Gold of the Knights Templar

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Gold of the Knights Templar Page 6

by Preston W Child


  Though the lights were off in the living room, shadows danced, and the window frame made patterns on the grey walls. Faraway lights from the street provided muted illumination. That sly breeze had turned to a lowly swirl outside that moved the curtains about the floor.

  Then a cold hand touched her bare shoulder.

  She jumped and went for the Browning under her pillow.

  “Shush!”

  It was Tami, unrecognizable at first because her hair was tied on top of her head. Her face shone with some sort of oil. She wore a black slip and tight jeans of the same color; she held a kitchen knife in the other hand.

  “They are here,” she whispered.

  Her lips curved in a pitiful crescent, ruby-black eyes scanned the windows.

  A chill went through Olivia's body too. She got up slowly and told Tami to go and get Tom Garcia. Tami pushed Olivia back on the couch gently. "I'll just give them the painting, and we'd be done with them."

  Olivia shook her head and frowned.

  "It's evil, the painting brings bad luck, let me give it up," she insisted.

  "No, we can't let them have, we owe it to Gabriel. You owe it to her."

  There was a thump outside, in the street. Then both Olivia and Tami flinched when they heard a crash. It was close, too close. Tami stretched the knife forward.

  Olivia grabbed her hand, "stay behind me!"

  She heard footsteps around the side of the window and on the porch. She heard whispers, the sharp words of someone giving instructions. Then the tiny crinkling of metals by the door.

  Someone is trying to pick the door.

  Olivia said to Tami, "go and get the sheriff."

  As Tami was about to turn, she held her hands.

  "Quietly. Do it quietly. Leave the painting. The men will kill us even if we give it up."

  Tami Capaldi crept away like a cat with a knife.

  Olivia went to the window. She counted three men, masked, bearing rifles with silencers and night vision goggles; dark lumps were on the floor around the cars.

  The locks worked for about ten seconds and stopped. Olivia saw that the chain behind the door was in. That would buy her some seconds to attack, and for Tom to come down.

  He turned around and saw Tom and Tami coming down the stair. The sheriff was wearing a Miami PD best, brown chino trousers, and barefooted. He was carrying a gun; Tami was still armed with the kitchen knife. Olivia saw she held something else —the surviving half of the painting.

  She would worry about that later.

  Tom signaled to her that he was going around to the backdoor, through the kitchen. Tami followed her.

  The doorknob turned slowly. The lock released and the door opened, only a fraction at first, then a little more widely. Then the chain held.

  A gloved hand came, though. It looked like a snake. Olivia leveled her gun at the spot, a foot distance from where the chest of the intruder should be.

  Bang!

  Her ears rang from the noise of the shot. There was a bump behind the door as the man fell on the floor, but Olivia didn't hear it. She jumped behind the couch and aimed at the door. From here, he also had a view of the windows, and Tom in the kitchen.

  Two figures crouched pas the window. Olivia aimed just as the last guy was running past; the bullet shattered the glass. It took off chunks of wood from the frame and brain matter from the guy out there. There was a grunt, a curse, and a call for invasion.

  Guns began shooting from the front door. And from the back through the kitchen windows. Some glass shattered and sprayed. Tom cowered behind the door and then lunged away from there into the bottom of the sink. Tami screamed beside the refrigerator.

  The door was locked open, and two dark figures came through blasting.

  They sprayed the walls behind Olivia. She heard footsteps running back up the stairs.

  "Betty, get back!!" she yelled.

  Olivia had learned that one should aim every time before shooting if one can. So she waited for the guns to click empty. She waited for them to reload. The couch was turning to tatters behind her, and it was only a matter of time before the bullets found her head. One of the guns stopped. She heard the killer reloading.

  Olivia crawled to the other side of the couch, she saw the figure behind the wall of the mudroom. His knee was sticking out. Olivia aimed, the half-light reduced her accuracy significantly.

  She shot the knee, blood sprayed the wall in dark rivulets. There was a muted shriek. The other killer started shooting at the spot where Olivia's head had been. She rolled away in time to see Betty peeping from the banister up onto the stair. She waved her away.

