by Brett King
Adriana sprinted toward him. An officer started firing. A shot ricocheted off the ledge and grazed her hip. Another ripped through her arm but didn’t slow her.
Wurm popped the Radix into his mouth.
Seeing her father swallow the root, Adriana’s face registered fury in the midair sweep of a jumping kick. Her black boot slammed into his chest, thrusting him backward. As he teetered on the catwalk, she grabbed his throat, digging fingers into his flesh.
“Cough up the Radix,” she barked.
A bullet pierced his leg. Adriana shuddered as gunfire ripped through her neck. Her powerful hand was still gripping Wurm’s throat as they plummeted. Locked together, their bodies glanced off an arching buttress before hitting the hard wet surface.
Cori screamed as Edgar Wurm and Adriana Borgia fell from the cathedral. Officers climbed down to the catwalk, shouting in French. Behind her, Bettencourt yelled back at them.
Reeling from the sight of Wurm’s death, Cori buried her head in her hands. She pulled back, teary eyed, then stared down at his broken body draped over Adriana. She bit her lip, then tried to stand. She hadn’t always understood Wurm, but Cori knew she would never forget him.
Chapter Fifty-four
Las Vegas
8:39 P.M.
John and Kaylyn Brynstone had resuscitated their daughter back at the Helios Tower. Had it been enough? Huddled over Shay’s limp body, they rode in a blaring blue and white ambulance. His soul felt numb, holding her tiny blue hand as a female EMT used a laryngoscope to place a tube in Shay’s windpipe. Unable to watch, Kaylyn glanced out the back window, looking toward the Paris and Bally’s resorts as the ambulance headed east on Flamingo.
“Hospital’s three miles from the Strip,” the EMT said. “Been a crazy night. A military helicopter crashed into the Bellagio fountains. Both pilots died. Thank God no one else did.”
Brynstone nodded, staring with weary eyes but not seeing the woman. Not seeing anything.
Washington, D.C.
11:40 P.M.
“Pantera has the Radix,” Deena Riverside said into her cell. “Are you ready to make the exchange as we discussed?”
“You got it,” Kirby Faulkner said. His voice sounded gruff, but professional.
He had been a private detective for years. A decade back, the state of Indiana’s Private Detective Licensing Board had revoked his license. After that, he joined Omara Associates, a risk-consulting company that provided security services to major corporations. He was a perfect contact to make the exchange with Pantera.
“Same place we agreed on?”
“El Dorado Canyon,” she said, pacing in the hospital hallway. “You’re in Vegas now?”
“Correct. I have the account information for the exchange,” Faulkner said. “I’ll meet with Pantera. Then I’ll call when I have the Radix.”
Deena slid the phone in her purse, then searched the hospital for President Armstrong. She couldn’t wait to tell him the news.
Las Vegas
8:44 P.M.
Brynstone glanced out the window as the ambulance turned off East Flamingo onto South Bruce. Dressed in curving brown-and-tan-checked brick, the Desert Springs Hospital featured an oversized green glass window set behind six palm trees. As the ambulance turned off Bruce, he saw a red emergency sign.
In their time at the Las Vegas hospital, the emergency staff had treated drunken gamblers, messed-up prostitutes, and assorted celebrities. They’d seen about everything, so no one registered surprise when the Brynstones hurried in with their daughter.
Kaylyn followed as they spirited away Shay. Staff permitted one visitor at a time. They didn’t argue over the choice.
Outside Henderson, Nevada
8:58 P.M.
Metzger turned the Chevrolet Starcraft onto Highway 95, heading south. He always preferred nondescript vehicles, not caring to draw attention to himself. A van such as this one had been perfect for transporting a kidnapped woman and her mewling infant. He supposed it was less suitable for driving around with a beautiful woman.
He rolled down the window, inviting in a refreshing desert breeze. “How much farther to El Dorado Canyon?”
“Less than thirty miles,” Jordan said, in the seat beside him. “I’m meeting a man named Kirby Faulkner. He’s a representative for Taft-Ryder. I’ve confirmed it with Deena Riverside, the Taft-Ryder CEO. She’s the one I called when we left Vegas.”
