by Brett King
The guy raised the pistol. Metzger brought out his gun and fired at the man’s wrist, then his bicep on the same arm. The USP40 slid away as he dropped it. Moving to clutch his bleeding right arm, he squeezed his eyes in pain.
“Okay, you surprised me,” the man wheezed. “But you should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”
He chuckled, a feigned sympathy on his face. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“‘Cause you lost the advantage. I know you’re Erich Metzger.”
“Then you do have the advantage, because I don’t know you.”
“Name’s Bob Macintyre. And, my friend, you’re gonna wish you’d never heard the name.” He reached back with his left hand for the sniper rifle.
Metzger fired twice, the bullets making a thwack sound as they burst out the suppressor, shattering both of the man’s kneecaps. He dropped to the floor, letting out a guttural scream and rolling on his side as his body lapsed into shock. Icy sweat coated his face.
He was fighting the pain. The man was tough.
“You were correct when you said I missed the chance to kill you.” Metzger’s cold eyes sparkled. “Believe me, there are few things I relish more than killing Irishmen. But why do you assume it was my last chance to murder you?”
Bob’s pupils dilated inside his vacant eyes. He groaned, “You like to play games, huh?”
“Ja,” Metzger winked. “I like games. Know why? Because I always win.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Potomac
5:34 P.M.
The Knight found Gabriel Bitonti waiting near the portico. Despite his age, the Vatican doctor was baby-faced, with ruffled dark hair. His suit was modest, but well tailored.
“How is the Pope?” the Knight asked.
“His Holiness is well. Thank you for asking.”
Passing through a glass atrium, Bitonti admired the panoramic view of snow-draped meadows and woods. The Knight directed him into the library.
“It was good of you to come on such short notice,” he said, easing into a wingback chair. “I have news that will delight the Pope. Soon, I will have in my hands the Radix.”
“How can this be?” Bitonti leaned forward. “The Radix vanished centuries ago.”
“It has been recovered.”
Thinking it over, the doctor pulled back. “If you are correct, I would need to examine the Radix before the Holy Father sees it.”
“Of course,” the Knight said, pressing tobacco into his pipe. “That is why I have brought you here. You have a reputation as a skeptic.”
“It is true. I have examined countless ‘miracles’ and found them wanting. I go into each investigation as a pessimist and pray I will emerge an optimist. I seldom authenticate miracles.”
“You are the world’s expert on such matters,” the Knight said, lighting his pipe.
He had long admired Bitonti’s work on medical miracles and healing relics. As a consultant to the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archeology, Bitonti had discussed some of Christendom’s greatest healing relics, such as the Edessa Cloth. Sometimes known as the Mandylion—an Arabic term meaning “little veil”—it was a cloth Jesus Christ had used to wipe his face, imprinting it with his features. He gave the cloth to Hannan, who presented it to King Abgar of Edessa. After touching the cloth, Abgar’s leprosy vanished. Around 525 CE, the cloth had been discovered above an Edessan city gate. It vanished during the Crusades in 1204.
The history of Christianity was littered with mythical healing agents, ranging from the Holy Grail to the shadow of Saint Peter. Even some Marian plants and herbs—symbolizing the Virgin Mother—were said to possess healing powers. Bitonti had been skeptical about them.
“I look forward to your investigation of the Radix. You will not be disappointed.”
“I would delight in telling the Holy Father that what you have found is authentic.”
“Indeed. But the Radix will come at a price.”
“You want money?” Bitonti snorted. “You have more than enough money.”
“I want something more precious than money,” he said as smoke rolled over his lips. “Tell me, what is the current state of Geoffrey Cuvier’s health?”
The question surprised Bitonti. “The grand master of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta is quite ill. Cuvier is not expected to see the new year.”
“After Cuvier’s death, the Pope will need to approve the election of a new grand master.”
