The Tomb of Hercules

by Andy McDermott

  And beyond her was Chase. Their eyes met, just for a split second. Then he looked away, not at Sophia…

  But at his outstretched hand.

  Nina instantly knew what he wanted her to do.

  She flung herself across the room at Sophia just as she picked up the gun and spun to shoot—

  Nina tackled her at shin height. Sophia wavered, then fell backwards, landing on Chase’s hand—and the dart clutched in it.

  Sophia’s eyes went wide as she felt the metal spike stab into her back, knowing what it was, what was about to happen to her. “No!” she cried, the shriek falling to a strangled gasp as the toxin took effect.

  Nina released her legs and pulled the gun from her trembling hand. She threw the weapon aside, then looked down at Sophia’s terrified face.

  “Help me …” Sophia barely managed to whisper. “Please…injection…”

  “There’s an antidote?”

  “Yes … in dart gun …” Her eyes flickered in the direction of the abandoned weapon.

  Nina checked it. Clipped under the barrel was a small metal tube. She opened the cap and tipped the contents into her hand; a syringe.

  Sophia watched pleadingly, eyes begging her for help, but Nina just regarded her coldly for a long moment. “There’d better be enough for two people,” she said, holding up the syringe. “Because if there isn’t, I’m going to sit here and watch you die… bitch.”

  “Well,” said Chase, surveying the room from the couch, “the apartment’s fucked.”

  “You know what?” Nina replied, curling up next to him. “You were right. It’s not really us. We can get somewhere nicer. And cheaper.”

  “We’ve probably lost our deposit, though.”

  She nodded at the bullet holes in the counter. “Oh, ya think?”

  The antidote had worked; it only took thirty seconds before Chase could move again. She had been sorely tempted not to give what was left to Sophia, but he persuaded her to deliver the lifesaving drug—once he had retrieved the gun.

  An alarmed neighbor had already called the police after hearing the gunfire, and it didn’t take the NYPD long to arrive, finding Sophia tied up on the couch with Nina triumphantly holding the gun on her. There were some jurisdictional disagreements when the FBI and Homeland Security turned up soon afterwards over exactly who should take custody of the country’s most wanted terrorist, but it was quickly decided they could be settled after Sophia was securely locked in a cell. She gave Nina and Chase a final hateful glare as she was handcuffed, then was hustled away, leaving them alone to contemplate their wrecked apartment.

  “So,” Chase said, putting his right arm around Nina, “any chance of that coffee?” She pointed out the broken coffeemaker lying on the floor. “Ah. Guess not. Why’d you throw that and not Fidel? You could’ve finally got rid of the ugly bugger.”

  “He’s not so bad. Thought I’d give him a second chance.”

  Chase got her meaning. “Well, probably a good thing. Coffee keeps me up all night anyway.”

  “I can think of something else that’ll keep you up all night,” Nina told him suggestively.

  He feebly raised his broken arm. “What, in this state?”

  “Oh, you can just lie there, I’ll do all the work. See? New position.”

  They looked at each other, then both burst into uncontrollable laughter, the tension finally released. “Oh, God,” Chase said at last, “I can’t believe we made it. After everything that’s bloody happened, we actually survived. We’re still here.”

  “Still together.”

  He looked into her eyes and smiled. “Yeah. Still together. Back together.”

  Nina seemed about to say something, then stopped. “What?” Chase asked.

  “I was just thinking …”

  “What about?”

  “The question of yours. When we were on the ship, you said there wasn’t much point asking it.”

  “Yeah…?”

  “Well, we’re not on the ship anymore.”

  “But we both know what your answer was going to be,” Chase said with a sly smile.

  “I know! But…” Nina smiled back. “I still want to hear you ask me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “All right, then.” Chase slowly and stiffly stood, then carefully lowered himself onto one knee in front of her. He winced as various bruises and battle injuries jabbed at him. “Ow, buggeration and fuckery, that hurt.”

