Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  “The Hebrew priests used to shroud the Ark in a thick blanket of incense to keep it hidden from curious onlookers.” As he spoke, Caedmon squinted and strained, but the smoke barrier was impenetrable.

  A few seconds later, Harliss emerged from the smoke. Two sets of plastic flexi-cuffs dangled from his fingertips. “I’ve got a restraining order for you two.”

  “Will you at least tell us if the Ark of the Covenant was uncovered?” he asked, desperate to have a definitive answer.

  “Oh, yeah,” the other man slowly replied, the bedazzled expression returning to his unshaved, rawboned features. “The two angels on top of the gold box were the telltale clue.”

  Hearing that was like hearing an unexpected boom of thunder; Caedmon slightly swayed on his feet.

  They had actually found the Ark of the Covenant.

  Knowing it was futile to resist, he stood motionless as Harliss bound his hands together, his mind unable to wrap around the enormity of the find.

  Softly humming a jaunty tune, Harliss ripped a piece of duct tape from a roll. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors,” he said with a mean-spirited cackle as he slapped the length of tape across Caedmon’s mouth. That done, he bound and gagged Edie in a similar fashion.

  “We got orders to row you two to shore and take you to a remote location. The colonel says it wouldn’t be right to kill you in the same place where we found the Ark.”

  CHAPTER 71

  For the second time that day, the specter of death hovered over Edie’s shoulder. But this time, unlike those petrified moments when she’d stood shaking beneath the sharp point of Braxton’s pickax, she’d had time to prepare for her death; Harliss and Sanchez had loaded them into the Range Rover and taken them to a remote location some ten miles east of Swanley. Somewhere toward the sea; Edie could discern the tang of salt in the air.

  In the distance, she heard the outraged screech of a seagull. The thunderous roar of a jet engine. Familiar sounds. Probably the last sounds she would hear.

  At least she’d lived longer than her mother.

  She turned and glanced at Caedmon, who, duct tape strapped to his mouth, hands bound in front of him, stoically stared at the passing scenery. She wondered if he, too, had used the time to take stock of his life. He could have saved himself back on the isle. But he didn’t do it. Instead, he tried to garner her freedom. From a madman, no less. Although she was furious with him for passing up his one and only chance, she thought she might just love the brave, quixotic Englishman.

  Harliss, again relegated to being the copilot, peered over the headrest. “Soon you two will be sleepin’ with the angels. The colonel is fond of sayin’ that ‘the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold . . . sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.’”

  Oh, yeah. A bullet to the back of the head. How sweet was that?

  Still leaning over the back of his seat, Harliss reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pack of filterless Camels. “I’d offer you one, but . . .” Chortling, he shook a cigarette free. He then flipped open a silver lighter. Taking a drag, he blew a perfect smoke ring into her face.

  Inhaling the smoke through her nostrils, Edie gagged. Beside her, Caedmon twitched, his muffled protest sounding as though he were attempting to speak under water.

  Seemingly oblivious to the psychodrama, Sanchez steered the SUV onto what looked to be a deserted farm road; the Range Rover lurched from side to side as they slowly proceeded down a rutted lane. They’d gone approximately a half mile when Sanchez put on the brakes and cut the engine.

  Edie and Caedmon simultaneously turned and looked at one another.

  I’m sorry, Caedmon.

  As am I, love.

  Craning his head from side to side, Harliss gave an approving nod. “This looks as good a place as any. Don’t know that anyone’s been down this road in a good long while.” He turned to his partner. “What do ya think?”

  “I think I gotta take a crap,” Sanchez blurted, releasing his seat belt.

  “Jesus! A body could tell time by your bowel movements.”

  “Shut up and get me the wipes out of the glove compartment.”

  A few seconds later, diaper wipes in hand, Sanchez ambled toward a clump of trees. Harliss, a half-smoked Camel sticking out of the corner of his mouth, opened the passenger’s-side door and got out of the SUV. Slamming the door shut, he stretched his back, then walked around to the front of the vehicle. Leaning against the hood, with his back to them, he proceeded to finish smoking his cigarette.

