A Temporal Trust (The Temporal Book 2) (8 page)

“It would be my pleasure.”

Although it had only been minutes, the creature felt like it had been waiting for hours. It was well past sunset which meant it had disobeyed the High Lady’s command to go straight to the Temporal. She had given it a protective cloak that would have allowed it to approach the Temporal in the waning hours of the day. The thought of its disobedience brought both horror and a rebellious sense of liberty. But in the end, it had obeyed. Its fear of the High Lady eventually forced it to correct its direction—albeit much later than she would have wanted.

It was certain that the Temporal knew of its presence. The Temporal had known they were coming before they had arrived the last time, and the High Lady told it they would know this time as well. It was not proper to question her knowledge, and to incite the fearful Temporal was not its desire.

And so, it waited.

It remained stock-still. It knew any sudden move or threatening gesture would result in an immediate death. It calculated its best chance for survival was to wait unarmed and in the open for the Temporal to make their appearance. It was scared. It did not wish to be there, but it had no options.

It had a troublesome shaking in its hands—something that had often happened when nervous as a human. It settled into a lotus position to slow its breathing and calm its mind, something it had learned to do in its past life as a human.

Finally, the door behind it cracked open. It lifted its eyes, but did not turn to face the enemy. A voice boomed out.

“What is it that you want?”

Without moving or even daring to turn to face the voice, the Nephloc said, “Weee come seeking terms of suuurren…darr.”

“The surrender of whom?”

“Usss. Weee seek your meer…cy”

The old man turned to Sam wondering what “us” could mean. Sam shook his head and with a single finger indicated the Nephloc before them was the only one around.

“Stand slowly, creature. Lift your arms and turn around to face us.”

The Nephloc did as commanded.

The old man looked at Sam once more. “There is no other,” was his reply.

Marcus stepped outside and approached the creature with caution. It shivered with an icy fear, but kept its head down and arms up. Marcus circled around, feeling every inch of its cloak.

“Into the house.”

As the creature obeyed, Marcus waved Ian in. A few seconds later, Ian was inside and Marcus closed the door.

Once inside, the creature quickly scuttled over and squatted down behind an antique wing chair. It happened to be in the darkest corner of the front room. Its quick footsteps were silent over the normally creaky floorboards. It had its head bowed and covered with bony arms half exposed by the slack cloak.

“Well, what is it that you wish to tell us? Why were you sent here? What was it that the woman wanted?”

The Nephloc seemed to choke momentarily upon hearing him speak of the woman.

“No. Weee come alone. Surrender. Weee surreender.”

“Then, dark one, if you are surrendering, tell us of your master. What is her goal, and where is she now?”

“Sheee...No, lords. Speeak not of sheee. Wee’s no more than foot soldier. Wee’s know of your compassion with others—with the other three. Wee’s seek this meerrcy, the meerrcy of the other three.”

“In exchange for that mercy, tell me something of interest to us. Tell me of your base. Where do you operate?”

“Wee’s be no more than foot soldier. Wee’s from the earth.” It almost smiled as it remembered the dark, rich soil, moist and earthy. A glorious patch was just outside. It could leave…

Its eyes narrowed. The thought of returning to its mistress in disobedience, however, reinforced its commitment to the mission.

“Then, return to the earth. If you don’t tell us anything, you are no good to us. Just go and never come back.”

“No! Wee’s must surrender. Wee’s surrender.”

The old man opened the door. “We haven’t the facilities to house you and we simply can’t risk harboring a spy.”

“Wee’s no spy. Wee’s surrender.”

Sam pulled Marcus aside. “It could be coaxed into giving us needed intelligence on the enemy.”

“Sam,” said Marcus, “I don’t trust it. Kaileen wouldn’t have allowed it to get this far without a purpose. It’s a spy.”

“I am sure you are right, but that is all the more reason to try to learn what Kaileen is up to.”

“Yes, yes. But we are not jailers. There is no place secure enough to keep it.” Marcus shook his head.

“There is a back room with no windows. We can put a lock on it, and I can monitor its movements.”

“Sam, you are tracking the Temporal around the world until they can be collected. In addition, you are watching for any incoming enemies. Can you add one more thing without exhausting yourself?”

“If I can’t, then we just kick our guest out, or...let Ian have him.”

Marcus gave Sam a serious frown before nodding in agreement.

The V-22 Osprey was capable of speeds of up to three hundred miles per hour—twice as fast as a conventional helicopter. The unique tiltrotor technology blended the vertical lift of a helicopter with the speed, altitude, and range of a fixed-wing aircraft. The Osprey was minutes from landing.

Inside the cabin, the noise cancellation of Sergeant Scott Dixon’s headphones failed to adequately dampen the roar of the engines and the incessant chopping of the three-bladed, thirty-eight foot propellers. But for the moment, it was as if the noise didn’t exist. The mystery surrounding the mission was far more distracting.

The sparse lighting barely penetrated the darkness. It was night inside as well as out. Despite the Osprey’s twenty-four troop capacity, Dixon could just make out the lightly illuminated faces of the three other Marines that made up his team, the only other passengers. They were on the opposite side of the aircraft resting and waiting.

