The Martyr’s Curse

by Scott Mariani

  Ben stopped. He bent down and picked up the small, hard object he’d just stepped on. It was a loose nine-millimetre round, shiny and new, recently unpacked from its crate. He turned it thoughtfully between finger and thumb.

  Maybe it was because the moment took him straight back to when he’d stepped on the fired nine-mil casing on discovering the massacre at the monastery. Or maybe it was just some preternatural sixth sense developed over too many years of having to try hard to stay alive. But Ben felt the sudden frisson of tension in his back, in his neck and arms and guts, that alerted him.

  He whirled round and found himself locking eyes with the two armed men who’d stepped out from behind storage units fifteen metres away.

  It was difficult to tell who opened fire first. Ben squeezed the trigger of his MP5 and simultaneously grabbed Silvie’s arm and propelled her hard behind a stack of ammo crates at pretty much the same instant as the incoming bullets ricocheted, sparking, off the gun racks where he’d been standing just milliseconds earlier. He hit the deck and rolled and kept firing, saw the men dive for cover. His weapon had a hundred-round magazine. But so did theirs.

  Within seconds, the armoury was an unsafe place to be.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  With the buggy speeding up the final stretch of tunnel before the exit ramp, Streicher was just minutes away from escape. He knew he would never return to the bunker, but it no longer bothered him. His work here was done. The plague canisters were nestled safely beside him in their crate, and the thrill of success was firing his blood.

  Now the exit lay dead ahead. It only remained to open the hatch and get to the chopper, and he’d be gone before anyone could stop him. Streicher reached into his pocket for the remote and used his thumb to punch in the security code.

  It was as he was about to key in the sixth and final number that he felt the hard steel press against his temple, and froze.

  Anton Lindquist reached down with his other hand and plucked the key from the buggy’s ignition. The power shut off, they coasted to a halt in the tunnel.

  Lindquist was sweating from the nausea of the antitoxin, but also from fear. ‘I’m sorry, boss,’ he said in a hoarse, strained voice. ‘But I can’t allow you to go through with this. We’re going back to the lab, and we’re going to incinerate every last molecule of what’s in those canisters.’

  The gun muzzle felt cold against Streicher’s skin. He gulped and tried to sound genial. ‘Anton. What are you saying? It’s almost as much your creation as it is mine.’

  ‘Which gives me as much right to decide what happens to it,’ Lindquist said, sounding more determined now. ‘Every night I’ve lain awake thinking about the innocent lives we’d destroy if we went ahead and released those agents. It somehow never seemed quite real before. Now it is, I can no longer be a party to this insanity.’

  ‘Anton—’

  ‘Please throw down the remote, boss.’

  Streicher hesitated and thought about trying to lash the gun out of Lindquist’s hand. But that Beretta had a light trigger. Any sudden moves and the shot could go off, taking his head with it.

  Streicher heaved a deep sigh and tossed the remote. Keeping the pistol pointed at him, Lindquist got out of the buggy and walked up to where the device lay on the floor. Then he aimed the gun downwards and fired, missed, fired again, three times, and his last two shots blew the remote control apart.

  While the gun was pointed away from him, Streicher saw his chance. He leaped out of the buggy and hurled himself at the Swede. Lindquist was lightly built and went down hard with Streicher on top of him. Streicher knocked away the gun and punched him twice in the face. Lindquist’s glasses broke. Blood specked his nose and lips. Streicher hit him again, then fastened both hands around his throat and strangled him to death.

  Breathing hard, Streicher stood up and recovered his pistol. The remote was a hopeless mess of shattered plastic and circuit board. His only hope of leaving here was to get hold of the other remote, now in the hands of the enemy intruders.

  This would not stop him. No setback, no obstacle, no man born of woman could deter him from the future that was written for him.

  Streicher leaped back into the buggy, pulled a tight U-turn and raced back in the direction he’d come. As he made his way deeper into the bunker, his ears pricked at the sound of distant gunfire. He headed towards it.

