by Brett King
“Learning interesting stuff?” Brynstone asked.
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of material here.”
“Keep reading. I’m making good time. We’ll be at the slaughterhouse soon.”
She pulled back, drawing another folder from her mother’s archive box. She tried to focus, wishing she could banish Adriana Borgia from her mind.
Potomac, Maryland
5:45 A.M.
The man who called himself the Knight lived in a secluded mansion in the Bradley Farms neighborhood of Potomac, an affluent suburb in the Washington, D.C., area. His book-lined study inside the three-level Colonial was cultured, like the man himself. His only vice came in small white tablets scored with a cross. Amphetamines helped him maintain his rigorous schedule. As Cress entered the study, the Knight swallowed a Dexedrine.
“We picked up the homeless man,” Cress reported. “He’s showering now.”
“Finally, some good news. Buzz me when he’s ready. And tell Dante to prepare whatever the man desires for breakfast. I’ll join him later.”
Alone now in his study, the Knight brought up the surveillance feed from his private jet. Hidden cameras had recorded Erich Metzger since the jet’s departure from Italy. During the first hour of his flight to the United States, the assassin had read about Brynstone. After that, Metzger had indulged in a bottle of Romanée Conti. After consuming the French Burgundy, he had lapsed into sleep for a few hours. When it was time to wake him, the Knight dialed the jet. The phone rang on a table near the assassin. With lightning reflexes, he grabbed it.
“Herr Metzger?” the Knight asked in a cool voice. “I hired you to kill John Brynstone. I have another request. He has something I want. I need you to retrieve it.”
“It will cost you.”
“And I am ready to pay. Brynstone has a relic. It is known as the Radix. Acquire it before you kill him.”
“What does this Radix look like?”
“You’ll know when you see it. I’ll double your payment if you find it.”
“If he has this Radix, I will seize it.”
“Don’t disappoint me,” the Knight urged.
“I am incapable of that.”
Metzger hung up. Stretching, he headed down the aisle. He entered the jet’s lavatory, holding his phone. The Knight brought up the camera feed as the assassin leaned over the sink and flipped on the fan. The noise masked his call, but the Knight could read lips. The man dialed a number, then turned out the lights. The Knight growled. He guessed Metzger was calling his Berlin associate, Franka. No doubt he was asking her to research the Radix.
Chapter Twenty-four
Lambertville
7:25 A.M.
Nestled on the Delaware River, Lambertville had enjoyed prosperity in the 1800s as a sleepy factory town, pumping out everything from rubber bands to underwear. After the next century brought hard times, the New Jersey town transformed itself into a tourist destination, famous for antiques and artists. Nine violent crimes had marred Lambertville last year. None were homicides. Brynstone knew the Borgias wouldn’t mind increasing the murder rate.
On the outskirts of town, he turned down a road spoiled with muddy ruts. As the storm crawled north, he parked the Escalade near a chain-link fence. A faded sign announced the Hartlove Slaughterhouse.
He glanced at Cori. “I need you to stay here. Promise you’ll do it this time?”
She nodded, climbing up front. The cat joined her.
“I know why you and Banshee became friends. You both ignore me when I try to keep you out of danger.”
Cori gave a sheepish grin.
“I borrowed a little something from General Delgado’s collection.” He handed her a Ruger Single Six .22-caliber revolver and explained how to use it. He could read anxiety in her eyes. “The Single Six is a good choice, since you’re new to firearms. Easy to operate and reliable.”
“Maybe I should stick with you.”
“Safer out here. You’ll be fine, Cori.” He handed over a pair of keys. “Good luck.”
Outside the SUV, he brought out his Glock. After checking the clip, he pulled back the slide and chambered a round. He spotted movement near a tree. He aimed the gun.
Jordan stepped from behind a century-old sycamore. “You found it.”
“Yeah.” He shot out a breath, lowering the Glock. “Hey, I meant to ask on the phone. Did you deliver the Zanchetti tissue sample to Bill Nosaka?”
