Threshold (35 page)

“Ridley!” Queen shouted, standing in clear view.

The man’s head snapped up in surprise. Then a smile crept onto his face. “The Chess Team arrives. I must admit I’m surprised to see you here. How did you find me?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to tell us where Fiona is before we cut the line and leave you to rot,” Queen said.

“You seem to be missing a member,” Ridley said. “I know King was in Rome, but where is Rook? Did something go wrong?” His smile grew wider.

Queen’s UMP came up fast. She took aim and fired a three-round burst. Two of the rounds missed, shattering ancient bones, but one struck Ridley square in the forehead. He flinched as it struck, turning his head down. When he looked back up there was no injury, just his perpetually smiling face and gleaming bald head. There wasn’t even a splotch of blood.

“Afraid I’m not intimidated,” he said.

“He’s not going to talk,” Bishop whispered.

Queen looked at Knight. “Do it. He might be immortal, but we’ll see how cooperative he is after starving for a few weeks.”

Knight cut through the rope and let it fall.

Expecting some sort of protest or angry retort, the team flinched when Ridley began laughing. They looked down at him.

“All you’ve done is leave me with an army,” Ridley said, and then began speaking in hushed tones. The sea of bones around him began to rattle and shake.

Knight realized what was happening and said, “He’s about to go Ray Harryhausen on our asses.”

“What?” Queen asked.

Knight pointed down at the shifting bones. “Golems are the inanimate made animate. And he’s got a whole lot of inanimate buddies down there. An army of skeletons.”

“But they’re at the bottom of a—” Queen’s words were cut short by a deep rumbling from below. The pit floor was rising as a horde of living Mayan skeletons fused together and turned their empty eye sockets up at the stunned team.

FIFTY-TWO

Wiltshire, England

DUST CHOKED THE
air, making it hard to breathe and nearly impossible to see. And with tons of earth between them and the surface, a rescue would not soon be coming.

King couldn’t see Alexander through the soupy brown air, but he saw his light move to the far wall of the chamber. He moved the light up and down on the wall, slowly making his way around the space. “What are you looking for?” After speaking, King took a breath and coughed hard. If the air didn’t clear soon he might lose consciousness.

Alexander didn’t pause his search as he replied. “The man in that tomb might not have had knowledge of pyramid architecture, but he was certainly familiar with the burial rites of the Pharaohs, which he must have fancied himself as. He’s mummified his body, been buried with sacred possessions, and encased in an elaborately grand tomb. Maybe his father aided in the construction of the Cheops tomb itself, I don’t know.”

“You’re looking for a hidden exit,” King said, making his way to the wall opposite Alexander so he could start his own search.

“It was a common practice by ancient Egyptian tomb builders, who sealed the tombs from the inside, and then exited via a secret shaft. It was also convenient for builders turned grave robbers.”

They quickly finished searching the tomb walls and found nothing. The ceiling came next, but its massive stones looked immovable. In fact, there was nothing in the room that looked small enough to move but big enough to hide a tunnel.

Then King’s attention locked on the sarcophagus.
That would work,
he thought. Coughing as he moved, King rushed through the maze of bluestone pillars and crouched by the sarcophagus. It stood on a raised circular platform, which was covered in dust. King blew the dust away, further fouling the air. He covered his mouth with one arm and wiped the surface of the floor with the other.

Alexander joined him. “What are you looking for?”

King stopped wiping. “That.” He pointed to the corner of the sarcophagus where an ancient scratch still marred the floor. “The sarcophagus swivels.”

Alexander immediately moved to the other side of the sarcophagus and pushed. It didn’t budge. King joined him and they pushed together. But it was no use. The stone wouldn’t move.

“Can we destroy it?” King asked.

Alexander grew angry. “We will
not
desecrate this tomb any further. I would sooner die.”

“Says the guy who can’t die.” King shook his head in frustration. It might be an offense to history, but if any other member of the Chess Team had been by his side, rather than Alexander, they would find a way to tear down the sarcophagus and escape. Of course, brains often achieved the same results as brawn. King smiled as an idea came to him. He stood and climbed atop one of the nearby pillars. When nothing happened he moved to the next.

“What are you doing?” Alexander asked, his voice still tinged with annoyance.

“Just be ready to push,” King said, continuing his circuit around the room, hopping on one pillar after another. His hope was that one of the pillars would trigger some kind of release for the sarcophagus. His fear was that it was one of the pillars buried beneath the stone and dirt that filled half the room.

He hopped up on the last of the large pillars and felt it give a little beneath his weight. A loud clunk sounded beneath the stone floor. “Push!”

Alexander pushed hard. Stone scraped against stone. A hiss of escaping air filled the chamber. The ancient seal was broken. The sarcophagus slid open revealing a smooth tunnel that spiraled out of view. But it wasn’t tall enough for a man to walk or even crawl into—it had to be slid into.

When the sarcophagus had shifted ninety degrees, it could no longer move. A second clunk sounded immediately and Alexander grunted. “It’s moving back! It may not reopen!”

King hoped off the pillar and rushed to his side. He looked at the small, downward sloped tunnel and shook his head.
Time to find out if I’m claustrophobic,
he thought.

