are looking for the professor in connection with a murder. You must warn him and see if he'll come in," instructed the voice.

"Okay, I'll try." The line went dead.

He turned back to the two professors. "I'm sorry about that."

"How do you know who I am?" demanded Acton.

"That doesn't matter." Rodney approached them and lowered his voice. "The police are inside. They believe you have something to do with a murder."

Laura's eyes shot wide open. "A murder? Whose?"

"I don't know, but at least seven people are dead tonight in connection with this place." He could tell by their expressions they knew nothing about it. "Professor Acton, I suggest you come with me."

"Bullshit!" said Acton. "Why would I go with you?" Laura took his arm and drew him closer to her.

"Because we can protect you."

"Who's we? And how can _you_ protect _me_? People have been dying all around me for a week now. How do I know your 'we' aren't the ones doing it?"

"Because we are the Triarii," replied Rodney, moving his watchband and showing his tattoo.

"Triarii!" exclaimed Acton.

"Yes. We are the final line of defense to protect the world from the potential disaster that could occur if the skulls are brought together." The stunned expressions on their faces told him they knew what he was talking about.

"The Triarii? You mean you're part of the lost legion?" asked Laura.

"Yes, Professor, I and my brethren have been guarding the secret of the skulls for almost two millennia," explained Rodney. "When Professor Acton found the final missing skull, he set into motion a series of events that can no longer be stopped."

"What do you mean," asked Acton, "the final missing skull?"

"I don't have time to explain here, but if you come with me I'll tell you everything," said Rodney.

They didn't budge.

"Your lives are in danger."

"Is hers?" asked Acton.

"We weren't aware she was involved until now so she should be safe."

"James, what are you suggesting?" asked Laura, turning to face him.

"The cops are expecting you," said Acton as he took her hands in his. "You go in, otherwise they'll get suspicious of you. I'll go with him and find out what he knows, and we'll meet up later where we had Chinese."

"Are you sure? I don't feel good about this."

"Come, now! We don't have time!" urged Rodney.

"How do I explain where you went?"

"I'll run away," said Rodney. "Professor, you chase me. Once we're on Montague we're out of camera range. Professor Palmer, you go into the museum and tell them that I ran away and your friend pursued me. Make up a name. I'll never be coming back here again." He took one last glance at the museum, then bolted toward the street.

Acton looked at Laura and whispered, "Go, I'll be okay." He turned and raced after Rodney.

Laura watched as the two men ran off. She turned back to the door, took a deep breath, then pressed the intercom button again.

Salem, Virginia

Madely's cellphone rang, waking him out of a deep sleep. Feeling guilty, he looked at his watch. _4 a.m._ He knew he shouldn't be sleeping, but the old lady never, in the six years he'd been observing her, left her house until 9 a.m. unless on a tour. His partner was in the passenger seat, his head cocked backward, leaning against the window. His mouth was wide open, his snoring loud enough to wake the neighborhood. _I guess I'm not the only one._

He answered the phone.

"Twelve Twelve Oh Five, Execute Red."

His pulse raced and adrenaline rushed into his veins. He punched his partner on the shoulder. "Johnson, wake up!" Johnson snorted a couple of times then came to.

"What?" he asked groggily, "What's going on?"

"We've been ordered to execute Plan Red!"

Johnson bolted upright in his seat and straightened himself. The two men exited the car and approached the house they'd had under surveillance just down the road. Walking to the doorstep, they rang the doorbell. _Four a.m.!_

It took a few minutes, but eventually a light came on deep in the house and footsteps approached then stopped at the door. Someone unlatched the lock and opened it. The ninety-something lady who greeted them was by no means frail. She traveled the world on a regular basis and through observing her for years they knew her to be very independent.

"Ahhh, my shadows," she said.

Madely and Johnson looked at each other, dumbfounded.

"Come in, come in," she said as she backed up, opening the door wider. They entered the house and she closed the door behind them. "Can I get you something, some tea perhaps?"

"No thank you, ma'am, I'm afraid—"

She cut him off with a wave of her finger. "You've come for my Daddy's skull, haven't you?"

Madely looked shocked. "How did you know?"

She chuckled. "Your group, the Triarii, isn't it? Your group has been following me since I found the skull in that cave in 1927. It's about time you said hello."

"I don't know what to say, ma'am," said Madely.

"Well, I came to the determination long ago that you people weren't here to hurt me," she explained. "I guess I came to feel that you were my protectors."

"How do you know about the Triarii?" asked Johnson.

"In my over ninety years I've picked up a few things along the way," she smiled. "Now, if you're here for the skull, I assume something has gone wrong?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Madely. "I'm afraid we must take it, at least temporarily, until the situation is resolved."

"And will it be resolved?"

"I hope so, ma'am."

She nodded and walked over to a cabinet. Taking a key from around her neck, she inserted it into the lock and opened the doors wide. Inside, the skull rested on a small, velvet covered pedestal. She picked it up gently, gave it a small kiss on the forehead, then handed it to Madely. "Be careful with my baby," she said, tears in her eyes.

"Yes, ma'am, we will." Madely placed the skull in the case Johnson held. He pulled a card out of his pocket with the Triarii symbol embossed on it, and nothing else. "If anyone comes looking for the skull, give them this. It will protect you."

She nodded. "Thank you, my dears."

With that, the two men left, leaving the old lady feeling more alone than she had ever felt.

Hope Trailer Park, New Mexico

Leroy heard a tapping sound from the front of the house. He looked at his wife who slept peacefully beside him. Gently climbing out of bed, he tiptoed out of the room, trying to avoid those floorboards that creaked. The tapping got louder as he neared the front entrance. Opening the door, he saw that the noise was the screen door blowing against the doorframe in the gentle desert breeze. He reattached the latch then closed the front door and locked it, something he normally never did. There was no need to. The only time people came into the house uninvited was if they needed to borrow something.

He started to head back toward the bedroom when something made him stop. He looked at the bookshelf where they had their collection of artifacts. All of the skulls were lined up as they were whenever they were home. The only time they were moved was when he and his wife went to conferences around the world to show off their collection. They had found skulls all over the world, even in markets in New York City. Gripping the crystal that hung on a leather chain around his neck, he closed his eyes, trying to seek wisdom from the skulls. _Why do I feel uneasy?_

He opened his eyes again and saw it. The last skull, an orange tinted one, was facing the wrong way. It was turned to the right instead of the left. He knew his wife would never have done that. His heart raced and he ran to the safe in the office. He turned on the light and his heart sank. The safe was open. And empty. He dropped to his knees and started to cry.

Those government bastards!

Montague Place, London

Rodney and Acton reached Montague and sprinted for about half a mile. Rodney dodged into an alley and Acton followed. As he turned the corner he was grabbed. In a moment of panic Acton turned to swing at his assailant when he heard Rodney's voice.

"It's okay, Professor, it's me." Acton relaxed and Rodney let go.

"Okay, time to talk. Tell me everything about the Triarii and the skulls."

"Fine, but wouldn't you like to go some place warmer, this could take some time."

"No. Here's fine."

"Very well." Rodney leaned back against the wall. "Nearly two thousand years ago in ancient Judea the Roman Garrison found a crystal skull. It was thought to be so unique by the Prefect that he sent it to the Emperor, Nero, as a gift to show his loyalty. The Emperor was so fascinated by the skull he placed it at his bedside. He then began to hear voices and have visions. These voices and visions terrified him and he became convinced it was his god, Jupiter, communicating with him through the skull, trying to warn him the Roman Empire was doomed if he did not get the skull as far away from Rome as possible."

"Probably syphilis," interjected Acton.

Rodney chose to ignore him. "He ordered his best legion, the Thirteenth, to take the skull as far north as possible, and to make sure it never came near Rome again. As history shows, he was right. The skull came from Judea where the weak Christian God originated. When Rome converted to Christianity several hundred years later, it signaled the beginning of the end of the greatest empire to ever rule the Earth. The Emperor couldn't stop the tide of Christianity even though he tried to have all of its followers and preachers killed. With every death they seemed to only grow stronger. In the end, the empire was doomed."

"But that took half a millennia. What became of the Thirteenth legion? Why did you continue to protect the skull?"

"Our ancestors, the progenitors of the Triarii, were men loyal to their Emperor and their gods. Remember, in those times the Emperor was considered a god. He never actually died. He simply left Earth to join Jupiter and the other gods. These men made it to England and settled there, took wives, had families, and handed down the teachings.

"Over generations we protected the Oracle of Jupiter, making sure that it was never returned to Rome. It took over one thousand years for the Roman Empire to collapse. By that time, dozens of generations had been raised thinking we had succeeded. Around the time of the Empire's collapse, however, a second skull was found, this time in Greece. It was found in ruins that we now know predated the collapse of the Greek civilization, therefore it was assumed that this skull had brought the downfall of another empire. A team was dispatched to retrieve the skull and bring it back to the Triarii for safekeeping."

"Who had the second skull?"

"The Caliphate, the ancient Muslim empire that ruled from the Atlantic Ocean in Spain to the Pacific Ocean in the Philippines, the greatest empire to exist since the collapse of the Roman Empire."

"How could you possibly expect to take it from them?"

"The Crusades, of course," said Rodney. "The Crusades were not just to try and take back the Holy Land, they were also a secret mission to retrieve the skull. By this time the Triarii, though secret, were extremely powerful and we had made inroads into all walks of life and power, including royalty. We were able to convince the King to fund a contingent of Triarii during the crusade. We had ulterior motives of course, but simply appealing to his deeply religious beliefs, along with the fact that one of his daughters was married to a senior Triarii member, assured our funding.

"We sent a group of knights with the main force and after years of searching and fighting, finally found and retrieved the skull. Once we brought it back to England, it was hidden away as well. It has become known as the Oracle of Zeus."

Acton shook his head in disbelief. "That's quite the story. You're saying that some of the most important events in history are tied to the skulls?"

"We've used events to our advantage. The crusades were not because of the skull. There were legitimate reasons for them at the time that went far beyond the skull. We merely used them as cover to fulfill our needs. It wasn't until the thirteenth century that we discovered the power of the skulls. That is when the first true disaster struck."

British Museum, London, England

Laura shivered against the chill and the light drizzle that had started to fall. She stood huddled as close to the building as she could while she waited to be let in. A few minutes passed before a buzzer sounded.

A confused Paul opened the door. "Where'd Rodney go?"

"I don't know. He did a runner when I asked him if he knew anything about the robbery." Laura entered the building and started following the guard. "My friend is chasing him now."

"Really? Should I radio for help?"

Laura thought for a quick second. "Yes, that's probably a good idea."

Paul called Clive on the radio. "Clive this is Paul, can you tell the coppers that Professor Palmer's friend—" He stopped and turned to Laura. "What was his name?"

Laura tried to remember if they had said Acton's name yet. "Jack—Jackson," she stammered. "Jim Jackson."

Paul turned back to the radio as they made their way toward the storage area. "Mr. Jackson left in pursuit of Rodney." He then lowered his voice. "Rodney ran when they asked him about the robbery. Do you think...?" he trailed off, not wanting to say it over the radio.

"Take her to the Archeological Storage Room, that's where the police are waiting for her," replied Clive. "Tell them about, who did you say, Jackson?"

"Yes, Jackson."

"I thought his name was Acton?"

Paul turned to Laura with a questioning look on his face. Laura shrugged her shoulders. "He must have heard me wrong."

"No, it's Jackson, I just confirmed it," said Paul into the radio. They rounded a corner and ran into Chaney.

"What the bloody hell is taking so long?" he asked. He looked at Paul. "And where's the other bloke?"

"He did a runner, sir, that's what took so long. Professor Palmer's friend, a Mr. Jackson, is chasing him now. Can you send for help?"

"Which way did they go?" asked Chaney, getting out his phone.

"West on Montague," said Laura. They had actually gone east, but she figured it would buy them a little time to find a place out of sight to talk. She was still extremely worried about him.

She didn't trust the Triarii.

At all.

"What does your friend look like?"

"About six feet, slim, early forties, brown hair."

Chaney nodded and turned back to his phone. "This is DI Chaney, I need units in the vicinity of Montague on the lookout for two males, one six feet, slim build, early forties with brown hair, the other six feet, slim build, mid-twenties with black hair wearing a security guard uniform." After listening on the other end for a moment he hung up. "Your friend was foolish to chase that man," he said to Laura. "A lot of people have died as a result of this robbery."

Laura's heart dropped into her stomach. _I should never have let him go alone!_

They entered the storage room to see an irate Reading. Chaney explained about Rodney and the chase. This calmed Reading down only a little.

"Well, Professor, there appears to be nothing amiss here, yet a guard has run away and we've seen footage that clearly shows an armed group of men entering this room and then exiting it a few minutes later," said Reading. He pointed to the markings on the floor. "These scrapes, with fresh shavings from the floor, seem to indicate that this ladder was moved since the room was cleaned last night. Would anyone have been in here today?"

Laura looked at the floor then scanned the rows of artifacts on shelves. "No, I would have been notified of anyone entering here." She knew exactly where she wanted to check. This had to do with the skull and she desperately wanted to see if it was still in place, but it would seem too obvious to go directly there. She walked up and down each row, deliberately taking her time, pretending to examine the artifacts.

"Don't you need some sort of list or something?" asked Chaney who was trailing behind her.

"Detective, I know this room like the back of my hand. Everything in here has been inventoried by me countless times over the years," said Laura. "If anything is even out of place, I'll know it." She arrived at the spot where the box holding the skull was. "Like that!" she said, pointing to the box. "It is on the wrong shelf."

Chaney looked up at the box she was pointing to. "What's in it?"

"Just a fake sculpture." Laura called to the doorway where Paul was still standing. "Paul, can you bring me the ladder?"

"Yes, Professor," came the reply from several rows over. He unlocked the wheels and pushed it over. Positioning it, she relocked the wheels and climbed up. She took the box and opened it, moving aside the packaging. It took everything she had to not gasp in disbelief.

This is NOT the skull I documented! This is definitely a fake!

The carving was rough, almost amateurish in comparison to the original. With her bare hands she could feel the slight imperfections caused by the carving wheel. It looked like the skull described by the BBC documentary.

The Triarii must have switched the skull before the documentary and then put it back! Now they've switched it again!

A huge weight lifted off her shoulders. The embarrassment of that event washed away as she realized what had happened. She had been right all along. _The BBC had tested the wrong skull!_ She carefully wrapped the skull back up, returned it to the shelf, then descended the ladder.

"Well?" asked Chaney.

"Nothing, I guess I was mistaken," she said and moved on. After finishing the rest of the aisles she returned to the entrance. "As far as I can tell, nothing has been taken," she told Reading.

"Okay, let's go to the control room again and look at that footage," said Reading, heading to the door.

Outside Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Faisal stretched out the kinks from a long night's sleep. He kissed his wife on the forehead and headed to the bathroom. As he relieved himself he looked in the mirror, admiring his moustache, then flushed the toilet, giving little thought to the fact he had just wasted more water than most of his countrymen used in a day, then turning on the gold plated faucets adorning the marble sink, he pushed the plunger down. Leaning in, he carefully washed his face and hands then reached for the towel hanging to his left, pressing his face into it. Once dried he opened his eyes and gasped.

In the mirror were two masked men, both dressed in black, pointing handguns at him.

"What do you want?" he asked as he swung around to face them.

"Open your inner office," said one of them. Faisal paused. The man pointed the gun directly at Faisal's forehead. "You have five seconds or he kills your wives, one at a time." Faisal blanched, thinking of his wife in the next room who had born him three strong sons and was pregnant, he hoped, with a fourth. He knew they would kill her first as she was closest.

Faisal nodded slowly and raised his hands, dropping the towel to the floor. The man led him to a wall lined with hanging silks. Reaching forward, he moved some of the silk sheets aside, revealing a keypad. He entered his code and there was a clicking sound. Pushing with his shoulder, a door, previously hidden, opened. The two men shoved him inside.

"Give us the skull."

Faisal was stunned. There was several million dollars worth of currency, gold, and jewels in here. _Why would they want a skull made of crystal?_ It had been handed down for over a thousand years, from father to eldest son, but except for the sentimental value, it didn't have any real monetary value. He couldn't believe he was going to be the one who finally lost what had been in his family since his forefathers lived on the desert plains. He walked to a shelf and took down the skull, handing it to them. _They must be from another clan, here to shame my family._ The men carefully placed it in a case and started to leave the room. One turned around and faced him. "Sorry," he said as he raised his gun and fired. Faisal grabbed at his shoulder as he felt the impact. He looked down, puzzled by the lack of blood, then collapsed.

Somewhere on the Atlantic, 1212 AD

Richard lay on the deck of the boat, propped up against a barrel that had once contained life-sustaining water. His throat parched, lips cracked and skin badly burnt, his once proud body had withered to an emaciated skeleton. If anyone should happen upon his ship they could have been forgiven for thinking he was dead. And he should have been, but he willed himself to stay alive, knowing he couldn't die until his mission was accomplished.

He had left England months before, determined to sail himself, and the skull that had killed his beloved family, over the edge of the Earth. The voyage had taken far longer than anyone had anticipated, and when it became evident the end of the world was farther than expected, he had begun strict rationing to prolong the voyage. That had only extended their provisions by a few weeks, however, and if it weren't for a fortunate heavy rain that had partially replenished their water supplies four weeks earlier, they would have been dead by now.

