by C. M. Palov
A good two minutes passed before he saw a faint flicker, little more than a pinprick of light.
A burning cigarette.
The target sighted, he set forth.
As he navigated his way across the bramble-strewn escarpment, his thoughts turned to the Knights of St. John, who for nearly three centuries had patrolled those same craggy heights, safeguarding their domain from Turkish corsairs. During the Great Siege of 1565, sixty of those stalwart knights had defended the fort at St. Elmo against a Turkish force numbering eight thousand strong. Perhaps this night, history would repeat itself.
Lord, he hoped so. The thought that he might never again set his gaze upon Edie Miller’s face left him bereft.
He quickly shoved the wayward thought aside, turning his attention to the man negligently leaning against a large slab of limestone, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
And an H&K MP5 submachine gun cradled against his chest.
Though it was difficult to see in the murky shadows, Caedmon assumed the man’s finger was on the trigger and that the safety had been disengaged.
Coming to a standstill, keeping to the shadows cast by the limestone outcropping, he slid the five-inch diving knife from its sheath. The hilt securely grasped in his right hand, he inched forward, hoping the sentry didn’t suddenly spin around. Praying he didn’t inadvertently kick a loose stone. To his dismay, he saw that the other man had a communications device protruding from the side of his head.
If the sentry so much as whimpered, the game would be over before it even began.
Caedmon slowed his breathing. An age-old trick to calm one’s nerves.
Then, having come to within two feet of the sentry, he lunged forward.
In one smooth, surefooted motion, the movement ingrained from his long-ago training, he grasped the other man from the rear, clasping a hand over his mouth as he yanked his head back, exposing the jugular vein and carotid artery. First he slashed. Then he ripped.
Warm blood gushed from the opened artery.
A silent kill.
As the sentry dropped to the ground, Caedmon shoved his finger into the weapon’s trigger guard and yanked the H&K MP5 out of the dying man’s grasp, knowing that a spent round would be his undoing.
Sliding his arm through the submachine gun’s shoulder strap, he crouched beside the now-dead sentry, relieving him of the radio equipment, the device both a blessing and a beast. Although he’d be able to monitor sentry movement in and around the tower, when the dead sentry failed to report in, MacFarlane and his cutthroats would know they had an enemy in their midst.
CHAPTER 84
Edie sat up and hacked, the frigid sea air scalding her lungs.
Damn Caedmon Aisquith.
Her head ached. Her body ached. And, not unexpectedly, her heart ached; Caedmon hadn’t trusted her to pull her weight. So what did he do? He cut her adrift. No warning. No discussion. Just wham-bam, thank you, ma’am.
Rolling onto all fours, she awkwardly shoved herself to her feet. She glanced at her left wrist. No watch. Because the cheapo Timex wasn’t waterproof, she’d left it behind at the hotel.
She wondered how long she’d been out. Hopefully not too long.
With a groan, she bent at the waist, snatching the flashlight.
“How considerate,” she muttered, wishing her AWOL partner had instead left her a bottle of aspirin.
Knowing the anger wouldn’t get her off the desolate strip of beach, Edie tilted her head back and peered upward, the sea cliff like an impregnable fortress wall. One that she intended to ascend. Just a few months ago she’d mastered the rock wall at one of D.C.’s largest sporting-goods stores.
So, I’m good to go.
Furtively, she searched the rocky shoreline, recalling that Caedmon had said something about a nearby path. Switching on the flashlight, she followed the footprints that he’d left in the sandy soil, tracking them about forty feet.
Right to the trailhead.
Afraid the flashlight might attract unwanted attention, she flipped it off, securing it in one of the elasticized loops on the waistband of her hiking pants. Hands free, she carefully began the steep climb up the incised stone steps. She wondered if it was the Barbary pirates or the Knights of St. John who had undertaken the painstaking chore of carving what amounted to a staircase into the side of the sea cliff. No doubt Caedmon would have been able to pull that particular factoid out of his hat. Had he been there.
