Chris Kuzneski - Sword of God

With a slight bow, he handed Payne his business card and welcomed him to the Black Stone Resort. Payne smiled at the card's simplicity. It said Mr. Lee and listed his cell phone number.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lee. I'd give you one of my cards, but I'm fresh out."

Lee nodded at the gesture. "It's not necessary, Mr. Payne. We've been expecting you."

20

The lobby glistened under the recessed lights; the black and gold pattern of the stone floor appeared three-dimensional due to a fresh coat.of wax, giving it the illusion of depth. A circular atrium soared above the center lobby, interspersed with decorative black railings fifteen feet above the main desk. Several guests waited in line. But Mr. Lee ignored them all. The only people he cared about had just arrived. Jonathon Payne, party of three.

"I like the color scheme," Payne said, trying to make small talk. Despite his large inheritance, he wasn't comfortable with the trappings of wealth. He was more of a beer and burger guy than wine and caviar.

Mr. Lee nodded appreciation. "Did you know Hines Ward is South Korean? When he won Super Bowl MVP, we redecorated the lobby in Pittsburgh Steelers colors. We were very proud."

Payne glanced at Jones, who stared back, both of them stunned by the statement.

Eventually Mr. Lee started to laugh. "I am just joking.

The colors never changed. They have always been black and gold. I make joke since you are a Pittsburgh fan."

Payne laughed at his own gullibility. "How did you know that?"

"Because Mr. Lee knows all."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Lee. Because I have a bunch of questions you could help me with."

"And I have a bunch of answers. But first, allow me to show you to your room. Perhaps all you need is a hot bath and a gourmet meal to help you discover some solutions on your own."

Payne's room turned out to be a massive suite, three small bedrooms separated by sliding doors from the living area. It was equipped with a plasma TV, multiple couches, a wet bar, and a small kitchen. The parquet floor blended perfectly with the light stone in the only bathroom. A two-person sauna sat underneath a tinted bay window, offering sweeping views of the Yellow Sea, where waves crashed in the distance, barely audible yet somehow comforting.

Kia showered first, dying to wash the smell from her hair. While they waited, Payne and Jones went to the far end of the suite, turning on the TV to drown out their conversation.

Payne spoke first. "I'm sorry about all the fuss downstairs. Randy must've called the hotel and told them we were coming, just to make a point."

"In that case, I wouldn't be surprised if a hooker knocks on our door."

"Yeah, a fat one."

Jones laughed loudly, glad to have a moment of levity in an otherwise dreadful day. Back when they were with the MANIACs, they often relied on laughter to get them through the tough times. That's one of the reasons the nickname suited their unit. No matter how deep the shit, the humor never quit. So much so that other squads thought they were crazy. Actual maniacs.

"So," Payne said, changing the subject, "how do you want to handle this? Should we snoop around the hotel, asking about the father and son? Or is that a waste of time?"

"We can try. But we don't have much to go on. All we have is the picture."

Jones pulled out a photograph of the Park family that they'd taken from their house before leaving the village. They'd rummaged around a little bit, checking closets and drawers, trying not to step in any blood in case the cops were eventually called in, but the place was so small, so cramped, it was obvious that the Parks didn't have much money. As far as they could tell, there were nine people living in a house that was built for four. No way they were staying there.

"What are the other possibilities?"

"There's no guarantee the old man heard correctly," Jones suggested. "Or maybe he mistranslated the term. Or the boy was just muttering about black stones he saw inside the cave. There are dozens of explanations that would make more sense than this place."

Payne rubbed his eyes, half-regretting his seat on the couch. It was soft and plush and made him want to sleep. "Let's go back to the cave for a sec. Let's focus on that. What do we know about the operation?"

"Schmidt's team consisted of himself and the three squad members who weren't killed at the hospital. That means five of them in total. Dr. Sheldon said Trevor was in charge of the facility, doing torture or whatever. Forensics found three samples that weren't in the system, probably from the prisoners or the men who killed Schmidt's crew."

"In other words, professionals."

"Definitely. No way they got to Schmidt otherwise."

Payne sighed, still trying to grasp the situation. "Professional soldiers mean one of two things: we captured a foreign official that was important enough to be rescued. Or-"

"We snagged a terrorist with a lot of secrets."

"Exactly. Someone big. Someone worth saving."

"That makes more sense to me. Terrorists are off-the-grid to begin with. No reason to bring them into the system. Smuggle them to a cave and let Schmidt work them over until he got them to talk." Jones paused, thinking things through. "Let's face it, Schmidt and his men would've been perfect candidates for that type of work. Still angry from the hospital attack."

"Plus it explains the village."

"How so?"

"A foreign national wouldn't cover up his escape. If anything, he'd blow the whistle on the cave, showcasing the evil nature of America. But a terrorist? He'd want everyone dead."

"Good point."

"Speaking of which, did I mention that Dr. Sheldon is dead?"

Jones arched his eyebrows. "No."

"Raskin searched his personnel file, and he was listed as dead. Died three years ago."

"Wow. He was a little pale, but he didn't look dead."

"Just because he's white doesn't mean he's pale."

Jones smiled, no racial tension at all. "What else did his file say?"

"Not much. Randy was supposed to see what he could find. Maybe we'll luck out."

"Maybe we already have."

"How so?"

"Think back to our meeting with Colonel Harrington. When he talked about Schmidt, he said he ceased to exist after the incident. That term's been bugging me ever since. At first I thought he meant Schmidt went nuts. But maybe he was talking in different terms. Maybe that's when they recruited him into black ops. One minute he was in the system, the next he wasn't."

"And you think the same thing happened withSheldon?

They killed him on paper so he had more freedom overseas. … That's not a bad theory."

"I have my moments." Jones yawned, suddenly feeling tired. "What else did Randy mention? Anything about the prisoners?"

"Unfortunately, he was pretty tight-lipped on the topic. He hinted that Harrington could get us clearance, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer to fly solo for a while. I'm still pissed about his lack of disclosure. He should've told us about Schmidt from the very beginning. It would've saved us a lot of legwork."

"Any thoughts on where we can get the intel?"

Payne nodded. "Don't worry. I've got someone in mind."

Nick Dial was known for two things: one professional, one personal. He ran the homicide division at Interpol, the first American ever promoted to such an illustrious position in the French-based agency. But to his friends, he was known for his chin. His world-class chin. The type that movie stars would pay big bucks for. It sat at the bottom of his face like a perfectly sculpted granite masterpiece. Very heroic-looking. Like Dudley Do-Right.

Because of his job, Dial kept strange hours, often flying from country to country to cut through red tape or handle border disputes whenever they interfered with a case. Never knowing where he might fly to next. Or when he might get there. Interpol was a worldwide organization, which meant his duties were international. And his knowledge was extensive.