The Circle of Eight (24 page)

“To be honest, my son, I look forward to it being over.
It has been a trying week, and I feel this will be a trying weekend. But by
this time next year it will be forgotten, and all those who currently pose a
problem will be no more.”

“Speaking of, Master, what do you want done with the
prisoners?”

There was a pause as Acton felt a rustling to his right,
a hand reaching in the closet. He heard a coat lifted off the rack, the thick
wooden hanger returned a moment later.

“Make sure the bodies are never found,” came the reply
as a jacket was donned.

“Very well, Master, I shall take care of it personally.”

Acton wanted to jump from the closet, tear the two of
them into pieces and stomp on their twitching carcasses. He didn’t care if he
died, he just wanted to make sure that the “master” died a horrible, terrifying
death like his beloved Laura. His foot inched forward, he could feel the
adrenaline fueled courage pumping through his veins as he reached to push the
jackets aside and fling himself at those responsible.

The sound of a door opening to the outside cut his
offensive short as he caught a glimpse of the two men stepping out, the door
closing behind them. He fell back against the wall, his heart still slamming,
tears of anger and frustration and sadness welling at the opportunity lost.

An opportunity that would most likely have had him killed
without anything beyond a few good blows being landed.

He was armed with chair spindles, in a house with an unknown number of hostiles, most likely with real weapons.

Hostiles who would soon discover he was missing once the
apprentice went to fulfill his orders.

I need to get out of here!

Hotel Lido, Geneva, Switzerland

Reading sat on the edge of his bed and lifted a foot, massaging life
back into it then doing the same with the other as Dawson poured himself a
glass of water from what would probably be a five quid bottle of water from the
minibar.

“Want one?” asked Dawson, holding up the bottle.

Reading shook his head.

“I’m on a budget.”

Dawson looked at the bottle then the glass.

“Umm, how much do you think this is?”

Reading shook his head.

“No bloody idea, but I’m sure it would be cheaper if it
were airdropped in.”

Dawson looked at the rate card perched on top of the
minibar and his eyebrows shot up.

“How much?” asked Reading.

“Enough for politicians to be fired by an ignorant
public.”

Reading chuckled.

“Sixteen dollar orange juice?”

Dawson nodded. Reading was surprised the Sergeant Major
was aware of the political scandal that had begun in London.
Nobody outside
of England realizes a glass of orange juice at a fine London hotel is actually
ten quid.

Dawson held up his glass.

“Well, I might as well enjoy it.” He took a sip and made
an exaggerated sound of enjoyment.

“Good?”

He smiled.

“Best damned water I’ve ever had,” said Dawson, rolling
his eyes. He sat down in one of the two chairs in the room. “Now down to
business. Did you make the transfer?”

Reading nodded, taking his suit jacket off and flinging
it into the other chair.

“I assume it’s some sort of tracking device?”

Dawson nodded.

“We’ll be able to track him for about thirty-six hours,
then we’re tracking his sewage.”

“Pleasant. What’s your plan?”

“Go in, get them out, hopefully clean with no casualties
on either side.”

“Unlike Scotland Yard.”

Dawson pursed his lips.

“I think even you know we went to great lengths to not
hurt anyone.”

Reading waved his hand, cutting off the conversation.

“What about Jim and Laura?”

“We assume they’ve been taken by the Rosicrucians. We
snatched a load of intel last night that’s being reviewed now. No luck so far,
just routine World Bank business, but we’re trying to find a pattern.”

“To hell with the Rosicrucians. I don’t give a damn
about them. I want to get my friends back, then go home to my other friend
who’s still in a coma, fighting for his life.”

“I understand that, but you’re wrong to ignore the
Rosicrucians. If you pursue your friends, they just may take notice of you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Many have died in the past few days at their hands,
including friends of
mine
.”

Reading sighed, dropping his head and massaging his
temples.

“Do we have any idea where they were taken?”

