Jonathan Maberry - Assassin's code

They smiled at each other.

“Let us do this, then,” proposed Sir Guy. He sat forward and took a knife and held the edge of the blade in the heat of the fire. The steel grew hot very quickly. “Since flame and steel and blood are the things with which we will prove our allegiance to God and with which we will preserve His holy name here on earth, then let it be with flame and steel and blood that we seal our agreement.”

“Our Holy Agreement,” corrected Ibrahim.

Their eyes met across the flame.

“Our Holy Agreement,” said Sir Guy.

He removed the smoking blade from the fire and opened his left hand. “The Crusades and the armies of the church are the right hand of God. We will be His left hand.”

He cocked an amused eye at Ibrahim, “And don’t tell me that your left is the hand you wipe your ass with, for I know that. No one will look there for proof of your fealty. And every time I see it I’ll laugh.”

“You are a whore’s son and the grandson of a leper,” replied Ibrahim, but he was laughing aloud as he said it.

Their laughter and smiles ebbed away as the edge of the blade turned from flat gray to a hellish red gold.

“Swear it, my brother,” said Ibrahim, nodding to the blade.

“I swear to defend the church, and to preserve it, and insure that it will endure forever. By my heart, by my hand, by my honor, and by my blood I so swear.” He set his teeth and pressed the flat of the blade into his palm. The glowing blade melted his flesh with a hiss and a curl of smoke. Sir Guy growled out in agony and then turned his cry into a ferocious prayer. “By God I swear!”

Gasping, gray-faced, he pulled the knife away and handed it to Ibrahim, then slumped back against the pillows. Ibrahim held the blade in the flames until the fading glow flared again. Then he, too, swore by his faith and on his God as he burned his promise into his skin. Then he dropped the knife into the heart of the fire where it would eventually melt into nothingness.

The smell of burning meat filled the tent.

The faces of the two diplomats were greasy with sweat.

Ibrahim held out his burned hand to his friend. “The left hand of God,” he said.

Sir Guy grunted and leaned forward, reaching out to clasp hand to hand.

“The left hand of God.”

They shook and it seemed to them that all around them the world itself trembled.

The Hangar

Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

June 15, 2:30 a.m. EST

“I say we pull him,” growled Aunt Sallie. She flung herself into the leather guest chair across the desk from Mr. Church. “Pull him now before he screws everything up.”

“Why?” asked Church. He sat back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled, eyes unreadable behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. “Beyond your general dislike of Ledger.”

“He can’t handle the knights and you damn well know it.”

“He survived one encounter.”

“Because some psycho bitch with a sniper rifle bailed him out. Pure luck.”

“Ledger is lucky, Auntie. You have to admit that.”

She snorted. “He may be, but the people around him sure as shit aren’t.”

“That’s not entirely fair.”

“Isn’t it? Grace Courtland? Marty Hanler? Sergeant Faraday? I could keep going.”

“How are any of those his fault?”

“Come on, Deke, we both know his history. Everyone who’s ever been close to him has gotten killed or hurt.”

“Again, that’s not a fair assessment.” Church took a Nilla wafer and pushed the plate across the desk. Aunt Sallie took one and snapped off a piece with her sharp white teeth; then she pointed the other half at Church. “If we’re being fair here… then you tell me how it’s fair to leave him in play? You actually like that ass clown. Do you want to see him torn apart?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what happened in Stuttgart? In Florence? In-”

“I remember, Auntie.”

“No, I think you need to refresh your mind on what happened, Deke. The knights are tougher than they ever were. Someone or something has amped them up. They tore apart an entire Mossad team. Sixteen trained agents. Dead. Drained. Is that what you want to do here? Feed your boy Ledger to those things?”

“Of course not. The Mossad team had no idea what they were up against.”

“Does Ledger?” snapped Aunt Sallie, her eyes blazing.

They regarded each other across Church’s broad desk. Aunt Sallie cocked an eyebrow.

“That sniper chick,” she said.

“Violin? What about her?”

“She’s with Arklight, isn’t she?”

“Possibly.”

“‘Possibly,’ my ass. The number of woman snipers is pretty small, and the number of those who work the Middle East is a lot smaller. You do realize that she fits a certain profile.”

“Yes,” he said, “that has occurred to me.”

“Does that mean you’re going to call the Mothers?”

“Do you think I should?”

“If one of their gals is involved in this thing, I think you damn well better. I mean… who knows the knights better than Lilith and her secret society of psycho bitches?”

Despite everything, Church smiled. “I may actually tell her you said that.”

Aunt Sallie shrugged. “I’ve called her worse things over the years.” She leaned forward, forearms resting on her knees.

Church pressed a button on his phone. “Gus? Pack a go-bag and meet me on the roof. The situation in Iran is going south on us.”

As he sat back, he caught Aunt Sallie’s cocked eyebrow.

“You going over there to hold Ledger’s hand?”

“Hardly. I want to have a face-to-face with Lilith.”

“Wear armor.”

They regarded each other for a moment, sharing without word all of the implications that were unfolding before them.

“Have you told Ledger?” asked Aunt Sallie quietly. “Have you told him what he’s really facing over there?”

Mr. Church’s eyes were flat and dead behind his tinted lenses.

“No,” he said. “He’s scared enough as it is.”

On the Streets

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 11:04 a.m.

The call with Church did not exactly have the effect I was looking for. I wanted support, some fresh intel, and a clear direction. Instead he tried to scare the crap out of me-and maybe succeeded more than I’d ever let him know.

I sat on the floor of the deserted living room and checked Ghost again. He was not severely injured, but he probably needed at least a full day to shake off that Taser. So far I hadn’t given him ten minutes.

When I got to my feet and clicked my tongue for him to follow, he looked at me with huge eyes filled with equal parts hurt and disgust.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him. “We’re fugitives. No rest for the weary. Miles to go before we sleep, and all that.”

Nothing.

“Cobbler wouldn’t sissy out on me.” Cobbler was my aging house cat. He and Ghost had failed to bond. Spectacularly.

As Ghost finally hauled himself to all fours he gave me a look that could have chiseled my name on a tombstone.

I smoothed my clothes and ran my fingers through my hair, but I knew I still looked like crap. We slipped out the door and began heading toward the CIA safe house.

Even with a clean face and shirt, I looked like a street person, and I had a limping dog with blood on his fur. Not exactly the definition of nondescript, but as I walked I muttered to myself, reciting snatches of popular Persian songs and occasionally twitching my face and shoulder muscles. Even here, where suspicious characters are often questioned, no one likes to initiate contact with a disheveled man who is speaking to himself while twitching. People tend to pointedly ignore you, which is what I wanted. When anyone came too close I asked them for money, which usually guarantees that they quicken their steps while pleading poverty. A few threw blessings at me, which, hey… I took, all things considering. Twice people gave me money.