by Logan Ryles
The moment Reed connected the dots between the owl and the mother, everything fell into place. The owl was a Greek symbol—a sacred token of wisdom and conquest, dedicated to the goddess of the ancient Athenians. This goddess—their holy mother—was also the goddess of war and conquest and science and mathematics. Athena was a virgin, the offspring of the mythological deity, Zeus, and her home was The Parthenon—the temple built for her in the ancient city of Athens.
The concrete building that filled the windshield of the Camaro was a full-scale replica originally designed and constructed in 1897, and had sat in the Centennial Park of Nashville ever since.
Reed knew what was inside. He remembered it all from an eighth-grade field trip when Mountain Brook High School bussed his entire history class to Nashville to tour the Greek monument and learn about Athenian mythology. The featured experience of the trip had been the dominating forty-two-foot-tall statue of Athena herself. It was nothing short of glorious. And it was exactly the place where a cult obsessed with the mother of warfare and wisdom would hide their secret records.
“What is that?” Banks asked. “Is that a government building?”
“You could say that. For a government that died two thousand years ago. We have to get inside.”
Banks shook her head. “No, we have to leave. Now! They’re coming, Reed!”
She may have been the most bulletproof woman he had ever met, but everyone had their limits. “Banks, this is our best chance of finding them. Those men are just hired guns. Do you want to keep fighting the minions, or do you want to cut the head off the serpent?” He gave her arm a soft squeeze, discovering her clammy but cold temperature.
She nodded once. “Okay. Let’s hurry.”
Reed released the clutch and put his hand on the shifter. He piloted the car around another curve in the asphalt path, weaving toward the parking lot at the main entrance. The closer they drew, the grander the temple appeared. It blocked out the moon, casting a shadow over them as deep and dark as the emptiness Reed felt. He stopped and craned his neck back. Above the tops of the columns, a row of masterfully carved figurines clung to the wall. Gods and goddesses, riding chariots and horses, jutted toward the sky. Their faces were vacant, again speaking to the deadly mystery that led Reed to this strange place.
They were here—Mitch and Frank. Whatever terrible secret cost them their lives, this place was a part of it. This place birthed the monster that killed Kelly.
Reed looked away from the carvings and down the stairs leading beneath the parking lot to the museum’s entrance. “We’ll only have a few minutes. I won’t have time to disarm the alarm systems, so we have to assume that the police will dispatch immediately. Hopefully, the shooting will distract them.”
Banks nodded, and sweat dripped from her nose.
He attempted to hold her hand, but she recoiled and shot him an icy glare.
“You ready?” he asked.
She wiped the sweat from her face and slung the door open. “Hell yes. Let’s move, shithead.”
Twenty-Three
The granite steps that led toward twin glass doors were slick beneath his shoes. Banks limped along on bare feet, her heels abandoned in the car. Her skin rippled with goosebumps, but she didn’t complain. Reed felt the irresistible urge to wrap her in a hug, warm her body, and soothe her tired mind. But Banks didn’t want comfort. She wanted justice—first against the people who killed her father and godfather, and then against him—the source of her agony.
Reed pushed the mental tumult away and stopped at the doors. A quick press against the handle confirmed they were locked. He pressed his face to the glass and noted an open lobby with restrooms on the left, a gift shop on the right, and beyond that, stairs leading toward the museum.
“Once we breach the doors, we have to move directly to the statue,” he said.
“What statue?”
“There’s a statue of Athena in the main temple room. When we were in that house, I found a script etched into the attic wall beneath a carving of an owl. The owl is one of Athena’s symbols, and the script said secrets were housed beneath her feet—beneath the statue.”
Banks shot him a glare. “Are you serious? We’re breaking into a museum based on an owl and something whittled into a wall?”
Reed started to object, then stopped. “Yes,” he said. “That’s pretty much what’s happening.”
Banks’s head fell back, and she sighed. “Okay. Get it open.”