“We’re assuming San Marino. That’s where this Martin
Lacroix guy lives. If they’re not there, then somebody there might know where
they’ve been taken.”

Reading stood up and grabbed the phone off the
nightstand.

“I guess I’m going to San Marino.”

Dawson rose, draining his water.

“Do you need anything?”

Reading tossed his phone to Dawson.

“Put your contact info in there in case I need to reach
you. You have mine already?”

Dawson nodded as his fingers flew over the keyboard.
Finished, he tossed the phone back. Reading caught it one handed and stuffed it
in his pocket.

“Anything else?” asked Dawson.

“I’d ask for a weapon but I’d never get it on the plane.”

Unknown Location

Acton remained hidden in the closet, it too close to the front door
and potential freedom to abandon to the vast unknown of the house. He heard
doors opening and closing outside as an automobile was loaded with luggage and
its passenger, then the sound of an engine as it pulled away. Moments later the
door opened then closed, the apprentice walking by Acton’s position, the
footsteps fading away.

Acton listened, but didn’t hear a door open. He was
quite certain he would have heard the basement door being unlocked and opened
from here, which meant he had some time before they would discover he was gone.
He pushed the coats aside and peered out to find nobody. Taking a tentative
step, he leaned forward, his head poking out into the open, and still he could
see no one.

He extricated himself from the closet as quietly as
possible, evening out the hangers to disguise his having been there, then
stepped toward the door.

Footsteps echoed from somewhere.

He grabbed the door knob and twisted, pulling open the
door and stepping outside, gently closing it behind him. He ducked to the side,
away from the windows framing the large carved wooden door and pressed himself
against the wall. Surveying his surroundings, he found himself looking upon a
large front yard with a circular gravel driveway leading to a road several
hundred yards distant. A statue of a robed figure sat in the center of the
driveway near the house, surrounded by rose bushes, the bright red flowers in
full bloom. He couldn’t make out the details as it faced away from him, but he
had little doubt it represented Rosenkreuz himself.

Footsteps on the gravel had him jumping over the railing
and hitting the ground, ducking. He shuffled away from the steps and hid behind
several large bushes. A figure, robed in dark brown, his head hidden from
sight, walked by, then climbed the steps and entered the house. Slowing his
breathing, he looked out at the yard. It was immaculately maintained, a
brilliant green stretching uninterrupted to the road below, the rolling hills
dotted with farms, vineyards and large homes.

The style of homes reminded him more of Italy than Switzerland.
It was definitely a possibility. He had no idea how long they had been
unconscious, and Italy wasn’t that far a drive from Geneva, definitely less
than ten hours if he remembered correctly. The sun was high in the sky,
suggesting early afternoon.

A lone car drove by on the road below.

If he did escape, he’d have a hell of a time making any
distance, especially since he had no clue where he was or which direction to
head.

All he did know was that if he tried to cover that lawn,
the likelihood of him not being seen was slim to none.

He skirted along the edge of the house, ducking past
each window until he reached the corner. Peering around the corner he found it
clear, as was the lawn, stretching to a nearby vineyard with rows of grapevines
less than a hundred yards away. Reachable if no one were looking, and if he
were spotted, he could at least hide for some time.

But would probably still be caught.

He needed a phone, or a guaranteed clear way out of
here, but he knew time was at a premium. They would discover he was missing any
minute now.

He looked at the house. There were no video cameras on
this side. He had to admit he hadn’t thought to check the front. There were
four windows on the ground floor, and four matching above. Lattice work covered
most of the side, vines spreading out from the ground to the roof, a look Acton
encountered often in his work, but never really liked. To him it looked
unkempt, especially during the winter, giving a home a bleak, desolate look of
abandonment.

He crawled to the first window and took a peek inside.
It was a dining room, empty, with no phone or weapon in evidence. He moved to
the next window and found the kitchen. Knives stored in a large wood block were
prominently displayed on the counter, a phone on the wall, and a chef with his
back to the window preparing lunch.

