“Damn.” I called Ghost, slid into the Porsche, and just sat, watching smoke billow, black and toxic, from the shattered windows, as ash and debris peppered my hood.
I actually jumped when my satellite phone sounded. So did Ghost, since he was sitting on it. I scooped it out from under his furry backside and muttered, “Yeah?”
“They’re back, Cap.”
Under other circumstances that line would’ve prompted a poltergeist quip. It took a moment to realize what Church meant. “Who, our little ISIS scientist shits?”
“Seems they went off for a celebratory feast. They’ve got an important visitor.”
“Let me guess,” I said, and named Frieda’s contact.
He didn’t ask how I knew, but there was a respectful silence at the end of the line for a moment.
“So,” he said, “should we light them up now?”
“Do it now,” I said. “I want to see craters where their assholes were.”
Smoke from the burning house melded into the lowering sky as I wheeled the Porsche around, into a fresh wall of rain. But Frieda Stoltz’s face glowed in my mind, radiant and eager as she showed me her creation.
I felt unaccountably happy. When it comes to death’s delivery systems, no one is better than us. Those damned ISIS scientists probably couldn’t comprehend the laser guidance system of the PAVEs we’d deployed on our GBU-38s. They wouldn’t understand how our satellites made sure that the bombs kept coming, coming, to fly right up their butts.
Fuck ’em. Some people are too evil to live.
But that day I began to wonder if some people are too innocent for their own benefit. I wondered if Frieda had been too good to live.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Farland is an award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of science fiction and fantasy, with more than fifty books in print. Currently, he is in the process of writing a thriller that deals with the dark underbelly of filmmaking in Hollywood called The Blockbuster.
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EDITORS’ NOTE: “Prince of Peace” brings Joe Ledger face-to-face with Jack Sigler, call sign King, leader of Jeremy Robinson’s Chess Team, who specializes in battling ancient myths reborn through modern science, pitting elite soldiers against the likes of the Hydra, Golems, and Dire Wolves and the madmen who conjure them from the past. The Jack Sigler series is currently in development as a major motion picture.
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PRINCE OF PEACE
A JOE LEDGER/JACK SIGLER STORY BY JEREMY ROBINSON
1
As I stand before the window of my small but well-appointed hotel room overlooking the rich blue ocean of Micronesia, I find myself pondering a question I should have asked—more than once—before submitting myself to twenty-plus hours of travel: What the hell am I doing?
The answer is simple enough: An old friend needs my help. Those six words propelled me around the globe to a volcanic island that seems to be mocking fate with its name. Pohnpei. The spelling is different enough from Pompeii, I suppose, but when I say it aloud, it sounds close enough. I left my girl, Junie Flynn, my dog, Ghost, and the job three plane flights behind me. For some, that might sound like a vacation, and I suppose it should be, but I’ve learned to depend on the people in my life. They keep me alive. And sane.
Working for the Department of Military Sciences isn’t exactly a low-stress job, and genuine vacations are hard to come by, thanks to the pervasive nature of the threats facing the world. I asked Mr. Church for some unstructured, unsupervised, unencumbered time off. He opened a fresh packet of vanilla wafers, selected one, tapped crumbs off it, and ate the whole thing before he answered me.
“The world is not currently on fire and there are no missiles inbound to the White House,” he said slowly. “Enjoy your vacation.”
I was on a plane three hours later, and back on the ground on one of the planet’s wettest locations, before the day was done. And that’s where things get complicated.
I came all this way, as I said, for a friend. Honestly, she was more than a friend. A lot more. But like the ruins that pock the outer fringe of this tropical Pacific island, she was ancient history. Was being the operative word. This morning—or is it yesterday morning now?—she leaped back into my present. Reading the morning news is a habit for many people, but I go deeper, scouring for hints that one of the DMS’s adversaries might be active again. While the DMS has MindReader—a globally connected supercomputer—for tasks like that, I think there are some things only the human mind can niggle out of a news report’s text.
