The Book of Names

by Jill Gregory

  But someone grabbed her around the waist, yanking her off her feet. She writhed and screamed, and saw David shove the woman he was holding away to leap toward her.

  “Let me go!” she screamed, twisting her head up at her captor, and then she screamed again. Terror bubbled through her.

  The man holding her was the one with the different-colored eyes. The man who’d killed Hutch. Who’d hurt her mother.

  “David, help me—” she shrieked, but then she saw another man tackle him and heard the deafening blast of a gun.

  David collided with the ground, his jaw slamming into the floor. Black circles shimmied before his eyes and he heard a gunshot. Opening his eyes, he tried to lift his head, but two Dark Angels were pinning him down. He saw Yael a few feet away, her arm twisted behind her back, a Dark Angel now brandishing Domino’s gun. He heard Dillon grunt and the thwack of blows. Despair overtook the pain.

  “Take the Hidden One up to the Situation Room,” Katharine urged.

  The man holding Stacy shouted orders. “You—hold Shepherd and the other two in the reception area while I find out what the Leader plans to do with them.” He glared at the other Dark Angels. “Why are the rest of you standing there like baboons?” He was already dragging Stacy away. “Round up those women. Go!”

  All David knew was that Stacy was crying. The sounds were tearing his heart, fading away down the hall as he struggled uselessly against the men pinning him.

  He wanted to kill the monster who’d grabbed Stacy almost as much as he wanted to kill Crispin Mueller What good was my vision, what was the point of my hearing their pleas? I’ve failed everyone, he thought as he was yanked roughly to his feet, as the three of them were hauled along the tunnel toward the reception desk.

  He winced when he saw the size of the welt swelling along Yael’s cheek. Blood dribbled from Dillon’s nose. And some of the fleeing women, whoever they were, had already been recaptured.

  It’s over.

  A black-haired man emerged from the auditorium and strode briskly toward them. He was tall, suave, and self-assured. A honcho, David thought, his eyes eviscerating the man. He could feel the Dark Angels straighten as the man approached.

  “Prime Minister DiStefano, we’ve found Shepherd. What would you like us to do with him?”

  DiStefano.

  Before DiStefano could open his mouth, a figure burst from beneath the reception desk with a howl of fury.

  A woman.

  Streaking toward DiStefano and wielding a blur of long, glinting metal. She fell on him, plunging her weapon into his heart, burrowing it deep with a strength that defied her slight stature.

  His mouth agape in shock, DiStefano emitted only a low gurgle and then toppled backwards.

  Stunned, the Dark Angels froze an instant before releasing their grip on the prisoners. Shouting for help, two of them rushed toward the fallen man, while the other three dove for the attacker.

  Crazed, she slashed the bloodied knife through the air with frenzied determination, holding them at bay. Then with a shriek, she whirled and bolted for the staircase.

  Yael was running too. Panting hard, she reached the nearest of the ouroboros sculptures. Desperately, she wedged herself between it and the rock face.

  This has to work. You have to do it.

  Bracing her back against the jagged wall, she summoned her strength and shoved at the ouroboros. Grunting, she ignored the rock biting into her spine, struggling to budge the sculpture even as Dillon fought with the crew-cut Dark Angel who’d released her.

  Dillon’s fist shot out. His right hook sent Crew-cut down on his back, the ruby leaving a blood-red imprint emblazoned on his cheek.

  Yael focused with single-minded intensity on the heavy bronze sculpture, so cold and immovable against her sweating palms.

  In a move seared into his brain from a Steven Seagal movie, Dillon took a flying leap and landed squarely on his opponent’s chest with both feet, shattering his ribs. An agonizing screech pierced the air as the man writhed.

  Dillon ignored the revulsion screaming in his soul and grabbed the man’s gun.

  He spun around.

  David was sprinting up the staircase like a madman. Suddenly five more thugs came thundering down the stairs, blocking his path in a wall of guns and muscle. David jumped the banister, his hands clutching the steel as he swung himself beneath the steps and dropped to the ground. His knees buckled, and pain was etched across his face. But he seemed beyond caring as he bolted for the protected rear of the jagged rock tower supporting the balcony, pursued by Dark Angels scrambling down the stairs.

