The Quest of the Empty Tomb Read online

  THE QUEST OF THE EMPTY TOMB

  By Elyse Salpeter

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. While certain places are real, the incidences regarding them are works of the author.

  Copyright © 2015

  Amazon Edition

  Published by Elyse Salpeter

  Cover created by LLPix Photography

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in print or electronic version without permission from the author.

  This ebook is licensed to the original purchaser only. It cannot be sold, transferred, shared, or given away.

  Dedication

  I am dedicating this novel to a pair of Gentlemen who may never know this novel is dedicated to them. I started this book with the intent of writing a series with a smart and sassy heroine and a storyline that I thought they personally might enjoy reading.

  I’d also like to thank my beta readers, and extra pair of eyes, Nicole Wears, Monica Rodriguez and Elizabeth Marie Thomas. You three are so wonderful and I’m so thankful to have you by my side.

  Lastly, I’d like to thank Ms. Constance Pasquier for her assistance with various French references, my UK Peeps on twitter who helped me out with British slang, and both Mr. Dwane Wears and an amazing marine named Vic, who both offered me advice on weaponry so I could make this novel more realistic.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  BONUS CHAPTER: THE CALL OF MOUNT SUMERU

  Other Books by Elyse Salpeter

  THE QUEST OF THE EMPTY TOMB

  Chapter 1

  THE PIER

  “Dammit, they were supposed to be here two days ago. Gisborne, I’m telling you, the intel was wrong.”

  It was two a.m. and the detectives were back at the docks for the fifth night in a row. A rash of illegal and classified weaponry making its way to the United States from the Middle East had been reported and tracked to this location. They’d been told another shipment was supposed to have arrived two days prior, but it still hadn’t shown.

  Detective Sean Flanagan swiped at the sweat dripping from his brow. It was hot on this breezeless August night and his partner knew he wasn’t happy. “We’ve been had. It had to have come in somewhere else.”

  Desmond stood on the edge of the platform and examined the dock, searching for anything he might have missed. The abandoned warehouses were silent and empty, and the pier was quiet. Gentle waves from the Hudson River lapped gently against the broken and decayed planks. An occasional coo from a dove, or a flap of pigeon wings, were the only sounds to mar the silence and tranquility of the evening.

  “We definitely missed something,” Desmond mused. “Sharif was sure it was coming in here. He tracked the shipment leaving the Middle East.”

  “Sure, my ass,” Flanagan snorted. “Wheedling the info out of a bunch of drunken Syrians isn’t what I’d call ‘sure.’ Probably blitzed out of his mind on Barada beer the entire time. Not so hard when you’re partying on the government’s dime.”

  Desmond exhaled. “Let’s do a final check of the wharfs on Harper’s Row and then call it a night.”

  The detectives moved across the jetty and made their way downtown to the last set of piers.

  A lone figure in black emerged from the side of one of the derelict buildings and watched the officers leave. He was tall and muscular, and his military camo gear covered his body so tightly every single inch of his imposing physique could be discerned.

  Once the detectives were out of his field of vision, the figure hoisted on a bulky backpack and silently moved to the edge of the pier. Framed by a face mask, piercing hazel eyes stared down into the black waters of the Hudson River. A shuffling noise caused him to draw his gun, but it was only a dove.

  He holstered his pistol, dropped the sack to the ground and removed a small device from the side pocket. With extreme care he lowered the unit soundlessly into the water. Then he took out his cell phone and dialed a number. From where he stood, he could see the faint yellow glow of a sensor illuminate beneath the surface of the river.

  Seconds later a scuba diver silently surfaced.

  The man retrieved the sensor, returned it to his backpack, and then grabbed a rope the diver held out to him. He pulled hard, arm muscles bulging with the weight as a large container, half the size of his own body, emerged from the water. He hoisted it onto the landing and with a crowbar he removed from his pack, ripped it open. With a knife, he skillfully sliced through the packaging and nodded when he saw the ten illegal Gyrojets nestled within. Developed in the 1960s, these modified rifles were vastly different than regular pistols. With traditional guns, the bullet reached peak velocity inside the gun barrel. Gyrojets fired using a solid propellant motor, which meant the rounds didn’t reach peak velocity until roughly twenty yards out of the muzzle. The smuggler stared at the guns, noting they’d made the added modifications he ordered. A guidance system with directional control, along with stabilizing fins. These were basically lethal rocket launchers in pistol form. Untraceable, silent and with zero recoil. Perfect, deadly weapons. He hefted one of the boxes of 13mm ammo, moved aside a few more packages, and frowned. Something was missing. He glanced back at the diver and spoke in Syrian.

  The diver took out his mouthpiece and answered. Seconds later, the smuggler reached back into the container and removed two of the guns, laying them gently on the pier. Then he pushed his hand deeper into the packaging. His fingers closed on an eight-inch tall glass vial. He pulled it up and examined the live plant clipping trapped inside. Silphium. The yellow flowers of this ‘thought to be’ extinct species were just starting to bud. He placed the tube in his pocket.

