Kowalski’s expression at the moment had turned sheepish. “Sorry about that.” He waved a mitt-sized hand. “I saw you standing in the street. Thought some guy was trying to attack you.”
Jane glanced over her shoulder. “Derek . . .”
As if summoned, a gangly tall figure broke through the crowd. Twin trails of blood dripped from a broken nose. His eyes were already starting to swell. He lunged toward Jane, clearly ready to defend her.
Seichan allowed him to join the young woman. She recognized Dr. Derek Rankin from his photograph included in her mission brief, an identification that had clearly escaped Kowalski before he threw himself headlong into the mix.
Derek glared at Kowalski, looking ready to take the man on yet again, but he glanced sidelong at Jane. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice nasally from the injury.
She nodded.
Seichan stepped forward. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Only then did the archaeologist notice her. He did a bit of a double take. She was not unaccustomed to this response. She knew her Eurasian features—her long black hair, almond complexion, high cheekbones, and emerald-green eyes—were striking, exotic enough to seduce targets in the past, back when she worked as an assassin for the Guild, a terrorist organization destroyed by Sigma. She was lean and muscular, dressed modestly in black jeans, leather boots, and a loose denim jacket over a dark red blouse.
Derek looked between her and Kowalski. “Wh . . . Who are you two?”
Jane answered, still keeping back. “They were sent by the caller on the phone.”
“Despite appearances,” Seichan assured them, “we are here to help.”
As proof, she slipped a picture that Painter Crowe had sent her. She held it out to Jane. The young woman took it and shifted closer to a streetlamp. Derek looked over her shoulder. It showed Crowe in a photograph with Safia al-Maaz. Both were younger, smiling at the camera, the Omani desert in the background with a large lake shining under moonlight.
“That’s our boss,” Seichan explained. “He helped Dr. al-Maaz a few years back.”
Derek looked up. “I’ve seen this bloke’s picture in Safia’s office. She once told me the story of how they met . . . though I suspect she had highly edited that account.”
The suspicion slowly dimmed from his eyes.
“So should we trust them?” Jane asked him.
Derek half-turned toward the flames and churning smoke. “Don’t think we have much choice.” He gingerly touched his nose and scowled at Kowalski. “But just so you know, next time a simple hello would suffice.”
Jane crossed her arms, anger hardening her features. She looked less willing to forgive and forget. “I’m not about to—”
Seichan lunged forward and tackled Jane to the side. The gunshot cracked loudly, cutting through the cacophony of sirens. On constant alert to her surroundings—a survival instinct born from her feral years on the streets of Bangkok and Phnom Penh—she had spotted a shadowy figure lift an arm toward their group. She responded reflexively to the threatening gesture, even before a weapon glinted.
Jane tripped, but Seichan scooped an arm around the woman’s waist and kept her upright. “Stay low,” she warned, while still spinning and freeing a SIG Sauer pistol from the shoulder holster under her jacket.
She pointed it toward the shooter, but the crowd had reacted to the gunshot and surged in confusion, allowing the assassin to fade into the crowd.
Off to the side, Kowalski had pushed Derek down, sheltering him under his bulk. He had freed his own sidearm from under his duster. It looked like a snub-nosed shotgun, but it was a Piezer, a new weapon developed by Homeland Security’s Advanced Research Project. Rather than firing standard 12-gauge shells filled with buckshot, the gun’s rounds were packed with piezoelectric crystals, which the battery-powered weapon kept charged. Upon firing, the shells would burst open, releasing a shower of electrified crystals, each carrying a voltage equivalent to a Taser. The nonlethal weapon had a range up to fifty yards, perfect for crowd-control situations.
But in a rare instance of restraint, Kowalski held off firing.
Good . . . we don’t need more panic on the street—at least not yet.