  With sweat beading along his upper lip, Dillon leveled Crew-cut’s gun and fired, peeling off one shot after the next.

  The thug in the lead reeled backwards, grabbing his shoulder, but the others surged, unfazed, streaking across the reception area after David. Suddenly Dillon heard a deafening scream from Yael. As he watched in horrified fascination, she shoved the sculpture forward with all her might.

  It wobbled back and forth—then, for an interminable instant, it hung in the air, balanced at an impossible angle. As Yael’s face contorted with effort, it toppled over. Crashing with a roar that resounded through the bunker like an explosion, the burnished metal crushed the men pursuing David.

  For a moment Dillon’s emotions whirled. Remorse for the grisly loss of life, wild hope that they might yet make it out alive.

  Then he felt something else. Blood, warm and sticky. Spurting from his chest. He stared down in disbelief. There was no pain, only a strange whirring in his ears. He staggered a step, dropped to the ground. And then heard only silence.

  Yael fought to block out the carnage she’d created as she pried a dead Dark Angel’s fingers from his gun and started for the stairs.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  What in the world is going on down there?

  Crispin Mueller slammed his cane against the floor of the Situation Room and surged from his chair. Ignoring the flash of fear in Stacy Lachman’s eyes, he limped swiftly onto the balcony. He leaned on the railing hewn from rock and peered incredulously at the pandemonium below.

  An ouroboros sculpture lay angled across the twisted bodies of several Dark Angels. He could see another prone form a few feet away, a man centered in a pool of his own blood.

  It was a scene of chaos. People shouting, streaming pell-mell from the auditorium, confused and panicked.

  Squinting, he scanned the throng milling in the reception area. Only moments ago, he had observed DiStefano striding toward Shepherd, imprisoned by the Dark Angels. He’d been waiting for them to drag Shepherd up here so the fun could begin.

  Now, incredibly, DiStefano lay in a heap, his shirt purpled with blood.

  Where was Shepherd? How had he broken from his captors? How had one man wrought this much chaos?

  Not for long, he vowed, the rage popping like pistons in his skull.

  He flew back to the doorway, his cane thumping, his jaw taut.

  “DiStefano’s dead. And I don’t see Shepherd anywhere.”

  “How can that be?” Odiambo Mofulatsi, the South African diamond broker who ranked third in command, came out to the balcony, scowling. “Where’s Ortega? And your father? Why aren’t they up here?”

  Crispin ignored him. “Raoul, bring the Hidden One out here. It’s time.”

  The frightened girl shrank back in the chair Raoul had pushed her into, her eyes glistening with a mixture of fear and dread as the Dark Angel loomed over her. When his hand clamped around her wrist and his strong fingers dug into her skin, she stopped breathing, her heart frozen with terror. Though she tried to twist away, he easily dragged her across the room and onto the open curved balcony.

  Mueller leaned his cane against the stone. He balanced his weight on his good leg. At his nod, Raoul shoved the girl toward him and Crispin scooped her up and hoisted her onto the ledge. Whimpering, she tried to squirm herself back onto the balcony, but his sinewy arms held her firm.

&nbs
p; “Hold still or I’ll let go.” His breath burned hot in her ears.

  Crispin smiled at the girl’s choked cry, at the absolute terror in her eyes. A surge of power ran through him.

  “What are you waiting for?” Raoul demanded. His eyes bored into Mueller’s. “She’s all that stands in the way of the Ascent. Do it!”

  Crispin ignored him. There was no way he was going to end this without exacting what he wanted from Shepherd. The agate. And the supreme satisfaction of forcing David Shepherd to watch this girl fall.

  The crowd below stilled at the sight of the girl he held on the ledge.

  “The last Hidden One!” someone cried.

  “The Serpent himself has her,” another excited voice crowed.

  The Serpent. His name washed over the crowd, a chant, a prayer. Crispin’s face shone with pleasure. They did know what he’d done. It buoyed him. He grinned, flooded with total confidence.

  Mofulatsi bustled forward to address the crowd. “Back into the auditorium—everyone. Now. Prepare yourselves as you were told. Our Ascent is imminent.”

