Chapter 57

57

July 24, 10:45 A . M . SAST

Spitskop Game Park, South Africa

Tucker crossed the veranda of the colonial-era mansion. The three-story, sprawling home sat in a remote corner of the Spitskop Game Preserve, far from the tourist area of the park.

This was his home—as much as any place truly was.

Past the porch's white-washed railing, wide swaths of lawn—composed of indigenous buffalo grass—rolled out for half an acre. Farther out, the larger twenty-acre parcel was dotted with barns and outbuildings. A neat gravel drive led to a packed-dirt road. There, a pristine sign stood, carved of native ironwood and painted in brilliant shades of orange, white, and black. The letters spelled out L UXURY S AFARI T OURS .

He shared this business with the Nkomo brothers, old friends who ran the photo safari. Tucker came often to visit, to rest up. It was here he had recuperated with Kane last year, where he had first met Marco as a pup.

Presently, the Nkomo brothers were out of the country, rehabbing a spot in the Congo for their next venture. For the moment, Tucker had this place to himself—well, mostly to himself.

He carried two tall bottles of cold beer, which already sweated in the morning swelter of the savannah. The sun glared off the grasslands, shadowed by stands of acacia trees. He stepped over to a pair of rattan rocking chairs, which stirred under the breeze of a large ceiling fan.

Kane rested in the shade. The dog lifted his head inquiringly, staring intently, but not at the beers in Tucker's hands. A large red Kong football sat atop a table.

"In a sec, bud." Tucker called to where Marco ran in circles on the lawn, barking and panting with puppyish delight, "C'mon in!"

It wasn't a command. It wasn't even directed at the young Malinois.

Elle Stutt lifted an arm, about to whip a Frisbee for the dog, then lowered her hand. She waved acknowledgment and headed over. She climbed the porch steps, drawing Marco with her, who went straight to the water bowl.

"Think you can use a drink, too," Tucker said, proffering a beer. "Best to stay hydrated, I always say."

She accepted the bottle, raising it a touch. " Spasibo ." She stared over at Marco. "Nothing tires that dog out."

He grinned. "You said the same thing about me last night."

She settled to the chair and cast him a sidelong glance. "Ah, but we did find your limit, did we not?"

"That's the scientist in you, always testing boundaries." He dropped into the chair. "But I believe further research is still needed."

"We shall see."

After the events in Russia two months before, the pair had been visiting each other often.

He also kept in touch with Yuri. Tucker owed the man a large debt. Not only for saving his own life, but for getting Father Bailey to a hospital in time. The priest had survived his ordeal, but his recuperation would be a long one. Yuri had also arranged for the body of the young pilot, Fadd, to be recovered from its stone cairn in the Arctic park and given a proper burial.

As a small recompense for Yuri's efforts, Tucker had finally relented about the dogs that his boss, Bogdan Fedoseev, had wanted. Tucker had refused to give up Marco or Kane, but he had agreed to train a new pair—although he had never promised which breed.

Maybe a pair of French bulldogs .

Still, any training would have to be performed here, not in Russia. He was certainly not welcome back, not after all that had happened.

And it wasn't just him.

Elle had resigned her position at the botanical gardens in Saint Petersburg. Life in the Russian city had become untenable. Though the dust had settled, there were many, especially under the current regime in Moscow, who had failed to appreciate her efforts in the Far North.

The same was true for Sister Anna, who experienced an unspoken animosity among the hierarchy of the Patriarchate's Holy Synod. Painter Crowe had arranged a spot for Anna in a diocese in Chicago, where she was settling well. Jason made sure of that, following her like a smitten puppy under the guise of helping her.

Tucker recognized a lost cause.

Keep hoping, kid.

He stared over at Elle—not sure himself where this would lead, especially as she had taken a position at the University of Cape Town. Elle clearly still missed her home in Saint Petersburg, but Africa was a hothouse of plant life, many species still yet to be discovered. She was clearly excited for this next step in her career.

And she hadn't totally abandoned her former life.

A loud hiss announced the arrival of a large orange tabby, who must have finished his round of mousing and ratting in the outlying barns. The male cat bounded onto the porch rail and growled at the domain before him. It had taken Elle a week to trap the feral stray near her apartment in Saint Petersburg and bring him here, but he was adjusting well to his new surroundings.

Marco lowered his head and backed away cautiously. A few claw smacks across his nose had taught him respect.

"Hush, Nikolai," Elle scolded. "We're guests here."

The cat swiped his tail twice, spat his disagreement, and leaped away.

Marco retreated to Elle's side. She patted his flank, reassuring him. "He's not as mean as he looks."

Marco wasn't buying it and slunk lower.

"Keep him company," Tucker said. He took a final swig of his beer and stood. "I need some quality time with someone who is feeling sorely neglected."

Tucker picked up the red Kong football.

Kane leaped up, his front leg giving out slightly for a moment.

