The second body guard swung up his nine-mil, targeting that yellow object. It was a damn frog. The guy fired and obliterated the creature in one shot. What the hell?
Braydon crouched and aimed. “Federal Agent,” he yelled. “Drop your weapon.”
The guy pivoted toward him.
Dubler snatched the brass tray top of the nearest table and twisted it towards Braydon, whipping it at him like a giant Frisbee. The guy fired. The bullet zwanged off the brass tray as it flew by.
Braydon ducked and fired and ducked, knocking the pistol from the shooter’s hand. He twisted to recover his balance. A second golden object was on the floor at his feet. Not a frog, but a crucifix. It looked familiar. No time to think why. His gut told him to snatch it up. He slipped it into his pocket and stood. He crossed to Christa and yanked her away from Torrino. Contreras shoved himself up with surprising agility, swooping up his body guard’s dropped forty-five. Braydon pushed Christa toward the kitchen. “Get out of here, now,” he yelled.
She struggled to push him away and scratch her way back to Torrino. “Not without that briefcase,” she yelled back. Dubler approached Torrino from his flank. Braydon answered Torrino’s undecided look with a quick nod. Torrino yanked his nine-mil from his shoulder holster, blasted a round into the floor just ahead of the teacher’s feet. It was like Dubler hit an invisible wall, he stopped so fast.
Behind Braydon, the guy with the shot-up hand snatched up his nine-mil from the floor. He aimed it at Braydon’s face. Braydon swiveled and shot him through the heart, killing him close enough to instantly. That seemed to knock some sense into both Devlin and Dubler. Braydon pushed Christa towards the kitchen door with more force than he cared to use. She swept up her daypack, the one she had in Arizona, and rushed ahead of him. The teacher followed on his heels.
Braydon shoved Dubler and Christa down and through the swinging doors. The forty-five blasted. The bullet zinged into the kitchen just over their heads. He shut the doors behind them, grabbed a mop and thrust it through the door handles. It wasn’t an effective lock, but it would buy them a few minutes, time enough considering Contreras wasn’t the type to lead the charge and Torrino would sooner die than hurt them.
Gas stoves were still turned on, pots boiling, ovens hot. Heady scents of curry and coriander would have been intoxicating under other circumstances. One back door, leading to an alley. That would be their point of egress. One dark-skinned man right out of central casting for Lawrence of Arabia lay on the floor, unconscious, bleeding from his left temple.
Shouts called from behind a heavy wooden door to a storeroom that had been padlocked shut. Christa grabbed a heavy pan with a long handle from its hook. She wedged the handle behind the hasp and yanked the pan down, breaking the hasp off its hinges. Five olive-skinned men in white restaurant kitchen uniforms stumbled into the kitchen. Braydon flashed his badge at them. “FBI,” he said. The Arab on the floor moaned, dizzily struggled to push himself up. “Enemy of my enemy?” Braydon asked Christa, nodding towards him.
Christa rushed to the injured man’s side, along with two guys from the kitchen staff. “He stood up to Contreras,” she said. “Got hit in the head for his trouble.” It looked like the Arab had suffered a severe concussion by the way his head wobbled and that he and Christa were close by the way she looked at him.
The Arab struggled to focus on her. “Christa, I feared I would lose you,” he said, in accented, slurred English.
“Not me, Ahmed,” she said. “And not the Tear of the Moon, either.” She pulled a velvet pouch attached to a lanyard from between her breasts beneath her blouse and showed it to her friend. “You need a doctor.”
Ahmed clutched at her arm and fought to raise himself. “No,” he said. “You need to find the other stones. Or all of this is for nothing.”
Christa pressed her hand against his cheek. “I will try,” she said.
“The crucifix,” he mumbled. “Your father, he said that the crucifix will show you the way.” Odd words for a guy who looked Muslim. The guy’s friends apparently didn’t care for it, either. Their expressions weren’t confused anymore, but downright angry.
Braydon kept one eye on Dubler. An adrenaline rush lent the delusion of strength; his behavior would be dangerously unpredictable, like throwing a brass tray and nearly getting him killed.
