Reckoning (37 page)

Kertzman stared at the old professor, mouth agape. No one spoke or moved.
Then Kertzman shifted, a hulking and strangely primordial image in the small kitchen chair. He blinked, massive fists clenching, unclenching nervously.

"Uh, alright, Professor, I can follow that," he said hesitantly. "But if these people are just priests and stuff, how can they be makin' all this happen? It looks to me like we're dealin' with some kind of, uh, assassins, or somethin'. I can't tell yet, but it looks like these people have started a private army, made up of the best fighters, or soldiers, rather, in the world. How does any of that fit in?"

"Even in times of antiquity the followers of Set and Dagon were the ruling elite of their societies, Mr. Kertzman," responded Malachi. "They were wealthy, well-bred, commanding chairs in government and world affairs. Many controlled international trade. Others were great military leaders, generals, or conquerors. Even while others were priests, scribes, teachers, and historians. And since the beginning they have used their positions to control the masses by intellectual and economic oppression, or by the sheer and brutal persuasion of violence. What is occurring today, in this situation, is nothing new. It is simply the way our enemy conducts his affairs. There are always years, or decades, of inactivity, yes. But when a strong leader emerges, he typically attempts to form a private army of the so-called enlightened or superior beings who will enforce his dreams. And, now, they do indeed have a leader who has built a force of these men, these ... murderers ... who are supposed to be the strongest of their kind. And they are willing to do anything to claim the manuscript, so that they can prepare the way for him."

Kertzman leaned forward, eyes darting, hairy gorilla forearms resting on the table. "Uh, you know, Professor, this leader, whoever he is, sounds to me like some kind of Satanic John the Baptist."

Malachi grunted, a short laugh. "Not so farfetched as some prefer to believe, Mr. Kertzman."

Kertzman studied the dark night through the cabin window. After a moment he looked back, focusing on Gage. "And what do you have in mind to do?" he growled.

Gage shrugged. "Get the book. Destroy it. Finish it."

"There's been enough killing, Gage."

"Yeah, Kertzman, there has. That's why I want to put an end to it."

Kertzman thought for a moment. "It's a suicide run," he said.

Somber, Gage said, "It's about time, I guess. I've got debts to pay."

Kertzman bunched forward, changing tact. "You're talking about taking this thing international, Gage. That could get messy."

"I'm still going."

Kertzman paused, his face an unreadable granite slab. "All I have to do is call Washington," he said finally. "And your plane will never land."

"It doesn't have to land," Gage replied.

"Alright," Kertzman added, "then it would never reach Italy."

Gage allowed a half-smile. "But you ain't gonna do that, Kertzman."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're in this, too. And you need time to figure it out. You make a big move, and you're exposed. This whole thing is exposed. And you still don't know who your enemies are."

"I might not have any enemies. You might be the only one with enemies."

Gage stared at him. "Maybe."

A heaviness punctuated the silence. Gage continued to hold Kertzman's gaze.

Kertzman waited almost three minutes before he spoke. "Well, you're right, I'm not gonna try and stop you."

Gage allowed a faint expression. "And why not?"

"Because nothing happens without a purpose, hotshot," Kertzman said, glum. "Not in Washington. And not in a case like this. I was chosen to do this for a reason. They wanted me to lead them to you. And it's not because I'm a great white hunter. No. They wanted me to do this for a real reason. A political reason. And I still don't know what that is, any more than I know who's behind all this uptown. So until I know the score, until I know who the players are, I ain't gonna tip my hand." He nodded. "Let 'em keep guessin'. I'll leave 'em hangin' until I figure this out."

Malachi spoke to him. "That is wise, Mr. Kertzman."

Kertzman nodded, not taking his eyes off Gage. "I figure."

A large limping shape rushed through the doorway, moving fast. Kertzman's hand was on the Colt as Gage brought the rifle up.

"We got big-time movement!" Sandman yelled. "They're jamming the radios. Somethin' mean is goin' down!"

Gage was on his feet, hands flat on the table, leaning forward at Kertzman.

"Your people?" he asked angrily.

Kertzman shook his head. "No
! Nobody knows I'm here! But we can't be sure! They might be federal! How you gonna know? And you can't fire on a federal agent. I won't allow that."

"I don't intend to," Gage said between gritted teeth and threw the .30-30 to Kertzman who caught it without effort, working the action. A long brass bullet was ejected from the port onto the table. Kertzman picked it up and slid it back into the magazine.