  The diver said something else and the smuggler reached into his backpack, removing a hefty wad of bills that he’d secured in a sealed, waterproof bag. He handed the payment to the diver. Without another word, the man took it, secured it to his person, and disappeared back into the water.

  The smuggler replaced the guns, closed the container and hoisted it to his shoulder. He quickly made his way inside the warehouse where he’d stashed his other supplies. It was one of his largest arsenals in the city.

  He pulled back the hidden panel and punched in the code. With a hiss, the door opened and he descended into the sub-basement. At the bottom, he dropped the container with the Gyrojets into a storage container and then keyed in another series of codes to open the next entrance. With care he took out the vial and carried it across the antiseptic steel corridor and into the greenhouse.

  “You have it?” The question came from a hulk of a man bent over a microscope. He didn’t glance up.

  The smuggler pulled off his facemask. “I do. How’s that sample look?”
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br />   His colleague grunted. “It’s perfect, of course.”

  The smuggler moved to his own work station. He put on gloves, and with meticulous care extracted the clipping and planted it next to the other specimens. His coworker joined him and they spent an excessive amount of time adjusting the temperature readings and making sure the soil moisture reading was accurate. They couldn’t allow it to get too wet. If the plant got a fungus before it went to seed, there would be nothing either of them could do for it.

  The coworker leaned in and sniffed. “Smells just like fennel.”

  The plant’s licorice-like aroma meant that it was growing perfectly, and while the flower’s petals had its own uses once it bloomed, it was the seeds they needed.

  The smuggler turned to the cooling and drying unit where he’d stored the other plant’s seeds. He adjusted a few more readings. Inside was a year’s worth of work, already enough for the first round of tests.

  The coworker turned to him. “How much more do we need?”

  “More.” Much more to execute his plan. A plan that would change the course of the world.

  “Do they know we need more time?”

  “They know everything is going according to schedule. That’s all they need to know.”

  The coworker grunted. “According to schedule. Get rid of Gisborne and everything will go according to the schedule. He’s getting in the way.”

  The smuggler nodded. The cop had compromised this last shipment, and he’d nearly lost this clipping. It was the only one left in the Middle East, and he’d paid a small fortune for it. He’d had only one last day to get it into the soil, or it would have become non-viable.

  Another shipment was expected in five more days. This one would contain a plant from Asia, a particular specimen supposedly so toxic they’d built a special room just for its cultivation. Even their backers didn’t know about this one. It would be just one of the cards they kept up their sleeves.

  Unless Gisborne got in their way again.

  “Our lives would be so much easier if we just got rid of him. He’s so damn predictable it would be child’s play.”

  “Really? You know she’d never forgive us if she found out. You want that on your head?” The smuggler and his partner stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then, without another word, they set to locking up the labs.

  Each changed out of his clothing and collected his belongings. Together they made their way out of the warehouse.

  Four blocks towards the east side of Manhattan, the dealer’s cell phone rang. He brushed his dark locks away from his ears, glanced at the caller I.D. and answered it.

  “Hey, Sis, how you doing? What’s the matter? Can’t sleep?”

  “Ari, I just had another bad dream. I’m staying at my apartment tonight while Desmond works that case I was telling you about. I know it’s late, but can you please come over?”

  Ari arched his eyebrows at his friend. “Sure, Kelsey, give me twenty minutes. And, hey, I’m hanging out with Josh. He’s back in town for a while. We’ll be right over.” He ended the call.

  Josh shook his head. “Gisborne better start watching his back.”

  And the man known only to the New York City Police Department as “Misterio” disappeared with his partner into the depths of the New York City subway system.

  Chapter 2

  THE LETTER

  One week later…

  Kelsey’s eyes snapped open and her heart pounded. She turned her head to stare at the clock. The neon green blazed 3:30 am.

  The jingling. There it is again, just like last night.

  She let her eyes adjust and peered into the gloom. The remnants of her nightmare were clinging to her thoughts and she shivered. Just breathe. It was only a dream.

  She heard a set of locks and chains tumble and click, and realized it was just Avel from the brownstone next door. The groaning of the one hundred-year-old door hinges confirmed it. He was just leaving to open his deli for the day.

  A clash of metal and a string of Russian curses followed when he dropped his keys on the concrete stoop.

  She had to stop being so on edge, but for some reason her heart didn’t calm down completely. She couldn’t quite place it, but the dream seemed to stay with her and strangely, she suddenly felt queasy. She hadn’t felt nauseous like this in years.

  Through the open window, Kelsey heard Avel shuffle down the steps and up the sidewalk until his footfalls faded and blended together with the faint sounds of the taxis coasting down Columbus Avenue.