Dubler contrived a threat by clenching his slender fingers into fists. “Fox, you are an ignoramus,” the man seethed, in the kind of nasal voice that matched the elbow patches on his jacket. “You have no clue what you’re doing.”
“Saving her butt,” Braydon answered. “Yours, I don’t care about.” Braydon pointed his Glock at the guy’s feet, to make a point, then stepped between him and Christa.
“Agent Fox,” she said, her breaths still short and fast. “Braydon.” Her tone was just this side of pleading. She had to be more scared than she wanted to let on. “This is Daniel Dubler. He’s a friend.”
In his assessment, a friend didn’t stand by while she was physically engaged with a potentially deadly opponent twice her weight. And his tray slinging could have been an attack as much as a defense. “Contreras’s historian on last summer’s Colombia expedition,” Braydon said. “I questioned him on Contreras’s connection to a robbery in San Francisco.” He stepped towards Dubler. “I don’t think your boss is here for your employee appreciation lunch.”
“He is not my boss,” snapped Dubler. “Contreras is my colleague.”
“A robbery in San Francisco,” Christa interrupted. “Did it involve a stolen gemstone?”
She knew about the stones. Maybe she knew about the poison, too. Braydon had two courses of action. Coerce the information he needed from Contreras, or from Christa Devlin. Easy choice. He had to get her out of here, safely.
A knock rapped on the door. “Agent Fox, you were clever to find us here.” Contreras’s sickly sweet voice oozed through the cracks. Braydon considered shooting him through the door, just to shut him up. “You fancy yourself Professor Devlin’s protector,” he said. “But she has something that belongs to me, an Emerald. The only way for you to save her is to return it.”
An Emerald. It had to be one of the seven stones Jared was talking about.
Christa stood and crossed to Braydon. She grabbed his arm. “He’s lying. I don’t have time to explain, but Contreras has poisoned the water here and in Princeton. We need to find seven gemstones to get the antidote.”
Twenty minutes ago he would have called her crazy, but her story corroborated Jared’s. Braydon nodded to the kitchen staff, who looked even more confused than the guy with the head injury. “Get him out of here,” he said. “He needs a paramedic.” They half-carried him out the back door to the alley. Braydon started a mental countdown as to how much time he had left before the cops showed.
“Give me that Emerald,” Contreras called through the door. “None of you will be hurt. And don’t even think about calling for help. You are well aware of my connections.”
Right, connections. He had to start making them, quick, separate the good guys from the bad. Rambitskov had the reputation as the Agency’s most fanatical flag-waver. But there could be no other explanation for him showing up at Jared’s murder scene than he was sent there by Contreras. Rambitskov couldn’t have known about Jared’s double cross in switching the authentic gems for fakes. Contreras believed he had the real ones in his briefcase. Rambitskov was the expert in crime scene investigation. That had to be his role, maybe to plant some evidence, or make sure Contreras hadn’t left any behind.
Dubler grasped Christa’s hand. “Give Contreras the Emerald,” he said. “I’ll stay with Contreras. I’ll make sure he restores the Breastplate and gets the antidote to the right people.”
“Daniel, you can’t believe in Contreras,” said Christa, her expression morphing from a strange mix of determination and fear to shock. “He tried to kill you in there.”
Daniel swiped his glasses from their perch and pointed them at her.
“He would never have gone through with it. It was just his way of convincing you to do the right thing. He needs me, just like he needs you, to find the seven stones.”
Braydon was still deciding if he believed Jared’s warning about finding these seven sacred stones, but he was sure these two did. Clearly, Dubler had bet his money on Contreras getting them first. The teacher didn’t know Fox. Braydon was getting a sharper fix on the teacher, though. “What did Contreras offer you, Dubler?” he asked.
“The life of a little girl,” Dubler said, “the niece of the woman I love. I can save her.” Damn, the man’s cheeks actually blushed red. Either he was lying outright, or revealing a heartfelt truth. Either way, it reeked of threat. “Christa, you must give Contreras the Emerald,” Dubler pressed. The guy was lying, Braydon could smell it now for what it was.
The indecision in Christa’s eyes showed that she wanted to believe this guy. “No,” she said. “We don’t need to give him the Emerald. We’ve got to get the two gems in that briefcase.”
