“Smart boy, that Michael, putting blanks in the pistols. My son was right, trust no one. He said someone couldn’t be trusted, he said someone had been feeding information to Julian all along the way. I never thought it would be you.” He ripped the gun out of Martin’s hands and hit him again. This time even harder. All of his pent-up rage focused in his fists. Martin tried to fight back but it was useless.
“You tried to kill me, you son of a bitch.”
Stephen lost all composure, his mind slipping away from reason as he pummeled the man who sold him out, who sent Susan and Michael to their probable deaths. And with one final effort, he coiled his arm all the way back and released his entire weight, his entire anger into the killing blow. He hit Martin so hard in the temple, he crushed the temporal bone, shattering it, its fragments exploding forth into Martin’s brain. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Stephen picked up the gun and ejected the clip. He withdrew the cigar case that Michael had given him; Michael was clear that it was only to be opened later. Well, now was later. He opened it and pulled out the gun clip with the real bullets. He jammed it in the handle of the gun and took off.
Chapter 66
Busch and Simon raced out of the medical facility, running under the cover of the nearby trees.
“What do you mean her body’s gone?” Busch said through heavy breaths. “Where did it go?”
“The doctors weren’t too forthcoming on that.” Simon slammed a new clip in his gun on the fly.
“Who would steal a body?” Busch said with disgust.
“I don’t know.”
“This woman disappears more often than cash from my wife’s wallet.”
“The doctors’ bodies were still warm; whoever it was couldn’t have gotten far.”
“Who do you think it is?”
Simon said nothing but his suspicions made his heart run cold.
Stephen Kelley ran along the side of the drive, faster than he had run in twenty years. He knew where they had taken Michael and Susan, he heard them discuss it. He had seen the building on his first trip through the compound, he knew its location from the map, and he knew what the Russian general had just carried down to its recesses.
Michael had told him and only him what was in the golden box. Michael had meant the decoy box for Julian; he said they might come for it and come for it with force. It was a prudent move to hire the extra guns but a useless one in the end. He told him not to underestimate the allure of the box, it held a promise that could test even the strongest of wills, even those among them, among friends. Trust no one, he had said, but Michael had trusted him, put his faith in him. A gesture from a son whom he had abandoned. Well, Stephen wasn’t going to abandon him again. He wasn’t about to regain a son only to lose him. He pumped his legs harder, staying in the shadows, his eyes alert to movement, to guards, to anything that could end his life.
And then he saw them up ahead. Moving in the shadows. His fear peaked…but quickly abated.
“You’re sure they are in there?” Busch asked. They were hunkered down fifty yards from the science building, lost in the shadows and cover of the underbrush. The science building was the one incongruous structure in the religious compound; the three-story glass and steel structure standing in sharp contrast to the fieldstone design that prevailed throughout the God’s Truth compound. Two men stood guard, their rifles in hand but their minds on something else, lost in conversation.
“Positive,” Stephen said without looking at Busch.
Simon lay prone on the ground, the bipod mount on his rifle flipped down. He opened his jaw, cracking it from side to side, lined up the rifle scope on the first guard, and swept it left to the second guard. He practiced the motion three times. And on the fourth, the two guards collapsed dead, never knowing what hit them or how their conversation would end.
Simon picked up his rifle as he, Busch, and Stephen raced for the doorway and slipped inside. “Nice shooting there, Tex,” Busch said as he checked his gun.
The lobby gave no impression of the building’s scientific purpose; decorative support columns segmented the space into seating and greeting areas. With the scattered pamphlets of God’s Truth on the coffee tables it felt like a church rectory. Busch picked one up, thumbing through it. “What a load of horseshit. A brochure for God.”
Simon looked at a wall directory, checked the hallways that ran into the heart of the building, opened the fire-stair door, and peered inside.
“Where are they?” Busch said as he turned to Stephen.
“They said they were taking them to the lab on the lower level.”
Without warning, a burst of gunfire came from outside, ricocheting about the room. It grew in volume, a swarm of bullets flying around the lobby. Windows shattered, debris flew, the onslaught rising instead of falling off. The attackers seemed to grow by the second.
“Down the stairs,” Simon said to Stephen as they dove for cover. “We’ll hold these guys off, but you have to hurry.”
And without a word, Stephen opened the fire-stair door and raced down.
“Do you think he’ll be OK?” Busch asked.
And the bullets continued to come, careening off the walls, whizzing past their ears. It was a virtual war zone. “Worry about us, he’ll be fine.”
Busch fired off shot after shot into the darkened woods, unaware if he was even remotely successful. He had been in firefights before but nothing on this scale. They were outnumbered and cornered. He briefly glimpsed Simon, wondering if he had any idea how they were going to get past the unseen force outside.
Madris Habib settled into his chair. The glow of the box refracted about the lab. The analysis for biological agents was completed, the computer spitting out the negative results. He had forgone the explosive test, thinking that no nuclear device could be contained in such a small rectangular box built thousands of years in the past. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Whatever,” Jenkins said as he climbed out of his chair, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He slipped his hand back into the remote gloves and flexed his hands and fingers for the umpteenth time today. “Time to confirm that this is just another wild-goose chase.”
