by Rick Jones
During his commander’s absences, Tolimir would rule with God-like authority, deciding who lived or died by his command, whenever he saw fit the circumstances to promote their needs, which Božanović normally supported, because the agendas always seemed to pan out with great profit.
In time, as the wealth began to accumulate, when the need to launder money became paramount, fictitious and satellite businesses with bogus owners were created to clean up money trails obtained through the auctions of living persons.
The bar was one such satellite station—his station, which had been compromised.
After escaping through the panel in the wall and down the wrought-iron fire escape, Tolimir rummaged for his keys, found them, and hit the panic button on his car, a Citroën.
Just as he opened the door to his vehicle, a rectangular beam of light washed over the parking lot, as a doorway on the building’s second level opened. Standing silhouetted against the backdrop of light and looking down at Tolimir from the space that used to be his office, was the priest who was not a priest.
Kimball easily managed to open the panel in the wall, which allowed access to a wrought-iron fire escape that led to an adjoining parking lot in the back.
Tolimir was running across the pavement toward a row of cars, his footfalls echoing off the surrounding buildings. When he reached his Citroën, he opened the car door, looked up at Kimball, and then jumped inside, the engine soon starting.
Kimball raced back to one of the attackers lying on the floor, reached inside the assailant’s pocket, grabbed a set of keys, and quickly gave chase.
His only ticket of ever finding out where the children were was getting away.
Leviticus and Isaiah quickly climbed the stairway to the next level, taking two steps at a time. Jeremiah stood sentinel next to the body of Samuel and watched over the disabled Croatians, who crawled along the floor in crippling pain.
When the Knights reached the second level, they immediately saw bodies and a pool of blood spreading across the floor. One man was still alive, but barely, his face smashed into an asymmetrical shape, while the other lay dead in a kneeling position.
Opposite the room, a doorway was open.
Leviticus raced to the opening, and saw Kimball down below, running for a vehicle and using the panic button on the key ring to find the right one.
“Kimball!”
But the Knight didn’t answer as he got into a sedan, started the engine, and raced away as tires squealed to grip the surface.
Leviticus could only stare: Where are you going?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tolimir got behind the steering wheel of the Citroën, inserted the key in the ignition, revved the engine, and backed out of the spot, the tires spinning. He then shifted into DRIVE. As soon as the vehicle found traction, the car fishtailed and veered wildly to the left, clipped the bumper of a parked car, and damaged the front fender of the Citroën. After righting himself, he gave a cursory glance to the rearview mirror and saw the large man descending the wrought-iron staircase to the parking lot.
Tolimir pressed hard on the accelerator, the Citroën weaving as it began to pick up speed.
Fifty.
Sixty.
The front end started to rattle in protest, the steel of the fender coughing up sparks whenever it hit the pavement during a turn or struck a dip.
Sixty-five.
Sixty-six.
Suddenly the sedan was in view and closing in on the Citroën, its high-beams flashing. Within moments it had tailgated the Citroën to the point where the headlights could no longer be seen in the rearview mirror.
And then the strike—solid and hard, the sound of metal collapsing, as the Citroën pitched forward and settled, the car’s rear end lifting from the impact.
Tolimir quickly veering back and forth across the road, refusing his attacker any leeway to come up on the side. And then the priest struck him, hard, the Citroën’s rear bumper buckling as Tolimir swerved out of position and fishtailed, until he corrected the vehicle on the pavement.
The priest-warrior tried to pass Tolimir on the left and forced his sedan along the Citroën’s side, the impact crushing the door and side panel. As Tolimir swerved to the right in a struggle to gain control, he was able to maneuver back into the central lane, where he struck the priest’s sedan again. The cars hit and bumped one another, the sedan weaving erratically a moment before it corrected itself. It fell behind, and then sped up, the street lights going by in a blur.
The priest affected a movement to the right, toward the shoulder, and then turned sharply to the left when Tolimir countered. The man stepped on the accelerator, bringing the vehicles side by side.
The sedan kept pace, inches away from the Citroën, the cars sometimes touching, teasing, caressing. And then the priest rammed him, the sedan’s right front bumper locking beneath the well of the Citroën’s lowered fender, pulling and tugging, the Citroën drawing to the left under the sedan’s control.
The vehicles swerved to the left, and then to the right, fighting from one side of the road to the other, with Tolimir trying to pull free and his attacker trying to keep possession.
A lamppost loomed ahead, the silver of its post reflecting from the cast of the headlights as it came closer. The priest turned hard to the right, forcing Tolimir onto the shoulder, in line with the pole, the silver of its reflection more prominent in the direct light.
The vehicles tugged, pulled, the pole getting closer, the Citroën trying to pull away.
Can’t.
Fifty feet away.
Tolimir tugged hard to the right, the vehicle moved little.
Thirty feet and closing.
The course to the pole was now a straight line.
Twenty feet away.
