The Vault of Hercules (Order of the Black Sun Book 16)

by P. W. Child

  “No. Please, go ahead. It is, after all, your find,” she insisted. Purdue and Nina shared a long, serious look as he took his place beside the gilded trunk.

  “Help me lift the lid?” he asked, to which Nina obliged. They placed the heavy slab of shittim wood and pyrite on the floor, away from the vicinity. Peeking over the edge, they caught their breath in sequence.

  “Holy Mary, Mother o...” Nina started, but words eluded her.

  “Not quite, but close enough, my dear,” Purdue gasped.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  Inside the unorthodox coffin they found the mummified remains of a young child, its gender impossible to determine without forensic examination. It was curled up in a fetal position on a bed of scattered scrolls, some clearly tainted by the bronze evidence of splattered blood.

  “This child is grasping the skeletal vertebrae of a reptile in its hand! He or she was holding a snake!” Purdue exclaimed in whisper. Under the head of the child was a stack of bound papers reminiscent of a handmade book with no cover. Upon the browned pages the fading ink formed words Nina barely recognized.

  “Purdue, the collection of arcana we have here span several unrelated eras from before Christianity right up to the Second World War,” Nina informed him. “Looks like someone popped this cherry before you did.”

  “Now we know what the Swastika's inscription was doing in the exterior design,” Purdue said, glowing with excitement.

  “Aye, the contents of this chest holds the location of a mystery the likes of which the historical academia have never known,” she smiled. Purdue was already pacing. Nina briefly scrutinized the books and scrolls. “The child killing a snake in its cradle is unmistakable, Purdue,” she declared. “According to mythology, that child was the Greek god Heracles, the Roman Hercules.”

  Purdue looked at the cadaver of the child, its hand still preserved enough to clutch the snake's white bones. “Call Sam. We’re going to Greece.”

  Chapter 17

  Sam decided to disappear indefinitely.

  He was on a mission, chasing after the clues fed to him by his informant, Lawrence Hayden, a.k.a. Bad Norris. Sam utilized all of his journalistic savvy to call in favors with old colleagues and police reservists who wished to assist in his vigilante effort to hopefully locate and arrest the monster who had now abducted the fourth girl from her primary school in Paisley. Sam Cleave's vendetta may have started as a personal journey to redemption, but the more he found out about the kidnapper, the more it became a quest to drop him in his tracks for all of the little girls and young women in Scotland.

  Norris delivered daily reports on what was slithering through the sewers of the Glasgow/Edinburgh criminal empire. Trafficking in women was almost unheard of, which impaired Sam's likely location of the culprit, but Norris did his best to help his old mate and went above and beyond to get information from his business associates. Now, he finally he had something concrete Sam Cleave could use.

  “Look at this. Giuseppe Valdi, born January 4, 1961, recently sprung from Barrenton Psychiatric after a twenty-five year confinement,” Norris told Sam, handing him a folder containing details of the patient, photos, and treatment methodology. Sam perused the information as Norris narrated his well-prepared report like a model student. They were parked at an old, disused drive-in just south of the zoo in Livingston, West Lothian.

  “What was he in for?” Sam asked, memorizing the bastard's face from the three mug shots Norris provided.

  “Dissociative disorders, paranoid schizophrenia and...some....more unsavory shit,” Norris hesitated. “But that’s basically what he’s about. He was released under very questionable circumstances, by the way. There was no way this man was ever supposed to be released. I mean, this piece of shit belongs in the dungeons of Median with the Berserkers, for fuck's sake. He’s not even fitting for a normal asylum.”

  Sam wanted to know everything about the man he was hunting after. “You said he was in for more unsavory shit. I want to know what that is.” He waited for Norris to respond, but the freelancer was pretending to be deep into reading the file. “Norris!”

  “God, Sam! Can't you just accept that he’s a mad motherfucker and be done with it?” Norris snapped. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this particular field, it’s that it doesn't matter what’s wrong with someone—what matters is that there’s something wrong. Get what I’m saying?”