“I don’t know. This box is much heavier than the first; there is definitely something inside.”
“Right now, unless it is blonde with really long legs, I really don’t care.” He reached out, and with the mechanical hand, picked up the screwdriver. With his other hand, he steadied the box, holding it in place as he lined up on the keyhole. “Tell Mr. Zivera we’re ready.”
Michael was on his knees at the door, desperately trying to force the lock. He’d taken pieces of an empty cage and tried to fashion a jimmy stick, but the metal was too thick to be effective. There was no key slot on this side; his only chance was to pop the dead bolt but he was failing miserably. He glanced down at his watch; it had been twenty minutes. He was waiting for the explosion to come. How had he gotten this far only to fail, to lose his father, to lose Genevieve, and now…He looked up at Susan.
“It’s OK,” she said.
Michael shook his head. “No, it’s not OK.”
He went back to work on the door, desperate now, his aggravation overwhelming, the anticipation of the inevitable detonation hanging over him. He balled up his fist and pounded the door in frustration.
And then without warning, the door exploded open. Michael dived on top of Susan to protect her. The door slammed against the wall with a giant crash. Michael looked up.
Stephen stood there in the doorway, a smile on his face and a gun in his hand. “Hi, guys. Time to go.”
Busch and Simon held off the onslaught, each behind a support column that was barely wide enough to cover his body. They alternated spinning out, firing their weapons at the unseen enemy. There was no doubt that they were vastly overwhelmed, as the stream of bullets coming their way was endless. And then, somehow, the gunfire increased. There was not a moment of silence. Th
e air was awash in a hail of bullets as the vestibule chipped and fragmented about their battle-weary bodies. Dust and smoke intermingled as the chaff scattered the lobby.
And Busch caught a brief glimpse—it was only a moment, but that was all he needed. He saw the uniform, unlike the ones the guards had been wearing. It suddenly made sense to him: they were not under attack by a simple team of guards, their assailants were being coordinated, led by a soldier, a military man who knew how to fight his opponent. Simon looked through the doorway, into the woods, as the general ducked back down. Nikolai Fetisov had them trapped and knew exactly what he was doing.
All at once, the dark woods seemed to come to life as a contingent of guards charged the door. Bullets came by the hundreds, shattering what remained of the splintered doors, tearing the walls apart. It was a team fifteen strong, all in a crouch, the barrels of their guns flaming on their approach. Confusion reigned as the hallway devolved to chaos.
Not a word needed to be said as Busch and Simon looked at the door to the fire stairs. Simon reached in his satchel and pulled out an incendiary bomb; he flipped up the top and thumbed the red LCD timer to ten seconds. He looked at Busch and gave him a five count with his right hand. He flipped the switch and threw the bomb out the door into the courtyard.
Screams and orders to fall back could be heard, the gunfire suddenly stopping as the guards ran for cover. The bomb exploded, lighting up the night in a brilliant blaze, its concussive roar sounding more beast than bomb. Simon knew that it would only be a momentary distraction, but a moment was all he needed as he and Busch rolled out from their positions behind the columns. They quickly slipped through the fire door and headed down the stairs running at full tilt. And it would only be moments before the mass of trigger-happy guards resumed their raid through the front doors, cutting off their exit.
Jenkins inserted the screwdriver into the lock of the golden box. His mind was still floating about as he tried to shake the sleepiness.
“What are we waiting for?” Julian’s omniscient voice asked over the speaker.
Jenkins shook his head, not caring that his employer could see his disdain. He regretted being so easy to buy, so easy to compromise. The allure of Julian’s money was strong, but now as he listened to the non-scientist try to rush him, he was beginning to feel regret for selling out. But it was a short-lived emotion as he remembered just how much he would earn if they were successful. Gaining sudden concentration, Jenkins turned the screwdriver and released the lock.
Busch and Simon raced down the fire stairs and ran headlong into Michael, Stephen, and Susan.
“Turn around, go!” Simon shouted as they all charged down into the hallway. Simon reached into his bag and pulled out his last two fire bombs, dropping them as he ran.
“Hello,” Busch said to Susan as they ran alongside one another. But Susan said nothing as the color washed from her face. The continuing gunfire upstairs reverberated all around, seeming to suck the life right out of her eyes.
“There has to be a secondary exit,” Simon shouted as they raced down the fifty-yard-long hall.
And then, without warning, Fetisov smashed through the fire-stair door they had emerged from, fifteen guards on his tail. Fetisov charged down the hallway right on their heels, gunshots exploding everywhere. He pulled his radio to call for reinforcements to be ready at the other side, but the basement walls were thick, preventing any signal.
Michael and company tore open a metal fire door; the five charged in and up the stairs, the door closing behind them. Two stories up they ran and burst out into the vestibule, none of them stopping as Simon raised his gun and shot out the glass door they were approaching. They leapt through the makeshift opening and rushed out into the dark night. There were no guards awaiting their arrival, only silence as they stormed for the cover of the woods.
