7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  The Burnt Man smiled with ruined lips as he remembered the first time he had heard the man’s message—from his hacienda in the remote mountains of Brazil. He knew at that instant he wanted in. The changes that had occurred since then amazed him.

  Shaking himself from his reverie, the Burnt Man saw the man look over his shoulder. While not afraid, the Burnt Man, nevertheless, was on guard.

  “What of the woman?” asked the man.

  “Our sniper missed her,” said the Burnt Man. “It was dark, and he may have hit part of the window frame. Bad luck.”

  “I see,” was the reply.

  At that, the man in black turned and strode toward him. He stopped, smiled, and reached out to touch his mutilated face with the tips of his fingers. He closed his eyes and traced the scar tissue in an almost sensual way. This was the only relief the Burnt Man received from the constant pain.

  Then, still smiling, Icar looked steadily at the Burnt Man and said, “Come. We have much to do.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Cloe sat straight up in the narrow bunk on which she lay.

  “Oh my God!” she screamed. “What was that?”

  J.E. rushed to her. “Mom, what is it?”

  Cloe looked around, sweat-drenched from the heavy sleep and the apparent nightmare.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I just lay down for a second to rest my eyes, and then, the next thing, I saw Masada and the Karik.”

  “Mom, you were dreaming, more likely a nightmare,” said J.E., putting his arm around his mother. “Masada’s long finished, and they’re all dead.”

  Cloe shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “We thought that after the Kolektor had been killed at Hakeldama by the Sicarii, and then came the Karik and Michael. How can I be sure?”

  “Mom, for the thousandth time, they’re all dead. The Karik was shot and tumbled off the thousand-foot cliff face of Masada. Michael was blown to smithereens by a phosphorous-base claymore mine. They’re gone.”

  “I know, J.E. You’ve told me that before,” whispered Cloe, turning toward the sound at the front of the cell.

  “Come,” interrupted the monsignor. “It’s time for the routine exercise period on the roof. The guards are here.”

  They were escorted up another flight of steps at the end of the corridor. As they climbed the stairs, the air became measurably cooler. At the top of the stairwell, the sky opened on all sides, throwing off the cramped feeling of the crowded dark cell. It was late afternoon, and the sun was rushing toward its evening destination.

  “Well, this is more pleasant,” said the curator, stretching and gazing over the bay at the foot of the tower. “I wonder how many legions of knights have stood in this same spot and been witness to what I see now.”

  “Too many to count, Father Curator,” said the monsignor. “We could use a knight or two now.”

  At that, one of the nearby guards struck the monsignor with the back of his hand, knocking him to the floor of the roof.

  The man laughed and yelled, “The knights are long dead, priest. There is no one to save you.”

  The guard leaned down to the monsignor and spat in his face, causing him to cough and rub his eyes. The rest of the guards laughed at this.

  Cloe blinked for a moment. Did the guard whisper something to the monsignor when he bent over him to spit?

  The monsignor, seemingly humiliated and angry, got slowly to his feet but made no move to challenge the guards and their guns. Eventually, they were led back to the cell.

  The cell door slammed shut, and Cloe turned to the monsignor. “What was that?”

  The monsignor came very close to her so no one else could hear and whispered directly in her ear, “I think he was a friend. He said only one word—tonight.”

  The others crowded around and, one by one, were quietly informed in case the cell was bugged.

  “Who could he be?” whispered Cloe. “How can we possibly get out of here?”

  “I don’t know, but there is little we can do but wait and see,” replied the monsignor in a very low voice.

  “There is one other thing we can do,” said J.E. softly.

  “What?” asked the curator.

  “We can darn well be ready if he comes,” replied J.E. “We can look for anything that we might use as a weapon and get to sleep early.”

  “Yes, the young sir is correct,” whispered the monsignor. “Let’s find what we can and then get to sleep.”

