Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Gage smiled, laughed lightly. "It ain't gonna go off, partner. Just toss it."

  Kertzman tossed it to the grass at his feet.

  Still keeping his eyes on Kertzman, Gage bent, picked up the .45. He held it in his right hand, dangling it towards the ground while keeping the rifle leveled with his left. Then he knelt down, motioned with the rifle for Kertzman to follow the movement.

  Kertzman followed the command, expressionless. Watched Gage lay the rifle across his knees, almost careless. But Kertzman knew the man wasn't careless.

  To the ignorant, Gage appeared relaxed, almost indifferent. But Kertzman knew the relaxed stance was simply the practiced guard of a man who knew exactly how much tension was required for a moment, a man who wasn't ruled by his emotions but by a cold passionless mind that had long ago perfected every skill necessary for physical combat. Kertzman knew if he tried to pull a hidden backup weapon, which he didn't have anyway, he'd be dead before he could clear leather.

  "Alright," Gage began carefully, "show me your ID."

  Kertzman removed it, tossed it to him. Gage caught it and flipped it open, scanning quickly. He tossed it back.

  "I know you don't believe me," Kertzman began. "I know you've got ID, too, that says you're a federal agent and a CIA agent and everything else. But I'm really a federal agent. I'm an investigator with the Pentagon, but I'm temporarily reinstated with the Bureau for this case. I came here to talk to you, Gage. I'm not here to hurt you. Or them."

  Gage's eyes gleamed, impressively dangerous.

  "Who's them?" he asked.

  Kertzman's face was impassive. "Malachi Halder. Sarah Halder. Bartholomew O'Henry."

  He waited a moment to see Gage's reaction. There was none.

  "You need to trust me, Gage." Kertzman grew bolder, knowing that truth was his greatest ally. "Do you see a rifle? No. All I got is that little ol’ peashooter for protection. I didn't come to fight. And I'm no hitter. I came to find you – to find out what's going on. We need to talk." Kertzman waited for that to settle. "You can believe me or not."

  Gage's face revealed a tendril of doubt. Kertzman knew he was a man accustomed to making split-second life-and-death decisions about whether people could be trusted or not. He waited, allowing his cooperation and courage to speak for him.

  Gage's eyes scanned the woods beyond Kertzman.

  "There's nobody but me," Kertzman said coarsely, throat cold with wind. "I came by myself."

  Gage smiled, nodding. "Yeah, I can see that." He waited a minute before speaking again. "You're in No Man's Land, Kertzman. You're not supposed to be here."

  Kertzman wasn't sure what that meant. He hesitated, deciphering. When Gage said nothing else, Kertzman's natural attitude began to assert itself. It was an impulse that he didn't try to suppress. Because in the back of his mind, just in case Gage did decide to pull the trigger, he wanted to die with his hackles up.

  "No Man's Land?" Kertzman growled. "What does that mean?"

  "That means you're off the beaten path, old son." Gage laughed. "It means you've got no backup. And that means you're doing something you're not supposed to be doing. The Bureau wouldn't send one man in here to do surveillance on me. That is, if they knew I was here. Or even if they suspected that I was here. They'd send fifty agents or more. Special Response, probably. But you're here all by your lonesome, taking a big chance, trying to find ol’ Gage. Hoping you don't get killed doing it. And that takes guts and something more." He paused. "What do you want?"

  Kertzman didn't hesitate. "Somebody's set you up to die."

  Gage's wary gaze narrowed over an accepting smile. "I figure."

  "It's somebody inside."

  Gage studied him. "And who might that be, Kertzman?"

  Kertzman shook his head. "I don't know. Not yet, anyway. But they're coming and they mean to see you and everybody else in that cabin dead. So we'd better talk before they get here, figure something out."

  Gage was silent. Then suddenly and without warning Gage tossed Kertzman the Colt .45. Kertzman caught it, staring, awestruck at the leanly muscular soldier as he slowly rose to his feet. Kertzman also stood, glaring at the Colt, at Gage.

  "I could be a shooter, Gage."

  Gage laughed. "You ain't no shooter, Kertzman. I know what you are. You're lost. 'Bout like me." Gage walked past him. "If you want to talk, come down to the cabin. We'll talk."