“Hurry!” Alexander urged. “It’s going to move faster when I let go.”

King put his flashlight in his mouth and dove into the tunnel headfirst. Contrary to how it looked, he didn’t slide down. The rough stone clung to his body like Velcro. Dragging himself forward, he moved down and around into the tunnel. A moment later, he felt Alexander’s hands on his feet, pushing him forward. He scrambled as fast as he could, feeling his elbows and knees already becoming raw.

“Despite being able to grow back limbs,” Alexander shouted as the sarcophagus began squeezing his feet, “I don’t enjoy the experience of losing them.”

King felt Alexander lunge forward, bringing his body up on top of King’s legs, pinning them to the floor.

With a thud, the sarcophagus sealed over them. They were in a downward spiraling tunnel barely tall enough for King to raise his head. And with Alexander’s weight crushing his legs to the sharply rough floor, he could no longer move forward.

King took a deep breath, steadying himself before claustrophobic panic could set in. He pictured the situation behind him and quickly came up with the solution. “Exhale as much as you can and press yourself against the ceiling.”

The pressure on King’s legs lessened as Alexander complied, but not by much. They were packed tighter than he thought. Gritting his teeth against the flashlight, King reached out and pulled as hard as he could. Pain stabbed his knees as the rough floor tore into them. He grunted and stopped. “One more time.”

As the pressure lessened again, King gave a mighty pull. He slid forward, but his knees were torn apart. He shouted in pain. The flashlight fell from his mouth and rolled free, following the spiral around and down. King watched the light fade.

But then it stopped with a
thunk.

That’s either good news, or bad news,
King thought. His torn-up knees ached with every slide forward, but with more room to move, he was able to position his legs so his wounds were off the floor. He moved steadily downward, following the spiral. As he descended, the light from his lost flashlight grew brighter.

“You’re bleeding,” Alexander said. He couldn’t see King’s wounds, but the smell of blood was filling the tight tunnel.

“I’ll be fine,” King replied. “We’re almost at the bottom.”

“What do you see?”

King stopped as he saw the flashlight ahead. The tunnel leveled out and continued in a straight line. He pushed forward, not knowing how far the tunnel stretched. When it grew smaller he could no longer lift his head up. Still he pushed forward, not knowing what lay ahead. It could be an exit, a trap, or a squeeze too tight to fit through. As it was he could feel his back scraping against the ceiling with each pull forward. Pulling with his arms and pushing with his toes, he continued forward for ten minutes. Then his flashlight, aimed toward the side wall, showed an open space. He picked up his head and found a small chamber. He quickly pulled himself free of the small tunnel and checked out the space, which was about the size of an economy car interior. While the extra space was nice, the light gray wall blocking his path crushed his hopes. Crouching, King moved to the wall. As Alexander exited the tunnel behind him he placed his hand on the smooth surfaced wall. Modern concrete.

They were trapped.

Again.

FIFTY-THREE

Washington, D.C.

“YOU WANT TO
what!” Boucher said, as he stomped back and forth in the Oval Office.

Duncan had spent every waking minute working through his options. The world needed defending. The Chess Team lacked a handler. His skill set—brilliant strategist, resistant to pressure, extreme determination—fit his role as president. But it was all for nothing when political chest thumping and loud-mouth pundits could tie his hands. He had come to a decision and just dropped the bomb on Boucher, who would be one of few people to ever know the truth.

“I can’t do it, Tom,” Boucher said.

Duncan could see Boucher working through the proposal despite his vocal opposition. He waited, leaning back on the couch. Boucher’s pacing slowed, which meant he was coming to his final decision; everything said before then was just blown-off steam.

Boucher stopped pacing.

He sat down on the couch across from Duncan.

His mustache twitched a few times. “Damnit, Tom.”

The irritated CIA chief looked at the folder in Duncan’s hands. “You have this all worked out, don’t you?”

Duncan handed him the folder. “Every detail.”

“Of course,” Boucher said, laying the folder open on the coffee table between the two men. He sifted through the pages. Each page represented a separate step in the president’s plan. E-mails to be faked. Documents to be forged. Databases to be altered. CIA stuff. All of it damning evidence that Duncan had knowingly ignored credible threats against the Siletz Reservation and Fort Bragg, that he had grossly underestimated the reach of their enemies, and that he had purposely provoked their wrath with the hopes of expanding the war on terror via the invasion of the countries responsible. Essentially, everything Marrs claimed to be true but wasn’t. The documents would reveal that Duncan did all of it despite strong opposition from Boucher, who had saved e-mails, recorded phone calls, and kept tabs on the president’s poor choices. The world would blame Duncan for more than three thousand five hundred American lives lost.

Boucher was integral to this plan. Duncan couldn’t do it without him.

The last few pages interested Boucher the most. He picked them up, reading each page in detail. Duncan saw him nod a few times. He was beginning to see the big picture.

Boucher finished reading and put the pages back into the folder. He sat back, crossing his legs. “This might work.”

“It will work.”

“It’s a huge sacrifice.”

Duncan nodded.

“Everyone will believe the things Marrs has been saying.”

Duncan shrugged. “It wouldn’t be possible without Marrs.”