But that water was gone. His trusted friend and companion, Johnathan, had died two days ago and now only he and three crew members remained. All were in as bad a shape as he was and the ship was now essentially sailing itself. He prayed for the edge to come before he lost all strength and succumbed to the inevitable death that awaited him. He must ensure the skull went over the edge so no one else could be killed by it.

As he lay in his near-death state he heard a roaring sound. At first he thought he was hallucinating, but then the other men stirred. They'd heard it, too. The sound grew louder and louder. _The edge!_ He forced himself to his feet, realizing the roar must be the great waterfall at the edge of the world. He was resolved to sail over it at the prow of his boat, crying the names of his wife and child as his life ended.

But what he saw stunned him. He had to rub his eyes several times and was convinced he must now be hallucinating, but one of his men, who stood with him, pointed at it, too. "It be land, Lord Baxter!" he whispered hoarsely. "How can it be?"

Richard's shoulders slumped in defeat. _How could we have been so wrong?_ He looked up again and watched as the waves crashed, not over the edge of the world as had been foretold, but against the shore of a mysterious new land.

Montague Place, London, England

"What sort of disaster?" asked Acton, completely enthralled at the tale being told him. As he processed the information, history as he knew it was being rewritten in his head.

"You've heard of the Great Fire of London?" asked Rodney.

"Of course, 1666 wasn't it, killed over thirty thousand people?"

"No, the _first_ Great Fire was actually in 1212. The city was nearly lost. Forgotten by history, the 1666 fire became incorrectly known as the Great Fire of London. Before that time, the fire of 1212 was known by the same name," explained Rodney. "And we were responsible for it."

"Responsible? How?"

"When the second skull was discovered and subsequently recovered, we realized there may be others. We dispatched teams all over the known world to look for the skulls, mostly by monitoring religious ceremonies. It was around 1200 AD that we found the third skull. It was retrieved from a mosque in what is now Tehran. Our operatives brought it back to London. When it was put into the same area for safekeeping as the other two, a humming sound was heard. Our scientists were immediately summoned and during the examination the three skulls were placed together.

"It is thought that natural light shone down on them and then an incredible explosion or release of energy occurred. All the scientists were killed along with many innocent Londoners. The fires that ensued destroyed a large part of the city."

"I remember the fire now. I've read about it, London was nearly lost," said Acton. "How do you know though that it was the skulls that did it? Couldn't it just have been a coincidence?"

Rodney nodded. "Yes, it could have been, but when we were able to get back into the area at nightfall, we found the skulls in the center of a blast wave. We separated them, realizing their true power."

Acton looked at Rodney skeptically.

"I know this sounds far-fetched, Professor, but all of it is documented in our archives. Almost two-thousand years of painstaking journals and drawings. When you come in, I will show them to you."

"Yeah, well we'll see about that," replied Acton. "Okay, so you nearly blew up all of London. How the hell did I find a skull in Peru?"

"We knew this new skull must not be anywhere near the other two. It was decided that we must get rid of it so there would be no chance of it ever coming into contact with the original skulls. A group of volunteers took the skull and sailed it over the edge of the world. It had been assumed they were successful. That of course was before we knew the world was round," smiled Rodney.

"I didn't think people still believed it was flat then."

"Well, with our lineage being Roman, not Greek, it unfortunately proved popular to discount their mathematicians at times, and in the early thirteenth century, with the crusades and religious fervor at a peak, literal translations of the bible were popular."

" _And after these things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the Earth."_

"Exactly, Revelations. How can a round world have four corners? The first to sail were led by a nobleman, Lord Baxter. They sailed south-west to avoid the ice packs to the north, and were supposed to go off the edge with the skull. Instead, they discovered America. _South_ America to be exact."

"How do you know?"

"Because, Professor, the skull you found is that third skull."

"How do you know it's the third skull? I thought there were lots of these things all over the world?"

"Yes, there are," replied Rodney. "But there are only twelve genuine skulls that we know of, the last one having been discovered in Nepal in the early twentieth century. We keep track of all of the skulls very closely, watching to make sure that no three ever come in contact. This has meant that our organization is now spread throughout the world. We have people shadowing the owners of all the skulls, all of them that is except the last of the lost skulls."

"Lost skulls?"

"After the disaster in 1212 we began sending all the skulls, except for the original two of course, across the Atlantic with the intent that they would be lost over the edge of the world. When science replaced religious dogma, we returned to the belief the world wasn't flat.

"What scared us the most is that we had sent out four skulls across the Atlantic. If those four were to come into contact somehow, we had no idea the level of destruction they could bring. In 1492, of course, the New World was formally discovered, and when news of this reached us from one of our operatives who was on the Pinta—"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Acton. "You had an operative on one of Columbus' ships?"

"Several actually. It was going to be a long, tough voyage so we couldn't rely on only one man. Martin Alonzo Pinzon, the commander of the Pinta, was actually a member of the Triarii."

Acton shook his head in amazement or disbelief—he wasn't quite sure which.

"Needless to say, with this news, we sent more people on expeditions in search of the skulls. It took hundreds of years, but eventually three were recovered and placed into the hands of people that could be trusted, without them even knowing, to keep them safely separate."

"How could you rely on them to do this? I've heard many of these are in private collections."

"Yes, but over the years we've had many fakes created and spread throughout the art world," explained Rodney. "As well, we've discredited some serious owners such as the British Museum and the Smithsonian most recently by rigging a switch for a BBC documentary that then proclaimed them frauds. Many of the real skulls are now believed to be frauds, therefore no one has any interest in them anymore except as oddities. Others, who hold the real skulls, are terrified to actually let them be tested in case theirs too may be proven fake. It's the perfect situation.

"Most people think the skulls are fake therefore they don't draw any attention to themselves, and the others don't want to find out that what they own is fake so they remain quiet. There are a few that believe what they have is real, and tour around the world showing them off, but we always have people watching them and protecting the skulls. And, much to their annoyance, discrediting them. There's a reason why many are considered off their rockers. We strategically place people in the crowds at these events to ask loaded questions, give tainted interviews and whatnot, just to make the whole thing look like a carnival."

"But, why? Why not just collect them all and seal them away in separate locations so that no one can bring them together?"

"Part of our belief system is that these skulls were indeed placed here by the gods or God. We believe that they were sent as a message to mankind, and that when we are ready to understand it, we will. We have come to believe that if the skulls are all locked up and hidden away from humanity, they will not be able to have the influence on people that they are supposed to. By allowing them to move through civilization, with more and more people being exposed, we believe that eventually mankind will evolve to the point where the message will be revealed."

"Funny, I've heard something like that before," commented Acton, thinking back on his conversation with Laura. "Okay, so your group, the Triarii, essentially track the movement of all of the skulls and take action when necessary to make sure that they don't come in contact?" summarized Acton. Rodney nodded. "Okay then, who's trying to kill me?"

Rodney's expression turned grave.

"A former member of our group."

When Acton heard who it was his heart sank.

Moscow, Russia

Alexander quietly entered one of the many damp storage rooms in the basement of the Lubyanka building. The former KGB Headquarters' purpose may have changed—albeit slightly—but the building that housed it was a testament to Soviet era quality. Primitive. Modernization, decades overdue, was finally occurring, but these dark, dank rooms had escaped even the slightest upgrade. Alexander was used to the smell, having worked here for over fifty years as a custodian of the records. Regimes had come and gone during his tenure from as far back as Khrushchev.

Today, he was on a mission for his true masters. Neither the current regime nor any previous had his true loyalty. That was reserved for the Triarii. And today, he would fulfill his mission to protect an artifact the KGB had recovered from the Nazis after conquering Berlin. Hitler's obsession with archeological relics had netted him one of the precious skulls. The Triarii had been unable to stop it from being stolen from the Jewish family in Warsaw that had been its keepers for generations. When the Soviets recovered it, they merely cataloged it and filed it away as a meaningless religious artifact. The atheist policies of the communist era meant anything with a religious connotation was of no importance.

He had recognized it immediately, however. A member of the Triarii through his father, he had obtained the job in the one agency that would know if the skull existed in the Soviet Union. It took years of work to gain the security clearances to search the records, but he had finally done it and soon found what had been lost.

It had been decided at the time the safest place for it was right where it was—in a forgotten box in a forgotten room. Now, however, nothing was safe. Today, for the first time since the end of World War II, the skull would leave its damp home.

British Museum, London, England

Clive buzzed them into the control room. He stood to shake Laura's hand. "Has your friend returned?"

Laura hesitated. "No, actually I'm getting a little concerned."

"Is Professor Acton familiar with the city, Professor?" asked Clive.

"Who?" asked Reading, in a voice loud enough to startle everyone in the room.

"His name is Jackson," said Laura, "and no, he's not familiar with the city. He's a visiting professor from the United States and is probably lost. I told him to hail a taxi if that happened and to go back to the university. He's probably there now."

Reading stepped closer to Laura. "Now listen carefully, Professor. We are looking for a Mr. James Acton, a Professor from the United States, in connection with _fourteen_ deaths, today. So, I'll ask you one time." He leaned in even closer. "What is your friend's name?"

Laura desperately tried not to tremble. Then her fear turned to anger as she realized there was nothing they could do to her. She had done nothing wrong. She also knew James couldn't be involved in those deaths because he had been with her almost the entire day. She decided to stall.

She stared Reading straight in the face. "His name is Jackson," she said firmly.

"Very well." Reading turned to Clive. "Pull up the footage of the back entrance. I want to see this professor." Clive nodded and his fingers flew across the keyboard. Within seconds they were viewing footage of the conversation between Rodney and the two professors. "Pause it there." Reading pointed to the screen. "Can you blow that up?"

"Yes, sir," said Clive. A few more keystrokes and a drag of the mouse and they were looking at a block of pixels. A few more keystrokes and the software sharpened up the image so they were looking at a perfect picture of the man in question.

Chaney held the photo of Acton up to the screen. Both he and Reading said at the same time, "Acton."

Reading looked at Laura. "Care to change your answer?"

"Okay, fine," she said. "I met him today. What's he supposed to have done?"

"He's wanted for questioning in connection with the torture death of a tourist, a theft from this museum that resulted in the death of seven people, and the death of six police officers," said Reading.

"He only arrived in London this afternoon!" exclaimed Laura. "How's he supposed to have killed half the bloody city when he's been with me almost his entire time!"

"I didn't say he'd killed them personally, but he's connected somehow. And I'm not sure I believe you when you say nothing is missing." He turned to Clive. "Is there someone else you can call to verify the contents of that room?"

Clive looked nervously at Professor Palmer. "I, ah, yes, I mean, there should be a backup."

"Okay, call them and have them go through the storage room and let me know the result," said Reading, heading for the door. "Professor Palmer, I'd like you to come down to The Yard with me for questioning."

"I'll do no such thing! I've done nothing wrong!"

"Professor, if you want I can charge you with interfering in an ongoing police investigation," said Reading, then in a firmer tone, "or you can come down voluntarily for questioning."

Laura's expression conveyed how angry she was, but she acquiesced. She followed Paul out the door with Chaney and Reading bringing up the rear.

RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48th Fighter Wing

The C17 Globemaster III Tactical Transport Aircraft had just landed, its four Pratt and Whitney PW2040 turbofan engines, each capable of over forty thousand pounds of thrust, were still winding down. Red was already yelling at the ground crew to hustle on the unloading, knowing they would need the equipment quickly. "Get the bird set up and armed ASAP!"

"Armed?" asked the Crew Chief. "With what?"

"What do you mean, 'with what'?"

"In case you're not aware, we have a little thing going on over in Iraq and Afghanistan," retorted the Chief. Red glared at him. "I'll see what I can scrounge up."

"You do that." _BD is going to be pissed._ He climbed into his Humvee and headed back to the temporary headquarters. Entering the rec room, he found Dawson relaxing with the team who seemed to be enjoying themselves for the first time in days. Dawson sat in a reclining chair, squeezing a stress ball. He looked at Red as he entered the room and motioned for him to come over.

"That'll learn ya!" bellowed Smitty, who had just won a game of pool. He took the money from the table and yelled, "Who's next?" Red smiled at the display as he sat in a chair across from his friend.

"Our gear's arrived. They're setting up the bird now, don't know about ordnance though."

"Explain."

"Apparently there's a shortage."

"Fine, we'll make do," replied Dawson. "We always do." Then he leaned closer to Red and lowered his voice. "When you were seconded to DARPA, did you ever hear of anything called Structural Amorphous Metals?" he asked, looking at his second-in-command.

"Yeah, the SAM project, something to do with extremely strong metals or something," recalled Red. "Why?"

"Any chance that our sculpture could be made of it?"

Red shook his head. "Not unless the project took a U-turn. They were dealing with crystalline structures, not blocks of crystal."

"Do you have any contacts still there?"

"Yeah, one or two." Red nodded. "Want me to make some calls?"

"Discretely, on secure lines."

Red got up and headed to the communications room.

Dawson sipped on a bottle of water, watching the men play pool, continually reviewing the events of the past week, his mind no longer at ease after the events in London. Everything that had happened before arriving here he could reconcile. A terror cell in Peru with a stolen DARPA project. These same terrorists on the Termination List. A charismatic Professor who had led these kids astray, escapes, kills and wounds his own government's soldiers in the process, taking the stolen item with him. He sends a decoy package, elicits help from friends, evades capture in London, while an accomplice is found within the White House.

But now they had a crystal sculpture in their possession and find that this terrorist cell is but a tiny cog of a bigger, international organization that Control Actual seems to actually be toying with, setting off the bombs outside their headquarters.

Killing police.

Control Actual had assured him that an anonymous tip would be phoned in so that the vehicles would be dealt with by the bomb squad, but obviously that call had never been made.

And now the blood of those innocent British policemen were on his hands.

And that was unacceptable.

The door to the rec room opened and Red walked over, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "I made those calls, it will take some time." Dawson nodded as Red rose up and raised his voice. "You've got a call in the communications center, Sergeant Major."

Dawson stood and headed over to the room where they had set up their secure satellite communications equipment. "Bravo One here," he said into the microphone.

"Bravo One, Control Actual. A Professor Palmer is being held at Scotland Yard. Details are being sent now. Retrieve her, alive. She may know where the item is. If not she can be used as bait for Professor Acton. Keep casualties to a minimum, zero if possible, and make it look gang related, out."

Dawson never had a chance to reply, never had a chance to demand to know why the phone call about the booby trapped trucks hadn't been made. Instead he was left to question yet another set of orders that seemed to be progressively getting more outrageous.

Attack Scotland Yard? This is getting ridiculous! And how the hell are we supposed to keep casualties to a minimum?

Control was setting mission parameters that were putting his men at risk. Rigging the escape vehicles to explode after taking down the terrorist cell's van was one thing. _Control didn't seem concerned about police casualties then!_ But to have them position the vehicles on either side of the terrorist's known headquarters was ridiculous and he had said so when the orders were given. _They'll know we're on to them!_ Control hadn't cared, spewing venomous nonsense about striking the fear of God into them.

And now they were supposed to attack the equivalent of FBI Headquarters.

Somebody's going to get court martialed, and it better not be my team!

He left the communications center and returned to the rec area. His team stopped what they were doing and looked at their commander.

"Gear up gentlemen, gangland cover, briefing in five."

Beijing, China

Huang looked at the text message he had received on his Chinese built Samsung phone and frowned. _One of these days China will be designing, not just building, the products the world uses!_ As a Vice-Chairperson of the Standing Committee of the National People's Congress, he was a stone's throw from leading his glorious country. He had been a General in the People's Liberation Army then used that power and influence to become rich in the newly opened economy. This had given him even more influence and he had been appointed to his current position. If he played his cards right, he would soon be President.

But not today. Today, he had to fulfill his primary duty in life. Rising from his desk, he unlocked a cabinet on the far wall of his office. He entered a code on the safe inside and it hissed open. Removing a case it contained, he closed the safe and walked down the long corridor of his office building in the Zhongnanhai complex.

As he approached the President's office, the two soldiers guarding the entrance snapped their heels in respect, one opening the door. He entered the outer office and bowed slightly to the secretary as she rose. She bowed deeply to her superior.

"I am sorry, sir, but the President is not in, he is away on business in Shanghai," she said meekly, avoiding eye contact.

"Do you not think that I am fully aware of that?" His sarcastic tone was intended to belittle her. "I have a package for him that I must personally deliver to the safety of his office."

"Of course, sir, you may leave it with me and I will make certain that he receives it," she answered.

"Absolutely not. I am under strict orders from the Chairman himself to put this file in his office personally." With that, he walked past her, opened the door to the inner office and closed it behind him, leaving the flabbergasted secretary wondering what to do.

Swiftly walking to a side table, he opened his case and removed a velvet wrapped package from inside. He unwrapped it to reveal a crystal skull. Walking over to a pedestal in the corner that contained the real skull, his charge of many years, he switched the two, placing the real skull in his case, again carefully wrapped. He locked the case, looked about the office, and strode out purposefully, ignoring the secretary.

Triarii Headquarters, London, England

The Proconsul was pleased. _Very_ pleased. All of the plans had been executed like clockwork. All over the world the skulls were being moved into secret locations known only to the individual members in this room and one backup each. No one in the room knew the backup location of more than one skull except for him. He knew where the original two were.

