Chapter One

  If Tommy Huston walked through that door, O’Neil wouldn’t know whether to punch him in the face or give him a hug. Probably both, but in what order, he could not be sure.

  This is why the patrons of the Premièrement Bar, located in the seediest part of Leopoldville, were giving the stout Irishman a wide berth. They could sense his ambivalence and, in a man whose most startling feature was the gleaming metal hook that protruded from the left sleeve of his linen jacket, any sense of displeasure was a sign to stay back.

  Even the bar’s owner, the small and oily Belgian, Max, was keeping away. He’d brought O’Neil his jenever in a dirty glass and, though the Irishman was not a gin drinker by nature, he had downed it and ordered another. After bringing the second glass, the Belgian had stood awkwardly at the bar, doing his best to appear disinterested in the grizzled veteran adventurer.

  O’Neil rubbed his tanned and worn face, a mug that would never be described as handsome, although the word “striking” had occasionally been uttered in its description. He sloshed the liquid in his glass and reviewed the message he’d received via courier the night before.

  O’Neil. Your presence is requested in the Premièrement Bar at noon. Your unique talents are required. Don’t let me down. -T. Huston

  Tommy Huston. The closest thing that Armless O’Neil had to a friend in the dozen or so years he’d been living in the wilds of Central Africa. Tommy had been a companion on countless adventures, a thorn in his side, a womanizer and a reckless soul, but a brave and loyal ally nonetheless. Once, O’Neil had thought him dead and now, he might as well be.

  He was married and living in London, last O’Neil had heard. Tommy-boy had finally found a woman to make an honest man out of him, and O’Neil hadn’t caught a whiff of the man in several years. He’d known that Tommy would survive amidst the turmoil that had been ravaging Europe, but still, O’Neil had never expected to see him again.

  But now, he was waiting for Tommy to walk back into his life.

  Instead, what came through the door was an even bigger form of trouble.

  All O’Neil saw was a blur of raven hair as a tiny, muscular woman burst through the beaded curtain that marked the front entrance to the Premièrement, a bullet nearly grazing the top of her head as she ducked. The bar splintered with its impact.

  O’Neil was fully prepared to ignore the woman as she dashed past his table, until he saw the visage of the man following her.

  Or, rather, the lack of visage.

  The figure that lumbered into the bar in hot pursuit was nearly as broad as O’Neil. He was dressed, however, quite differently, with knee high, polished black boots, and a crisp gray uniform, emblazoned with the unmistakable emblems of the Nazi party.

  O’Neil had encountered his share of goose-steppers in the Congo (in increasing numbers, unfortunately). For the most part, they left him alone, and he stayed out of their way. Matters in Europe and Northern Africa would sort themselves out. In the meantime, O’Neil’s life remained relatively unaffected by the new Great War.

  But this man was different from any Nazi—or any other person—O’Neil had ever seen. Where his face should have been was a smooth metal plate, running down the left side of his skull, stretching across his chin and halfway up the other side. He had no nose, a bare slit of a mouth, and a single, bloodshot eye gazing out with a look of anger and a tinge of madness.

  O’Neil saw all of this in a split second, as the Faceless Man tore into the bar after the woman who had, apparently, taken refuge behind the imposing form of O’Neil himself.

  “Help me, O’Neil,” she hissed, much to his surprise.

  Before he could question her about how she knew his name, O’Neil was forced to defend himself. The Faceless Man, seeing that his prey had spoken to O’Neil and was now hiding behind him, decided to turn his attention to the grizzled Irishman.

  Holstering his weapon, the huge Nazi brought forth from a sheath on his back an ida, a long, narrow-bladed sword, and swung it in a swift, practiced motion at O’Neil’s neck, looking to sever the man’s head from his body with one fatal blow.

  But O’Neil had survival instincts honed through years of facing imminent danger and, even though he was in his mid-forties, his reflexes were as fast as ever. His left arm shot up to block the weapon strike. For most people, this would have been a costly error, resulting in the severing of a hand and the loss of a great deal of blood. For Armless O’Neil, though, it was the perfect defense.