“Affirmative. He’s started the analysis.” She glanced at the SUV. “You brought Cori? Is that a good idea?”
“She’s tougher than she realizes,” he said, checking the battery on a heat sensor. “Give me the sitrep.”
Jordan gave a tactical report, describing layout, exits, and potential threats. They discussed protocol for roomclearing. Ready to move in, they bypassed the padlocked gate for an opening in the fence. Emerging beneath a corrugated metal lean-to, Jordan pointed to disturbed mud. Fresh tire tracks. Someone had been here this morning.
Brynstone stretched his arm, prepping himself. Getting his mind set for the big moment. He hungered for a chance to face Adriana again. He owed the bitch after last year in Dresden.
He moved to the back door, peering into the slaughterhouse’s filthy windows. He reached for the doorknob.
“I got your six,” Jordan whispered.
He nodded, then opened the door. The air inside the slaughterhouse reeked with decay. Above the rusted door, a cage restrained a blue light. They passed sausage and hot-dog boilers before arriving at a gloomy hallway. He stopped at a cooling locker. A lever, like on the back of a beer truck, locked the door. He opened it, then checked inside. The cooling locker ran about ten by thirty feet. Rows of bins, like airport lockers, lined both walls. Refrigeration had vanished from this room, but water dripped from the ceiling. The heat scanner showed body markers twenty feet away. He signaled to Jordan that two people were in the next room.
Inside the SUV, Cori’s hand was hot with sweat as she held the revolver. Banshee curled on the driver’s seat, deep in a nap. She told the cat, “At least one of us isn’t freaking out.”
Her mind flashed to childhood memories of visiting her mother at Princeton University. She remembered a fascination with the gargoyles lurking around campus architecture. Back then, Ariel Cassidy had told bedtime stories about them coming to life in the moonlight. She claimed they prowled the campus, smashing windows in Wu Hall and assaulting other modern buildings that violated the Collegiate Gothic style. Harmless mischief for such creatures, but it became the stuff of childhood nightmares. Always wanting to appear strong, Cori had never confessed to her mom that the stories frightened her.
She glanced at the Ruger now, the revolver looking like a weapon suited for a movie sheriff. Cori twisted around, looking at the slaughterhouse.
“Come on, John,” she whispered. “Hurry up.”
Brynstone peered into the kill shed. He caught a whiff of rancid meat that would’ve nauseated a USDA inspector. Years of urine, blood and feces had splattered this floor. That crossed his mind when he stepped on something sticky. Don’t even think about looking at your shoe. He glanced at the high ceiling. Dangling in dead air, meat hooks waited like raptor talons, eager to slice into flesh.
“Watch out,” a voice called from across the kill shed. Edgar Wurm hung by his arms from a meat hook. “Behind you,” he shouted.
Too late. A man blasted into them. Jordan hit the floor first, losing her SIG Sauer and groaning as the two men rolled over her. Santo Borgia, big and fierce, scrambled to his feet. He threw a cross-body block that sent Brynstone rolling across the floor. The Glock spiraled out of sight. Jordan pounced on the big man. She landed two solid hits on Santo’s face before he flipped her over a table. She turned on her side, clutching her arm.
The man stood over her, holding a livestock prod.
When fighting Borgias, it was always a good idea to make it short. Brynstone grabbed a solid metal device from the table, a tool used to remove
spinal cords from cattle. He busted it over Santo’s head, snapping the device in half. The man hit the sticky floor, landing facedown.
“That your new weapon of choice?” Jordan panted, finding her SIG. “What is it?”
“Trust me,” he replied. “You don’t want to know.”
“Excuse me,” a voice called overhead. “Could you get me down from here?”
Brynstone ran over and grabbed the control box. The meat hook descended, bringing Wurm to the floor. He looked older than his fifty-five years. His shoulder-length hair was longer than in his NSA days. Craggy wrinkles and a slate gray beard gave him the look of a Civil War veteran. He was still powerfully built, but Brynstone wouldn’t have recognized the weathered face under different circumstances.
