Khyber Pass, Pakistan – 03:17 AM
The mountains breathed.
Dawood Khan noticed it in the way the wind swirled over the pass–a relaxed rhythmic hissing against his skin. His patu scarf, stitched from the coarse wool of tribal sheep, was multicolored in black and white checks and now revealed a dust and sweat coating. It concealed three items: a 1895 British gold coin, a folded landay love poem from his late mother, and a .45 caliber bullet he referred to as "the Judge's Verdict" for traitors.
Razak muttered, modifying his own patu to conceal the scar from a Russian bullet, "The air here hasn't been breathed since continents tore apart." Niswar, a bitter herb that Pashtun hunters chewed to stay awake, and gunpowder were the scents of the wool.
The darkness was broken by Dawood's flashlight beam, which revealed symbols etched into the throat of the cave. Arabic, no. Not even Kharosthi. Something older was responsible for these twisted marks.
At the entrance was a broken tandoor pot with blackened shards. new. These pots were used by tribal shamans to ensnare evil spirits.
Rasak clenched his fingers on his Kalashnikov and remarked, "Mullahs don't come this far north."
"No," Dawood concurred. "But jinn do."
A metallic stench escaped the cave. Blood.
$800 Italian boots were worn by the corpse. private military. Budget-conscious contract killers. His fingers were still curled around an empty Glock, and his throat was ripped open. He had fired each shot.
"At what?" murmured Razak.
Razak gave the paper to Dawood after removing it from the corpse.
Dawood twisted the piece of paper in the direction of his flashlight. The Cyrillic characters scowled in return:
ДРАКОН
Razak gritted his teeth. "Russian? Here?"
"Not just Russian," Dawood whispered. The paper was terribly thick, resembling pulped linen from a factory during the communist era. Additionally, the ink had a faint copper and rotten egg scent.
Then it dawned on him.
The 40th Army.
Soviet forces had searched these caverns for mujahideen in the 1980s. However, the elders of the tribe related more sinister tales of Red Army soldiers who had dug for something that predated the war. Men whose eyes were blackened like spoiled plums and who had returned were speaking in tongues.
In their ravings, one word had repeatedly surfaced:
Drakon.
The walls of the cave appeared to close in on them. The growl returned, but this time Dawood understood the underlying meaning. Not a beast.mechanical.Like a corroded tank tread coming to life after being in the dark for decades.
He remembered his grandfather saying, "The Teeth of the Silk Road guard a vault where the earth bleeds gold... and other things."
The cave let out a breath. Nnnngh... GRRRR... Fire and fury were promised by the low, guttural rumble.
Not the wind. Not settling stones. A wet, shuddering vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once caused Razak's knuckles to whiten around the stock of his rifle.
Through the stone, it vibrated. Not a wolf. Not a bear. Razak's patu slipped from his shoulders due to something that caused his rifle to snap up so quickly.
The satellite phone was buzzing. [ENCRYPTED].
"Khan."The Afghan journalist who had alerted him, Zarmina, spoke in a crackly voice."They traveled to Kabul with the jade dagger. The prize isn't the blade, though. It's the—"
A shot. A gulp. The line went dead.
Silence.
And then—scraping. A damp object dragging on stone.
Dawood removed his pistol's safety by thumbing it off."Light."
The beams of three flashlights came together.
The wall of the cave shifted.
Not stone. Not shadow.
Scales.