by Jill Gregory
As Ortega staggered out of the way, Domino twisted the gun, forcing David’s wrist backwards on itself. Pain ripped up his arm, his knees buckled for an instant. The groan that whistled through his teeth brought a smile to his opponent’s face.
“Kill them!” Ortega gasped, struggling to his knees, blood spraying from what was left of his mouth. Yael flew at him like a 120-pound rocket, slamming him onto his back and into a thin pool of his own blood.
Straddling him, she stabbed her room key into his left eye. He tried to protect his face, blood seeping through his fingers, but she rammed the key again, this time into the hollow of his throat as his screams reverberated in her ears.
David heard them from a distance, from someplace deep inside his agony, as he and Domino exchanged vicious body blows. His ribs crackled as if he’d been rammed by a bull.
The gun. I can’t let go of the gun, he thought through a haze of desperation as Domino landed another savage punch.
Crashing his free fist into Domino’s Adam’s apple, he felt the man’s tendons give way, watched the killer’s eyes momentarily roll back in pain. And then Domino was smiling at him, even as he drove his fist down like an anvil onto David’s skull.
Lights danced before David’s eyes as he sank to his knees. His hand clasped empty air. He saw the gun swiveling toward his head. Willing his body, he tried to jackknife forward, to go for the gun or at least keep himself a moving target.
But before his muscles could uncoil, another man appeared behind the Dark Angel. Using both hands, the newcomer crashed a rock the size of a melon against the back of Domino’s head.
David blinked hard. Wondered if his vision was jarred by the blow he’d taken to the head. He focused his eyes.
Incredulity filled him. The man standing over Domino was Dillon McGrath.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
It was dark, so dark that Stacy couldn’t see her own hands in front of her as she crawled along the sheet metal tunnel. The man had warned her to be as quiet as possible, to move slowly but steadily forward. But with every inch she wriggled along the narrow passageway, her weight creaked on the metal, and she tensed with fear that the sound could be heard below.
“The ventilation shaft is tight, probably quite dusty,” the man had told her, talking fast and looking all around as he hoisted her up through a trapdoor. They’d run to a side tunnel a short distance from where the lion-man had kept her.
“You’ll have to go a ways before another corridor opens to your right. When it does, take it. Keep going—it’s a long way. I’ll meet you where it ends. No matter what you hear, don’t stop, get to the end and wait for me there. Do you understand?”
Stacy didn’t understand anything anymore. Now, squeezing her way down the tiny tunnel, the hairs on her neck suddenly stood on end as she heard the clang of alarm bells.
The lion-man knows I’m gone. Her heart was hammering so hard it hurt. She tried not to think about him looking for her. Or about how cold she was, how lonely, how scared. She hoped she could trust the man who’d let her out, hoped she’d get to see her mom and David again. She just wanted things to be normal again.
Shivering, she forced herself to continue on. When she felt the side wall to her right disappear, she tried to manuever herself around the tight bend. It took several minutes of squirming and holding her breath as she twisted herself into the passage.
Her mouth was dry from the dust, her hands so cold they were numb. She wanted to get out of this cold metal prison so badly she could scream. But she couldn’t scream. The lion-man would come. And the man with the different-colored eyes. She had to stay quiet.
She hadn’t inched very far along the second tunnel when she thought she heard voices. They’re coming for me! She stopped and listened, fear eating through her stomach.
Voices. She was right. She listened harder, straining to catch words.
It was women, arguing, angry. The women who were crying? They weren’t crying now.
“Let them come for us. We’ll fight them with our nails and our teeth.”
“We have the knives we snuck from our dinner trays. They’ve been sharpened on the rocks.”
“We can kill some of them, at least, before they kill us.”
But behind the determined voices, she heard other sounds. Some of the women were weeping. Pleading.
“If you fight them, they’ll kill all of us.”
“Oh God, I don’t want to die.”
Stacy froze. Who were they? Prisoners? Like she was? What was going to happen to them?
She heard the man’s voice again in her head. Keep going, don’t stop no matter what. Get to the other end.
I can’t do it. She heard a sob from her own throat. I can’t just leave those women.
There was no room to turn around. Slowly, painfully, she began inching herself backwards the way she’d come.
Toward the voices.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
David launched himself at Dillon and slammed him against the doorframe.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled.
“Saving your life, for God’s sake.” Dillon’s blue eyes flashed into his. “Some way to thank me, by the way.”
“Thank you for what? Trying to end the world? Is that what all your metaphysics study is really about—Father! Did you confiscate my passport when you let this monster into my house to kill Eva?”
“Eva? She’s dead? God in heaven!” The shock on Dillon’s face appeared genuine. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, then shoved David away.
“Well, your friend here might not be.” He sounded shaken. “So unless you’re up for another go-round, I suggest we discuss this above ground—while we can still get out of here.”
Yael stood beside David, aiming Domino’s gun at Dillon. “David, he did just save your life,” she said warily.
David’s head was spinning with confusion as he tried to reconcile Dillon bashing Domino in the head, Eva’s murder, the missing passport, and his very presence in the bunker.