  More men were at the back. Olivia saw their shadows through the window. She shot at the window, and the shadows ducked. That provided cover for Tom, who jumped up and started shooting as well.

  He bent down and started speaking into his radio, calling for backup. Sirens whined in the distance after this.

  The backdoor busted open, and three men in a kamikaze invasion opened fire into the house. The light in the ceiling of the kitchen exploded, showers of plaster and wood rained down on the floor, screams rose, and the men started shouting, "where the hell is it! Where is it!?"

  There were three men, all armed with guns and screaming for everyone to get on the floor.

  Tom Garcia pounced on one of the men, the two men grappled against the wall. Tom got hold of the gun. The killer who had been hiding out in the living running with his firearm. Olivia tripped him as he went by the couch. He stumbled forward, Olivia shot him in the head.

  Betty screamed Olivia's name from the banister.

  Then Tami Capaldi did something Olivia would never forget. Like some horror movie with a female villain, Olivia watched as she stood up with a bottle of kerosene. One of the gunmen had his silencer drawn on the woman. But Olivia went ahead and poured the kerosene on his face. She struck a lighter and threw it on him.

  Fhoooom, came the sound as the killer caught fire.

  The third killer pulled a pistol and was about to shoot Tami. Olivia flung herself from the living room, her elbow connected with the man's left eye.

  Meanwhile, Tom Garcia was getting punched by one of the assassins. Olivia retrieved her gun from the floor and shot that one in his feet. The man dropped with a shout, Tom brought down the butt of his gun on the man's head. A large blade materialized in the assassin's hand, and he buried it in Tom's thigh. The sheriff wailed and went down. Distracted, Olivia screamed Tom's name. The assassin she had shot heaved himself up and pointed his gun, Olivia did the same on him. The burning killer had fallen. The other two pulled their weapons on Olivia andTami. The box of matches and a bottle of kerosene he brandished would not save them either.

  Cop cars were pulling into the drive, there were three of them. The wounded men dragged themselves out into the street and opened fire on the cops. A black van sped down the road, and the two men jumped in it before the police reorganized for a comeback.

  —

  The kitchen sink was damaged, broken from the wall, and dangling from the pipes. The back door was also hanging from one of the hinges. The morning breeze wafted in through there. A pensive Betty prepared coffee while giving that door a morose look.

  An ambulance just left with the body of the burnt assassin. Somehow during the skirmish, the windows in the living room had shattered living a ragged space there. Sheriff Tom Garcia barked orders from the area to cops in the street.

  "Hey, Jerry! Get those tapes off the road, this is not a crime scene!"

  The cop named Jerry glanced strangely at the others. He said, "aye!" and started rolling off the tapes. Neighbors had gathered when they heard the gunshots but now were dispersing.

  Tom turned back to the living room.

  The place had just been rearranged, to a reasonable degree, not counting the bullet holes in the walls. On these broken banisters, Betty almost got blown away twice. The refrigerator was damaged and leaking gas.

  Two women sat on the c
ouch; Olivia and Tami Capaldi.

  On the table that was now missing a leg, there sat the flimsy half of the painting that caused the little war they just fought.

  Tom sneered at the painting. He'd just as soon shred the disgusting thing. His thigh throbbed where he'd been stabbed. It was bandaged, but he would need a doctor's closer examination. It felt like a snake was squirming in between the muscles.

  Betty brought coffee on shaky hands. She walked with horrified light in her eyes. She would have nightmares about this for weeks.

  Tom sat down heavily and took some coffee. Tami wasn't having any. Olivia eyed the painting as she picked a cup.

  "So, you want us to give it away?" Tom asked Tami.

  The woman nodded without looking his way.

  "It is evil," she said, "it will only bring death and more deaths."

  "Well, you can say that again, considering."

  Tom glanced at Olivia, "what'd you say, Olivia?"

