by Brett King
Although the Vegas high-rise was far from finished, contractors had already installed safes in the luxury suites. The safe featured an LED display and an electronic push-button lock like the one on the door to Zaki’s mummy chamber. He figured Metzger had used an audit trail module unit to override the original password-protected combination. After that, he could program in a new combination.
His daughter’s muffled cry rose from inside.
“Baby girl?” he called. “Daddy’s here. I’ll get you out.”
Brynstone needed to think like Metzger. He tapped the alphanumeric keypad, punching in the code 7-2-3-4-9, a number sequence spelling out Radix. Didn’t work. He tried 3-7-4-2-4 for Metzger’s first name. No success. He tried Metzger’s birth date. Then he punched in the sequence 8-7-8-3-2 for Truda, the assassin’s mother. No luck. Be systematic, he coached himself. Five-letter German words passed through his mind. None unlocked the safe.
He was running out of time to save Shay. Her cries sounded weaker. He kept talking as he punched digits. “Hang on, baby girl.”
Shay whimpered. He had to break this combination. He didn’t think about another thing until he heard his wife’s voice.
“John? Where are you?”
“Kaylyn, get out,” he called. “Metzger’s around here somewhere.”
“Ja, I am.”
He spun around. Metzger was twelve feet away, barechested and unarmed. His face was swollen. His leg a bloody mess. His shirt served as a tourniquet.
“Give me the combination,” Brynstone growled, training the Glock on him.
Metzger limped closer. “Let’s trade. The Radix for the combination.”
He was unarmed. Didn’t matter. He would be a threat even on his deathbed.
He purred through a reptilian smile, “Do you wish to kill me? Or do you wish to save Shayna?”
“Both. Now stay where you are.”
Metzger came closer. “I understand you, Dr. Brynstone. I thought that like me, you were a man without fear. But that’s not true, is it? There is one thing that terrifies you. Something that scares you to death. And that’s losing your family.”
He was eight feet away. Brynstone aimed lower. “Want me to take out your other leg?”
Metzger stopped.
Brynstone caught movement to his right. Jordan stepped from the shadows. She pressed the SIG’s barrel against Kaylyn’s temple. Fear washed over his wife’s face.
Erich Metzger and Jordan Rayne were competing for the Radix. Metzger could kill Shay. Jordan could kill Kaylyn. Ugly choices. Brynstone took his aim off Metzger, then pointed the gun at Jordan. Could he take her out without hitting Kaylyn? His wife’s terrified eyes made him hesitate.
Jordan snarled, “Give me the Radix or I’ll kill Kaylyn.”
“I expected more from you,” Brynstone said between gritted teeth. “I never thought you would work for the Borgias.”
“The Borgias work for me,” she boasted. “I’m using them. Tell you what, John. Give me the Radix and we’ll sell it to my buyer. I’ll cut you in for half.”
“You’re holding a gun to my wife’s head, Jordan. You double-crossed Delgado and the Borgias. You expect me to trust you?”
“Do you realize,” Metzger asked in a hushed voice, “that your baby has stopped crying?”
Brynstone held his breath and listened.
“Tell me,” Metzger said, “have you seen a baby die of asphyxiation? As cyanosis sets in, her face changes to a bluish purple color. Blood vessels pop as her eyes begin to bulge.”
“Give him the Radix,” Kaylyn screamed.
“Shut up,” Jordan demanded. She shook her powerful arm, jerking Kaylyn’s head. She pressed the barrel beneath Kaylyn’s eye. Brynstone swallowed. Jordan had betrayed him. How far would she go? He looked at Metzger. “I’m getting the Radix.” He reached into his pocket, then removed the cista mystica. He lifted the lid, then held up the vial containing Wurm’s replica of the Radix. “Tell me the combination.”
“Think about your wife, John,” Jordan growled.
Metzger smiled. “I’ll give you three numbers. Give me the Radix. I’ll give the last two.”
Sweat breaking on his forehead, Brynstone dropped the cista mystica, then said, “Do it.”
“Drei-drei-zwei.” Metzger paused.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Jordan called. “Forget about Shayna. Save your wife, John. You and Kaylyn can have another kid.”