“How much does she know about the Radix?”
“Enough to pay dearly for it.”
“Might I ask how you came to work with Taft-Ryder?”
“After I learned about the Radix, I began profiling big pharmaceutical companies. Taft-Ryder had fallen on hard times and needed a ‘miracle drug’ boost. Their CEO is willing to take big risks and play dirty. These big pharmaceuticals like to sabotage each other. Faulkner did some behind-the-scenes corporate warfare stuff for Taft-Ryder. Even better, her company has a connection with Dillon Armstrong. He brought in the big-time cash.”
“How much does Riverside know about you?”
“She’s never seen me. We only communicate via text message.”
“You identified yourself as Pantera when you spoke to her,” he said. “The Italian word for ‘panther.’ It fits.”
“I thought so.”
His phone chimed. He grabbed it, then gave a cold smile when he saw the number.
“Who is it?” Jordan asked.
“The Knight.”
“Put him on speaker.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Jeez, cowboy, what are you afraid of?”
In an amused voice, he said, “You’re playing with me. Aren’t you, Jordan?”
“C’mon. We’re partners now. Besides, I want to hear what your knight sounds like. Hurry before he hangs up.”
“He won’t hang up. He’s relentless.” Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he punched the speaker button. Metzger sensed that the Knight was furious. He disguised his voice with indifference.
“Before you hung up on me, you said you had the Radix. Do you?”
“Ja.”
“You ended your call because someone was approaching.”
“A woman. Some redhead Brynstone brought with him. Beautiful but annoying.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Nein. I killed her.” He was having fun now. Metzger glanced over at Jordan. Her green eyes grew wide and blank. Her striking face had drained of color.
“Good,” the Knight answered.
“Now, leave me alone or you will not ever see the Radix. The next time we talk will be when I call you.”
Metzger ended the call before the Knight could protest.
He glanced at the woman. “Did I frighten you?”
“That was the Knight?” she asked. “That’s the guy who hired you to kill Brynstone and get the Radix?”
Metzger nodded. “Why?”
“I know the guy. I’d recognize that voice in my sleep.”
“Are you certain?”
“Bet my life on it.” Jordan ran her fingers through her red hair. “The Knight? The man who called you? He’s my boss. His name is Lieutenant General James Delgado.”
Las Vegas
9:04 P.M.
After a Desert Springs Hospital ER nurse treated the gunshot wounds in Brynstone’s shoulder and leg, Las Vegas cops quizzed him about events at the Helios Tower. The conversation didn’t last long after he showed his government credentials. They made a phone call, then let him go.
A few minutes later, Kaylyn emerged from ICU with a report. She was distraught and inconsolable, hugging herself. Lost in shock, she muttered a few words to Brynstone. He tried to talk to her. She wasn’t interested. He understood, watching her return to ICU.
A family in the waiting room called some relatives, explaining that their father had suffered multiple seizures after neurosurgery for a brain tumor. Brynstone left the room, giving them privacy. Walking down the hallway, he found himself think
ing about Jordan. She had betrayed him by working with the Borgias. Jordan must’ve told them to follow Wurm and Cori to Bollingen. She may have told the Borgias to head to Notre-Dame after Jordan called Cori from LA. He guessed Jordan’s plan was to bide her time until the Borgias had the Scintilla.
He didn’t like hospitals, but he’d do whatever he could to help Shay. After that, he’d find Erich Metzger. Then he’d track down Jordan Rayne.
As he bought a bottle of Propel water from a vending machine, he overheard two docs discussing his daughter. They didn’t recognize him. Their story sounded grim compared with the version Kaylyn had heard. One doctor predicted Shay would last a few hours at most.
Shaken by the news, he walked past the nurses’ station on his way to the chapel. He went inside and sat down in a pew, staring at the blood-spattered bunny. His gaze drifted to a stained-glass picture. Sunshine illuminated a lakeside mountain. Two trees sheltered red and orange flowers. The idyllic scene brought to mind a passage from Ezekiel 47:12, describing a tree that grew alongside a river outside the Temple. Ezekiel claimed the tree’s leaf never faded and was used as medicine. It was the first description of the Radix in the Old Testament.