Like his father and grandfather, the Knight belonged to the Order of Malta. Better known as the Knights of Malta, the elite Roman Catholic organization could be traced to the First Crusade. Headquartered in Rome, the order was recognized by international law as a landless sovereign nation that issued coins, stamps, license plates, and passports. Some regarded it as the world’s smallest country. Since 1994, the order held permanent observer status at the United Nations. Its members honored distinguished Catholics and provided humanitarian and medical assistance to the poor and needy.
The Knight believed that the Order of Malta could succeed at reaching a far greater goal. Two additional knights agreed with him. The other members—all blind fools—had rejected his plan. After the Holy See made him the grand master, he would recast the Order of Malta to achieve more ambitious objectives. First, he needed the Radix.
“Let me understand,” Bitonti said. “If you deliver the Radix to the Vatican—”
“I would demand the Pope approve my election as grand master of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta.”
“No one can deny the power you hold outside the Church. And your private donations are substantial. Still, the Holy Father would have reservations about approving your election to the top position within the Knights of Malta. A dark shadow haunts your family. Your father tainted the Church with the scandal involving our Institute for Religious Works.”
“You’re speaking about the alleged laundering of Nazi gold through the Vatican Bank.”
“The bank was never involved in anything like that, but I have heard stories that Nazi resources provided the foundation for your family’s considerable wealth.”
“My father was removed as a Vatican Bank advisor, but the Order of Malta did not revoke his knighthood. They made me a knight in spite of ridiculous rumors.”
“Rumors or not, the Holy Father takes them seriously.”
“Tell the Pope to ignore such rumors. It is I whom he must take seriously, not my father.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Los Angeles
2:50 P.M.
Brynstone searched the Linda Vista Hospital. On the first floor, he found a cluttered file room. Overturned green bookshelves had collapsed onto strewn papers and boxes. Farther down the wing, Jordan searched the morgue, X-ray facility, and autopsy rooms. On the second floor, Cloud reported in after checking the medical wing and exam rooms. Tilton had looked around a chapel, kitchen, cafeteria, and dayroom.
No sign of his family or the assassin.
Brynstone returned to the admission area on the first floor while Jordan moved to the third floor with Tilton. Cloud searched the fourth. It was clear Metzger liked mind games. His favorite? A sadistic version of cat and mouse. He flashed back to when the assassin had called about Linda Vista. What had he said? He remembered now. You may think I’m beneath you, but you’ll find I’m a fearsome challenger. He repeated the words: “I’m beneath you.”
Was Metzger giving his location?
Brynstone ran toward a basement door, calling the others to follow. Leading with the MP5, he moved down a corridor opening into a grimy boiler room. Under a canopy of rusted pipes, a desolate brick wall framed a huge red boiler. Gang graffiti decorated the walls. He checked behind an air duct that had been spray-painted to resemble an enormous green snake.
A pipe creaked inside the wall, making an unnerving sound. He paused at a decrepit door. With the barrel of his MP5, he eased it open, moving forward and staying low. His eyes strained as he glanced at stairs leading down to a
filthy cement floor. He made it to the landing. Fresh blood spatter down here. He peered around the corner. The basement had been redecorated as a prison set for a low-budget movie.
As he looked down his sights, sweeping through the room, he saw a woman thirty feet away. Kaylyn was seated inside a jail cell, displayed like a trophy behind bars. He couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead. Shay was nowhere in sight.
Jordan hurried down the stairs with Tilton and Cloud. They found Brynstone standing in the dank basement. Each moved to one side of the room, taking cover along the wall. With a sharp motion of his hand, he signaled to move forward. They followed his lead, spiraling across the basement. Their boots made light scuffing sounds across the concrete.
He headed to his wife, fighting the urge to sprint toward her. He reached the jail cell and ran his hand up the door, making sure it wasn’t rigged. The metal bars creaked open. Inside, she was tied to a chair. Her head drooped. Tangled hair covered her face, reaching to her chest. The ripped blouse hanging off her shoulder was stained with blood. Her gaunt arms trembled.
What had Metzger done to her?
“I’m sorry, Kaylyn,” he whispered, kneeling to work on the ropes.