He had stayed in communication with Wurm during his hospitalization. As an expert cryptanalyst, Wurm had devised a super-encipherment code containing layers of transposition. He’d printed that code on paint-can labels to conceal messages for Brynstone. A staffer named Perez brought Wurm’s paint cans out of the hospital without realizing he was transporting information.
“Good heavens,” he rasped as his feet touched down. “Is that you, John Brynstone?”
“You okay, Edgar?” he asked, pulling the rope from the meat hook.
“Been better.” He rubbed his wrists. “Have you talked to Cori Cassidy? She’s a revelation. Her mother is an expert—”
“I know.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Jordan Rayne. She’s with the Special Collection Service.” Brynstone noticed the bloodied fingers. “Is that Adriana’s work?”
“Afraid so,” he said, cradling his hand. “Could use a bandage.”
“Sure thing, Edgar.”
“Glad to see you, John. I didn’t expect we’d meet again until after you found the Radix.”
Jordan and Brynstone exchanged a quick glance. Wurm picked up on it.
“What are you not telling me?”
Brynstone glanced down at Santo Borgia, making sure he was out.
“Edgar, we found the Radix.”
Wurm’s eyes cast a manic gleam. “The Voynich paid off, didn’t it?” he cackled.
“What do we do with him?” Jordan asked, standing over Borgia’s fallen body.
“Let Adriana deal with him,” Wurm said.
Brynstone nodded. “We’ll see if Santo can survive her wrath.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Los Angeles
4:37 A.M.
Kaylyn Brynstone rolled off her pillow, listening for that sound again in the stillness of her home. Had it been a dream? No. She heard the rattling noise downstairs. She couldn’t believe it. John’s home. She eased out of bed without disturbing Shay. Kaylyn pulled on a silk kimono robe. She rushed down the winding staircase, calling for her husband.
“John. Hey, Johnny B. Where are you?”
No lights on down here. Going room to room, she searched for him. Her stomach muscles bunched up. What if it’s not John? She tried to dismiss the thought. Security system would’ve sounded if someone broke in.
She remembered Shay upstairs, alone.
Kaylyn hurried up the steps, then ducked into her bedroom. Reaching in the darkness, she patted the mattress. Shay was gone. Panicked, she ran her hands over the king-size bed. She found the stuffed bunny, but not Shay. Heart slamming in her chest, she climbed onto the mattress but found twisted sheets. Moving across the bed, her fingers brushed a small leg. In her sleep, Shay had scooted against the headboard. She scooped up her daughter. Shay awakened. Kaylyn handed her the bunny, then darted to the room next to her studio. It was aglow in moonlight. Draped in sheets, her sculptures congregated like phantoms in a graveyard.
Was John hiding under a sheet, waiting to surprise her? He’d done that last Halloween.
Pulling aside the curtain, she peeked at the outdoor sculpture garden. She’d half-expected to see someone there, lurking on the cobblestone terrace or standing beside the tiled pool. Nothing but an eerie stillness. She exposed her face to the window, pressing her cheek against the glass as she strained to see the back door.
“Mrs. Brynstone?”
She yelped, clutching Shayna as she spun around. A man in a suit watched from the doorway. He’d turned on the hallway light. Shay sensed her mother’s fear. Her lip puckered before she cried. Kaylyn backed against the wall.
“Wh-who are you?”
“FBI.” He stepped inside, then flipped a switch. Spotlights positioned on overhead tracks brightened the display room. The stranger held out a badge. “Agent Daniel Lowe,” he answered in a Savannah-sweet drawl. “Need to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”
“Daaa-da,” Shay blurted.
“Shh, sweetie,” Kaylyn said, not taking her gaze off the man. “Why are you in my house?”
He gave a sheepish look. “We had a report about an assassination job on your husband. LA field office sent me to run surveillance on your house. I found the front door wide open.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“I heard a noise. A few minutes ago. It wasn’t you?”
“No, ma’am. I just got here. You think someone else is in the house?”
“I thought it was my husband.”