  They scoured the cell, and the monsignor found a fist-sized piece of stone he was able to break away from its place near the edge of the door well. J.E. partially dismantled the bunk where Cloe had been resting earlier and secured a length of wire and a flat metal tab that he began to scrape very quietly against the stone wall to sharpen its edge.

  After a while, Cloe thought they were probably as ready as they could be, and she lay down to sleep.

  J.E. had the first watch and was standing by the cell door; after a while, Cloe awoke to the sound of J.E. snapping his fingers, alerting his dozing comrades. Someone was coming. The bolt on the other side of the wall was disengaged, and the door began to swing open.

  “Stand back, faces against the wall,” said a rough voice.

  As she pressed her face against the cold stone, Cloe glanced over her shoulder and saw it was only the cook and one of the guards, bringing the evening meal. The monsignor had said this usually occurred sometime after eight o’clock. Even so, her heart rate spiked at the thought that they might get out. The cook moved to the center of the cell and sat the tray on the floor. In the murky light from the doorway, Cloe saw the guard move rapidly toward the cook and smash the back of his head with his rifle butt. The cook’s dying eyes stared at Cloe, and some muscle reflex caused him to half-rise before he lurched forward and keeled over. The monsignor caught him and lowered him gently to the floor. He crossed himself and leaned over the dying man, whispering in his ear.

  Their rescuer slipped back the hood of the cape he wore over the guard’s uniform. Light brown, shoulder-length hair tumbled out and surrounded a square-jawed, handsome face.

  “Quickly!” he said. “Bind the cook in case he yet lives.”

  J.E. knelt and wrapped the cook’s hands and feet with the wire he had salvaged from the bunk.

  “Is there something for a gag?” asked the newcomer.

  A moment later, J.E. had torn a strip from his shirt and used it to muzzle the cook. Satisfied, J.E. stood and said, “Who are you?”

  “Later. The others will return shortly. Right now there are only two guards here, one on the roof and one at the front door,” said the stranger.

  “Where are the others?” asked Cloe.

  “Swimming at the beach near here. They do it every night while the prisoner, now prisoners, eat,” he replied. “They think meal time is the least likely time for a prisoner to think about escape.”

  The monsignor chuckled and said, “Well, they must eat something other than what they feed us, because when I’m eating this slop is when I most think of escape. How do we get out of here?”

  “The Knights of Malta built this tower four hundred years ago, and they devised a hidden means of ingress and egress should the need arise. I will show you,” said the man.

  They ran from the cell, barring it behind them, and headed toward the stairwell at the end of the narrow corridor. The steps led them down past a second level. The young man signed to them to be very quiet as they came to the first floor; one of the guards remained behind there. One by one, they silently tiptoed around the stairwell to what the stranger had said was an exit downward.

  To what? Cloe wondered. It reminded her a little of the church of St. John in Lyon where she had spent much time tracing long-forgotten escape routes.

  The stranger stopped at an old trapdoor in the floor under the first-level stairwe
ll. It had a huge, ancient lock on it and looked like it had not been opened for scores of years, if not longer.

  “Now what?” whispered Cloe. “We need a key.” Once again, a feeling of déjà vu hit Cloe.

  The young man produced a stout key from somewhere under his tunic and inserted it into the lock mechanism. He bent to turn the key, but nothing happened. He bore down on the task, producing a shrill squeal of metal on metal. Cloe could hear movement from the front of the building as the guard reacted to the noise. She envisioned the guard turning in his chair and listening intently to try to determine if he had heard anything.

  “What do we do?” whispered the curator.

  The monsignor bent over the lock and examined it closely.

  “Hmmm, rusty,” he said and reached into an inner pocket.

  “Hurry, the guard is coming,” pressed Cloe. She heard the sounds of chair legs scraping the floor, as if being pushed back from a table. Then it was quiet again.

  From an inner recess of his cassock, the monsignor withdrew a small vial of oil for anointing the sick and dying, opened it, and poured some of the amber contents into the lock.

