by David Wood
He stood for a moment, chewing his lower lip. The two outbuildings might offer some good intel, but they were dark and still, so almost certainly wouldn’t be where Rose was held. Assuming she was even here at all, even on the island, let alone this complex. But if she was anywhere, the large metal building made the most sense.
Crowley crept along in the shadow of its wall, watching carefully where he put his feet. Everything was still and quiet, no people moved anywhere. As he approached the small door he heard voices and froze. But the voices resolved into music and he realized it was a radio playing somewhere inside. That was good. It would help to conceal his approach.
He moved forward again, and pressed himself to the cold metal wall right beside the door. It was painted wood with a standard door handle and keyhole arrangement, and two small glass squares about three quarters of the way up. He leaned forward to peek in.
A large open space presented itself. At the back he could see the edges of shipping containers, closed up. A wooden staircase climbed over those to a kind of mezzanine level with several offices along the back wall of the warehouse. Two of those were brightly lit, light spilling out of their mostly glass fronts to illuminate the concrete floor below. In front of the containers was a wide open space, desks and machinery around the edges, and a dentist’s chair right in the center.
Crowley stared for a moment, confused by the incongruous sight. Then he made out loops of rope around the top of the chair. Its back was to him, so he had no idea if anyone occupied it, willingly or tied in place. He would have to go in to find out. He allowed himself a small smile. It was an ideal candidate for Rose’s place of imprisonment.
He moved around the door, carefully scanning the whole interior. It seemed empty but for the voice on the radio, now a host chattering away in Swedish. If there were any thugs here, they were likely up in the offices. It would be sweet if he could slip in, free Rose, and they could both slip out again, unnoticed.
Still scanning carefully inside, he let his hand fall to the doorknob and turned it painfully slowly. His smile widened as the door popped quietly open. He pushed it only far enough to allow him entry, then crouched and quickly closed it again. He listened, tried to filter out the radio and see if any other sounds reached him, but none did.
He snuck forward, staying low, keeping his eyes on the windows of the lit offices above and to his left. He rounded the dentist’s chair. It was empty. Someone had been here, the bindings were cut, but whoever it was had gone. Surely it had to have been Rose. Unless these guys regularly abducted people and tied them up. That was entirely possible.
Suppressing a curse, Crowley looked around. A half-smile returned when he spotted a patch of dark brown on the pale concrete not far from the foot of the chair. He knew dried blood when he saw it. He guessed someone had been dropped there, bleeding heavily from a nose or mouth. Maybe even from a small stab wound.
Good girl, Rose, he thought to himself. He had to believe she’d been the one to draw blood, and that he was getting closer.
He would have to sneak up to the offices and see what he could find. And that almost certainly meant a confrontation with whoever was up there. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled free a small knife. It wasn’t much, and right about now he would much prefer a firearm, but traveling around Europe with a gun wasn’t possible. He was handy enough with a knife if he could engage on his own terms, get close enough. He took a deep breath and crept to the stairs.
“Hey!”
Halfway between the dentist’s chair and the stairs, exposed in the wide open concrete space, Crowley froze and looked at the door he had entered by. A man stood there, eyes wide. He had a grocery sack under one arm and was trying to reorganize his load to reach inside his jacket, no doubt for a shoulder-holstered weapon.
He yelled out in Swedish but Crowley was already on the move. As the man’s hand came free of the jacket, Crowley dove forward toward the man and rolled. The man tried to track him, fired once and the slug bit up a spray of concrete from the ground right beside Crowley as he came back to his feet and drove the knife at the man’s chest. The grocery sack fell, cans of beer hitting the hard floor. Some split, hissed and spun as they sprayed white foam across their feet. The man got an arm up to deflect the deadly thrust of Crowley’s knife, but Crowley’s other arm was already looping around. His fist cracked into the thug’s jaw and the man fell limp. Crowley went down with him, snatched the gun from the man’s slack fingers, and rolled instinctively away as more gunshots rang out and more chips of concrete flew.