He hadn’t thought about the Radix in hours. He tucked the stuffed animal back in his coat, then pulled out the cista mystica. He removed the stone lid, then stared at the empty box. Then he grabbed his cell and called Cori.
Paris
6:05 A.M.
Standing on the parvis, Cori watched French SAMU paramedics wheel out the bodies of Edgar Wurm, Anton Vaden, and Adriana Borgia. They loaded the corpses into white cars that resembled station wagons more than American ambulances. The Paris police had seized the hammer and the Scintilla vellum. An officer discussed the relics on a conference call with a Louvre curator and an agent from the Art and Antique Squad at Scotland Yard.
As Cori was escorted by a policewoman, her phone rang. The petite officer held it in her white-gloved hand. Cori struggled to say “That’s my phone” in French, then added, “s’il vous plaît?”
The woman glanced at another officer before handing over the phone.
She grabbed it, offering a quick “Merci.”
Chapter Fifty-five
Las Vegas
9:06 P.M.
Brynstone paced the Desert Springs chapel, ear pressed against the phone. It rang forever before Cori picked up. Her voice was fragile and weary.
“John, how’s your family?”
“Not good. I’ll explain later. Where are you?”
“Paris. They’re taking me to the police station.”
“Did you find the Scintilla?”
“Yeah. I sent you an e-mail with the ingredients. Did you get it?”
“Let me look.” He found Cori’s message with ingredients for the White Chrism. Balsam. Figs. Salt. A few other ingredients. And of course, the Radix.
“Yeah, I got it,” he said, his voice cracking. “Cori, um, my daughter is dying.”
“Oh, John. I’m sorry.”
“I need the Radix. Now.”
She paused. “I can’t do that.”
“Wh-why not?”
“Edgar Wurm swallowed it. Right before he died.”
“Wurm’s dead?” Brynstone slumped against a wall. He couldn’t believe it.
“John? John, are you there? I have to hang up.”
“Never should’ve happened this way,” he muttered.
Her voice went low. “You know that locket I gave you?”
He was dazed. “What?”
“The locket I gave you at Teterboro Airport. Back in Jersey. You know, the one from my mother. Still have it?”
He fished inside his pocket. “Yeah.”
“Give it to your daughter.”
“Give it to Shay?”
“I have to go,” she said, careful about her words. “Give the locket to your daughter. Trust me and do it. Now. It’ll help her feel better.”
“Cori?”
She was gone.
He studied the ornate locket. He pressed on the delicate golden clasp, then opened it. His eyes widened. The locket held a green sliver with a blackish purple bloom. Before flying to Switzerland, Cori must’ve stripped a piece from the Radix, then placed it inside the locket.
Jumping up, Brynstone sprinted down the corridor, catching a nurse.
“If my wife comes out,” he said, “tell her I’ll be right back.”
El Dorado Canyon, Nevada
9:12 P.M.
At one time, El Dorado Canyon had hosted one of the biggest silver booms in Nevada history. Now, on an eerie Christmas night, the same desert would witness an exchange that Jordan predicted would rock the pharmaceutical industry.
“Where is your man?” Metzger asked.
“Kirby Faulkner? He’ll be here.”
“Why aren’t you meeting him inside the canyon?”
“There’s one way in and one way out. Road dead-ends at the Colorado River. Not a good place for an exchange.” She flashed a seductive smile. “Mind giving me the Radix?”
“First, give me the Luxembourg account number and your passwords.”
Jordan brought out her smartphone, then showed him. Metzger pursed his lips. He held out his hand, revealing a vial. She snatched it.
“I see headlights,” he said, before climbing in the backseat.
Seventy feet away, a Mercedes slowed to a stop in a cloud of dust.
Jordan cursed. She had opened the vial and was examining the stalk.
“Is there a problem?”