  “Now!” he said.

  The stranger again twisted the key in the lock, and this time there was some movement. He moved it slightly back and forth and then gave it a hard turn. The ancient lock popped open.

  “Yes!” said Cloe.

  They heard footsteps from the front of the tower coming their way.

  “Quickly,” said J.E., and he and the stranger grabbed the trapdoor at the same time, ripping it up and open.

  Cloe gazed into the ink-black cavity and exclaimed under her breath, “There’s nothing there!”

  CHAPTER

  32

  “Who goes there?” demanded the guard from the head of the hallway. Cloe peeked around the stairs and could see the guard silhouetted against the light from his quarters.

  Their would-be rescuer, the young man, had a small flashlight and shined it into the dark hole. There was no stairwell, but he pointed to iron rungs imbedded in the wall closest to the stairs.

  “Quickly!” he said.

  The curator went first, followed by Cloe, J.E., and the monsignor. It only took a few seconds, but the guard was halfway down the corridor before the stranger jumped on the iron rungs and pulled the trapdoor closed behind him. Cloe clung to the rungs in the darkness, listening to the young man bar the door from the inside.

  The only light they had was the stranger’s flashlight. She could hear pounding on the door above as the guard realized what had happened.

  “Everyone, move to the left side of the rungs so I can get down!” yelled the stranger, no longer worried about the noise. With the small light in his mouth, he then shimmied down the right side of the metal rungs. Cloe could barely make him out as he swiftly breezed by her in the darkness.

  He went down and down until he and the light seemed like they might soon pass out of sight. With a final jump, the stranger thumped to the ground below.

  “Okay … I’m down,” he said. “Come on, carefully.” He shined the light on the path that he had followed. Soon, they all stood on a sandy floor at the foot of the old iron ladder.

  “Where do we go from here?” asked Cloe.

  “Toward the sea,” said the young man. “We have friends waiting for us.”

  “Wait a minute. Who the hell are you?” asked J.E.

  “Valent is my name, but we have no time for introductions,” replied the stranger. “When the others return, they will be through that trapdoor in no time and after us.”

  They ran along the sandy floor of the tunnel, the roof of which at times towered ten to twelve feet above them and at other times shrank to five or six feet. When the passage narrowed, they had to use care so that no one was injured by running into the stone outcroppings from the roof. Soon, they could hear the crashing waves of the ocean.

  The luminescence of the ocean contrasted against the night as they approached the mouth of the cave. They slowed as they neared their exit to the water.

  “Careful,” said Valent. “It is likely the other guards have gone back to the tower, but we must be sure. I will go ahead.”

  The others huddled as Valent moved out to scout the mouth of the cave.

  “Do we trust this man, this Valent?” asked the monsignor.

  “Do we have a choice?” replied Cloe. “He did get us out of our cell.”

  “Yes, but to what end?” asked the monsignor.

  “If I am correct, he is just what he seems to be—a white knight sent to save us,” the curator added cryptically.

  “All right, the path seems to be clear,” said Valent, ducking back into the mouth of the cave. “We will go out to the left, and about fifty meters down the beach there is a dry reef of large rocks. In its midst is an inflatable that we can use to escape. J.E., you will lead the way and secure the boat.”

  “Wait a minute. How do you know me?” J.E. asked.

  “I know all of you,” Valent responded. “Dr. Lejeune, Monsignor Roques, and Father Curator. But there is no time for this. We will talk later.”

  Valent led them out of the mouth of the cave to where the sea washed ashore and then whispered to J.E., “Go!”

  J.E. ran to the left, and the others followed. Just as the stranger had said, they soon reached a group of rocks; in a few seconds, J.E. and the main group had deployed the boat and had it floating in the surf, ready to go.

  “Okay, position yourselves on either side to distribute the weight,” yelled Valent. “J.E., you are the helmsman.”