"Who's up for some catch?" Tucker asked, while signaling Marco to stay.

Kane ran across the veranda, vaulted over the steps, and raced across the sunlit grass. There was no limping, no favoring of a limb, simply joy.

"That's my boy."

Kane spies the spin of the rubber ball through the brightness. He tracks it with one eye as he races under its flight. It arcs high, then falls earthward.

He rushes to meet it.

As it comes down, he jumps high, twisting his length, muscles stretching. His teeth catch and clamp. He savors this victory, landing in the warm grass. He spins a circle, showing his triumph.

He then rushes back, flipping the ball high.

His packmate catches it just as deftly.

They are one.

Always.

Kane prances away, dancing his jubilance, knowing down deep it can't be forever. It won't be always.

But for now...

He faces his man.

One more time, one more time, one more time...

11:44 a.m. EDT

Takoma Park, Maryland

"Sixteen minutes until D-day," Monk sounded off.

Gray paced the small room off the main chapel. The ceremony was set to begin at noon. He checked his watch, then shook down the sleeve of his black Armani suit. He straightened his tie, clipped with a silver ∑ symbol. He ran a hand over his slicked hair, but a stubborn cowlick defied his efforts.

"Quit fussin'," Kowalski said. "You're not gonna get any prettier."

The two men were his groomsmen, as stiffly dressed as he was. None of them looked comfortable in their suits. They were built for tactical gear and boots. He scowled down at his polished dress shoes. He rubbed at the toe of one with the heel of the other.

"If you scuff that," Monk warned, "Kat will murder you in your sleep. She's already read the riot act to the wedding photographer."

"Because she's taking her maid-of-honor duties seriously."

Monk feigned offense. "Are you slighting my efforts as best man?"

Kowalski grunted. "That bachelor party sucked. You ran out of alcohol."

"A problem very much due to you," Monk reminded the large man. "I ordered enough for a small platoon."

Kowalski rubbed his forearm where he had been stabbed. "It was for medicinal purposes. For the pain. Doctor's orders."

Monk scowled. "It's been two months and—"

They were thankfully interrupted by Painter as he knocked and entered. "The bridal party is all set," he reported.

"So, Seichan didn't make a run for it," Kowalski noted.

Gray knew the man was joking, but that worry did lurk at the back of his mind. Still, even with the pressure of the wedding, Seichan had seemed more settled over the past months. There was a new calmness to her. It was not necessarily a sense of peace—that was not Seichan—but more the impression of an inner resolve, a centering that had escaped her until now.

He knew a large part of that had to do with Sigma regaining its footing. The group had identified and eliminated the bomber of the Smithsonian Castle. The remainder of Valya's organization was systematically being picked apart and snuffed out. Likewise, the events in Russia, especially on the polar ice cap, had been acknowledged by those in the upper echelons in D.C. Through Sigma's efforts, a global war had been avoided. Since then, all talk of dissolving the group had faded.

Still, Gray knew Seichan's calmness was not solely due to the firming of Sigma's standing in D.C. With the fall of Valya and her organization, Seichan was less shadowed and haunted. Gray and Seichan had talks about this, usually in bed, in the dark, where it was easier to bare one's heart. Her past with the Guild had scarred her deeply. It was never going away, but by finally burning away the last vestiges of the Guild, those lingering shadows left behind, represented by Valya and her group, Seichan now felt freer, able to heal that old wound.

Maybe not fully, but enough.

Painter crossed to Gray, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Don't know if you want to hear this now. I got news from Russia about an hour ago."

Gray frowned, worried, but happy for any distraction. "What is it?"

"Archpriest Sychkin hung himself in his gulag cell. His body was found this morning."

Gray nodded, not surprised, only disappointed. The bastard deserved to suffer longer, but the world was better off without him drawing air. Gray suspected that Sychkin's activation of the failsafe device, calling hellfire upon Hyperborea, had nothing to do with preserving Russia's position in the Arctic, and was all about ending his own suffering—and taking down as many people with him as possible.

Dying alone in his cell?

Gray could live with that, especially knowing the lingering effects of that selfish act. He had seen photos of the blast's aftermath. The residual heat of the explosion and the radioactive glow continued to keep the ice melted for miles around the site. The peaks had been shattered or damaged, marking the grave of those ancient people.

Still, Jason's recordings of what had been found below were being studied by academics around the globe. Likewise, there was renewed interest in the unusual genetics of bowhead whales, and their ties to longevity. As to the sarkophágos species, it was not likely any plants survived, but for now, no one would get any closer to look, not until it all cooled down.

Gray inquired when that might be. "Any further word about the radiation levels up there?"

Painter sighed. "It'll remain hot for years. And the environmental effects will last even longer. Still, the act has forced the Russians to throttle back their ambitions in the north. After the NOAA satellite recorded and broadcast what had happened, the Russians have been more cooperative, maybe begrudgingly so. Still, that accommodating attitude has extended to another site."