She got Jane moving away from the shooter’s last position and gathered Kowalski and Derek with her. She kept alert for other gunmen hidden among the crowd. Unfortunately their flight was taking them farther away from their vehicle. Minutes ago, she and Kowalski had reached the hamlet in time to see flames spiraling into the sky. She was forced to park and work upstream through the crowd of onlookers to reach the Bushel and Strike.
“Where are we going?” Derek asked.
“To get somewhere safe.” She searched around. “We’re too exposed out here.”
Jane pointed past a stone fence to where a group in white robes was gathered before the open doors of an old stone church. “The Choral Evensong is tonight.”
Seichan frowned, not understanding.
“Means the place is usually packed,” Derek explained.
Good enough.
Seichan guided them in that direction, hiding her weapon under her jacket. “Is there a way out the back?” she asked, hoping for a chance to break free from whoever was hunting them.
“We can exit out the north side,” Jane said breathlessly. “It leads to a cemetery behind the church.”
“A cemetery at night.” Kowalski grunted next to her. “Well, at least the bastards will have an easier time burying our bodies.”
Ignoring him, Seichan hurried them through the fence gate and across the churchyard. “What’s beyond the cemetery?” she asked Jane.
“Parklands mostly. Centered around a set of springs that feed the River Cam.” Jane waved ahead. “But past those marshy grounds, about a quarter mile, is Station Road. We could hail down a car there. It’s only a couple minutes’ ride to the train station.”
Seichan nodded.
Not a bad plan.
Derek checked his watch. “The next train to Kings Cross London leaves in under an hour.”
Even better.
Seichan set a harder pace. “Let’s not miss that train.”
Ahead of them, the robed choir group chattered loudly, their expressions a mix of worry and excitement. They were bathed in lamplight spilling from the open doors and across the south porch. The robust notes of a pipe organ flowed forth from inside as musicians prepped for the night’s celebration. All of them must be wondering if the event would be held or not. It would undoubtedly be hard for any choir to compete with the wailing sirens of the fire trucks.
As their party reached the porch, Seichan urged the others through the crowd and past a set of iron-strapped doors to enter the church. Moving cautiously, Seichan studied the interior layout. To the left was the arched entrance to the tower. To the right, the church’s nave extended toward a wide altar, overhung with a candlelit figure of Christ framed in an iron cross. More people mingled in that direction, mostly around the choir stalls and at the base of a massive pipe organ.
Identifying no immediate threat, Seichan focused on their goal. On the far side of the church, an identical set of medieval-looking doors stood open to the night.
Must be the north exit.
Jane confirmed this, pointing ahead. “That way.”
Seichan set off, but a commotion drew her attention around. The crowd outside shouted angrily, drowned out a moment later by the coarser growling of an engine. The group hurriedly parted, diving to either side of the doorway. A dark shape blasted toward them with a roar. It was a motorcycle, carrying two helmeted riders. The passenger in back had a pistol leveled over the driver’s hunched shoulder.
As the bike skittered across the long porch toward the doors, Seichan turned and pointed toward the tower, to the entrance of a spiral staircase.
“Kowalski, get the others in there and moving up.”
He nodded and took off, only glancing back to ask, “What’re you—?”
She turned
in the other direction and leaped headlong toward the nearest pew. She twisted to land on her shoulder and rolled cleanly to her feet. Sheltered by the thick wooden bench, she aimed her SIG Sauer toward the door as the cycle shot under the archway and into the church. The engine’s snarl echoed throughout the nave, a devil’s chorus of exhaust and torque. The driver braked hard, tires smoking across the stone floor.
The passenger pointed toward the tower entrance.
Kowalski must’ve been spotted.
The gunman hopped off the back of the bike, plainly intending to chase down his prey on foot. Seichan aimed her pistol at the base of the helmet and fired. The gun’s sharp retort cut through the cycle’s growl. The shooter’s back arched, blood spraying from his throat. He fell hard, his helmet bouncing off the stone tiles as he hit.