"Now that we have protected our charge we must now consider relocating, at least temporarily," he said. "We have a rogue element with unknown intentions that has just detonated a bomb on the street above who clearly knows our location and has the capabilities to reach it." There were nods of ascent from around the room. "Very well, we will move immediately to our Beta Site. Is there any other business that must be concluded before we adjourn?"

The British Museum member spoke up. "Sir, I have just learned that Professor Palmer has been taken into custody for questioning. As well, our operative is currently with Professor Acton. One or both of them definitely knows where the third skull is. We should try to bring them both in for their protection."

"Agreed," said the Proconsul. "Make it happen." He stood, ending the meeting, and headed toward his office with a heavy heart. He had served as Proconsul for over ten years, ever since the last Proconsul, his uncle, had died of cancer. As he headed down the long stone corridor he passed the offices of the other members, some of whom were already inside packing their personal items in boxes and destroying papers. He looked fondly at the British Museum member's office as he passed. It had been his for almost twenty years.

He entered his office and closed the door, locking it behind him. Walking over to the large bookcase on the left, he pulled open two panels in the middle revealing an assortment of liquors and glasses. Selecting a 1968 Macallan scotch, he poured a double shot into a glass, held it up and shrugged his shoulders. _I won't be taking it with me._ He added a bit more then went to a large, comfortable chair sitting in the far left corner of the room.

Gentle ambient lighting gave the illusion of being above ground making it easy to forget just how isolated he was down here. Sitting in his chair, he put his feet up on the ottoman and closed his eyes, the drink balancing in his right hand on the arm of the chair.

Don't worry. Once this crisis is over, we'll be back. You won't lose the council's home of four hundred years on your watch.

Montague Place, London, England

"I can't believe that he's involved!" exclaimed Acton. He shivered at the thought of it. _Or is it this damned alley?_ "And what do you mean by former member?"

"He was a member of the Triarii until about ten years ago. He was actually a member of our senior council. He began to push the view that mankind was ready to unite the skulls and see what their true power was. He felt technology had reached the point where they could be controlled. The council, of course, disagreed. He stole the skull he was responsible for from the Smithsonian. As with many of our members, he was already quite wealthy and powerful. He used this wealth and power to get into the position he now occupies. Since then he's been searching for the skull that you found. It was he who launched the operation that killed your people."

"How are you going to stop him?"

Rodney smiled. "We have our ways, but remember, he needs three skulls. As of tonight he has two and we're already taking steps to have the other skulls placed into safekeeping."

"What happened tonight? You said there was a robbery?"

"We had a team enter the museum and switch the real skull for a fake."

"Laura was right!"

"Yes, we did this once before when it was going to be examined for a BBC documentary. It was unfortunate that Professor Palmer was so embarrassed by that incident, however she seems to have recovered from it, since she is now the head of the department."

"Yes, but something went wrong this time?"

"Our team was ambushed and killed. They managed to switch the skulls, but when they left they were attacked and the real skull was taken. I don't know more than that. I'll know more when we go in."

"You keep saying 'we'," said Acton. "Why do you think I would go in with you? Just because you told some long elaborate story doesn't mean I trust you or even necessarily believe you. It all seems a bit fantastic to me."

Rodney's cellphone rang. He flipped it open and listened, then hung up and looked at Acton. "Professor Palmer has been nicked. We're going to retrieve her. It would be beneficial if you were at the Triarii headquarters to meet her upon her arrival."

"Why are you taking her?" asked Acton, suddenly feeling very protective of a woman he had only met earlier that day. "Why not leave her there? Surely she's safe in a police station?"

"The men we are dealing with have all of the resources of the United States government at their disposal. And clearly no qualms about killing. Do you really believe they didn't intercept the radio call telling the station that they were bringing her in, and why?"

Acton thought for a moment. "I suppose you're right," he agreed. "Assuming you're telling me the truth," he added. _Man, I hope he is._

"You'll just have to trust me. Now come with me, we'll go to the council chambers and wait for her arrival."

Acton nodded and followed Rodney out of the alley. He shivered, chilled to the bone after having spent so much time in the cold. A police car cruised by, the officers inside looking at the two men closely, then continuing on as another car pulled up in front of them, Rodney opening the door.

"After you."

Acton climbed into the car, suddenly unsure if he had made the right decision.

New Scotland Yard

Laura sat in the interrogation room, staring at the mirror then the acoustic tiles in the ceiling. She yawned and started to count the holes. _I hope James is okay._ She looked back at the mirror. She knew it was definitely one of those two-way mirrors, and someone was probably on the other side observing her. The WPC assigned to watch her so she didn't "hurt" herself stood by the door, staring at the floor. Sipping the tea Reading had brought her earlier, she waited.

She hadn't waited long before the lights went out, emergency lighting immediately kicking in, dimly illuminating the room. "What's going on?"

"Wait here," said the constable. She opened the door and looked into the hallway.

Reading heard snoring on the other side of his office door. He looked through the glass and saw his two American guests, who had been waiting for hours, sound asleep in their chairs. He slapped Chaney on the chest and pointed. Chaney smiled as Reading threw open the door, loudly hitting the doorstop and rattling the glass.

"Good evening, gentlemen, or rather good morning I should say," said Reading in an overly loud voice. Jasper and Lambert scrambled up in their chairs, jarred awake. "How can I help our American allies today? Tea?"

"Coffee if you've got it," said Jasper, straightening himself up. He looked at his watch and frowned.

"Same," said Lambert, rubbing his eyes. Reading nodded to Chaney who left the room to find a PC to fill the order.

"So, how may I be of service?"

"We're looking for this man," said Jasper, leaning forward and handing a file folder to Reading. "His name is Professor James Acton. We were told you were looking for him as well."

"Yes, he's wanted in connection with several investigations." Reading opened the folder, which only contained a photo. He handed it back. "Why, may I ask, are you looking for him?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential," replied Lambert.

Jasper looked at his underling with a slightly exasperated expression. "We're looking for him in connection to an investigation we're working on—the slaughter of his entire archeological team in Peru. He was the only survivor and has stayed in hiding."

"Professor Acton seems to be a very popular man. And busy," said Reading to Chaney as he re-entered the room. "Our colleagues here are looking for him in connection to killings in Peru."

Chaney raised his eyebrows in surprise. "He certainly does get around. Is he suspected of being involved?"

Jasper shook his head. "Right now he's just a person of interest. We've been tasked to bring him back to the United States for questioning."

"Why didn't the State Department just contact our Home Office? Why the personal visit?" asked Reading.

"Our orders come from the highest authority." Jasper leaned in and lowered his voice. "Look, we nearly had him in New York, but lost him. Basically my career is on the line here. I was told to come back with him or not come back at all."

Reading nodded. "Well, I'll certainly keep you informed if we find him. He's not suspected in any of the murders so after questioning we will probably be able to release him into your custody."

"That would be acceptable."

There was a knock at the door. Chaney opened it and a PC entered with a tray containing a tea service and two coffees. As he walked toward the desk, balancing the shaking tray like a waiter on his first day, the lights went out, and he lost any equilibrium he may have had. In the dark there was a yelp and a crashing sound as scalding hot coffee and tea splattered across the floor. When the emergency lights kicked in, Lambert stood, covered in coffee and tea, trying desperately to get the hot liquid off his hands and lap.

Ooh, that'll boil the bollocks.

"Constable, show the Agent to the loo so he can clean up," said Reading, who then looked at Chaney. "Find out what's going on."

Chaney nodded and left the room, dodging a bow legged Lambert as he gingerly walked his boys toward the bathroom, a grinning Police Constable directing him from behind.

Dawson activated his comm from the SUV's passenger seat.

"Bravo Team, Bravo One. Remember, these are our allies. Keep casualties to a minimum, non-lethal force wherever possible. We don't need an international incident here. Out." They waited at the side prisoner transfer entrance of New Scotland Yard, it the closest to the interrogation rooms where Professor Palmer was probably being held. Red was at the main entrance waiting to create a diversion and Marco was in an underground access point, ready to cut the entire power grid for New Scotland Yard and the surrounding area. "Bravo Nine in position," he signaled.

"Bravo Nine, proceed on my mark in three, two, one, mark." The power went out all around them. It was the middle of the night and it was now pitch black except for a few emergency lights on the outside of the building. "Bravo teams proceed."

Dawson pulled the ski mask down over his face and the rest of his team followed. A few seconds later the alarm rang inside the building and explosions and gunfire erupted from the front entrance. Dawson's team exited the vehicle and they raced to the prisoner transfer door. Dawson tried the handle. It was locked. He pointed at it and Niner immediately placed a small C4 charge on it. They turned their heads away and he hit the remote detonator. The small explosion made quick work of the locking mechanism. Dawson pulled the door open and two of his men took up position on either side of the entrance as the rest of the team rushed in.

Chaos reigned. Most of the reduced nightshift staff had run to the front of the building to see what was happening. One lone desk officer was left and when he saw the heavily armed men enter he ran for cover. Dawson tasered him in the leg and motioned for his team to bind him. They blew the inner door, then Dawson and Smitty entered the next corridor, leaving the final two team members to guard their escape route. As they jogged down the corridor looking through the windows, half way down the hall a lone constable stuck her head out a door.

"What is it?" asked Laura.

"I don't know," replied the Constable. "There seems to be—oh my God!" She fell backward into a heap on the floor, shaking from the electric shock of a Taser that had just hit her. Laura jumped out of her chair as two men wearing ski-masks entered the room.

"Come with us, Professor Palmer," the bigger of the two said. She shook her head and started to move toward the back of the room. He raised his weapon and pointed it directly at her. "Now, Professor Palmer."

The smaller one, who was by no means small, approached her and grabbed her by the arm. She immediately kicked him in the groin and kneed him in the face as he doubled over.

Reading jumped from his desk and ran out into the hallway when he heard the explosions, telling his guests to wait.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked one of the constables who was running away from the shooting.

"We're under attack! We have to get to the weapons vault!" He continued down the hallway with Reading in pursuit. They descended a flight of stairs and rounded a corner. As they neared the vault, some of their colleagues passed them with weapons in hand as they ran to the fight at the front of the building. Reading and the constable arrived as Chaney was loading his weapon.

"Hello, guv! I was just coming to get you. Any idea what's going on?"

"No, just that the main entrance is apparently under attack."

"Sounds like a diversion to me," said Chaney.

"Me, too," agreed Reading. "There's only one person here that I can think of who would attract this kind of attention."

Chaney nodded. "Professor Palmer."

Reading loaded the weapon he had been given and was still putting on his body armor as he followed Chaney out the door and up the stairs. He grabbed two armed constables along the way. "You two, come with us." The men fell in behind them.

Dawson chuckled to himself as he watched Smitty trying to nurse his now tender balls. _Should'a worn a cup!_ He wasn't about to underestimate this lady. He approached her from around the table. She tried to kick him, but he caught her leg, leaned in and pistol-whipped her on the side of her head. She went limp, out cold. He put her over his shoulder and headed toward the door, Smitty limping behind him.

Reading and Chaney burst through the door that led to the interrogation rooms. As they ran toward the room the professor was being held in, they saw two men exit, one carrying what looked like a body over his shoulder.

"Stop!" yelled Reading.

The man without the body whipped around and opened fire, spraying bullets along the wall, the impacts approaching their position. Reading raised his weapon and shot. The man collapsed, a tiny hole in the front of his head, a much larger one in the back. The second man turned around and shifted the body to use as a shield. It was the professor.

"Let her go!" ordered Reading.

No response. The man continued toward the other end of the hallway. Reading raised his weapon again and shot the man in the shoulder. He dropped the gun he was holding, then the professor. Reading and Chaney, followed by the two constables, rushed him and brought him down to the floor. Chaney picked up the professor and tried to revive her.

Dawson grunted in pain as they searched him for weapons. _Any time now guys!_ Suddenly a burst of gunfire erupted over his head. One of the constables fell to the floor. The other started returning fire, but was soon cut down. Dawson looked down the hall and saw two of his men running toward them, rushing their position with a steady stream of gunfire. He elbowed the guy who had shot him out of the way and retreated along the hallway, hugging the wall so his men had a clean field of fire.

Reading winced at the sudden pain in his nose. Momentarily disoriented, he didn't know who had grabbed him by the shoulder and was now dragging him to his feet. When he regained his senses, he saw it was Chaney who had pulled him up and was now running toward the other end of the hallway with the professor in a fireman's hold, all the while shooting behind him. Reading glanced at the two dead constables at his feet then ran after Chaney. Bullets sprayed all around him. He kept crouching and firing blindly behind him, hoping their aim would be as bad as his if they had to keep finding cover. Just as he reached the end of the hallway he felt something like a two-by-four slam into his back. He flew forward and hit the ground, the wind completely knocked out of him.

Dawson retrieved his weapon and grabbed Smitty's body.

"You two, go after them and get the target." He made his way toward the exit dragging the body of his fallen comrade toward the SUV. As he went through the inner doors he saw that his two men from the main entrance had redeployed to cover both doors when he had fallen under attack.

"Take him," he said to Spock, now guarding the inner door. Spock's eyes widened, but he grabbed the body, hoisted it over his shoulder, and double-timed it back to the SUV.

Again, Reading felt someone grab him.

"Get up, guv!" It was Chaney. "Your vest caught it, you'll be okay." Chaney looked down the hallway and saw two of the attackers running toward him. "Get up, guv! They're coming!" He raised his weapon and fired a few rounds down the hallway. The men dropped, then rose again, spraying rounds over his head.

Reading slowly crawled through the doorway and Chaney closed it behind them. Bullets hit the metal door, small dents appearing as some of them nearly made it through. Chaney headed toward the rear emergency exit with the professor still over his shoulder. Reading started to follow then realized where they were headed.

"Where are you going?" He pointed down another hall that would lead to where there were more armed police. "This way!"

"No, sir, we have to go this way!" yelled Chaney, still heading rapidly toward the exit. Reading chased him down the hallway. As they reached the exit he heard the door behind them burst open as the two attackers reached it. He burst through the exit and saw a black van with its side door open, idling. Chaney handed the professor over to two men in the back of the van, then climbed in after her. He turned around and reached out his hand. "Sir, you have to come with us!"

Reading looked at him bewildered. "What the hell is going on?"

"There's no time, sir, you have to come with us or they'll kill you!" Reading still didn't move and in desperation Chaney ripped off his watch and turned his wrist inside out, showing it to Reading. "We can protect her, sir!"

Reading's jaw dropped. His underling had the same tattoo as the dead bodies in the morgue. He made a split second decision to trust his long time subordinate and dove in the van just as the door behind him burst open. The van sped off with a hail of gunfire hitting its reinforced skin and bullet resistant glass. Chaney reached out and slid the side door closed as they rounded the corner. He sat back on the floor and looked at Reading.

"Welcome to the Triarii, sir!" He took one of the guns from another man in the van and pointed it at him. "Sorry, sir." He fired before Reading could say a word.

Jasper and Lambert sat in Reading's office with only a faint light coming from the hallway as gunfire and explosions sounded in the distance.

"Screw this!" Jasper got up and headed to the door. Lambert followed his boss as they made their way toward the action. Not knowing where they were going, they tagged along with several heavily armed men who didn't seem lost. They soon found themselves in the main reception area of New Scotland Yard.

All of the windows were shattered and the interior walls and ceilings were scarred with bullet holes. Amazingly no one appeared injured. The few armed police officers were providing cover fire as civilians tried to escape deeper into the building. Bullets from the attackers continued to spray over their heads.

"Who's attacking?" Lambert asked a nearby constable.

"I have no bloody idea!" he yelled as he popped up from behind the desk he was using as cover and fired off a few rounds. He ducked back down and looked at Lambert. "Get the hell out of here, mate, I'll cover you!"

Lambert shook his head and squatted beside him. "I'm U.S. State Department. Do you have a spare weapon?" The man nodded and tossed him a Glock. Lambert, poking his head up, took a look. He could see several of the attackers hiding behind concrete flower boxes as they popped up and took fire. Turning to Jasper, who was crouched behind a half-wall nearby, he yelled over the noise. "Looks like gang-bangers, boss!"

Jasper nodded as he leaned over to take a shot from around the wall, a nearby constable having supplied him with a weapon. The high-beams from the attackers' vehicle shone at the entrance, preventing those inside from seeing most of their enemy. Jasper fired two quick rounds, taking out the lights and plunging the room into darkness save a couple of emergency lights on a far wall.

"That's more like it!" The constable beside Lambert rose again and let loose a burst of gunfire that hit one of the attackers outside. "That'll bloody teach ya!"

Dawson was still covering the inner door when he saw his two men coming back empty-handed. _Shit, Control's not going to be happy._ He radioed Red.

"Bravo Two, Bravo One. Abort the operation, I say again, abort." When his men reached him they all exited the building. "What happened?"

"Someone else was here and evacuated the subject," said Jimmy. "They were well equipped and trained." They exited the rear door, now covered by the original two team members, and loaded themselves into their SUV.

At the front of the building, Red's team jumped in their vehicle and peeled out of the parking lot, their task of creating a non-lethal diversion by throwing some flash grenades and spraying the façade of the building with automatic weapons fire accomplished.

With New Scotland Yard now in chaos, they easily made their escape.

And then it was over.

Inside the main entrance of New Scotland Yard the gunfire stopped, then they heard the tires of a vehicle squealing outside. A few tentative moments of caution then officers inside started to emerge.