  Katharine Wanamaker and a few others began to hurry toward the auditorium, but most lingered below, fascinated by the scenario on the balcony.

  “Now!” the towering African shouted, pointing his long arm.

  Crispin snapped over his shoulder at Raoul. “Go find Shepherd and bring him here. Quickly!”

  “We don’t need Shepherd any longer,” Mofulatsi barked. “Raoul, I want you to locate Alberto Ortega and Erik Mueller. They must be here with us at the moment we destroy God’s rotten world.”

  White rage eclipsed Crispin Mueller’s vision as Raoul rushed out to fulfill Mofulatsi’s orders. He resisted the overpowering urge to fling the girl off the balcony, to prove he didn’t need anyone’s permission to achieve what he’d worked harder for than any of them.

  Instead, the rage bellowed from his throat, thundering off the walls of the Ark, echoing through the cavern below.

  “David Shepherd! Show yourself! A life is hanging in the balance. A precious life. The last of your Hidden Ones. Come save her, if you dare.”

  Furiously, he scanned the reception area—but there was no sign of Shepherd. The only movement was from the remaining Gnoseos faithful filing back to the auditorium.

  “Are you afraid, Shepherd? Too cowardly to save her? Come up here and stop me—I dare you!”

  His rage mounted as seconds ticked past without the coward showing himself. He bared his teeth, consumed by hatred, and for an instant, loosened his grip around the girl’s waist. It was just long enough for her to slide forward on the balcony’s rim, her legs flailing wildly to push herself back towards safety. Her scream echoed, even after he’d locked her once more in his grip.

  “I dare you, Shepherd. I dare you!”

  Sweat poured down David’s face, streamed from his armpits. His fingers were shredded, his palms torn bloody by the rock. His breath wheezed in shallow pants as he cautiously picked his way up the back of the godforsaken tower of rock soaring toward the balcony.

  He had no pick axe, no rope, no purchase on the jagged, nearly vertical column. All he had were his fingers. His knees. His feet groping for a toehold as he scaled the rock, serpentining to wherever he could find purchase.

  Hutch’s guidance played across his memory. One foot at a time. Don’t look down. Keep your eye on the summit. He refused to wonder about Yael. About Dillon. Were they alive? Hurt? Or still fighting?

  He couldn’t afford to distract himself from the climb. Crispin was shouting for him. Roaring insanely. He blocked the words from his mind and shook the sweat from his eyes.

  The mountain is like a woman, Hutch had told him on his first advanced climb, when he was old enough to appreciate the metaphor. Mold yourself against her. Become one with her.

  His body embraced the wall. His hands groped for the next fissure. He was a rock. He was one with the tower.

  A scream pierced the air. Stacy’s scream—from directly above him. His hand faltered, grasped at empty air, and his foot skidded out from under him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Crispin tensed as he caught the timbre of his father’s voice filling the Situation Room. It’s about damned time. But his filial irritation vanished when he heard a female voice, speaking in an Israeli accent.

  “What is this place? What are you doing?”

  She sounded desperate. Frightened. Crispin smiled.

  “Look who I found skulking on the stairs,” his father announced, dragging Yael HarPaz onto the balcony.

  “Well, then.” Crispin’s smile deepened as he regarded the terrified girl balanced precariously on the balcony. “Your hero can’t be far away.”

  “It’s time to end this,” Mofulatsi told Crispin impatiently. “What in this evil world is keeping Ortega?” He consulted his watch, but his head jerked up as Raoul burst onto the balcony.

  “Ortega’s dead. Domino, too.” His mismatched eyes latched onto Stacy Lachman’s stark white face. “There’s no reason to wait. Kill her.”

  Mofulatsi stepped forward with an air of decisive authority. “I am the highest in command now. Serpent, bring her to me. The honor of the final death is mine.”

  “No!” Crispin sneered, his gaze scouring the hall below with limitless wrath. “We end this when I say. Shepherd! Where are you, Shepherd?”

  “Right here.” David flung himself over the rear lip of the wall and onto the balcony. The Gnoseos and Yael spun in shock as he stalked toward Crispin.

  David ignored them. All of his attention was concentrated on Crispin.