Feet thundered across the landing above and Crowley tried to estimate how many as he tucked in against one of the shipping containers for cover. At least two, maybe three. Well, this had certainly turned bad incredibly quickly. The feet came down the metal stairs, ringing in rapid succession, and Crowley dove out to roll quickly across the open space, firing as he went.
His aim was good, but the movement and not knowing quite where his enemies would be made the move a little too random. One of the men yelped and spun away, clutching his upper arm, while two more ducked for cover behind another shipping container. Crowley used the moment of panic to run behind the dentist’s chair and in behind some metal cupboards on one side wall. At least now he had all the enemies in front of him, but he was still outnumbered three to one. The man he had punched groaned and rolled onto his hands and knees. Make that four to one.
Crowley was in no doubt of the trouble he was in and needed to even those odds. He drew a bead on the punched man and, as the thug rose groggily to his feet, Crowley fired twice. The man’s chest blossomed scarlet and he fell backwards and lay still.
More yelling in Swedish and rapid footsteps hitting concrete behind the containers. There had to be enough space behind them for the enemy to move around them, trying to gain Crowley’s flank. He was pinned down against one wall. He had a closer look at his weapon. Standard automatic, fifteen rounds. He’d just cleared two. Time to start counting. Three enemies and thirteen rounds. Those odds were good, but only if he had time and space to engage. Which was exactly what he lacked.
Memories of raiding houses in Afghanistan came back to him, scared faces huddled in corners, insurgents with furious eyes running madly to attack. Suddenly, Crowley himself was the trapped local. The men moving around him operated like he had with his squad, outnumbering and outmaneuvering. He did not like being on this side of the arrangement.
These guys were pros. He could feel their pincer movement closing in and knew he had little time. From this side of the warehouse he now saw that two cars were parked in the opposite far corner, near the big roller door. If he could get between them he’d be able to move more freely, create better lines of fire. And if he was lucky, one might have keys in it and he could ram-raid his way out of this trap.
He ducked his head out for a quick look and immediately gunfire punched through from the front. Crowley fell back, one hand going instinctively to his head, feeling for blood. He’d felt the passage of at least one of those slugs. He put his hand out, blindly squeezed three quick covering shots and, hoping like hell the guy had ducked from his blind fire, ran for the two cars. He made it halfway before more gunfire boomed in the large space, so he dove sideways and rolled. A line of fire grazed his left calf and he barked a curse, but made it between the cars. No time to check his injuries, he rose over the hood of one vehicle and squeezed off three more shots in the direction of the last attack. Seven shots left and no one else taken down yet. His odds were rapidly dwindling.
Another quickly barked shout of Swedish and someone ran left to right across the front of the warehouse. Crowley took a bead, then immediately, though too late, realized his mistake. Cold metal touched his temple and a gravelly voice said, “Don’t move.”
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, let his weapon drop. Idiot! He’d fallen for a decoy run. He felt like a newbie. I’m sorry, Rose, he thought.
The man with a gun to his head put a hand under Crowl
ey’s arm and hauled him up, pushed him forward. One of the other two was checking their dead friend, while the third, a large, broad man with blond hair and a suit tight over large muscles, stepped forward.
“I should just shoot you where you stand,” he said.
Crowley shrugged. He had no answer to that.
“Karl,” the kneeling one said.
The blond man looked over and the kneeling man shook his head, said something in Swedish.
Karl looked back to Crowley, his eyes dark. “The man on the ground next to Phillipe? His name was Karol. He was a good man. He has been my friend for over twenty years. And you have killed him.”
Crowley lifted his chin. Defiant. “You lot started this! I’m only trying to get my friend back.”
“You have been more than troublesome, Mr. Jake Crowley.”
“Good.”
Karl backhanded Crowley and he tasted blood. But he refused to go down, remained standing, staring hard into Karl’s eyes. Phillipe moved to stand beside Karl, spoke again in Swedish.