But in this case, no niggling was required. The headline said it all:
AMERICAN WOMAN, LAURA JONES, HELD ON SUSPICION OF TERRORISM
I didn’t believe the woman in question was my Laura Jones until I saw the photo topping the article. She looked older, and a bit tired, but there was no questioning her identity. Laura Jones, the girl who won over the Civilized Man in me, who stole my heart for three years in high school, who volunteered to feed homeless people on weekends, who wrote letters for Amnesty International, and who collected unicorn stuffed animals. This woman had been caught planting a bomb under the bleachers of a school gymnasium. Hundreds of kids could have been killed.
My bullshit meter pinged red, and I started making calls. The story seemed to check out, but was so far outside the DMS’s sphere of influence, and mission parameters, that I decided to take some personal time and step into my old detective shoes. Get to the bottom of it. Find out what really happened.
Two hours after touching down, I walked out of the Pohnpei State Police office feeling as though I’d been on the receiving end of a very elaborate prank. When I asked the receptionist about Laura Jones, I got a blank stare. When I asked about a bomb planted at a local school, the blank stare turned panicked. After assuring her I must have misread a news article, I checked in at the Ocean Breeze Hotel, confusion melting into anger.
On the far side of my third-floor window, there are palm trees, a sandy beach, the orange glow of a setting sun, and a view of the ocean that would lull most people into a relaxed state of mind. But until I can answer the question of what I’m really doing here, relaxation is the furthest thing from my mind.
After a quick speed-dial to the person best equipped to shed light on my situation, the voice of Jerome Taylor answers. “Hey, Joe, how’s the—”
“Go secure, Bug,” I say, using his call sign, which lets him know I’ve gone from “Detective Joe” to “the shit is about to go down, Cowboy.” I wait as a series of clicks indicate our phone call is being rerouted and encrypted.
“We’re secure, Cowboy,” Bug says. “What’s happening? Did she do it?”
“There is no she,” I say.
“They didn’t kill her…”
“I’m not sure she was ever here. Do me a favor and check on Laura Jones. From Baltimore. Married in ’04. Teacher. No kids.”
“Stalker much?” Bug says, trying to lighten the tone as his fingers clack over keys. “Got her. Annnd … you’re right. Financial records show her buying laxatives on Amazon two days ago—that’s embarrassing—and groceries earlier today. Probably prune juice. I can send someone to her house to confirm if you—”
A knock at the door interrupts him. I drop the phone on the bed’s comforter, reach for my sidearm, and find the holster not only empty but missing entirely. I’m here as a civilian. I flew internationally, on commercial flights. I’m a long way from my guns, but I’m far from defenseless. The hallway on the far side of the door is narrow, and gun or no gun, I excel at close-quarters combat. I lift my hard-shell suitcase in front of my torso and pick up the empty instant-coffee carafe seated atop the room’s minifridge. Armed like a hobo-gladiator, I give the door handle a twist and prepare to lunge.
The door creaks open and thumps to a stop against the wall. Aside from a small envelope on the floor, the hallway is empty. A quick glance in either direction confirms it. I crouch down, snatch up the envelope, and open it. It’s a dumb move, but I d
on’t think someone lured me all the way to the middle of South Pacific Nowhere to slip me an envelope laced with anthrax. There’s a stark white card inside, its front gilded with elaborate calligraphy reading: You’re invited.
Inside are two words and a set of numbers I recognize as coordinates.
I retrieve the phone from the bed. “Bug?”
“You realize I spoke to myself for like two minutes before I realized you were gone, right? What happened?”
“Send a team to Laura’s house. I need confirmation. ASAP.”
“On it.”
“And run these coordinates for me.” I read him the digits, suspecting they won’t be far from my present location.
“Nan Madol,” he says. “Ruins on the eastern side of the island. Capital city of the Saudeleur dynasty until 1628. Built in a lagoon. Lots of canals. Like Venice, but actually sunken. Pretty popular tourist destination. And not small. Nearly a mile from end to end.”
