The Judas Line

by Mark Everett Stone

  My guide-slash-captor stopped at a door indistinguishable from the one to Julian’s suite and produced a key card, swiping on the lock plate. The telltale glowed green and we entered.

  We entered a suite identical to Julian’s, including the wall to ceiling windows that looked out onto nighttime New York, except that all the furniture had been removed from this suite. Gym mats had replaced the sofas, chairs and tables, turning the large space into a sparring room. Only one piece of furniture remained: the ugly steel chair, the same chair I had spent so many thrilling hours on. They hadn’t even bothered to clean off the blood.

  Half a dozen men and women, all in black skintights like Annabeth’s, stopped their combat training to stare at me as I sat. All were in their thirties, with the physical and psychic hardness of people who had been breaking bones and ripping flesh most of their adult lives. All had Annabeth’s lethal grace. They scared the spit out of me.

  My captor nodded to a youth who bore a striking resemblance to Morgan. He moved toward me with the grace of a panther, raising one long-fingered hand to brush my shoulder. He whispered a Word that I felt from the soles of my feet to the top of my skull, one that removed most of the aches and pains of Boris’ beating.

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely. “I needed that.” My body was once again more or less in good shape and my ribs felt less battered. Not a full Healing, but a massive improvement. “God bless you.”

  The youth paled, taking a hasty step back, and one of the older men, short with a round face, started forward, a wooden practice knife gripped tight in one hand and a ferocious scowl on his face. Perhaps he was offended by the blessing. Annabeth flicked her fingers and he stopped short. From the way her hands moved, I reckoned she used some sort of sign language. I didn’t care … As far as the Sicarii was concerned, I was a dead man whose body hadn’t received the message yet.

  “We might as well carry on a civilized conversation, Annabeth,” I murmured. “That is, if you are able.”

  She didn’t bother to look at me. “Why should we talk?”

  “It couldn’t hurt. Anything you tell me I’ll be taking to my grave.”

  Her mouth quirked into a half-smile. “True enough.”

  “Did you ever love … Olivier?”

  “I didn’t know you were going to get personal, Michael.” My name was a curse from her perfect mouth.

  “Olivier wrote-”

  “I know. I’ve read it.”

  “And?”

  “No.” Firm, resolute.

  “I think he really cared about you.”

  “He was a means to an end.”

  “So you were working with Burke all that time.”

  “Of course.”

  “Burke’s gone and with him your meal ticket. What do you plan to do now?’

  Anger broke through her mask and the back of her hand found my bruised cheek, hitting just hard enough to flame my face with pain, but not hard enough to break the skin.

  Instead of shooting a snappy, snide remark that would’ve earned me a few more contusions, I watched the Sicarii dream team practice. They moved like liquid death, using combinations of several martial arts with an effectiveness that took my breath away. I could’ve watched them try to beat the crap out of each other all night, but I had to poke the bear.

  “Sooooo … Burke was more than a meal ticket.” I rubbed the aching flesh of my cheek “You cared for him.”

  “Shut up,” she hissed, cheeks crimson.

  I lowered my voice. “Oh, you Sicarii don’t subscribe to love.”

  “This conversation is over.”

  “Too bad, it was just getting interesting.” I considered her beautiful face for a moment. “Sorry for your loss.” It surprised me how much I meant that.

  The result of my empathy was not what I had been hoping for. Maybe it was because I was a priest of the ‘Lying God’ or because I showed compassion, but she drew close to grab the lapels of my tattered uniform in preparation for delivering a good butt-kicking.

  “Is this your gun?” I whispered into her face, pressing the barrel of a 9 mm into her side out of sight of the others.

  “How did-?”

  My tattered smile was unbecoming for one in my profession. “Your outfit is cute, but using Velcro to secure your weapon is a terrible idea, as well as getting it within my reach. Now, I’m going to stand up slowly and you will move slowly with me. If you don’t, you will find out the hard way that I was an army Ranger long before I became a priest, got it?”

