Chapter Seventeen #2
Emmett handed over the cup before taking his seat. “What case do you want to start with?”
“Something that isn’t in the files.”
“You aren’t going to get me into trouble, are you?”
“Of course not. It’s a project I’m working on with Giles.” He gave Emmett a quick summary of the museum case and the stolen ceremonial dagger. “I want to find out more about the weapon that was stolen.”
“Okay, but we also need to line up some more cases, so how about you make a short list from that mess of files on the floor while I do some research.”
“Fine,” Bryn sighed. “I have coffee, so okay, but I think I’ve got the worst side of this deal.”
They worked for an hour before Bryn got bored. He returned to sit next to Emmett. “So, what have you found so far about our fancy knife?”
“I’ve only had an hour, Bryn.”
“Yeah and I know you. You work faster than me, Gunnar and Giles together.”
Emmett, blushed. “Okay, so it’s not just a fancy knife,” Emmett said. “It’s fascinating. The Ottoman dagger, called a khanjar, dates back to the court of Mehmed the second. I’ve found references to it in several occult texts, which is a bit freaky.”
“I wasn’t expecting that! What kind of references?”
“According to this,” Emmett said, turning his screen so Bryn could see, “it was one of five ceremonial daggers created for a specific ritual. The daggers were supposed to have been consecrated with the blood of five different supernatural creatures.”
“Gross,” Bryn said. “Any idea what the ritual was for?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Emmett pulled up another document. “Most sources are vague, but they all point to some kind of summoning or binding ritual involving human sacrifice. I found out that three other knives have been stolen too.”
“That doesn’t sound good. This thief gets around, wonder if he or she has frequent flyer miles.”
“All the thefts seem to have followed the same pattern. Inside jobs, minimal security disruption, targeted extraction of only these specific artifacts. I’d say they were stolen to order.”
“So someone is collecting ritual daggers. For what?”
“I guess that’s what you need to figure out.” Emmett handed him a stack of printed materials. “You can start with these. They’re translations of Ottoman court records regarding the creation of the daggers.”
Bryn groaned but took the papers. “And here I thought I’d escaped the paperwork.”
“Gunnar’s always saying that good detective work is only ten percent excitement. The rest is grunt work.”
“You got that speech too, huh? Fine. But while I read, you can tell me if Warden is as intense in personal situations as he is at work.”
“Bryn!”
“What? It’s a legitimate question.”
Emmett’s face had turned an impressive shade of red. “I’m not discussing this with you. I brought you coffee!”
“Your reaction is answer enough,” Bryn said with a grin, turning his attention to the papers. “Now let’s see what these creepy daggers were really made for.”
As they dug deeper into the research, the historical significance of the daggers became clearer. They weren’t just a valuable antiquity, at the time they were believed to be powerful magical tools created for a specific purpose.
“Look at this,” Emmett said after an hour of silent reading. “According to this account, the daggers were commissioned by a secret sect within the Ottoman court. People who believed they could harness supernatural powers through blood magic.”
“That cannot be good,” Bryn commented, skimming through his own documents. “Wait, this says something about the daggers being used to ‘bind the essence of the five powers’. Is that referring to the supernatural creatures, do you think?”
“I’d say so.” Emmett pulled up an image on his computer. “Each dagger has different markings, look. Symbols representing different kinds of supernatural beings.”
“And someone is collecting all of them,” Bryn mused. “I wonder why Giles is so interested.”
“The others were stolen from collections in Paris, Dallas and Shawnee, Oklahoma.”
“So including the Boston one, they already have four out of five. I wonder where the last one is.”
“I haven’t had a chance to research yet.”
“Always the overachiever,” Bryn teased. “I guess we should get back to other work but if you get a chance, try to track down the fifth one.”
“Okay. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“For you, maybe. And seriously, not even a hint about you and Warden?”
Emmett sighed but there was the ghost of a smile on his face. “Focus, Bryn. Work first, gossip later.”
“Fine, but I’m holding you to that. I need deets.”
“Then I get to ask questions about Gunnar.”
Bryn smiled sweetly. “Well, he’s about eight inches, thick, and he can go—”
“Oh my God! Stop! You don’t have any shame, do you?”
“Not a shred.”
* * * *
After more hours of file reading, Bryn was more than ready for an outing, even if was only to the FBI field office in Boston. He and Gunnar were escorted through security and up to a conference room where Special Agent Bell was waiting for them.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite GCR team,” Bell said as they entered. “Come to complicate my life again?”