And then, as if the wrath of God had visited Corsica, the world was torn apart.
The explosion shattered the nighttime calm; a low rumbling grew until a fireball exploded out the science building door, the concussive blast knocking the five off their feet. The flames shot out and upward, illuminating the mountains, turning night into day as the flames licked the sky. The heat of the blast scorched the building, the trees, blackening and searing everything in its path.
The thick walls of the facility had remained, but had acted like the barrel of a gun, sending the force of the explosion up the open door of the stairwell and out. The fifteen guards in the stairwell were reduced to nothing more than a charred red mist among the rubble.
Simon and Busch lay by the side of a tree. Stephen sat up and immediately reached for Susan, who lay next to him. Michael sat off to the side, stretching out his back. As they tried to get their bearings, they collectively realized they had been mercifully spared their lives. The building behind them gushed black smoke out its door like a winter chimney; crashing and crumbling echoed from within the scorched structure. They were in a daze as they shook off the effects of the blast; they were battered and bruised, but they all survived.
Before a word was spoken, their collective breath held as they saw the barrel of a gun come to rest against Michael’s head. Fetisov stood above him, his uniform in tatters, his skin charred and blistered as blood poured down the side of his face. With his milky white eye he truly looked to be a beast from Hell.
Simon looked, but his gun was too far out of reach. Busch scanned the ground for a weapon among the chaos to no avail. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Stephen went down, the gun in his hand tumbling away. Fetisov quickly placed the smoking barrel back against Michael’s head.
“Sorry, Dad, but this old man still has his Slavic reflexes,” Fetisov said in his thick Russian accent, the moon glinting off his dead eye.
“You son of a bitch, let them be,” Michael said, as he sat there powerless under the shadow of a tree.
Susan crawled over to Stephen. The bullet had hit him in the left shoulder, his white shirt blossoming red. Susan put pressure on the wound as tears filled her eyes. Stephen remained silent as he struggled to sit up and glared at the Russian.
“I have one for each of you,” Fetisov said as he grabbed Michael by the back of the shirt, hoisting him up. He turned to Busch. “Privet,” he greeted him in Russian. “How are you, cowboy?”
But Busch said nothing, his eyes glaring with hate at the man who had betrayed them all.
Fetisov looked at them as the blood continued to run down the side of his head onto his torn uniform. He smiled at the ragged bunch laid out on the ground; they were bloodied and broken and without hope. “I should have killed you in Russia, it would have been so much less painful…”
“Comrade?” the voice said from behind him.
“Shto?”
“Kak ti mozehesh?”
“How could I what?” Fetisov asked.
And the twin barrels smacked the back of Fetisov’s head. “Let him go.”
Michael looked back and saw the tall Russian standing there, his tattooed forearms flexed as he squeezed the guns in each of his hands. Raechen stood motionless, his eyes cold, dead; his face was drawn. There was detachment to his voice.
Fetisov released Michael and dropped his gun. “You came all this way for me?”
Raechen maneuvered Fetisov three steps back. His eyes didn’t waver to anyone else, his entire focus on his fellow Russian as if the two of them were alone in a locked room.
Michael stepped away from the two men. Everyone was frozen, fixed on the moment. Michael didn’t know if the situation just got better or worse as he saw the detachment in Raechen’s eyes.
“You stole hope from me, Nikolai, you stole hope from my son,” Raechen said as if Fetisov had literally reached into his son’s chest and ripped out his heart. “You betrayed your uniform, your country. You are a man without honor,” Raechen said.
“And you, Comrade Raechen, you are an expert on honor?”
“No, Nikolai, you know what I’m an expert in.” And without another moment
’s hesitation, Raechen let loose both barrels, exploding Fetisov’s square head into pieces.
Raechen stood there, his twin guns moving back and forth between Michael’s friends.
Michael turned and stared him in the eye. “Did you come here for me, too?”
Raechen said nothing.
“Let them go,” Michael said, pointing at his friends. “Let this be between us.”
“Is that your father?” Raechen asked, indicating Stephen who lay with a bullet wound on the ground.
Michael nodded.
Raechen studied Stephen, then looked back at Michael. “Take care of him.”
Michael looked at his father lying there, Susan pressing on the wound. He turned back to Raechen but he was already gone.
“Who the hell was that?” Stephen asked.
“A kindred spirit with a bigger grudge.” Michael raced to his side. “How bad?”
“As long as we stop the bleeding, I’ll be fine.” Stephen stood, keeping his hand pressured on the wound.
Michael turned to Busch and Simon with a knowing look.
“What?” Busch asked with a sense of resigned dread in his voice.
“We have to get back to the mansion.”
“What?” Busch asked. “Why?”
Simon didn’t need an explanation; he was already gathering up the guns that were scattered about the ground. “You brought it here? After everything I said?” Simon’s voice was steady and soft, but there was no mistaking the rage. “Where is it?”
“Third floor.”
Simon tossed a rifle to Busch and a pistol to Michael.
Michael turned back to Stephen. “Can you move?”
The Thieves of Faith Page 42