Reed pulled the Sig from his belt and checked the magazine. Four weeks ago, he possessed a collection of small arms sufficient to knock down a National Guard post. Now, only the backup handgun and the six bullets it contained stood between him and the army of gunmen on his tail.
Life’s a bitch.
He pointed the little gun at the glass next to the lock and nodded at Banks. “Three, two, one . . .”
The gun cracked, and the glass shattered. Only milliseconds later, the shrill ring of an alarm ripped through the air. Reed drove his boot through what remained of the door, sending a cascade of glass clattering against the granite. He jammed his hand through the hold and flipped the latch, then pushed the door open.
Banks jumped onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck as her bare feet swung over the shards of razor-sharp glass. Reed rushed past the gift shop and pounded up the steps. The pressure of her arms against his bruised and cut neck blinded his mind with pain and restricted his airflow. He leaned against the wall, and Banks slid off, her feet smacking the smooth tile floor.
Dim light illuminated glass display boxes full of Greek artifacts and memorandums. As they circled the tight halls and topped another set of steps, the blare of the alarm grew louder, bouncing against the walls and shrieking in their ears. Two more flights of stairs through more display cases and art galleries, and they burst through a door, skidding to a halt at the entrance of the main temple.
Even though he’d seen it before, the mass of the statue sent a shiver down his spine. It was all at once majestic and terrifying. On a raised platform in the middle of the giant hall, with columns on all sides, Athena wore a golden robe hanging from her white marble shoulders and draping down over her feet. A golden war helmet adorned her head, sitting over a broad brow and piercing blue eyes.
She held the statue of an angel in her outstretched right hand, and a massive shield adorned with Greek art leaned against her left thigh. Between her left knee and the shield, a serpent reared its golden head, glaring out at them as they stood twenty feet away, staring back at the horrifying and magnificent recreation of Greek worship.
“My God . . .” Banks whispered.
Reed was jarred out of his stupor by the continued blare of the alarm. He shook his head to clear it, then pushed Banks toward the steps that led down to the main floor. “We have to hurry.”
Once they reached the statue encircled by a red velvet rope, Reed clicked his flashlight and scanned the pedestal beneath Athena’s massive feet, where golden, mid-relief sculptures projected from the base. They were Greek characters—peasants, gods, warriors, all crafted in painstaking detail.
“What are we looking for?” Banks asked.
“I don’t know. Something hidden. The script said the secrets were housed beneath her feet. That could mean directly under her shoes or anywhere in the platform.”
Banks slid on her knees along the far side of the dais as Reed worked between the golden figurines of warriors, poets, and rulers standing in a tight row, wielding spears and riding horses. He moved his fingers against their feet and between their bodies, searching for any crack or hidden script—anything that might house the secret of a thirty-year-old cult.
“Reed! Come here!”
Banks shouted from the rear of the platform, and Reed hurried around the back corner. Over the alarm that shrieked overhead, he thought he could hear distant police sirens growing gradually closer, but there was no way to tell if they were headed for The Parthenon or the shooting scene on campus.
Banks knelt in the middle of the platform, where she pressed her fingers against a small symbol hidden between the legs of a horse. Reed saw the light of discovery in her eyes.
“It’s an owl,” she said.
Reed knelt beside her, shining the light on the dime-size spot nestled so far toward the horse’s protruding chest, that the only way to see it was to kneel. Etched in red ink, the clear outline of an owl’s face, painted in reflective paint, glowed under his flashlight. Reed ran his finger over the carving, making out its rough texture. He pushed in, but the owl didn’t move.
“What is it?” she whispered. “Can you feel anything?”
He shook his head and felt around the hooves and neck of the horse, searching for a crack or crevice—anything that moved or shifted.