  No sooner were they alone than Caedmon urgently nudged her with his elbow. Having gotten her attention, he nodded toward his anorak pocket before shooting her a meaningful glance.

  The metal nail file.

  When they’d been issued the rubber Wellington boots earlier that morning, Caedmon had managed to remove the file from his discarded oxfords, hiding the file in his coat pocket. Because he’d already been subjected to a thorough body search, the working premise was that they wouldn’t search him a second time. Edie could see that with his hands bound in front of him, he wouldn’t be able to retrieve the file. But her hands, although similarly bound, were much smaller.

  Quickly she flipped open the flap on his pocket, shoving her fingers into the opening. It took only an instant for her to remove the file from Caedmon’s pocket.

  Now what? she silently asked.

  Caedmon wordlessly indicated that he wanted her to pass him the file.

  A few seconds later, with the metal file tightly grasped between his interlocked fingers, he motioned for her to use the file to cut through her plastic flexi-cuffs.

  It took several moments of frantic sawing back and forth before the plastic finally gave way.

  Her hands freed, she immediately reached up to remove the strip of duct tape from her mouth. Beside her, Caedmon tersely shook his head, silently commanding her not to remove the gag. Uncertain why he wanted her to keep the tape in place, she grabbed the file out of his hands; they had a narrow window and she wasn’t about to waste any time second-guessing him.

  Tightly gripping the nail file between her clenched fists, she held steady while Caedmon roughly sawed through his flexi-cuffs, freeing himself at the exact moment that Harliss flicked aside the tail end of his cigarette.

  Hurriedly Caedmon snatched the file from her. Then, his hands lying inert in his lap, he stared straight ahead. Now understanding the reason for not removing the duct tape, Edie struck a similar pose.

  With the tape in place, they created the illusion of still being bound.

  Harliss, softly humming to himself, walked around the front of the Range Rover. With one hand he retrieved the gun shoved into the back of his waistband while with the other hand he reached for Caedmon’s door handle.

  Edie tensed. Completely in the dark as to what Caedmon intended to do, her heart beat a painful tattoo.

  An instant later, Caedmon’s door swung open.

  “Okay, boys and girls. Time to say hello to the hang—”

  In a quick peripheral flash, Edie saw Caedmon violently shove his shoulder against Harliss’s right hand, slamming the southerner’s wrist against the metal door frame; the unexpected motion caused Harliss to drop his gun.

  “Fucking shit! I’m gonna—”

  Nail file grasped in his hand, Caedmon raised his right arm, slashing downward in a smooth arc.

  A split second later, blood splattered onto the passenger window. A thick, red Rorschach blotch. Then a bloodcurdling scream of agony.

  Harliss fell to the ground, his legs convulsively twitching. Once. Twice. Before he went eerily still, his booted feet awkwardly splayed.

  Caedmon ripped the piece of duct tape off his mouth. “Don’t look!”

  The caution came an instant too late.

  Horrified at seeing the metal nail file protruding from the sprawled man’s eye socket, Edie yanked the tape from her mouth, spraying the back of the front seat wit
h yellow stomach bile.

  “Quick! Get out of the vehicle!” Caedmon ordered. “Sanchez will be here any second.”

  Operating on autopilot, Edie reached for the doorknob, stumbling out of the SUV in an ungainly heap. Turning her head, she saw that Caedmon had exited on his side and was hunched on the ground, searching for Harliss’s weapon.

  Just then, a barrage of bullets peppered the Range Rover.

  Edie screamed, instinctively throwing herself to the ground. Peering under the vehicle, she saw Sanchez slam an ammunition clip into his weapon as he charged toward them. She also saw Caedmon grab Harliss by his shoulders, using the lifeless man as a shield.

  Another rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire rang out.

  Edie slammed a balled fist into her mouth, hoping, praying that Caedmon—

  Reaching her side of the Range Rover, Caedmon immediately released his hold on the bullet-riddled corpse, the human shield having no doubt saved his life. Crouched beside the SUV’s hood, he began firing Harliss’s retrieved weapon.

  “Search his pockets for an ammo clip!”

