EQUINOX
L.A. Banks
CHAPTER 1
SHE OPENED HER EYES, LISTENING TO THE OTHER goddess murmurs in the moonlight. It took a moment to adjust her thoughts and her understanding to the new era, to the new languages being spoken, to the new weapons available for her use. She sat up slowly, quietly, as a deep sadness claimed her and then shuddered in horror as she became aware of all that had been done.
Silent tears cascaded down her high, regal cheekbones. She tossed a thicket of dark, brunette hair over her caramel shoulders and stood wide-legged, naked and majestic, in a warrior’s stance. Her bow in a tight grip, her quiver filled with deadly arrows, she peered down into the still mountain pool that shimmered like glass.
“I, daughter of the Nubian queen, Leto, a Titan revered in all of Greece, and begat by the Greek god, Zeus, stand I the twin and sister of Apollo—Artemis—and vow by my bow and arrows created by the great Hephaestus and the Cyclopes to avenge this injustice against the wilderness! What have they done?”
Vancouver, Canada…
Vincent D’Jardin rubbed his palms down his face in weary agitation. How the hell his commanding officer had found him at his favorite bar way out here made every muscle coil in his body with tension. But that’s what they did in their profession—find people who didn’t want to be found. Still, it wasn’t right. They’d said after the Delta job in Miami, he’d have some time off. Vincent locked gazes with Major Harcourt for a moment before returning his angry glare to his bourbon. This was bullshit.
“I know,” the major said, sliding onto a barstool next to Vincent and hailing the bartender for a beer. “That’s why I came myself.”
“What’s the job and for how long?” Vincent didn’t look at the man beside him, just took a surly sip from his drink.
The major slid an arrow tip across the bar toward Vincent. “I figured with your background, you might be able to shed some light on this.” He sat back eyeing him. “You’ve heard about them, I’m sure.”
Vincent let out an agitated breath. He’d been undercover in Miami, not under a rock. Who hadn’t heard about the kooks who were abducting CEOs of major mining and lumber firms without a trace and simply leaving dead stags shot up with bronze arrows? From Wall Street to the Amazon, work sites had been disrupted and dead stags had been left everywhere.
It was a seriously vexing puzzle—who could get a twelve-point stag into Wall Street office buildings, past security cameras, without a trace, and then butcher it? To his way of thinking, that ruled out environmentalists. They wouldn’t sacrifice the animal. Had to be terrorists trying to leave some coded message.
But he took grave offense at the assumption that, because the perpetrators worked with arrows as their calling card, he should have some insider knowledge. Vincent stared at the unfamiliar shape that was a three-dimensional cone that was designed to leave a gaping hole in the victim, as well as briefly studied the strange etchings on the sides, then took a slow sip of his bourbon, considering how he would answer.
“You run the markings by the foreign languages boys?” he asked, looking at the arrowhead again but not touching it. Vincent glanced up into his CO’s impassive blue eyes. “Or the guys that specialize in antiquities—or did you think the Owiqwidicciat would have some special Native American insight through his maternal DNA about freakin’ arrows?” He narrowed his glare on the major, becoming more pissed off as he thought about it. “Or, maybe, it would be because my father was French Haitian…perhaps I could check with a voodoo priest and get back to you?”
Major Harcourt sighed and took a swig of beer to wet his dry throat. “Gimme a break, D’Jardin, and drop the chip on your shoulder while you’re at it. I know you’re pissed off about us recalling you so soon for another job, but it doesn’t have anything to do with heritage. You’re the best man for the situation, given where these Artemis bastards are tracking.” He leaned in closer. “Yeah, we decoded it off the arrowheads, and it’s ancient Greek—so we’ve got some Mediterranean assassins, go figure.”
“I’d rather not,” Vincent said, coolly assessing his CO. “I’m on leave, remember? You promised me a month.”
Dismissing the comment, Harcourt pressed on. “You ever heard of this terrorist group, D’Jardin? We can’t figure out if they’re a splinter cell, an individual cell, a gang, bandits just out for financial gain by kidnapping the wealthy, or what. But they’re cutting a swath through Yukon country, crossing international boundaries from the U.S. to Canada and back again using the wilderness as camouflage, and headed—we think—toward pipeline outposts up in Alaska. It hasn’t been publicized yet for obvious reasons, and we were able to cite the Wall Street incident as an isolated, possibly organized-crime-related event…just like we could clean up the other situations that happened on foreign soil, keeping certain details out of the media and on a need-to-know basis. However, they’ve abducted an oil baron…that got presidential attention. Now the powers that be, who are much higher than you or I, want this problem to go away very quickly and very quietly, with a good group to pin it on. No matter what, terrorists did it. That’s the only reason I came to you. We clear?”