Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  "What was that?" asked the smaller guard, who being marginally more intelligent, was evidently in charge. "Go check it out, Rudy."

  Rudy grunted an affirmative and stalked off to investigate, while the other fellow assumed a defensive stance behind Miss Kerns. Kismet waited until Rudy's footsteps were barely audible, and then cautiously lowered himself from the beam. His grip tightened instinctively as more and more of his body hung out into open space, but he pushed back his primal trepidation, took a deep breath, and let go. A fraction of a second later, he landed directly on the smaller of the woman's tormentors.

  His feet struck the man between the shoulder blades, instantly slamming him to the floor, but Kismet lost his balance in the process and went sprawling. His attempt to stay upright succeeded only in his twisting an ankle before he slammed into the stone floor. The guard however had borne the brunt of the impact, and now lay supine alongside Miss Kerns, clutching his chest and unable to catch his breath. Kismet ignored the pain in his foot and pounced, striking the stunned guard at the pressure point behind his ear. Two such blows rendered the man unconscious. The commotion however had not gone unnoticed.

  "Frank?" Rudy called, turning around. "Where are you, Frank?"

  Kismet ducked behind the bound captive, but could do nothing to hide the slumped form from Rudy's view. He could hear the giant's steps growing louder and as the big man drew near, Kismet crawled around to the other side of the hostage, keeping her between himself and Rudy. In the dim light, the giant never saw him, but Kerns' daughter did, and Kismet got his first good look at her. Her beauty caught him off guard.

  Her features were classically Russian: broad cheekbones framing a triangular face, marred only by a strip of silver tape that covered her mouth. Her eyes were liquid black, almost haunting against her delicate white skin. He risked a quick smile before reaching out to take hold of the empty chair beside her.

  Rudy was standing over his unmoving companion. "Get up Frank. Quit screwing around."

  Kismet quietly stood up, lifting the sturdy chair over his head. Rising onto his toes, he brought the chair down on Rudy's cranium with such force that the wooden seat shattered and drove the big man to his knees. Kismet triumphantly tossed aside the fragments of his makeshift bludgeon, but in the corner of his eye he saw the giant climbing to his feet. Rudy turned slowly, breathing heavily like an enraged bull. Incredulous, Kismet found himself staring, first at Rudy's sternum, which was at eye level, then up into a pair of crimson-rimmed eyes. The giant's fingers were flexing, curling into fists that resembled sledgehammers.

  "That could have gone better," muttered Kismet, glancing around for some other weapon to use against the moving mountain that now advanced on him. There was nothing, certainly nothing that could make a dent in such a formidable adversary. With a grim expression Kismet raised his own fists, aware of how pathetic his defense must have seemed to the other man.

  Rudy glanced at Kismet's fists, laughing. Nevertheless, the big man appeared wary, refusing to let his own overwhelming size lead him into the trap of overconfidence. If Rudy was in most ways mentally deficient, in matters of combat he excelled. Fortunately for Kismet, he failed to see what his foe was really up to. Following the lead of Kismet's fists, Rudy edged closer. Kismet feinted, and as Rudy moved to block the punch, Kismet kicked him hard in the crotch.

  The giant grunted but shook off the effects of the kick. Kismet on the other hand felt a stab of pain in his injured ankle and hopped back a step, shaking his head. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  Rudy was in agony, but pain affected him differently than most men; it was like fuel in the engine of his fighting machine. Intent upon dismembering his opponent, he took a step closer but suddenly pitched forward. Surprised, Kismet watched him plummet like a felled tree. As Rudy had passed the bound girl in the chair, ignoring her as she posed no immediate threat, she had stuck her foot out, snaring his ankle to trip him up. Kismet pounced on the giant's back, raining blows with fists and elbows at the base of Rudy's neck.

  He knew, even as he struck, that his strength was insufficient to overpower the giant. He could feel Rudy's muscles bunching beneath him, building up like a volcano for a titanic eruption of destructive power. Rudy roared to life, pitching his assailant aside like a rag doll. Kismet rolled away and came to rest against Frank's motionless form.

