Free Ark of Fire by C. M. Palov Page A

disappeared during the Babylonian—Are you all right?”
    “No, I feel—” About to tell a lie, she instead said, “I’m scared, hungry, and exhausted. Take your pick.”
    “Would you like something to eat?” He gestured to the pastries and desserts on the espresso bar.
    “I’ll pass on the dessert. But if you wouldn’t mind getting me another cappuccino . . . ?”
    “I’d be only too happy.”
    Excusing himself, Caedmon got up from the table; Edie followed him with her gaze. Although he spoke with a proper English accent and possessed a proper English name, albeit an antiquated one, Caedmon Aisquith’s red hair, blue eyes, and tall height fairly screamed of a Scot in the woodpile. A really smart Scot, Caedmon Aisquith was a one-man brain trust. That intelligence was admittedly a turn-on, the mind being the sexiest organ a man could possess. Had she and the strangely named Brit met under different circumstances, she could easily envision herself asking him out on a dinner date.
    When Caedmon returned, setting a steaming cup of cappuccino in front of her, Edie smiled her thanks.
    “Tell me, when you gazed upon the Stones of Fire, did you notice anything extraordinary, or strange, or even mystical?”
    She gave the question a moment’s consideration. “No. Should I have noticed something out of the ordinary?”
    “Difficult to say. Biblical scholars believe that once garbed with the breastplate, the high priest could foresee the future, as though the hand of God had momentarily pulled back the curtain of time.”
    “So then the breastplate was used as some sort of divination tool?”
    “Only secondarily. The primary function was that of a conduit between the high priest and God.” Caedmon paused a moment, letting the factoid sink in. Or maybe he was considering how much he should divulge. Decision evidently reached, he continued. “Specifically, the high priest used the breastplate to control and harness the divine fire contained within the Ark.”
    About to take a sip of her cappuccino, Edie lowered her cup to the table.
    “The Ark? As in the Ark of the Covenant?”
    “None other.”

CHAPTER 12
    . . . blessed be God Most High, who has delivered your enemies into your hand!
    “Praise be, praise be,” Boyd Braxton whispered as he recited his favorite Bible passage. Finished buttoning the dark blue janitor’s shirt, he unzipped the pair of cheap polyester pants and tucked in the shirttails. Then, not willing to mess with his juju, he cupped his balls. “You’re the man, B.B. You are the man.”
    He’d been out of boot camp only a few weeks when his mess buddies had taken to calling him “B.B.” As in Big Bang . As in the fact that he could outdrink, outfight, outfuck any man in the unit. The fighting part landed him in the brig more times than he could recall, Boyd damned with his father’s murderous temper. The colonel said his temper was a cross he had to bear. Like Jesus lugging a hundred and ten pounds of lumber all the way to Calvary. It was a daily struggle. Sometimes he took the day. Sometimes the day took him.
    A quick glance at the name badge sewn on the front of the matching blue jacket indicated that the black man sprawled at his feet was named Walter Jefferson. Blood seeped from his head and dribbled from his snot box; the janitor had broken his nose when he hit the deck.
    “Sorry ’bout that.” Boyd snickered, figuring it’d be a couple of hours before the man came to. Since the colonel had been adamant that everything be by the numbers—i.e., no more screwups—he’d taken the extra precaution of stuffing a dirty rag into the janitor’s mouth. Then, trussing him up like a big Butterball turkey, he’d secured his hands and feet with a belt. He’d fucked up at the Hopkins Museum, but this time there would be no more dumb-ass boot mistakes.
    Removing his pistol, Boyd popped the mag. Fifteen rounds. He only needed one to kill the Miller broad, but it was always a good idea to