“Look out!” Dillon snapped as Domino snaked an arm toward David’s pant leg.
David wheeled and kicked the Dark Angel in the jaw. After Domino’s head lolled to the side, his body slumping into unconsciousness, they all three sprinted toward the back staircase. “What are you doing here, then?” David demanded.
“It’s a long story. After you told me about the Hebrew lettering on your agate, it triggered a memory. I’d seen something similar before. I checked a volume on Jewish magic to see if it had anything on gemstones,” Dillon said breathlessly as they reached the stairs. “Found an entire section on the magical gemstones of the high priest’s breastplate.”
“Go on,” David panted.
“Years ago I met a bishop in Rome. He’s since been exposed for abusing young boys. Same poor kids he invited to his weekly Bible breakfasts. But it was his ring I remembered. Unusual—a smooth-faced ruby with Hebrew lettering.”
“The ruby from Aaron’s breastplate?” Yael gasped, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of running up the stairs.
“I tracked him to the Scottish countryside. Took it from him. To return to the Israelis. But then I discovered this strange tarot card among his travel papers.”
Dillon was extremely fit, yet his breath was coming hard. “He kept talking about having to catch a flight to London. So that’s where I headed. Ran into a German at Heathrow. He carried the same card. I attached myself to him, ended up here. Now you tell me what the hell is going on.”
They were halfway to the landing. David stopped short, ignoring the sharp pain wracking every inch of his body.
Beside him, Yael and Dillon pressed themselves against the railing, gasping for breath.
“Stacy’s here,” David said raggedly. “These maniacs are trying to end the world. Those voices . . . those names I heard . . . they belong to the people these monsters have been methodically killing. Stacy’s one of them—maybe the last one. We have to find her
and get her out!”
“God help us.” Dillon went pale beneath his ruddiness. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. You might want to have a few words with God and help us find out,” David said between clenched teeth. “Before they catch us and kill us too.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The voices grew louder.
I’m going in the right direction, Stacy thought. But how will I get down to where they are?
She scurried faster, feeling her lungs closing up from the stirred dust. Her fingers had skimmed along room ducts as she’d crawled. Slatted ones, like the ones in houses. The voices had to be coming from a duct nearby.
Suddenly, as she reached the bend once more, the women sounded like they were right below her. She ran her hands along both walls, trying to find a duct—or another trapdoor. There had to be more than one.
She twisted her way back through the bend. It was even harder going backwards, and at first she got stuck. But she wedged through and then she found it—a trapdoor, like the one the man had told her to replace when he’d hoisted her into the shaft.
Cautiously, holding her breath, she gripped it by the sides and slowly began pushing it away. It was heavy, like the other one, but when she managed to move it several inches, she was able to peer into the tunnel below. She heard the women—they were close now.
“You may want to fight and die, Irina, but I want to stay alive,” one of them sobbed.
A girl with a throaty voice answered her. “Be a coward if you want, Louisa, but I want to get back to my Mario. And I will die trying.”
Stacy shoved the panel the last few inches. The opening was the same size as the one she’d come up through. But the floor looked so far away.
Taking a deep breath, she slid her legs through the opening, bracing her elbows against the sides of the shaft until her feet dangled as low as they could go.
Pretend you’re Michael Jordan, dropping from a rim shot, she told herself as she slid her hands to grip the lip of the opening.
She hesitated, and then let herself go.
She landed hard and felt something pull in her ankle. There’s no time for the disabled bench, she thought, sucking in her breath. She was in a tunnel much like the one where she’d been held. It was deserted. But the women were close by, she could still hear them arguing.
Stacy pushed herself to her feet, and limped along the tunnel toward their voices. She passed several paintings, all of them creepy—dark colors, with snakes and weird symbols. She hurried on, freezing as she caught sight of the wrought-iron gate down the passageway. Her heart lurched. It looked like a prison gate.
She half-ran toward it—and then she saw them. Several dozen young women locked in an enormous room. It was arranged with beds, like a dormitory. The women looked worn and pale, like they hadn’t seen sunlight in years. They were younger than her mom, Stacy noticed, and a few didn’t look much older than she was. But their shoulders were hunched like old women’s, and their hair hung long and unkempt.
What were they doing here?
One of the women gasped as she saw Stacy limping toward the gate. Suddenly they were all lined up there, staring at her with incredulous, hollow eyes.
“Who are you?”
It was the one with the throaty voice. She was pretty, with dark hair and large eyes fringed by long lashes.
“I’m Stacy. Who . . . who are you? Why are you all in here?”
“Irina. My name is Irina.” The young woman gripped the bars tightly. “Thank you, merciful God,” she whispered with a glance upward. She peered at Stacy again, her face taut with hope. “We are prisoners. Help us! There’s a key.”
“Where is it?” Stacy scanned the walls, seeing no shelves or hooks.
“Down the tunnel. Behind one of the paintings. Quick!”
“Which one?” She was already hurrying back toward the pictures, her ankle throbbing more with each step.
“We don’t know,” another voice called down the tunnel. “We just see them take it from behind one of them. Hurry, please hurry.”