  Nina raised an amused eyebrow. “Those aren’t quite the words I was hoping to hear from the man I love when he got down on one knee…”

  “How about these, then? Nina Wilde …” He took hold of her hand, then looked into her eyes, his face and voice completely, totally sincere and heartfelt. “Will you marry me?”

  Nina smiled for a moment making a show of considering the question. But Chase had been right. They both already knew the answer.

  ANDY MCDERMOTT is a former journalist and movie critic who now writes novels full-time following the international success of his debut thriller, The Hunt for Atlantis, which has been sold around the world in more than twenty languages to date. He lives in Bournemouth, England. Visit his website at www.andymcdermott.com.

  THE ONE WHO DRAWS THE SWORD

  HOLDS A TERRIFYING POWER IN …

  THE EXPLOSIVE NEW NOVEL BY

  Andy McDermott

  Said to make whoever wields it unstoppable in battle, the legendary blade of King Arthur has been thought lost for over a thousand years—but with a cryptic message to archaeologist Nina Wilde, the hunt begins. From the deserts of Syria to the Austrian Alps, from the English countryside to the arctic wastes of Russia, Nina and former SAS soldier Eddie Chase must battle a merciless enemy who plans to use the sword’s power to plunge the world into a new era of war….

  On sale April 2010

  And the adventure continues in

  THE COVENANT OF GENESIS—

  look for it in May 2010!

  Prologue

  Sicily

  The little church watched over the village of San Maggiori as it had every sunset for seven centuries. The dusty road up from the village was steep and winding, but the local faithful were proud enough of their place of worship and its long history not to complain about the trek. At least, not too frequently.

  Father Lorenzo Cardella was the most proud of the church. He knew pride was technically a sin, but this place belonged to God, and surely even the Creator would allow Himself a moment to appreciate it. Modest in appearance and size, it had for all that withstood weather and wars, invaders and insurgents, since the days of the Holy Roman Empire. God, the priest mused, clearly liked it enough to keep around.

  He took a last moment to appreciate the splendor of the setting sun before turning to the church’s time-scoured oak doors. He was about to lock them when he heard the slithering crunch of a vehicle coming around the road’s final hairpin. A large black SUV pulled itself through the turn, tires scrabbling for traction even with four-wheel drive.

  He suppressed a sigh. The truck—American, he guessed, from its sheer bulk and gaudy chrome—had a foreign registration plate. The idea that churches had opening hours just like any place of business always seemed to escape tourists, who treated the world as their own personal amusement park. Well, this group would have to go away disappointed.

  The truck rumbled to a standstill. Father Cardella put on a polite face and waited for its occupants to emerge. The windows were tinted so darkly that he couldn’t even tell how many people were inside. He held back another sigh. Who did they think they were, Hollywood stars?

  The doors opened.

  Definitely not Hollywood stars. While Father Cardella didn’t want to be uncharitable, he couldn’t help thinking it had been a long time since he’d seen such a concentration of ugliness. First out was the driver, a shaved-headed man with a sallow, almost sickly complexion. He had the look of a
soldier—or a convict. From the other side emerged a giant, a mass of muscle unfolding himself with difficulty even from this oversize vehicle’s interior. His wiry beard failed to camouflage a face pockmarked with scars, the biggest a gnarled knot of skin in the center of his forehead. Whatever injury he had sustained there, he had been lucky to survive it.

  The third person to exit was a woman, whom Father Cardella would have considered attractive if not for her hard, scowling expression and lurid blue-dyed hair, which seemed to have been more hacked than cut as if she had done it herself using a knife, without the aid of a mirror. She quickly turned in a full circle, eyes scanning the surrounding landscape before locking onto him with an uncomfortable intensity.

  For a moment the three stood still, regarding him. Then the woman tapped twice on the SUV’s window. The last occupant emerged.

