He stared into the mirror and allowed the future—his future and the world’s—to be shaped in his mind’s eye.
As it should be, and as it shall be.
Slowly the fury passed and the hunger began.
Now the meeting of his closest confidantes was about to begin, and Kessler donned the final piece of his ceremonial robe, a simple upside down crucifix worn on a silver chain around his neck.
He turned, slid open a panel in the wall, and walked down the secret hallway, at the end of which was the private elevator for the Pinnacle’s other penthouse levels. Kessler entered the sumptuous car and rode down for a barely a half-minute, exited onto a carpeted corridor. A short distance down the hall was a large set of double doors—a special sense of pride always washed over him when passed through them—with a high-tech box mounted on the ornate door jamb. He stared into the glass and his retina was scanned. The doors opened with a silent hiss as if handled by sighing ghosts.
Kessler entered the round, high-ceilinged turret room and surveyed his own massive Round Table, where the twelve black-clad members of his coven waited. Their expectation was electric.
He pressed a key on a remote he had carried and another doorway slid open, revealing two naked sacrifices. The survivors of the ill-fated attempt on the treasure hunters. Male and female, they were chained by each limb to tilted, grooved tables. Leather gags covered their mouths, but their eyes took in the surroundings with evident horror. In fact, the alcove to the great room was outfitted as a modern-day dungeon with equipment similar to the medieval version but vastly improved by stainless steel and available PVC fetish wear. Across from them, in another corner of the great room—which was actually an alcove with a currently open doorway—a stainless steel-topped glass and black mahogany altar still displayed the last sacrifice’s dried blood.
Kessler liked the ambiance of the turret room, but he could understand why the two now bound within it would not appreciate it. Or their imminent fate, which was obvious to everyone present.
The two beseeched him with their terrified eyes, trying to apologize or excuse their failures.
He had no use for failure, but now the two would become useful in their final moments.
Kessler’s eyes blazed as he first stared at each member of his coven. Their hunger reflected his.
“It’s time to begin,” he said.
Chapter 25
Near Vero Beach, Florida
After interminable questioning, the Vero Beach PD had softened up on Straker because of his service record, and his decorations hadn’t hurt. A Silver Star and a Purple Heart at Fallujah and then in Kandahar weren’t anything to sneeze at, and half the department’s officers had either served or were related to someone who had, so Straker’s version of things—vastly supported by the evidence left behind—had allowed them to finally leave the station. Local media decried the Coast Guard’s ability to curb increasingly audacious pirates. The story went briefly viral, not that Straker noticed.
He pulled Bella aside as they headed toward his Jeep.
“We have to get out of here,” he whispered. “Get some clothes, grab the statue, and head north.”
“What?” she said. She was tired, but this woke her up.
Bella, as implied by her name, was a beauty who could have passed for a swimsuit model on any beach, and when she dared don a thong on occasions such as DJed pool parties and sports-drink sponsored South Beach events, she was photographed as much as if she were one. Indeed, she occasionally did model work, hired to wear branded items such as caps and the swimsuits themselves, or passing out energy drinks, cigars, or other lifestyle items. She was intelligent, well-educated, a trained diver and an excellent amateur archaeologist with true potential…but right now the money was in her curves and her flawless face and hair.
Even though she was tired, she said, “Are you crazy? They warned us about leaving town. And we have…we have to make arrangements.” A tear squeezed from her eye and she brushed it away, but more broke out and tracked down her cheeks.
“We have to run, Bella,” Straker said, mopping his forehead. He was tired too, but things were weighing on him.
“But what about the police? What about the—what about funerals? How can we just pick up and—”
“Bella, listen, none of us have any family. Our friends will step in, they’ll know something is happening, and they’ll keep things on ice…” He winced. Hadn’t meant to say that.
Bella was full-on crying now. She was often prejudged as a pretty face, but there was more to her, and that was what attracted Straker to her in the first place. He held her and let her cry herself out, nuzzling her neck. Comforting her even though every nerve in his body screamed that they needed to run. Now.
Straker had been a Ranger in Iraq where he had seen with his own eyes something that defied explanation. He had spoken to people there who claimed to know things. And when he’d held the statuette they’d plucked from the muck, he had known without a doubt that it would bring them nothing but grief. The fact that even as he had that very thought, above them aboard the Caymans someone was murdering—no, massacring—his brother and partner, had convinced him he was right. It was a sixth sense of sorts, and it had served him well in the desert. He knew it was serving him well now.
He disentangled himself gently from her. “We have to go now. Trust me. I think they’re not going to stop until they have the statue.”
“Who are they?” She wiped her eyes and the toughness he knew hid below the visible, photogenic parts was showing. “We took care of those bastards, didn’t we?” Her jaw was set. Justice had been done.
“I’m certain there are more of them, and they want this statue. I’m not sure how they knew—or how they know now—but it’s more than just the treasure and the gold. If they wanted the whole cargo, they could have waited for us to do all the work and then hit us when we had it all salvaged, a few weeks from now maybe.” He wiped his brow again, of sweat beginning to collect. “The fact that we pulled that horrible thing out and then everything happened, it’s no coincidence. I’m sure of it. It’s…”
“It’s what?” She looked at him intensely. “What?”