  A withering storm of machine-gun fire had Ben pinned behind the cover of the gun racks, sparks cracking off the steel framework and bullets pinging all around him. He’d survived numerous firefights by remaining calm, and he was calm now as he counted off the seconds before the two shooters would inevitably run their weapons dry. Because as exhilarating and empowering as it was to try to hose your opponent into submission by sheer mass of firepower, all good things came to an end sooner or later. Specifically, about 6.66 seconds when it came to emptying a hundred-round magazine through as hungry a weapon as an MP5.

  Ben’s count was off, but only by a second or two before he heard the pause, and rolled out of cover to let off a sustained return blast. A snaking line of bullet strikes chewed up the floor and the wall and sent the two shooters into a hasty retreat behind the storage units left and right of the centre aisle.

  ‘You okay?’ he called across to Silvie. She’d crawled in deeper behind the stack of ammo crates and he could no longer see her. Her hand appeared above the stack, giving him the thumbs-up and gesticulating towards the enemy position. He understood her signal. She was going to try and make her way through the narrow space between the gun racks and the curvature of the tunnel wall, and outflank them. Smart move.

  In the meantime, things were set to get noisy. Ben ditched his near-empty submachine gun and unslung the FAMAS. High-velocity rifle bullets could punch their way into places where the nine-mil stuff just couldn’t reach. He fired into the shelving units the two men had disappeared behind, right and left, a steady stream of single shots to keep them busy while Silvie worked on her surprise manoeuvre. Debris flew. Craters exploded out of the walls. The noise of an unsilenced battle rifle in such an enclosed space was punishing. His ears were ringing after five shots and hurting after ten. A splat of return fire told him the two men had reloaded and were back in the game. He saw movement as the shooter on the right ducked behind a row of boxes that covered a lower shelf. He fired straight into the boxes, figuring that whatever was inside them was unlikely to stop a 5.56 NATO round dead in its tracks.

  The boxes erupted in a violent flash of blue flame and an explosion louder than the rifle, cardboard bursting apart and bits of twisted metal ricocheting everywhere. There was a scream, and the shooter who’d been hiding behind the boxes staggered out and fell into the centre aisle. His left arm and shoulder and one side of his head were on fire, and there was blood on his face. Ben swivelled the rifle, fixed the sights on him and without hesitation shot him twice through the chest. At the same instant, he heard the loud report of Silvie’s FAMAS from the left side of the tunnel. Three rapid percussive blasts, BANGBANGBANG, and the second shooter came spinning out from cover, dropped his weapon and collapsed in a dead heap just a couple of metres from his companion.

  The fire was spreading fast up the shelving unit. Ben spotted an extinguisher on a bracket, tore it down and sprayed foam over the flames. They died back almost instantly, leaving just guttering smoke. He looked at the tattered, singed remains of the box that had exploded and saw the legend CAMPING GAZ.

  ‘That’s what comes of hoarding hazardous materials,’ Silvie said.

  Ben looked down at the body of the man she’d shot. ‘Self-defence that time?’

  ‘He was aiming at you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Tomasz Wokalek,’ Silvie said, prodding the body with her gun barrel. He didn’t move. ‘The other one was Rutger Zwart.’

  ‘I’m counting ten so far,’ Ben said. ‘Including Breslin and the two we didn’t have to kill.’

  Silvie nodded. ‘Looks like Streicher didn�
��t call up reserves, after all. The Army of the Prepared are getting a little thin on the ground.’

  ‘It’s not over until it’s over,’ said a voice behind them. ‘To think otherwise would be a fatal mistake.’

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Ben and Silvie turned. It was Streicher. Their guns were lowered, but his was raised and pointing right at them. In his other hand, he was clutching a plain metal canister that looked like a large stubby aerosol.

  ‘I know you, bitch,’ he said to Silvie.

  ‘Not as well as you think, Udo,’ she replied. ‘Or you’d put that gun down and give this up, right now.’

  Streicher sneered and ignored her. He turned the pistol a few degrees to point at Ben. ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘The guy you should have left alone,’ Ben said. ‘The guy whose friends you shouldn’t have messed with. And the guy who’s going to kill you. Apart from that, nobody much.’

