Counting was pointless, numbers totally irrelevant. There was no keeping score in battle, only fighting on until no enemies remained a living threat. The stuttering of his Beretta was eclipsed by Cooper’s Kalashnikov and the responding fire of Keepers rushing to eliminate them, bullets singing overhead and gouging scars into the walls on either side. Halloran’s magazine ran empty, and he drew his SIG in lieu of fumbling in his pockets for a fresh one, squeezing off in rapid fire at strangers bent on killing him, excited and repulsed to see them screaming, lurching, falling. Down and dead.
Halloran hardly knew it when the screaming stopped, his pistol’s slide locked open on an empty chamber, but his mind cleared faster than the gunsmoke in the corridor. He dumped the SIG’s spent magazine, replaced it, stowed the sidearm in its holster and reloaded the Beretta SMG. Matt Cooper, already on his feet and moving, snapped another magazine into his carbine, cocked it and moved out to find more enemies.
The brother followed Cooper into the charnel house, prepared for anything.
* * *
THE TEMPLE HAD gone as quiet as a tomb. Its occupants lay sprawled in graceless attitudes of death, none of them looking much like candidates for resurrection at the moment. Bolan wasted no time pondering the disposition of their souls, if such things did in fact exist. Only the living threatened him, and he was off in search of more.
One living target in particular.
It stung to think they might have missed the bishop, that he could have missed the party quite by accident and might be on his slow way back home right now, stopping for coffee and a pastry, maybe window-shopping. It could happen, Bolan knew. Sometimes your life turned on a dime.
Before he wrote off the temple’s honcho, however, Bolan meant to search the place. And time was wasting, with the hellish noise they’d made. Even in the city’s textile outlet district, with shops closed for the night, there had to be someone in the neighborhood who’d notice racket from machine guns and grenades. Whether that person would alert police or not was something else again, but Bolan couldn’t trust a simple case of apathy to save his life and Halloran’s.
They had a job to do, and quickly, searching high and low before the law arrived.
Either way, he couldn’t leave before a thorough effort had been made.
Halloran had briefed him on the temple’s floor plan. It was single-story, with a basement below. They’d cleared approximately half the ground-floor rooms already and proceeded on their way with caution, one man covering the other as they darted in and out of doors, meeting no further opposition as they whittled down the unexplored remainder of the temple. Bolan felt odd, treating a church like any other hostile hardsite, but he didn’t let it slow him.
Most days, he didn’t care what faith a group of people chose to follow. If they went mainstream or deified some character from third-rate science fiction, it was all the same to Bolan. But when faith came down to violating others, killing others, his tolerance evaporated like a raindrop on a desert highway in July.
Two rooms remaining, one of them a spotless kitchen, the other its pantry. Both were well-stocked but deserted when Bolan and Halloran reached them, with no stragglers hiding in the corners or behind appliances. The soldier tapped on the pantry walls and satisfied himself that none gave access to a hidden room or corridor. He paused then, listened for the cry of sirens, and heard nothing yet.
“Downstairs,” he told Halloran.
“This way,” the brother replied, and led him to a door that might have opened on a closet, but actually hid a flight of steep stairs. Below, a bare bulb in a ceiling-mounted cage lit their way.
That could mean someone had preceded them down, or simply had forgotten to switch off the light last time around. There was no way of telling until they committed and went underground.
Bolan went first, letting Halloran watch his back. The wooden steps were solid, but creaked softly under his weight. When he was back on concrete, looking at an empty corridor with more rooms opening on either side, he covered his partner’s descent.
They were below street level now and insulated from the city’s sounds. They might not hear police arriving, could be trapped down there like gophers in a hole, but Bolan had to forge ahead. Holding his AKMS ready, he began to move along the corridor.