Damn him, anyway. The man actually thought that he could take on the doomsday prophet all by himself. MacFarlane would fight him tooth and nail. And his loyal followers would use far deadlier weapons.
That thought spurring her on, Edie glanced behind her and saw that she was only at the halfway mark. Her breathing noticeably labored, she struggled to keep on climbing, stunned to realize she was pathetically out of shape.
Finally, sheer willpower coming to the fore, her leg muscles having long since turned to rubber, she reached the summit. With nothing she could do about the burning scrape on the palm of her hand, she wiped the blood as best she could against her pant leg.
At a glance, she could see that she was standing on a flat-topped ridge. A pitiless place that in the light of day probably resembled nothing so much as a big asteroid. Only the faint whiff of rosemary indicated that it could actually sustain some sort of vegetative life.
In the distance she saw a tall, circular tower. That being the only building in sight, she headed in that direction.
As she got closer to the tower, she saw a large canvas-covered truck parked outside. It was the kind of vehicle one might see on a military installation. Hoping it wasn’t loaded with armed soldiers, she headed toward it. Trying to keep as low a profile as possible, she hunched over, running in a crouched position. The way people scurried about in the movies.
She hadn’t gone far when she saw a bear of a man emerge from the tower and head toward the truck.
Boyd Braxton.
Terrified, Edie came to an abrupt halt. Needing a weapon, and needing one quick, she snatched a jagged rock from the ground.
Give me strength, God.
The same kind of strength that had enabled Samson to slay a thousand foes with the jawbone of an ass.
Edie glanced at the harmless-looking rock clutched in her hand.
If only she had the jawbone of an ass.
CHAPTER 85
Pondering his next move, Caedmon stared at the watchtower that loomed a hundred meters away. Absently, he stroked the smooth metal of the H&K MP5, wondering if a little shock and awe wasn’t in order. That would certainly ensnare MacFarlane’s attention.
And, no doubt, would get him killed in the bargain. Without ever having set eyes upon the Ark.
No, he needed a far more subtle tactic. An unexpected trap. Something that would lure MacFarlane’s men away from the tower where he presumed the Ark was being stored, enabling him to sneak inside and decapitate the serpent. And maybe, if he was lucky, he could then exit the tower with none of the bully boys the wiser. The wily fox outwitting the ferocious pack of hounds.
But how best to create the necessary diversion?
If he were anywhere else in the world, he would start a fire. However, other than a few windblown brambles, there was no combustible tinder to be had. He did have the portable laser light, a last-minute purchase. Perhaps he could do something with that.
Like a man mesmerized by a dangling crystal, he continued to stare at the tower. The Ark of the Covenant was near at hand. Yet completely unattainable.
Had Stanford MacFarlane deciphered its secrets? Had he donned the Stones of Fire, stood before the Ark, and communed directly with God?
“We’ve got a breach on the northwest quadrant. Somebody just tripped the security laser.”
Hearing that disembodied voice in his earpiece, Caedmon’s breath caught in his throat.
Edie.
He scanned the promontory, searching for that familiar, curly-haired silho
uette, knowing he had to find her before MacFarlane did.
CHAPTER 86
Standing as still as a Grecian marble, Edie surreptitiously watched as Boyd Braxton threw back the canvas tarp on the military-style truck and swung open the tailgate. She assumed that he was about to unload something. Or else he was getting the truck ready to be loaded. Whichever scenario it was, it had to have something to do the Ark. Of that she was certain.
Taking deep measured breaths, she continued to watch Braxton, curious as to why he suddenly pressed a finger to his ear. Just before he pulled his gun out of its shoulder holster, turned on his heel, and took off running.
Something had spooked the man. But what could possibly have—
Oh, God! They’d found Caedmon.
Swiveling her head back and forth, squinting to better see in the murky shadows, she searched the rocky promontory.
It was like searching the dark side of the moon.
Belatedly realizing that it really was a whole lot like being on the moon in that there was no place to hide, she began to shiver.