Karl nodded, addressed the man still holding Crowley’s arm. That one moved away and carefully lifted Karol’s body from the ground and headed for the stairs to the offices above. A large, scarlet pool was left where Karol had lain. Crowley took a moment of perverse pleasure from it. These guys may have got the drop on him, but at least he wasn’t going down without some return damage.
“You will not die easily,” Karl said. “You will suffer for what you’ve done. And you will suffer in a uniquely relevant way.”
He turned to Phillipe and spoke rapidly in Swedish, not for a moment taking his gun away from pointing at Crowley’s chest. And he was just far enough away that Crowley couldn’t reach him. If he did lunge forward, Karl would shoot instantly and Crowley would take the shot full in the heart. He almost considered chancing it, but as he braced himself, his leg burned again. He glanced down to see his lower left trouser leg soaked in blood. He flexed the muscle a little and pain blasted up behind his knee. It didn’t feel like a terribly bad injury, a flesh wound really, but he was losing blood and it made him slow to move and a little woozy.
Scraping against the concrete floor drew his attention back and he turned to see Phillipe dragging two large metal stanchions over. He stood them about four feet apart and Karl pushed Crowley to stand between them. While Phillipe kept a gun trained on Crowley’s head, Karl stripped Crowley of his jacket and shirt, then pushed Crowley to his knees and tied his wrists high on the metalwork, leaving Crowley in a kneeling crucifix position.
“You are by now, I’m sure,” Karl said, “aware of the blood eagle torture?”
Crowley grimaced, hung his head. He cursed Karl, and Landvik, and everything that had happened since that day in the museum. This was no way to die.
“Prepare for more pain than you ever imagined,” Karl said, and Crowley felt the icy tip of a blade touch the middle of his back.
Chapter 39
Birka, on the island of Björkö, Sweden
Night had fallen properly by the time rough hands pushed Rose to her knees on the cool, damp grass beneath the large old tree. She struggled against the bonds that secured her wrists behind her back, but to no avail. The robed figures surrounded her, at least two of them women from the curves Rose saw pushing against the voluminous robes. Though her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the shadows were inky deep beneath the wide spreading arms of the tree under which they gathered. And perhaps it was only the fear at work, but something felt powerful in this place. The ancient tree seemed to press its age down upon them, the land itself felt soaked in history that rose to meet them like a mist.
Landvik stood before her, his hood still down, piled on shoulders, the only one to have revealed his face. It made Rose uneasy that he was unconcerned about her knowing his identity, made her fairly sure he planned to kill her after this was all done with. She imagined Crowley, maybe still in Rome, frantically trying to track her down. What must he have thought to find her gone? Had he heard the ruckus of her abduction? She had certainly tried to make enough noise to attract his attention, but now all that was academic. He could be anywhere in the world, but he wasn’t here. For that, she was strangely grateful. Crowley was, after all, simply a kind history teacher. He had a violent and difficult past, for sure, but he had retired from all that only to find himself caught up in all this. And, like a true gentleman, he had stepped up without question. Rose was pleased he wasn’t here to die with her. She didn’t want to die, of course, she would take any chance she could to escape when and if one presented itself, but she was glad Crowley remained out of danger. It offered a small comfort as Landvik approached her with a long, sharp knife in hand, glittering slightly in the wan moonlight that occasionally peeked through small gaps in the clouds.
“It is time,” Landvik said. “Try not to be afraid.”
Rose bared her teeth at him, but couldn’t bring herself to speak for fear her voice would be weak with fear.
Landvik placed a small vessel on the grass in front of her. It looked to be made of brass or bronze, strange symbols carved around its girth. The six others in the group arrayed themselves in a crescent behind Landvik as he crouched in front of Rose.
“I’m going to need a small amount of your blood,” he said, that wolfish smile still in place. He was clearly enjoying every moment of this.
“You’re mad, you know that?” Rose said. “Like, actually insane. This is the really real world, you nutter. There’s no magic, no past lives!”
Landvik, still smiling, ignoring her tirade, raised the knife.