  Kertzman turned and watched, astounded, as Gage walked down the hill, towards the cabin.

  "Gage," he said, feeling the weight of the .45 in his hand. "You're being pretty careless."

  Gage stopped and turned, peering carefully at Kertzman. A whispered laugh escaped him. Kertzman recognized it as the sound of a man too long on the edge.

  "No," he said, eyeing Kertzman carefully. "I don't think so."

  He turned and walked away.

  Kertzman stared after him, blinking stupidly. The Colt dangled in his hand as the soldier moved slowly down the slope. Everything collided in his mind; suspicions and questions, doubts and certain-ties, as he searched for where the truth lay hidden in the nightmare.

  Kertzman started forward, knowing that his first step down the hill was the first step into the heart of this madness.

  *

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Kertzman had heard it all.

  It was midnight, and he had listened for over six hours. He understood what had happened to Gage in the Negeb, had put it all together from the professor's townhouse to the seminary to the Cathedral of St. Thomas. And then back again to a mansion in Westchester, New York, where Gage had witnessed Father Simon's murder.

  Bartholomew, or "Barto" as they called him, was an eyewitness to much of it with Malachi and Sarah Halder corroborating the additional facts.

  Sometimes, in their eagerness to confide to a true law enforcement officer, they had spoken at once, but their stories never contradicted each other.

  It wasn't the best way to catch up on things. Usually, it was best to question everyone separately and then check statements, not allowing multiple witnesses, or suspects, to keep a story straight. But this crew had plenty of opportunity to build an elaborate lie before Kertzman arrived, and the usual methods of interrogation had pretty much lost their usefulness.

  Anyway, Kertzman knew he was a pretty good judge of character. And he calculated that the solemn, dignified Malachi Halder would not lie.

  Gage made a telephone call, postponing his flight to a location in Italy where the manuscript was hidden. He wouldn't say where, and Kertzman didn't push.

  The manuscript was the only thing that kept Kertzman continuously off-balance. It seemed to be the central element in this affair but he couldn't accept the significance of the book.

  Together, like some kind of secret conclave, they sat around the kitchen table. Gage kept the rifle close, and Kertzman kept his .45.

  Barto held a Marlin across his lap, surprisingly at ease with a weapon. And two of Gage's old buddies from Black Light were in the hills, watching.

  After midnight, when there was nothing left to say about the series of events, Kertzman turned again to the subject of the manuscript. He looked at the professor.

  "Now, Professor Halder," he began, as courteously as possible, but not knowing where, exactly, to go with it, "just why in blazes is this old book so important to somebody? It don't figure to me. Not at all. It's not worth men dying for, is it?"

  Malachi Halder maintained a somber and steady air. "Men have already died for it, Mr. Kertzman," he said. "For two thousand years men have died for it. You see, the book is said to contain a prophecy, a valued prophecy, and supposedly contains the name of the Beast, the Antichrist. It began in the fiery days following the destruction of Herod's Temple in Jerusalem. An aged priest, one of the old masters of Egyptian sorcery who commanded a particular allegiance from the demon-god Set, recorded the name and the year of birth of the Beast, the biblical Antichrist, in a manuscript. But the scribe supposedly died soon after penning the proph
ecy and the manuscript was lost. Countless emperors and popes and kings have searched for it from Constantine to Hadrian. Legend held that it was last seen when it was sent from Rome by a centurion, bound for an unnamed city deep in Egypt, possibly Alexandria, where it was to have been hidden away for two thousand years by a secret cult of Set. But the manuscript never reached its destination. So from the days of Titus Flavius Vespasian, Emperor of Rome in 70 A.D., the followers of Set have searched to reclaim the prophecy which will reveal to them the name of their king, the God-Man who will come and bring the entire world into dominion for them." He gazed gravely at Kertzman. "Yes, for two thousand years blood has been shed in search of this manuscript, Mr. Kertzman. No one could ever find it. Until now. Until Simon and I unearthed it in the Negeb, and surrendered it to the power of Clement."

  Kertzman stared at the old professor, mouth agape. No one spoke or moved. Then Kertzman shifted, a hulking and strangely primordial image in the small kitchen chair. He blinked, massive fists clenching, unclenching nervously.