Stacy lifted one painting after another off the wall. Where was the key? Any second she thought to hear someone coming. She would end up locked behind the gate with them.
Thinking of those worn desperate faces, she struggled with the largest painting, nearly toppling backwards as it popped from its hook. And then she saw it. A large black key, shaped like an F, hung on a nail behind the painting.
Fingers shaking, she grabbed it and forced herself to run despite the pain in her bad ankle. Her hands were trembling so violently it was difficult to fit the key in the lock, but she managed it at last, and as the gate sprang open she was nearly trampled.
The women rushed wildly past her, fleeing down the tunnel. Only Irina stopped. Kissed Stacy on the cheek, sobbing softly. Then grabbed her hand.
“Come with us, little angel—run!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
“I assume you have a game plan.” Dillon peered cautiously up the stairs.
“I’m pretty open to suggestions.” David swiped at the sweat on his brow. “What was yours?”
“To get whatever gemstones they might have.”
“Have you seen any?” Yael’s head whipped toward him.
“Two—inside a lighted glass case. They’re up in that war room behind the balcony. Where the bigwigs meet.”
“You were up there?” David’s eyebrows shot up.
Dillon’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Briefly. Tagging along with my new best friend. As we were coming down the stairs, one of his colleagues popped out of that glass door wanting to speak to him inside. I didn’t get further than the doorway, but there was no mistaking what was in that case.”
“Are the stones accessible?” David asked.
“If we can break the case. But getting in there . . .” Dillon shook his head grimly. “I went down below hunting for a weapons cache. An axe, a metal pipe, anything. Instead, all I found were friends.”
Yael smiled faintly at him, extending a hand streaked with blood. “Yael HarPaz.”
“Sorry, can’t imagine what happened to my manners,” David muttered, then his gaze met Dillon’s. He was filled with a regret he couldn’t even begin to express. “I should have trusted you,” he said thickly. “Forgive me.”
“Pick up the tab on our next three breakfast excursions, and we’ll call it even.”
Suddenly from below came the rush of pounding footsteps.
“Let’s get out of here,” David said in alarm. They surged toward the main level, but as they reached it and started toward the auditorium, they were stopped by the sight of a half dozen Dark Angels bounding toward them.
“What have we here?” A woman’s voice spoke from behind.
David recognized it immediately. Rocked by disbelief, he wheeled and stared into the imperious eyes of Katharine Wanamaker.
Katharine Wanamaker. The woman who’d consoled his mother for months after his father’s fatal heart attack. The woman who’d always prepared Waldorf salad at holiday dinners, even though David was the only one who ate it.
“Why don’t you get Judd?” he told her between clenched teeth. “We’ll have a family reunion.”
Her laughter trilled mockingly. “For all Judd knows, I’m in Georgetown locking up a major bequest to the symphony.”
He doesn’t know, David thought. “Judd called you after we left the restaurant in New York, didn’t he? He didn’t give us up—you did.”
He lunged for her, dragged her against him, and spun around to face the Dark Angels. Yael darted forward, pressing the barrel of Domino’s gun into Katharine’s neck as Dillon braced himself for the onrush of attackers.
“Stop right there, or she’s dead!” David shouted.
He could hear the stampede rushing toward them up the stairwell. Panic kicked adrenaline through his bloodstream.
In seconds they’d be swamped from both directions by Dark Angels.
Where was Stacy?
>
As Katharine struggled to break free, he tightened his grip.
“Move again and I’ll shoot,” Yael warned her.
The Dark Angels rushing down the tunnel hadn’t slowed.
“Where’s my daughter?” David’s voice sliced into Katharine’s ear, even as he dug his lingers deeper into her flesh.
“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. Give up, David.” She twisted her head toward him, her eyes malevolent. “You can’t win.”
“Where’s Mueller—”
She never had a chance to answer. The Dark Angels skidded to a halt, their attention suddenly diverted by the horde of women swarming at them from the stairs.
“What in the world?” Dillon gaped at the bedraggled figures racing as if all hell pursued them.
“Get them back down there!” Katharine ordered the Dark Angels.
David roared at her. “All I want to hear from you is where Crispin Mueller is hiding himself! And where he has Stacy!”
Through the pandemonium now raging in the tunnel, Yael clicked off the gun’s safety.
“Stacy!” David shouted at Katharine. “Where’s Stacy?”
Caught up in the chaotic stampede of women on the stairs, Stacy heard something through the thunder engulfing her. It was faint, far off, but she heard it—David’s voice. He was shouting her name.
“David!” The cry tore from her throat, and she stumbled on the steel steps. Irina’s hand steadied her. She recovered quickly, her breath bunching in her throat.
If she fell now, she’d be trampled. The women were running like maddened cattle in an old western movie. She ran faster, gasping for air, praying for it to be true, for David to be here. . . .
As she crested the staircase she found herself in a tunnel just like the one below—this one filled with people.
Her eyes frantically scanned the faces—David!
She screamed his name and he turned his head toward her, amazement on his face. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. Then she saw the joy in his eyes and she broke free of Irina and darted toward him.