by Sean Ellis
Kismet did not linger to watch the limousine continue down the wooded drive; his attention was already fixed on the task at hand, namely navigating through the dark pine forest at a brisk walk. After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted to the near total absence of light and he was able to increase his pace to a jog. At first, the muscle aches from injuries incurred earlier in the night were almost debilitating, but as he moved, exercising the stiffness from his limbs, the pain became more tolerable; the Motrin tablets he had downed probably helped too.
During the two-hour ride across Long Island, he had struggled to devise a strategy for rescuing Capri. Fortunately, the property currently being used by Negron and his minions was listed with a real estate broker, and floor plans and a full map of the estate were available on a realtor’s market listing service. It was a marginal piece of intelligence but Kismet knew he was going to need every advantage to survive the night.
The forty room mansion was situated above the Atlantic Ocean and separated from the main road by several hundred acres of woodland, through which ran an elaborate maze of horse trails. There were several satellite buildings, including a stable, an enormous garage with a coach house, and a full-fledged guesthouse, but Kismet felt certain Capri would be kept in the main residence, probably in one of the bedrooms that overlooked the surf. He had outlined his plan to Turino during the ride, and the capo had given a guarded blessing.
“I won’t be able to help you. I’m going to have to go in there like he’s beaten me, ‘cause if you fail, I’ll have no choice but to do what he wants.” Turino had grabbed his forearm meaningfully. “Don’t fail. Once you’re clear, call my cell phone; it’s set to vibrate, so no one will hear. When you give the signal, I’ll pull out. If necessary, I’ll come out shooting. And there’ll be two cars of my guys waiting just outside the gate. They have phones programmed for the same number, so they’ll move as soon as you make the call.”
Now, as he reached the edge of the woods, Kismet could see Turinos’s car as it rolled to a halt in front of the marble stairs leading up into the main house. Several men wearing casual clothes and openly displaying assault weapons surrounded the vehicle. Turino was ushered up the steps, while his bodyguards remained where they were. Kismet frowned, but this development was not entirely unexpected.
He skirted along the edge of the woods toward the east end of the house. His quick surveillance led him to believe that Negron’s men were not vigorously patrolling the grounds; they probably didn’t have the manpower, and confident in their leader's omnipotence, must have reckoned themselves secure enough with guards at the main gate and the front door. If he was wrong, and Negron’s men had state of the art video monitors and motion sensors, then he would find out very soon. He eased from the woods and moved smoothly across the open expanse between the forest and the house. Once safely behind the screen of topiary that ringed the perimeter, he hastened to the rear of the house, perched high above the roaring ocean. There was not a soul to be seen.
“So far, so good.”
The mansion had been designed to resemble a medieval castle, but the stonework on its mock battlements had sacrificed security for aesthetic appeal. The craggy surface presented no obstacle to Kismet as he climbed up to the level of the second floor balcony. Several sets of French doors opened onto the long terrace, but without exception, the glass panes were dark; no lights were visible in the bank of apartments where he expected to find Capri held hostage. After a quick reconnaissance, he returned to the first door and examined the lock. There was no keyhole to operate the mechanism and the bolt was hidden behind a thin strip of wood.
Frowning, Kismet reached into the black nylon waist pack--one of the items he had secured from his residence before making the long drive to Montauk, along with a change of clothes--and produced his kukri. The large chopping knife, which could almost be described as a short sword, was the signature weapon of the Gurkhas, a British infantry regiment originally drawn from a fierce Nepalese warrior tribe of the same name. The knife was a memento of war, given to him by one of the men that had fought at his side on the night of his initial encounter with the assassins of Prometheus, but was no less practical for all its sentimental value. The boomerang shaped blade, nearly fifteen inches in length, could be used like an axe, a shovel, or in this case, a pry bar. He slid the point of the knife under the fascia strip and twisted. The wood splintered to reveal the thick lock bolt underneath. The kukri made quick work of the bolt as well, and a few moments later, the door swung silently open.
