The Council of Ten

by Jon Land

  “The cities,” Wayman muttered.

  “Yes, exactly. New York, Washington, and everything in between will be a mass graveyard by midnight tonight. Your country will be witnessing the onset of its downfall.”

  “And then your people will just move in and take over.”

  “They’re not my people, Timber Wolf, not the members of this Council. I find that phase of their plan quite absurd. You see, it’s the ultimate, inevitable chaos that I look forward to. I was made for such a world and at last I shall have it.”

  Another fake Coast Guardsman came forward and handed Corbano a portable radio. “Bridge wants you, sir.”

  Corbano held the radio to his lips. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Sir, radar has picked up what appears to be a fleet of small boats heading our way.”

  “Fishermen?”

  “The timing would be right, but we can’t tell yet,” the voice from the bridge returned. “We won’t know until we achieve visual contact.”

  “Very well. Keep me informed.”

  Trelana, Wayman realized, it had to be! But how to signal him? How to alert his fleet to the fact that the cutter was their target? The signal was supposed to be a flare, but he had nothing like—

  The Timber Wolf’s eyes gazed over Corbano’s shoulder and saw a slot in the deck wall marked Emergency: Flare Gun. He had to reach it. Somehow. He needed time, both to think and to let Trelana’s boats draw within firing range.

  “Where’s the powder?” he asked Corbano.

  “Well protected, Timber Wolf, I assure you. We have constructed special devices to spread it once the time comes.” He gazed out in the distance toward the shrinking shape of the cabin cruiser on which Drew was perched. “My divers should be getting to your young friend just about now. I should have liked to have had you watch his death, but well, we can’t have everything, can we?” A demonic smile crossed the White Snake’s pale lips. His ashen hair danced in the breeze.

  Wayman made himself look angered, still focusing on the flare gun. Timing was the key now. He felt certain he could pull free of the guards’ grasp long enough to get to the box. But to be sure of reaching it, he would have to make sure that Corbano was distracted as well. The radio still held in his hand provided the answer. Wait, he urged himself, patience… .

  “Sir?” came the squawky call from the bridge.

  “Yes,” Corbano responded, mouthpiece to his lips again, his eyes held on Wayman.

  “We have visual on those boats now. They’re pleasure craft mostly, several speedboats, too. They’re traveling too close to each other. Something’s—”

  It was at that precise moment that Corbano’s attention turned totally to the radio and the Timber Wolf sprang into motion. The men holding him never could have expected a twist so violent and strong. Actually, it was just enough to upset them while he lowered his elbow and jammed it into the ribs of the man on his right, lifting a kick into the other man’s groin. Corbano had dropped the radio and started forward when Wayman grabbed him under the chin and slammed him backward into the wall. He reached up for the flare gun with one hand, as he spun the White Snake into his converging guards with the other.

  The gun was out and the flare loaded an instant later. A second flare skidded across the deck. Wayman dove after it as he fired the first flare into a group of rifle-wielding men charging from the opposite direction of the downed group. It burst into one man’s midsection and he erupted into flames with a horrible wail as the others scattered long enough for Wayman to reach the second flare.

  The Timber Wolf grasped it as he rolled, already aiming the smoking barrel upward when he snapped the second flare home and pulled the trigger.

  The flare shot into the air and burst outward in the sky with an orange glow.

  The fleet of Trelana’s boats, their previous route generally aimless through the bay, swung for the cutter and spread into an attack pattern.

  Corbano went for a gun that had fallen to the deck, but Wayman kicked it aside and pulled himself back to his feet.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” Corbano screamed to his guards, who were only now regaining their bearings as he backed up out of their line of fire.

  There was no time to think, only to act. The Timber Wolf did the last thing expected of him.

