The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (3 page)

Asita caught
it, tucking it under his arm and grabbing his father, leading them away from
the crowd.

“I-I’ve
heard nothing,” he said, shame in the lie already gripping his chest.

“I heard
he became sick after eating!” shouted a woman, her voice laced with anger. “Somebody
must have poisoned him!”

Asita
tugged on Cunda’s arm harder as he navigated them through the growing crowd as
quickly as he could. Cunda continued to shake, his mind shutting down as the
shouts grew, his heart fluttering in his chest as fear gripped him, his stride
slowing.

“Come
on!” hissed his son, squeezing his arm sharply, the pinch snapping him back to
reality. “We have to get out of here before it’s too late!”

Cunda
nodded, his surroundings coming back into focus as he picked up his pace,
following his son through to the edge of the crowd toward a group of houses
that led to their camp outside the village.

“That’s
him there!” shouted someone. Cunda looked over his shoulder and nearly soiled
himself as the entire throng turned toward him, someone pointing. “He’s the one
who brought the meal!”

“He
poisoned him!”

“He
killed the Buddha!”

Asita
and Cunda both broke into a sprint, the younger Asita quicker off the mark,
darting between two houses, a narrow alleyway extending almost a dozen houses
from the main village square they had just come from. They ran as fast as
Cunda’s older legs could carry them, Asita continually slowing down to urge him
forward, but Cunda was gripped in fear. He glanced over his shoulder once more
as the crowd tried to shove its way through the narrow opening at the beginning
of the alley.

And he
tripped.

His left
shoulder hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his body. Powerful hands
had him in their grasp quickly, pulling him back to his feet as the crowd
surged like ants over an obstacle, a flash flood of humanity on a previously
dry riverbed.

Cunda
drew his sword.

“Go!” he
yelled to his son. “I will hold them off.”

“No, we
will fight them together!” His son drew his own sword.

“No,
there is only room for one to fight, and you must survive. Take the bowl and
tell our village what the Buddha said. Seek the wisdom in his words.”

“But,
Father, I can’t leave you!”

The
first of the bloodthirsty crowd was almost upon them. “You must! If we both
die, the Buddha’s words will be for nothing. Our village must be saved, and
after today, you are its leader!”

He swung
his sword hard, sweeping across the breadth of the alleyway, removing the head
of one man, cleaving halfway through another.

“Go, my
son! Now!” he shouted as he swung again at the leading edge of the crowd,
suddenly slowed, pushed forward by the surge of flesh behind them. He raised
the sword over his head and swung down, a startled man’s head splitting like a
log, his blood spurting over the man beside him who screamed in fear, pushing
back against the crowd-surge that would have him challenge the now recovered
Cunda.

Cunda
stole a glance behind him to see his son, halfway down the alley, backing away,
keeping a pleading eye on his father, tears rolling down his cheeks as Cunda
took another step back, swinging his sword, slicing through a fleeing man’s
back, removing the outstretched arm of the man next to him.

He
looked over his shoulder. “Pray for me!” he shouted, knowing the sins he was
committing would condemn him to eternal damnation, the killing of so many
unforgivable no matter the reason. He wasn’t a soldier with the luxury of war
as an excuse, he was merely the leader of a simple village, leadership thrust
upon him purely because of family lineage rather than popular choice.

A
reluctant leader, a desperate leader.

He swung
again but now saw swords held high nearing him as those who were unarmed tried
to squeeze back through the alley, those with swords shoving forward to engage
the murderer of the Buddha.

“You
will be avenged, Father!”

He spun
toward his son. “No! Do not avenge me! They know not what they do! They are
blinded by lies and fear and hatred! Just go! Save yourself! Save our village!”

Metal
scraped the ground behind him as a roar erupted from what sounded like an
impossibly loud man.

Cunda
swung around, his sword rising from near his ankles to waist height as he faced
the enemy, the blade continuing upward, knocking the man’s blade aside and
removing his hand.

But
there were more blades now, rushing toward him, their owners desperate to get
into the battle, blocked only by those in front of them. He swung furiously
now, left and right, battling two blades at once, neither able to get a full
swing at him, each blocking the other.

Yet he
was tiring.

If
energy weren’t his enemy, he could potentially hold them for hours, but it
wasn’t, and with each one he took out of the battle, a fresh body faced him
moments later.

He
retreated another step and looked behind him.

Asita
was gone.

Be
safe, my son.

His
heavy heart threatened to overwhelm him as he thrust forward, burying his blade
into a man’s stomach. As he withdrew the man collapsed on Cunda’s sword, causing
the blade to drop to the ground. He fell back several steps quickly, dragging
his sword free but it was too late. A blade descended upon his left shoulder,
burying itself deep. He screamed out in pain, grabbing the sharp metal with his
left hand, pushing it up and out of his flesh, slicing through his palm as he
did so.

He had
no time to even look at the bloody stump that now lay dead on his shoulder,
instead swinging weakly at the next thrust, his parry almost useless now.

His
sword clattered to the ground.

His leg
was sliced open and he dropped to his still good knee, his now free hand
pushing against the dirt as he looked up at the attacker who had finally bested
him.