Before she could get a bead on the driver, the man spun around in his seat. He tugged out an assault rifle from a holster at his knee and sprayed wildly in Seichan’s direction. She barely had time to duck for cover. Rounds pelted the old wood, chipping at the edges of the pew. From under the bench, she spotted the driver hopping off his bike and using its bulk as a shield to retreat through the tower archway.
She fired from under the pew, aiming for the man’s legs, but he made it to safety. She cursed under her breath but respected the man’s skill.
Guy’s good under pressure . . . too good for an amateur.
Fearing the worst, she darted out of cover and kept her weapon aimed toward the tower entrance. She skirted across the floor, alert for any shift of shadows beyond the archway. Before she could reach there, a new chorus arose.
A wailing cacophony of engines, growing ever louder.
She twisted toward the source. Beyond the porch, a cadre of dark shapes charged across the churchyard, aiming her way.
Cavalry’s coming . . . but for the wrong side.
With her plate about to be full, she glanced back toward the tower. She pictured the assassin vanishing away, likely pursuing his target, determined to complete his objective. There was nothing she could do about him for the moment. She had to hold the ground here if they had any hope of escaping.
She cast up a silent plea as she readied for the coming assault.
Kowalski, don’t do anything stupid.
9:44 P.M.
To hold back panic at the noise of gunfire below, Jane ran her hand along the walls as she scaled the tower’s spiral stairs. Its solidity helped steady her nerves. The bell tower had been built of locally quarried chalkstone. Centuries of rain had worn its façade, but it still endured. She took strength from that.
Under her fingertips, she also felt the medieval inscriptions carved into the soft chalk. It was a reminder of the steadfast people who once lived here, villagers resolute in the face of plagues, wars, and famines.
I must be as firm.
Her fingers dragged over another inscription, reminding her of her father, of the trips here with her as a child. She refused to let the night’s attackers erase him from the world, not by fire, not by murder. She would fight with her last breath.
Not only for her father’s sake, but also for Rory.
If there’s any chance he’s still alive, I will not stop until I find him.
She increased her pace.
Derek climbed ahead of her, while the bulk of the American, the fellow named Kowalski, followed behind her.
“Where does this damned place go?” the big man asked.
“The belfry,” Jane answered. “Where the tower’s bells are housed.”
She looked upward. The ringing of the bells had been a constant of village life, chiming every fifteen minutes for over a century. Though of late, because of noise complaints, the bells’ peals had been muffled at night, which she found particularly sad, as if history itself were being stifled.
A new noise—much more modern—suddenly intruded, rising up from below. The roaring of multiple engines echoed to them. It sounded like demons chasing them up the stairs. The American cocked his head and hesitated on the stairs, his face a mask of concern for his partner.
“What do we do?” Derek asked.
Kowalski growled and waved his weapon. “Keep going. All the way to the top. We’ll hole up there. Should be safe until—”
A gunshot cut through the rumble of distant engines.
Kowalski winced and ducked. The round had sparked off the stone wall near his head, pelting him with stinging shards. “Run!” he hollered and barreled toward them.
Jane turned and ran ahead with Derek.
A loud blast made her jump. Kowalski had fired his shotgun blindly behind him. The buckshot—or whatever was loaded in the stubby weapon—scattered and ricocheted off the walls in a cascade of brilliant blue sparks.
Shock made her lose her footing on the steps.
Derek caught her arm. “I got you, Jane.”
“What was—?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. Keep going.”
He kept a grip on her arm as they rushed up the stairs. From his worried expression, there was only one thing he cared about. It shone from his face. He didn’t fear for his own life—only hers.
Not wanting to let him down, she ran faster.
Far below, the echoing screams of the engines abruptly faded. Only the group’s anxious panting filled the passageway. The continuing quiet unnerved her.
She glanced below, wondering what was happening.
Was the sudden silence good news or bad?
9:50 P.M.