  Rudy rose to his full height a second time, casting a scornful glance at the woman who had felled him. With palpable disdain he lashed a foot against the leg of her chair, causing it to tip. Unable to catch herself, she fell backward, and the chair hit the stone floor with a sickening crack.

  Kismet thrust his hand into Frank's jacket, and then turned to face Rudy. The giant stopped the instant he found himself staring into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson .44 Special revolver. Kismet thumbed the action back and jammed the weapon into the Rudy's chest.

  "Tougher than her, but are you tougher than this?" Kismet snarled, surprised at his own ferocity. The brutal attack on the helpless girl had ignited his fury. "Down on the floor, hands behind your head."

  The glowering behemoth grudgingly complied, sinking first to his knees then lying flat on the stone surface. Kismet kept the pistol ready for use, fully intending to shoot upon the slightest sign of aggression.

  He transferred the gun to his left hand and slipped the Benchmade from his pocket, flipping it open one-handed. The blade easily sliced through the knots that held the girl fast. She flexed her fingers to restore circulation then ripped the tape strip from her lips with an unrestrained curse. "Dermo!"

  "Are you hurt?" Kismet asked in Russian, his eyes never leaving Rudy.

  "Nyet," she replied.

  "Will you take the gun so that I may bind this man?"

  She nodded, extending an open palm.

  "Are you able to shoot to kill if necessary?" pressed Kismet, not quite ready to surrender the weapon.

  "I might shoot this dog even if it is not necessary," she snapped, directing her venom toward the prone giant.

  Kismet found her rage reassuring. "Please do not shoot unless you must. The sound might raise the alarm and bring his companions."

  "I would like to shoot them also, but there are not enough bullets. Do not worry. I will not shoot unless he moves."

  That was good enough for Kismet. He passed the revolver over to the young woman then knelt beside Rudy. He stripped the giant of his sidearm and slid it toward the girl. He then indelicately grabbed Rudy's wrists and shackled them with the ropes that had bound Peter Kerns only minutes before. Kismet pulled the knots hard enough to cause the giant to wince. He resisted an impulse to kick Rudy, choosing instead to properly greet his new companion.

  He found himself staring into the muzzle of the gun. He frowned, wondering if this was her idea of a joke. "That is not a wise thing to do. Please lower the gun."

  "I don't know if you are Mafiya or FSB—I do not really care. But I will not permit you to hold me captive any more than I would surrender myself again to these men."

  "You don't understand," replied Kismet. "I am not either. My name is Nick Kismet. I am trying to help you."

  "Kismet?" Comprehension dawned in her eyes and she smiled wryly, switching fluidly into English with only a hint of accent. "An unusual name. Doesn't that mean something?"

  Kismet raised an eyebrow then broke into laughter. "Yes, it does. I wish I had known you spoke English."

  "You weren't doing so badly in Russian." She lowered the gun and offered it to him. "Irina. But I've always gone by Irene; Irene Kerns."

  Kismet took the revolver and eased the action down. "A pleasure to meet you, Irine. Now, I suggest we get out of here while we still can."

  He glanced around, noticing for the first time an enormous tapestry that dominated the end of the hall. The tapestry was weighted at the bottom, hanging all the way to the floor, and its ornate center rippled and pulsated, as though the wall was a living creature. The coat of arms emblazoned there—a white shield quartered by a
rough black cross—was oddly familiar, and after a brief scrutiny he remembered that he had seen it in a book detailing an incident of Vatican complicity with Nazi Germany; it was the crest of the Teutonic Knights.

  "And should I call you Mr. Kismet?" Irene intoned.

  He took her hand and led her back toward the ladder. "Nick is fine."

  Despite his outward confidence, he felt a sudden sense of foreboding creeping over him, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the revolver. Everything that had happened from the moment Harcourt walked into his office pointed to a larger conspiracy. The tapestry seemed like yet another link in a diabolical chain. Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss the possibility that his old nemeses had returned; perhaps the Prometheus reference all those years ago, had been a smokescreen to divert his attention from this, a reportedly defunct feudal brotherhood with ties to Germany. He was beginning to get the feeling that he was in over his head, and wondered for the first time if Lyse had gotten away safely. Approaching the ladder, he peered upwards. The dark aperture above revealed nothing. He jammed the revolver into his belt. "Wait here."