The silver of the pole was blindingly bright in their headlights.
It was now ten feet away.
Tolimir slammed on the brakes and pulled hard to the right, the forward momentum of the sedan tearing the fender free and carrying it to the left of the pole, while the Citroën skinned it to the right, sending countless numbers of sparks swarming into the night.
The sedan pulled along Tolimir again, the sides touching, teasing.
A game.
Then hard-core hitting. Bumping. The screaming of metal.
Metal collapsing like sheets of aluminum.
Sparks spiraling, dancing, dying.
His life, Tolimir thought, is going to be a finale of twisted metal and ruined flesh on the streets of Paris.
And then a tire on the sedan blew, a sharp piece of ruined fender catching the tread and slicing it open, causing the vehicle to swerve wildly before it slowed to a crawl.
The Citroën sped away.
Kimball slapped the steering wheel repeatedly with the heel of his hand, screaming nonsensical words at the top of his lungs. Catching Tolimir was paramount. Without him, they would never find Božanović or the children.
As his car slowed and Tolimir’s sped ahead, the sedan’s front end labored as it limped along with a flat tire.
Tolimir would soon be out of view and forever lost.
The image of the sedan was falling behind in the rearview mirror, the driver’s side front end lowered to the ground in obvious damage.
Given the opportunity of escape, Tolimir grabbed his cell phone and dialed a quick-call number.
“Yeah.” It was Božanović.
“Jadran, the castle on Les Halles has been compromised.”
“By who?”
Tolimir looked into the rearview mirror. The one working lamp of the sedan was growing smaller as he widened the gap between them. “A priest,” he said. “He said he was an emissary from the Vatican, who wanted to negotiate the release of the American woman’s children.”
“How did he know where to find you?”
“He said Beauchamp informed them.”
There was silence on the other end. And Tolimir knew that Božanović was stewing. “No problem,” he f
inally said. “There is to be no negotiation. Take the priest, Tolimir, and make an example of him to the Vatican that they are not welcome to invite themselves into my affairs.”
“You don’t understand, Jadran. This man took out four of my men in forty seconds. He fights like no one I have ever seen before. And he was oddly dressed. Piously from the waist up, all wearing collars, but dressed like Special Forces from the waist down, like the military.”
“And where is this priest?”
“When I left Les Halles, he was following me in a sedan.”
“You’re on the road?”
Though Božanović could not see him, Tolimir nodded. “His vehicle is damaged,” he said. He looked into the rearview mirror. The single light of the sedan had now grown to the size of a mote. “He’s falling far behind. There’s nothing he can do.”
“Did you tell him about the children?”
“Of course not.”
“Does he know where they are?”
“He knows nothing.”
“He knows you—knows what you look like and knows what you do.”
Tolimir’s heart skipped a beat inside his chest. “Jadran, please, I did nothing to compromise the organization.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“It was Beauchamp.”
“I know that, too. And Beauchamp will be taken care of.”
Then imploringly: “Please…”
“It’s all right, Tolimir. You did what you had to do. And the Les Halles team?”
“Gone.”
“All of them?”
“This priest did not come alone,” he added. “He came with others. And the last I checked, they were taking everyone down left and right.”
“Are you sure?”
“While the priest was engaged, I checked the monitors on my desk before escaping out the back. Our team below was assuredly on the losing end. So I left.”
There was a moment of silence before Božanović finally spoke. “Are you safe from the rest?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure these priests are not giving chase as well?”
Tolimir didn’t think about that, now wondering whether the priest was somehow directing the balance of his team forward to catch up. He pressed down on the accelerator, the car hitching and laboring over the pavement. “I’m clear,” he told him.
But Božanović didn’t pick up the confidence in his voice.
At base camp, Božanović closed his eyes with the phone to his ear. Les Halles had been compromised, which meant that an international team under the influence of the Vatican was getting close.
They knew Tolimir and where to find him, which could lead to future hunts. And since Tolimir was a coward at heart, should he be caught, it wouldn’t take much for intelligence to extract damaging testimony that could cripple the Bridge of Bones operations.
“Do you think you can make it to base camp?” he asked.
“The car’s damaged. But I think I can.”
“What are you driving?”
“The Citroën.”
Božanović motioned for the computer tech sitting beside him to bring up the image of the Citroën on screen. After a few taps of the buttons on the keyboard, a two-dimensional display of the vehicle surfaced on the computer’s screen. Above it was a box that stated: ACCESS CODE REQUIRED.
Božanović took over and typed in a seven-digit code, the numbers showing up in the box as a series of asterisks.
And then the box read: CODE ACCEPTED. WEAPONRY ENGAGED.
“You have been a good friend,” he told Tolimir. “And we shared good times together, yes?”
“We have.”
“But I’m afraid that you have become a liability.”
“That’s not true, Jadran.”
For the first time, Božanović almost felt a pang of grief when he heard the obvious pain in Tolimir’s voice from the few words spoken.