He exchanged the knife for his Glock 17 automatic pistol, then moved inside. The room beyond was empty. A thin stripe of light peeked from beneath the interior door, and Kismet dropped to a prone position in order to peek through the tiny crack. There was no movement in the corridor beyond, nor any sound of voices, but his field of view was limited to the opposite side of the hallway. After taking a deep breath, he gently turned the door handle and eased the solid wood door open a few millimeters. The hallway, like the room, was as empty as a tomb.
The complete absence of any activity gave him pause; perhaps he had erred in assuming that Capri would be held in one of the apartments. If she wasn’t there, then his plan to rescue her without raising an alarm was out the window. He crept down the corridor and crouched at the end of an ornate balustrade, which partitioned the landing above a sweeping staircase down to the main level. Voices were wafting up from below and he strained to comprehend what was being said.
Turino’s baritone thundered above the others. His stentorian volume was intentional; it was his way of keeping Kismet abreast of developments. The mafia leader was presently stalling by making outrageous demands of his Colombian hosts. The thin voices of the men giving answers suggested that the dark monk was not present; there was still a chance to pull this off.
“I’m through with your games,” Turino roared. “If my granddaughter isn’t standing in front of me in two minutes, I’m walking out of here.”
Kismet’s frown deepened. He could just make out two of the Colombian’s conversing in Spanish. “Bring the girl out to the top of the stairs.”
Kismet scrambled back from the banister. So Capri was upstairs. But now he had about ninety seconds in which to find her and escape, at which point the alarm would be sounded. He swore under his breath and glanced at the uniform doors that lined the hallway. Reasoning that her kidnappers were too lazy to drag her unconscious form any farther than they had to, he crept to the door closest to the landing. There was a deadbolt lock on the door, but when he tried the lever the latch yielded and he hastened into the darkened room. In the instant before he closed the door, ambient light from without illuminated a motionless form, bound and gagged, resting against a wall. He had found her, but how long before the Colombians found him? He needed a diversion, something--anything--to distract the man presently ascending the steps.
Then it hit him. He dug out the cell phone, and without a second thought, punched the send button.
In the instant in which Turino abruptly announced that he was done waiting and turned toward the door, two Lincoln Continentals filled with heavily armed men, each fiercely loyal to the Family, burst through the wrought iron main gate in a shower of sparks and an explosion of gunfire. Although the Colombians in the gatehouse were armed with semi-automatic assault rifles and machine pistols, the Mafiosi had the element of surprise on their side. The gate guards went down under a hail of .38 and .44 caliber rounds without getting off a shot or making any kind of call for help.
Nevertheless, the thunder of gunfire echoed across the estate, raising the alarm as effectively as a klaxon. Negron’s men, wherever they were on the property, came instantly alert and brought their weapons to the ready, looking for someone to kill. On the steps inside the house, the man coming up to retrieve Capri paused and looked back to his immediate superior for further guidance. In those few indecisive seconds, Turino reached the front door, where he drew a snub-nosed .38 revolver from an ankle holster and broke
into a run. The Colombians managed to throw off their confused hesitancy and rushed to stop him, but the moment they crossed the threshold, Turino’s limousine skidded to a halt in front of the steps, and the mobster’s confederates emerged with weapons cocked and locked. The war had begun.
Kismet sliced Capri’s bonds and removed the gag before trying to rouse her. He had no way of knowing if his premature signal to Turino had accomplished the sole purpose of distracting the man coming up the stairs, but there was no mistaking the sound of gunshots, both in the distance and nearby. As he shook the unconscious girl’s shoulder with his left hand, the Glock was fixed in his right.
She came awake in a narcotic stupor, alternately drowsy, shivering and nauseous. Her lethargy left Kismet feeling frustrated and helpless. “Capri, honey, wake up. We’re in trouble here.”
“Who...?”
“It’s Nick. You’ve got to pull it together, Capri. I need you back on your feet.”
Her reply was still groggy. “Nick... Kismet? I was... what happened?”