  He ascended quickly, realizing only when he was near the top that the trapdoor had been lowered into place. He kept climbing until his shoulders were against the barrier, then levered his legs to lift it out of the way. Before he could raise it however, he felt the ladder tremble faintly; Irine had begun climbing beneath him. He groaned at her impatience and resumed pushing against the trapdoor. It was heavier than he expected, but when he tried again, it abruptly flew open. The solid planks slammed against the floor of the confessional with a bang that made him wince, but there was nothing he could do about it. He advanced another step up the ladder, poking his head out.

  Halverson Grimes stood in front of the opening. Behind him, outside the confines of the confessional, were half a dozen men, uniformly dressed in black suits.

  "Oh." Kismet didn't know what else to say. He looked down, his own body blocking his view of Irene. "Get off!" he hissed.

  "What?" Oblivious to the threat above, she took another step up.

  "Unless I'm mistaken," Grimes observed pontifically, "you must be Nick Kismet. A pleasure, sir. We need to talk." Two of Grimes' men pushed past their leader, assuming defensive postures on either side of the hole.

  "Indeed, Mr. Kismet. There is great deal to discuss."

  FOUR

  Kismet leaned back a few inches and looked down. Irene's face was visible in the space between his legs. She was peering up at him, still unaware that their escape was in jeopardy. His brain went into overdrive. If they could not go out the way they had come in, what options remained? He contemplated using the captured revolver preemptively, but promptly dismissed that idea. Hanging from a ladder thirty feet up, shooting through a narrow hole in the floor was not his idea of a defensible position. Better, he decided, to get both feet on solid ground.

  "Irene," he whispered again. "Get off the ladder."

  "What?"

  He knew that she had heard him. Her question was not a request to repeat himself, but to elucidate. Kismet growled in irritation. He didn't have time to stop and explain every move to her.

  "Please come out of that hole, Mr. Kismet," urged Grimes. "I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me." Then, with a smile that was not as benign as he perhaps intended, he added: "If you cooperate."

  "As much as I'd love to stay and chat…" Kismet replied disingenuously. He looked down one final time. With cautious, deliberate movements, he slipped his left foot off the rung, bracing the arch of his shoe against the outside of the ladder. Increasing the tenacity of his handhold, he then lifted his right foot and positioned it similarly. "Coming down," he whispered.

  Understanding dawned in Irene's eyes. She quickly scampered toward the floor. Kismet returned his gaze to the menacing group of faces that was drawing ever closer, Halverson Grimes chief among them.

  "As I was saying," he remarked, "I've already made plans for the evening. Perhaps we could get together for lunch sometime."

  In the instant that Grimes registered a puzzled expression, Kismet released his hold, gripping the outside rails of the ladder loosely with both hands and feet.

  Gravity seized hold of him and he plummeted. Immediately, he collided with something—Irene Kerns—and his carefully guided descent went askew as they both dropped to the floor in a painful tangle of limbs.

  Grimes' voice was audible above them, ordering his cronies to go down and subdue the escapees. Kismet experienced a moment of déjà vu, flashing back to the sewers of Marrakech. The difference this time, aside from the lack of an unpleasant odor, was that the bad guys had a ladder to climb down. He scrambled to his feet determined to remove that liability.

  The opening above grew dark as a descending body eclipsed the aperture. Kismet briefly considered shooting the man right there, but quickly realized the flaw in such a strategy; if the confrontation became a shooting match, Grimes' men and their ammunition would certainly hold out longer than he and his. Instead of dealing with the man, Kismet chose to deal with the ladder.

  Dropping into a low stance, his shoulder leading, Kismet rammed the ladder like a charging football linebacker. His shoulder hit the sturdy wooden frame and he bounced back, spilling onto the floor. A flash of pain was followed by a numbed paralysis, but he judged the maneuver to be a partial success. The ladder shook violently with the blow, and the man who was climbing down, now clutched desperately to regain a secure handhold. Kismet got up, lowered his other shoulder to the ladder and charged again.