Jasper looked at Lambert to make sure he was okay. "What the hell just happened?"

Lambert shrugged.

"I don't know, but I bet it's related to our professor."

Triarii Headquarters, London, England

Laura slowly woke to an unbelievable pain in the side of her head. She tried to sit up but a hand on her chest gently pressed her down. She opened her eyes then snapped them shut again, the brightness momentarily blinding her. Blinking a few times, her vision began to clear, revealing a shape leaning over her. She blinked one last time and the shape became James, looking down at her with a smile on his face.

"You okay?" he asked.

She reached up and hugged him with both arms as hard as she could. Her head throbbed, but she held on. For some reason she felt tremendous relief at seeing him. He hugged her back. It felt so comfortable she lost herself for a moment in the embrace. Then she heard a knock at the door. She let go of James as the door opened.

"Hello, Professors, I was just...." Chaney ducked his head. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Much better, thank you." Laura slowly sat up in the bed and swung her legs over the edge. "Where am I?"

"You are at the Triarii Headquarters in London," said Chaney. "I can't tell you any more except that we are currently evacuating this facility."

"Evacuating, why?" asked Acton.

"It's been compromised," replied Chaney. "You both will be evacuated with us, however we need you to tell us where you've hidden the skull you found."

Acton shook his head. "No way, that's our only piece of insurance. I'm not sure whether or not I trust you, yet."

Chaney nodded. "I see. Let me put it this way. If those who have been trying to kill you get their hands on it, they will have three skulls, enough to cause significant damage."

"So you believe," interjected Acton.

"Yes, so _we_ believe. But are you willing to take that chance? You know who your opponent is. He's proven that he will stop at nothing to find you and take the skull. Obviously they've made the connection between you and Professor Palmer."

Acton turned to Laura and searched her eyes for a clue on what to do.

She stared back at him and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

He turned back to Chaney. "Let us think about it."

"Very well. I've got to look in on my old boss. Something tells me he's going to be narked!" Chaney smiled and closed the door behind him.

"So, what do you think?" asked Acton, turning to Laura. "Should we give them the skull?"

Laura shook her head. "No, I don't think so, however something tells me there's more going on here than I know about. What did that security guard tell you?"

Acton laughed. "Good thing you're sitting down, you're going to love this."

Reading lay on a bed, staring at the ceiling. _I'm alive! That's good. Now why?_ His body armor had been removed and placed on a table near the door. His suit jacket hung on the back of a chair. He rubbed his leg where he had been hit and found the tiny hole the dart had made. Chaney hadn't tried to kill him, but he had still shot him.

He was pissed.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come!" The door opened and Chaney poked his head in.

"Is it safe for me to come in?" asked Chaney with a smile.

Reading growled. "You better have a goddamned good explanation for this!"

Chaney laughed. "I do, guv, and..." he pushed the door open and wheeled in a cart, "...I have tea!"

Reading couldn't help but laugh. They had been together for years and he knew his underling, whom he considered a friend, knew him all too well.

Reading shook his head. "Sure, butter me up." He took the proffered cup of tea and sipped. He hadn't had any since Heathrow. _Too long._

Chaney took a cup and sat in the chair. "Well, guv, I believe it's time you were let in on a few things."

He told Reading about the Triarii and the events of the past few days. Reading's eyes narrowed in disbelief. _Bollocks!_ But then, here he was, sitting in a room, having been shot by his longtime colleague with a tranquilizer, who was a confessed member of some type of cult, who had seven members executed by men who later attacked New Scotland Yard.

Okay, maybe not bollocks.

"And I think that's it," finished Chaney. "Oh, and we have Professor Acton."

"Acton is here?"

"Yes, in the next room with Professor Palmer."

Reading stood up and straightened his tie. He put his jacket on and turned to Chaney. "I think it's time I finally met our American guest."

RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48th Fighter Wing

Control Actual was mad. Actually, irate would be more accurate. Dawson had just informed him one of his men was dead, two were wounded, including himself, and the mission had failed.

"You're the most goddamned highly trained special ops in the world and you couldn't take a civilian away from a bunch of unarmed police?"

"With all due respect, sir, we were instructed to not use lethal force. If we could have, then we would simply have shot the opposition and taken the target," said Dawson. "Besides, we know who has her and where."

"Yes, we do," agreed Control. "I think it's time to take them out, once and for all. Do you have the resources for an assault on their location?"

"My men can handle it. Assuming we can use lethal force."

"Yes, no limitations," replied Control. "I want these terrorists out of our way and the DARPA package retrieved. And try to capture any of their leadership alive, if possible, for interrogation."

"Yes, sir. Bravo One, out." He sat back in his chair and stretched the arm that had taken a round. His body armor had caught most of it, so it was barely a flesh wound. It would leave a scar but wouldn't leave him out of the fight.

Red entered.

"Back to work?"

"Yeah, and you're not going to believe where," replied Dawson. "Any luck with your contacts?"

"The feelers are out, but nothing yet. Should hear back soon," said Red. "It _is_ the middle of the night."

Dawson grunted. "Some rack time would be nice." He stood and headed for the door. "Unfortunately, it's time to get ourselves in deeper."

Triarii Headquarters, London

Acton watched as Laura processed what he had just told her about the 2000-year-old organization whose sole aim was to protect humanity from destroying themselves by hiding dangerous objects in plain sight. It sounded crazy, yet the day's events had proven someone other than the Triarii also believed it was true.

"So, what are we going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know. So far they've done everything they said they would. They haven't hurt us, they rescued you. They've used non-lethal force. I think we can trust them."

"I'm beginning to believe so as well."

"Besides, the only way they'll stop pursuing us is if they know we don't have the skull," said Acton. "I'm thinking we should give it to the Triarii and make it known that we've done so, then maybe we can live out our lives without being constantly afraid."

Laura nodded. "That makes sense." There was a knock at the door. "Come in!"

The door opened, bringing Chaney and another man into the room.

"Well, well, well," said the man, looking at Acton. "At last we finally meet."

Acton looked back at Reading, a little leery. "And you are?"

"Detective Chief Inspector Reading, Scotland Yard," he replied. "And you are Professor James Acton, St. Paul's University of Maryland, wanted for questioning in regards to the torture and death of one Serge Savard, seven men who apparently stole nothing from the British Museum, the deaths of six police officers who were blown up trying to apprehend the killers of the apparent non-thieves, the armed assault of New Scotland Yard, and the attempted kidnapping of one Professor Palmer. You've had quite the day, Professor Acton. Enjoying England?"

Acton smiled. "Haven't seen much of it, what with having to continually duck my head."

Reading didn't seem amused. "You know I have two State Department Agents in my office looking for you?"

"Really?" Acton flashed back to his friend Greg who had told him State Department agents had come to his office before he died. "Are you sure they're State Department and not part of this"—he motioned with his hands—"whole thing?"

"I had them checked out and they seem legitimate," said Chaney. "They have no connection with us, of course, and seem to be just two agents trying to find out what happened in Peru."

A low beeping tone emanated from a loud speaker in the room, interrupting their conversation.

" _Attention all personnel, attention. Evacuation stage one has been completed, proceed to stage two. I repeat, evacuation stage one has been completed, proceed to stage two."_

"What the hell was that?" asked Reading.

"We're evacuating," said Chaney. "We can't risk having the council or the Oracle of Jupiter captured."

"It's here?" asked Acton.

"Yes, the Oracle of Jupiter is always kept with the council, although hidden away somewhere in this complex and only brought out for certain occasions."

"What are stage one and two?" asked Laura.

"Stage one means that the Oracle has been successfully transported out of the building and is on its way to our Beta Site. Stage Two means all other artifacts such as our ancient volumes are to be evacuated. Once that is complete then Stage Three is to evacuate all of our personnel. You see, people can always be replaced, but the ancient knowledge never can. There is not a person here who wouldn't die to protect that knowledge."

"Present company excluded," said Acton. "I have no intention of dying to protect the skulls."

"Me neither," agreed Laura. "If we give you the skull, do you think the others will stop pursuing us?"

Chaney nodded. "Yes, I think they would. Once we have it we'd simply let them know, and that should clear you."

"Good, let's go get it," said Acton. Laura stood up beside him.

Reading put his hand out. "Not so fast, I'm not letting you two out of my sight, not until I have some answers."

"Fine," said Acton. "As long as you realize I had nothing to do with this."

"Oh, I know you're not to blame, but I still have a few loose ends I need tied up before I'm satisfied," said Reading. "Besides, you may need protection." He turned to Chaney. "Where's my weapon?"

"I'll get your equipment," he said, leaving the room. A few minutes later he returned with body armor for all of them and guns as well. He handed each of them a vest and Reading his weapon. He turned to Acton. "Do you know how to use one of these?"

Acton nodded, "National Guard." Chaney handed it over along with several magazines then turned to Laura. "And you?"

She took the gun out of his hand, removed the mag, inspected it, reloaded it, removed the safety and aimed the weapon at the door, inspecting the sight. She looked back at the surprised men. "Female on five Middle-East and three African digs."

Acton laughed. "You're just full of surprises aren't you?" Laura smiled back, flicked the safety back on then tucked the gun in her belt at the back of her pants.

When they were all suited up, Chaney opened the door. "Let's go, I'll show you the way out." As they started to file out the door all of the lights went out momentarily then came back on. A rapid beeping alarm blasted through the speakers.

"We're under attack!" exclaimed Chaney.

Fleet Street, London

Dawson's feet hit the rooftop of the four-story Triarii Headquarters. He unhooked the line tethering him to the helicopter above and directed his men into position as they landed. They immediately went to work, laying cord explosives in predetermined areas their penetrating radar had indicated were the center of the rooms below. Dawson waved off the chopper as the last man unhooked and took cover.

"Ready?" he asked Marco.

Marco, holding the detonator, gave a thumbs-up.

Dawson raised his fist in the air, and counted down with his fingers from three. Marco flipped the switches activating the remote detonators attached to the cord explosives. The explosions ripped through the night, leaving the air thick with concrete dust. Dawson and his men flipped their thermal imaging goggles down and surrounded the newly formed holes in the roof, opening fire on the unsuspecting victims below.

Dawson and Spock dropped into a room on the northeast corner of the building. The two occupants, who had both taken cover after the explosion, were shot as soon as they stood up. In the other three rooms Dawson heard sporadic gunfire then the three other team leaders radioed the all clears.

"Prepare to proceed to Level Three," said Dawson.

In each of the rooms the teams laid cord explosives again and waited for the signal.

"Execute!" Dawson took cover behind a desk as the blast showered debris across the room. They ran to the edge of the hole and peered through the smoke with their infrared goggles. Across from him Spock's weapon discharged. Dawson jumped down to the next level, followed by Spock. The room below turned out to contain only the single occupant already eliminated. Heavier gunfire came from the adjoining rooms.

"Begin room-by-room clearing," said Dawson over his radio. He ran to the door, followed by Spock and opened it. He saw nothing in the hallway from his vantage point. He stuck his head out to look down the other end and was met with a hail of gunfire. He jerked his head back just in time.

Grabbing a flash grenade from his belt, he pulled the pin and tossed it down the hallway. The resulting explosion caused a scream of pain as he and Spock rushed their opponent's position. A man writhed on the floor, gripping his ears and squinting his eyes. Dawson raised his weapon and shot him in the head.

He looked down the stairwell the now dead man had been guarding and saw movement below as Niner's team joined them. Dawson looked at his men, then pointed to his eyes then down the stairs. They nodded and took up covering positions on either side of the hallway, inside doorframes that provided some cover.

Down the hallway the gunfire had ceased as the other two Bravo teams had finished mopping up the remaining resistance. The all clears again came over the radio. Dawson knew that coming through the ceiling wouldn't work again; this time it would have to be a direct assault. He looked down the hallway at Bravo Teams Three and Four, giving them the thumbs up as they set up position at the stairwell at the other end of the hallway.

"Proceed to Level Two."

The Proconsul jerked awake in his chair, the alarm blaring a rapid beeping tone, periodically interrupted with messages.

" _Level Three Compromised. Reinforcements to Levels One and Two to hold until Stage Two Evacuation complete."_

The calmness in the voice giving the instructions was almost eerie. He hit a button on his desk phone.

"Yes, Proconsul?"

"Status."

"We're under attack by unknown numbers from the upper levels. It appears they gained entry via the roof. We've lost all communications with the third and fourth levels however they were mostly evacuated. Casualties should be at a minimum. We're reinforcing the first two levels to hold until Stage Two Evacuation is complete."

"Estimated time remaining for Stage Two?"

"Five minutes, sir."

"Very well," replied the Proconsul. "As soon as they announce Stage Three you get out of here right away, no delays. I want to see you at the Beta Site."

"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir, it's been an honor."

"Likewise," said the Proconsul, who cut off the conversation. _And I hope it still will be after today._ He had only one item in his office that needed to be removed and that was the latest volume of the Triarii Journal. He was the third Proconsul to have kept records of the Triarii business in this particular volume.

Taking the leather bound tome from the antique desk along the far wall, he carefully placed it in its metal fireproof container. He then walked behind his desk, reached under it, and pressed a hidden button. The bookcase swung out. Hundreds of years of paranoia were about to pay off. Opening the case wider, he stepped into the passageway behind it then pulled the case shut and followed the dimly lit passageway, leaving no evidence as to where he had gone.

"What do we do?" asked Laura.

"We get the hell out of here," said Acton. "Which way?" he asked Chaney.

"I doubt the street entry is safe," said Chaney. "We're on the ground floor. We'll need to go down the stairs at the end of the hallway three flights. There we can evacuate through the sub-levels with the others."

"Okay, let's go!" yelled Acton, grabbing Laura by the arm and running toward the stairwell. Just as they entered it they heard a hail of gunfire from above and a loud explosion.

The assault on both staircases began simultaneously with a series of flash grenades and sprays of gunfire. The two separate Bravo teams cautiously entered the stairwells and, using their infrared goggles, looked for enemy combatants. Through the eerie green haze Dawson saw a figure enter the doorway on the next floor down and aim a weapon toward them. Dawson fired and the person collapsed. They continued down the stairwell, slowly but deliberately, until they reached the doorway.

One flight below them he heard the door open. He looked down and saw four figures rapidly descending the stairs. Removing his goggles, he looked through the clearing smoke and recognized their targets.

"Bravo Team, the targets have been spotted in the East stairwell heading down," said Dawson over his radio. "West stairwell team you continue clearing of the second floor then proceed to the first, East team will pursue the targets."

With that, he ran down the stairs after the two professors.

Nelson was still looking over the charred remains of the SUV that had exploded earlier in the evening when another series of explosions rocked the roof of the building across the street. He couldn't see any smoke or fire, but the sound that followed was unmistakable—gunfire.

"Central this is DI Nelson," he said into his radio. "We have further explosions and gunfire at this location. Requesting immediate armed backup and a half mile radius cordoned off."

"Roger, backup is on the way, ETA fifteen minutes."

_It'll be over by then!_ Nelson picked up a weapon from the ground, left over from one of the dead members of the Armed Response Unit. He confirmed it was still in working order and started across the street. The remaining ARU members followed him and took up position on either side of the large, wooden doorway that marked the entrance to the building, gunfire still sounding over their heads.

Nelson reached out and tried the door. It was locked. He turned just as two ARU members ran up with a battering ram. They took up position on either side of the door and swung the object back and forth. On the third swing, they launched it into the center of the door. The wood splintered, but the door held. Again they swung and hit the door with full force. This time the door moved in a couple of inches as the lock shattered. One more swing and the two doors flew open.

Nelson looked in and saw several armed men behind desks aiming weapons at them. He grabbed a bullhorn from one of his men.

"This is the police. Drop your weapons and come out slowly with your hands raised above your heads."

"Did you hear that?" asked Chaney.

"Yes," replied Reading. "It sounded like Nelson. Where could that be coming from?"

"He must be at the main entrance. The four-by-four that exploded tonight was right across the street from this building."

"What will your men do?" asked Reading as they continued down the stairs.

"They'll defend this building. They have no way of knowing if those really are police officers or not. They'll assume they are hostile because of the assault from upstairs."

"We've got to warn them."

"There's no time. If we don't get the professors out of here so that they can retrieve the skull all could be lost."

"Those are _our_ men out there," said Reading. "Don't give me bullshit about time or skulls. Their lives are just as important as anyone's."

Chaney glared at Reading. "Don't assume for a moment I don't realize the choice I'm making. But you have to understand there is a bigger picture here that I believe is more important, whether you choose to believe in it or not."

They paused at the next flight of stairs near a door to the first sub-level. Footsteps approached from above. "Listen, guv, go through that door all the way to the other end of the corridor. Go up the stairs one level and you'll see the entrance where our men are. Try to get them to help us."

With that, he continued down the stairs after the two professors.

Reading opened the door and sprinted down the corridor toward the door at the far end.

As the door closed behind him, several dark figures continued down the stairs after his partner.

Dawson heard voices below them. They were taking the stairs as fast as they safely could without walking into a spray of bullets. As they reached the first sub-level he saw a door latch shut. A quick glance down the stairs however showed his prey was still below him.

"Second level cleared," came Red's voice over the radio. "Proceeding to Level One."

"Roger that," said Dawson as they continued down the stairs.