  “I thought you wanted to make a trade.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  David extended his raw and bloody palm. The agate glinted upon it, nearly as bright as the lust in Crispin’s eyes. “Come and get it—if you dare,” David taunted softly.

  He held his breath, not daring to glance at Stacy’s terrified face, to absorb her quiet sobs. His gaze was locked with Mueller’s, and everything rested upon this moment.

  “Bring her to me,” David said, “and you can have the agate.”

  “I’ll have the agate anyway.” Mueller smirked at him. “After you watch her fall.”

  “I guessed you wouldn’t be man enough to take it out of my hand.” David tossed the agate up in the air, then caught it. “Even as a kid, you were nothing but a bully. Look at you now. Hiding behind a child. Who’s the coward, Mueller?”

  “This is nonsense,” Mofulatsi exploded. “Serpent, bring me that girl. Raoul, kill them!”

  David’s gaze flicked to the olive-skinned man as Raoul jerked up a gun. His eyes! Shock, then rage, surged through David. One blue eye, one brown. It was him.

  He was face to face with the animal who’d killed Hutch. Who’d kidnapped Stacy. Who was about to put a bullet through him and Yael.

  David had nothing to lose. All eyes were on him and the gun was leveled at his head. “Sure you don’t want it back?”

  His heart slamming against his bruised ribs, he edged a step closer to Crispin, then another, waggling the agate just out of the other man’s reach.

  “I want my years back!” Crispin screamed. “You went forward to the light, while I was dragged back into darkness. You were given the names I had to spend every day and night searching for.”

  “Poor Crispin.” David’s lip curled. “You want the agate, Mueller? Here!”

  Crispin gasped as he flung it in a soaring arc. A gunshot thundered. In the split second that Mueller’s startled gaze followed the agate’s flight over the lip of the balcony, David leaped forward, hurling himself at Stacy and looping an arm around her waist. He yanked her toward him, but Crispin still had her locked in an iron grip.

  “David!” Stacy clawed at his shoulders.

  He held on desperately, straining every muscle to the point of torture trying to snatch her to safety. Suddenly, he saw Erik Mueller grab up his son’s cane from where it leaned against the balcony. David braced himself to absorb the blow.
<
br />   Instead he watched with shock as Mueller slammed the cane against his son’s shoulders. Crispin yelped in surprise and pain, his knees buckling and his grip on Stacy slipping. It was all David needed. He swept her free, up and over the balcony.

  He wheeled with her in his arms in time to see Mofulatsi lunge at Yael, trying to wrestle the gun away before she could fire again. She’d taken down Raoul, who was moaning, his thigh twisted and bloody, his face a mask of pain as he writhed on the floor.

  Before David’s brain could process all the chaos engulfing him, he felt a tractor mow into his legs. He crashed to his knees, Stacy toppling with him. With a shriek, she scooted aside as Crispin threw himself onto David and began to pummel him.

  Stacy froze, tears streaking her cheeks, her face etched with terror. But she was only frozen for a moment. When she saw Crispin pounding his fists into David’s face, she flew at him like a tornado, sinking her teeth into his arm, grabbing handfuls of his long hair. She yanked with all her might, ripping strands from his scalp before he sent her flying with a backwards buck of his torso.

  David drove his fist into Crispin’s midsection, dazing him just long enough to reverse their positions, David now pinning Crispin to the floor, his hands closing like a vise around the Gnoseos’ throat.

  Yael kicked out at Mofulatsi, scraping the heel of her sandal down hard along his shin. Then she brought her knee up hard, ramming it into his groin.

  The big man doubled over with a scream of agony, finally relinquishing his hold on the gun. Before he could recover, she jerked the firearm free. At the same moment, Erik Mueller leaped toward him and brought the cane down hard against Mofulatsi’s skull.

  “Traitor!” Crispin croaked. He was gasping for air, futilely clawing at David’s fingers to pry them from his throat. “Damn you . . . father . . . help me!”

  Erik swung the cane again at Mofulatsi without even turning his head in Crispin’s direction.

  Yael gulped for breath. Her wrist was raw, burning from the imprint of Mofulatsi’s thick fingers. But she had the gun. With the metallic tang of her own blood hot against her tongue, she spun toward Raoul—he was still down, blood pooling crimson around him as he struggled for breath.