A few moments later, four men emerged from the tower, carrying what looked to be a large shipping container. Two other men, stubby machine guns at the ready, followed in their wake.
Without being told, Edie knew that the Ark of the Covenant was inside the shipping container.
Her heart painfully thudding against her breastbone, she watched as it was loaded into the back of the truck. That done, the two armed guards took up a position on either side of the vehicle, the four load bearers returning to the tower.
Slowly, she backed away from her observation post.
She’d taken no more than three tentative steps when a large hand was slapped over her mouth, an unseen assailant bodily lifting her off the ground.
CHAPTER 87
“Keep your hair on!” a distinctly English voice hissed in her ear. “We don’t want to alert them to our position.”
Releasing his hand from her mouth, Caedmon stepped in front of her; Edie was surprised to see a machine gun strapped to his chest. A disgusted look on his face, he snatched the rock that she still had clutched in her hand.
“First they would have to know that we’re here before—”
“They do know!”
Cinching a hand around her upper arm, he unceremoniously pulled her to the ground, the two of them squaring off in a low squat.
“Have you lost your bloody mind?” His warm breath hit her full in the face. Not bothering to ask permission, he yanked one of her hands to his face. The palm of her scraped hand was smeared with blood.
“Don’t say it. I’m here. Deal with it.”
“I can render you unconscious at any moment, so kindly do not tell me what I can or cannot do.”
“That reminds me . . . did you have to hit me so hard?”
“Be thankful it was me doing the hitting and not one of MacFarlane’s thugs. And before you rail at me further, I had no choice in the matter. You were the one who issued the ultimatum.” For several seconds he stared into her eyes. Then, raising his left hand, he gently caressed the side of her face. “I am truly sorry, Edie, that I hurt you.” Both his features and his voice had noticeably softened.
“My feelings are more hurt than anything else. Mainly because you didn’t trust me enough to—”
“I trust you with my life. And I will do all in my power to safeguard yours.” He removed his hand from her cheek. Taking her by the elbow, he urged her to stand upright. “You are to follow my lead. No harebrained heroics or I will stuff my kerchief in your lovely mouth before binding you hand and foot.”
“If you did that, I wouldn’t be able to tell you that they loaded the Ark into the back of that big truck. Oh, and how about giving me a weapon?”
Reaching into his pocket, he removed something that resembled a capped ink pen. “Here.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Shine it directly into an assailant’s eyes. I don’t have time to explain the laws of photonics, except to say that it will instantaneously induce a state of temporary blindness. So please be sure that the business end is pointing away from you when the light is activated.”
Edie reluctantly took the portable laser light. “I was hoping that you might give me your diving knife, seeing as how you managed to find yourself a machine—”
Just then, she heard a sound—the friction of rubber on stone—emanating from a booted footfall.
Frantically, she glanced at Caedmon.
Amazingly calm, he put his left index finger to his lips, cautioning her to silence, while at the same time he placed his right index finger on the trigger of the submachine gun strapped across his chest.
Suddenly, surprising Edie with his quickness, he pulled off a lightning-fast one-eighty spin.
“Drop your weapon and remove the headset! Now!”
Realizing his pistol was no match for Caedmon’s mightier weapon, Boyd Braxton obediently put his pistol on the ground, kicking it in Caedmon’s direction. That done, he yanked off the headset and, snidely smiling, tossed it several feet away. “You didn’t want that, did you?”
Afraid the headset might have an open mike, Edie strode over and forcefully smashed the heel of her shoe against the communications device.
The smile instantly vanished from the behemoth’s face. Stepping past him, Edie noticed that the crisscrossed bandages on the side of Braxton’s head surreally gleamed in the darkness. Sutures courtesy of Caedmon and a well-aimed bottle. She returned the snide smile.
Braxton took a threatening step in her direction, his right hand balled in a fist.
“Touch her and I’ll gladly add a kilo of lead to your current body weight.”
