Threshold

“Queen and Rook did,” Aleman added.

“Can you search their reports?” The team kept detailed reports of all missions including every action taken, why, and, to the best of their ability, what was said. The process was long and they often ended up with novelettes by the time they were done, but many missions overlapped and what was at the time a minor detail could become important in the future.

Aleman’s response was to begin typing. Thirty seconds later, “Bingo! Queen’s report has him saying, ‘I long ago promised someone I loved that I would refrain from getting directly involved in the world’s problems.’ The context was his refusal to get physically involved in the Hydra mission.”

“But he’s getting involved now.”

“And breaking that promise … to who…” King pounded the table with his fist, but not in anger, in victory. “Acca Larentia.”

Aleman wasn’t used to being the one asking questions. He was typically on the delivering end of strange or pertinent information. “Who?”

“Acca Larentia. She was Hercules’s mistress, said to have been won in a game of dice and later, when he was done with her, married to an Etruscan man named Carutius, whose property she inherited when he died. The property later became known as Rome.”

King’s thoughts shifted, knowing that history, especially when it concerned Hercules, could not be trusted. Over the past several thousand years, his secret organization, the Herculean Society, had systematically altered history by either erasing Hercules’s influence and existence altogether, or heaping on legend to make it unbelievable. The truth that no one knew was that Hercules was more genius than a god-man, and had extended his life through genetic tinkering and boosted his physical prowess, when needed, by consuming adrenaline-boosting concoctions. Immortal, yes. A god, no.

He stood and paced, his energy building as the pieces began coming together. “I’m willing to bet that Hercules was also Carutius, now Alexander Diotrephes. And I think we can safely assume he’s had many names in between. If he was married to Acca, then the promise he made might have been to her.”

He turned to Aleman. “Are there any monuments to her?”

After working the keyboard, Aleman said, “Not a one.”

King frowned, thinking of the fear that Fiona must be feeling and loathing the absolute helplessness he felt. Never before in his life had he felt so powerless. So vulnerable.

“Hold on,” Aleman said. “She was supposedly buried in the Velabrum, between the Palatine and Capitoline hills in Rome. It was once a swampy area, but it’s now covered by the ruins of Foro Romano—the Roman Forum.”

“It fits,” King said. “His last hiding place had been beneath the Rock of Gibraltar, one of the two pillars of Hercules. If the Herculean Society is dedicated to protecting the historical Hercules, it would make sense to set up shop at his most prized locations, especially one housing the body of his one, and only, love in twenty-five hundred years.”

He opened his cell phone and dialed. A moment later he said, “Bring my ride around. Yes. Rome.” He hung up and dialed again, waiting for the other end to pick up. When it did, he got an answering machine. “It’s Jack. I’m on my way to Rome and I need your help. ETA fives hours. Thanks, George.”

No one knew Rome or Hercules better than George Pierce, the man whose inquiries made him a target of the Herculean Society’s cloaked thieves and, later, the mysterious wraiths. He wasn’t sure if Pierce would want to help, but knew he would. King made a mental note to tell Pierce about his mother not being dead and headed for the door as the roar of a two-seat F/A-18 Hornet filled the hangar bay, signifying the arrival of his ride.

“King,” Aleman said, stopping him in the doorway. “About the golems. If that’s what they are, and they are mindless, keep in mind that you’re not just up against dumb hulking rocks. Someone smart is behind this. And they have an agenda that is beyond us. Beyond Fiona.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, but only made it one more step before Aleman stopped him again.

“I’m not sure you will, King. Not this time. Because the last three attacks happened on three different continents at the exact same time. Whoever is behind this is not alone, and has amazing resources.”

King looked back. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that Hercules may not have meant us to figure out where he was. And if you’re right, and find him beneath Rome, he might not be happy to see you.”

“I’m going to make damn sure he’s not happy. We might be named for chess pieces, but he’s done moving us on the game board.”

*   *   *

THE ROAR OF the F/A-18 hit him like a pressure wave as he left Decon and entered the hangar. He held an index finger up to the waiting pilot, who nodded in response as he brought the jet to a stop and killed the engines. King approached his parents, who had been sitting in metal folding chairs on the opposite side of the hangar. His mother looked worried as she sat with her hands over her ears. His father looked positively thrilled by the presence of the jet.

Peter held his hands out toward the jet and spoke to King. “You know, if this was a MiG I could fly you wherever you’re going myself.”

King stopped, looking at his father with a quizzical expression. He really knew nothing about his parents. In many ways they were strangers to him, and small things, like the creases around his father’s eyes that had once given away his jests, now said nothing.

Peter waved at him. “I’m kidding, Jack.”

“Right,” King said, but he still wasn’t sure if the man was joking or not. His parents had been spies. His mother shot a man. That one, or both of them, could pilot a jet at this point wouldn’t be too shocking.

Lynn placed her hand on King’s back and rubbed hard, the way he had liked as a child when sitting through a boring event. “Honey,” she said, standing in front of him. She took his cheek and pulled his face down, while glancing at the jet. “Are you someone important?”

King couldn’t help but smile. For all the secrets his parents had, he had just as many. Whatever documents his mother had seen, most likely an I.D. or message from one of the team, wouldn’t have given away exactly what it was he did. They knew as little about him as he did about them.

But they were family.

King hugged his mother. “The things I do … no one will ever know about them. I’m no one, Mom.”

“You’re a father,” she said.

“Foster parent,” he corrected, leaving his mother’s embrace and standing up straight. “And not a very good one.”

“Bullshit,” Peter said. “Where you’re going, is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” King said, not wanting to lie to his parents and realizing his father wasn’t asking for important details.

“You could get killed?”

“Yes, Dad.”

King could see worry creeping into his mother’s eyes and didn’t want her to break down in tears.

“And you’re doing this for your daughter?”

King thought about the question. It was his job to put his life on the line for all Americans. He did it all the time. But this was different. This was personal. It was for Fiona. “Yes.”

“Son, there is no greater love than a father who is willing to lay down his life for his children.” He took King’s shoulders in his hands. “Do you understand?”

The words resonated with King. He wasn’t a good father. He knew that. How could a single man on the world’s most mysterious and elite Delta team attend to a thirteen-year-old girl? But that wasn’t his father’s point. The point was, he would die to save Fiona.

Strange, that a man who spent the last ten years in prison could make so much sense, King thought, and then held his breath. Peter had gone to jail and suffered the loathing of his son so that he could have a normal childhood. He had given up his life to protect King from the realities of their past. The tough old ex-con, ex-spy, without realizing it, had just told King he loved him.

“I understand, Dad. Thanks.” King headed toward the jet and looked back with a grin. His mother grew weepy as he climbed the ladder. He turned back toward Decon where Aleman stood in the doorway. “Find them