  When everyone else was on board, Valent pushed the nose of the inflatable toward the open sea. Just then, Cloe heard a rifle shot, and a bullet pelted the water a few feet ahead of them.

  “Hurry,” cried Valent, pushing the inflatable beyond the breakers. “They have found us. J.E., get to the back and start the engine.”

  J.E. jumped in, and, though it was dark, rifle and machine-gun fire began to rain on them from farther down the beach. Cloe heard the shouts of the guards as they ran toward the boat, firing as they came.

  J.E. grabbed the starter rope on the outboard and gave it a mighty heave. Nothing happened. The guards were closer now, and their fire was beginning to bracket the boat. Now the luminescence of the water was working against them.

  “Again, J.E.,” yelled Valent. “Pull the choke.”

  Valent, still in the water holding the bow of the boat into the waves, turned on the small flashlight and shined it on the choke lever on the outboard. J.E grabbed it and pulled it out just as another fusillade of gunfire raked the boat. Everyone ducked, and then J.E. ripped the starter rope back, and the engine fired. He threw the boat motor into forward and gunned the engine.

  “Get in!” J.E. yelled to Valent, but the young man could no longer be seen.

  The monsignor leaped to the bow of the rubber boat and reached down.

  “I have him,” he screamed. “Go!”

  J.E. twisted the throttle, and the inflatable leaped ahead and danced over the low, incoming waves. He juked the boat to the left and then to the right to avoid the gunfire.

  “J.E., we are safe beyond the range of the guards’ weapons,” said Cloe after a while. “Slow the boat so we can get Valent on board.”

  The monsignor had been holding onto Valent’s arm like the Jaws of Life. As the boat slowed, the curator and Cloe grabbed hold of Valent, and the monsignor collapsed in exhaustion.

  J.E. joined them, and soon the three of them pulled the young man on board and propped him against the bow of the boat. J.E. went back to the tiller on the outboard and headed them farther out to sea. There was no moon, and now they were beyond the luminance that had guided them on the beach.

  “Oh my God!” cried Cloe, leaning over the young man. “He’s been shot. He’s out cold.”

 
“Look for a first-aid kit—maybe under one of the seats,” instructed the monsignor.

  “Got it,” said Cloe, and she went to work on Valent’s shoulder.

  “The wound is through and clean,” she said after she finished. “I’ve got the bleeding stopped and the wound cleaned and bandaged, but he’s going to be out for a while.”

  “Well, that puts us in a bind since only Valent knows where we are going,” said J.E. “Now what? The Maltese will soon have boats of their own after us.”

  The curator turned to J.E. in the darkness and, with a smile in his voice, said, “J.E., pick a direction. The good Lord will guide your hand.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  The unlikely group of misfits had been talking in the coffee shop for some time, trying to reach an understanding of what was happening to them. Other than a little more detail on their personal backgrounds, not much light was shed on the subject. Robby had gotten bored and dozed off in one of the heavy patio-styled wrought-iron chairs.

  “I can’t imagine what kind of a team we could possibly make,” said Zoe. “We are all so different: young, old, men, women, from different countries, and even a small child. What skills could we have in common that we could apply to one task?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Zack. “Yet we have come from all over the world to this place to do something.”

  “Maybe we are not to do it here but somewhere else,” said Mel.

  “Then why were we all driven to come to New Orleans?” asked Rey. “I’ve come from Manila, halfway around the world. There must be something here.”

  “We’re all here,” replied Mel. “This may be where we stage, organize, and prepare for whatever it is. Besides, there’s Robby. He couldn’t travel far by himself.”

  “Perhaps it’s that simple. If the seven of us are chosen for something, we had to come to the place where Robby was because he’s a child,” said Zack.

  Zack glanced over at Louie and saw he was leaning back in his chair. His eyes were closed, but Zack could not tell if he was asleep. He had not said anything since the first introductions. Anna had also been quiet.