“I’m sorry, Tolimir.”
“Please, Jadran, let me come in and explain.”
Božanović let his finger hover above the ENTER button.
“Jadran, please—”
“Good-bye, my friend.” He hit the button.
Tolimir heard a click coming from somewhere beneath the hood of the car—a snap, really—as licks of flame surged through the vents of the dashboard, and were then followed by an explosion. The car leapt upward nearly two stories before twisting over and crashing onto its roof.
Tolimir never knew what hit him.
Božanović, hearing what sounded like the beginning of an explosion before the phone went dead, knew that his friend was no more.
He hung up and started to call his Damage Control team.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Even from a distance, Kimball could see the fireball lighting up the night sky, the fiery sphere blooming a moment before settling as a canopy of black smoke.
As the car limped along, he continued to coax it by willing it to move faster, the vehicle now riding on its rim.
When he arrived at the scene, there were several cars situated around the flaming vehicle. It was the Citroën.
When he got out of the sedan, he could feel the heat of the flames against his skin, the warmth tolerable. But as he neared the vehicle the flames intensified. He raised a hand in front of his face to shield himself from the growing temperature.
And then that’s when he saw Tolimir.
The man was crawling through the window space, his body aflame. And he had no legs from the mid-thigh down, the ends ragged with trails of burning flesh. As he crawled toward Kimball with his flaming hand reaching out to him imploringly, Kimball ran through the wall of heat reaching a hand out to the man. But the fire pushed Kimball back and the intense flames singed the hairs on the back of his hand.
Tolimir was wide-eyed. Yet he didn’t seem to have any recognition as to what was happening to him, didn’t seem to feel the effects of the flames as they burned and blackened his flesh.
Kimball reached out his hand, braving the heat, his own pain becoming heightened.
And for a moment their eyes connected. Tolimir’s were surrounded by blackness, the skin charred and flaking, stark white against black. But there was nothing behind them. At least nothing with a cognizant mind. It was a mind that moved by the mechanics of self-preservation, the brain knowing just enough to get away.
The man was lost, as the flesh surrounding his lips burned and peeled away, giving him a sardonic grin like a human skull. And then his hand fell to the pavement, slowly, his entire body now aflame as the air became filled with the stench of burning flesh.
It was an indescribable moment for Kimball, if not surreal.
No one, not even an animal like Tolimir, deserved to die like this.
Somewhere beyond Kimball’s circle, someone screamed. And then there were many calls for someone to help this man who lay dead in the street, all in French, as the car continued to burn down to its skeletal frame.
Kimball fell to his backside and stared at the vehicle. The flames mesmerized him, his eyes hypnotically entranced, while someone beside him was reminding him that he was a priest, and that he should do something. All Kimball did, however, was to reach up and trace a finger along his Roman Catholic collar, now smudged with soot, a moment before allowing his hand to slowly fall to his lap.
When the voices eventually faded to echoing whispers in his mind, he closed his eyes and thought of Shari.
How do I tell a mother that her only hope of ever finding her children just went up in flames?
How?
In the background, the consuming fires of the vehicle crackled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When Božanović called to mobilize his DC unit, there was an obvious edge to his voice. When the person answered the line on the other end, Božanović didn’t even call him by name. “I need a complete sanitization,” he told him. “I need you to send someone to Beauchamp before he ends up bringing down whatever assets we have inside the DCPJ. A
nd I want a Tier-One unit dispatched immediately to the Hotel de La Motte Picquet to take out the compromise. I want the father, dead! I want anyone else who’s with them, dead! But I want the mother brought to me! Is that clear?”
When it was, he snapped the phone shut.
His teams were on the move.
Beauchamp’s Residence
Beauchamp felt the incredible need to release his bladder. For the past hour and a half he had been handcuffed to a decorative Roman column. And for that past hour and a half, he had tried his best to free himself. But the clasps were secured and double locked, so any attempt at escaping was all but impossible.
Somewhere in the house, a clock was ticking. Probably the Howard Miller grandfather clock in the hallway, he thought.
But there was another sound, like the measured footfalls of someone walking across the tiled floor as well.
“Hello?”
The footsteps stopped a moment.
Silence.
“Someone there?”
The footsteps started up again as they honed in on his position, the steps getting louder with every footfall.
Inspector Reinard moved out of the shadows and into the blue light that was cast through the windows and across the floor from a full moon. His hands were in his pants pockets as he stood over Beauchamp.
“Thank God,” said Beauchamp.
“What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? I’m living a dream. That’s what I’m doing. I’m handcuffed to the post!”
“I see that. But how did you get that way?”
“I was getting kinky with myself. Now undo the cuffs,” Beauchamp said.
Reinard stood unmoving as he looked down on Beauchamp.
“What the hell are you waiting for? Undo the cuffs.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Reinard said.
“What? Why the hell not?”