  He charged straight into the onrushing group. The man closest tried for his trigger, but Wayman had the barrel grasped, bringing the butt upward under his chin. Immediately the automatic weapon was in his hands, spitting fire in a narrow arc at the rest of the men rushing him. Their bullets sprayed wildly as their bodies spilled to the deck. The rifle burned hot in Wayman’s hands, exhausting itself finally. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the gun of the dead man closest to him.

  A troop of guards charged him from the deck above, and Wayman felt the heat of their bullets slam into the nearby walls and gunwale. One grazed him in the side and spun him around with no cover to dive for. They had him in their sights and the best he could manage was a token volley aimed randomly upward.

  They had him. It was over.

  Until the new series of blasts sounded, just spits really, more like echoes on the sea winds. The lead ships of Trelana’s fleet, featuring machine gunners lying prone on the bows, roared violently forward. Their fire cut a regular line across both the cutter’s decks, spitting wood and metal splinters everywhere as the men who had almost been his killers rushed for cover.

  “Battle stations! Battle stations! All crew members report to their battle stations! We are under attack! Repeat, we are under attack!”

  The desperate words were followed by the regular screech of an alarm, adding to the chaos. Wayman made it work for him. He pulled one of Corbano’s dead guards through a door leading into the guts of the cutter and stripped off the man’s clothes. With no time to waste tearing off his own, he simply pulled the white uniform over his slacks and shirt. It would have to do well enough. All he needed was limited run of the ship.

  To find Corbano.

  And the powder.

  He emerged back on the lower deck to find Corbano’s men struggling to manipulate the cutter’s main gun as Trelana’s fleet continued their hail of fire. Their attack was surprisingly well coordinated given the circumstances, the fleet enclosing the cutter on both sides and the front to force the troops on board to fight a three-fronted war at sea. Trelana’s bigger boats were swinging closer now, carrying larger explosives, which included bazookas and grenade launchers.

  A shattering explosion from one blew out a section of wall just ahead of Wayman and forced him to the deck, covering his head. His target was now the bridge where Corbano would have retreated in order to direct his defenses. Wayman regained his feet and started running. Black smoke burned his eyes. He smelled oil and cordite along with the coppery scent of blood. The cutter was limping now, fighting to hold to its course. There were just twelve minutes to high tide.

  He approached the ship’s main gun and was nearly deafened by its sudden report. He collapsed to the deck holding his ears, as a pair of Trelana’s lead boats exploded under the cannon’s fire. Another boat featuring a grenade launcher prone on its bow roared close for a shot and perished similarly.

  He had to knock out that gun!

  The Timber Wolf pulled his hands from his ears and the constant clacking of fire assaulted them again. Screaming to shield the awful pounding more than anything else, he leaped to grasp the turret and used it to hoist himself up and over. He crashed into the pair of men handling the reloading chores and was feeling for his machine gun’s trigger when a third man yanked him backward. Wayman went with the motion, slamming the butt behind him as he felt himself being pulled. There was a grunt and the Timber Wolf felt the pressure let up. He located the trigger as the first two men charged him and split their midsections open with a single burst.

  He turned quickly at that point, free of the turret now, and the man who had been manning the cannon missed him with a swipe of his knife as Wayman backpedaled acros
s the deck. He lashed the blade out again, but the Timber Wolf was ready, smashing a hard fist into the man’s throat as he blocked his strike.

  The front of the cutter was clear now. Trelana’s fleet poured in with weapons ready to tear the ship to bits.

  Wayman rushed into the spreading smoke in the direction of the bridge.

  All in all, Drew considered the fleet containing all types of boats of varying sizes swinging into attack formation against the cutter to be one of the greatest sights he had ever laid eyes on. He had followed the proceedings up to that point through binoculars, saw the Timber Wolf be captured, then turn the tables, then be saved himself by the fleet.

  From this distance, the scene held a texture similar to a film he had once seen of a pack of ants attacking a large spider. The spider seemed invincible, but the ants were able to wear it down and drain the larger creature’s defenses.

  They’ve got the bastards! he thought. They’ve got them!