“John let me see the Radix when we were flying from Aspen. It was inside a small stone box. He removed it, but—”
“But what, Ms. Rayne?”
“This is not the Radix. Bastard switched it on us,” she muttered to herself. “This is a replica of the Radix. Not bad, but it’s nothing like the real thing.”
“Does it matter?” he asked. “From what you said, no one but you and Brynstone have seen it in over five hundred years.” He peered through the windshield. Kirby Faulkner stepped from the Mercedes. “He won’t know it’s fake until after we have the money.”
“We’ll only get half now. We won’t get the rest if they realize it’s a fake.”
“One billion isn’t bad for a counterfeit miracle plant.” He patted her shoulder. “Go.”
Metzger admired Jordan Rayne’s body as she walked out to meet Faulkner in the Nevada desert. She was tough and beautiful, a rare combination. Jordan could be a worthy asset.
He glanced out the passenger window. The sandstone formations looked eerie in the moonlight. Like some German boys of his generation, he’d grown up watching American cowboy movies. El Dorado Canyon appealed to that childhood romance. Unlike his boyhood friends, however, Metzger identified with vigilantes more than the men with badges. He brought night-vision binoculars to his eyes. Jordan was talking to Kirby Faulkner. She was taller, blocking the man’s face. She held out the vial. He took the root and inspected it with a flashlight. Faulkner was visible now. Middle-aged, dressed in a suit. He resembled an accountant.
Faulkner nodded. He made a phone call.
Jordan used her smartphone to confirm the transfer to a numbered Luxembourg account. She said something. Faulkner laughed. Satisfied, she turned away. Walking toward the van, she wore an enormous smile. Red hair drifted around her face, almost in slow motion.
“That was easy,” Metzger said aloud.
Only it wasn’t. Faulkner reached inside his coat, then pulled out a gun. Metzger bolted from his seat as the man shot Jordan in the back. She dropped. Faulkner shot her again.
Such a waste. Metzger sighed as he tossed aside the binoculars. He brought out his gun.
The night was clear as he emerged from the van. Faulkner had grabbed Jordan’s smartphone. He headed to his Mercedes with the counterfeit Radix.
Metzger called out, “Excuse me.”
The man turned, surprise blanking his features.
“Have you no dignity?” he asked, limpi
ng toward him. “You shot her in the back. You are a coward.”
Faulkner reached into his coat. Metzger paused until the man brought out his weapon. Metzger raised his handgun and fired. The bullet sliced through two of Faulkner’s fingers. The gun spiraled out of his hand. Metzger smiled. It was like something in a Western.
“Stay away,” Faulkner cried, stumbling toward his car.
Metzger passed Jordan’s body without looking down. “I will not shoot you in the back, coward,” he called. “But I will kill you. Have no illusions about that.”
Keeping his back to Metzger, Faulkner opened the car door, then started to crawl inside. The man looked back for a single second. His final mistake. Metzger’s bullet shattered the window and pierced Faulkner’s right eye. He dropped to the desert floor. Metzger came over and rolled the dead man. He reached inside the coat, then removed the smartphone with the Luxembourg account information. He kicked dirt on the man’s bloody face.
He walked back to Jordan. He nudged her limp body, beautiful even in death. Such a waste. He held up the vial and studied it in the moonlight.
“My, my, my,” Metzger said to the little root. “You have caused a great many problems for a great many people.”
Las Vegas
9:14 P.M.
Las Vegas never slept. Unless you were off the Strip. And if you were, getting a taxi at night was close to impossible. Desperate for a ride, Brynstone glanced around the hospital parking lot, looking for an older car. Many vehicles from the eighties had a carbureted engine and a single ignition coil and distributor that made for an easy hot-wire.
He spied a teenager who had delivered pizza to the hospital. He stopped the kid and offered him a thousand to use his car. He insisted on driving, asking the pizza guy for directions to a grocery store. They stopped at a Sunflower Market on Tropicana, then made another stop. A nearby Walgreen’s was closed. They drove to a Rite Aid on Spencer and Flamingo.