Reading ran through the door at the other end of the corridor and climbed the stairs as fast as he could. He heard footsteps above him and assumed they were hostile. He reached the first-level door and opened it just as a hail of gunfire hit the wall next to him. Launching himself through the doorway, he rolled on the floor as more bullets hit the door.

As he got up on his knees he looked up and saw several men had their weapons pointed toward him. Suddenly they opened fire. He fell back down and covered his head. "I'm with Chaney for Christ's sake!" he yelled. "I'm a friendly."

The bullets sprayed over his head. They were firing at the doorway, not him. He crawled toward one of the desks that had been turned on its side and was now being used as cover. As he neared it a powerful hand grabbed him by the back of his body armor and pulled him to safety.

"Watch the main entrance!" ordered the man who was firing at the doorway. "I think those blokes belong to you, don't they?"

Reading looked toward the main entrance and recognized the flashing blue lights outside the forced open doors.

"This is your final warning, come out with your hands up or we will open fire!" he heard Nelson yelling over a megaphone.

He launched himself toward a desk closer to the main entrance and rolled just as gunfire opened up the tile floor behind him. Another Triarii member pulled him behind the desk then returned fire.

"Hello, Inspector," said the man. Reading was about to thank him when he saw who it was. It was Rodney.

The gunfire had reached the lobby.

"Okay, men, on my signal we go in," said Nelson, putting down the megaphone. The ARU members quickly double-checked their weapons and tensed up their bodies, ready to begin the assault.

"Nelson!"

Nelson looked around to see who was calling him.

"It's coming from inside, sir," said one of the ARU members. Nelson cocked his ear toward the door.

"Nelson! It's DCI Reading, hold your fire!"

_Reading?_ "Sir, what the hell is going on in there!"

"Too long a story! This building is held by friendlies, but is under attack by the same men who attacked The Yard earlier. We need your assistance!"

Nelson looked at the skeptical ARU members around him. He wasn't sure what to believe. "Sir, I'm not—"

"Provide assistance, Detective Inspector!" boomed Reading. "That's an order!"

"Yes, sir!" Nelson looked at the ARU team. "You heard the DCI! Let's get in there!"

Two members rapidly approached the doorway with large bullet resistant shields as the rest of the team huddled behind them. They entered the building and heard gunfire from the West stairwell. They made their way to the apparently friendly position returning fire, the occupants, who had been pointing their weapons at them, now turned their attention to the two stairwell doors at either end of the lobby, no doubt relieved they would not have to fight on another front.

"This is it." Acton kicked open the door to the second sub-level. As he came through the door, he was knocked down from behind and a boot pressed into his spine.

"He's with me," said Chaney as he and Laura came through the door. The foot lifted off, then hands pulled him to his feet.

"Sorry, sir," said the man who had knocked him down.

"They're right behind us, coming down the stairs," said Chaney. "Shoot whatever comes through that door."

"Yes, sir!" The man moved back down the hall to take cover. Laura and Acton ran after Chaney down the long corridor. Now underground, there was no natural light and the dampness of the old walls in combination with the dim emergency lighting was almost claustrophobic. The musty smell of hundreds of years of history reminded Acton of several of his digs.

Early seventeenth century?

He couldn't believe he was actually trying to determine when this part of the structure had been built. _Leave it alone, Jim!_

As they rounded a corner at the end of the corridor, they all turned as a brilliant flash and ear-piercing explosion erupted at the other end.

"Come on!" urged Chaney. "We're almost there!"

Dawson tossed a flash grenade through the door. Two of his men exited the stairwell, hugging the walls on either side, trying to clear the doorway as quickly as possible. The hallway was thick with smoke, but their opponents answered the grenade with a hail of gunfire. One of his team immediately went down, the other dove out of the way and returned fire, finding cover in a doorway. He stuck his hand out with his machine gun and fired down the hallway providing cover fire for those still in the stairwell.

Dawson and Niner exited the stairwell crouching and firing at the same time, and managed to reach the cover of a corridor entrance. Dawson drew his handgun and, using the infrared goggles, knelt down then shifted his body into the open so he could take aim. As his men provided cover, forcing most of their opponents to fire blindly, he was able to take careful aim and as each enemy poked their head up to fire, he started to pick them off, one by one.

Nelson, Reading, the ARU members and the Triarii were now directing heavy fire toward the stairwell the attackers were holding. Reading grabbed Rodney by the shoulder to get his attention.

"Is there any way to outflank them?"

"That's the only way in, sir!" Rodney responded, then began firing again.

"What about the other stairwell?"

Rodney thought for a moment while he was firing. "That's right, sir! You can go through that stairwell then up one flight of stairs. At the end of the hallway is the stairwell they're in!"

Reading turned to Nelson. "You stay here, I'm going with the armed unit to that stairwell!"

"Yes, sir!" yelled Nelson.

"Let's go, let's go!" yelled Reading, hitting the ARU members on their backs. The entire group, still behind shielding, backed toward the other stairwell entrance. Once there they went through the door and proceeded up the stairs.

Reading opened the door slowly and peered down the hallway. He could see one man at the end of the hallway guarding the entrance to the other stairwell. He appeared distracted by the gunfire below, and kept looking down the stairwell while holding the door open.

Reading turned back to the ARU team. "Who's the best shot?"

"Clayton is, sir," said one of the men.

"Okay, Clayton, get up here. There's a target at the end of the hallway that I need you to take out." Clayton, who was taking up the rear, maneuvered himself up the stairwell around the ARU team's body shields. When he arrived at the top of the stairs his expression was all business. Reading was shocked at how young he was until he thought back at his own life. _I was probably his age when I was in the Falklands._

"Okay, Clayton, at the end of this hallway is one of the hostiles. I need you to take him out fast and quiet. I don't want him getting a shot off to warn his mates down below."

"No problem, sir," Clayton said, then pulled his sniper rifle out of its case and set it up. Less than sixty seconds later he was ready and lying prone on the floor of the stairwell landing.

He peered down the scope of the rifle and nodded to Reading. Reading slowly opened the door a couple of inches so Clayton could acquire his target. As the door swung out of the way Clayton saw it exit his field of vision then suddenly he was looking at the end of the hallway's ceiling. He raised the butt of the rifle a little higher and the angle came down, revealing his target, who had just spotted him. The target was reaching for his radio when Clayton put a bullet in his head, sending him to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Reading stuck his head out the door and gave a pleased grunt. "Good work, Clayton," he said, slapping him on his back as Clayton got up off the floor. He turned to the other ARU members. "Let's go!"

They immediately exited the stairwell, rushing down the corridor.

" _Stage Two Evacuation Complete, Proceed with Stage Three Evacuation, I repeat, Proceed with Stage Three Evacuation."_

Acton, Laura and Chaney had just reached the final evacuation staging area when the announcement came over the PA system. There was a loud cheer from the dozens of people left who then jumped into assorted vehicles and raced down various long tunnels that, judging by the materials used to construct them, had probably been there for hundreds of years.

"Where do these tunnels lead?" asked Acton.

Chaney herded them toward an idling SUV. "Each will come out at a different part of the city," explained Chaney as he opened the passenger side door for the professors. "Multiple points of egress mean a greater chance of at least some members escaping."

Acton climbed in the back seat and Chaney ran around the vehicle to the driver's side door.

Dawson had just finished eliminating the last target when the announcement was made over the PA system. He charged down the hallway toward the only corridor being protected _._ His men followed. As they rounded the corner, they saw several guards as they headed out a door at the end of the corridor.

The Bravo team sprinted down the hallway toward the door. Dawson opened it as Spock and Niner took a knee and set up opposing fields of fire. They could see the evacuation area and dozens of people getting into vehicles as some already loaded vehicles left at high speed down various tunnels.

Dawson entered and saw one of the policemen from the Scotland Yard raid about to get into a nearby SUV. He raised his weapon and fired.

Reading heard the announcement as they reached the body of the lookout. They entered the stairwell, careful not to alert their enemy below. Reading looked down and saw three men taking turns firing through the doorway. They were not looking up.

Reading turned to one of the ARU members. "Two flash-bangs, down there," he whispered. The man nodded and motioned to his partner. They both removed a grenade from their belts and pulled the pins at the same time. They mouthed silently "One, two, three," then tossed the grenades down the stairwell. Everyone turned, covering their ears and closing their eyes.

The explosion was deafening and immediately incapacitated the men below. One fell forward out of the doorway and was immediately shot by the Triarii guards below. The other two fell backward into the stairwell. Reading and his team rushed down the stairs to apprehend them before they had a chance to recover.

As they approached, one of the wounded attackers raised his weapon. Reading put two bullets in his chest as another, now on his knees, spun around. On the landing above, Clayton fired, taking the man out with a shot between the eyes.

Reading slowly opened the stairwell door to let the Triarii guards know everything was now secure. "It's the police, we've secured the door!" he bellowed. There was no response. He peered out the door and saw why. The Triarii were gone. Nelson stood in the middle of the lobby, looked at Reading and shrugged his shoulders.

"As soon as the tossers heard Stage Three they legged it out the blasted door!"

Chaney fell into the driver's seat face down. Neither Laura nor Acton knew what had happened, but Chaney was gasping for breath. Acton noticed the hole in Chaney's vest and blood slowly seeping out.

"Leave me," Chaney wheezed.

"To hell with that!" said Acton as he reached forward and hauled Chaney into the back seat. As soon as Chaney's feet were clear Laura jumped into the driver's seat and put the idling vehicle into gear. As she reached out to close the door beside her someone grabbed her arm. She screamed as she looked at the figure of a tall man, dressed in black with body armor, guns, grenades, knives, a face mask, and some type of goggles on his forehead.

"Not so fast, Professor," he said. Laura tried to wrench her arm away from him but couldn't. In her panic she popped the clutch and the car lurched forward. The door swung inward and hit the man squarely on the back, knocking the wind out of him. His grasp momentarily loosened, Laura gave one final tug of her arm then hit the gas. The SUV launched itself toward one of the tunnel exits under a hail of gunfire. The armor plating and bullet resistant glass took a beating, but held until Laura was able to guide the SUV into the tunnel.

"Is he okay?" she asked, looking in the rearview mirror at Chaney.

"I'm not sure," replied Acton. "We better get him to a hospital!"

The tunnel wasn't long, maybe a quarter mile. At the end it ramped up and garage doors automatically opened as they approached. They emerged in an alleyway and were soon on a street. Laura turned right and blended in with the thin nighttime traffic while she got her bearings.

"We'll be at the hospital in less than five minutes."

Dawson picked himself up off the ground, cursing. He couldn't believe he had failed twice in a row, both times with his target literally in his grasp. He looked around and saw several empty vehicles. By now the rest of the complex was empty and these were waiting for people he and his team had already killed.

He and his two remaining men climbed into a nearby van. "Bravo One to Bravo Two," he said over his radio. There was no answer. _Could be the tunnels._

His radio crackled and a voice came through he didn't recognize. "This is DCI Reading. Your men are dead or captured. I suggest you give yourselves up before anyone else gets hurt."

Dawson clenched his teeth. _The balls on these Brit cops._ He gunned the engine and followed the same tunnel his target had used.

The White House, Washington, DC

"Sir, are you okay?" asked the surprised guard. "Do you need medical attention?"

Wheeler had let them bandage up his arm at the scene, but had refused to go to the hospital. He had taken one of the other detective's cars and driven directly to the White House, consumed with thoughts of his partner, blown to shreds quite possibly by an order given from this very building. Although it was now very late, he was betting Darbinger was still there. He imagined he presented quite the dilemma to security with his blackened face and clothes, and bandaged and bleeding arm revealed by the shirtsleeve cut open by the paramedics.

"No," replied Wheeler curtly, trying to reign in his temper. If the guard thought he was a danger he would never let him in. "I need to see Lesley Darbinger."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," replied Wheeler. "I don't need one." He pulled out his badge and showed him. "Mr. Darbinger is assisting us in an investigation and I need to speak to him immediately."

"I'll see what I can do," replied the guard as he picked up the phone.

Darbinger hung up the phone as one of his aides poked his head into his office. "Did you hear? There's been a bombing at former Speaker Guthrie's house. Wasn't that Billy's dad?"

"What? Was anyone hurt?" Darbinger reached for his remote control and turned on the television mounted to his wall. CNN came on, about the only channel he ever watched these days. It showed an aerial view of a large house with the smoking ruins of a car in front.

"A cop was killed. Do you think that's why Billy was killed? Maybe they're after Speaker Guthrie?"

Darbinger shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured.

As he sat watching the limited coverage, another aide entered. "Sir, a Detective Wheeler is at the front gate demanding to see you."

Darbinger sank back in his chair as a close-up of a gurney with a body bag being loaded into an emergency vehicle played on the screen. _This has gone too far._ He rose from his desk and headed out the door. "Have Mr. Wheeler meet me here. I'll be back in a few minutes." He headed toward his old friend's office.

He was announced then shown inside the Oval Office, finding Jackson sitting with his elbows on his desk and his hands clasped over his head, pulling at his thinning hair. Darbinger sat on one of the leather chairs facing the desk, watching his old friend trying to figure a way out of the mess they were in.

"I can't believe the most highly trained special operations unit we have failed to capture a civilian professor _female_ twice in a row!"

"Neither can I, Mr. President," said Darbinger. "The police seemed to know what we were after. They didn't all fall for the diversion. And we knew the Triarii headquarters would be extremely well defended. We lost a couple of men but managed to eliminate several dozen members."

"There are thousands of members!" cried Jackson. He lifted his head from his desk. "From all accounts not one of the council was eliminated, and all we have is one of the skulls we didn't already have before."

"Yes, Mr. President," agreed Darbinger. "The Triarii enacted The Protocol before we could reach them. We have the skull from the British Museum and, as far as we know, the newly discovered skull is still at large. If we just wait a few years for things to cool off, maybe the Triarii will let down their guard and we can find a third skull then?"

"The Triarii will never let their guard down, not so long as there is a skull missing. I'm going to end this now."

"But, Stewart—!"

"Now!" roared Jackson.

London, England

Reading and Nelson surveyed what remained of the lobby as backup arrived.

"Just _after_ the nick of time, lads," said Nelson, holding up his ID to the armed officers.

"Sweep the building, top to bottom, there may be more," said Reading. "Take these two for interrogation and the injured one to the hospital. Put a guard on him."

"Yes, sir!" said the PC who hustled the surviving men out of the building. The new arrivals fanned out for the search. Those who had been involved in the earlier action sat on bullet-ridden leather couches in a corner, relaxing.

Reading pulled out his cellphone and called Chaney's number.

"Hello?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

"Who is this?" asked Reading.

"Umm, who is this?" asked the voice.

"This is Detective Chief Inspector Reading of Scotland Yard," said Reading in his most commanding voice. "And you are?"

"Sorry, Chief, this is Professor Acton."

"What are you doing with Chaney's mobile?"

"We're at the hospital, he's been shot."

"Tell me where you are," said Reading as he strode toward the door. He commandeered a vehicle and minutes later he burst through the doors of the waiting room and saw the two professors sitting nearby. He walked briskly toward them as they rose from their chairs.

"Hello, Chief," said Acton. "He's been in surgery for about half an hour, no word yet."

"How did it happen?"

"He was shot in the back trying to save us," said Laura.

"It hit his vest," explained Acton, "but went right through. Some type of armored piercing round. I pulled him into the vehicle and Laura drove us here."

"What's the prognosis?"

"He lost a lot of blood, but was conscious when we arrived," said Acton. Reading finally noticed that Acton was covered in blood.

"Okay, I'm going to go and see if I can find out what's going on. And, professors," Reading put a hand on each of their shoulders, "thank you." He made eye contact with each of them for a moment then headed to the nurses' station.

Dawson turned the corner and pulled the SUV to the side where they could see the entrance of the Triarii headquarters. Ambulances and other emergency personnel were still arriving. He grabbed a scope off his vest and peered through it for a better view.

"That's Red!" said Spock, who was doing the same from the back. Two attendants carried a gurney down the front steps. Dawson watched as his friend, strapped down and cuffed, was pushed into the back of a waiting ambulance. Two more men were led out and loaded into the back of a squad car.

Dawson radioed their chopper pilot, Wings, to see where he was. He had been ordered to insert the team on the roof of the Triarii HQ, then return with a vehicle for pickup. "Just approaching your position now, Bravo One. ETA thirty seconds."

"Roger that, Bravo One-Two." Dawson watched his rearview mirror. A few seconds later a cube van turned the corner. "We're in the black SUV, tinted windows, about one hundred yards in front of you. Come up beside me."

He watched as the van pulled up beside them, then looked back at Spock and Niner. "Spock, you go with Wings and take out that squad car. Niner and I will retrieve Red."

"Roger that," said Spock as he jumped out of the SUV and into the van. It took off after the squad car as Dawson put the SUV into gear to follow the ambulance. He let it get far enough away from the scene so backup wouldn't be too close, then gunned the engine to overtake it. Cutting in front of the ambulance, he slammed his brakes on, blocking its path. He and Niner jumped out. Niner yanked the driver out and coldcocked him before he could radio for help as Dawson ran to the back and pulled open the door. The cop and paramedic were both still picking themselves up off the floor when he stepped up into the vehicle. He pistol whipped the officer and pointed his gun at the paramedic.

"What's his status?" asked Dawson.

"BP is one hundred over—"

Dawson cut him off. "Is he going to die if I move him?"