“It’s supernatural,” he said. “I’ve seen things, back in the war, and I knew a guy who told me some things he probably shouldn’t have. He was one of us, but he was on loan from the U.N., except I always thought…” He faltered. “Look, you may not believe me, but I’m convinced we’re a target.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay, I always trust your judgment, Dev.” She never called him that, always Straker, and it was a sign of the seriousness of the situation that she reverted. “But if you think they want that disgusting thing, why not just give it up? Leave it somewhere they can find it? Just dump it in the trash?”
“I can’t answer that.” Straker wiped his face, rubbing his eyes and stroking his stubble. “I just know we have to keep it out of their hands.”
“But then won’t we still be targets?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I thought about that. Which is why I want to take it to a guy who may know what to do with it.”
“A guy?”
“Best I don’t tell you too much, but yeah.”
“So they can’t beat it out of me?” she said, trying for a light tone.
“You saw what they did to the guys… I think we should keep that in mind, always. In fact, I hope to be able to pay somebody back someday.”
“But we killed them—”
“They’re just the snake. There’s a head somewhere.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s why we’re running.”
“Where?”
“New York.”
“We’re driving to New York?”
“No, we’re driving to Lakeland. They won’t expect us to drive northwest from here. Then we’re booked on the Silver Star to New York.”
He didn’t add that carrying a duffel full of guns and ammunition would be e
asier on the train, too. He had grabbed some of his paranoid self-defense supplies from home, where he had a safe built into the garage wall behind a swing-away tool cabinet.
Bella nodded once. “I trust you, Straker. With my life.”
“I know,” he said.
And I hope you’re not making a mistake, he thought.
Chapter 26
Miss Ella’s Diner
Queens, New York
“You made good time,” Vandenberg said as Simon slid into the red vinyl booth. “Nice car service.”
“Pays to know people.”
“I’ll bet it does. Right now it would pay to know a bomb disposal unit.”
I could get you one, Simon thought. The Swiss Guards had many talents, many different units. There were secret units, both logical and illogical. The world would be shocked.
He said: “Your bosses think this is all terrorism.”
Vandenberg pursed his lips. “Can’t blame’em. Who else would blow up a trailer full of cops and workers? They’re not seeing that the workers were witnesses of something other than what they thought, but that popped right out at me. I think all they did to deserve assassination was see whatever was found, not just anything to do with the electrician’s murder.”
“That might be correct.” Simon was wary of confirming anything, but this guy seemed more plugged in than the usual local cop. “And you saved the final witness, the one who just missed getting blown up.”
“For the moment, but I don’t like his chances. Or the chances of anyone who’s guarding him.”
“Still in danger?”
“Just a feeling. Maybe paranoia.”
“I doubt it.”
A tired waitress came to their booth and silently willed them to order. She chewed gum to distraction and raised an eyebrow when neither spoke. Then she cleared he throat. She wasn’t a talker, they got it.
“Hot tea for me, two bags.” Simon smiled at her, drawing a confused look. “Tea,” he clarified. “Not coffee.”
“Eat?” Vandenberg said.
“Had something on the plane.”
“Plane? That private job you boarded very late yesterday? Just returned on?”
“Checking up on me, Detective?”
“Just…interested.” He turned to the waitress, who was getting bored. “Coffee, and a tuna salad on rye, slice of cheese, I don’t care what kind, pickle on the side. Chips, not fries. Skip the cole slaw.”
She nodded and wandered away, scribbling in her pad.
“They do this thing with dill in their tuna here,” Vandenberg said. “You’d never know they could make it so good.”
“So you had me followed or whatever. Now I’m here, and you want to talk to me before I see your witness and before Homeland gets hold of him. Or he gets killed. Right?”
Vandenberg slid up the sleeves of his Giants jacket. “In a nutshell. And I want to know exactly what the fuck is going on, Father.”
Chapter 27
Miss Ella’s Diner
Queens, New York
Vandenberg’s food came just as Simon was about to push him, using a cover story that would probably hold up with normal people. But Vandenberg seemingly wasn’t normal. He seemed slightly immune to Simon’s pushes, or at least he required more effort, and Simon was afraid to go too far and cause some sort of brain damage.
Vandenberg grunted thanks at the departing waitress, then snatched up half his tuna sandwich and took a large corner bite.
“Damn, Padre, this is so good. You sure you don’t want to try half?”
Simon waved no, but Vandenberg didn’t wait for an answer. “So what is going on?” he said around a mouthful of tuna salad.
He was right about the tuna, Simon could smell the dill.
“Detective—Jerry,” Simon began, but he stopped. Martin would have his balls if he slipped and gave the cop too much information. But he had to give him something, especially since they were probably all in imminent danger.
“Let’s say, hypothetically, that there is a group of nut-jobs out there who thinks that gathering up some ancient artifacts of an anti-religious nature gives them an excuse to act out a kind of ritual.”