“Good to see you too, Bell,” Gunnar replied. “We’re here to talk to your special guest.”
Bell’s expression turned serious. “She’s been a tough nut to crack. In fact, she’s been a pain in my ass.”
“That’s why we’re here. Bryn can help us get to the truth faster.”
“I don’t expect she’ll cooperate with a truth read.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Gunnar said. “Her memory and intent should give us something.”
“Okay, but I’m sitting in.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Bryn lifted his glasses so he could glare more effectively at the two of them. “If you two have quite finished with the bromance, can we get on with this?”
Gunnar shot him an amused glance. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”
“The donut shop, preferably.”
“Oh, well in that case, I guess we’d better get rolling.”
Bell shook his head. “You two are…unique.”
He led them to an interview room where Agent Mercer sat waiting at a table. She looked bored but her expression hardened when she saw who had entered.
“I should have known they’d send you eventually,” she said. “I’m surprised it took this long.”
“Mercer, or is it Hammond?” Gunnar said, taking the seat across from her. “Whoever you are, we have questions.”
“I’m sure you do, but I’ve told the FBI everything I know,” she replied.
“Which was squat,” Bell snarled.
She smiled. “I won’t be answering any questions from the augur either. How dumb do you think I am?”
“Aw shucks,” Bryn said. “Shall I answer that one?”
“Best not,” Gunnar replied. “Maybe she isn’t important enough to know anything and this is all designed to waste our time.”
“That must be it.”
A muscle twitched in Mercer’s jaw.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Bryn removed his dark glasses, revealing his intense green eyes. “I’m going to need to touch you.” He stripped off his gloves, slapping them down on the table.
“It’s either this or we keep you in custody indefinitely,” Bell said. “Those black sites you’ve heard about…all real. It’d be the work of a minute to disappear you.”
Mercer didn’t resist when Bryn stood next to her and grasped her wrist. The moment he made contact, the room disappeared.
He zeroed in on her strongest memory first and it was raw with grief.
“I see a cemetery. There’s rain falling and mourners dressed in black.
Their faces aren’t clear, as if she doesn’t really see them.
There are crosses and Russian words carved into the headstones.
She’s standing beside an open grave, watching as a coffin is lowered into the ground.
She’s cold but doesn’t care. A man puts his hand on her shoulder.
He says, ‘He will pay, Katarina. I promise you this. He will pay for what he did to our boy.’ His voice is heavily accented.
That’s it.” Bryn switched his focus to intent. “Oh, oh wow.”
The intensity of emotion crashed over Bryn like a physical wave.
It was followed by the familiar spike of pain behind his eyes that always came with difficult readings.
This one was worse than usual. The combination of overwhelming grief and cold, calculated murder was like acid on his mental defenses.
He released Mercer’s wrist and staggered back, one hand pressed to his temple as the migraine hit him like a sledgehammer.
“Fuck,” he gasped, fumbling for a chair. The room spun, and he could taste copper in his mouth.
“Bryn?” Gunnar was at his side, helping him into a chair. “What did you get?”
“Give me a second,” Bryn managed, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. “That was…extreme.”
Mercer—Katarina—watched him with cold satisfaction. “Hurts, does it? Good.”
“Well, aren’t you fucking a ray of sunshine,” Bryn griped, though his usual snark was dampened by the pounding in his skull. He looked up at Bell, blinking to clear his vision. “She’s not FBI or government and she’s not working for Russo. This is family business for her. Russian, I think.”
Bell’s eyebrows shot up. “Russians? That’s a new wrinkle.”
“Her real name is Katarina. A relative, I’d guess her brother, died in one of Russo’s operations, and she’s out for revenge.” Bryn rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pressure. “But here’s the kicker. She’s not planning to capture Russo. She wants him dead.”
“How dead are we talking?”
“Very dead. The kind where she takes her time about it,” Bryn said.
“She intends to garrote him. She’s rehearsed it over and over in her mind, wants him to know he’s dying, wants to watch his face as she slices the wire into his windpipe.
Her intent is crystal clear. She wants Russo to suffer the same terror as whoever it was that died. ”
“My brother. Pavel. Russo had him executed. He was shot in the face,” Katarina said.
“Well, that changes things significantly,” Bell said. “I know this case. Pavel Kozlov was the heir apparent to the Kozlov crime family, based out of Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.”