  Her mouth barely moved. “Got it, but realize this, shitwad: I am going to kill you.”

  “Then I can’t be used against my friend. Now, stand up … slowly.”

  Almost made it. My hand was on the door when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw round-face start forward, catching the drift and sounding the alarm.

  I shoved Annabeth away, clipping the back of her skull with the butt of the pistol before bringing it to bear and shooting twice, catching her in the calf-shredding flesh and bone-and firing a second round into round-face’s hip. While he stumbled to his knees, clutching at the hole four inches from his crotch, I ducked out the door and ran down the hallway. My feet slammed almost soundlessly against the lush carpeting while my heart thudded painfully against my screaming ribs. Behind me I heard the door open … only three steps from a turn … drywall powdered beside my ear as I turned the corner, the round missing me by less than an inch.

  Spinning, I hit the floor behind the dubious safety of the wall as more rounds showered the air with plaster. Not waiting for the Sicarii to come to me, I scrambled forward on hands and knees far enough to see around the corner and empty the 9’s clip, catching an unlucky assassin in the stomach and forcing the others to duck back in the room. I’d bought myself a few precious seconds.

  Would they stop to help their comrade? Normally I’d say yes, but with this lot, that might not be an option. The only thing that mattered, though, was getting away or making the cost of taking me down a dear one because I knew sure as I was running hell bent for leather that Morgan was coming. I could feel it in my heart.

  Two more turns and I hit pay dirt. Elevators. Not much time; the killers would be on me in moments and I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. I forced fingers into the seam of the doors, straining and grunting, slowly pulling them apart, slicking the crisp white paint with sweat and blood until they finally opened just far enough for me to slip through into the dimly lit shaft and grab oil-slick cables.

  Down into the dark … the doors above closing, shutting off the light from the hallway. Wouldn’t be hard for them to find me, so I had to move fast. By the shaft’s dim light I saw a ladder bolted to the wall, but that route was too slow, so I let the slick cable slide through my hands, my skin burning despite the thin coating of grease. One floor, two … then another as I slid, palms catching steel splinters, driving deep into flesh. I gritted my teeth and prayed for strength as the flesh of my palms seared away.

  Fourth floor down and light from above tagged me. A shot rang out and a burning pain erupted from my left arm as a bullet scorched me from shoulder to elbow. Lord that hurt! Panic lent strength and I grabbed for the ladder with a desperate lunge. If I missed, massive deceleration trauma would be my fate. Despite a slick of blood and oil coating my hand, I managed to hold onto a rung long enough for my body to slam against the ladder, raising a cloud of dust from the steel. My foot hooked the side rail and I thrust an arm up to the elbow between rungs, hugging the ladder close to me with frantic energy. More shots rang out, but thankfully they missed, only spraying cement chips in my face.

  Elevator doors above and to my left. They seemed miles away, but I had to go for it. Flailing, knuckles smarting against rungs, I tried to ignore the bullets that tore around me. The cable behind flapped and I knew someone was coming.

  Four inches of space at the elevator door, barely enough for my clodhopper boots to find purchase. Another round grazed my calf and the ricochet buried itself i
nto the heel of my boot, almost hurtling me off the ledge into the darkness of the shaft.

  There! My fingers found a grip and adrenaline lent me strength, allowing me to force the doors open … and push through … falling into an empty hallway, battered and bleeding. Behind me, the door dimpled outwards with rounds that sounded like hammer blows. I breathed a sigh of relief that it was taking what had been meant for me.

  Not much time … All my training kicked in and I rose to my feet, wounds throbbing but almost forgotten. Fear and anger fought for control in equal measure, but it was the voices of every man and woman I had the honor to serve with that spurred me into action: “Get off your ass, you sonofabitch and take the fight to the enemy!”

  Right.

  A priest is a man of peace as well as a man of God. The teachings of Christ provide the foundation of our beliefs, but I’ve always known that deep down, I could take the life of an evil person if I deemed it necessary and now it seemed very necessary. I’d started with Annabeth, goading her with kindness into becoming angry enough to drop her guard once within reach. Where it would end, well … I wasn’t sure, but I knew it would get bloody.