  With a clang, the blade struck O’Neil’s hook, sending a shock of vibration through his body and his enemy’s weapon. Grunting, O’Neil twisted his arm, wrenching the weapon from the Nazi’s pained grasp, and flinging it across the bar, where it embedded itself in the wall with a clang, barely missing the ear of the proprietor.

  The Faceless Man, growling with anger, lunged toward O’Neil, who lashed out with his right fist, hammering the Nazi in the stomach, then smashing his hook on the back of the man’s neck, knocking the soldier’s black cap to the floor.

  “Back door. Now,” O’Neil spat, not even looking at the woman behind him. He didn’t want to stick around to see if the German thug had brought friends. He took off past the other patrons who were huddled against the walls in fear, moving with purpose through the back room where the casks of sour wine were kept, through a crooked tin door and out onto the streets.

  As he exited, he turned, for the first time, to see that the woman had indeed followed him.

  She touched him on his arm—the right one. “Thank you O’Neil. Tommy said you would help me, but I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  He didn’t respond at first, instead, he grabbed her by the wrist. “Come with me. We’re not safe yet.” He pulled her along, out of the alley and through the market. The crush of bodies would serve to obscure their path. Once they had cleared the crowd, he dragged her into a pawnshop he frequented.

  “O’Neil!” came the jovial call of the shopkeeper. “I have more guns, sir. The kind you like.”

  O’Neil gestured with his hook toward the door. “Leave us.” The shopkeeper, taking stock of the situation and knowing O’Neil as he did, nodded curtly and stepped outside.

  “Now,” the adventurer said, turning to the mystery woman. “What is this all about?”

  Chapter Two

  “Tommy told me you could help, that I could trust you. He said to mention Tamba and the blue diamond. That you’d understand.” She was a bit out of breath from their chase, and her speech was fast, almost pressured.

  Now that O’Neil had a chance to look at her, he noted how striking she was. He estimated her to be in her mid-thirties, short but muscular, as if she had lived a life of constant motion. She was pale, far paler than anyone who spent any time in Central Africa had any reason to be. Her hair was dark and stylish, cut short at an angle that was undoubtedly considered chic on the continent. At least she was dressed in appropriate clothing, though her pants, boots and jacket looked like they had just been purchased within the last few days.

  Seeing her shaking with fear, O’Neil pulled a flask out of his linen jacket and offered it to her. She nodded and took one long pull from it, wincing as the foul liquid passed her lips.

  She coughed twice and returned the flask. O’Neil downed the rest of the liquor, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and spoke. “So the note was a lie. A trick to get me into that bar, waiting for Tommy. Not a good first impression if you want my help.”

  “A trick? Not at all.” She cocked her head to the side, waiting for a response. When she did not receive one, she continued. “Tommy never mentioned me? His favorite cousin?” She reached out her right hand by way of introduction. “Tamara Huston.”

  O’Neil took her hand, shook it vigorously. “Tammy?”

  She let out one sharp laugh. “No. I prefer Mara.” O’Neil nodded. “I suppose if Tommy never mentioned me, he never spoke about his favorite uncle?”

  “Never.”

  “Dr. Sophocles Huston, professor of archaeology at Oxford. He’s the one who needs your help. He’s looking for something, and if it falls into the wrong hands, well, the fate of the entire world may hang in the balance.”

  “Well then,” said O’Neil. “What are we waiting for?”

  Chapter Three

  After letting the rattled shopkeeper back into his place of business—and after a fair donation of francs to lubricate their further relations—O’Neil made certain he and Mara were not followed on their way to the Professor’s hotel room. O’Neil had little doubt that the Faceless Nazi had other agents at his disposal, agents who were certainly looking for her and, presumably, her father.

  That was only one topic he planned on broaching when he had the two of them together.

