Sword Of God

As always, I’d like to start off by thanking my parents, Andrew and Joyce Kuzneski. They’ve been with me from the very beginning—literally—and their love and support have never faltered. I feel truly blessed to be their son.

Professionally, I’d like to thank Scott Miller, my remarkable agent. Before we teamed up, I couldn’t find a publisher. Now my books are available around the world. While I’m at it, I’d like to mention Claire Roberts, my foreign agent, and the entire staff at Trident Media. Every time I hear from them, they have more good news.

Speaking of which, the best news I’ve received so far was my deal with Berkley. It’s been a pleasure to work with my editor, Natalee Rosenstein. She took a chance on my last book,
Sign of the Cross,
and I’ll never forget it. Thanks for all you’ve done. The same can be said for Michelle Vega and everyone at Penguin. I have nothing but compliments for the entire Penguin Group.

Next, I’d like to thank Ian Harper for living in L.A. When I’m writing, I tend to call him in the middle of the night with all kinds of strange research questions, and that three-hour time difference means he’s actually awake. Thanks for being there!

Finally, a big thanks to all the readers, booksellers, and librarians who have read my books or recommended them. Obviously, at this stage of my career I need all the help I can get, so I truly appreciate your support.

He who leads a holy war wields the sword of God.

—Paccius, Roman general (circa 27 ad)

Saturday, December 23

Jeju Island, South Korea

(sixty miles south of the Korean Peninsula)

The boy could smell the blood from fifty yards away. A strong, pungent odor that made him gag yet piqued his curiosity. Common sense told him to turn around and get some help. His father. His mother. One of his neighbors. Anyone who could protect him from what he was about to discover. But common sense rarely mattered to an eight-year-old.

Especially when he was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

The valley to his right was lined with camphor trees, many seventy-five feet tall and a hundred feet wide. The path in front of him was rugged, made of black volcanic rock that dominated the subtropical island and formed its very core. The temperature was cold, in the low forties, but would climb steadily as the day wore on, a by-product of the nearby Kuroshio and Tsushima currents. The sun was still rising over the eastern sea when he made his choice. He zipped his jacket over his nose and inched forward, following the stench of death.

For years his family had warned him about this place, claiming it was built for evil. It was a story that wasn’t difficult to believe. Sometimes, late at night, he could hear the screams—bloodcurdling shrieks that oozed down the hillside and jostled him from his sleep. The first time he heard them he assumed he was having a nightmare, but the sounds didn’t stop when he sat up in bed. In fact, they got louder. This went on for days, weeks, until he could take no more.

He had to know the truth.

Ignoring his family’s wishes, he snuck into town and asked one of the village elders about the sounds from the hill. The old man laughed at the boy’s audacity. He, too, had been a curious child and felt this trait should be rewarded—but only if the boy could understand the truth.

“Look at me,” the old man ordered in Korean. “Let me see your eyes.”

The boy knew he was being tested. He stared at the old man, refusing to blink, hoping to prove his courage even though his palms were sweating and his knees were trembling.

Tension filled the hut for several seconds. The entire time the boy could barely breathe.

Finally, the old man nodded. The boy was ready for the truth, if for no other reason than to keep him afraid of the place on the hill, to keep him alive. Sometimes fear was a blessing.

With a grave face and a gravelly voice, the old man whispered a single name that was known throughout Jeju, a place that sent shivers down the boy’s spine and woke the hairs on his neck.

Pe-Ui Je Dan.

The boy gasped at its mention. The place was so infamous, so ominous, that other details weren’t necessary. He had heard the stories, just like everyone else on the island. Yet until that moment he had thought they were just a myth, an urban legend that had made it across the Sea of Japan for the sake of scaring children into doing their chores. But the old man assured him that wasn’t the case. Not only was it real, it was close. Just up the path.

At that moment, the boy promised that he’d never venture up there. And he meant it, too. It was a vow he intended to keep. Not only for his safety, but also for the safety of his village.

Unfortunately, all of that changed on the morning he smelled the blood.

As strange as it seemed, there was something about the scent that attracted him. Something magnetic. Animalistic. One minute he was walking to the store, the next he was tracking the scent like a wolf. Crunching up the rocky path, looking for its source as if nothing else mattered. Sadly, this happened all the time in the world of children—courage and curiosity taking them places where they didn’t belong— yet rarely did it lead them into so much danger.

The boy didn’t know it as he trudged up the hill, but he was about to kill his village.

Thursday, December 28 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The Payne Industries Building sat atop Mount Washington, high above the city of Pittsburgh. It was a vantage point that showcased one of die best skylines in the country. From his office, Jonathon Payne could see the confluence of three rivers (die Monongahela and Allegheny flowing together to form the Ohio), two pro sports stadiums (
PNC
Park and Heinz Field), and a World War II submarine (the
USS
Requin).

Yet on this day, the thing that captured his attention was the helicopter.