  Behind me the doors to the elevator began to open and a grimy hand thrust through, followed by a shoulder, then a head. A tall man with sallow features … the Sicarius I’d shot in the belly. I guess that skintight outfit had a bulletproof torso. He saw me a split second after I moved, too late to bring his gun to bear. My kick took him in the hip and I shoved as hard as I could, sending him hurtling down the shaft. The doors closed on his shriek of dismay. His chest might have been bulletproof, but it wasn’t splatterproof.

  Eyes burning with tears, I turned and ran down the empty hall, every step ringing out the same word: murder … murder … murder …

  I knocked on door after door. I kicked and screamed and no one answered or screamed back at me to get lost. For some reason the floor was deserted and the knowledge I was running out of time weighed heavily on me.

  Stairs! A way out. Hand on the knob and shoulder to the door, I rammed it open. Shouts echoed from below and the thuds of hurried footsteps came my way up the stairwell. No good. Up, however, seemed clear. I guess I didn’t have a choice.

  Thudding up the stairs, one floor then two … and I made the decision to keep going, back to the floor I’d just come from, reckoning they wouldn’t search for me there. Soon, panting and bleeding, I came to what I believed was the floor I had fled. Next to the steel door was a sign that read 53.

  I put my ear to the door and heard nothing, so I went through. Nothing. All quiet. Through the door into unfamiliar surroundings. Left or right? I flipped a mental quarter and went left.

  Good thing because I quickly came upon blood smell, the source of which was smeared on the wall. I located the suite by the blood still wet on the door handle.

  I cursed then crossed myself. The door was locked and I had no key card, but the point became moot because down the hall, around the corner, one more of the Sicarii boys came into view. Options flickered through my mind in less than a second, moments before his eyes would rise to see me standing by the door.

  The best option was also the most dangerous, but I was sick of running away. So I ran toward.

  Muscles cried in agony and bruised bones added their voices to the cacophony of pain that rang in my ears. The Sicarius looked up as I raced toward him. Almost in slow motion he went for the pistol Velcro-ed to the chest of his black one piece, a look of surprise flitting briefly across his face.

  Closer, fifteen feet and his hand reached the pistol.

  Ten feet … the weapon ripped free with the sound of paper tearing.

  My feet left the carpet as I dove at a dead run, the pistol rising to meet my eyes.

  Click.

  I hit the man full on, shoulder in his midsection, the pistol with safety on flying from his hand as I drove him backward to land in heap, both of us kicking and scratching, punching and biting.

  We rolled, grappling, the Dagger Man’s teeth buried in my shoulder, and I screamed in hot pain as his bicuspids tore into soft tissue. My knee came up, but he expected the play and twisted so I hit his thigh. A calloused knuckle rammed my jaw, followed by an elbow that had me seeing stars. That elbow made a comeback and I turtled, letting it hit the top of my skull. I sagged as my neck compressed and the Sicarius screamed.

  I rolled away from the noise as the Sicarius kept at it, holding on to what I assumed was a broken elbow. People always said I was hard-headed and the proof lay moaning on the hallway carpet.

  I kept my back to the wall, using it to support me as I stood shakily, every nerve in my body firing at once. The Dagger Man finally came to grips with his pain and also came to his feet, a grimace of hate on his long youthful face.

  Sweat stung my eyes as I watched him reach into a pocket with his good hand and pull out a butterfly knife, which he opened one-handed with the ease of constant practice. My foot lashed out but he dodged the halfhearted attack with ease. The assassin might have been injured, but he still had skills.

  So I dove for the pistol, hoping that my battered body would prove quick enough. It didn’t. The Sicarius kicked, catching me in the stomach-folding me in half and wrenching my midsection-then he fell on top of my writhing body with thrust a knee to the kidney that momentarily paralyzed my body in torment.

  But I had the gun.