“Long story. The short version is that you were kidnapped and I’m here to rescue you.” He clenched his teeth to dam his rising ire. “Can you stand?”
He could feel her shaking in his grasp, but she answered in the affirmative. He guided her to the balcony doors and pushed through out into the night. The noise of gunfire was muted on the oceanward side of the house. Kismet approached the parapet cautiously, but there was no activity below. “I’m going to lower you down, okay?”
She nodded dumbly. Evidently the soporific in her bloodstream had left her numb to fear and anxiety. He lifted her onto the banister rail then grasped her forearms. At the last instant, she jerked like a live wire in his hands and slipped free, but Kismet has already lowered her to where she was only a couple feet above the manicured lawn and the springy grass gently received her without so much as a stumble. Kismet landed beside her then immediately caught her hand and steered her toward the woods. They had almost reached the dense forest when a new noise cut through the night: dogs.
Kismet snapped a quick glance over his shoulder. Four sinewy shapes bolted from the front of the house, emitting sharp barks and low growls as they ran. Their lean silhouettes and dark coats marked them as Dobermans, a fierce but loyal German breed and cousin to the beefier, but similarly colored Rottweiler. Dobermans were often used by police and security forces as patrol dogs, and as such were trained to attack. Yet it was not the dogs Kismet was most worried about, but rather their human handlers, who were no doubt closely observing where the canines were going. He debated making a stand, shooting the dogs as they charged, but thought better of it; he’d probably miss, and the shots would just draw more attention to their presence. But one thing was certain: if they went into the forest, the dogs would run them down.
“Change of plans!” He turned so abruptly that Capri, still clinging to his left hand, was whipped violently onto the new course. They now moved parallel to the wooded area, toward a cluster of small structures. Kismet racked his brain to remember which was the one he wanted. Meanwhile, the dog pack was closing. He decided the closest one was good enough.
As with the main residence, faux medieval was the dominant theme for the satellite buildings. A heavy door of vertical planks, studded with wrought iron strap hinges, secured the structure to which they now hastened. Kismet counted down his steps and when he reached zero, launched himself feet first at the door. The solid oak bounced him back without yielding a millimeter. He rebounded, landing on his feet, and whirled, with the Glock in one hand and his kukri in the other, to face the inevitable onslaught.
“Nick!” Capri screamed.
He ignored her. With four ferocious slavering beasts about to rip into them, the last thing he needed was to have to keep the nearly catatonic journalist apprised of every little development.
“Nick, it’s open!”
The words sank in with agonizing slowness, and his mute disbelief would have proved fatal if Capri had not grasped his elbow and yanked him through the open portal. He recovered his senses enough to slam the door shut and throw the heavy slide bolt. He could hear the Dobermans scratching at the planks.
“It wasn’t locked,” she explained in a more subdued voice.
He shook his head in amazement. “Looks like I owe you one.”
She offered a wry smile. Her eyes were still slightly glazed, but she seemed otherwise lucid. “I think it’s more like this evens the score, but if you want, you can buy me a drink later and explain just what the hell is going on. Just tell me one thing: is it Prometheus?”
“Nothing so mundane. This one is the devil you know.” As he led her away from the door, he quickly related everything he had learned from Turino. The first time he mentioned her grandfather, he sensed embarrassment but he did not give her an opportunity to posture herself as an unwilling member of the crime family, and when the tale turned to satanic monks and unholy relics, her discomfort was forgotten.
“Do you believe any of this?”
“I believe there are some pretty ruthless bad guys who don’t want to let us leave. And the guy leading them is...” He trailed off as they pushed through an interior door to reveal a vast garage, housing several recreational vehicles. In between a twenty-foot ski boat and a brace of Bombardier four wheeled all-terrain vehicles, was a Honda XR650R Enduro motorcycle. The Enduro was a street legal bike designed for off road use, which in simple terms meant that in addition to its heavy-duty suspension and knobby tires, it was equipped with head and tail lights. “I think we just got lucky.”