So she, too, thought Contreras’s diamond and sapphire were the real deal. Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer. A fist pounded on the kitchen door from the dining room side. “Agent Fox.” Ill-disguised anger now simmered in Contreras’s voice. “The authorities are nearly here. They will arrest you, not me, for your part in the attack of Jared Sadler. You are persona non grata in your Agency now.” Rambitskov must have adapted whatever evidence he planted at the crime scene to point to Fox as the attacker. Braydon had been seen leaving the scene, in direct disobedience to orders, by the paramedics. Contreras helped New York’s Homeland Security Chief land his job. The Chief wouldn’t be inclined to believe unsubstantiated accusations about his benefactor. Even if he could convince him, the delay could cost Lucia Hunter’s life. “You have one last chance to hand over that Emerald,” Contreras said, with irritating confidence.
“You’re the one in the room with the two dead guys,” he answered. “And I’d bet you’re not carrying the annual report in that briefcase.”
“Braydon,” Christa said in a hushed tone. He liked the way she said his name, with genuine concern. “I am not going to give him the Emerald, but we absolutely need to get that briefcase before it’s too late. If he gets the gems, he won’t need Lucia any more. He’ll kill her. It’s down to Contreras and that one armed thug. Against you, odds are in our favor.” Flattering, but he had other plans. She grabbed the mop handle to remove it and open the door. “This may be our only chance at stopping him.”
He forcibly moved her away from the door, the mop handle still secure. “Not our only chance, Christa,” he said. “Trust me.”
The sirens blared, by the sound of it from two blocks away.
“Fox!” Contreras yelled. “This isn’t over for me. It’s over for you. You hear me. You’re dead.” Words right out of Rambitskov’s playbook. “Devlin, you are chosen to fulfill my destiny. And you will, I promise you that.” Two sets of footsteps receded across the floor. The restaurant’s heavy wooden front door slammed shut.
Dubler waved his arms wildly. “Damn it,” he said. “Contreras is gone. You let him just walk out of here.”
Braydon holstered his gun. “That’s our cue to leave,” he said.
Christa felt around her neck. “The crucifix,” she said. “I left it on the table. It’s still in the dining room. Ahmed said the crucifix will show us the way. I’m not leaving here without it.”
He pulled the crucifix from his pocket, dangled it before her. “I’ve got it.” It wasn’t the typical gold-plated cross his mother always wore. This was old, with a strange skull and cross bones at Jesus’s feet. An enamel of primary colors decorated the back, along with the words, Lux et Veritas. Like the sword. With a sudden, heavy unease, he realized where he’d seen a crucifix like this before. He was finally one step ahead of Contreras, but this time, his best friend’s life was at stake.
CHAPTER 44
Braydon shoved open the back door into the service alley. Not gun drawn, but ready. Only one way Contreras was going to surrender this fight, and that was toes up. The cold wind whipped the detritus of battered coffee cups, dirty papers and cellophane wrappers into a whirlwind, exacerbating the stench of garbage. Other than that, the alley was clear. If the crucifix was showing the way to the seven stones, then he had better find where it led him, fast.
He signaled for Christa and Daniel to follow him. Christa’s face paled as they followed the trail of blood splotches leading from the alley to Forty-seventh Street. He checked around the corner. The Arabs helping their injured friend, Christa’s friend, ducked into the Moroccan grocery store across the street. “Ahmed is a good man,” he said. “It took guts to stand up to Contreras, only to get pistol-whipped in the head for doing the right thing. A guy like that sticks by his friends and they stick by him. They’ll get him the help he needs.”
“We’re wasting time,” Dubler said. “We need to catch Contreras.”
“I don’t know what you’re catching,” said Braydon. “But I’m finally one step ahead of Contreras, not chasing after him. My car is this way.”
Christa grabbed his arm as they rounded the corner onto Tenth Avenue. They stopped.
“What is it, Christa?” said Daniel. “Do you see Contreras?”
“Phantoms,” she said. “I sense shadows, hovering above the people on the street.”