  He was older than the others, close-cropped gray hair, but had the same hardness to him, an armor forged by the batterings of a brutal life. Somehow, Father Cardella could tell this man was used to treating others as he had been treated himself. His nervousness increased as the man strode toward him, the others automatically falling in step behind like soldiers on the march. He backed up slightly, one hand reaching for the door handle. “Can … can I help you?”

  The leader’s broad, almost froglike mouth unexpectedly broke into a smile, though his piercing blue eyes remained as cold as ever. “Good evening. This is the church of San Maggiori, yes?” His Italian was reasonably good, but he had a strong accent—Russian, the priest thought.

  “It is.”

  “Good.” The man nodded. “My name is Aleksey Kruglov. We have come to see your …” He paused, frowning briefly as he struggled to find the right word. “Your reliquary,” he finished.

  “I’m afraid the church is closed for the night,” Father Cardella told him, still with one hand on the door handle. “It will open again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I can show you round then, if you like?”

  The humorless smile returned. “That is not convenient for us. We want to see it now.”

  Masking his rising concern with dismissiveness, Father Cardella opened the door and backed through it. “I’m sorry, but the church is closed. Unless you want to make a confession?” he added, the words coming out unbidden in a failed attempt at levity.

  To his horror, Kruglov’s smile became genuine, a sadistic leer. “Sorry, Father, but even God would be shocked by everything I have to confess.” His hand jabbed forward in a signal for action.

  Father Cardella threw the door shut, closing the bolt as someone slammed against the wood. He leaned against the oak to hold it shut as he fought rising panic, trying to think. His mobile phone was in a small study at the back of the church; help from the village could be here in minutes—

  Another blow to the door, so hard that Father Cardella was thrown to the ground as the bolt sheared in half. A gnarled, plate-sized hand reached around the edge to shove the door wider.

  He kicked as hard as he could. The door crashed shut, smashing the hand against the frame. A low gasp came from outside, an intake of breath. He waited for the scream of pain.

  It didn’t come. Instead, he heard laughter.

  He scrambled upright. Stumbling down the aisle, he looked back to see the huge man almost filling the doorway, bared teeth glinting in a demented smile.

  Outside, the woman yelled something in Russian. Father Cardella raced desperately for his study.

  “Get out of the way, Bulldozer!” shouted the blue-haired woman. “And stop laughing, you retard!”

  “That felt good!” growled the giant, ignoring her insult. He stepped back, examining his hand. A gash had been torn across its back, blood matting the thick hair covering it. “Ha! The old man kicks like a donkey!”

  Kruglov clicked his fingers impatiently. “Dominika, Yosarin, get the priest.” He gestured to the giant. “Maximov, come with me.” The woman and the shaved-headed man nodded obediently and ran into the church.

  Maximov wiped the blood from the back of his hand with a final grunt of pleasure. “Where are we going, boss?”

  “The reliquary. If the German’s research was right, what we want is in there.” He gestured through the door. Maximov grunted again, this time in acknowledgement, and ducked to go inside. Kruglov followed.

  The priest had reached a door at the far end of the church, and slammed it shut. Kruglov frowned. Either he meant to barricade himself inside until help arrived, or… “Dominika, if he gets outside, stop him,” he called, new strategies instantly clicking into place inside his head. “Maximov, break the door down.”

  Dominka turned and ran back the way she had come as Yosarin reached the other door. As Kruglov had expected, it was locked from inside. Maximov broke into a lumbering run down the aisle and barged into the wood shoulder-first. It was far less solid than the sturdy oak at the church’s entrance—the force of the impact ripped it clean off its hinges. Man and door plowed into Father Cardella’s desk, tipping it over and spilling its contents across the floor.

  Yosarin ran in after him, just in time to see the frightened priest scurry through another door at the rear of the study. “He’s gone out the back!” he warned Kruglov.

  “Go after him!”

  Yosarin took off, passing Maximov as he untagled himself from the wreckage of the desk. “You want me to go too, boss?” the big man asked.

  “No,” said Kruglov. “Let’s get what we came for.”