Seichan crouched low over the stolen motorcycle’s handlebars as she sped across a dark grassy lawn. She kept the headlamp doused, mirroring those that followed behind her.
Moments ago, as the pack of enemy bikes had headed toward the south porch of the church, she snatched the helmet from the rider she had shot and tugged it over her features. She then hopped atop the abandoned bike. With the engine hot, she throttled it to a scream and shot the cycle to the north exit. As she reached the open doors, she skidded the bike and slid into the shadows beyond the threshold. She twisted in time to see the first of three motorcycles barrel into the church.
From her position, half-hidden in the dark doorway, she waved and hollered gruffly. She hoped the helmet muffled her voice enough to be indistinct and that the enemy spoke English. At least, the dead man on the floor had been Caucasian.
“This way!” she yelled. “They went this way!”
She then shot off into the night, luring the others with her.
As she rumbled across the dark yard behind the church, she checked her mirror to make sure the other bikes pursued her. She let out a breath of relief.
Three bikes, all running dark, spread out across the grass.
Behind them, beyond the tile roof of the church, the ruddy glow of the fire lit the skies. So far, the flames had kept all attention from the commotion and gunfire inside the church.
All the better . . .
She didn’t need civilians in her way. Focusing on the task at hand, she searched ahead as she crested a low grassy hill. Past the summit, the lawn dropped toward a glade of trees that spread in a black line two hundred yards away. Unfortunately the landscape immediately in front of her was littered with upright stones and small crypts.
It was the cemetery Jane had described.
Without slowing, she aimed for the old graveyard. It would be tricky to traverse in the dark, but she had no other choice. As she swept into the cemetery, she did her best to avoid any obstacles, but the grave markers and tombs grew more congested as she continued. Still, she forged ahead, even throttling up.
She risked quick peeks at her mirror. The others, still believing she was chasing their prey, swept down the slope behind her. She waited until they had entered the graveyard—then jammed on her brake, twisted the handlebars, and spun her bike fully around to face the enemy.
Her thumb clicked the bike’s headlight. A spear of blinding light burst forth into the night. She made it worse by toggling on the high beams. The
pursuing riders—now blinded and caught off guard—could not avoid the marble obstacles.
One bike struck a crypt head-on, catapulting the rider into a wall. His body crumpled to the ground, his neck bent at an angle.
Another sideswiped a gravestone. The driver lost control, laid his bike on its side, and rolled across the grass. Seichan followed his course with her SIG Sauer and fired as he came to a dazed stop. His helmet’s faceplate shattered, and his body fell slack to the ground.
The third rider proved more adept. He angled away from the blinding spear of light, carving a wide path and expertly slaloming through a grove of gravestones.
Seichan shot in his direction, but his jagged course defied her aim. The rider fled away. With a curse, Seichan spun her bike around and gave chase. She feared the enemy would turn back once the glare faded from his eyes. She needed to take advantage while she had the opportunity.
The rider cleared the cemetery ahead of her. With the remaining open stretch of parkland free of obstacles, the enemy had enough confidence to twist sideways in his seat. It was Seichan’s only warning. The rider raised a pistol and fired at her, emptying the clip toward her bike.
Seichan dropped low behind her windshield. Rounds pelted the ground to either side; one pinged off her front fender. She flogged her engine, weaving back and forth to present a harder target, but a lucky shot doused her headlamp. Shadows fell back over her path, momentarily making it harder to see.
Cursing, she reluctantly slowed—but not fast enough.
Ahead of her, a supernova exploded. The world vanished, washed away in a blaze of light. She knew exactly what had happened. The enemy had pulled the same trick on her, spinning his bike around and flashing his high beams at her.
Fearing he would use this moment to reload, Seichan sped faster into the brilliance. She freed her pistol and fired toward the source. Her shot struck true, and darkness again collapsed around her. Unfortunately, the enemy’s motorcycle sat riderless and upright, leaning against a tree, only yards from her.
The Seventh Plague Page 7