Her head shot up. She blinked with terrified eyes. A strip of electrician’s tape covered her mouth. Brynstone jolted backward, staring at her.
Jordan hustled over and began cutting the ropes at her feet.
Cloud patted his back. “Don’t see Bob or your baby. At least we found your wife.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t take his gaze off her.
“Dr. Brynstone? What’s wrong?”
Without blinking, he whispered, “She’s not my wife.”
Tied to the chair, the ravaged teenager looked at him with dazed eyes. A trail of needle marks scored her grimy arm. She wore Bob the Driver’s pinkie ring on her finger.
“We’re running out of time,” Brynstone said. “Find Metzger. Go.”
As Jordan and the team sprinted away, he quizzed the girl. Metzger had abducted her from Hollenbeck Park, then dragged her to Linda Vista. The assassin had slipped Bob’s ring on her hand before wiping blood across her mouth. After confessing all this, the teenager shuddered. She didn’t know anything about Kaylyn or Shay. Brynstone turned away.
The girl darted off like a scared deer, heading up the stairs. He let her go. She’d been through enough. He let her keep the ring. He had a feeling Bob wouldn’t miss it. Maybe she’d pawn the ring and use the money for something other than heroin.
Right.
He returned to the emergency entrance, his mind racing. Movement outside caught his eye. In a black blur, Banshee bounded onto the window ledge, then squeezed through the opening in the broken glass. Jumping to the floor, the cat grunted as she stared at him.
He frowned. “How did you get out of the car?”
Following instinct, he darted outside the lobby entrance with the cat chasing him. The SUV was parked in the courtyard. Bob the Driver was nowhere in sight.
“Get to the front,” he whispered into his comm.
He could see something inside the Navigator. He had no way of knowing if Metzger had his sights set on the vehicle, but Brynstone knew he had to move. Staying low, he hustled to the car, sliding down beside it. As he opened the driver’s-side door, Bob Macintyre’s body slumped sideways, collapsing into his arms. He shoved Macintyre back onto the driver’s seat. His body showed multiple bullet wounds, including one in the forehead.
The ex-NSA ops team joined him. Jordan scanned the rooftop, searching for Metzger.
“Call someone to get Bob’s body.”
“I’m on it,” Tilton answered.
Brynstone studied the dead man’s face. Blood encircled his lips as on the heroin addict’s mouth. He thought for a beat, then crammed his fingers between Macintyre’s lips.
“What are you doing?” Jordan asked, coming over.
He didn’t answer, forcing his fingers deeper inside the man’s throat like a kid cramming his hand inside a gumball machine. He removed a ring. He closed the man’s mouth, then wiped Kaylyn’s wedding band. Metzger had scratched a message into the ring.
“What’s it say?” Jordan asked.
He looked at her. “It says, ‘Go home.’”
Potomac
6:00 P.M.
“Che bello,” Gabriel Bitonti said. “Your gallery is impressive.”
The Knight smiled. He enjoyed showing his art collection.
Bitonti admired a Cy Twombly painting. “I saw this at the Venice Biennale,” he said, staring at the twelve-panel piece. “Must be worth ten million.”
“About that on the secondary market. Follow me. I would appreciate your opinion.”
He directed the doctor to a painting at the end of the gallery. Bitonti took a step back when he saw the painting of Saint Sebastian tied to a tree, his body pierced with arrows.
“I don’t recognize the artist. The work is reminiscent of Velázquez, but with greater animation.” He moved to the next painting. “And this one. The same artist. The crucifixion of Saint Peter. Who painted this?”
“I did,” the Knight said.
“I’m impressed.” Bitonti returned his attention to the painting of a curly-haired man nailed upside down on a cross. “The realism astounds me. I feel as if the man is screaming through the paint. I can almost hear his cries of agony.”
“I go to great effort to capture emotion. Even as a child, I desired a career as a painter. I took a year from college to study at the Sorbonne, but my father had other ideas. Despite the demands of my career, the artist within me never perished.”
