She knew all too well that life was evolution; romantic bonds changed over time. If they didn’t, stagnation could kill a relationship as surely as any infidelity.
As one image faded to the next, she remembered when she and Gray had first met. It had been in a biological research lab in Fort Detrick. She had shot him. She clearly remembered that moment, but it now felt like a different person had pulled that trigger. It felt like watching a movie versus a real event in her own life.
Back then, she had been an assassin with a terrorist organization. She had eventually betrayed them and helped bring the group down. Afterward, alone and abandoned, she found a refuge with Sigma, then a home with Gray.
Still, she could not discount the fact that a hard core existed within herself, one that persisted, one she could not deny. From a young age, she had been brutalized into a killer. A part of her still craved that adrenaline spike in her blood.
She again heard that gunshot, watched Gray fall in her mind’s eye. Other deaths—far bloodier—flashed through her. She didn’t feel horror, only a familiar coldness, bordering on satisfaction.
Nearby, the digital image faded into a picture of her, gently kissing the soft fontanel atop her baby’s head.
Who is that woman?
Who am I?
She didn’t entirely know—and she feared the answer. To make matters worse, over the past several weeks, she felt like she was losing herself. And if she did, what could she offer Gray? What kind of mother would she be to Jack? To distract herself, she did her best to focus on the task at hand, a skill honed into her as an assassin. She concentrated on raising Jack, putting all her energy there, because that was easier than looking in the mirror.
But that was no longer working.
Something was building inside her, along with a new fear.
Until I know who I am, maybe Jack would be better without me.
Noting that her milk production had dwindled, she turned off the pump and set about detaching the bottle and screwing on the lid.
As she did, the front door opened, and Gray called her name.
“In the kitchen!” she yelled back, her voice cracking a bit.
About time you’re back.
His boots thumped across the hardwood floor, then he pushed through the swinging door to join her. He was sweaty, his breath quick. His very presence filled the kitchen. Even his scent washed away the sweet perfume of milk with a ripe musky masculinity.
“I have something to discuss with you. Sigma wants me to—”
“I know,” she interrupted, standing up. “Kat called me and filled me in. You need to go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Because I’m going with you.”
Gray stiffened. “But what about—?”
“Kat’s going to watch Jack. Monk’s already on his way over to pick him up. Harriet and Penny are beyond thrilled.” She crossed to the refrigerator and put the two bottles at the back, adding to the lineup there. “I’ve been pumping regularly over the past weeks. I’ve got plenty here for four days, and more milk in the freezer for good measure.”
She turned and met his eyes.
I need this.
She had expected him to balk, but instead, his eyes flashed with an excited glint. It had been a long time since she’d seen that thrill shining there. She felt her heart respond, pounding harder as she realized a deeper truth.
We need this.
Gray reached out and pulled her closer. “We could be heading into Hell. Maybe even literally.”
She stared up at him and smiled, wider than she had in a long time.
“I’m counting on it.”
11
June 22, 8:45 P.M. TRT
Ankara, Turkey
The forty-eighth Mūsā to carry that holy title left the Kocatepe Mosque, the largest house of prayer in Ankara. It was where he always prayed when he visited Turkey’s capital. He had just finished the Maghrib prayer, the sunset prayer, performing all three rak’at, the two sunnahs, and both nonobligatory nafls.
Now is not a time for half-measures.
He headed across the plaza, leaving the massive bulk of the mosque and its four thin minarets behind him. He was followed by the trio who served him, the three Banū Mūsā, the Sons of Moses. They were not in fact his blood, as such titles had to be earned through butchery and trials by fire. In fact, he had no children. His second wife remained at her family estate outside of Istanbul. It had been an arranged marriage, one necessary for his position. Afterward, they seldom spoke, even more rarely touched, just enough to consecrate their wedding bed.
His true family were these Sons of Moses who guarded him. They each carried a pair of Caracal F semiautomatic pistols in shoulder harnesses over their suit jackets. Eyes watched for any threats to his person.
He was led to his armor-plated limousine, where two Bint Mūsā, the fierce and deadly Daughters of Moses, guarded the vehicle, similarly armed, but also with throwing knives sheathed at their wrists.
One opened the door for him, and he climbed into the backseat.
The Sons joined him, while the Daughters slid into the front, one taking the wheel and engaging the idling engine. The long limousine slid into the evening traffic and headed through the brightly lit city. They were due at the airport in another hour, but first he had one last obligation in Ankara.
He settled back in his seat, but his heart still thrummed in his chest. Anxiety and excitement kept his muscles tense.
After so many centuries . . .
A long line of men took the title of Mūsā, going back to the ninth century, to the first of his name, Mūsā ibn Shākir, a great astronomer who was born in Khorasan in northeast Persia. He had four sons—though most historians only knew of three—who, due to their intelligence, studied at the famous House of Wisdom in Baghdad, during a time when Islam shone with a golden brightness. Following the fall of Rome, the sons spent their lives traveling far, gathering rare texts from Italy and Greece, preserving them, building upon the knowledge found in them. They would produce wondrous works, constructing canals and crafting ingenious devices, along with writing dozens of books.
But only a select few knew the secret history of the Banū Mūsā brothers, how four had become three, how one of Mūsā ibn Shākir’s sons betrayed the others, stole their greatest treasure and the secret it protected, destroying all records, leaving no trace to follow. For this treachery, his name was stricken from their books, his history in the family erased.
It was as if Hunayn ibn Mūsā had never existed.
Still, what that brother stole, what he sought to keep from the world, was not forgotten by a sect within Baghdad’s House of Wisdom. They kept that knowledge hidden, from generation to generation, from one caliphate to another, from one country to another. Forty-seven men had led this cabal in the past, each taking the title of Mūsā, knowing that someday what was lost would be found again.
And that time was upon the world now.
I am the forty-eighth Mūsā—and I will be the last.
He had suffered much to achieve this position, a birthright forged in blood and grief. His first wife—his dearest Esra—and his baby boy were killed by a Kurdish bomb. He eventually hunted the insurgents down, and in the dead of night, slaughtered those responsible, along with their wives and children. Still, all that blood could not wash away his grief.
Instead, he gathered a new set of Sons and Daughters to his side, those hardened to the cause. He intended not only to make all of Kurdistan suffer, but to ignite the entire region. With tensions throughout the Middle East at their highest, the time to bring about Armageddon had come. The return of what was lost was a portentous omen.