  Edie quickly crawled over to the dead southerner. Forcing herself not to look at the nail file protruding from his eye socket, she shoved her hand into Harliss’s jacket pocket.

  “All I’ve got is the GPS receiver and a cigarette lighter!” she hissed at Caedmon, frantically wondering how long he could keep Sanchez at bay. A quick peek over the top of the SUV verified that the other man had taken up a firing position behind the tumbled remnants of a stone fence.

  “Damn! I’m out of bullets,” Caedmon muttered, tossing the gun aside.

  Suddenly catching a whiff of a very familiar scent, Edie glanced at her feet, surprised to see liquid pooling at her feet. “Oh, God! He pierced the gas tank! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Snatching the GPS receiver and cigarette lighter out of her hand, Caedmon shoved them into his anorak pocket.

  “Keep low!” he whispered, cinching a hand around her elbow. “We don’t want Sanchez to know that we’re on the move. Hopefully, he’ll maintain his defensive position long enough for us to escape.”

  But to where? Edie wondered, seeing nothing but overgrown fields in every direction.

  They’d gone no more than twenty yards when Sanchez r esumed firing his weapon. Placing a hand on her shoulder, Caedmon shoved her to the ground.

  “On your belly,” he ordered, flinging himself beside her.

  Side by side, they lay hidden in the tall grass.

  Every limb in her body shaking, as though in a palsied state, Edie watched as Caedmon removed the used piece of duct tape from his coat pocket. Along with Harliss’s sterling silver cigarette lighter.

  “What are you planning to—”

  “Shhh!”

  Terrified, Edie watched as Caedmon flicked on the lighter, the blue flame jauntily moving to and fro. He then wrapped the salvaged strip of duct tape around the lever so that the flame wouldn’t go out. Edie noticed that the initials USMC were engraved on the side of the lighter.

  Putting a finger to his mouth, Caedmon wordlessly warned her to be silent; the admonition was totally unnecessary, as fear had rendered her speechless.

  Narrowing her gaze, she watched as Sanchez crept away from the stone wall. Bent at the waist, his gun held between his hands, he slowly approached the Range Rover.

  Edie held her breath, suddenly realizing what Caedmon intended to do.

  In no apparent hurry, Caedmon waited until Sanchez was within a few feet of the SUV. His expression steadfast, he rose to his knees, cocked his arm back and—

  —hurled the lighter toward the Range Rover.

  An instant later, a huge blast erupted and the Range Rover exploded into a ball of fire.

  Jubilant, Edie slung an arm around Caedmon’s knees. “Oh, God! Do you think we’re actually gonna get away?”

  Caedmon crookedly smiled; Edie could see that he, too, was joyfully relieved. “To paraphrase that oddly named American chap, we’re not done for until the fat lady sings.”

  “I’ve never been able to sit through a Wagner opera.”

  “Nor I. But on the off chance that Sanchez survived the blast, we need to find a safe haven.”

  More concerned with speed than stealth, they clumped through the dried stalks of winter grass.

  CHAPTER 72

  They’d wandered nearly a mile when they came upon an abandoned stone farmhouse. From its derelict appearance, the house had been vacated long years before, there being more than a few missing panes of window glass.

  “Now what?” Edie asked, glancing around the ramshackle farmyard and seeing only a jumble of weeds and tall grass.

  Caedmon surveyed the area. “Search the house for weapons. Knives, scissors, an old hunting rifle, anything you can lay your hands on. I’ll search the outbuildings for some sort of conveyance.”

  “You actually know how to hot-wire a car?”

  “In theory. Assuming I can find a serviceable vehicle.”

  Rising up on her tiptoes, Edie leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Here’s hoping the practical application comes off without a hitch.”

  Having been issued her orders, she rushed toward the front stoop. The door sat crooked in the jamb; it took some jostling of the knob and a very determined shoulder shove to coerce it open. Ignoring the dust mites, cobwebs, and heavy odor of mildew, she scanned the foyer, her gaze finally alighting on a solitary golf club protruding from a tall metal milk jug. Thinking it as good a weapon as any, she grabbed the eight iron.