Cress emerged from the studio, carrying a large canvas. He brought it to the doctor.
“I am far from finished, but this is my latest work,” the Knight said. “As you can see, it is a painting of the crucifixion of Saint Andrew on the cross saltire.”
Bitonti clasped his hands. “It is beautiful in a disturbing way. Your fluency with the brush is staggering. I have a great interest in seeing where such creativity is brought to birth. May I see your studio?”
“Another time perhaps.” He motioned for Cress to take away the painting. “I’m afraid my studio is in a frightful disarray.” The Knight grabbed his arm, then led him to the dining room. “Besides, it’s time for our Christmas dinner.”
Fifteen minutes later, he sliced into the wild goose on his plate. Sitting across the table, Bitonti raised his glass of Chardonnay. His phone interrupted the toast. The Vatican doctor lowered his wine glass, then reached for his cell.
After Bitonti excused himself and moved to the next room, the Knight summoned Max Cress. “Have you disposed of Andy’s body?” he whispered.
“Yes, sir. And we wiped his blood from your sword.”
Cress backed away as Bitonti returned.
“I bring urgent news from the Vatican. A doctor from the Palazzo di Malta called to say last rites have been administered to Grand Master Cuvier.”
“It is a sign,” the Knight announced. “The Knights of Malta will need a new leader.”
“So it seems,” Bitonti said, returning to his seat at the long dining table.
“If I presented the Radix to the Vatican, could I be assured of becoming grand master?”
“I do not make such decisions, but the Holy Father will be anxious to name Cuvier’s successor. I shall speak to my colleagues at the Consulta Medica. If we authenticate the Radix, it might strengthen your case.” Bitonti leaned forward. “I wish to investigate the relic and report to the Vatican. When may I see it?”
“Soon,” the Knight assured him. “Perhaps tonight.”
Los Angeles
3:29 P.M.
Brynstone parked outside his Tudor home in the Hancock Park neighborhood. No sign of a forced entry. The house looked quiet.
Steve Cloud leaned in from the back seat. “How do you keep your cool? If Metzger kidnapped my wife, I’d lose it.”
“Don’t allow myself that luxury,” he answered. Bef
ore opening the Navigator’s door, he turned to Jordan, Cloud, and Tilton. “Metzger could be in the house. Cover me as I go in.”
Banshee bolted toward the front door. Brynstone sprinted after her and unlocked it.
Inside the house, the team moved from room to room.
He checked the living room, indulging a fantasy about finding Kaylyn and Shay, safe and waiting for him. Metzger wouldn’t make it that easy, but reality didn’t diminish the hope. His homecoming felt bittersweet when he spotted his daughter’s unopened Christmas presents. On a pedestal, Kaylyn’s Eclipse sculpture reminded him about the day he’d bought it at an LA gallery. The house seemed lifeless without his family.
He was searching his wife’s studio when Jordan’s call came over the comm.
“John,” she said, “I’m in the basement. Get down here.”
He raced downstairs, then hurried through the kitchen and took the basement stairs. His heart sank. No sign of his wife or daughter. Jordan and Cloud stood over a man sprawled on the floor. Watching them, Banshee tiptoed around the top of the water heater.
“Your cat squealed. That’s what brought me down here.” Jordan said. “Know the guy?”
He nodded, staring at the body. “A neighbor.”
Bill Adler was a widower and a former CIA spook. Whenever Brynstone was in the field, he kept an eye on Kaylyn and Shay. Adler must’ve caught Metzger breaking into the house.
“See the blood on the steps? Looks like he was dragged down. Cloud found spatter near your piano. Bet that’s where your neighbor was killed.”
Dried blood encircled Adler’s mouth, just as it had on Bob the Driver. Brynstone parted the dead man’s lips. He took a flashlight and shone light inside the exposed mouth. A message was stitched in black thread on Bill Adler’s tongue:
Vegas 9p
“Enough games,” Brynstone announced. “We’re settling this in Las Vegas.”