“Wait,” Banks said. “Didn’t you say she was the goddess of wisdom?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“The scribe.” Banks motioned to the figurine of a Greek man dressed in soft robes. He didn’t wear armor, and unlike the others, he didn’t carry a weapon. Held between his hands was a thick, gold scroll—the symbol of knowledge and understanding.
Reed wrapped his fingers around the scroll, pulling out, but feeling nothing. He twisted, and a dull click resounded from behind the stone. The breath caught in his throat, and he shot Banks a quick smile. As he continued pulling on the scroll, the scribe shuddered, and dust fell from around the figurine’s head and shoulders. It slid outward, grinding against the stone, then fell away from the platform, displaying a guide rod sticking out of his back that corresponded with a hole in the stone. Set in a cavity just beneath the hole was a small leather notebook with a red-eyed silver owl printed on the cover.
“That’s it!” Reed hissed. He jerked the book out and ran his hands over the leather. Banks shoved the scribe back in place and twisted his scroll into the locked position while Reed pried dry rubber bands off the notebook.
“What is it? What does it say?” Banks hissed.
Reed shook his head and turned to the first page. It was covered in Greek symbols, filling every open space right up to the edges. He flipped a few more, exposing black-and-white pictures, all taken inside the attic of the frat house. He recognized the owl with the red eyes, and even though all the figures in each image wore black robes and full masks, he thought he recognized Mitch Holiday by his broad shoulders and thick neck—the frame of a running back.
Each photo depicted a ceremony. A table, covered in blood, was set up beneath the talons of the owl, and parts of various animals—rabbits, cats, a few birds—lay on the floor, all dismembered with their intestines strewn about amid the feet of the robed worshipers.
“What the hell?” Banks whispered. “Is that Greek worship?”
Reed shook his head. “Not like any I’ve ever read about. This is something else entirely.”
He flipped two more pages then stopped at an entry written in red ink. Unlike previous entries, these letters formed English words he could clearly read.
Under the sacred eye of our mother, we pledge ourselves to her worship. We, the holy members of this sect, protectors of wisdom, embracers of conquest, warriors of the world, commit our lives to her service, and our bodies to this brotherhood. From end to end.
Reed glided his finger down the page, feeling it tremble against the crackling paper as he traced a short list of biographies. Banks leaned in closer, her breath warm against his neck. His finger stopped at Mitchell Holiday, followed almost immediately by Frances Morccelli—names he expected to see. Reed pushed on down the page, skipping over anecdotes about Frank and Mitch’s involvement, searching for the list of remaining members. He flipped the page and felt his heart stop. His vision blurred around the next name, and be blinked himself back into focus. His fingers went numb, and the notebook slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor amid a confused gasp from Banks. She snatched the book up and flicked her way back to the page, holding it under the light. After a moment, she shut the book and turned toward Reed, her jaw set, and her lips pressed into a demanding frown.
Reed looked away and rested his face in his hands, trying to shut out the flood of questions pouring into his tired mind. There was no denying the clean handwriting on that page and no refuting the name written there. It was a name he knew all too well, and one he hadn’t heard in years, but it was a name he would never forget.
David Montgomery.
Twenty-Four
“It’s your father, isn’t it? David Montgomery?”
Reed nodded but avoided her gaze. “Yes.”
She grabbed him by the chin, wrenching his face toward her, and her voice snapped. “Did you know? Is this why we met? Why you kidnapped my godfather?”
“I had no idea!” He jerked away. “I barely knew my father. I haven’t seen him in two decades. I don’t—”
Gunshots cracked from outside. Men screamed, and a shotgun boomed.
Reed snatched the book back and crammed it into his cargo pocket, then hoisted Banks to her feet. “Let’s go!”
He cast one more glance at the back of the statue, watching the dust drift through the air around the war helmet.
My father stood here. My father was a part of this.
They ran back up the steps, through the art gallery and the back of the museum. The gift shop flashed past on their right as they pounded through the lobby and toward the door. Banks swung from his shoulders again as he crunched over the glass, and blue police lights flashed through the shattered front door. Gunshots still popped from the park, and as they climbed the steps back to ground level, Reed’s foot collided with a body. A METRO cop lay on the concrete, bleeding out as his hands twitched at his sides.