  Desmond snorted.

  She turned to him and before she could even tense, her boyfriend flipped over, flung out his arm and thumped it heavily onto her chest. Hard enough to hurt. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek and he began snoring loudly. She still hadn’t gotten used to sleeping next to him. This rose has definitely lost its bloom. For a moment she imagined being in the tranquility of her own bedroom downtown. Her satin sheets and bedroom filled with the scents of the Orient would definitely be a step up from Desmond’s cotton sheets and the smell of his cat’s litter box.

  A light cough sounded outside, so close it might have been right on his doorstep. She waited, wondering if it had come from a vagrant just trying to find a place to sleep for the night. A minute passed before she heard a sigh escape the stranger and realized the person hadn’t left.

  Extricating herself as delicately as she could from Desmond’s embrace, she slid out of his bed. He stirred, but didn’t wake. In the dark, Kelsey moved silently through the carpeted hallway of Desmond’s brownstone and down the staircase. Her footfalls were muffled by the thick Berber runner.

  The mahogany door featured a stained glass window, and through it she glimpsed the shadow of a man. Turning on the outside light, Kelsey peeked through the peephole. It wasn’t a homeless guy standing there, but a college-aged kid, squinting at the sudden glare. He clutched a thin manila envelope to his chest.

  Kelsey unlocked the three locks, removed the chain and opened the door.

  The kid stared down at her. He was magazine-model cute and wore a Boston University long- sleeved t-shirt, ripped blue jeans and navy blue converse sneakers. He gripped the envelope so tightly his knuckles were white. If he didn’t let up, he was going to tear the thing in half.

  She opened the door further and took a step forward. That queasy feeling she had before was stronger now. She unconsciously put her hand to her stomach and rubbed it lightly.

  I must be coming down with something.

  The boy’s gaze traveled from her face, down to her ample cleavage peeking through the V-neck of her red satin nightgown, and settled there. His eyebrows arched as if in disbelief. “You’re Kelsey Porter?” He spoke directly to her chest in an accent that was distinctly French.

  “Yes, I am, and my eyes are up here, on my face, by the way.”

  He moved his eyes reluctantly back to hers.

  She waited him out, but the kid didn’t say anything further. She had to look up at him. Pegging him at about five eleven, with broad shoulders and a slim waist, he reminded her of a swimmer. Dirty blond hair peeked out from under a Red Sox baseball cap and curled at the nape of his neck. His features were sharp and nearly feminine, accentuated by his pale skin and full pink lips. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow as if he had walked here too quickly. But it was the shape of his eyes that stood out for her. They were so unusual, and yet they reminded her of someone. They were almond-shaped, light blue and widely set. They dipped down at the outside edges and rimmed with dark lashes most girls would die for. A sense of déjà vu overcame her.

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, but you know my father.” His voice held an angry edge. He stared at the envelope, then released one of his hands and flexed his fingers. They were long and slender, like a pianist’s, except these were calloused, as if he worked outdoors. His nails were bitten to the quick.

  A cool breeze whipped up and Kelsey rubbed her bare arms. The negligee did nothing
to help keep her warm on this cooler-than-normal August night, though the kid was sweating bullets.“So, what do you want, or do you normally deliver letters to people’s homes at three o’clock in the morning?”

  “Do you know what I had to do to find you?” he asked. “I couldn’t figure out where you worked or where you went to school, and you haven’t been at your apartment for the past two days. I had to beg your doorman to tell me where you were.”

  Kelsey raised her eyebrows. “And he just told you?” I’m going to have to have a talk with Viktor in the morning.

  The kid grunted. “I told him it was a matter of life and death. I also gave him a hundred dollars. You can pay me back later.” He thrust the envelope at her as if it burned his hands. “Take this. I don’t know why my father left this for you in the first place. I mean, you’re barely older than I am. And from what I’ve seen so far, just a typical American girl. How are you supposed to do anything?”

  His hotness factor just dropped by ten degrees. Annoyed, Kelsey took the letter from him and slid her finger under the flap.

  The guy stayed her hands with his, and when they touched, she flinched. His fingers were hot to the touch and she glanced up to see him shaking with anger. She tensed and readied herself for a problem. This guy may be trouble, but he has no idea who he’s messing with. She already didn’t like him. Go ahead. Let him try something.

  He released her hands quickly and took a step back. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” He put his hand to his head and swiped at the sweat covering his brow. He stared at the moisture on his fingers, first in surprise and then in disgust. He wiped his hands on his jeans and his eyes flashed with anger. He pointed at her. “Look, I’ve done everything he’s ever asked, studied everything he ever wished, put up with all the weeks and months and years away from me when I needed him most and instead of asking me for help, he asks a stranger he hasn’t spoken to in nearly sixteen years. It doesn’t make any sense.” A load of obscenities in French flowed from him, words she understood perfectly.