It was his thirtieth birthday, and he had a smirky grin on his face. He wasn’t sure what or who it was that they were to pick up, but he doubted it could be as interesting as the party the boys were planning for his return. Even still, he had little doubt that this job was important.

He and his team had been briefed—by a Colonel, no less—only a few hours before to be prepped and ready to go. The team had then been immediately isolated from the rest of the base. Their cells, radios, and laptops were sequestrated. For the past five hours, the team had been effectively cut off from the world. It wasn’t exactly the day before D-Day, but the total secrecy was unusual.

They knew nothing more than their final destination: Hydra, Greece—an island near Athens—and they only learned that after takeoff.

In his eight years in the Marines, Dixon had never been given so little information to work with. Should he be expecting trouble? An absurd thought crossed his mind: Could it actually be a surprise party for his birthday? He was known for off duty pranks and extravagance. No doubt scaring the wits out of him would be an excellent way to simultaneously get back at him while also throwing him a party to be remembered.

He felt the aircraft tilt as it prepared for landing. He knew whatever was waiting for them would soon be revealed. His fingers absentmindedly patted his holstered pistol as the colonel’s voice roared through his headphones.

“All right ladies, I just got our final orders. The package is a man named Ricardo. He should be alone—this airport is decommissioned and deserted, but just in case there is any confusion, he will be wearing a red shirt and a touristy straw hat. This is a pick-up-and-go mission. No sightseeing, no jabbering on about the weather. Get him, and then get him back here. Immediate resistance isn’t expected, but the package is extremely valuable and we are to take no chances. After I give the word, I want you to create a perimeter around Ricardo with weapons drawn. Hold your positions until the package is safe onboard and I give the order.”

His voice softened.

“Marines, I don’t know what we will be facing. I honestly have no more intel on this mission, but the higher-ups have made this out to be something big. It should be a simple pickup, but be on guard. Out.”

Dixon started to worry that this really would turn out to be a second invasion of Normandy.

The voice in Dixon’s headphones was gone, and the roar of the plane filled his head. As the Osprey hovered above the tarmac, the rotor downwash caused a cyclone of dust. The cabin jarred as the aircraft touched down and then in the dim lighting, the four men looked at each other with a nod of resolve.

As the blades slowed, Dixon stood, patted his pistol on his side, and pulled out the M16 that had been stored in the netting under his seat. The others did the same. The four men congregated at the back, waiting for the rear loading ramp to be lowered. They now knew what their mission was and only had to wait for the go signal. No one opened his mouth. With the engines killed, even the slightest shuffling of nervous feet and the occasional metallic clack of weapons being handled were amplified. A small circular porthole of pure blackness revealed nothing of the outside world.

It seemed like minutes had passed since the aircraft landed, but no order to exit had been given, nor had the ramp been lowered.

Then, the cockpit door opened, allowing the surprisingly bright light from a multitude of instruments to fill their eyes. Dixon briefly saw the two pilots hunkered over some electronic tablet while talking on their radios. The Colonel stepped through and closed the door shut again.

“It seems,” he said to the four Marines, “the package isn’t here. Directly in front of us, there is a building where Ricardo was supposed to have been waiting in front of. I want you two,” he said, pointing to Dixon and the man across from him, “to search to the right of the building and you two to the left. Circle around and then enter the front. Report if you find anything. Come back quickly. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” came the unanimous response.

“Now go!” he said while slamming a fist on the button to engage the rear loading ramp. Suddenly, the ramp came to life, revealing the dark outside world broken only by a narrow ring of light in front of the building. As the men took to the ramp, there was a new blast of light above. The spotlights attached to the outside of the plane now illuminated several hundred meters ahead. Even still, Dixon had a hard time distinguishing the dark stretches of a paved airfield from the black-green patches of grass.

It was a moonless sky and the night was thick.

Dixon and his partner moved down and onto the hard, black surface. The light from the plane was strong but the building beyond the immediate front lay mostly in shadows. There was a dark no-man’s land between their position and the building’s small circle of light. The sides of the building were similarly uninviting and that was exactly where they had to go.

The four broke into a heavy sprint, heading toward the building. Just as they were entering the no-man’s land, they saw something that made them drop to the ground and raise their weapons. Each man fell flat on his stomach and gave full attention to the building ahead.

The door of the building cracked open. Even after a few breathless seconds, no one came out. Dixon pointed to the right and then to the left, indicating they should spread out while approaching the building with caution. Each man shuffled in his respective direction while keeping low to the ground. The door opened more, but they still couldn’t see but a few empty inches inside.

A bloodcurdling scream from behind the door made them jump to their feet.

In a heartbeat, the four were sprinting again with their weapons up toward the dark, forbidding doorway ahead. They still couldn’t see anything, but the scream could have come from the package, and the package was everything.

Then, they all stopped once more.

In the distance, well lit by the building’s outside lamp, the Marines saw gloved fingers wrap around the casing of the door. Dixon noticed a boot carefully nudge the door open further.

Strutting out of the building, through the opened door, was a woman wearing a bright red evening dress. Dixon lowered his weapon and held out his right arm bent upward with his fist clenched, commanding the others to halt—it was an instinctive decision. The woman had a disarming effect on him. Somehow her appearance and formal attire even made Dixon forget about the scream.