Keeping the gun steady, he bent down, then rolled the vial across the floor. He cocked his head, making a quick glance at the safe as he punched in 3-3-2. The vial rolled across the floor before stopping at Metzger’s blood-speckled boot. The assassin grabbed the vial, then studied the small root inside. Would Metzger know it was a decoy? Brynstone had no choice but to chance it. “The last two numbers?” he demanded.
Metzger’s eyes gleamed. His lips parted; then he answered in a raspy voice, “Acht—”
Brynstone knew the last number, saying “vier” at the same time as Metzger, realizing the 3-3-2-8-4 combination spelled D-E-A-T-H. He turned away, knowing the man might charge. He couldn’t deprive his daughter of air a second longer. He punched the final two numbers. The bolt inside the safe released. As he opened the door, he looked back to shoot Metzger.
He was gone.
Brynstone aimed the gun at Jordan. Kaylyn was on the floor, rubbing her head. Jordan Rayne was nowhere in sight. He holstered his gun, then reached inside the safe for his daughter.
Chapter Fifty-two
Las Vegas
8:26 P.M.
Erich Metzger slipped out of the Helios Tower. In the darkness of the construction site, he brought out his phone, then headed for his vehicle. The Knight answered after the first ring.
“I have the Radix,” Metzger told him.
“Excellent. My contact is waiting to meet you. Take the Radix—”
“I must call back,” he whispered. “Someone is coming.” He ended the call.
A figure ducked around a yellow backhoe loader, as if stalking prey. He knew who it was and the realization warmed him. Kaylyn had been a curiosity and an amusement. But this American woman named Jordan? She was pure fascination. He watched her glide in the shadows. Jordan found his van. If he waited, she would find him. There was no time for that.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he limped toward her. “Ms. Rayne, may I congratulate you?”
She gasped in surprise, bringing her gun around in one fluid motion.
“You impress me. You engineered some lovely tricks on Brynstone, that nasty Borgia family, the National Security Agency, and God knows who else. Beautifully played.”
“Give me the Radix,” she demanded.
“That can be arranged. I understand you intend to make money from this little root. May I inquire about your buyer?”
“Taft-Ryder Pharmaceuticals.”
“A drug company. The Radix would appeal to them. How much money?”
“Two billion placed in a numbered account in Luxembourg. I’m meeting a contact in the desert in one hour. I get the first billion tonight. The second after they authenticate it.”
“A man who calls himself the Knight hired me. Your drug lords are offering a great deal more than my knight. Perhaps we could work together.” He locked his hands on his hips. “Although you are armed and I am not, we both know I can kill you. Are we agreed on that?”
She didn’t answer.
“You can die here now or make me a partner and give me a fifty-fifty cut.”
She studied him, thinking it over.
“Do you hear the sirens?” he asked. “The Brynstones have called an ambulance. Las Vegas’s finest will be here any moment. Don’t take long deciding your fate.”
“One question. Why cut a deal with me?”
“I’m willing to gamble on you,” he purred. “Isn’t that what Vegas is all about?”
Chapter Fifty-three
Paris
5:28 A.M.
At the bottom
of Notre-Dame’s north-tower stairs, Cori heard a distant voice. She grabbed Wurm’s arm. “Adriana’s here. Coming this way.”
They ducked behind a marble column.
Adriana hustled up the spiral staircase, calling her brother’s name.
“I don’t want to mess with the Borgias,” Cori said. “Let’s go.”
“Not without the Scintilla. We’ve come too far. Sacrificed too much. And all we have is this blasted hammer. It’s not fit to pound a proper nail.” Wurm struck the weathered hammer against a pillar. The head broke off before spiraling to the floor. “See what I mean?”
Tilting her head, she stared at the wooden handle in Wurm’s hand. She studied it. Rolled vellum peeked from the center of the headless hammer. “There’s something inside.”
He shone his flashlight on the straight-grained ash handle. “Looks like Viollet-le-Duc hollowed out the hammer to conceal something in here. Then he placed it inside the crocket under Le Stryge during his cathedral reconstruction.”