  "Uh, alright, Professor, I can follow that," he said hesitantly. "But if these people are just priests and stuff, how can they be makin' all this happen? It looks to me like we're dealin' with some kind of, uh, assassins, or somethin'. I can't tell yet, but it looks like these people have started a private army, made up of the best fighters, or soldiers, rather, in the world. How does any of that fit in?"

  "Even in times of antiquity the followers of Set and Dagon were the ruling elite of their societies, Mr. Kertzman," responded Malachi. "They were wealthy, well-bred, commanding chairs in government and world affairs. Many controlled international trade. Others were great military leaders, generals, or conquerors. Even while others were priests, scribes, teachers, and historians. And since the beginning they have used their positions to control the masses by intellectual and economic oppression, or by the sheer and brutal persuasion of violence. What is occurring today, in this situation, is nothing new. It is simply the way our enemy conducts his affairs. There are always years, or decades, of inactivity, yes. But when a strong leader emerges, he typically attempts to form a private army of the so-called enlightened or superior beings who will enforce his dreams. And, now, they do indeed have a leader who has built a force of these men, these ... murderers ... who are supposed to be the strongest of their kind. And they are willing to do anything to claim the manuscript, so that they can prepare the way for him."

  Kertzman leaned forward, eyes darting, hairy gorilla forearms resting on the table. "Uh, you know, Professor, this leader, whoever he is, sounds to me like some kind of Satanic John the Baptist."

  Malachi grunted, a short laugh. "Not so farfetched as some prefer to believe, Mr. Kertzman."

  Kertzman studied the dark night through the cabin window. After a moment he looked back, focusing on Gage. "And what do you have in mind to do?" he growled.

  Gage shrugged. "Get the book. Destroy it. Finish it."

  "There's been enough killing, Gage."

  "Yeah, Kertzman, there has. That's why I want to put an end to it."

  Kertzman thought for a moment. "It's a suicide run," he said.

  Somber, Gage said, "It's about time, I guess. I've got debts to pay."

  Kertzman bunched forward, changing tact. "You're talking about taking this thing international, Gage. That could get messy."

  "I'm still going."

  Kertzman paused, his face an unreadable granite slab. "All I have to do is call Washington," he said finally. "And your plane will never land."

  "It doesn't have to land," Gage replied.

  "Alright," Kertzman added, "then it would never reach Italy."

  Gage allowed a half-smile. "But you ain't gonna do that, Kertzman."

  "Why's that?"

  "Because you're in this, too. And you need time to figure it out. You make a big move, and you're exposed. This whole thing is exposed. And you still don't know who your enemies are."

  "I might not have any enemies. You might be the only one with enemies."

  Gage stared at him. "Maybe."

  A heaviness punctuated the silence. Gage continued to hold Kertzman's gaze.

  Kertzman waited almost three minutes before he spoke. "Well, you're right, I'm not gonna try and stop you."

  Gage allowed a faint expression. "And why not?"

  "Because nothing happens without a purpose, hotshot," Kertzman said, glum. "Not in Washington. And not in a case like this. I was chosen to do this for a reason. They wanted me to lead them to you. And it's not because I'm a great white hunter. No. They wanted me to do this for a real reason. A political reason. And I still don't know what that is, any more than I know who's behind all this uptown. So until I know the score, until I know who the players are, I ain't gonna tip my hand." He nodded. "Let 'em keep guessin'. I'll leave 'em hangin' until I figure this out."

  Malachi spoke to him. "That is wise, Mr. Kertzman."

  Kertzman nodded, not taking his eyes off Gage. "I figure."

  A large limping shape rushed through the doorway, moving fast. Kertzman's hand was on the Colt as Gage brought the rifle up.

  "We got big-time movement!" Sandman yelled. "They're jamming the radios. Somethin' mean is goin' down!"

  Gage was on his feet, hands flat on the table, leaning forward at Kertzman.

  "Your people?" he asked angrily.

  Kertzman shook his head. "No! Nobody knows I'm here! But we can't be sure! They might be federal! How you gonna know? And you can't fire on a federal agent. I won't allow that."