Rage
filled eyes, so much hate it was inconceivable in the heart of this simple villager,
glared down at him, freezing his soul with fear, the descending death blow
going almost unnoticed as time seemed to slow down. The crowd roared their
anger, screams of pain echoed through the alleyway, swords clanged as they
tried to get into the fight. His nostrils flared with the smell of his own
blood and those of his victims, the smell enough to make his mouth fill with
bile. The air, thick with a mist of carnage, had a metallic taste that mixed
with the sickness in his mouth, threatening to make him gag.

And the
agony in his neck, as the unnoticed sword sliced clean through, was mercifully
short lived, his thoughts of the Buddha’s last words.

Trust
in what you see.

And as
his head tumbled to the ground, rolling several times, he died knowing he’d
never decipher the riddle meant to save his people.

Outside the Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson nearly shoved the
Secretary of State into the back of the armored limousine, jumping in after her
as the driver floored it, the door closing of its own accord. Four escort
vehicles, two in the front and two in the rear were manned by his team and Bureau
of Diplomatic Security personnel, the entire procession accompanied by half a
dozen Vietnamese military vehicles with police motorcycles leading, blocking
off intersections as they made the rush back to the hotel.

“Are you
okay, Madam Secretary?”

Atwater
nodded, visibly shaken. “Do we know what happened?”

Dawson
shook his head, activating his comm. “Bravo One-One, Bravo One. Sit rep, over?”

Sergeant
Carl “Niner” Sung’s voice came in clear. “Bravo One, we’re secure at Echo Two
but there might be a problem, over.”

“Explain.”

“My
security pass was stolen from my room. I’ve reported it and a new one is being
issued. We’re double-checking all IDs here, over.”

“Roger
that, ETA seven minutes, out.” Dawson chewed on his cheek. A stolen ID. He knew
Niner and there was no way he had lost it or screwed up. Protocol would be to
secure the ID in the room safe, but hotel room safes were notoriously unsecure.

The
question now was whether or not it was a targeted theft, or simply
unintentional, the thief grabbing everything he found. He had to assume
targeted. He turned to Atwater. “Once you’re secure I’ll find out what
happened, but I’m reasonably certain you weren’t the target.”

 “I’m
not waiting seven minutes, I want to know what happened now.” She snapped her
fingers at her aide. “Call the Embassy, tell them what happened and tell them I
want to know the status of the Russian Prime Minister ASAP!”

Ronald
Greer pulled out his cellphone and quickly began dialing. Dawson frowned. “Madam
Secretary, that phone isn’t secure, the conversation could be monitored. I
highly recommend we wait until we have access to our secure comms.”

Atwater
dismissed his concerns with a bat of the hand. “Nonsense. We have nothing to
hide.”

Dawson
turned his head toward the window so as not to betray how moronic he felt the
Secretary’s statement was. He had lost count of the number of times they had
found themselves in hot water because some politician who thought they knew
better ignored the advice of him or one of his team.

And this
day, he had a feeling, wasn’t going to end well.

He had
heard four shots before they had exited the building, all from the same type of
weapon, his quick glimpse and the sound of the shots suggesting a Makarov PM,
probably a leftover from the war. The man appeared Vietnamese and it was pretty
clear he was specifically after the Russian Prime Minister.

This
is probably going to be the biggest international incident since the
assassination of Franz Ferdinand triggered World War I.

Another
intersection was cleared, their speed at best thirty, Hanoi’s streets not
accustomed to unexpected emergency motorcades. His mental counter ticked down
another intersection, six to go. When they arrived and the Secretary was secure
in her room, he would be recommending an immediate return to Washington, the
Russian response to the assassination of their Prime Minister unpredictable.

But he
already knew the answer would be ‘no’.

Greer
was speaking in hushed tones and Dawson was half-listening, updates coming
through his comm from the security detail, he more concerned with securing his
package.

Five
to go.

“The
Prime Minister is dead,” said Greer, fear and shock in his voice. “Along with
his entire security detail.”

Dawson
resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows.
The entire detail?
They were
clearly caught off guard, the four shots he had heard rapid, the four shots fired
within less than three seconds, and with there being no return fire, they were
obviously all accurate.

“Has
there been a response from the Russians yet?” asked Atwater.

“Not
yet. We’re not even sure if they know.”

“Christ,
there’s going to be hell to pay, and we were there when it happened!” She
jabbed a finger at Dawson. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

The
muscle memory in Dawson’s right hand mimicked tearing her throat out, the
accusation idiotic. “I did, ma’am. I immediately evacuated my charge and am in
the process of securing them.”

A puff
of air escaped Atwater’s lips as if she thought it a pathetic answer.

“The
Russians are going to blame us for this. We have an enhanced security
detail—what are you, Delta? SEAL?—and you let him get killed!”

Thanks
for blowing my cover, asshole.

He kept
quiet.

Three
more.

“What?”
Greer’s exclamation was one of pure shock as he turned to Atwater. “They’re
saying he was killed by an American!”

Atwater’s
jaw dropped and Dawson felt his chest tighten.

This
is going to turn into a Charlie-Foxtrot in a hurry.