  “I do, aye. But I want to know the details. It makes it easier for me to profile him when I try to anticipate his next move. Now, tell me what I want to know or I'll just take that stolen police file from you.”

  “Okay, okay. Relax!” Norris drew back. The hardened hit man winced. “This guy has been known to indulge in the odd bit of...cannibalism.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Sam shrieked. “And you thought that little extra detail wasn’t important to know? Christ, Norris! This man has Paddy's daughter!” Sam's face was ashen. He had to find Valdi before he got the urge to cook. With this extra information Sam knew that his time was shorter than he’d previously thought.

  “Don't jump the gun, Sam. Bide your time or you’ll lose his trail. My people have located him, but he’s still moving. They have no idea where he stashed the girls, because he is moving alone. He might have accomplices. I don't know,” Norris explained. “It would be very stupid to expose yourself because of emotion, Sam. One wrong move and he will go under.”

  Sam was terrified for Amber and the others. The more he knew about the monster who collected them, the more cause he had for concern. His frustration was dictating his judgment and that was never a good thing. “Okay, listen, where was he last seen?” Sam asked, composing himself, if even just to fool Norris.

  “Glasgow. He was seen at a club called Eastern Block, a local hangout for mostly Eastern European gangs and shady businessmen. The place is owned by Papa Hastings, a sick fuck who traffics anything from women to contraband, weapons, and even animals used for pornography and bestiality,” Norris explained, looking thoroughly nauseated from his own words. “A real demented freak, that. I would not be surprised if he had something to do with the abductions.”

  “I shudder to think, between these two lowlife shit bags, what those poor girls have coming,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “And you won't help.”

  “I’m helping you right now, Sam. Good God! I’m taking huge chances here, gambling with my business and my life to get you this information. I mean, fuck! There are already people asking why I’m so interested in Valdi. So I can’t afford to give you anything more than information,” Norris grated. He grabbed a cigarette and started smoking. “You have to understand.”

  “Aye,” Sam said, “I do. It’s just going too slow if I do everything by myself and I'm just worried that time is running out on those girls.”

  “True. I know why you’re so high strung, but that’s as far as I can go on this, Sam,” Norris sighed, taking another pull of the smoke. “Give us the photos there,” he motioned for Sam to return the pictures of Valdi he’d been looking at. “I have to get the folder back to the rookie cop who lifted it for me, before he gets busted.”

  Sam got out of the Mercedes and met Norris on the other side of the car. The two men said goodbye, embracing briefly. “Where's your cabbie?” Norris asked.

  “There,” Sam pointed to the section behind what used to be the drive-in tuck shop. “Don't worry, Mom. I'll be okay,” he smiled at Norris, pulling aside his coat just enough to reveal the dark gray sheen of a Beretta.

  “Good! Good to know. Now, make sure you take down the whole lot when you do, alright?” Norris advised as he flicked away his butt and got back into his car.

  “I will,” Sam promised, closing the freelancer's door for him. Without being too obvious Sam surveyed the perimeter while Norris drove off over the chapped and potholed tar of the old drive-in, weaving through the few speaker posts that still stood after decades of neglect.

  His next stop wo
uld be Eastern Block.

  “Strike while the iron is hot, Sammo,” he said to himself, traversing the decrepit and abandoned landscape that reminded him of his own life. Once vibrant, entertaining, and full of promise, it had now fallen into disrepair, unneeded and redundant. But he didn’t care anymore.

  Long gone were the days of goals and journalistic integrity. Reputation and pointless peer awards seemed so useless now that he walked in the real world where his expertise could change lives, either for better or worse. Instead of just reporting on atrocities, he was now inside the rink, one of the players who had a hand in the competition. Only here it was for life and death, not some praise from a news academy or publishers cheering about book sales. But that was what was making Sam feel useful again.

  Actively pursuing this animal gave Sam not only vindication from his own punishment, but it helped alter the course by which the lives of four girls could end up, and that made it worth the danger he was about to face. He got into his car, wary of any intruders in the back seat or trunk, which he’d checked for before driving out through the slanted gates on crooked posts where the ticket office used to be.