  A few minutes later, in a dingy, windowless hotel room in the seediest part of town, he had that opportunity.

  “Tell me everything. And start with the Faceless Nazi.”

  Looking at the Professor closely, O’Neil saw that the old man did indeed bear a resemblance to Tommy Huston. He was an older, more wrinkled version, of course, but O’Neil could see the same twinkle in the man’s eye and the same boyish smile. The academic was tall and lean, a beanpole of a man with a shock of straw hair and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his thin nose. Unlike his daughter, who, in point of fact looked nothing like him, he was not dressed for the conditions, outfitted as he was in a tweed jacket, creased slacks and wing-tipped shoes.

  “Fritz Fleischer? You’ve seen him?” O’Neil nodded, and the Professor shot a glance at his daughter. “He followed you? You told me you’d be careful.”

  Mara winced visibly. “I was, father. It was blind luck. He was at the market, not even looking for me, but,” she blushed and looked down, “I’m afraid a small, pale woman like me stands out in the crowd.”

  “Why is he after you?” O’Neil asked. “What’s this all about?”

  “A mask,” the Professor answered simply.

  “A mask?” O’Neil asked. He had traveled the length and breadth of the Dark Continent in search of treasure of all sorts: diamonds, ivory and even mahogany, but the tribal art of the region had never held much interest for him. “Why would the Nazis care about a mask? Why would you?”

  “This Kuba Mask is quite legendary, Mr. O’Neil. It represents the visage of the god Woot, a powerful deity filled with great wisdom, capable of regenerating from any wound, even the deadliest.”

  O’Neil had heard the tales. One did not live in the region for as long as he had without absorbing the culture. “Nothing but superstition.”

  “But what if it’s not a legend at all?” O’Neil shot the Professor a dubious look. “Well, if you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll trust der Fuhrer.

  “Go on.”

  “Hitler himself sent Fleischer to retrieve the Kuba Mask. It’s well known that Hitler is obsessed with the arcane, searching for artifacts from Rome and Jerusalem. But it seems that he’s turned his eyes to Africa now.”

  O’Neil continued to frown at the Professor. “Show him the journal,” Mara implored. The Professor sighed and reached for a satchel that lay on the bed. As the old man did so, O’Neil glanced at the woman. She seemed convinced that this story was something more than nonsense.

  Dr. Huston pulled out a worn leather book and placed it firmly in O’Neil’s good hand. “Look at what I have here. The maps. The drawings. The firsthand accounts. This is all the evidence the Nazis need.” He gripped the Irishman on the shoulder. “Even if you don’t believe, Fleischer certainly does. And, on the off chance that this mask really can do everything I believe it can, we cannot let him acquire it.”

  Frowning, O’Neil considered the book. He was not much of a reader, normally, but it was worth a look. He thumbed the journal open, revealing a detailed map of the Congo River, which O’Neil knew well. He recognized certain markings on the map. Markings that indicated a deep knowledge of the terrain and culture. Perhaps this Professor was not a total loon after all.

  But, before he could give voice to the questions that had sprung into his mind, the world exploded.

  Chapter Four

  Armless O’Neil had survived beatings and gunshots and attacks by wild animals. He was as tough as he was ugly and harder to kill than an angry Alpha elephant.

  But the explosion that ripped the front door of this seedy little hotel room nearly did what the legions of soldiers, natives and savage creatures could not.

  It almost took his head off.

  The fireball tore through the wall, sending shards of wood flying directly toward the three occupants of the room. The moment he heard the sound and felt the heat, O’Neil’s instincts activated. The drive for survival moving his legs, he leapt toward the back corner of the room, grabbing Mara in the process and diving behind the small bed.

  It was over in less than a second. There was not even enough time to scream.

  Recovering quickly, O’Neil popped to his feet and surveyed the damage.

  The room was totaled and The Professor was down.

  First ensuring that Mara was merely stunned, O’Neil vaulted the wreckage of the meager furniture and knelt next to the old man.

  He was dead.