He had no sooner uttered the words than the harsh crack of gunfire broke the relative stillness inside the garage. Someone was shooting through the door. Capri grimaced at the sound. “You were saying?”
4
The door exploded open and instantly, in a flurry of snapping jaws, the dog pack rushed into the outer hallway. The gunman who had shot the lock open lingered cautiously out of view, but when the expected retort of gunfire did not occur, he edged beneath the lintel.
Kismet hit a switch and bathed the hallway in the glare of the Enduro’s headlight. He and Capri had rolled the motorcycle into the hallway and hid behind the open door long enough to misdirect the Dobermans. Now, with Capri’s arms around his waist and the Colombian transfixed in the blinding beam of light, Kismet stomped on the kick-starter.
The engine sputtered weakly but did not engage.
No problem. Sometimes it takes a few tries to catch. He pushed the starter again… and again.
The gunman, still shading his eyes with one hand, raised the gun and fired blind. The concussion of the discharge thundered in the narrow confines of the hallway. Kismet reflexively ducked and in the same motion, flicked the lights off. After the harsh illumination, the darkness engulfing the small enclosure was all the more profound, punctuated only by the muzzle flash of the Colombian’s machine pistol. Kismet felt something slap his left arm, followed by a blossom of pain. He tried not to think about it.
Suddenly, the engine caught and the roar of the motorcycle drowned out the sound of gunfire. Kismet squeezed the front brake and let the rear tire spin until the smell of burnt rubber overpowered the stench of cordite. “Hang on!”
He let go of the brake and the Enduro shot forward. There was a sickening crunch as the bike struck something, then rolled up and over whatever it was. Kismet didn’t need the light to know what he had hit, but once they were out in the open air, he switched it on anyway.
Sporadic gunfire was still echoing over the treetops, but the ferocity of the initial attack had faltered. The paved drive beckoned enticingly, a two-mile ribbon of smooth road that could deliver them to safety in a matter of minutes, but Kismet instead steered back toward the tree line. The driveway was well lit and would almost certainly be a focus for the Colombian gunmen as they mounted their counterattack. Navigating the horse trails through the forest might take a good while longer, but hopefully it would spare them a trip through the gauntlet.
A path, lined with wood chips, marked the way from the stables to an open field where a steeplechase course had been laid out, and continued around the perimeter to woods beyond. The exercise area was less well kept than the grounds around the house; evidently the current tenants’ hobbies did not extend to equestrian activities. Kismet opened up the throttle to make the crossing as quickly as possible; he knew he would have to proceed more slowly in the woods.
He winced when Capri gripped his biceps, and only then did he realize that she had been shouting something. “What?”
“You’re hurt!” Her small voice was barely audible over the roar of the engine.
“It’s just a scratch! What’s wrong?”
“They’re coming!”
He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw two separate sets of bobbing headlights in the vicinity of the garage they had just exited--the quad ATVs. Less distinct were four smaller shapes, moving alongside the vehicles. Kismet bit off a curse as he swung his attention forward and geared down to enter the forest.
The trail started off straight and broad and dived quickly into the heart of the woods, but after a quarter of a mile, the path began to shrink and the canopy of branches drooped down like threatening tentacles. After the first turn, they could no longer discern the glare of lights from the pursuing quads. That was the good news. The bad news was that the trail was deeply rutted, which not only forced him to further reduce his speed, but also revealed that the trail had been used extensively by off-road vehicles. The Colombians had been entertaining themselves during their stay by exploring the horse trails with the ATVs, so there was a good chance that the men chasing them knew these trails well.
Before long, they began to descend along a trail that cut across a hillside which formed one wall of a deep ravine. It was a single track, barely wide enough to accommodate the motorcycle, and Kismet was hopeful that the ATV riders wouldn't be able to follow. At the bottom of the slope, he glanced back to see if their pursuers were still on the hunt, but saw nothing. Somehow, the lack of activity was more troubling than if the Colombians had come charging down the hill. In the absence of any other option, he gunned the bike up the opposite side of the gully.