  She brought her cup gently away from her lips, she wiled her mouth. She felt sore all over. Her ears still rang from all the gun sounds. She was tired.

  "Yeah," she said, "we give it to them."

  "Who's them?"

  They all turned to the kitchen. Betty stood there, her hands on her hips. That shocked look was on her face. And something else. Tom had to take a closer look at the curve of her lips. He examined the rising challenge of her brows, and how, in all, Betty had just made a statement, not ask a question.

  Tom asked her what she was talking about.

  "About these," she spread her hands at the house, "they can't just do this to us, all because of a painting?"

  "It isn't just about the painting, Betty. It is more. They want gold. The Templars gold is such a fortune," Olivia said.

  Tami Capaldi frowned at her.

  Betty walked into the living room and faced them.

  "Well, don't we want it too?"

  "What?" Tom said to his wife.

  "Yes, Tom. It this gold is such a big deal, and they are crazy enough to want to bring this whole house down to get there hands on it, then why not us? Why can't we get the gold then? You say this piece of the painting contains the clue—"

  "Who told you that, Betty?" asks Tom.

  Betty glanced at the other two women in the living room. Tom gave Olivia a wounded look. Olivia shrugged.

  "I say, let's get this gold! That's what I say—"

  "Betty," Tom went to his wife, "you are still in shock—"

  "No, Tom. We, Olivia, and this woman, they gave those assholes a whipping tonight, don't you see?" she turned to Tami, "you are not giving those assholes that painting. It is yours, and no one else's. It belongs to you, and so does that gold."

  " Betty, the gold belongs to the Templars," Olivia reminded her.

  Tami added, "my husband was merely a keeper of the secret."

  Betty stared at her audience, momentarily lost.

  "It doesn't matter one bit whoever kept it. Where are the Templars now? Dead and gone. All we have are copycats taking advantage of a poor woman."

  She gestured at Tami Capaldi, "we have to help her get the gold, Tom, Olivia, we have to help her."

  Tom held his wife, "come on, you're tired, get some rest."

  "Lemme' lone, Tom."

  Olivia watched the couple, amused. She rubbed her eyes and fought back a particularly loud yawn. The world had woken up, the street buzzed with life. A school bus passed outside with the canary throng of children. She heard the murmur of cops outside, awaiting further instructions from the sheriff.

  Tami Capaldi smoothed her hair and face. Dried tears marked the side of her face.

  "Okay, what are we going to do?"

  She was looking at Olivia. Shocked and confused by the sudden change in disposition, Olivia only frowned and looked at Tom in return. With a soft gaze, Tom nodded at her.

  "I'm giving the painting to you now," Tami said, she picked the painting of the table, "I heard you are a strong woman, Gabby told me the things you did Rome, in the place of ice. Antarctica. You were his friend, and he trusted you. I want you to avenge him for me, for us. Stop these people! Take it!"

  With steady hands, Olivia took the withering canvas. It flaked now from so much handling, it smelled of dye and skin. The colors remained the same hard pigmentation, almost as though it was possessed of the painter's life. And maybe it was.

  Olivia's cellphone rang on the couch.

  They all turned to it.

  "Are you going to answer that?" Tom answered.

  Olivia picked it and said, "hello?"

  She listened. An ugly frown took over her face, and the cellphone came away slowly from her ear.

  "They have Andrew."

  —

  3

  Money made the world go round. But power, in the right hands, could make it stop whenever they wanted it to.

  It was happening again, like the other times. They took something from Olivia that was closest to her heart, then they made her do their bidding.

  She had made her decision. The forces behind her latest woes must not get hold of Tami Capaldi. Against Tami's protests, she was going to Rome, and she was going alone.

  "I am half Italian, I can help you in Rome," the woman had implored.

  "No, Tami, you will be safe in Peru."

  So sheriff Tom Garcia put the woman and her grandma on a flight to Cusco, Peru. Two days after that, Olivia locked up her apartment and flew to Rome, where Frank Miller awaited him.