  There was no doubt about it. This Professor, the uncle of one of his closest compatriots and a man he hardly knew, was dead on his watch.

  O’Neil would avenge the old man’s death and he would work to his last breath to ensure that the one responsible, Faceless Fritz, would not retrieve the prize he sought. And, for good measure, he would kill the Nazi.

  He reached down and took the leather-bound volume from the dead man’s cold hands. He slipped it into the pocket of his linen jacket and retrieved his automatic from his shoulder holster.

  Then the room erupted in gunfire.

  Crouching low, O’Neil crept back behind the shattered remains of the bed as bullets screamed over his head.

  “Your father is dead,” O’Neil said bluntly. “We’re getting out of here.”

  He wasn’t sure how he expected Mara to react, but she wasn’t hysterical, nor did she cry or wail or panic. “Just tell me where to aim,” she said as she pulled her own pistol from the waistband of her pants.

  O’Neil suppressed a small smile. “Follow my lead,” he said, rising to a kneeling position and readying his weapon.

  And, an instant later, his targets came straight through what used to be the front door.

  The two black-clad thugs were clearly junior Nazis in the employ of Faceless Fritz. Blonde and pale, they would have been as out of place in the Leopoldville market as O’Neil would be at a Carnegie Hall concert.

  But they had a military bearing and posture, and were armed to the teeth.

  O’Neil and Mara took them out with a pair of quick, well-placed shots.

  He looked at the woman next to him, the cousin of his longtime comrade, realizing that she might be even tougher than Tommy Huston himself.

  O’Neil gave her a quick nod of recognition, leapt over the table and, gun at the ready, ran out into the streets of Leopoldville, Mara following in his wake.

  Chapter Five

  Faceless Fritz, it seemed, was as cocky and arrogant as every other Nazi that Armless O’Neil had ever had the misfortune of encountering.

  One explosion and two not-too-bright thugs were not enough to take out the seasoned adventurer, though perhaps the Faceless Nazi didn’t realize who O’Neil was. Perhaps he thought he could bully the old man and his frail (ha!) daughter with a big explosion and a couple of handguns. He could take what he wanted—the journal—and then use it to obtain his prize.

  The Kuba Mask.

  After O’Neil and Mara had eluded the two Nazis that had been tasked with tailing them to the hotel, they faced no further obstacles as they fled. But knowing that Fritz would soon learn of his minions’ failure and redouble his efforts to capture them, O’Neil led her directly to the river. They had no time to waste. They needed whatever head start they could muster. O’Neil could only assume that Faceless Fritz would not be delayed by one small setback, and he would be wise to monitor the fastest way out of town. The River.

  So O’Neil and Mara would take flight and could compare notes along the way.

  To her credit, Mara said nothing, merely following O’Neil’s lead. She had just survived a gunfight and witnessed the death of her father, but she did not pause to cry or question their actions. She merely followed, placing her trust in the large Irishman.

  He would not let her down.

  Fortunately, O’Neil knew lots of people who owed him favors, people he could trust… and who would not ask any questions.

  And, if the gem was clear and sufficiently large, Edgar Akingbade had the fastest boat and the most tightly-closed mouth.

  Fortunately, O’Neil always carried with him a single blue diamond he kept as a reminder of one of his first adventures with Tommy Huston more than a decade ago. A quick whisper in the ear of the short, ebon-skinned trader and a lacing of his palm with the rare gem secured their transport and immediate departure.

  O’Neil would have preferred time to prepare, securing supplies and studying the map and the details of the journal, but he knew they were in a chase, and he was going to win.

  Less than an hour after they’d shot two Nazis dead in the streets of Leopoldville, Armless O’Neill and Mara Huston were on their way down the Congo River, in search of the legendary Kuba mask.

  Once they were in motion, the humid air of the Central Congo speeding past their ears, the quiet humming of the boat’s captain, Edgar, lilting through the deck, O’Neil pulled out the journal and waved it at Mara.