  Trelana’s boats sped along as they fired, leaping over each other’s wakes and narrowly avoiding collision after collision as they encircled the cutter with a constant barrage of fire. Smoke clouded most of the larger ship’s bow, an occasional explosion sending a burst of flames toward the sky. The cutter seemed to be floundering, swinging around for land and much shallower water where its progress would almost certainly be arrested by the bay’s hidden rises. But its deadly cargo, if released, could still do the damage promised to the same degree.

  Drew peered tensely through the binoculars, searching for the Timber Wolf or Corbano and failing to spot either.

  It was the sound of water dripping onto the deck that made him turn suddenly, just in time to see the black-suited scuba diver aim his spear gun. Drew dove as the spear shot out, missing the intended target of his midsection but digging deep into his thigh.

  Drew screamed as he landed hard on the deck face first, mouth filling with water. He coughed and tried to claw back to his feet, while another set of gloved hands appeared over the side and the first diver approached with an underwater knife drawn and raised. Drew twisted as the man lunged, feeling an incredible burst of pain in his torn leg that forced his arms back involuntarily. They closed on something round and wooden, and he brought it up and around without thinking.

  The back end of the handle caught the first diver across the side of the face, staggering him. The second diver had leaped into the boat spear gun first and this time Drew had no way to move fast enough to avoid the shot.

  He heard the plunk when the spear jetted out and screamed an instant before it passed through his life jacket and lodged in the fatty flesh of his left pectoral dangerously close to his heart. He lost his grip on the staff he had grasped before, realizing it had a hooked extension on the end used for drawing in fishing nets. The second diver was upon him as he tried to grab it. Drew felt a solid blow to his face, tasted blood, and then realized with terror that the man had grasped the spear shaft and was twisting and pushing the attached blade at the same time.

  The pain was beyond anything Drew could have imagined. His eyes bulged as he screamed with all the air flooding from his body.

  His agony allowed him to finally grasp the hooked staff. His next conscious thought was that the jagged end was rusty, as he brought it up with all the force he could muster.

  The curved hook sliced into the diver’s midsection as easily as butter. The man’s body arched backward at an impossible angle as scarlet drained onto his black wet suit. He hung there suspended until an agonizing gurgle found Drew’s ears and the man’s mouth spilled purplish blood. The man kneeled over forward, driving the steel hook all the way through his back. It sliced through with a tearing sound and emerged coated with the dead man’s flesh and spaghettilike intestines.

  Drew found himself able to move only his head, and that was enough for him to see the first diver fighting to load a second spear in his gun with blood pouring down the side of his face. An underwater knife remained in the scuba belt of the dead man face-down by his side and Drew reached into the blood pooling under him to grasp it.

  A horrible bolt of agony seared through him. He could feel fresh blood pumping from behind him and realized he was pinned, realized that the second diver’s efforts had forced the sharp spear edge all the way through flesh and bone and into the wooden gunwale. He fought to angle himself to be able to reach the knife.

  The other diver jammed his second spear home and started to bring it up from the deck while steadying it between a pair of trembling hands.

  Drew strained forward as far as he could, but the hilt of the knife remained just beyond his reach.

  He saw the gun coming all the way up now, saw the diver’s hand closing on the trigger, and he knew the third spear would finish the job the first two had started.

  His mind recorded those images between breaths, providing the panic he needed. Drew screamed as he pushed himself forward from the gunwale, flesh ripping and blood spurting behind him. The pain was so incredible that he felt only his fingers at the last grasping the hilt of the dead diver’s knife and tearing it from his belt.

  His eyes looked down the gun’s barrel as the first diver started to pull the trigger. With another wail, Drew hurled the knife.

  There was no real design to the move, only desperation. The blade split the air as the diver’s finger jerked the heavy trigger. Drew closed his eyes after they seemed to record the knife flying hopelessly off target while the spear remained dead on his midsection.