  Chapter 18

  Three hours later Sam cruised into the night, his driving skills on autopilot as the street lights rapidly flashed by over his hands on the wheel. He didn’t even see the road, only what he was planning to do once he got to the seedy club. Inside, his body was tense. Butterflies in his belly were a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time, not since he was much younger. Getting accustomed to violence had its perks: it took the edge off the natural fear of dying. But Sam realized that having no fear was just as perilous in situations like these. The lack of fear easily caused carelessness and could ultimately spell disaster. Sam would have to play his cards really well.

  When he turned into the lower lit area just west of the ill-reputed club, Sam started feeling calm. Dangerously calm. The narrow backstreets, overpopulated with parked cars and litter, already prepared him for the kind of place he was deliberately visiting. His plan was simple—find Hastings, ask where Valdi is, and when met with any obstacles, do what is necessary and get out.

  Sam parked his old BMW two blocks from the establishment, keeping his presence there inconspicuous so that if things went crooked, they wouldn’t vandalize or destroy his wheels and foil his escape.

  “Time to be someone else,” he announced to himself in the rear view mirror. Before he got out of his car he retrieved some hair gel from the glove compartment. From the trunk he took out a tracksuit jacket, something he would never be caught dead wearing. At the small Chinese shop in Livingston he’d purchased some trinkets to help him blend in. It wasn’t hard to do, as long as he looked like someone with too much money and too little taste.

  Sam slicked back his hair and zipped the tracksuit jacket over his concealed gun. Gilded, cheap jewelry completed his look, adorning his chest and fingers in excess. Over the tracksuit jacket Sam wore his usual leather jacket because, quite frankly, he was freezing his ass off. He reckoned wearing a leather jacket with a tracksuit around here would not even be worthy of a frown.

  “God, I hope Nina never sees me like this,” he whispered as he combed down the last of the stubborn shorter hair strands over his ears. He was impressed at his transformation, though. From the dark, little street where his car was parked he walked two blocks over to Eastern Block. At the door he was frisked by a giant Armenian ape who looked like he’d been smashed in the face a few times too many.

  “You have a gun,” the bouncer announced when his fat fingers felt the hardness under Sam's clothing on his left short rib.

  “Da, I’m from Romanian Bratva. For to protect my boss,” Sam answered in a hideous accent he construed as Romanian Gypsy.

  “Bratva? They’re all here already,” the bouncer shrugged.

  “I’m late. Call Papa Hastings here, now. He’ll know me—I’m Victor,” Sam insisted, playing his best Russian-villain-from-Romania character. God, I hope there is a Victor somewhere in their ranks, he thought behind his ruse of confidence. And I hope the others don't all know each other. I really don't want to die in Glasgow.

  The big thug looked Sam up and down before deciding. “You go in, but you leave the gun.”

  “I am protector. Must have gun! My boss not happy for protector with no gun,” Sam said imploringly.

  “Give the gun or go home,” the ape persisted, pressing hard against Sam's chest, holding out the other hand.

  Give him the fucking gun, his inner voice urged. At least you'd be able to get inside.

  “By the way,” the bouncer laughed as he took the gun. “Your accent is terrible, my friend!”

  After Sam relinquished his gun he was escorted by one of Hastings' men to join the supposed Bratva he was part of. The tension was nerve-wracking, yet delightful to the journalist who’d not gone undercover for over a decade. It was like the old days when he spied on drug cartels and arms smugglers. It turned out that this was a meeting between Valdi's alleged puppet master and Sam's supposed crew, which meant he’d walked into some form of negotiation. Once he knew who the other party was, he could effectively infiltrate the whole operation.

  “This is Victor,” the escort announced. “He is late for meeting.”

  The Bratva gathered in the small, smoky room gave Sam a long, suspicious leer. Having traveled together after meeting up with the Edinburgh arm of their organization, they all knew one another by now.