  ‘Think you can beat me?’ Streicher said.

  ‘It’s a done deal,’ Ben told him. ‘Pull that trigger, you die. And I’ll shoot you if you don’t. You don’t get a choice.’

  ‘Maybe you think you can beat this, too.’ Streicher held up the canister with a smile. It dangled lightly from his fingers, upside down with the high-pressure nozzle pointing at the floor. ‘I only have to drop it, and this whole place will be contaminated instantly.’

  ‘That’ll make three of us dead,’ Ben said. ‘What about all the other millions of people you’re planning on wiping out?’

  Streicher shook his head and his smile broadened. ‘No, only two. That is to say, the two suckers who haven’t had the antitoxin.’

  ‘Then drop it,’ Ben said. ‘Go ahead, if you trust the antitoxin so much. Let’s see what happens.’

  Streicher didn’t move. His smile faltered, just a little.

  ‘See, you don’t look that confident to me,’ Ben said. ‘In fact, you look like you’re about to crap your pants. You know you can’t save yourself either way. Even if that was a grenade in your hand, you’d die with us. And if you drop it, we can still take our time shooting you to bits. Face it, there’s just no way out for you.’

  As Ben talked, his hand was inching towards the pistol grip of his rifle. He could see Streicher hesitating, baulking. Most of all, he could see that Streicher wasn’t paying attention to what Ben was about to do. The trick was going to be to shoot him before he could fire the pistol, and without letting him drop the canister.

  Streicher’s face twisted with sudden intent. Decision time. Ben went for his gun, jerking it into a centre-of-mass aim. His finger touched the trigger.

  BOOM.

  The heavy punch of the gunshot that filled the tunnel didn’t come from Ben’s rifle, or from Silvie’s. Nor from Streicher’s pistol. Ben was kicked forward by an impact that lifted him off his feet.

  The rifle flew out of his hands and the ground rushed up to meet him. White light obliterated his vision for a moment and everything seemed far away and in slow motion. As if from the bottom of a murky pond, he heard Silvie scream out in fear and anger. Heard Streicher laugh, and another voice he didn’t recognise.

  Then the muffled clap of a pistol shot.

  He felt no pain, but he was badly hurt and he knew it.

  He rolled on his back, looked up and saw a woman in black standing over him with a combat shotgun in her hands.

  Blond, spiky hair. Red lips. Pale grey eyes, narrowed and full of hatred.

  Hannah Gissel.

  Silvie was down and bleeding from Streicher’s bullet. Ben tried to reach her, but he couldn’t move. That was when he realised that his left arm and shoulder were broken. Warm blood was soaking his back and spreading in a pool under him.

  Hannah Gissel stood over him and shouldered the shotgun for a second shot at close range that would take his head right off. Her cheek settled on the stock. Her knuckles whitened on the pistol grip and her finger began to curl around the trigger.

  Then she keeled over sideways to the sharp crack of a rifle shot and a streak of blood flew from her mouth. Silvie struggled up on to one elbow and shot her again, one-handed. The bullet caught Hannah Gissel in the throat and blew it wide open in a bright red splash. Hannah crunched to the floor.

  In the terrible moment before it happened, Ben saw Streicher’s mouth open in a silent scream of fury and his gun come up as if in slow motion. He saw the jet of flame from the muzzle and the slide slam back and the fired case being ejected. Saw the recoil kick the muzzle in the air, and Silvie knocked back down as if she’d been punched, and the vertical splat of blood hit the wall behind her. Her rifle clattered out of her hands. Ben groaned and tried once more to reach out to her, but then the darkness came gushing in from everywhere and he was gone.

  Udo Streicher could see that Hannah was finished. Blood was bubbling from her mouth and the mess of her throat. Her eyes were rolling wildly in their sockets. Her lips moved, but all that came out of them was another gout of blood and a gurgling sound.

  Streicher bent down over her. He put his pistol to her head and pulled the trigger. Goodbye, Hannah.