“Don’t cut me!” Rose screamed, but Landvik held her jaw in one vice-like hand and drew the knife across her left cheekbone. The pain was sharp and electric and Rose whimpered, but Landvik’s grip was iron and he didn’t let her move.
He put the knife on the grass and lifted the bronze chalice to her face, pressed the cold lip of it to her cheek and watched intently. Rose imagined her blood leaking from the burning wound on her cheek, running into the bowl. After a moment, Landvik carefully put the chalice down again and pressed a handkerchief to her face. He held it there a moment, a look almost of apology on his face, then moved away, taking the chalice with him. One of the others stepped forward, wiped her face with something cold that stung furiously. Then a Band-Aid was carefully stuck to her cheek. She stared straight ahead throughout, ignoring their ministrations. She refused to be grateful for this small kindness given everything else they were doing to her.
Once that person returned to the group, Landvik turned to the crescent of six and held out the chalice to the first of them. Rose saw her chance, his back turned, the others watching Landvik and not her, and gathered her strength to leap to her feet and run. But even as the thought crossed her mind, Landvik turned back, pointed the knife at her. “Be still.” His voice was like a gunshot in the calmness of the night and Rose stopped short.
The hooded figure with the chalice produced a knife of his own, nicked the side of his thumb, and dripped a few drops of blood into the chalice. Each of the other five did the same in turn as Landvik watched Rose like a hawk. Then the last returned the chalice to Landvik and he added a few drops of his own blood to the mix. He put the chalice back on the ground in front of Rose’s knees and the seven of them moved to stand around her in a circle, with Landvik front and center, staring down.
He pulled a roll of paper from inside his robes and began to speak, in a language Rose could not recognize. His voice was low and sonorous, rising and falling like a chant. The night seemed to grow heavy, as if the darkness itself had a weight, wrapping around her like a cloak. Something cold was pressed to her lips and a thick, bitter liquid cascaded over her tongue. She tried to cough, to spit, but Landvik tipped her head back, covered her mouth and nose and forced her to swallow. More woolly thickness smothered her mind.
All the surrounding small sounds became muted, the gentle breeze stilled. Only Landvik’s voice existed as he began to chant again, and then s
lowly another voice and another were added to it as each of those present began to match his incantation.
Rose shook her head, blinked rapidly, trying to throw off the feeling that descended on her. Surely this was like hypnosis or some kind of stage magic, the power of suggestion and nothing more. Or perhaps whatever drug she had just been given. Her muscles seemed to grow weak and she slumped back onto her heels, unable to prevent her head falling to her chest. Her breath was low and deep through her nose. With a force of pure will, she raised her chin, determined to stare Landvik in the eyes, but he wasn’t there.
She saw a large room, like a bedchamber in a stately home, people in old-fashioned clothes moving through it, laughing.
She blinked, a soft cry escaping her lips, and before her was an open field, horses cantering in the distance and a checkered blanket spread out at her knees. A man with a clipped beard and 1920s clothing leaned his head back and laughed, an old car parked behind him.
“Wha..?” Rose’s voice was thick and slurred, she felt suddenly drunk. Or drugged, the effects of whatever she had been given flooding her senses. But she also knew, deep in the truest part of her, that what she experienced was far more than drug-induced. Something entirely more real.
A wooden building surrounded her, numerous faces of children and teenagers, miserable and crying. Some were obviously very sick. One tiny infant lay on a cot, clearly dead.
Rose sobbed, blinked again, and saw a small hovel, thatched roof and wooden walls, in a hilly field. A woman leaned on a broken hoe in front of her, looking more tired than anyone Rose had ever seen. The woman smiled and raised one hand to stroke Rose’s cheek and Rose felt her own beard under that palm, realized she was a man.
Past lives? she thought, unable to truly accept the possibility, but then what else could it be?
The images began to spin rapidly by, flickering like a film in fast forward, too quick to pin down. Or, she realized dizzily, a film in fast rewind. So many faces and places, days and nights, towns and countryside, land and sea. Rose became nauseated, swayed on her knees convinced she was going to pitch forward and vomit.