“I’ll look around.” The agent tucked his ID badge inside his coat, revealing his black stealth holster. He pointed to her kidney-shaped desk. “You and the baby crawl under there.” He turned off the lights. “Do it.”
She ducked under the desk. A moment later, she reached in the darkness and found the phone. She brought it close and dialed John. Dead. The line had been cut. She dropped the phone, then huddled with Shay beneath the desk. Beginning with a whimper, the toddler worked into fullblast sobbing. Kaylyn raised her shirt, pulled down her bra, and directed the child’s mouth to her breast. It worked. Shay’s tear-stained face softened as she suckled, still holding the bunny.
She had planned to stop nursing by Shay’s first birthday. The weaning process hadn’t gone as planned. Turned out Shay hated cow’s milk. Right now, she was grateful her thirteen-month-old was still nursing.
Staying low, she reached up, then ran her fingers across the desk, finding a sculptor’s knife. Converted from a power-hacksaw blade, it was perfect for carving soapstone. Maybe the knife could protect them.
Where is Agent Lowe?
She wanted to call John, but her cell was in her purse.
She heard muffled voices. Two men argued downstairs, their words cut off by the discordant crash of piano keys. Shay pulled away from the nipple, her head turned, listening. Kaylyn coaxed her daughter back to her breast.
Someone rushed into the room.
Holding her breath, she prayed the child would keep nursing. She was running low on milk on her left side, but she didn’t dare switch Shay to her right breast.
“All clear,” the man announced, breaking the silence. “Let’s go, Mrs. Brynstone.”
“Agent Lowe?” she asked, pulling down her shirt and climbing out from beneath the desk. Shay nestled against her mother’s neck. “What happened downstairs? I heard voices.”
“Later. We need to move you to a secure location. Follow me.”
Sliding the knife into her robe, she trailed as he peeked into the hallway. Blood was splattered across the agent’s neck. She clutched her child, thinking, God, what’s happening to us? John, we need you.
Sweeping the gun, the FBI agent headed into her bedroom. Finding it safe, he waited outside the door as she changed into a black rib-knit turtleneck and jeans. She grabbed the diaper bag before the agent ushered her to the stairs.
“Gaaah?” Shay gurgled. “Bwwaaah-beee.”
“Keep that kid quiet,” the agent hissed.
Running her hand across the child’s soft head, she kissed Shay’s cheek.
Halfway down the staircase, she glanced at the darkened living area and saw a body near the grand piano. She couldn’t see a face, but it looked like a man.
“Oh, d
ear God,” she gasped, covering her mouth.
The agent looked back. “Keep it together, Mrs. Brynstone. It’s just a dead body.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Lambertville
7:41 A.M.
Sitting in the Escalade, Cori flipped a page in her mother’s notebook. She had bypassed this journal because it contained only a single page of handwriting. Giving it a second look, she realized that Ariel Cassidy had written an entry a short time before her death. In a rush of insight, she realized that this notebook was the successor to the one stolen from her apartment.
Two paragraphs speculated on the Scintilla’s ingredients, followed by Ariel Cassidy’s final entry:
I am convinced that Jung was unaware of the location of the Rx. Like CGJ, I have concluded that the Rx has vanished forever into the winds of time. Given that staggering loss, much can be learned by finding the Sc. I have an unswerving faith that CGJ knew where to find it (perhaps he even possessed it). Despite two trips to the Shrine of Philemon, I cannot find the Sc. After every trip, I dedicate hours at the Firestone Library to translating Jung’s symbols. I believe the Sc is at the Shrine of Philemon, but leukemia has sapped my energy. I hope to visit in the autumn.
Cori believed the undated entry was the final one her mother had put to paper. But where was the Shrine of Philemon?
She heard voices. She snapped her head around, glancing out the window. A sense of elation spiraled inside her. John Brynstone, Jordan Rayne, and a disheveled Edgar Wurm walked toward the vehicle. Anxious to get rid of the gun, she placed it inside the console between the seats.
Brynstone and Wurm stopped to talk to each other. Jordan headed for the Escalade.