The doors clicked open and two more thugs flew into the round room, scanning it. They slid to a surprised stop when they spotted him, and immediately raised their weapons.
But he was half-hunched behind one of the massive chairs and gave them two quick double-taps. Then he rushed up to kick their Glocks away, but they were both dead, drilled through the heart. He searched them quickly, relieving them of several full magazines and their swipe cards—in case somebody on the ball deauthorized Raymond’s. On second thought, he picked up another Glock. He racked the slide, caught the ejected cartridge, dropped the magazine and reloaded the errant round, then slammed it home again. Making sure it was operational.
Thus prepared Simon checked the corridor, saw a single guard heading his way, shot him, and was heading through the maze toward the ballroom doors before the body hit the floor.
He didn’t want to start a gunfight in the ballroom—they’d shown no concern for the restaurant patrons, after all—but he had to get Cat out of there before their window closed. Now he had proof Kessler was their opposition, they could move in other ways to stop him that wouldn’t involve innocent deaths.
Simon skidded to a stop on his side of the ballroom doors, turned his back to them, and waited. The thumping music on the other side gave plenty of cover.
Within seconds another group of mercenaries trotted around the far corner, guns drawn. Not expecting him to be standing in the doorway itself, they hesitated and gave him the extra seconds he needed. Both guns blazing, he shot his way through the group until they were all bleeding and twitching on the floor.
How many of them are there? He felt a little like the movie-version Sundance Kid asking his famous question. Texted Cat, but there was no immediate response.
Used the new card to swipe the door open and, after tucking both hot Glocks under his tuxedo jacket—ruining the line completely, damn it—he set off into the crowd.
Scanning the groups of attendees was complicated by the pulsing lights and throbbing bass of the ridiculous music. Something weird was going on, as if the musicians themselves were possessed by demonic presences. The people were picking up on it, spinning out of control. As if the whole ball would soon degenerate into some kind of bizarre orgy.
Was the music demonic?
It wasn’t even good EDM, Simon mused. And it couldn’t hold a candle to EDM’s grandfathers, Tangerine Dream. Back in the day, he’d introduced Edgar Froese the art student and budding musique concrete and Krautrock musician to Salvador Dali. Edgar was gone now, but his influence persisted, and Simon would miss him as long as he himself drew breath. This was nothing like that.
Trying to block out the thumpy noise and overlook the bopping, pulsating groups spread throughout the huge room was nearly impossible.
So much for the ball part. Maybe not an orgy after all. Maybe this was devolving into a weird sort of geeky rave.
He texted Cat again, watching the screen to no avail. He tried calling, but there was no response.
Simon Pound was not prone to panic—twenty centuries of life will harden you to an incredible extent—but he was close now. Cat was not only his responsibility, she was the face he saw when he dreamed at night, and hers was the voice he heard in his fantasies.
He admitted it to himself only now. And he feared he might have gotten her killed.
Criss-crossing the room, pushing delirious people out of his way to bop elsewhere, he kept an eye out also for Kessler himself and his security chief, Pieter Curtis. Cat had dug deep for that one, finding his name buried in a VSS dossier from years before. Based on his history, it was likely the assassins reported directly to him.
Smiling widely, he approached a group of non-dancers.
“Seen Kessler, the man himself?” he shouted.
They stared back blankly, but one of them shook his head. He tried again after moving through the crowd’s fluid flank, and one person nodded, pointing: “He was just like in a meeting over there!”
“Thanks!”
It was at the same doorway he had exited with Raymond not all that long ago. Word must have been spreading—they had an infiltrator in the house.
Have to find Cat.
Now.
Chapter 90
The Ballroom
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
The music was distorted. It sounded downright malevolent to Cat.
Her veins screamed as they melted. Her blood temperature shot up as if in a microwave set on high. She was also screaming, her concentration knocked askew, and the ability to bring her own power to bear in a counterspell or really anything else wilted quickly as the incredible pain spread.
It was like being an ant under a magnifying glass on a hot sidewalk, feeling the first concentrated sun’s rays. She thought she could smell her flesh starting to scorch.
Jill Harris now knelt beside her, perhaps trying to appear as someone trying to help the victim of a seizure. In reality Harris was holding Cat down, driving her elbows painfully into the floor, while the enemy adept came closer and continued to increase the force of the attack—in this case, the sizzling heat that coursed through her veins like liquid fire.
Still screaming, Cat was able to see the adept clearly for the first time. Dark-haired, red-lipped, exotic, alluring, filling out a black dress in all the right ways, she was now also bending over Cat and Jill Harris. A trace of seriously expensive fragrance washed over Cat.
Seeing her now— they’d referred to her as the enemy adept—was confirmation of all her fears, and fulfilled the reasoning that had brought Cat here in the first place. But even after putting the pieces together, she could feel nothing other than the result of what they were doing to her right then.
The woman was wielding what looked a black obsidian dagger, similar to the one Simon had found.
They’re going to kill me right here in the middle of the charity ball—gut me like an Aztec sacrifice.