Vandenberg’s normally cynical lips started to curl.
Simon continued. “Let’s say they believe the ritual will then give them power, which they can then use to bring about some kind of world event.” Of course not mentioning the real nature of their intentions.
The cop set the half-sandwich down carefully on his plate, picked up his napkin and dabbed at his lips, trying to avoid smiling. “You’re shitting me, right? You’re telling me all this is over a stupid ritual? There’s no value to the statue thing—no historical value, or hidden compartment with diamonds hidden in it, or a fuckin’ key, or something like that?” He shook his head. “And then they blew up a dozen innocent people for this? I can’t believe any part of this, Padre. You’re either delusional or making up shit to make me look like a fool.”
“Whatever you think, Jerry, I’m not doing that.”
Vandenberg grunted, took another bite of his sandwich, then he ate a pickle slice, a few chips, and pushed the plate away.
“I wanted to take you seriously,” said the cop. “But you’re crazy if you think you can pawn off some bullshit out of a B movie and get away with it.”
Simon shrugged. He reached out and took the untouched sandwich half off the cop’s plate. He took a bite, closed his eyes and chewed. “You’re really right on about the tuna salad,” he said around the mouthful. “Dill, maybe some fresh lemon. Really good.”
The cop was staring at him, as if trying to determine what kind of medication Simon was on, or had skipped.
Simon took another bite, then put down the sandwich half.
“I’m telling the truth,” he said, pushing slightly. “I need access to this guy before your Homeland department takes over. Doesn’t give us much time. I know how they work, or at least I’ve heard.”
Vandenberg still looked amused, but the push helped. “We can go now, but while we’re walking I’m going to give you another chance to tell me what is really going on.”
“Suit yourself.” Simon took another bite and popped a pickle slice. “Tart,” he said.
Vandenberg made a face and tossed a bill on the table. “Take it to go.”
“No, I’m fine, really. I just hate to see food wasted.” He snatched a chip off the plate and crunched it.
“I’ll bet,” said the cop. “Come on, it’s just around the corner.”
Vandenberg nodded at the bored waitress as they left. “Listen,” he said as they reached the curb. “You’ve pulled my leg, it was funny. You’re maybe an exorcist or maybe you like to joke around, and there’s something going on the archdiocese knows about, and they vouched for you, but in a strange way. Every time you talk to me you’re convincing me of something, but I’m never sure what exactly. I’m intrigued enough I’ll give you my witness—five minutes, no more, with me in the room.”
“Fair enough,” Simon said.
They turned the corner.
And without any warning a second floor portion of the next building exploded in a great gout of flame.
Brick and mortar debris, shards of glass peppered the sidewalk like arrows. The blast knocked Simon and Vandenberg to the concrete like rags.
Chapter 28
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
The wing of this penthouse level of the Kessler Building was connected to the turret, in which the round room housed the Round Table, and was a warren of offices and chambers with various functions. Several of them were gymnasiums and sparring rooms, some were “play rooms” with the word play having differing meanings depending on the severity of the fetish or the seriousness of the punishment likely to be meted out, and the rest were comfortable quarters for selected guests.
One of the most sumptuous apartments of this leve
l was a double-height loft tastefully decorated in Scandinavian tapestries and authentic teak furnishings. A massive fire blazed in a double-size stone hearth at one end of the great room, across from a wall of stuffed bookcases. An ornate desk and table faced the center of the room. A tan leather armchair of clean and simple Danish lines was angled toward the fire, which was gas-fed but did not seem to be.
Stoyanova reclined in the armchair, her long-limbed body curled comfortably on the soft leather, her cascade of raven hair that was almost blue spread out behind her head like a Japanese fan.
Her eyes were closed, but under the lids the pupils seemed to pulsate or spin like bearings trapped in a sleeve. Her lips were set in a crimson scowl, as if unhappy with what the eyes could see, but when opened slightly so her teeth were visible, she seemed to be smiling. Her throat produced small whimpers that could have been either fear or pleasure. Her scarlet-tipped fingers opened and closed, clutching and releasing something only she could see.
Her long legs were spread and moisture dappled her jeans at the groin, for this particular kind of spell was a self-loving magick ritual.
Stoyanova had been outside her body for over an hour, her sight and her “sight” both traveling on a plane completely other than the one on which her body was pleasured by a creature of her own conjuring. Invisible to anyone in the room, to Stoyanova it was real—a massive German shepherd with a long, wet tongue. Her pupils rolled within her eye-sockets as the pleasure heightened the sensation of flying and at the same time widened her field of vision.
She had used a variation of this same ritual to “find” the statue Kessler wanted, though legend said it was at the bottom of the sea. Kessler had provided good intel, as Curtis called it, and all she had to do was spin up the ritual magick, visualize, and lock in on the item on that other plane. Sex and blood rituals worked best, especially with such difficult finds, increasing the Adept’s power and providing the energy necessary to scour minds if needed, or just gain a knowledge unavailable to the mundanes.
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