  They opened when the gasping sound found his ears. The first diver sat writhing before him on the deck, supported by the cabin wall with the hilt of the knife protruding from the center of his throat. Blood leaped from the wound. His hands flailed out as if to grasp something, then crumbled as blood poured from his mouth and nostrils, eyes locking open in a death stare.

  I did it! Drew realized, exhaustion and pain robbing him of any feelings of elation he might have had. There could be no movement for him now. A feeling of deep repose came over him. His life jacket felt like a pillow and his head dropped for it, chin coming to rest with reasonable comfort. He felt cold everywhere, except where the blood was still running over his back and leg. The two spear shafts protruding outward made a sickening sight, but he was already used to it. In fact, Drew had just started to believe that he might live through this in spite of everything when the third diver hurled himself onto the deck.

  Elliana stepped softly through the dark corridors of the Castle of the Moors, her path lit only by a flashlight as she inspected the ancient structure. Since the Council presence was nonexistent in the aboveground levels, as expected she had free passage of the halls so long as she maintained her stealth, careful to avoid the several trip wires and ultraviolet beams that would have betrayed her.

  Ellie didn’t know which floor she was on, third or fourth probably, but it didn’t much matter. Her training had included extensive instruction on how to wire explosives to bring down a structure from any level. The trick was to place the charges at key structural and stress areas, especially in this instance to ensure that the ancient castle would crumble downward through the vast underground levels where the Council of Ten’s headquarters undoubtedly lay. Six packs of her plastic explosives ought to do the job nicely, leaving her two for later if she needed them.

  Into each of the plastic packs, Ellie jammed a miniature antenna, which stretched perhaps two inches above the mound. The antenna was homed in on a signal from a detonator that broadcast from a distance of a half mile. She had rigged the detonator into her watch so it would be near her at all times.

  The safe thing to do would be to set the charges and detonate them from a safe distance outside the castle. But then she wouldn’t be as sure of killing the Council members. She had to be certain they were here, which necessitated a foray into the deep bowels of the Castle of the Moors. Besides, after so much pursuit, so much blood and tears, she needed to kill David’s murderers face-to-face.

  Ellie set the final
charge and moved slowly for a huge stone staircase that circled through the castle levels. The first floor was darker than any of the others and she moved down the hall with added caution. The problem now was to find an entrance to the underground chambers that the Council of Ten called home.

  The dusty, cobweb-coated floor trembled slightly beneath her. Coupled with the night wind blowing hauntingly through the long-abandoned ramparts and cisterns, it should have been enough to make her flesh crawl. But Ellie shuddered only with a chill of recognition. The vibrations in the floor had to be caused by the whirl of heavy machinery almost directly beneath her. She was close now, very close. All she needed was a door to lead her to the underground levels, a door the Council would have no reason to guard since no one would ever have been expected to penetrate their perimeter defenses and get this far.

  Ellie found the door built into a wall far along the corridor leading away from the huge rooms to the first floor. It was a monstrous door, made of thick wood and featuring a small trap that opened from the inside to identify those seeking entry. The door opened to the inside and had no knob. Ellie pushed on it gently. It didn’t give, a latch obviously holding it in place from within.

  She fished in the pockets of her fatigues for a long, slender knife. Holding it with a surgeon’s skill, she fitted the blade between the wall and door and probed about for the latch. She worked quickly, twisting the blade until the latch came free and the door creaked inward. She eased it open all the way, shifting her flashlight to her other hand while holding tight to the door to prevent further sounds.

  Her flashlight beam revealed a huge set of steps before her, angling to the left as it dropped into total darkness. Ellie stepped through and closed the door gently behind her. She began to descend one step at a time, careful to move softly enough to avoid echoes. The smell of rot, must, and mold caught her nostrils and nearly forced her to gag. She steeled herself against the odor and kept descending, finding a rhythm to her movements as she grew familiar with the layout.