Reed dropped Banks and slid to his knees beside the officer, feeling for a pulse against the man’s neck. “Can you hear me?”
The cop’s gaze drifted toward him, but he didn’t respond. Reed searched beneath the blue shirt until his fingers touched the wound. The bullet had passed just below the ribcage.
Two gunshots ripped through the air, and the edge of the sidewalk exploded into a cloud of concrete dust only inches from Reed’s knee. He snatched up the cop’s service pistol and directed it toward the trees, unleashing a string of shots at random.
“Banks! Get him down the steps. He can’t be hit again!”
Banks grabbed the officer by his ankles and dragged him out of the line of fire as Reed turned toward the smoking hulk of a squad car twenty feet away. Bullet holes riddled the rear fender and broken windows. Another cop, holding his side, lay against the sheltered side of the car, a bloody shotgun on the ground next to him.
Reed lifted the cop’s sagging head. Faint breaths were warm against his hand, but the tension in the policeman’s body was obvious.
“Stay with me, officer.”
“I was going to get married,” he whispered.
Reed ripped his shirt off and tore it into strips, searching the officer’s body for the source of the blood. He found two gunshot wounds, both in the gut. Under the glint of the moon, he made out the officer’s nameplate—B. Friz. That was a good name, he thought. The kind of name that didn’t take itself too seriously.
“Listen here, Officer Friz. You’re gonna marry that girl. You hear me? We’re gonna get you home.”
Reed wrapped the strips around Friz’s middle, but even as he pressed against the wound, he could feel the life slipping away. Friz’s arms fell against the concrete, and Reed withdrew from the body, searching for a pulse around his wrist, then his neck.
“No . . . Friz. Come on, man. Stay with me, dammit!”
Banks stumbled up beside him, blood coating her hands and smeared across her face. “Reed . . . the other cop. He’s gone. I didn’t know what to do.”
The ache that descended over Reed felt more like a fog than any conscious pain. A distant agony of a traumatic injury muted by morphine, but still there, ripping through his heart. He slammed his hand into the side of the car and screamed. “No, dammit!”<
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Gunshots rang again, and Banks grabbed his shoulder. “Reed, we have to do something!”
Sirens screamed in the distance. It was the voice of more officers rushing into the jaws of death to protect people they might not even know.
Their blood is on my hands.
The thunder of a shotgun jarred Reed from his daze.
Banks leaned over the hood of the car, directing Friz’s gun toward the trees. She pumped another shell into the chamber and fired again, screaming, “Fuck you!”
We have to run. We can’t win if we stay here.
Shadows flitted through the darkness. Muzzle flash illuminated the space between the trees, and a shower of small-arms fire skipped over the pavement and slammed into the squad car. Banks covered her head and curled into a fetal position.
Reed grabbed Banks by the arm, pulling her behind the shelter of the patrol car just as more bullets tore over the hood. “We’ve got to get to the car! Come on, Banks. You’ve got to run now.”
A brief pause in the gunfire brought welcome relief to the chaos, but the police car’s siren and the alarms from The Parthenon still blared. Reed lifted Banks off the ground. She felt limp in his arms, and her skin was clammy, a now-familiar sign of her disease taking over.
She’s giving out. She’s almost done.
He hoisted her over his shoulder and sprinted toward the Camaro fifty yards away. Gunfire resumed behind him, bullets skipping against the pavement around his feet. One of them tore the toe of his boot, missing his toes by millimeters. Reed ducked and wove, jerking erratically back and forth as the gunfire intensified. His saving grace was the inherent inaccuracy of a pistol-caliber submachine gun fired in full auto mode. At a hundred yards, his chances of evading the scathing fire were about as good as being cut down by it.