She removed the curled strip of vellum from the hammer. Two columns, written in some ancient Semitic script. Unable to read it, she handed the vellum to Wurm.
“Is it the Scintilla?” she asked, unable to suppress her excitement.
Wurm looked up with twinkling eyes. “It’s the formula for the White Chrism.”
He flipped it over.
“What’s wrong?”
His brows furrowed. “Nothing here about the Black Chrism. It looks like the bottom portion has been torn off. I wonder—”
“Edgar, just tell me what it says.”
As he translated the Aramaic and Hebraic text, she brought out her cell phone, then typed each ingredient into an e-mail message.
“What are you doing?”
“Keep going,” she said, tapping keys with both thumbs. “I’m sending this to John.”
Wurm finished the list of ingredients. “How curious. Add these items to the prime material—the Radix—and it creates the spark.”
She slid the rolled vellum inside the hammer’s hollow base. She placed it inside her coat with the Radix. “Let’s find Nicolette. Then we can go.”
She called Bettencourt. The woman answered in a wavering voice.
“Help me, Cori. I am in the spire.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You must come now. Hurry.” She ended the call.
“Let’s go, Edgar. I think Nicolette is in trouble.”
They rushed down the cavernous nave, then darted toward the stairs leading to the spire.
At the top of the stairs, they found Nicolette leaning against the doorway, making the sign of the cross. Cori came over, running her arm across the woman’s shoulder.
“Nicolette, what’s wrong?”
“Dear God,” Wurm said, shining his flashlight into the spire.
She moved beside him.
From high inside the spire, a thick rope rocked Anton Vaden in midair. A slipknot squeezed the guard’s broken neck. The man’s glazed eyes stared at her.
Cori steadied Vaden’s body as Wurm tried to free him from the rope. Nicolette Bettencourt wiped away tears, unable to look at the dead man.
Footfalls sounded on the stairs behind them.
Adriana Borgia appeared in the spire doorway with her brother. After Wurm’s beating, Santo’s nose was bloody. One arm dangled at his side.
“Leave him hanging. I like him better that way.” She pointed a gun. “Hand over the relic from the gargoyle’s crocket.”
“Forget it,” Cori answered, aware of the hammer handle in her coat pocket.
Bettencourt came over. “Putain!” she cursed at Adriana. “You monsters killed my friend. Are you out of your minds?” The French woman lunged, wrestling the gun from Adriana. Without hesitation, she flipped around, kicking the weapon from Bettencourt’s hand.
Santo Borgia dove for the gun. Wurm got there first, kicking it down the stairs. Santo threw a cross-body block on Wurm, then tore into him with punch after punch.
Cori backed away.
Bettencourt leveled a decent hit on Adriana’s chin. She shrugged, then wiped blood from her mouth before blasting her fist into Bettencourt’s gut. Adriana followed with a jumping kick to her neck. Bettencourt went down, but grabbed Adriana’s ankle, toppling her.
As Wurm struggled to get free, Cori threw herself on Santo’s back, clawing his face. He dropped Wurm, then reached over his shoulder. Santo grabbed her arm, then yanked, flipping Cori into the wall. Santo shoved aside Anton Vaden’s twirling body as he stalked her. She saw his fist coming and blocked it with her forearm. The collision felt like she had jarred every bone in her body. He grabbed her wrist, twisting hard. Rage boiled in his eyes, hungry and unpredictable. She broke away, but he caught her wool coat. Santo Borgia ripped it from her body and tossed the coat out the spire window.
Her eyes brightened with horror. “No!” she cried.
She needed to climb out there to get the Radix and Scintilla from her coat pocket. Reaching for the window, she felt Santo grab her neck. He twisted her arm and flung her to the ground. She collapsed, breath paralyzed in her throat.
“She wants something in that coat,” Santo called to his sister.
“Must be the relic,” Adriana answered before Bettencourt pinned her to the wall.
Catching his breath, Wurm attacked Santo from behind. As he tried to stand, Wurm kicked, driving his size-fourteen shoe into Santo’s face. Borgia hit the wall and slumped.