* * *
BISHOP AKDEMIR WISHED he had skipped the second brimming glass of raki. Even though the sounds of death and battle had a sobering effect, he still felt fuzzy, as if there were cobwebs wrapped around his brain, and he was on his third fumbling attempt to open the vault’s old combination lock. It was pathetic, shameful and humiliating.
Worse yet, terrifying.
It was quiet on the ground floor now, the gunfire and explosions silenced. Akdemir surmised, since none of his parishioners had come to fetch him, that they’d lost the fight and been annihilated. He supposed that they were better off than he was, in the Lord’s eyes, since they’d gone down fighting for the cause, sober and dedicated to their faith.
But what of him?
Though armed, he hadn’t fired a shot so far, nor had he managed to secure the documents that now began to strike him as a strange, potentially disastrous self-indulgence. If the enemy was searching for him, Akdemir knew he might have only moments left. And if the combination lock continued to defy him...
He could always burn the papers, though it pained him to destroy them. Akdemir had matches in his pocket. Simply pile them up—or better, shred them first—and light the heap before the infidels discovered him. Before his hubris ruined everything.
Breathing slowly, trying to collect himself, the cleric made one last attempt to beat the stubborn combination lock. A full turn to the right before he stopped on 3, then left to 17. He stopped there when his hand began to tremble, frightened that he’d overshoot the next number in line, as he’d already done repeatedly. The lock had no time limit, but it was completely unforgiving if he missed a stop and tried to double back.
A whispered prayer, before he turned the calibrated knob back to his right, stopping on 9. Two digits left, and left was the direction that he had to twist the dial this time, stopping on 21. From there...
Was that a sound of footsteps on the basement stairs? He hesitated, moved his right hand from the combination lock, in the direction of his pistol, then stopped short. If enemies were coming, were already in the cellar, then he had no time to shred his papers and ignite them. He could only forge ahead and try to get them in the vault before the hunters overtook him. Then, if there was time, he could die fighting like the heroes of his congregation in the temple overhead.
Akdemir bit his lower lip until it bled, hoping the pain would help him focus on the task at hand. Clutching his right wrist with his left hand to prevent a tremor from betraying him, he eased the combination dial back to his right, creeping toward 35. The click wouldn’t be audible to ears ringing with the effects of too much raki, but he strained to listen for it, anyway.
And heard, instead, the sound of footsteps coming closer, unmistakable this time.
One final half turn of the dial, one digit left, then he could fling his work inside the vault and slam the door, trust someone else to find it later and release it to the world, though incomplete. An inside view of how Custodes Foederis had rescued humankind from the long dark night of mortal sin.
A shout behind him made the bishop turn, the combination lock forgotten as he clutched his pistol, raising it. Two strangers stood before him, black and white, with automatic weapons in their hands. The last thing Bishop Mehmet Akdemir beheld was their twin muzzle-flashes blinding him, propelling him headlong into a darkness without end.
* * *
“THIS ISN’T TURKISH,” Bolan said, showing Brother Halloran the manuscript he’d lifted from the floor.
“It’s Latin,” Halloran replied.
“With maps,” Bo
lan observed, impressed by the apparent skill of whoever had done the work by hand, painstakingly. “If these are right, they track the Ark from Axum all the way to Rome.”
“We ought to wait and read the rest of it another time,” Halloran said.
“Agreed.” He couldn’t let a lucky break—assuming that was what they had in hand—delay them at the scene until police arrived. It would be all for nothing then, a total loss.
Evacuation of the temple went without a hitch. Bolan was half expecting gunfire from the sentry on the roof, but when it didn’t come, he figured that the guy had either joined the battle in the church and died there, or had bolted from the site in panic. Either way, they cleared the building without any further opposition and were rolling in the Fiat Stilo moments later. Still no sirens, making Bolan wonder what it took to rouse the cops in Çorlu.
When they had put a mile behind them, Halloran spoke up. “If we can trust the maps, they give us an advantage.”
“If we trust them,” Bolan echoed.
“Why take time to draw them, otherwise?” the brother inquired.