  "I don't intend to," Gage said between gritted teeth and threw the .30-30 to Kertzman who caught it without effort, working the action. A long brass bullet was ejected from the port onto the table. Kertzman picked it up and slid it back into the magazine.

  Gage snatched up the MP5 from the black duffle bag, slid two extra clips under his belt at the small of his back and took the bag with him as he moved.

  "Secure everything!" he shouted, running towards the corridor that attached the cabin to the garage. "Sandman go high! Kertzman you've got the cabin!"

  "Close those doors!" yelled Kertzman, alive with it.

  Sandman limped toward the back door as Barto stood by, ready to shut it. Kertzman yelled after the big black man, "Don't fire on nuthin' unless you know it ain't a federal agent!"

  Sandman threw up a hand, took two steps towards the door when a gunshot exploded in front of him. He shouted, clutching his chest, and fell across the kitchen table to collapse onto the floor.

  "Gun!" roared Kertzman.

  At the explosion Malachi had also jumped back, shouting, and even as Kertzman had yelled the old man fell, collapsing over a chair.

  Screams.

  Kertzman grabbed the kitchen table even as Barto slammed the wooden door and leaped back. Then, twisting explosively, Kertzman hurled the table across the small room to crash against the door.

  In the space of a second, as the gunshot had exploded outside and he reacted to the sound, Kertzman accelerated into a mindset he hadn't known in over 30 years, a jungle combat mode with reflexes quick, brain operating on adrenaline and eyes bright reading everything around him instantly and in lucid detail.

  Whirling, he cast a wild glance across the room to see Sarah Halder, eyes on fire and teeth clenched. She had snatched up a pistol from the counter and was crouching in the kitchen, aiming the gun towards the front door. He saw Bartholomew against the far wall, holding the Marlin tight, and Malachi Halder flat on the floor clutching his bleeding side.

  Four simultaneous blasts tore through opposite windows of the cabin covering Kertzman in an explosion of glass and wooden splinters that flew across him, through him.

  Enraged, Kertzman yelled and spun, firing from the hip with the .30-30 to shatter a distant table lamp.

  Whirled back.

  "Kill those lights!" he roared.

  Barto shouted incoherently and spun, sweeping his hand wildly down over the kitchen light switch.

  Casting them into darknes
s.

  *

  THIRTY-FIVE

  "Father!" Sarah Halder screamed through the darkness.

  A moment of silence, frantic shuffling. Movement outside. Kertzman's eyes spun from one window to the next. Cold swept in from the outside, deep and sharp in his lungs.

  "I am alright, Sarah," Malachi Halder gasped, a choking sound of pain in his voice. "I am ... hurt. But I am alright."

  "Kertzman!" Sarah screamed. "What do we do! Where's Gage?"

  Kertzman shook his head in the darkness, feeling the familiar steel of the rifle in his hand. He did not respond to the question. Silence was their only advantage. Silence and darkness. He crouched, listening, and felt wind blowing through the window. It was going to get a lot worse. Those weren't federal agents out there. No federal agency would open fire without warning.

  It was a hit team. And he was in here with two amateurs who would be a liability before they would be any help. Gage would be moving around outside, where he could use some of that special warfare training to do some damage. And Kertzman knew that every exit would be covered, every window, every door.

  For the briefest second, and with a flicker of sympathy, Kertzman thought of the black guy, the one they called Sandman. The big man hadn't made a sound since he was hit.

  One down.

  Kertzman remembered that Gage was supposed to have another buddy in the hills—the Mexican. But he might be gone, too, Kertzman thought bitterly. If these people were smart enough to jam radios, they were smart enough to remove a sentry without making a sound.

  What had he walked into? Or, more importantly, who had he led to this place?

  Kertzman stifled a curse, shaking with anger and adrenaline, his fist tightening on the steel barrel of the .30-30. He promised himself that somebody would die for this, oh, yes, yes indeed somebody would surely die for this.

  The breeze blew steadily in from the window.

  Kertzman glanced back at it, saw nothing outside.

  It was as black as the inky gloom that cloaked the interior of the cabin. He held a steady tension on the trigger of the Marlin, kept it pointed towards the opening, and glanced towards the other windows. Barto shuffled in the dark for a second, then silence.