  He stood. Looked down at the inert, bloody shapes of the Faban woman and her male friend. Streicher didn’t know his name. What did it matter? Just another dead fool. There’d soon be plenty more.

  He frisked the man’s pockets and quickly found what he’d come looking for. The remote was slick with blood. He wiped it on his trousers, then turned and hurried back towards the buggy.

  This was it. No more stop signs. If he was the last man standing, so be it. He’d release the plague on the world single-handed, one city at a time.

  It wasn’t over. It was just about to begin.

  One eye fluttered open. Then the other. Light filtered through like a lantern in the mist, and slowly the darkness receded enough for him to understand where he was and what had happened. He moved, and the pain made him cry out.

  He didn’t care. He could worry about the pain later. He dragged himself up on his knees and elbows and managed to shuffle across the floor to where Silvie lay. So much blood. Hard to tell what was hers and what was his. They were mingling together with the spreading pool from the corpse of the woman with the spiky blond hair, now matted red around the massive gunshot wound to her skull.

  Ben ran his hand over Silvie’s pale, blood-spattered face, touched his dripping fingers to her neck and could feel the tiniest pulse. She was still holding on, but she might not for long.

  Him too. He could feel strength ebbing out of him about as fast as his blood was leaking out. He was cold and his vision was blurring.

  Streicher was gone.

  He was escaping with the plague.

  He was going to take off in the helicopter.

  Ben blinked. He swayed to his feet and staggered a few steps, his feet slipping on the slick wet floor of the armoury. His left arm was dangling from what the shotgun blast had left of his shoulder. Fighting down the pain, he seized his useless hand and shoved it through his belt to stop it swinging about.

  ‘This is nothing,’ he said to himself, and smiled grimly.

  It wasn’t nothing. He knew the darkness would rise again soon, and that this time maybe it wouldn’t give him up. He didn’t give a damn, not about himself. Bring it on, he thought. But first, let’s get this done.

  The first thing he saw on the armoury rack was what he took down. It was heavy to carry in one hand. He gripped it tightly in his bloody fist and went after Streicher.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  No air had ever tasted sweeter than the gentle breeze that wafted into the hangar as the shutter door cranked open. Streicher filled his lungs and looked out at the evening light settling over the trees. The moon was out, the night’s first stars appearing against the darkening blue. So beautiful. He laughed out loud and walked back to the chopper.

  Within a couple of minutes, the turbine was powering up. He engaged the undercarriage gears and gently taxied out through the open shutter. The rotors
began to turn, slowly at first but quickly gathering speed. He’d soon be out of here. The rest would be history.

  Turning away from the controls, he made sure that his priceless payload was securely tied down and that none of the twelve canisters could roll or fall out of their crate. Everything was looking good. He turned back to the controls. Here we go, he thought. Freedom and victory. It was a wonderful feeling.

  The rotor was almost at full speed now.

  As an afterthought, Streicher reached into his pocket and took out the little cocaine bottle. Tapped some out on top of the dashboard, poked it into a crooked little line with his finger, then lowered his face to the dash and snorted the powder up. He gasped and threw his head back, closed his eyes and had never felt so elated and happy in his life.

  He opened his eyes.

  A figure was standing in front of the chopper. Ragged and bloody and unsteady on his feet.

  ‘You,’ Streicher breathed.

  The weight of the ex-Soviet rocket-propelled grenade launcher over his good shoulder was almost more than Ben’s weakening legs could bear. The wind from the chopper’s rotors was like standing on a mountaintop in the middle of a storm. He swayed, then blinked and righted himself. The weapon was angled over his shoulder and pointing straight at the helicopter’s cockpit. At this range, he wasn’t going to need the flip-up sights, even if he’d been able to see them. His vision was badly blurred and darkening around the edges.

  Streicher clambered out of the chopper and jumped down on the concrete apron, staring at Ben with an incredulous grin and crazy eyes. His nose and upper lip were dusted with something white.

  ‘You’re going nowhere, Streicher,’ Ben shouted. The effort it cost him to speak was enormous.