  The right rail of the ladder split nearly in two as Kismet struck it. The descending man now gave up any thought of continuing, choosing instead to regain the safety and stability of the floor above.

  Kismet did not charge a third time, but instead seized hold of the bottom rung and wrenched it from side to side. The damage he had already caused to the ladder was quickly aggravated and the rails broke apart near the top where they had been bolted into the underside of the floorboards. With a satisfied grin, Kismet stepped back as the elongated structure tilted sideways and fell over, splintering when it crashed on the stone floor.

  The noise of an explosion, like a car backfiring, roared in his ears and reverberated in the confines of the underground room. A bullet kicked up a small puff of dust, just behind him and left a tiny pockmark in the stone floor.

  "Damn," he exclaimed, darting away from the remains of the ladder. Irene was already up and moving, seeking cover from the gunfire, which was quickly becoming a hailstorm of bullets. Kismet reached her side and seized her hand, then guided her toward the place where she had earlier been held captive.

  They quickly passed out of the broad, cone shaped area where they were in the most danger of being wounded, but Kismet knew that the seconds he had gained by destroying the ladder would be lost by any delay on their part. With his free hand he took out and opened his knife.

  "How are we going to get out of here?" Irene asked frantically.

  "Back door," muttered Kismet, releasing her hand and sprinting ahead. He was dimly aware that she had stopped running, but he did not slow down. Instead he aimed himself at the wall, focusing on the heart of the enormous tapestry mounted there. The center of the woven shield was like a bull's eye on a target and the blade in his hand was an arrow intent upon piercing it. As he got closer, he raised his arm and brought it down, slashing at the fabric of the great tapestry. The knife cut a long gash in the old cloth before entangling in the fibers. Kismet's momentum caused him to fall forward, into the middle of the ornamental weaving, where he hung momentarily like a fly in a web. As he moved to extricate himself, his weight broke apart the remaining threads, and the tapestry tore in two all the way to the floor, dropping him into the darkness beyond.

  Irene approached and looked at him in stunned amazement. Kismet's gambit had revealed a secret passageway. "How did you know about that?"

  He got up, wincing from pains old and new. "A guess. Earlier I saw that
the fabric was moving, almost like it was being rustled by the wind. I assumed that the tapestry was put up to cover an opening."

  "If you had been wrong, you would have run into a brick wall."

  Kismet knelt and retrieved his Balisong from the twisted remnant of the tapestry and flicked it shut. "Good thing I wasn't."

  "And this will lead us out of here?"

  The sound of a shot rang suddenly in the underground chamber, impacting the wall that framed their escape route. The shot had been fired from ground level; Grimes' men had found a way down. Kismet didn't look back.

  "It had better," he shouted over the din. "Get going."

  "You can't be right every time," retorted Irene.

  "Can we discuss this later?" He pushed her into the dark tunnel then turned to face the unseen shooters, his revolver drawn. He pumped three shots randomly into the gloom behind them, hoping not so much to find a target as to give the pursuers one more reason to hesitate. Saving the remainder of the ammunition for future encounters, Kismet shoved the smoking gun into the pocket of his suit coat, turned and plunged into the mysterious opening.

  The air in the passage was cool and slightly musty, but it did not have the stale quality of a tomb or crypt, leading Kismet to deduce that there was another means of access and that it was used at least once in a while. His greatest fear was that Grimes might also know about this passage and would already be sending his men to cover the exit. There would be no allowance for delays, wrong turns or dead ends. He kept an outstretched hand in contact with the wall, a blind man's guide through the artificial night. The tunnel was short and quickly opened into a much larger room.

  Irene spoke from out of the darkness. "I've run into something. It's a box of some kind."

  "Probably a coffin," remarked Kismet, trying to estimate where she was in relation to himself. "Old churches like this usually have catacombs where prominent clergymen are interred. Try to follow the sound of my voice. I think I'm just a few steps away from you...right behind you."