Braydon edged Christa behind him. The avenue didn’t look that much different from when he had entered the restaurant. Horns honked. Pungent smoke still drifted from the street vendor’s cart on the corner as he hunched over his hot chestnuts. Three elderly men with Brooklyn accents still argued and stamped their feet to warm themselves in front of the small market across the street. But everything felt a bit off, like a photo that had been knocked off-kilter on its nail. He took in the well-heeled woman flipping the bird at the taxi passing her by, the parka-clad mother, glancing around in fear as she tugged her dawdling toddler by the hand, the linebacker of the guy chowing down the greasy hot dog from another street vendor, looking like he was fueling up for a fight. Despite the city’s tough reputation in movies and books, Braydon knew first-hand that these weren’t the typical New York attitudes. “Do you see these phantoms,” he asked Christa, “or is just your spidey-sense tingling?”
“I know you think I’m crazy, but I see dark shadows. One is hovering behind that man in the jeans there.” She pointed. “Another behind that guy in the suit, there.”
Christa hadn’t let go of Braydon’s arm. Her hand felt right, holding on to him. It could make a man promise to do crazy things, like believe in her and get her to believe in him. He wasn’t ready for that, not yet, not by a long shot. “I had a partner who had a bad feeling about a robbery in progress at midnight at a high end jewelry store. She insisted we go by the book and wait for back-up. She wouldn’t let me go in for the collar. The place blew up. She saved my life.” In more ways than she ever knew. They couldn’t wait to get married and spend the rest of their lives together. He thought she’d be safer covering the front of the next store the gang hit. The gang always cleared out the back before they set off the explosion to destroy evidence. He should have stuck with her, protected her, his partner. Instead, he left her in the front while he raced around to cut them off at the back. He’d wanted to get these guys, badly, before they killed someone. He didn’t.
Two cruisers careened down Forty-seventh Street. Two more, sirens blaring, were coming fast on Tenth Avenue from downtown. No black Homeland Security SUV, yet. “Only Rambitskov would pull four cruisers off riot containment downtown,” he muttered. “The man must have eaten megalomania for breakfast.”
Christa kept her eyes on what must be her phantoms. “Rambitskov?”
“New York City’s Chief of Homeland Security,” Braydon said. “He’s working with Contreras. Full disclosure. I hate the guy.” He pulled her towards his car.
“Rambitskov,” she said. “He’d know how to poison the water supply. And Contre
ras has a deadly poison. He wants control of the only antidote.”
“This poison,” he said. “It’s a bio-weapon.” The poison Jared warned about.
“The poison causes madness, then death, in seven days.” She pressed against the pouch between her breasts. “The gems are connected.”
He, too, felt for the package in his pocket, the diamond and sapphire tucked into the hotel napkin. Jared had bet his life on the redemption they promised. “I swear on my badge I’m going to kill that guy.”
“Which one?”
“Both of them. Rambitskov first.”
The argument between the two men with the bad shadows escalated into a clumsy fistfight. Two of the eight cops responding to the restaurant detoured to stop it. That diversion wouldn’t last long. He hurried Christa across Tenth, keeping his face turned away from the cruisers as they passed them in the intersection. He had parked in a tow zone on Forty-seventh. He tossed her the Impala keys. “You drive,” he said. “I’m riding shotgun.” He shoved Dubler into the back. Couldn’t risk him running to Contreras, or the cops.
“Turn uptown on Tenth,” he said.
“Past the Marrakesh?”
“The cops are too busy storming the place to notice.” No sign of Contreras’s Rolls Royce Phantom either. He had minutes, at best, before they tracked him down using the GPS on his Impala. He had to use every one of them. “Fill me in on what happened in there.”
Her voice was tense, but steady, even when telling about seeing the diamond and sapphire. Then her face paled. “That man poisoned by the frog,” she said. “I wouldn’t wish that death on anyone.”
“Second that,” Daniel chimed in from the back seat.
“I know one man I’d wish it on,” grumbled Braydon, “maybe two.” The traffic crossing Broadway was near a standstill.
Christa handed him a computer print-out from her daypack. “I translated a letter written by a priest named Salvatierra in 1586,” she said. “My father had been searching for it for years. It’s historical proof that the Breastplate of Aaron not only existed, but was intact and in South America during the conquest of the new world.”
The Seventh Stone Page 27