Struggling against the Egyptologist’s steel grip, Cat forced every bit of her strength and power into as concentrated a line as she could, gave it a spear’s point in her mind and unleashed it at the dark-haired woman, emitting a hoarse desperate scream.
The adept snapped back as if stabbed. She dropped the dagger and staggered backward, holding her chest, her face a mask of hate. And fury.
Cat rallied and repeated the maneuver, an ancient spell her mother had taught her. A sort of last-resort move intended for use when cornered and in mortal danger. Her mother had herself been a high-level adept for the Vatican.
Jill Harris saw the other adept stumble and loosened her grip, turning to help, a look of panic on her attractive face. Cat noted the implication, but was too busy rolling away from her captor—she who was now helping the hurt adept to a nearby chair.
Cat’s blood seemed to be cooling now, and she felt a surge of energy as she slipped out of their grasp. When she turned, Simon was just there, right hand reaching under his jacket for the pistol she saw outlined in the material.
“No!” she shouted, trying to outdo the pounding rhythmic music. “Too many people!”
Simon hesitated, realizing there were party-goers all around and discharging a gun would endanger them. Instead he helped Cat to her feet and put his lips to her ear, shouting, “They’re here, the statues! It’s Kessler. But they’re onto me. We don’t have much time to get him.”
Cat nodded. “I just saw him over there!” She’d gotten a glimpse when she was falling. He was surrounded by his thugs and one guy who seemed to be their boss. They’d disappeared through a doorway. She pointed.
Simon swore. Somehow they had worked their way back to the private area doors, and no doubt they were now fully aware of the mayhem he’d caused. They’d be cutting off exits at any time.
“May have one more chance to get him,” he shouted over a driving synthesizer and bass pulse, turning away. Cat realized with a sinking fee
ling that the two women had disappeared while she was occupied with Simon—like a magic trick, they’d teleported off the stage. She craned her neck, but neither of the two beauties could be seen.
“Damn it, Simon, that was her—that was the adept!”
“The dark-haired one?”
“Yes!”
“Well, she left this behind…” He showed her the obsidian dagger. If there had been any doubts, they were gone now. “But I don’t care about her, only Kessler.”
“She’s just as dangerous!” she blurted out.
“We’ve got to get the top guy, Cat. The rest will self-destruct.” He started pulling her back to the doorway. They waded through the oblivious dancers all around.
Whey reached the doorway, he swiped a card and gained access once again. The doors opened and Cat gasped. There were dead bodies littering the hallway, though a couple were still miraculously—barely—alive. “You?”
He nodded grimly. They ran toward the elevator, where Simon’s card worked again and they were whisked upward.
“Heading for the private quarters?”
“If we can get there,” he said. “It’s like a fucking castle hidden inside this skyscraper.”
Cat felt her strength returning after the interrupted attack. He handed her a pistol. She nodded and checked it.
Glocks ready, they stepping aside so the car would appear empty at first glance. They waited for the doors to open, but no one started shooting.
They stepped out into what appeared to be a luxurious apartment, made to resemble a turn of the century—Nineteenth century!—English country home. There were velvet draperies covering the walls. Somehow this didn’t seem like Kessler’s style, Cat thought.
As she opened her mouth to say so, a group of black-robed assassins melted out of those draperies and converged on them, blades whirling over their heads.
Chapter 91
The Penthouse Level and Roof
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
And
Best Western Plaza Hotel
Long Island City
Queens, New York
Simon and Cat each shot two. They went down in a bloody heap, tripping up the others. But those regained their balance and leaped over their dead, as eerily silent as ghosts.
In seconds they would be close enough to do damage with their swords. Simon shot one as he backed up to the closed elevator and pushed the button, taking his eyes off the masked attackers only when Cat laid down covering fire.
Fearless, they sacrificed themselves by running full-tilt into the withering firepower of the two Glocks. Simon replaced an empty mag while Cat covered him, then she did the same.
He marveled at her magnificence. Almost murdered by the enemy adept and here she was, minutes later, helping take down these creepy assassins as if she’d been born to it.
Perhaps she had, Simon thought fleetingly. What did he know of her origins?
The elevator opened and they backed in, shooting the last few swordsmen who were reaching for them with their blades. Almost not soon enough, the doors slid closed.
“You’re bleeding!” Cat exclaimed as he stabbed the up button repeatedly.
He saw that some of the attackers’ blades had indeed sliced through his tuxedo in several places along his forearms.
Again going for my wrists.
Blood dripped from several of the worst slices, but he could barely feel them as they were beginning to heal already. But he noted that they’d come dangerously close to his wrists this time—all it would have taken was one good, solid chop and he’d be turning to ashes about now.
He shivered.
“What’s up above here?” he asked. He didn’t want to think about the Final death.
Before the ball Martin had emailed Cat stills and some live footage from the new drone. Now scrolling quickly through it all gave her a pretty good idea what they could expect.
“Looks like the penultimate floor is Kessler’s own palace—from what the drone managed to see through those narrow glass-block windows. And then the last stop is the roof, with the helipad.”