Acton dropped.

The third window revealed an informal dining area,
probably for the help. It too was empty but he assumed not for long. If he were
lucky, they would have lunch before killing him.

He was rarely lucky.

His heart raced, his chest tightening as he thought of
the luckiest thing to happen to him.

Then he heard a woman’s cry above him.

And he’d recognize it anywhere.

There was a window open on the second floor, only
several inches, and as he cocked an ear he heard nothing else.

Was I imagining it?

He continued to the fourth window and peered inside but
found thick curtains blocking his view. Around the corner was a large patio,
swimming pool and all the luxuries he would expect in a house of this size,
clearly owned by one of The Circle, most likely Lacroix, richer than rich.

There was a shed about thirty feet away, on the same
side of the house as the vineyard was. If he could make it there without being
seen, he could use it to hide his escape.

He glanced back at the partially open window on the
second floor, pausing for a moment, then shook his head.

You imagined it. She’s dead.

He sprinted for the shed.

Unknown Location

Professor Laura Palmer lay flat on the bed, her muscles aching from
her ordeal. She still sobbed at the thought of her beloved James thinking she
was dead. Her chair had been kicked over and a cloth with something pungent on
it shoved over her mouth. She had been out cold within seconds, barely hearing
the shot that had been fired. Since she hadn’t been wounded, she assumed it was
a blank, or fired into the floor near her.

When she had awoken she was lying in this room, still
gagged, still bound. But alone.

After a few minutes of self-pity, she realized her only
hope was to escape and find James or find help. She had climbed out of bed and
made quick work of the zip ties behind her back, her retired SAS man Lt. Colonel
Cameron Leather having explained that most zip ties were rated to 180 pounds of
force if not much lower, an amount easily generated by pulling the wrists apart
and shoving your bum out while smacking the outstretched hands against the
buttocks.

With her hands free, she had loosened the gag, leaving
it around her neck, then used the broken zip tie to shim the one around her
ankles. It had taken moments, but now she had to not only escape the room, but
whatever building she was in, and then find help.

She peered out the window and saw a lawn that abutted a
vineyard. There were vines with lattice work that she could easily climb down.
She unlocked the window then began to push it open when she heard a key at the
door. She darted for the bed, shoving the gag back in her mouth and bouncing
onto the mattress. The door began to open as she crossed her ankles and shoved
her hands behind her back.

A robed figure entered sending her heart into her
throat. Her eyes darted to the open window, then quickly returned to the man
now approaching. He tossed his hood back, a smile she could only reveal as
wicked smeared across his face, the lust in his eyes obvious.

“My master says I am to kill you and make sure the body
is never found. He is gone for three days and never told me when to do it, or
what I could do in between.”

He licked his lips causing her to almost gag in disgust
as he drew a knife out from under his robes. He straddled her hips, leaning in
with the knife, playing it over her forehead, then down her nose to the gag. He
slid the knife under the cloth then jerked back, slicing it apart.

She yelped.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You don’t want more of the
household joining us, now do you?” he grinned as his tongue flicked at her now
exposed mouth. “Or maybe you do?” He pressed his lips against hers as she
squeezed her mouth shut, closing her eyes, refusing to let the humiliation
overwhelm her. She knew she had to keep her wits about her if she were going to
survive.

He placed his full weight on her, his arousal obvious,
his hands beginning to explore her body. She kept twisting her head away from
his, her eye on the knife as often as possible, until finally his overwhelming
lust got the better of him.

He put the knife on the nightstand so he could begin to
undress her with both hands.

She flipped her hands palm upward and moved them to her
sides. He began to reposition himself, his lewd grin angering her even more.
Her hands darted out from the sides, swinging up, the man’s startled expression
bringing her the first bit of pleasure since the experience started. She boxed
his ears hard, causing him to yelp, then with her left hand grabbed the knife
while he was disoriented, burying it in his neck up to the hilt, cutting off any chance of his calling
for help.