“I’m more concerned about who knows the maps exist,” Bolan replied. “If someone on the transport team suspects their route’s been compromised, it wouldn’t be that hard to find another route.”
“The manuscript may help us there,” Halloran said. “If Akdemir prepared it on his own, let’s say his bid to be a part of history, the thieves won’t know the maps exist.”
“In which case, there’s a chance that we could jump ahead of them,” Bolan suggested.
They were due to catch a break, he thought—but was this it? Mehmet Akdemir’s attempt to hide his manuscript and maps confirmed Bolan’s impression that they must have some significance. He couldn’t think of any reason why the cleric would waste time preparing bogus documents, then die defending them.
Assume they were important, then. If they could chart the Axum raiders’ movements from the maps prepared by Akdemir, there was indeed a chance to head them off, but crucial variables still remained unknown. How long ago had the raiders left Çorlu? Had they reached their next stop yet, or were they still en route? What means of travel were available to Halloran and Bolan for the next leg of their journey? Could they fly ahead to meet their quarry, or would they be forced to travel overland?
Unanswered questions.
Bolan hoped that Halloran’s translation of the Latin manuscript would fill in certain blanks, but it would not foretell the future. Moving targets on the battlefield were tricky in their own right. Zeroing in on a group of runners with a week’s head start was infinitely harder and might prove to be impossible, even with maps and notes.
A thousand things could change the route of travel chosen by his targets, Bolan realized. Police activity, terrain, the weather, even something whimsical could alter the game board drastically. Worst case scenario: if they believed their route was known to enemies, the Ark transporters might abort their mission and attack some secondary target still unknown. Bolan and Halloran could wait in Rome until doomsday while the raiders veered off course and scored their hit a hundred miles away.
But Rome would be their first choice, clearly. Bolan thought they’d grasp at any chance to strike the Vatican. And if he couldn’t stop them sooner, he would be there when it happened.
Laying down his life if need be, to avert catastrophe.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Las Vegas, Nevada
From the action on The Strip, you wouldn’t know Americans had ever heard of a recession, unemployment or the gridlock paralyzing Congress. It was still a business to do pleasure with you in Sin City, name your poison, with an emphasis on flushing hard-earned money down the crapper in casinos. Neon ruled the night along Las Vegas Boulevard, beginning at Sahara Avenue and running south to Tropicana.
Trudging north along The Strip, sweating inside his baggy jacket, Lucius Porter had already passed Mandalay Bay, the Luxor and Excalibur, New York-New York, the Trop and MGM Grand. He turned east on Harmon, crossing against the light with blaring horns on every side, daring some infidel to run him down, some guardian of so-called law and order to detain him. Porter knew God wouldn’t let it happen.
Not this night. Not when he had a job to do.
Promoters of Las Vegas as a “family town” liked to say that the city had more churches than casinos. Porter didn’t know if that was true, though there were plenty to be found. Only one of them was faithful to the scriptures, though, and he’d been fortunate enough to find it in the Temple of Enlightenment.
Custodes Foederis had changed Porter’s life. Now he was going to help change the world.
Two blocks east of The Strip he saw the lights of Saint Columba Church. No competition for the searing neon he had left behind, but it was Porter’s beacon on this last night of his earthly life. Befitting its locale, the church was holding bingo night to raise funds for remodeling. Its members almost certainly believed that they were gambling for “a good cause,” heedless that they were engaged in Satan’s work.
Or did they know? If so, did any of them care?
Beneath his loose, unseasonable jacket, Porter had a sawed-off semiautomatic shotgun dangling under his right arm on a loop of slender nylon rope. He’d drilled the gun’s stock near the pistol grip, after he’d cut off most of it and wrapped the portion that remained in friction tape. Without its plug, the weapon held six shells loaded with double O buckshot. He could empty it in three seconds flat, putting three dozen .36-caliber pellets in flight before his prey knew Death had come to visit them.