  He grabbed my arm and through the haze of suffering that clouded my eyes, I saw the light of understanding reach him. Despite his one-handed grip, I was stronger. As breath struggled to enter my lungs, my thumb stroked the safety and I pulled the trigger. Twice.

  Blood. Brains. Bone. All sprayed upwards and settled back down to coat my face as the body of the Dagger Man settled on my chest.

  Oh, Lord, forgive me.

  Sobbing for the dead man, mumbling prayers for his soul, I clumsily searched his body, my tears wetting the black one-piece. My eyes strayed to the small, round holes on his forehead, knowing that the exit wounds had torn the back of his head off. Eventually I found a key card in a hip pocket. No use trying to hide the body, the hall gave plenty of evidence as to what had happened, the walls being decorated in red and pink. Sluggishly, I trod toward the door to the suite. My hands were on fire with pain; metal slivers and friction burns had tattered the palms into raw meat. My blood slicked the pistol, dripping down the barrel.

  Heart thumping madly with guilt and relief, I swiped the key card at the door. I needed to get clean. I needed to tend my wounds, needed to rest, if only for a while. The door opened and I stepped inside.

  A man stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the night. At the sound of the door shutting behind me, he turned.

  Boris smiled.

  Oh, hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Morgan

  “Did I forget to mention that this idea of mine is seriously insane?” I shouted at Cain over the din of the rotors. Fear ate at my guts.

  Night, three thousand feet in the air, the Bell 430 helicopter remained stable as the pilot waited for us to jump. Flashbacks to another night jump fifteen years ago kept flickering before my eyes, but this time we would jump into a city rife with thermals and strange wind shears that could flip a parachute topsy-turvy in an instant, not to mention that it was cold as hell, The black sweater, Kevlar vests, and heavy black denim pants offered some protection.

  “A young man with your history of rash behavior and rebellion against the most powerful criminal organization in history thinks this idea is mad?” Cain shouted back with a grin. “Once again you manage to surprise!”

  Right, that’s me, Mr. Surprise.

  Six hours earlier Cain, Maggie, Alan and I had stood together in the dark warehouse, a single bare bulb from a small lamp providing a ring of light that perfectly illuminated the round table it rested upon. Alan had handed out Kevlar vests and provided a spread of weaponry large enough to take out the Latin American country of your choice.

 
Alan handed a laptop to Cain. “Here’s the schematics to the hotel, boss.”

  Cain regarded the computer for a brief moment. “Once again you do not fail to impress, my boy.”

  “You won’t need that, man,” I commented as I picked up a.45 and checked the sights. “All we need are the top three floors, 53 to 55. Everything else is the ordinary rich and famous.”

  “You’re cute when you’re all authoritative and shit,” Maggie smiled as she struggled out of her chainmail and shrugged into her vest, her large axe resting on the table. I couldn’t help it; I stared at her charms out of the corner of my eyes. She caught the look and gave me a satisfied smile that heated up all my naughty bits.

  Man, I’d been without proper company for far too long.

  My eyebrows danced in her direction. “The Sicarii own the place and I made sure to learn everything I could about where Julian would hang his hat.”

  Cain replaced his sunglasses with thick, black goggles, briefly revealing his disturbing Husky eyes. “What do you suggest, then?”

  “A roof access would be best. There will be guards, but with our magic and a little surprise, we can take them down.”

  “Four of us storming the battlements.” Maggie holstered a 9 mm and picked up a Tec-9. “I love it.”

  Cain frowned. “Not to impugn your knowledge of all things Sicarii, but are you certain that is wise?”

  I shook my head. “There are only two access points to the upper stories-a heavily defended private elevator that they can shut down in an instant and an equally well-defended stairwell. Then let’s consider the innocents staying in the hotel who could be killed or hurt by stray bullets.”

  Alan piped up. “So what do we all do? I’m no frontal assault guy, no soldier. I’m just a realtor.”

  Not just a realtor. Not with three Words. “We parachute down to the roof and take the access stairs to the suite levels.”