“That’s payback for the slaughterhouse.”
Wurm scrambled to the window and climbed out the spire.
Adriana shoved aside Bettencourt, then grabbed the rope and slid out the opening after Wurm. Instead of chasing her, Bettencourt hustled down the stairs outside the spire door. Cori struggled to her feet. The pain seemed hotter now, searing deep inside.
Bettencourt returned, holding Vaden’s gun.
Cori peered down the southeastern side, where they had wrapped Jung’s sash around Saint Thomas’s staff less than an hour ago. It wasn’t a straight drop off the roof. Instead, a narrow catwalk separated the roof from the flying buttresses. With the coat in hand, Wurm was almost to the edge, gripping the rope as he eased down the shingles. She felt helpless, watching as Wurm made it to the catwalk. Adriana wasn’t far behind, easing down the slick roof.
“She’s gaining on him.”
“Enough is enough. We must stop that terrible woman,” Bettencourt muttered, aiming Vaden’s gun. “I have one shot. Better make it count.”
Cori spun, hearing a sound. Santo Borgia had climbed to his feet. Bettencourt turned, pointing the gun. Santo ducked behind Vaden’s hanging body.
“Shoot me and you shoot him,” he warned, before taunting, “We had fun stringing up this loser.”
“Ta gueule!” Bettencourt yelled.
Santo moved out from behind Vaden. “I’m gonna have fun playing with you two girls.”
He started to charge. Bettencourt squeezed off the final shot, the bullet ripping through his upper chest. Borgia staggered to his knees. The big man looked in amazement as smoke rolled from the hole in his shirt. He forced a shallow cough before collapsing on the spire floor.
Police sirens wailed in the distance.
Cori looked west beyond Notre-Dame’s twin towers toward the Préfecture de Police. She turned and looked back out the spire. Holding her coat, Wurm headed east along the balcony. Adriana was gaining, about twenty feet behind him.
Grabbing the rope, Cori climbed out the window. Bettencourt followed.
Edgar Wurm removed the Radix from the coat pocket. Adriana hadn’t noticed as she stepped onto the catwalk above the flying buttresses. This time, he wasn’t giving it back to Cori.
“We’ve come a long way together,” Adriana purred. “Haven’t we?”
“You’re smarter than your half brothers. But like your mother, you’ve gone too far. Lucrezia was a good woman, but her obsession with the Radix blinded her.”
“Isn’t the same t
rue of you, Father?”
“I told you to never call me that.” Wurm raised his bandaged fingers. “Especially after what you did to me back at the slaughterhouse.”
“I’ve never revealed our little secret,” Adriana laughed, strutting as she moved closer. “My half brothers don’t know about you and mother.”
“They never will. That was your late mother’s wish as well as my own. If you respect Lucrezia, you’ll remain silent about my relationship with her.”
“Throw me the coat,” Adriana demanded, walking toward him on the catwalk.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Your life.”
He shrugged, then tossed Cori’s coat to Adriana. She dug in the pocket and removed the hammer. She saw the vellum peeking out. Her face brightened. “At last, the Scintilla.” She dropped the coat between the buttresses surrounding the cathedral.
Behind her, Cori and Nicolette reached the catwalk.
Sirens cried over the soft rush of the River Seine. Wurm looked down. With lights blazing, white police cars raced across the sidewalk of the Square Jean XXIII, a park bordering the cathedral. French police flooded the grounds with weapons raised.
“Edgar!” Cori screamed. “Get down. Police want you down.”
Three officers leaned out the spire. A policewoman dressed in a dark blue uniform barked orders. Cori and Nicolette crouched on their knees, hands behind their heads.
Wurm opened the vial.
“What’s that?” Adriana squinted. “It’s the Radix, isn’t it? Jordan told us Brynstone took it to Vegas.”
“Thought you had it all figured out, didn’t you? Your people will never learn.”
She extended her hand. “Give me the Radix. I have Cesare Borgia’s blood flowing inside me. The Radix is my birthright.”
“I am destined to be the Keeper.” The root slid onto his palm. He held up the Radix, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “This is my salvation for a broken life.”