"N-no, it's just a leg wound, he'll be fine with proper treatment." Dawson breathed a sigh of relief as he undid the straps holding his friend to the gurney. He searched the officer's pockets, retrieved the cuff keys, and unlocked his friend.

"'Bout time you showed up," said Red, grimacing as he was helped out of the back of the ambulance.

"Good to see you, too," replied Dawson. Niner had already pulled their commandeered vehicle up to the door. Dawson helped Red into the back seat then climbed in with him. "Go! Go! Go!"

Niner floored it and headed back to their secondary rendezvous point where they could switch vehicles without it being traced back to the base.

Dawson turned to check on his friend's wound. "Looks like a through-and-through. Bleeding's under control." He looked his friend in the eyes. "You'll live."

"To fight another day." Red started to laugh then stopped, his face contorting in pain. "I think I'll just sit here and be quiet until you get me some drugs." Dawson smiled then pressed his earpiece when a transmission came in from Spock.

"Bravo One, Bravo Five. Engaging target now." There was silence for about two minutes as Niner drove them through the relatively empty streets of nighttime London. The wait seemed interminable until finally a burst of static sounded in the earpiece followed by Spock's voice, "Bravo One, Bravo Five. Two targets retrieved, heading to rendezvous point Alpha, out."

"They're okay," said Dawson to Red who had had his communications gear confiscated earlier. Red smiled and closed his eyes as Niner headed out of the city.

RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48th Fighter Wing

Dawson read the secure communiqué that had arrived for Red. Structural Amorphous Metals (SAM) project not capable of transparent structures. Hope that helps. He clenched his jaw. Control lied. What the hell is this thing all about?

The communications gear beeped, demanding his attention. He put the headset on and entered a code to unscramble the transmission. It was Control. Dawson listened to the voice over his radio. "Bravo One, Control Actual. I want you to eliminate the two targets with extreme prejudice."

"Control Actual, Bravo One. Extreme prejudice, sir? Please clarify? Over."

"I want a message sent," responded the voice. "I don't want them just killed. I want them eliminated in a public way so that no member of this organization will ever sleep again with both eyes closed. Use one of those choppers if you have to."

The phrase had Dawson's chest suddenly tighten, his breath held as he finally realized who Control Actual was. _"They'll never sleep again with both eyes closed."_ He had heard it in enough speeches about terrorism to know who had just ordered him to kill two civilians, one a foreign national, in public, on foreign soil.

The President of the United States.

"Control Actual, Bravo One, please confirm! We are on a foreign ally's soil, these are civilian targets. A public take-down could result in other civilian casualties."

"Carry out your orders, or your identities go public."

Anger surged through Dawson's veins. _Threaten me, fine. Threaten my family, or that of my men? Unacceptable!_ But he knew he had to be delicate. He had to try and figure out a way to placate this madman so he didn't follow through on his threat.

At least not until I can kill him myself.

"Sir, what is this all about?" asked Dawson "I know the SAM project has nothing to do with this."

There was silence for a moment. "I'm looking at your file. You have a sister in Connecticut don't you? And a godchild named Bryson?"

Dawson remained silent as he pictured his sister and his niece as well as Red's son.

"If you want to see them again, follow your orders. Control out."

Dawson sat back in his chair and ripped off his head set, whipping it on the table.

He's lost it!

Dawson sat for several minutes, calming his racing heart as adrenaline and fury did a number on his system. Sucking in several slow, deep breaths, he rose and made his way to the infirmary.

"How ya doing?" he asked as he entered the room where Red was being looked after.

Red smiled. "Not bad. The doc said I'll be fine, hopefully operational within a few months. Now, what's wrong?"

"Control's lost it." He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned closer so no one else could hear. "He wants the targets eliminated publicly. _Very_ publicly."

"Permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"BD, this sounds like an illegal order to me," said Red. "You don't have to follow it."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because I found out who Control is."

"Who?"

"The President."

Red paled slightly as his heart rate monitor beeped slightly faster.

"And he threatened Bryson and my sister, all of our families if I don't. I have no choice. I'll try to keep the civilian casualties to a minimum, but this one is going to be a Charlie Foxtrot."

Red's heart monitor beeped even faster. "He threatened our families?"

"Yes. Like I said, this is out of control. If we make it out of this, we'll talk about what we're going to do about it." Dawson watched as the beep rate increased. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll take care of things. Nobody is going to hurt Bryson or your wife. After tonight, Control won't be able to hide."

Red's eyes narrowed as he looked at his friend. "Why, what are you going to do?"

"Don't worry about it. Like I said, everything will be fine." Dawson stood up and raised his voice. "You take it easy now and I'll see you when I get back." He strode out of the room before his friend could say anything else.

I don't know if I'll be seeing you again, my friend.

The White House, Washington, DC

Darbinger listened in horror as his friend of many years turned off the communications gear and rose to face him.

"What's wrong?" Jackson asked. "This will end it, once and for all."

"You've gone too far!" said Darbinger. "You have to let this go! These are innocent people who have done nothing wrong. You're risking an international incident with one of our greatest allies just to settle a grudge because you're pissed you failed!"

"Watch your tone with me!"

"You had Billy killed, didn't you?"

"Who the hell is Billy?"

"Guthrie's kid," said Darbinger. "He saw the file and you had him killed!"

"I couldn't risk him getting in the way of God's plan," replied Jackson.

"God's plan? God doesn't want innocent kids killed!"

"Enough!" screamed Jackson. "We may be friends, but don't forget who got you where you are today!"

Darbinger shook his head. "You're not my friend. My friend wouldn't be doing this. My friend would realize that this had to stop," he pleaded. "Please, you have to let this go!"

Jackson smiled and started toward the door. "This has only just begun. After I rid the world of that goddamned professor, I'm going to hunt down the Triarii until I possess all of the skulls. God put me here for a purpose, and this is it!"

He opened the door and slammed it behind him.

Darbinger stared at the closed door in disbelief.

He's gone mad!

He remained seated in the Oval Office for several minutes, trying to think of what to do, when the door opened again. It was one of the Secret Service agents assigned to the room.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm just doing a routine sweep, I thought you had left," he said politely. When there was no reply he closed the door behind him. "Sir, are you okay?"

Darbinger finally acknowledged him. "What's your name, son?"

"Agent Sharpe," replied the young man.

"No, your first name."

Sharpe replied, "Peter."

"Peter, you're sworn to protect the President with your life, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"But you've also sworn to uphold the constitution and protect this country, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"What would you do if those conflicted?"

"Sir? I'm not sure I understand," replied Sharpe.

Darbinger sighed, then slowly stood up. "Never mind, son. I hope you never have to make the choice." He approached the front of the desk and with his back to the agent, picked up the heavy statue of a bald eagle and looked at the base of it. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered. He swung around and hit the young Secret Service agent on the side of the head with the heavy statue. Sharpe fell to the floor unconscious, blood trickling out of a small wound on the side of his scalp.

Darbinger checked his pulse to make sure he was okay, then reached under his suit and found the shoulder holster. He retrieved the gun and inspected it. Checking the safety, he hid the weapon in his pants.

Straightening himself up, he calmly exited the office.

Laura Palmer's Flat, London, England

Stucco stood watch as Casey picked the lock to Professor Palmer's apartment. They were Mickey and Spaz' replacements and weren't surprised to be off on their own doing side missions while the rest of the team who had trained together for months were involved in the main action. Within seconds they were in the apartment. Stucco searched as Casey planted a couple of bugs. Near the doorway Stucco found a set of car keys. "She's got a vehicle!" he called to Casey who had just finished planting the last bug in the master bedroom. "We'll need to tag it."

"Do we know which car?" asked Casey as he entered the living room.

Stucco tossed the keys to him. "Use the fob."

Casey went to the window and pressed the button to unlock the doors. Below on the street, lights flashed on a car parked in front of the building. He pressed another button to lock the car back up. "Got it!" he said as he tossed the keys back to Stucco.

Within a few minutes they had searched the apartment top to bottom, leaving no evidence they had been there. As they headed out, Stucco radioed in. "Bravo One, Bravo Three. Come in, over."

"Bravo Three, Bravo One. Go ahead, over," replied Dawson almost immediately.

"We've swept the location, no sign of the item. We've left some ears and are about to tag a vehicle. ETA to base, thirty minutes, over."

"Roger that, Bravo One out."

They exited the building and Stucco looked around.

"Which car is it?" Stucco asked. Casey pointed. Stucco whistled in appreciation.

Royal London Hospital, London

Reading, Acton, and Laura stood by Chaney's bedside as he regained consciousness. Reading looked at him and smiled.

"Just like a junior copper to get shot in the back while running away!"

Chaney smiled. "Good to see you too, guv."

Reading laughed and turned to the professors. "He'll be okay."

"Professor Acton," whispered Chaney weakly, "you must get the third skull to the Triarii."

"Yeah, I realize that now," said Acton. "How do we find them?"

Chaney smiled then passed out.

"Great, what do we do now?" asked Acton.

"You'll need to leave now," said a voice from the doorway. "Mr. Chaney needs his rest. You can come back tomorrow to see him." She handed Acton a card. "Here are the visiting hours."

"Thanks," he said, putting the card in his pocket. They filed out the door and headed for the elevator.

"What now?" Laura asked.

"Well, I guess we go get the skull from your apartment and then wait for the Triarii to contact us," said Acton.

"I'll come with you," said Reading as they entered the elevator. "You may need protection. And besides, I still have a few questions for you." As they exited the hospital, Reading flagged a waiting squad car—the bullet-ridden Triarii SUV they had made their escape in having already been taken away as evidence.

Minutes later they were at Laura's apartment and Reading watched in amazement as the two professors opened the secret compartment in the tabletop. Acton removed the package, opened it and held it up for the inspector to see.

"It's beautiful," he whispered in awe. "Can I hold it?"

"Sure," said Acton, handing it to him. Reading took it and cradled it carefully in his hands. He held it up to the lamp, gasping as the skull's design collected the light and focused it through the eyes.

"Absolutely unbelievable. Incredible that something so beautiful could be the cause of so much death and destruction."

"Indeed," said Laura. "If you believe the Triarii, these things have been the cause of a lot more death than we saw today."

"I'm not sure whether I believe that stuff or not," said Acton, "but I'll tell you this. I don't want to have anything to do with it anymore. Clearly someone believes the stories and is willing to kill us for it. The sooner that thing is out of our hands the better!"

"Agreed," said Reading. "Now, how do we contact the Triarii to give it to them?"

Acton shrugged his shoulders and sat down. "I have no idea, but these guys seem to have a habit of showing up when you least expect them."

"Perhaps we should just wait?" suggested Laura.

"Something tells me the men who are after you two can find out quite easily where you live," said Reading. "I think we should leave immediately. We can go to The Yard and wait there."

"That didn't help us before," said Laura.

"Security there will be tight, now. There'll be no repeat of last night's incident."

Acton pulled out his Blackberry and the card the nurse had given him, glancing at Reading's raised eyebrows. "Sorry, old habit I guess," said Acton sheepishly as he clicked away on the tiny keyboard. "Whenever I get a business card I put it in my Blackberry so I don't have my pockets cluttered up with them." He flipped the card over and a smile spread across his face. He held it up for the others to see. "Look familiar?"

They both leaned in to look. The card had the Triarii logo embossed on one side.

"The Triarii!" exclaimed Laura. "Where did you get that?"

"The nurse in the hospital gave it to me. She said it had the hospital visiting hours on it."

"Let me see," said Reading. Acton handed it over to him then clipped the Blackberry back on his belt. Reading examined the card. "There's just a phone number on the other side then a series of three two-digit numbers under it. I wonder what those are?"

Laura lifted the cordless phone off the table. "I guess we call and find out. Who wants to do the honors?"

"Allow me," said Acton. He took the phone and the card then dialed the number. The phone rang once then someone picked up. There was silence on the other end. "Hello? Is anyone there?" Again silence. "Listen, if someone is listening, this is Professor Acton. I have the skull. Someone gave me this card. I assumed I was supposed to call you to arrange for pickup." Again silence. Acton turned to Reading. "Nobody seems to be on the other end."

"Try keying in the numbers, maybe it's an automated system?" suggested Reading.

Acton punched in the six numbers from the card. Still nothing. "But why would they be in groups of two if you're meant to key them in?" he asked. "Wait a minute. Seventeen, Thirty-Four, Oh-Five," he said, reading the numbers.

"One moment please," said a voice.

"It worked!" said Acton, his hand covering the mouthpiece. "They're putting me through."

A moment later a man's deep voice came on the line. "Hello, Professor Acton," it said. "This is the Proconsul of the Triarii."

"Ah, hello, sir. I have what you're looking for. When can we meet?"

"Do you have a vehicle available to you?"

Acton covered the phone and whispered, "Do we have a car?" Laura nodded. "Yes," said Acton, returning to the conversation.

"Get to Coventry. You will be met at the train station." The line went dead.

"He said to go to Coventry and wait at the train station," repeated Acton as he hung up the phone.

"That's about two hours from here," said Laura.

Acton stood up. "Then we better get going."

"It's probably better if I call for a car," said Reading, reaching for his phone.

Laura shook her head, grabbing her keys. "No, we'll take my car, it'll be faster."

"Are you sure?" asked Reading.

"Trust me," she said, smiling.

RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48th Fighter Wing

"Sergeant Major!" Dawson turned in his chair to see Niner's head poke through the door. "We've got movement on Palmer's vehicle!" Dawson jumped up and ran to the communications room where the tracking equipment had been set up.

"We have a fix on them?"

"Yeah, the transmitter we placed on her car is working perfectly," said Niner as he took his seat at the laptop.

"Excellent. Any idea on where they're headed?"

"Yeah. Looks like they're heading to Coventry via the M1," Niner replied. "Stucco and Casey aren't far from them. Should I have them follow?"

"Yes, but at a safe distance, this is going to get messy."

"Roger that," said Niner as he turned to radio the replacements. Dawson headed to the rec room and pointed at their master of all things aerial, Wings.

"Wheels up in five."

Dawson returned to the communications room and sat down in front of the satellite gear, punching in his access code. "Control, Bravo One, requesting Control Actual, over."

He waited for Control Actual to be notified and a few minutes later the response came through. "Bravo One, Control Actual, go ahead."

"Control Actual, Bravo One. We have located the targets and are preparing to engage, over."

"Remember your orders, Bravo One. I want _spectacular_. I will be watching from here, out."

Dawson turned off the equipment and began putting his gear on. _This is going to get real messy._ He stepped out into the hallway and found Wings waiting for him. They drove in silence to the Humvee as Dawson weighed his options. It was clear to him now that this mission was off the rails. With it being under the personal control of the President—something that was unheard of—he knew it was also completely off the books.

And now that he knew the DARPA project story was bullshit, it meant that nothing had been stolen from the US government. It also meant that those students and their professor were exactly what the newspapers said they were—students and their professor. No terror cell, no indoctrinated students, no stolen top secret military project.

Innocents.

And if the Professor was innocent, then so was his supposed contact he was ordered to torture. He most likely was indeed a poor French tourist who had the misfortune to meet the Professor.

The terrorist headquarters they hit had him slightly confused. Those men were armed to the teeth, something you just didn't see in England. Who were they? All the intel on them seemed to match up. Were they a terror cell? And if they were, and they had no connection to the Professor, then why not have the British deal with them? But if the Professor had nothing to do with them, why did he come to London?

Dawson growled in frustration.

"You okay, BD?" asked Wings.

Dawson shook his head. "It's this mission. Something's not right."

"No shit," agreed Wings. "I'm glad I'm not the only one thinking it."

Dawson pulled onto the tarmac, stopping fifty yards from the Apache they had shipped over. As Dawson climbed out he frowned, it appearing the ground crew were still prepping the gunship.

"Status?" asked Dawson as he approached.

"Just finishing up, sir," said the crew chief who walked up to greet them.

"What's loaded?"

"The cannons are fully armed and we've got half the Hellfire's loaded," he replied.

"No Hellfire II's?"

"Sorry, sir, those are all in theater. We've got a shortage. You're lucky to get these."

Dawson cursed. _The Hellfire II's would have made this a lot simpler._ "Okay, what kind of Hellfires?"

"K's."

"Are you kidding me? I didn't know they even made those anymore!"

"Sorry, sir, like I said, everything's in theater."

"Fine, that will have to do." Dawson opened the cockpit canopy and stowed the bag containing the skull. "Clear the area."

This mission just got a whole lot harder.

Wings was about to climb in when Dawson stopped him, having come to a decision. "I'm going on this one alone, report back to the unit." He shut the canopy leaving a confused Wings walking back to the Humvee.

Dawson knew what was about to happen, and he didn't want Wings to have to be associated with it.

If one of us gets blamed, it's going to be me.

Near Laura Palmer's Flat  
London, England

"Not exactly designed for adults back here," grumbled Reading as he surveyed the backseat of the silver Porsche 911 Carrera S. Laura was driving and Acton had educated him on the value of calling "shotgun" first when Americans were involved, leaving him stuck in the back.

"It was my brother's."

"I thought he was an archeologist like you? How could he afford this?" asked Acton.

"Oh no, he just came on the digs with me sometimes for fun," Laura replied. "He made a mint on the Internet before the bubble burst. He left me enough money to never have to work again, but that's just not me. It does however let me fund my own digs when I can't find anyone else to do it. I was going to sell the car, but he got me hooked on racing it at some of the local tracks so I decided to keep it after he was gone."