“So lots of places to hide?”
“If Nan Madol meant ‘Ambush City,’ it would be an appropriate name.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want backup?”
I consider the request for a moment. Even if backup left now, it would be nearly a full day before the team arrived. I’m not one for sitting around and waiting. But since I’ve clearly been lured here, probably for nefarious reasons, my little side mission is now official DMS business. “Fill in Deacon. It’s his call.”
“You got it. And Cowboy, be careful.”
I hang up the phone, thinking about being careful, and I decide against it. Whoever brought me here—unless they have a very good and noble reason—is going to find themselves in a world of hurt, courtesy of my fists, or this coffee carafe.
2
During the hour-long taxi ride from Palikir to the outskirts of Nan Madol, I learned a few things about the ruins, the first of which was that Bug had taken his short breakdown of the historic site straight from Wikipedia. The actual history was much more colorful. The city was built upon one hundred man-made islets at a time before the invention of modern landscaping machinery. The massive stones used to build walls, floors, sculptures, and steps are said to have been flown in via black magic. Given the ruins’ mysterious origins and otherworldly feel, it’s not surprising that the city of R’lyeh, in H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, was inspired by Nan Madol.
The city once housed one thousand ruling elite and local chieftains who were forced to live on the islets, where they could be watched and, if deemed untrustworthy, slain. The megalithic site’s centerpiece, as with many ancient cities around the world, is its walled mortuary. I wonder how many people met their end inside the city, which had no fresh water and was incapable of growing food. Nan Madol was completely dependent on outside support. It’s no wonder it was found abandoned in the early nineteenth century, by Europeans, some of whom believed they had found the lost islands of Lemuria.
Now it’s a tourist trap that isn’t quite a trap, because it really is stunning, though I may never confirm that with my own eyes. It’s been two hours since I hung up with Bug. After visiting a hardware store, waiting twenty minutes for the taxi, and then the drive around the south end of the island, the sun is far below the horizon.
The taxi’s worn brakes squeal as we roll to a stop. The driver, a man with a perpetual smile, swivels around with his elbow on the seat back. He’s shirtless and slick with sweat from a day in the car without air-conditioning. Yet somehow, he doesn’t smell. “Should I wait?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, handing him two $20 bills—U.S., which oddly enough is Pohnpei’s official currency. I point to the dirt path beside the old mustard-yellow vehicle. “Your friend knows I’m coming?”
“Yes. Yes. I called him. He is not happy about the nighttime rental—there are sharks, you know—but for the right amount of money…” He shrugs and smiles.
For the right amount of money, just about anything, good or evil, can be bought. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
I step out into the humid night, offer the driver a wave and a smile, and start down the narrow, muddy path. At the end of it better be a kayak rental joint, or Mr. Smiley cabdriver is going to be short a few teeth when I catch up with him. I click on the flashlight I picked up at the hardware store. I also picked up a machete, a utility knife with a three-inch blade, and a hammer. All excellent weapons in a pinch. And if I’m lucky, I won’t need a single one of them.
Problem is, I’m lucky only when it comes to finding trouble.
After ten minutes of slogging through damp earth, I part with another $200 and park my ass inside a kayak. It’s a two-seater … just in case it’s Laura’s husband who’s constipated.
There’s not a lot that creeps me out. I’ve seen shit that can’t be unseen, forgotten, or tamped down into the subconscious through hypnosis. It’s hard to get me spooked. But something about being on the water, at night, in a snack-sized boat, unnerves me. Each slap of water against the plastic hull conjures images of sharks. I turn the light on the water, but I only manage to see a few feet down. Anything could be lurking below, and I would never know. The mesmerizing number of stars above tugs my eyes upward and help me forget about the dark possibilities swirling beneath me.
As I leave civilization behind and plunge deeper into the mangroves of an ancient coastline, I do my best to put on my game face. People lured me here. Not sharks. People with unknown but likely malicious intentions. People who probably have guns. And that, I can deal with.