  She met Miller in the hotel nighttime Rome called the Aurelia Residence San Pietro. The hotel was tucked in the middle of shrubs, gladiolas. Behind it to the east was the Basilica, and the Vatican itself. Olivia walked into the grounds with a bittersweet sigh. She recalled memories, both friendly and haunting.

  There were lights everywhere, a small fountain spurted white water around the statue of a whitewashed cherub.

  Miller's concierge, burly and dressed like a meat seller, bushy beards and mustache, took him up in a short elevator ride.

  Frank Miller looked every bit as better than the last time they saw. He got rid of his pencil mark mustache. He explained that it made him look too retro; Olivia agreed.

  "Here's your room," Miller said at some door marked 146, "but down at the lobby, you're booked for 46. We must take no chances, the times are more dangerous for us. Hurry, we have to talk."

  Olivia showered and joined him in another apartment, booked in a fake name, Miller explained. Now, the billionaire spoke with a grave expression. Olivia had to admit that he was perhaps in even more danger than she was.

  The concierge whom Miller called Antonio brought in a tray of seafood Risotto and a bottle of Vin. Olivia's stomach growled in hunger. She wolfed the meal down. Miller waited for her.

  "There is a man," he began, "he controls unimaginable power—"

  "Is he the boss?"

  "No, he is worse. Talbot answers to him; he calls the man the Financier. I believe he is behind both our troubles. This man collects artifacts, he deals in legends and all such forgotten things. They know the painting is fake, but I fear they are trying not to look bad too. I don't know whom, but they want the money."

  "You're not gonna pay."

  "No, I'm not. If I pay, I pay for my life, I know. But how about you, you don't want to give the painting in exchange for your brother's life?"

  "There are no guarantees, Miller, you know that more than anyone else."

  "Yes, there are none. Not where these men are involved."

  "They tried to take the original painting, what's left of it, in Miami. It was bad."

  Olivia covered her face in her palm and closed her eyes. The taste of the Risotto in her mouth making up for the sour feeling that welled up in her upon remembering that night some days ago.

  Miller leaned forward.

  Miller nodded, "I see. What do you want to do?"

  "That's why I'm here. I need a team."

  "You're going for Templars gold?"

 
"Why not?"

  Miller smiled at the expression on Olivia's face. He poured some wine in his cup and drank.

  "I here you took up martial training, I can assure you it'll come in handy in the coming days."

  Olivia grinned.

  —

  Paul Talbot was a principled businessman. This he liked to tell himself. Perhaps to help him sleep at night, or to assuage some innate prodding of the conscience.

  He had done underhanded things for the CIA. Now he was steeped in corruption to his neck. Tonight, as he sat in the back of the limousine, sent to come to pick him from his penthouse downtown Rome.

  For the first time in his career as a broker for the high, mighty, and the severely corrupt, Talbot felt uneasy. There was trouble ahead, he saw it in the stiff, offhand manner of the two bodyguards, one on both sides of him.

  They watched him closely.

  The limousine rode through the Appio Claudio, the dirt road went through one of the archways. In the distance, he saw the light of the villa where one of the cruelest men he knew called home.

  The limo parked before stone steps. Talbot scanned the surrounding in one glance. The Financier's security was second-tier stuff, easy to hack. There were two heavily armed guards at the open doors, the concierge at the end of the foyer carried a Colt .44 in his armpit, and there was the bulge of a smaller gun strapped to his ankle.

  They searched him for weapons and found his magnum special.

  He followed the concierge down a hallway and into a brightly lit living room. There were so many red drapes all over the wall that Talbot could hardly tell the walls were painted white. He counted eight cameras in one glance.

  "He would be with you shortly," the concierge said, he bowed and left.

  A tall guy walked in shortly after. He wore a black, impeccably cut suit and trousers, a white shirt and a red bow tie. He was maybe thirty or younger. He had full dark hair and a face that belonged in movies.

  "You know, very few have met him," he said and poured alcohol from a large bottle, "he likes his privacy. He likes to keep things close to the chest though. Fortunately, you will not meet him tonight, Mr. Talbot."

 

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