  “He’s not one of us,” one of the lieutenants grunted, provoking a tense air of distrust where all the men clutched at their guns, just in case. Sam said nothing, because he had nothing in his arsenal. Now unarmed and compromised, there was no way out. He had properly stepped in it with the worst sort he could have pissed off. From opposite Papa Hastings, the leader of the Edinburgh faction rose from his chair. “It's okay, boys. I sent for him.”

  Most of the men immediately stood back, while others took a bit longer to trust the word of the Edinburgh faction. “No problem,” he reiterated. “This is Victor. My personal security. Relax.”

  Sam couldn’t believe his ears. Not that he was going to deny the godsend that just saved his balls by some surreal miracle, but it left him flabbergasted.

  “Lower your weapons, lads,” Papa Hastings ordered. “You heard Mr. Krakow. Let's not spoil the evening, huh? We have some choice business to do here tonight.”

  To Sam’s relief, Hastings' men complied. Thank God for that! he thought as he looked through the bunch to see if he could find Valdi among them. His mind hissed with suspense as he examined every shadowed face one by one to compare their features with that of the beast he’d seen in Norris' folders.

  I’ve no clue how I got in here with all that bullshit about Bratvas and Romania. Christ, I really literally fluked my way in. How could they not call me on any of the shit I was talking? Sam wondered.

  “How many can you bring us by November?” Hastings asked the Krakow character.

  “Only thirteen so far. It’s difficult when we take them all in one country. Once we’re done in Scotland, I can give you more,” Krakow said. “But they’re all good quality, all under eighteen years old.”

  Sam flinched inadvertently, recovering quickly before his fury was noticed. Clenching his fists in rage, he had to hold his tongue while he listened to ex-military men negotiating the abduction and sale of young women into prostitution, auctioning them off to fund their gun-smuggling organizations. It was especially repulsive to hear how they spoke of human beings as livestock and merchandise.

  As he ran out of faces Sam became distraught. If Valdi could not be found here, all of Sam's efforts would have been in vain. To exacerbate matters, he was now on the radar of the people he intended to burn to the ground, leaving him in great peril. How would he explain himself to the group he was now associated with? The last face he examined looked nothing like Valdi, even without much scrutiny, so Sam's eyes kept wandering.

  At once he looked right into the f
ace of Krakow while the man was still negotiating. Sam's heart stopped. At first he thought the lighting in the room was playing on his perception, but he couldn’t deny that he knew the man seated opposite Hastings.

  Oh my God! Sam exclaimed in his head. Paddy?

  The thought was absurd, a play of ludicrous trickery so far-fetched that Sam almost thought he was legitimately hallucinating because of his guilt about indirectly causing Paddy's latest despair. Yet there he was in plain sight, talking about horrid things as if it were second nature.

  Could he have had something to do with Amber's abduction? Sam dared wonder. Jesus, could he really be that twisted? I refuse to believe that he would allow his own daughter to get involved in his dealings, whether they were this vile or not.

  Suddenly the fire alarm went off, causing a stampede in the disco and bar areas. The staff had their hands full trying to divert people while at the same time making sure that none of the patrons were from their competition, out to set the place on fire.

  Around Sam, twenty-eight men simultaneously drew their weapons on one another.

  “Wait!” Hastings shouted. He stood up. “Mario! Check if there is an actual fire or if someone just tripped the alarm! The rest of you, calm the fuck down!”

  The lackey rushed out the door while an awkward suspense filled the atmosphere inside the small room where the meeting was taking place. Sam's heart slammed hard, but he was glad that he had at least one ally here—sort of. Bracing himself for a shoot-out, Sam's well-trained eye canvassed the immediate area for exits, windows with bars, trapdoors, and human obstacles.

  He looked at Paddy, but his old friend did not stir or speak while they waited to ascertain the legitimacy of the fire alarm. It was as if every man held his breath to steady his barrel all at once. Mario came running back in, out of breath.

  “The club is on fire! A huge fire! For real, Mr. Hastings!” he yelled, while billows of smoke enveloped him and rolled into the room.