The woman held out her hands to her side; she was not holding a weapon. She was so peaceful and full of grace. They were separated by more than thirty feet, but her face was captivating to the four young Marines. She was pretty, but there was something else about her that caused Dixon to fumble, to stare blankly. Her eyes—she had the most beautiful eyes. Dixon found it amazing he could see such detail and richness and yet be so far away. It was as if her eyes—but not her body—were directly in front of him.

Then his attention dropped to her hands. She was now holding something and moving them, wiping her left hand with a rag held by her right. Dixon took a step forward, then stopped, raising his weapon as he realized what it was; it was blood. She was cleaning and removing blood off her hands.

“You there—where is Ricardo?” Dixon heard himself shout the words, words he did not consciously speak. It was as if he was watching himself on television reading some line written by a nameless scriptwriter.

Her response to his question was to smile. The upward curvature of that smile directed his attention back to her eyes, her glorious eyes. He was momentarily caught up again, but he forced himself to look down—to look at her bloody hands. She dropped the crimson rag and pulled both of her hands into herself. He continued to watch in fascination as she was appearing to go through the motions of flinging a Frisbee.

But it wasn’t a Frisbee.

His mind had barely a second to comprehend the meaning of the shiny, metallic blade as it sliced through the air and into his throat.

Sergeant Scott Dixon found himself on the ground, unable to breathe and gagging on his own blood. His eyes only saw black but his ears roared with the sound of three M16s blasting dozens of rounds in the direction of the building.

He could not see the others. He could not see the woman. He only saw black. But by the reduction of gunfire, he understood his fellow Marines were also falling. His ear picked up a scream to his right. There was a thud to his left. After an eternity, there was only one weapon firing. The three-round bursts of the single M16 were accompanied by the yelling of the Marine. He was screaming. If not matching the volume of the bullets, he at least was attempting to match their lethal intent. There was also a radio going off. It was the colonel ordering a retreat.

Then Dixon’s ears registered a change in the sound—or rather, there was a lack of one of the sounds. It was the last marine standing attempting to fire an empty weapon. His screaming had not ceased. If anything, it only increased in volume. But like his weapon, it was an empty scream, powerless before whatever foe was approaching. But what force could survive such a barrage of bullets?

Dixon, blind and immobile, continued to listen as he gasped and pushed what little air he could gather into his burning lungs. The screaming continued; but then he heard something else.

High heels.

Dixon understood the woman was walking toward them. He tried to move or turn his head, but he couldn’t. He still only saw the dark, richness above him. He saw that and felt the warm liquid ooze from his throat.

The sounds abruptly stopped. The screaming and the woman’s high heels all stopped. All at once.

After a few moments of silence, there was a new sound in the distance, someone shouting—it was the colonel exiting the plane. He heard something from the direction of the woman; it sounded like she had thrown something. The colonel went silent. Dixon knew what had happened.

“Your superior wanted to be a hero.” The voice was calm, sweet even, and it had been directed at Dixon who was sure he was the only one of them still alive, even if barely. “He came out armed and, against impossible odds, daring to face me. Brave, wouldn’t you say?”

He didn’t know which sound was more disturbing: the sound of her laughter or that of the plane’s giant turbines roaring to life. The two pilots were leaving and without him.

And then, suddenly and without a cause that he could understand, his eyes could see. He saw the light from the building ahead of him and the light from the Osprey behind him. But most of all, he wanted to see his killer, the woman who had walked from that building. He jerked his head, somehow able to do so now, but his move was too sudden. He spat up blood, a lot of blood.

But he could see her.

She had turned her attention from him—it was a strange thought, but he understood despite the absurdity of it all that it had been the woman who had blinded and paralyzed him. With her attention on the plane, Dixon had freedom of movement and vision. He could control his muscles and limbs.

With the movement, however, there was also intense pain and the realization that he would not survive the night.

She stood there—Dixon could see her profile in the dim light—watching the aircraft build lift, about to take off. She had a calculated look on her face. From his perspective, it was hard to tell if her tight lips were forming a frown or a smile. But she was intently watching.

Dixon rested his head on the hard tarmac. Somehow, between gasps and convulsions, he managed a smile of his own. His team was dead, but at least the pilots would escape. There was some comfort in that. She was several hundred yards from the Osprey and it was beginning to rise above the airstrip and away from the woman. They would be able to report the attack and warn others of this dangerous woman. It was obvious that she was too far away and her deadly Frisbees would do little damage to the aluminum and composite material airframe. He closed his eyes and began to drift into blackness.

The sound of rapid movements and the feeling of displaced wind caused Dixon to open his eyes and turn his head. The motion hurt, but what he saw hurt more. The woman was no longer beside him. From the aircraft in the distance, his eye caught the flight of some rectangular object. It was the rear loading ramp. The woman was on the rear of the aircraft, entering.

As the darkness once again began to overtake him, Dixon watched in utter horror and helplessness. The Osprey, having lifted only a few dozen feet off the airfield, tilted and then crashed into the ground in a blazing inferno.