  The phone was clutched tightly in his hand, but Father Cardella couldn’t spare even the moment he needed to look down and punch in a number as he ran along the narrow path between the back of the church and the steep, rocky slope below.

  He heard a bang—the door being thrown open. They were coming after him.

  Who were they? And what did they want? The reliquary, the leader had said: they wanted something from the church’s repository of relics. But why? The items there were significant only in regard to the church’s history, not for their monetary value—at most they would be worth a few thousand euros.

  Nothing worth coming all the way from Russia to steal…

  He emerged from behind the church, risking a glance back as the path widened. The shaved-headed man was running after him, fists and feet pumping almost robotically At the top of the road he saw the black truck, the woman throwing open the rear door and pulling out a long cylindrical case.

  That escape route was blocked, then, but there was another, an old path winding steeply down through the woods to the village—

  Heart thudding, he headed for the gap between the scrubby bushes marking the start of the trail. It had been a few years since he’d last taken it, but he knew the route well, and unless the man chasing him had the agility of a goat he too would find it tricky to negotiate. Father Cardella just needed him to be slowed for a few seconds, enough of a respite to use the phone. One call would bring the entire village to his aid; the people of San Maggiori wouldn’t take kindly to strangers threatening their priest.

  He reached the bushes. The hillside opened out below him.

  Footsteps behind, getting closer—

  Father Cardella leapt over the edge, black robes flapping behind him like a cape. His foot thumped down among the rocks and roots. The path was a blur, only memory guiding him. Arms flailing, he fought to bring his descent under control.

  A shout from behind, a foreign curse followed by an explosive crackle of branches. Father Cardella didn’t need to look back to know what had happened—his pursuer has slipped and tumbled into a bush.

  He had the few seconds he needed.

  Raising the phone, he stabbed at the keypad to bring up the directory. Anyone in the village would do. He selected a name, pushed another button. A message on the screen told him the phone was dialing. A few seconds to make a connection, another few to get an answer …

  He looked back up the slope as he held the phone to his ear. It was ringing. The bald Russian was still entangled in the bush.
<
br />   Come on, pick up …

  Another figure at the top of the hill, a silhouette against the sunset. The woman.

  A click in his hear, the phone being picked up, “Hello?”

  He opened his mouth to speak—

  The fat cylindrical suppressor attached to the barrel of the rifle Dominika was holding reduced the sound of the gunshot to little more than a flat thump. It was so quiet that Father Cardella never even heard the shot that killed him.

  The reliquary was a cramped chamber behind the altar, low enough to force Kruglov to duck his head. He ignored the inconvenience as he hunted for his objective. The other items in the reliquary, carefully arranged on bloodred velvet inside a glass-topped case, were little more than junk. A very old Bible, the Latin text illuminated by hand rather than printed; a silver plate with a crude illustration of Jesus etched into the metal; a golden cup … the rest of the pieces didn’t even merit more than a cursory glance. He knew what he was looking for.

  There it was. The last item, tucked away in a corner of the case as if even the priest considered it insignificant. It certainly looked it, just a shard of metal barely ten centimeters long, the broken tip of a sword. A circular symbol was inscribed on it, a labyrinth, marked with small dots. Apart from that, it appeared utterly unremarkable.

  But the sight of it made Kruglov smile his cold smile once more. He had to admit that he’d believed the German was either a fraud of deluded, spouting nonsense. But Vaskovich thought otherwise … and only a fool would dismiss his beliefs.

  He pointed at the case. Maximov, practically crouching to fit in the room, clenched his fist and banged it down on the glass. It shattered over the relics. The huge man’s beard twitched with an involuntary smile, and Kruglov wasn’t surprised to see a sliver of glass poking from his hand. He ignored it, long used to his subordinate’s peculiarities.

  Instead, he reached past him into the case, carefully prodding the glass fragments aside until he could lift out the sword piece. After everything Vaskovich had told him about it, he half expected something extraordinary to happen. But it was just metal, inert, cold.