"I'm surprised he raced Porsches. I thought you Brits liked Jags?" Acton ran his hand across the dash.

Laura laughed. "Do you want to get there or just look good broken down on the side of the motorway?"

Reading chuckled. "So, you know how to drive this thing?"

Laura looked back at him and smiled. They were waiting for a red light to turn when she said, "Hang on!" She turned off the traction control and lit up the tires when she floored it. The 355-horsepower engine nailed them to their seats and the 295 pound-feet of torque ate up the road. Seconds later they were at the next red light. She came to a stop in a hail of screeching tires. The light changed and she again hammered on the gas, soon turning onto the main road that led to the motorway. She raced down the near empty streets.

Reading leaned forward.

"Remember, just because I'm in the car doesn't mean I won't give you a bloody ticket!"

Laura and Acton laughed as she eased off the accelerator, but it was clear she had a lead foot. Acton, who loved the adrenaline rush, leaned back to enjoy the ride, a bit disappointed it was still too chilly to put the top down, but thankful his ordeal was almost over.

They soon sailed onto the motorway and sped toward Coventry. "We should be there in about one hour," announced Laura. There were relatively few cars on the road, but a lot of transport traffic. Laura kept to the right and flashed anyone who got in her way.

Reading settled back in his seat, shaking his head.

The White House, Washington, DC

Wheeler sat in Darbinger's outer office, waiting for him to return. The staff kept nervously glancing at him and whispering amongst themselves. He didn't care. _Yeah, that's right. Look what your boss has done._ The longer he sat the more pissed off he became.

He could stand it no longer. He stood and strode out the door.

"Sir, you have to wait here!" called the surprised secretary as she pursued him. He rounded a corner and saw Darbinger at the end of the hallway, getting on an elevator.

"Darbinger!" he yelled. Darbinger stuck his head out the door of the elevator then ducked back inside as Wheeler charged toward the elevator. He could see Darbinger mashing on the _Close_ button, the doors shutting just as he reached the elevator. He slammed his fist against them as the secretary screamed for security.

Darbinger pounded on the _Close_ button. He didn't have time to deal with the cop right now. He had a much more important thing to take care of. The doors slowly closed as he saw Wheeler running toward them. Much to his relief they shut before he got there. As the car descended he heard pounding on the doors above him.

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he neared his destination. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and had just wiped the sweat off when the doors opened three levels underground. Two Marine guards snapped to attention as he exited. After swiping his pass, he walked down the short hallway. At the end were a large set of wooden doors flanked by two Marines who opened them for him as he approached. As he entered he saw his President and longtime friend sitting alone at the center of the conference table, watching a large video screen on the wall directly opposite. The doors closed behind him.

"Ah, there you are," said his friend, smiling. "You got here just in time, it's about to start."

He looked at the video feed and saw a helicopter just taking off. Slowly walking around the table, he stood in front of the screen, blocking his friend's view.

"Sit down, you're in the way!" said Jackson in an annoyed voice.

"I must ask you to stop this operation immediately."

Jackson had been trying to lean over to see around him, but now straightened and made eye contact. "Are we back to this?"

"We never left it," Darbinger replied, sweat beading again on his forehead. "If you don't stop this operation, harm could come to the United States. You have authorized illegal military operations without the knowledge of Congress on the foreign soil of an ally. It must end now!"

His friend stood up and placed both hands, now balled up into fists, on the table in front of him. He leaned forward and scowled. "I thought you were with me on this. You and I have wanted the same thing for the past twenty years—to bring together these skulls and reveal their true meaning."

"No, I never wanted that," Darbinger confessed. "You were my friend long before you recruited me into the Triarii. I hadn't even heard about the skulls, but when you told me about them it never occurred to me that you would have killed for them."

"I'm on a mission from God," said his friend. "These skulls were left by Him to enlighten us. Look at the Bible, my friend, it's written there. _'And he bearing his cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull, where they crucified him, and two other with him, on either side one, and Jesus in the midst.'_ Don't you see, "The Place of a Skull" is where these came from. The original skull was discovered near the place Jesus was crucified. The three skulls together unleash the power of God! Jesus was crucified with two others. There were three of them when the power of God was unleashed!"

Darbinger shook his head. "You've gone mad. Your obsession has clouded your judgment and you must stop."

"But you hate the Triarii as much as I do!" yelled Jackson. "We left them together, ten years ago!"

"Stewart, I never left."

Jackson stared at his friend, looking dumbfounded.

"What do you mean you never left?"

"I've been working for them all along," replied Darbinger, "hoping that one day you would confide in me where you had hidden the Smithsonian Skull."

"But you helped me!" Jackson's voice cracked, revealing the depth of betrayal he felt at his life-long friend and confidant's admission.

"No, Stewart, I didn't. When you came to me about leaving I informed the council immediately. They assigned me to watch you, to gain your trust by pretending to go along. But you initiated the theft before we could have the skull moved, so I was ordered to stick as close to you as possible in hopes of one day retrieving it."

"It's been ten years!"

"Yes," agreed Darbinger. "Ten long years of lying to you, lying to my wife, lying to everyone. But the Triarii have been around for two thousand years. If it takes another thousand we will eventually retrieve the skull you stole."

"I'll never tell you," said Jackson defiantly. "I'll go to my grave before I reveal it to anyone."

"So be it. We are if anything patient, which is why we let you continue the way we did. But now you've gone too far. You're hurting my country. You know me, Stewart. I've always been a patriot first, even as a member of the Triarii. I could never betray my country, nor can I just stand by while you destroy it."

Jackson shook his head, his shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I'm sorry you feel that way." His disappointment turned to anger and he straightened to face his betrayer. "I intend to finish my mission. I cannot be stopped!"

"I'm sorry my friend, but you must be." Darbinger reached behind his back and drew the gun.

Jackson stepped backward and raised his hands. "What are you doing?"

"I'm ending this now, before anyone else gets hurt. Before our country gets hurt," said Darbinger, taking aim at his friend. "I'm so sorry," he said as tears welled up in his eyes. "I never thought it would come to this."

Jackson slowly brought his hands together and with his right hand twisted the face of his watch on his left wrist. Immediately a distress signal was sent to the guards outside. The doors burst open, the two Marines entering as they drew their weapons.

Darbinger, startled, looked over at the guards for a split second. They pointed their weapons at him and fired just as he fired his own gun. He felt the searing pain as two bullets hit him in the chest and stomach. His legs gave out and as he collapsed to the floor, he caught a glimpse of his friend's face frozen with shock. He couldn't tell if he had hit his target, all he could see was a pool of his own blood rapidly expanding on the floor, draining the remaining life out of him, the voices of the guards shouting, "Mr. President!" slowly fading away.

Two Secret Service agents watched Wheeler while he waited in Darbinger's office. He glared at the floor when several agents sped past the door. Both agents touched their earpieces at once.

"Did he say shots fired?" asked one of the agents of his partner.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what he said. I'll go check it out, you stay with him."

Wheeler was now looking at the remaining guard. "Has someone been shot?"

There was no reply.

"Look, I'm a cop, I can help!" he said as he rose to his feet.

"Sit down, sir," said the agent as he put out his hand, motioning him to get back in his seat. "You have no jurisdiction here."

He heard someone yelling from the general office area. "He's been shot!" Two medical personnel pushing a gurney rushed past the door.

Wheeler jumped up and ran after them, the Secret Service agent's footsteps pounding behind him.

Somewhere Over London

The morning sun had not yet broken over the horizon so Dawson would have decent cover from prying eyes on the ground. Traffic would be fairly light on the freeways so casualties would probably be kept to a minimum even though that's not what the President wanted. With the light traffic he should be able to send the spectacular message required while hopefully avoiding civilian deaths.

He rapidly approached the red dot on his navigation screen, barely skimming the ground to avoid being picked up on radar, London's famous Ring of Steel not extended skyward as some residents thought. Soon his target would appear on his Heads-Up Display System then it would be the beginning of the end.

His HUDS beeped and the three dimensional display in front of him indicated his target had been acquired. He pushed the stick forward and accelerated, watching the transport trucks and thin civilian traffic through the infrared. Within seconds he was about 1000 yards behind his target. He dropped to the deck, only about thirty feet off the ground as he neared the vehicle.

They appeared to have no idea he was there. A lull in the traffic provided him the perfect opportunity to play with them a little, giving the President his light show without hopefully killing anyone.

You want spectacular, I'll give you spectacular.

Reading was about to complain again about the lack of room in the backseat when he heard something behind them. He twisted around and looked through the small rear window but couldn't see anything. Then he noticed the stars were blocked by something and when his eyes focused he realized what it was. Before he could say anything a burst of flame erupted from the front of the object.

"Look out!" he warned, ducking. If the other two occupants of the vehicle hadn't known what he was yelling about, the burst of gunfire and the six-inch holes left in the ground in front of them clued them in pretty fast. Laura slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a halt as the gunship overshot them. It turned around for another run.

"Get us out of here!" yelled Acton. Laura dropped the car into first and floored it. Within seconds they were speeding under the helicopter just as it opened fire. The bullets flew harmlessly over them but struck a large semi-trailer behind them. The driver locked up his air brakes and jackknifed the truck, blocking three lanes of the highway before coming to rest.

Reading looked out the tiny window again, trying to spot the helicopter. "Here he comes!"

Another burst of gunfire. This time Reading watched the tracers instead of ducking, knowing full well if one of those bullets hit them they were done for anyway. He could see they were coming down on the left side of the vehicle.

"Brake right!"

Laura swerved the Porsche to the right and the bullets missed by several lanes. The next burst seemed to be coming directly down at them.

"Left!" he cried.

Laura again swerved. Not only did she have to contend with the bullets, but she was also weaving in and out of the traffic that had thickened as daybreak approached.

"Acton, I need you to spot for me! I have to call for help!"

Acton squirmed in his seat. "I can't see a damned thing!"

"We need to get this top down!" yelled Reading.

"Are you crazy!" exclaimed Laura. "That's the only thing between us and those bullets!"

"Professor, those bullets can penetrate the armor on a tank! This roof isn't going to do a damned thing!"

"How long does it take to go down?" asked Acton.

"About twenty seconds."

"Okay, the next big overpass stop under it and put it down!" said Acton. Laura floored the car, tumbling Reading in the back seat, who cursed and tried to regain his view out the tiny window.

"Left!" he yelled as another burst of gunfire came from the attacking helicopter. Laura swung the vehicle again and saw a large six lane overpass ahead. As they came up to it she locked up the four disc vented brakes and they screeched to a stop, sending Reading headlong into the front seat.

Laura was already pushing the button for the roof to go down. It slowly opened and folded itself into the trunk in what seemed like an eternity. "Faster! Faster!" Laura yelled as she watched the lid close. Reading was already dialing his cellphone as he strapped himself into the back seat.

Acton whipped his head around at the whooshing of blades in front of them. The chopper had passed over the ramp and turned to face them. Acton was about to yell to Laura when a small beep indicated the roof retraction was complete. Laura was already revving the engine at about seven thousand RPM when she popped the clutch. The car burst forward, directly toward the helicopter now about twenty feet off the ground and belching gunfire.

Laura shifted into second and the tires squealed again as the powerful V8 engine launched them past sixty miles per hour in under five seconds. As they surged under the chopper, gunfire tore through the air above them, this time hitting a fuel tanker as it merged onto the highway. It burst into flames and lit the night sky. Acton looked back and saw the helicopter silhouetted by the flames. _Are those missiles?_

Reading was on his phone, yelling at someone on the other end. "This is Detective Chief Inspector Reading of Scotland Yard, we're under attack by an armed helicopter and need assistance!" Acton watched him as he listened to someone on the other end who was clearly saying something Reading wasn't pleased with. "Listen, put your guvnor on now!" he roared. A moment later he identified himself again.

"Right!" Acton yelled as more gunfire erupted from the cannons on the helicopter. This time a Mini was hit as Laura swerved to avoid the bullets.

"No!" Reading yelled. "A police helicopter is not going to cut it! This is a military helicopter that is attacking us and blowing the shite out of everything in sight!"

Laura was now doing over one hundred miles per hour as she tried to outrun the chopper to no avail. The chopper kept firing as they swerved left and right.

Suddenly Acton realized the pilot wasn't trying to hit them. _He's toying with us!_

Dawson shook his head as he squeezed the trigger again and sent another volley of deadly lead to one side of the Porsche. It swerved in the opposite direction. _Do they really think I'm trying to hit them?_ He watched as the Porsche went up the side of the highway then cut across two lanes and surged ahead of a rig. _She's a damned good driver, though!_ He flipped a toggle on his stick and switched from his guns to his Hellfire missiles. _Enough fun. The President has his 'spectacular'._

"Goddammit, what do you need to hear?" yelled Reading. Then it dawned on him. "We are under attack by terrorists! Did you hear me? Terrorists! We need one of those goddammed Tornado fighters that have been circling the city since nine eleven here now!"

There was a moment's pause then Reading said, "We are northbound on the M1 heading toward Coventry. Just have him follow the path of burning vehicles!"

There was another pause then Reading hung up. "We should have help in a few minutes!" he said, leaning forward to be heard.

"If we last that long!" yelled Acton. "Brake!"

Laura stomped on the brakes as a large plume of fire and smoke left the side of the chopper. They came to a stop so fast the missile overshot them and hit another car down the road. Laura propelled the car forward again, steering around the debris strewn on the road. The chopper had started to turn around again when she began to overtake him.

"Try to stay under him!" yelled Reading.

Laura looked up and slowed down, positioning herself almost directly under the chopper. As the chopper's nose slowly pointed down toward them, it couldn't help but have forward momentum and she let it get ahead of them.

"Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Stucco. "What the hell is he doing?" Stucco had had a hell of a time keeping up with the target, their SUV no match for her Porsche, but the couple of times he had lost her, the GPS tracker hadn't let her get far. Now he was dodging stopped cars and the torn up road caused by the Apache's bullets.

"I have no idea!" Casey triggered his radio. "Bravo Command, Bravo Six. Do you know what Bravo One is doing? Over."

"Bravo Six, Bravo Command, maintain radio silence until otherwise notified, out."

"Shit! They ordered radio silence!" Casey punched the dash as they passed a rig that was on fire, its driver sitting on the embankment, holding his head in shock. "Have you ever worked with this guy before?"

"No, not until today."

"Something tells me we won't be tomorrow!"

"Get me the Home Office!" ordered the head dispatcher. At first he hadn't believed what he was hearing on the 999 call, but when the traffic cameras showed explosions along the M1 he was quickly convinced. A moment later he was connected.

"This is London Central Dispatch. We have reports of an armed military helicopter shooting civilian vehicles on the M1. We require immediate assistance!"

"An armed military helicopter? In London? Did you just get back from the pub, lad?" said the voice in disbelief.

"Listen, I've got at least half a dozen vehicles in flames on the M1 and a DCI who says the helicopter is after him and under the control of terrorists!"

The reply was dead serious. "One moment."

Niner ran into Red's hospital room. "Red, Big Dog's gone whack!"

"What?" Red struggled to get out of his bed. "What's going on?"

"He's shootin' the shit out of everything on the highway!"

"Get me a damned wheelchair!" ordered Red as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Niner grabbed one from the hall, helped Red in, then pushed him toward the communications center. "Faster!"

The Home Office Operator hit the keypad in front of him and was connected immediately with the duty officer. "We have a report from central dispatch that there is terrorist activity on the northbound M1 motorway involving an armed military helicopter."

"Reliability assessment?" asked the Duty Officer.

"High, sir. Visual confirmation of several vehicles on fire and a report from a DCI on the scene."

"Okay, out."

The Duty Officer called the Home Secretary's office. The line was immediately answered.

"We have confirmation of a rogue armed helicopter operating on the northbound M1, request immediate tasking of an Overlord aircraft."

"Assessment?"

"High, visual confirmation and independent non-civilian confirmation," replied the Duty Officer. "Apparently an armed military helicopter firing on civilian vehicles."

"Stand by."

By the time Red and Niner reached the communications center the rest of the team was gathered, listening to the comm chatter and watching the visuals from the Apache's camera.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Jimmy as they watched the cannon chew up half a lane, the Porsche dodging the bullets.

"Report!" Red ordered as Niner rolled him up to the communications gear.

"BD's gone nuts! He's shootin' up half the damned city!" explained Jimmy.

Red put the headset on. "Bravo One, Bravo Two, come in, over." There was no response. "BD, it's Red. Talk to me!"

"A little busy right now!" came the voice over the gear.

"Listen buddy, is this really necessary?" asked Red, trying to calm his friend down. "Think about what you're doing."

"I'm under orders from Control, you know that! You know what will happen if I don't complete this mission, now I want radio silence!"

"Get me the Duty Fighter Controller," said the Home Office Operator.

"Wing Commander Talbot here," said the tired voice.

"Sir, this is the Home Office Security Operator. We have dual confirmation of a terrorist attack in progress involving an armed military helicopter. It's firing on civilian vehicles northbound on the M1 motorway."

"Reliable?"

"Yes, sir, visual and independent non-civilian confirmation."

"Okay, I'll take it from here."

Talbot ran out of his office and down the hallway into the situation room. "Who's up right now?"

"Overlords One and Two have just taken over from Three and Four," was the controller's reply.

"Who's closest to the M1?"