At a glance, Edie could see that it was no idle threat. In fact, she was beginning to realize that Caedmon Aisquith never made idle threats. He was one of those men blessed with i ncredible follow-through.
“She’s got you wrapped around her little pinkie, doesn’t she?” Braxton snickered. “Guess you know by now that she’s a real prick tease, huh? Hell, my pecker has been standing on end since I first set eyes on the curly-haired bitch.”
His shoulders visibly relaxing, Caedmon slyly smiled at Braxton . . . just before he reared back and kick-boxed him in the crotch.
Sounding a lot like a braying donkey, the behemoth dropped to his knees, clutching his testicles with both hands.
“I trust that has relieved the condition.” Caedmon turned to Edie. “My apologies.”
About to say For what? Edie instead went slack-jawed, horrified at seeing a quartet of men who had suddenly, and very silently, materialized, as though from thin air. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood in a united front some ten feet behind Caedmon.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse come to life.
Before she could shout a warning, a spotlight was switched on, illuminating the entire area.
“You would be well advised, Mister Aisquith, to drop your weapon. Very, very slowly,” came the addendum order.
Calmly, not so much as peering over his shoulder, Caedmon unclipped the leather strap that held the submachine gun to his chest. Holding the weapon in his left hand, his right hand held aloft so it could easily be seen, he slowly bent at the waist, placing the weapon on the ground.
Stanford MacFarlane stepped forward. Retrieving the submachine gun, he handed it to Boyd Braxton.
“Here, boy. You look like you could use this.”
Still doubled over and gasping for breath, Braxton straightened just enough so he could aim the weapon directly at Caedmon’s chest.
Unthinkingly, Edie grabbed MacFarlane by the forearm, knowing that he was the only man present who could stop Braxton from pulling the trigger.
“One Christian to another . . . don’t let him do it,” she begged, ready to throw herself at his booted feet if that was what it took to save Caedmon’s life.
“You are not a Christian woman!” MacFarlane bellowed, his face twisted in an ugly sneer. �
�You are a harlot!”
CHAPTER 88
“And you are a disgusting stain on a snowy white bedsheet,” Caedmon snarled at MacFarlane, words the only weapon left to him.
Unaccustomed to insubordinate words or deeds, the colonel appeared apoplectic. Like an Old Testament prophet on the verge of an aneurysm.
“I want him searched before he’s killed,” MacFarlane barked at one of his men.
The situation having spiraled completely out of his control, Caedmon stood motionless while a muscular man with a shaved pate roughly patted him for weapons. The torch he tossed aside; the GPS receiver and diving knife he handed to his overlord. MacFarlane quickly perused the confiscated items before giving them to yet another of his men for safe-keeping.
Still gasping to draw breath, Braxton gracelessly rose to his feet, instantly transforming from a wounded bear to a menacing mountain of a man. “Let’s just say I ain’t gonna miss you when you’re gone.”
Having known all along that this was how it might possibly end, Caedmon defiantly stared his executioner in the face. As he did, Goya’s famous painting The Third of May flashed across his mind’s eye; bloodshed and violence were the chain that inevitably linked one historic epoch to the next.
“Turn your head, woman,” MacFarlane commanded. “Unless you have a predilection for bloodshed.”
“You kill him, you kill the messenger!”
Hearing that, Caedmon swung his head in Edie’s direction.
The messenger?
What in God’s name was she up to? A subterfuge, clearly, but not having been briefed, he had no idea of the nature or direction of the lie. Relegating him to the role of hapless passenger.
Refusing to be bullied into submission, Edie startled every man present, including Caedmon, when she next said, “And something tells me that you’ll want to hear what MI5 has to say. They know all about your planned terrorist attack on the Dome of the Rock. Lucky for you, they want the Ark of the Covenant, which is why they’re willing to broker a deal. But all bets are off the table if you gun down Caedmon Aisquith. The Queen’s men don’t like it when you kill one of their own. In fact, they would take it very personally if any harm came to him.”