“Damn it, that’s got to be where they’re heading. Get ready!”
The elevator dinged softly. When the elevator doors opened, cold evening air rushed in and a pair of well-dressed thugs twenty feet away started shooting.
But Simon and Cat were lying prone, lower than expected, and their well-aimed shots took out both gunmen.
They were out in the open, the wide expanse of painted concrete ahead of them, a low spiked fence circling the edge of the building. Red and green lights on posts blinked at each of the far corners of the building’s actual pinnacle.
Simon stepped out onto the roof in time to see Kessler and the two beautiful women climbing onto a bright blue helicopter the rotors of which were already spinning at a high pitch. Their faces turned to watch as Simon and Cat aimed their pistols, but the range was too much and the shots went astray. A thick-bodied man in a suit—probably Pieter Curtis—was dragging another woman along onto the chopper. She resisted, but weakly, as if she’d been drugged. Simon recognized her.
Bella!
The AgustaWestland lifted off. It was an Italian-made aircraft and the Vatican also owned a small fleet.
Cat lined up a shot at the blue craft as it hovered a few feet above the roof’s floor.
“No!” He knocked the gun barrel upward. “You might hit Bella!”
Cat’s eyes widened. She hadn’t seen the treasure hunter.
But a door in the chopper’s side slid open.
“Down!” Simon shouted.
They flattened themselves as much as possible just as a gunman with an assault rifle started spraying lead. It reached out like deadly fingers, ripping up concrete and turning the jagged shards into shrapnel. The shooter emptied a full magazine, keeping them pinned down.
Then the helicopter twirled once, dipped its nose almost mockingly, and zipped away from the rooftop, heading up into the night sky.
“Damn it!” Simon got to his feet and watched it go.
He’d chosen to save Bella rather than complete his assignment. The statues were probably on board. Killing Kessler and the adept would have ended the threat of the demonic ritual.
“Why, Simon? Why did you let them go?”
He faced Cat. She’d become his handler again, all business, questioning his decision in the field.
“I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do this to Straker, if he’s even still alive. She’s an innocent and I try to avoid killing innocents.” He turned to stare at the spot in the sky where the chopper had disappeared. “Besides, even if I could have shot that Agusta out of the sky we would have been responsible for deaths down below. This thing would have become a goddamn huge bomb and the streets down here are never empty. I’m an executioner, not a mass murderer.”
Cat hung her head. He was right.
Her phone buzzed. “It’s Martin,” she said. She was shivering, the dress doing nothing to break the chill wind atop the Kessler Building. “They’re heading for JFK,” she said. “The drone is following them.”
“Not a weaponized drone, I assume…” He removed his torn-up jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
She smiled at him, but shook her head. “No. And even if it was, what you said applies.”
Simon stroked his chin. “They’re heading for a private jet. I’m guessing now, but if they have Bella then they must expect to be getting Straker’s statue. That’s four. Maybe they know where the fifth one is located and they’re heading there. We have to stop them. This could be the endgame already. We may have pushed the timetable.”
“So what do we do?”
“We evade the party floor and get our asses over to Queens to find out what’s happened with Straker and Walton. Our treasure hunter friend was supposed to get that statue, but clearly things somehow went south. No calls or texts from hi
m. I doubt he’d just hand it over without taking a couple dozen of them with him.”
Gathering themselves and their ruined clothes, they used the elevator to descend to the ballroom level. Finding no one alive among the thugs in the private area, Simon checked the round room but, as he’d expected, the three statues were gone. Cat stared at the bloody altar and torture devices, shuddering.
“Our gracious host would have loved the Inquisition,” Simon muttered. He emailed the photos he’d taken earlier to Martin.
Then they rejoined the party, still in full oblivious swing, just long enough to pass through and make their way to the public elevator banks.
“Fewer of those thugs around,” Simon whispered. “Atrocious taste in suits, anyway.”
Less than an hour later they were in Simon’s Alfa Romeo, flying over the Queensboro Bridge again, on their way to Straker’s motel. They’d changed at one of Simon’s lofts, and now both wore good traveling clothes, boots, and leather jackets. They’d replenished their weaponry after ditching all the appropriated guns in the East River.
It only took Simon moments to defeat the electronic lock of Straker’s room with a card-like device. He smiled at her upraised eyebrow. “Ingenuity knows no bounds when money’s no object.”
But neither was prepared for the scene that awaited them inside.
“Shit, it’s Walton. Goddamn them. No sign of Straker.” Simon checked the bathroom while Cat sent photos to Martin, her expression grim.
“No, Goddamn her.” Cat said. “This was the adept’s doing.”
“That’s it, then. Kessler will get that statue because he’s holding Bella,” Simon said. “Although from what I’ve learned about Straker, I bet it’s not that simple to get him to play along. He’s tough.”
“Where do you think he is?”
Simon smiled mirthlessly. “Following them, and I think I know where to. See if you can check Walton’s phone records.” Cat’s thumbs worked on her screen. Simon checked for any other tell-tale signs, but the room was clean except for poor Walton and the stench of violent death.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 27