Porter had filled his pockets with more shotgun shells, not bothering to count, mixing some double O and rifled deer slugs with the triple O, just for variety. Beneath his belt, pressing against his spine, he’d wedged a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda revolver, its four-inch barrel prodding the cleft of his buttocks with every step Porter took. It was uncomfortable, granted, but he liked the extra weight back there, knowing he had a backup weapon when he’d used up all the shotgun rounds.
A nice surprise for the police.
People were laughing as Porter entered Saint Columba’s fellowship hall through an open door on the church’s west side. A few looked up from bingo cards, one total stranger smiling at him as if they were lifelong friends, but when he brought the twelve-gauge out it definitely changed their mood. The priest was moving toward him, one hand raised as if in blessing, his face gone pale, and Porter shot him in the chest before he had a chance to speak. The triple-aughts propelled his rag-doll figure backward, airborne, crashing into the bingo cage filled with white ping-pong balls.
“It’s Judgment Day!” Porter announced, before the screaming started and the infidels began to scatter. He was singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” as he set to work.
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
ALDO DRIESSEN RODE the Metro from Amsterdam Centraal to De Clarcqstraat and disembarked there, hiking northwest along the street and crossing one canal, approaching Nassaukade and his final destination. It felt strange to know that he would soon be dead, yet satisfying that his death would count for something.
And he wouldn’t be alone.
Driessen had stopped to boost his courage at a hash bar, washing down a “space cake” with a cup of strong black coffee. He supposed it was a sin, and had already offered up a prayer asking the Lord’s forgiveness as he rode the Metro, but he wasn’t sure he could have forged ahead without the cannabis to bolster his resolve.
Around him, most pedestrians had their umbrellas out and open, warding off a drizzling rain from leaden skies. Driessen himself had come outfitted in a wide-brimmed hat and knee-length slicker, doubling as concealment for the pistols wedged under his belt. It might have seemed excessive to a stranger, but he carried three: a Belgian FNP from Fabrique Nationale d’Herstal, chambered in 9 mm Parabellum with a 16-round magazine; a Glock 20 in
10 mm Auto with a 15-round mag; and a snub-nosed Taurus Model 85 revolver in .38 Special. Together, their weight threatened to drag down his trousers, but Driessen wore suspenders with his belt to spare himself embarrassment.
It wouldn’t do for him to be a bare-assed martyr and become a public laughingstock.
Not that the city would be laughing when his work was done.
Outside the Church of Saint Gerlach he paused to idle in the rain, content to nurse the secrets that he carried underneath his coat and in his heart. A wedding was in progress in the church, and while he could have interrupted it, Driessen felt generous this day. Why not allow the priest to finish, and the groom to kiss his bride? It was the closest they would come to their intended honeymoon. Let them enjoy the moment while it lasted, brief as it might be.
Driessen had spent last night rehearsing every move he planned to make before a full-length mirror in his small flat on Retiefstraat. While it was impossible to know exactly how his targets would react, he now had every confidence that he could draw and fire his weapons in turn, without mishap. He knew which pockets of his raincoat held spare magazines for both the FNP and Glock, so there would be no awkward mix-ups.
He was ready, down to the cotton wadding stuffed in his ears.
A pair of police constables, male and female, passed him in their bright yellow slickers. Neither gave Driessen so much as a second glance, as there was nothing about him to arouse suspicion in this neighborhood. He let them go, hoping that they would be well out of earshot when the wedding ceremony ended and the celebrants emerged.
Earshot. A term he’d never really thought about till now.
Five minutes later, with the yellow slickers lost to sight, an usher opened up the double doors of Saint Gerlach and braced them so they wouldn’t swing back on the people trooping through. Guests left the church before the bride and groom, lining the steps outside to offer them applause that would have been unseemly in the nave. Driessen moved up to join them, still unnoticed as he halted at the bottom of the steps.
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