I put my shoulders into the paddle and surge along the coast, guided by the feeble illumination provided by my $20 flashlight. When I spot the first of a hundred islets covered in the blocky ruins of a time long forgotten, I turn off the light and coast through the darkness.
In the silence that follows, insects sing out a tinnitus-like buzz. I close my eyes and focus beyond them, listening for anything out of place, anything unnatural. A chirping, like some kind of homunculus-bird hybrid, echoes through the night. Voices, I think, and then I refine the realization to a singular speaker. Despite the high pitch, I can identify the speaker as a single, incredulous man.
My instinct is to leave the kayak behind and wade through the water, but I’m faster and quieter in the small vessel. I dip the paddle in the water and push closer to the voice, letting the stars and moon light my path through the maze of lush trees and the walls of gray stone. When the voice is loud enough to clearly hear, I dig the paddle into the water and let it drag me to a stop, just a few feet short of a staircase ascending out of the calm sea.
Just hours ago, the site would have been full of tourists in kayaks like mine. Whatever is going on here hasn’t been happening very long.
“You will scream,” the homunculus-bird man says. “If I have to fillet you one sinew at a time.”
My first thought is that I’ve stumbled across a violent interrogation, but the man’s words reveal something far more sinister. The silent person on the other end of this one-sided conversation isn’t being questioned. He, or she, is being tortured. There’s no way to know why, or if it has anything to do with Laura, or if it’s Laura being tortured. But the silence in response to the man’s taunts, and who knows what else, speaks of a strong character.
The torturer growls something unintelligible. The muffled sound implies he’s right up next to his victim, speaking into the ear, close, like a lover. He’s frustrated, but he’s still getting off on it.
“You think about that while I’m gone,” the man says. I duck as loud footsteps plod away. A silhouette moves through the ruins beyond the staircase. The footfalls become splashes as the man enters the water. This is followed by the clunk of an oar on the side of a boat, the noise sounding more like a canoe than a kayak—perfect for transporting an unconscious victim.
Guessing the victim is now alone, but not sure, I slide out of my kayak and into the water, letting the liquid cushion absorb my bulk. I slip out of the sea, onto the stone stairs, staying low so the w
ater dripping from my body makes no sound. I slip up to the stone wall and peek around the edge. Ten-foot walls constructed of thousands of flat gray stones surround what looks like a small courtyard, but may have actually been a building’s interior a few hundred years ago. Shrubs and lush vegetation fill the open space to my left. To my right is a tree with coiling roots. And strapped to the tree is a shirtless man.
He hangs limp. Eyes closed. Blood drips from a handful of cuts on his chest and arms. What I first think is blood on his side turns out to be a large, port-wine-stain birthmark. He has the body of a man who’s seen action. Chiseled, but not shaven like a bodybuilder or beach bro. His face sports a healthy dose of stubble, and his black hair hangs loose over his forehead. My guess is ex-military. A mercenary, most likely. Which means he’s probably not up for any good citizenship awards. Whoever he is, I can’t in good conscience let his torture continue.
I creep toward the man, still careful, still quiet. I’ve left all of my fear and apprehension behind. But when the man speaks, I nearly stumble and fall.
“Don’t need your help,” the man says without looking up.
What the fuck?
“You’re tied to a tree,” I point out. “Being tortured.”
His eyes open, the color hidden in darkness. “Not really. Not yet.”
Hand on the machete sheathed on my belt, I take a step closer, evaluating the man. Despite his situation, he’s fearless. The kind of fearless that only comes from 1) having been in this situation before, and 2) knowing you’ve got a way out. And if he has a way out, I can’t see it. His hands are cuffed to a branch high above his head. His legs are tied to roots below.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“He’ll eventually start asking questions,” the man says. “And every question is an answer.”
Something clicks. This man’s presence, at the location to which I was given coordinates, is not a coincidence. I draw the machete and spin around, on the lookout for danger that’s not coming.