"Two, sir," replied the Intercept Controller.

"Get him for me," ordered Talbot, grabbing a headset and plugging into the controller's communications gear.

"Overlord Two this is London Mil, come in, over."

"London Mil this is Overlord Two, over."

"Overlord Two, this is Wing Commander Talbot. You have new orders, over."

"Roger that London Mil, awaiting authentication, over."

"Overlord Two, your authentication is Zulu Kilo Bravo Niner Five Seven Execute, confirm, over," said Talbot, reading today's code off a key card he'd never dreamed he would have to use.

"London Mil, this is Overlord Two, confirming authentication code Zulu Kilo Bravo Niner Five Seven Execute. What are your orders, over?"

"There is an unauthorized military helicopter on the northbound M1 that is believed to be under the control of unknown hostile agents. You are to make contact if possible and neutralize if necessary. Designate target Tango One, over."

"London Mil this is Overlord Two, acknowledging new orders and heading to target. ETA sixty seconds, over."

The cat and mouse game his target was trying to play below him was starting to piss Dawson off. He had created the spectacular scene the President wanted. Now it was time to end this thing before any more bystanders got killed, but he needed them out of the damned car. After about a minute of aborted turns as the car tried to stay behind him, he finally pulled back on the stick and banked, moving back a few hundred yards. He could see the car accelerate forward again, its little trick no longer working.

Suddenly he heard something coming in over his radio. "Overlord Two to unidentified helicopter located over the M1, identify yourself immediately, over."

_Shit!_ Dawson pushed the stick forward again and accelerated toward his target, firing his cannons the entire time. He cursed again as the bullets missed the engine compartment, remembering he had turned off his automatic targeting so he could give the President his "spectacular" event.

"Overlord Two to unidentified helicopter, cease fire immediately or I will be forced to open fire."

Dawson looked at his radar display to see where the aircraft was, but couldn't find it. He redirected his attention to his target and launched two Hellfire missiles at the road ahead of them. He knew he was too close to acquire a true lock with these older missiles, but he also knew he didn't have much time left. At that exact moment the Tornado fighter flew directly over him, missing the helicopter by less than ten feet, the backwash from the engines shoving the helicopter toward the ground and backward, leaving Dawson struggling to regain control.

"Right!"

Laura dutifully swerved the car again, but the missiles turned to follow. Acton was about to say a silent prayer when he saw the helicopter lose control and the missiles collapse into the pavement. The resultant explosion sent a rush of hot air over their heads. They all ducked.

"What the hell was that?" cried Laura.

"That, Professor, was a goddamned Tornado fighter!" cheered Reading. "I never thought I'd be so happy to see a Fly Boy!" They all looked up as the fighter banked sharply to make another pass. Gunfire erupted behind them and Laura swerved, but this time too late. Half a dozen rounds tore through the rear of the car, penetrating the engine compartment and puncturing the rear right tire. Laura fought to control the car as gunfire sprayed around them. She brought the car to a stop as the helicopter flew past them and banked.

Reading leapt out of the backseat and hauled open Laura's door, yanking her from the cramped cockpit as Acton scrambled out the other side. The three of them ran toward the guardrail just as the helicopter launched two more missiles at the now empty car. It erupted in a huge ball of fire, the resulting shockwave throwing them off their feet.

"Overlord Two to London Mil, preparing to engage Tango One, over," said the pilot of the Tornado as he completed his turn and reacquired his target.

"Roger that, Overlord Two, over."

His Heads Up Display reacquired the target, and he waited for tone. "Overlord Two to London Mil, I have a lock, over."

"London Mil to Overlord Two, you are cleared to fire, over."

"Roger, London Mil, Foxfire One away!" He selected the air-to-air missile, then launched it. The aircraft rocked slightly as the missile dropped off the wing and fired its liquid propellant, hurtling itself at the target less than a mile away.

Through his infrared display Dawson saw the three figures who had escaped the now-destroyed vehicle, lying on the ground. He watched as they got up and cowered behind a guardrail. He took aim with his cannons, knowing the armored piercing rounds would cut through the metal of the guardrail and shred anything unfortunate enough to be hiding behind it, but held off. He knew if Control was watching he'd see the HUD showing a lock, but he also knew he was seconds away from having an excuse to fail the mission.

His threat alarm went off, confirming his hopes, his display indicating a radar lock from the north.

"Red, are you still there?" asked Dawson as he reactivated the comm.

"Yes, BD, I'm here."

"Goodbye, my friend."

He looked over his shoulder and saw the flame from the missile rapidly coming toward him. He jerked up and over on the stick to evade it, knowing it was a futile move, as he reached for the canopy jettison handle.

Acton, Laura, and Reading lay as flat as they could behind the guardrail, watching the helicopter through the periodic holes in the metal. Acton held Laura tight as they silently said their goodbyes to loved ones they would never see again. Then the helicopter banked away from them.

They rose to their knees in shock and watched as a missile streaked by and slammed into the helicopter.

"Get down!" yelled Reading. They all hit the ground and covered their heads as the helicopter ripped apart, its ordnance exploding. The rotors split off from the main assembly, slicing through the air like giant knives directly toward them. As the remains of the helicopter hit the road the Tornado flew over, the wash from the jet warming the entire area. The rotors spun over their heads and dug into the ground a few hundred feet beyond in a farmer's field, the ground shuddering from the impact.

"Oh my God, the skull!" cried Laura, staring at the burning vehicle.

Acton tapped her on the shoulder. She looked at him as he held up the bag in his hand, grinning. "You didn't think I'd leave our friend in there, did you?"

The three of them rolled onto their backs and looked up at the sky as the morning sun broke over the horizon. The Tornado made several slow passes overhead as sirens approached from a distance.

"So, how far are we from Coventry?" asked Acton. Reading groaned and Laura hit Acton on the chest. He laughed. "You're right. I think I'll just lie here for a while and hurt."

Stucco and Casey pulled up to the crash site and jumped out of their vehicle, surveying the wreckage. "No one survived that," said Stucco. They spun toward the sound of laughter behind them and drew their weapons. Following the sound, they approached the guardrail and found their targets lying on the ground. The laughing stopped as soon as they raised their weapons. One reached for a gun.

"We'll have none of that now," said Casey as he cocked his weapon.

"Bravo Command, Bravo Three. We have the targets, awaiting instructions, over." There was silence. "Bravo Command, Bravo Three. Should we eliminate the targets, over?"

Again silence. Then a burst of static. "Bravo Three, Bravo Two. Abort, I say again, abort, over."

"Roger that, Bravo Three, out." He turned to Casey. "Let's go." They both walked away, still covering the three as they climbed in their vehicle.

"What just happened?" asked Acton, slowly rising to watch the SUV race away.

"I don't know, but I'm glad it did," replied Laura.

Reading stood up to see if he could get a tag number, but it was still too dark. "I think we just got a reprieve."

Acton surveyed the war zone surrounding them. "Yeah, but for how long?"

Coventry, England

Reading turned the unmarked police car into the parking lot of the train station in Coventry. He had refused to let Laura drive again after experiencing her near 200 mile-per-hour driving. It actually wasn't much of a refusal since she said she didn't want to drive again for at least a year.

Acton didn't even offer, saying, "You Brits are crazy, driving on the wrong side of the road!" Reading put the car in neutral and they waited in silence.

They were hours late. The chaos on the M1 had ended long ago, but the extensive questioning had taken quite some time. They had all agreed there would be no mention of the skull or the Triarii. Reading had lied to his fellow officers for the first time in his career. The pit in his stomach told him he was still a good officer. If he hadn't felt guilty, he would have handed in his warrant card.

Half an hour passed and they had all started to nod off when there was a tap on the driver's side window. Reading rolled it down.

"Hellooo, I'm from the Coventry Tourist Authority, welcome to our city!" said the old lady. She held out a pamphlet to Reading who took it. "While you're here, you should visit the ruins of the old cathedral. It's fifteenth century you know. It was destroyed during the war. The new cathedral was built beside it and opened to the public in 1962. Its spires—"

"Thank you, mum, we will if we have time," said Reading, cutting off the speech. He rolled up the window and waved to the old lady who slowly made her way around the front of the car. "You should visit the new church too, it has some beautiful relics inside!" Reading smiled and waved again as she moved to the next occupied car and repeated her speech. He tossed the pamphlet into the backseat where Laura was dozing on Acton's shoulder. _I'll bet those two will be bumpin' uglies before this day is through._ Reading laughed out loud and the two backseat passengers woke out of their stupor.

"What?" asked Acton. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, sorry. Just a mental image."

"What's this?" asked Laura as she saw the flyer that had landed beside her on the seat.

"Oh, just some old lady handing out tourist flyers."

"Did you look at it?"

"No, I...." Reading reached back and grabbed it from Laura's hands. He opened it up and saw a map of the new cathedral with an X marked in one of the confessionals and a time. Reading looked at his watch. _Five minutes from now._ "Shite!"

He put the car in reverse then squealed out of the parking lot, gunning the engine toward the cathedral spires just down the road. It whined for a moment before it finally took off. _Definitely not a Porsche._

"What's going on?" asked Acton.

"Just trying to keep an appointment." Reading guided the car through traffic and three minutes later was at the church. They all jumped out and ran inside. Reading raced down the center aisle trying to remember the order of the sign he was supposed to do, as it had been at least ten years since he had set foot in a church. _Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch!_ Elated, he ran up to the altar, did a quick sign then ran toward the confessional marked on the map.

Acton and Laura followed behind him, still confused. When they reached the confessional Reading looked at his watch. "We're on time," he said breathlessly. "Okay, Professor, this is your show." He opened the door to the confessional and waved Acton in.

Acton was still puzzled, but when Reading pushed him, he realized this must be where the Triarii wanted to meet them. Reading closed the door behind him. Acton looked around and knelt down. The window separating the two halves of the confessional opened, revealing a screen. He could barely make out who was on the other side.

"Blessed are those who confess their sins," said the deep voice. "Confess your sins to God and all shall be forgiven."

Acton shifted awkwardly, suddenly not sure if he was in the right place. "Umm, sorry, Father, but I'm not Catholic so I've never done this before."

"If you are not Catholic, my son, then I cannot pardon your sins, however I can still listen," replied the voice. Acton was at a loss as to what to say. Finally he decided to hell with it. _Well, maybe not hell._

"Are you from the Triarii?"

"And what if I were?"

"Then I have something for you."

"Then leave it for me and I will take it."

"I'll need proof before I leave it."

"Very well." Acton heard shuffling on the other side as the priest held a wrist up to the screen to show him the Triarii tattoo. "Is this enough proof for you, my son?"

"Yes it is. Tell me one more thing though before I leave."

"Of course."

"Are you really a priest?"

"Of course I am," replied the voice. "It would be sacrilege to pretend to be a priest in the house of God."

"But I thought you guys believed in the ancient Roman gods?"

There was a deep chuckle on the other side of the partition. "We all have to believe in something, but we do not all have to believe in the same thing." With that, he closed the screen. Acton placed the bag in the corner and opened the door to the confessional. He stepped out and walked toward Reading and Laura waiting a few paces away.

"What happened?" asked Laura.

"The priest was Triarii, he told me to leave the skull there so I did."

"You just left it there?" said Reading, clearly not pleased. He walked to the confessional and opened the door. Acton's bag was gone. Reading shook his head. "How can we be sure it was the Triarii?"

"He showed me his tattoo. And besides, there was something in his voice that just made me believe him." Acton jumped as his Blackberry vibrated. Smiling sheepishly at the others, he answered it.

"Hello?"

"Thank you for returning the item," said the voice. Acton motioned to the others to move closer as he put it on speaker.

"You're welcome. How can we be sure this is over?"

"Have you not listened to the news this morning?"

"No, we haven't had time. Why, what happened?"

"Your President is dead," replied the voice. "You will have no one else after you."

"The President is dead?" Acton was stunned. "How?"

"We had an agent on the inside that followed his orders, even though it resulted in his own death," replied the voice. "Thank you, Professor Acton, the Triarii are in your debt." The line went dead.

"It's over," Acton breathed, still not sure whether or not to believe it.

"It's over!" exclaimed Laura excitedly as she jumped up and down and gave Reading a hug and kiss on the cheek. She then hugged Acton and kissed him on the cheek too.

"It's over!" shouted Acton at the ceiling, the immense pressure of the past week lifting off his shoulders. He looked down at Laura who was still in his arms. Their eyes met and he leaned in slowly, still uncertain. When he saw her close her eyes, he bent down and kissed her. All of the day's events melted away as they lost themselves in each other's embrace. Acton's heart pounded in excitement instead of the near constant fear he had felt for days.

Laura's knees almost gave out as she enjoyed the excitement of a first kiss. She hadn't felt this way since she was a schoolgirl. The butterflies in her stomach made her both nervous and excited at once. She hoped the feeling would never end.

Reading watched the two of them for a moment then looked around. "Ah, kids, we're in a church." There was no response. "I'll be in the car." Reading walked away shaking his head and smiling. His phone vibrated with a text message:

" _STATE DEPARTMENT AGENTS STILL WAITING IN YOUR OFFICE."_

He laughed.

London, England

Several members of the Crime Scene Unit were sifting through the wreckage of the helicopter, searching for the body of the pilot, when one of them came across a charred metal box. Reaching down, he carefully opened it. Inside was a skull made of crystal. He closed the box then casually took it to his vehicle. Another man approached him and they both climbed in the back.

Inside, the man opened the case and carefully handed the skull to the other, who placed it into a bag and exited the vehicle. The investigator closed the case and returned to where he had found it. As he bent over to put it back on the ground his watch slipped down his wrist, revealing the Triarii tattoo.

Paris, France

Henri swept the hallway in front of the storage room then swiped his pass and backed in, pulling his cart behind him. Reaching under the cart, he pulled out a package then casually strolled to the last row of shelves. Opening the package, he carefully unwrapped its contents. He switched the fake skull with the real one from his cart and resealed the box, placing it on the shelf. Then, wrapping up the fake, he put it under his cart, exited the room, and continued to push his way down the hallway, whistling.

The Himalayas, Nepal

Chen pushed open the large doors of the temple and entered the main hallway. He quietly approached his master and knelt beside him.

"You have returned, my son," said the Lama.

"Yes, Master."

"And your destiny?"

"It has been fulfilled."

"Very good. Let us pray."

A sense of peace and serenity swept over his body at the completion of his task.

Salem, Virginia

Madely and Johnson knocked on the door of the cute Victorian style house. They heard rustling inside then footsteps as the occupant crossed the hardwood floors to the door. The locks unlatched and the door opened.

"Ahh, my shadows!" the old lady said. "Please, come in." She motioned for them to enter then closed the door behind them.

"Ma'am," said Madely holding out a carefully wrapped package. "It is with great pleasure that I return this to you."

"Everything is fine now?" she asked as she took the package.

"Yes, ma'am, everything is fine."

"That's good," said the little old lady. "Now, you must join me for tea."

"Of course, ma'am," said Madely, smiling.

Meanwhile, in the desert of Saudi Arabia, Faisal awoke to find the skull back on its shelf, and praised Allah. In Moscow, Alexander returned the skull to its cold, dark hiding place, while in Beijing, Huang again switched the skulls in his President's office. And in the desert of southern Texas, Leroy awoke to find his safe opened yet again, but with his precious skull returned. He fell to his knees and thanked the Crystal gods.

EPILOGUE

It had been six months since Acton had fled the camp. As he surveyed it now he could hardly believe what he saw. It was a bustle of activity as new students continued the work of his previous class. His cabin still stood where it had always been, and new tents created a circle around the center of the camp. The gridlines had been laid out again and excavation continued, this time with twice as many people.

Laura squeezed his hand. He looked at her and smiled, then leaned in to kiss her. He had her to thank for this as she was the one funding the new excavation. At first when she suggested it as a way of finding closure, he had thought she was crazy, but after mulling it over for several weeks, he had decided to take her up on her offer on the condition she accompany him. "That was always my intention, dear," she had said.

Now, with students from both his university and hers, they were continuing the work abruptly cut off months before. A cross stood at the site where the previous students had been massacred and although he didn't know who did it, each morning fresh flowers were placed there in remembrance. He occasionally still wept over the losses suffered, but since he had arrived here a couple of days earlier, his spirits had lifted. He knew this is what his students would have wanted.

The chaos that had ensued after the death of the President and the resulting congressional investigation that had linked him to the murders and the events in London had caused an international uproar. The official story was that his Chief of Staff, Lesley Darbinger, had been to blame. Acton knew that was just a cover story to take the heat off the government.

The investigation had also meant the press hounded him and Laura. They had refused all interviews, but had to testify in both Washington and London. Neither made any mention of the skull or the Triarii. They simply denied any knowledge of why they had been targeted by a madman.

Of course, conspiracy theories had abounded and websites around the world speculated on what truly happened, but eventually the press tired of it and moved on to their romantic relationship. This was another reason they had decided returning to the Andes might be a good idea.

And the Triarii? They hadn't heard a word from them since.

And for that they were eternally grateful.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has written over twenty international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series, the first installment of which, The Protocol, has been on the bestsellers list since its release, including a three month run at number one. In addition to the other novels from this series including The Templar's Relic, a USA Today bestseller and #1 overall bestseller on Barnes & Noble, he writes the bestselling Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers, the Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers, and the Detective Shakespeare Mysteries. Robert lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

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