carpeted steps. He paused on the landing at the top. To the left lay a sitting room with a focal round table surrounded by book cases and chairs. A two foot high gold statue sat in the center of the table, topped by a milky blue stone. The ancient carvings on the piece clashed with the other décor. Some ancient artifact of Desmond’s, no doubt.
He passed the sitting room and found a door on the right. He paused, listening, but the house remained silent. The chill of Takers dulled to a mere irritating breath against his skin. With one hand , he pushed open the door a crack. No one inside. He entered and rotated in a slow circle. Elaborate computer equipment lined the left wall as well as the area beside the door. A corkboard covered most of the right wall, and a tall window claimed most of the wall opposite the door.
He crossed to the corkboard and read names of cities on cards with sticky notes posted under each one listing people’s names and government or military positions. What the hell? If Desmond had Takers in all these cities he was planning some massive campaign never seen in the realm of Takers and Dealers.
A burning dread hit Rolf’s gut and exploded.
The click of a downstairs door echoed up the stairway. He froze. Two male voices following the click sent him into action. He strode to the window and slid the bottom half up. Muffled footsteps on the stairs sent him scrambling through the aperture. Feet balanced on the sill, he pushed the window closed, and grabbed the top of the shutter to inch away to the right, out of view through the glass panes.
A cast iron gutter drain ran down the corner of the house about three feet away. He gritted his teeth and leapt, scraping his knuckles on the bricks as he grabbed it. He clung there for a second, his feet clawing the pipe for a foothold. Finally, the toe of his right shoe found a crack in the mortar and he managed to clamber down the drain pipe. The last couple feet he dropped, landing on his feet at the side of the house. Nothing moved above him at the window. He pushed through the tall hedge surrounding the house and hurried away.
What he’d found sent dismay surging through him. One person would not be able to fight such an organized group with Desmond leading them. Sakhet was right, something big was coming, and he stood directly in its path.
###
Cara drove to Old Dominion University. No classes today, which left the campus deserted save a few random students meandering about, enjoying the clear fall weather. The noontime sun warmed the air and the students took advantage, wearing shirts with sleeves rolled up and shorts.
She pulled into the parking deck across from the Ted Constant Center coliseum and hurried up the street to the Batten Arts and Letters building where Alistair had his office. The aroma of disinfectant, old paint, and pipe tobacco hung heavy in the hallways leading to her friend’s office. Her sandals flopped on the tiles to echo along the empty passage.
Cara passed three open doors yet encountered no one, the atmosphere eerily hushed. She glanced over her shoulder a couple times, unnerved by the quietness and quickened her steps. At the last door on the right, she stopped and knocked on the frame.
“Alistair,” she said, breathless. The door stood open, and he sat at his desk with his long legs crossed, reading. He wore his habitual Saville Row type suit with a crisp white shirt. Bookcases lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged stacks of books and ancient artifacts he’d picked up while actively involved in archeological digs years ago.
“Why, Cara, what a pleasant surprise.” He rose from his chair, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “Here, take a seat, my dear.” He adjusted one of his side chairs closer to the desk. “All right, then?”
“No, not all right. I had to come and tell you what’s happened. We need some answers, and you’re the one who can make sense of this ancient
He passed the sitting room and found a door on the right. He paused, listening, but the house remained silent. The chill of Takers dulled to a mere irritating breath against his skin. With one hand , he pushed open the door a crack. No one inside. He entered and rotated in a slow circle. Elaborate computer equipment lined the left wall as well as the area beside the door. A corkboard covered most of the right wall, and a tall window claimed most of the wall opposite the door.
He crossed to the corkboard and read names of cities on cards with sticky notes posted under each one listing people’s names and government or military positions. What the hell? If Desmond had Takers in all these cities he was planning some massive campaign never seen in the realm of Takers and Dealers.
A burning dread hit Rolf’s gut and exploded.
The click of a downstairs door echoed up the stairway. He froze. Two male voices following the click sent him into action. He strode to the window and slid the bottom half up. Muffled footsteps on the stairs sent him scrambling through the aperture. Feet balanced on the sill, he pushed the window closed, and grabbed the top of the shutter to inch away to the right, out of view through the glass panes.
A cast iron gutter drain ran down the corner of the house about three feet away. He gritted his teeth and leapt, scraping his knuckles on the bricks as he grabbed it. He clung there for a second, his feet clawing the pipe for a foothold. Finally, the toe of his right shoe found a crack in the mortar and he managed to clamber down the drain pipe. The last couple feet he dropped, landing on his feet at the side of the house. Nothing moved above him at the window. He pushed through the tall hedge surrounding the house and hurried away.
What he’d found sent dismay surging through him. One person would not be able to fight such an organized group with Desmond leading them. Sakhet was right, something big was coming, and he stood directly in its path.
###
Cara drove to Old Dominion University. No classes today, which left the campus deserted save a few random students meandering about, enjoying the clear fall weather. The noontime sun warmed the air and the students took advantage, wearing shirts with sleeves rolled up and shorts.
She pulled into the parking deck across from the Ted Constant Center coliseum and hurried up the street to the Batten Arts and Letters building where Alistair had his office. The aroma of disinfectant, old paint, and pipe tobacco hung heavy in the hallways leading to her friend’s office. Her sandals flopped on the tiles to echo along the empty passage.
Cara passed three open doors yet encountered no one, the atmosphere eerily hushed. She glanced over her shoulder a couple times, unnerved by the quietness and quickened her steps. At the last door on the right, she stopped and knocked on the frame.
“Alistair,” she said, breathless. The door stood open, and he sat at his desk with his long legs crossed, reading. He wore his habitual Saville Row type suit with a crisp white shirt. Bookcases lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged stacks of books and ancient artifacts he’d picked up while actively involved in archeological digs years ago.
“Why, Cara, what a pleasant surprise.” He rose from his chair, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “Here, take a seat, my dear.” He adjusted one of his side chairs closer to the desk. “All right, then?”
“No, not all right. I had to come and tell you what’s happened. We need some answers, and you’re the one who can make sense of this ancient
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