Gray looked at Painter. "Where?"

"The Golden Library—or at least what remains of it. Russia has opened its doors to researchers around the globe, including those from the Vatican. Likely it's their attempt at regaining a measure of goodwill."

"Has Father Bailey had a chance to revisit the site?"

Painter lowered his eyes. "Not yet. And I'm not sure he'll ever want to. Lots of ghosts there. Plus, his rehab continues. He's having a hard time of it."

"Understood." Gray tried to change the subject. "I heard that Captain Turov has been named as the new admiral of Russia's Northern Fleet."

"He has. Nothing like being cheered as a national hero after he saved all those lives aboard the Ivan Lyakhov . The world all watched that daring rescue. While a few of his superiors might have resented some of his choices and actions, none dared challenge the surge of public opinion. Especially for a country that needs to make amends to the world."

"What happened to his boss, the former commander of the Northern Fleet?"

"Glazkov?" Painter shrugged, showing a slight smile. "He's vanished, but I don't believe it was of his own volition."

Gray nodded.

Good riddance .

"On better news," Painter said, "the Polar King is again plying the seas. As I understand it, they are being greeted at every port with raucous celebrations for their efforts. And not a single member of the old crew chose to abandon the icebreaker."

Gray was happy to hear it.

"Two minutes," Monk warned them all, tapping at his wrist.

Painter headed for the door. "Which means I'm needed elsewhere."

Once the director was gone, Gray took a deep breath. Monk's countdown reminded him of Byron ticking down the time left to them on the Polar King . Only this time hopefully it wouldn't end in a nuclear explosion.

He pictured his last sight of Hyperborea, burning under the polar sun. He recalled a discussion he'd had with Sister Anna back in the Golden Library. It concerned Catherine the Great's decision to keep the lost archive hidden, along with the secret it held: the location of Hyperborea. According to Anna, the Russian empress must have believed that her world wasn't ready for the wonders and horrors of Hyperborea. All of Catherine's puzzles and hoops were aimed toward one goal—as a test to prove some future generation was wise enough and cautious enough to receive such knowledge.

Gray shook his head.

After all that had happened, the answer was grimly clear, as plain as a fiery plume mushrooming into the Arctic sky.

We were not.

"Time's up," Monk announced.

Gray stirred back to the present. He gathered with the other men. There were some final congratulations and jokes as they departed the room and crossed the short hall to the front of the chapel.

Once there, Gray took a breath and stepped before the altar, where a priest clutched a book to his chest. The man nodded to him, as if checking to make sure he didn't have cold feet.

Gray turned away. He had leaped through fire, been shot at countless times, stabbed even more, and faced down ferocious beasts, and now—he had survived a nuclear blast.

I can do this .

He faced the small gathering, forty or so of their closest friends and family. Monk and Kowalski stayed at his side. As the music started, his gaze fell upon his son, Jack. The boy fidgeted next to Jason, whose sole wedding duty was to keep the young boy out of trouble, likely one of the hardest chores.

Jason nodded back to Gray. Sigma's tech expert had recovered after everything and had even put in a request with Painter for future field assignments.

The kid must be gunning for my position .

Gray returned Jason's nod.

Fat chance .

Motion drew his eyes as the rear doors opened. The first through were two flower girls, the daughters of Monk and Kat. They cast petals from baskets and crossed with all the solemnity of priests at a high mass. But halfway down, the pair started throwing petals at each other, and much giggling ensued. Still, they made it to the front and were scooped up by an aunt and uncle.

The bridal party came next, floating in billows of crimson chiffon, with Kat trailing the last of the bridesmaids.

Monk whispered next to Gray. "I'm the luckiest man."

"I might argue with you about that," Gray said as Seichan stepped into the chapel.

Painter presented her, holding out an elbow.

Seichan rested a hand delicately on his forearm. She was dressed in dark crimson, her veil and train snow-white lace. Her bodice was snug, sculpted of oil-black leather that accentuated her every curve.

Gray gaped at her approach down the aisle, at her leonine grace. When they had first met, she had been dressed in motorcycle leathers. He appreciated this small nod to that moment, marking the anniversary of their first encounter, a meeting that ended in a fierce firefight.

He silently promised to never let that passion wane.

Upon reaching the end of the aisle, Painter stepped aside to let Seichan cross the last steps to the altar on her own. She turned and squeezed the director's arm, not to hold him there, but to express her thanks.

Kowalski used this moment to lean and whisper to Gray, "Last chance, buddy. Getting married? Sure that's wise?"

In the big man's words, Gray heard an echo of his earlier ruminations.

As Seichan climbed toward him, he reached down and took her hand.

Wise or not...

Gray didn't care and smiled with all his heart.

And to hell with being cautious .

He stared into her eyes, challenging her.

Let's throw caution to the wind.