  She then felt her way down the dark hallway, the light switch producing nothing but a dull click, and soon found herself in a primitive kitchen. The grimy window above the dry sink produced enough light for her see that vermin had had the run of the place. More than one cupboard door was ajar, and containers of boxed food had been ripped open. In an apparent feeding frenzy, a bag of sugar and a box of salt had been torn asunder; a small white pile of each sat on the kitchen counter.

  She hurriedly began opening drawers, hoping to find a kitchen knife that had been left behind.

  To her dismay, the search turned up nothing more deadly than an ice cream scoop and a rusty can opener.

  Seeing an old-fashioned telephone mounted on the wall, she rushed over and grabbed the heavy handset.

  Damn. Dead air.

  As she hung up the phone, the wood planks near the doorway softly creaked.

  “You didn’t really think that someone would abandon the house but leave the phone connected?”

  At hearing that slightly accented voice, Edie spun on her heel, the golf club slipping through her fingers and clattering onto the wood floor.

  Her heart caught in her throat.

  Standing across from her, holding a gun that was aimed at her chest, was Sanchez. Not only were his face and clothes blackened with soot, but blood freely poured from a jagged wound on his upper cheek, the skin having been flayed in the car blast.

  Edie stood unmoving. Like a frog in a warming cauldron.

  “Hope springs eternal,” she told the unsmiling gunman, striving for a calm she didn’t feel. To keep her hands from noticeably shaking, she reached behind her, gripping the edge of the countertop.

  “Where’s your redheaded lover boy?”

  “We got separated after the blast,” Edie lied, knowing Sanchez would be out for vengeance, the old “eye for an eye” taking on a whole new level of meaning.

  The sound of a car door being slammed echoed across the farmyard.

  Sanchez cocked his head, then shrugged. “Can’t start a car with a dead battery. What a bitch, huh?”

  As he spoke, Edie inched her hand toward the salt pile that she’d earlier seen on the counter. “Yeah, what a bitch,” she retorted, tossing a handful of salt at the gaping wound on his face.

  Rearing his head back, a thunderbolt in reverse, Sanchez loudly bellowed.

  Pushing herself away from the counter, Edie charged down the hall toward the open front door.

&n
bsp; No sooner did she clear the doorway than she ran headlong into Caedmon. In his right hand he held a small ax; in his left he had what looked to be a long-handled garden hoe.

  “Sanchez is in the kitchen!” she breathlessly exclaimed. “And he’s got a gun!”

  She saw the muscles in Caedmon’s jaw clench and unclench, saw the feral gleam in his eyes. This was the man who had mercilessly taken out his foe by jamming a nail file into his skull.

  Wordlessly, he shoved the ax into his pocket. Then he wrapped his free hand around her upper arm and took off running; Edie could barely keep pace with his long-legged stride.

  They’d gone no more than a hundred yards when shots rang out, a half dozen of them in rapid succession. Caedmon dodged toward a large stone outbuilding. Kicking open a wood-planked door, he shoved her inside.

  Edie squinted, surprised to see a huge chain with an ominous hook at the end of it dangling from a ceiling beam.

  “It looks like some kind of torture chamber.”

  “Close enough,” Caedmon muttered, dragging her across the dimly lit room. “It’s an old abattoir.”

  “What’s an abattoir?”

  “A slaughterhouse.”

  CHAPTER 73

  The place does have a decidedly charnel house feel to it, Caedmon thought as he hurriedly ushered Edie across the abattoir.

  Hopefully not a harbinger of things to come.

  Shouldering open a rickety door, he motioned Edie through. A second later, they emerged into another dimly lit room, this one with a high-pitched ceiling and an arched window set into the gable. Heavy chains dangled from the rafters. Elaborate cobwebs adorned all four corners. Overhead, a pair of sparrows flew through the broken panes of glass, the abandoned abattoir having evidently become a makeshift aviary. The menacing space would have made a black-robed inquisitor feel right at home.

  Quickly, knowing he had but a few moments to set the trap, he shoved Edie toward a rusty metal cart, that being the only piece of “furniture” in the room.

  “Get yourself behind the cart. And for God’s sake, don’t move,” he tersely instructed.