He heard it roar down the river valley, nearly brushing the Gateway Clipper and the top of the Smithfield Street Bridge. It soared over die twinkling lights of Station Square and flew parallel to the 635-foot track of the Monongahela Incline, a landmark built in 1870. The old-fashioned cable car chugged up the hill at six miles per hour, a slow pace compared to the chopper, which banked sharply and aimed right toward Payne’s building.

The glass and steel structure was built by his grandfather, a self-made millionaire who went from mill worker to mill owner in less than thirty years. Payne revered the man, yet had bypassed the family business for a career in the military. There he’d led a Special Forces unit called the MANIACs, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the top soldiers that the Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counterguerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best.

Payne reflected on those days as he listened to the roar of the chopper while it hovered outside his window. It transported him to another time and place, back when he carried a gun for protection and a knife for fun. When he risked his life and killed for his country without giving it a second thought. Back before his grandfather had died and left him a corporation to run. That was the main reason he had left the military—to honor his grandfather’s dying wish.

The shrill of the desk phone cut Payne’s memories short. Annoyed, he let it ring a few more times before he answered, finally turning to face the window to see who was calling. He stared at the chopper, eye to eye, more than a thousand feet above the city. The only thing separating them was three inches of bulletproof glass and Payne’s reluctance to get back in the game.

“This is Payne.”

“This is Colonel Harrington. Sorry to drop in like this, but we’ve got a situation.”

Payne had heard those words hundreds of times before, and it always meant trouble. Once in his lifetime, he wanted to hear the term
situation
followed by a dose of good news.

“Colonel, I’m guessing you didn’t get my memo, but I’m retired.”  Harrington growled. “I’m guessing you didn’t get
my
memo. I don’t give a fuck.”

The chopper landed on the building’s helipad, where it was greeted by four armed security guards who questioned the pilot and searched the aircraft before escorting the colonel inside. Unarmed, he wore the domes of a civilian—khaki pants, white dress shirt, black overcoat—an outfit that would have blended in with the business world, if not for his dramatic arrival. Normally Payne’s visitors parked in the garage under the building instead of on the roof.

Then again, his entrance wasn’t the only thing that stood out. There was something about Harrington, a quality that one noticed but couldn’t put a finger on. Maybe it was his board-straight posture or his striking white hair, shorn tight on the sides. Whatever it was, he had a presence. An air. One felt it when he walked into a room. The man commanded attention.

Payne waited for him in the conference room, a chestnut-lined chamber equipped with the latest audiovisual gadgets—computers, plasma screens, high-speed connections. Plus it was windowless, which was the best safeguard against laser-guided listening devices. Or getting
lased,
as the military calls it. A single video camera, mounted in the far corner, tracked Harrington as he strode toward Payne, who stood at the head of the conference table.

Instead of saluting, Harrington simply nodded. “Colonel Joshua Harrington, U.S. Army.”

Payne looked him straight in the eye. “Jonathon Payne, U.S. Navy. Retired.”

“Yes, Payne, you’ve made that quite clear. Still, I think you’ll want to hear me out on this.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it involves you.”

Payne was not surprised. “That’s a shocker.”  Harrington sneered and sat in one of the leather chairs. He waited there, poker-faced, until Payne took a seat as well. “This also involves that buddy of yours, David Jones. Is he here?”

Payne nodded. “Yeah, I think he’s still around. Do you want me to get him?”

“No need. I’ll get him myself.” Harrington pointed toward the video camera in the corner of the ceiling, then pointed to the chair next to Payne. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here shortly.”

Payne grinned, duly impressed. The colonel was in the room less than thirty seconds yet had properly assessed the situation. Jones was watching them from an adjacent room, running a background check on Harrington while Payne handled the small talk. The fact that the colonel was able to sort things out so quickly said a lot about the man. Somehow it proved his worth.

So did the credentials that appeared on Jones’s computer screen. Harrington was a graduate of West Point and earned his silver eagle the old-fashioned way: by going to war and being a hero. In fact, the more Jones read, the more surprised he was that he’d never met him before. His resume read like a Tom Clancy novel. Only six hundred pages shorter.

A moment later, Jones entered the room with the look of a busted schoolboy, a combination of shame and embarrassment that would have been much more apparent if his flushed cheeks showed through his black skin. He was tempted to offer an apology but realized it wasn’t necessary. He was simply running security on an officer he had never met. It was protocol.

“So, did I check out? Did I pass your little test?” Harrington pulled his bifocals from the inner pocket of his overcoat and slipped them on. “Or do you want my fingerprints, too?”

Jones was tempted to flip him off and say,
Yeah, let’s start with the middle finger.

But Payne didn’t give him a chance. “So, Colonel, what can we help you with?”

“Who said anything about
helping
me? Do I look like I need your help?”

Payne and Jones exchanged glances. They were confused by Harrington’s tone.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Payne said, “but you just buzzed my building with your chopper and demanded to speak with me
ASAP
. My guess is you’re either here for help or you’re out delivering Christmas cookies. And if that’s the case, you’re three days late.”