Gage snatched up the MP5 from the black duffle bag, slid two extra clips under his belt at the small of his back and took the bag with him as he moved.

"Secure everything!" he shouted, running towards the corridor that attached the cabin to the garage. "Sandman go high!
Kertzman you've got the cabin!"

"Close those doors!" yelled Kertzman, alive with it.

Sandman limped toward the back door as Barto stood by, ready to shut it. Kertzman yelled after the big black man, "Don't fire on nuthin' unless you know it ain't a federal agent!"

Sandman threw up a hand, took two steps towards the door when a gunshot exploded in front of him. He shouted, clutching his chest, and fell across the kitchen table to collapse onto the floor.

"Gun!" roared Kertzman.

At the explosion Malachi had also jumped back, shouting, and even as Kertzman had yelled the old man fell, collapsing over a chair.

Screams.

Kertzman grabbed the kitchen table even as Barto slammed the wooden door and leaped back. Then, twisting explosively, Kertzman hurled the table across the small room to crash against the door.

In the space of a second, as the gunshot had exploded outside and he reacted to the sound, Kertzman accelerated into a mindset he hadn't known in over 30 years, a jungle combat mode with reflexes quick, brain operating on adrenaline and eyes bright reading everything around him instantly and in lucid detail.

Whirling, he cast a wild glance across the room to see Sarah
Halder, eyes on fire and teeth clenched. She had snatched up a pistol from the counter and was crouching in the kitchen, aiming the gun towards the front door. He saw Bartholomew against the far wall, holding the Marlin tight, and Malachi Halder flat on the floor clutching his bleeding side.

Four simultaneous blasts tore through opposite windows of the cabin covering Kertzman in an explosion of glass and wooden splinters that flew across him, through him.

Enraged, Kertzman yelled and spun, firing from the hip with the .30-30 to shatter a distant table lamp.

Whirled back.

"Kill those lights!" he roared.

Barto shouted incoherently and spun, sweeping his hand wildly down over the kitchen light switch.

Casting them into darkness.

* * *

THIRTY-FIVE

"Father!" Sarah Halder screamed through the darkness.

A moment of silence, frantic shuffling. Movement outside. Kertzman's eyes spun from one window to the next. Cold swept in from the outside, deep and sharp in his lungs.

"I am alright, Sarah," Malachi Halder gasped, a choking sound of pain in his voice. "I am ... hurt. But I am alright."

"Kertzman!" Sarah screamed. "What do we do
! Where's Gage?"

Kertzman shook his head in the darkness, feeling the familiar steel of the rifle in his hand. He did not respond to the question. Silence was their only advantage. Silence and darkness. He crouched, listening, and felt wind blowing through the window. It was going to get a lot worse. Those weren't federal agents out there. No
federal agency would open fire without warning.

It was a hit team. And he was in here with two amateurs who would be a liability before they would be any help. Gage would be moving around outside, where he could use some of that special warfare training to do some damage. And Kertzman knew that every exit would be covered, every window, every door.

For the briefest second, and with a flicker of sympathy, Kertzman thought of the black guy, the one they called Sandman. The big man hadn't made a sound since he was hit.

One down.

Kertzman remembered that Gage was supposed to have another buddy in the hills—the Mexican. But he might be gone, too, Kertzman thought bitterly. If these people were smart enough to jam radios, they were smart enough to remove a sentry without making a sound.

What had he walked into? Or, more importantly, who had he led to this place?

Kertzman stifled a curse, shaking with anger and adrenaline, his fist tightening on the steel barrel of the .30-30. He promised himself that somebody would die for this, oh, yes, yes indeed somebody would surely die for this.

The breeze blew steadily in from the window.

Kertzman glanced back at it, saw nothing outside.

It was as black as the inky gloom that cloaked the interior of the cabin. He held a steady tension on the trigger of the Marlin, kept it pointed towards the opening, and glanced towards the other windows. Barto shuffled in the dark for a second, then silence.

Sarah Halder had said nothing more, but she hadn't moved, either. And the old man was down. Maybe dying.

A car engine roared in the garage.

The darkness above Kertzman moved, shifted.

Danger
!

Something moving
...

Grenades
!

* * *

Gage raced into the garage through the connecting hallway, the MP5 leading. He put on the night visor as he hit the darkened end of the corridor and thumbed the selector to fully auto.

He went into the garage low, scanning left to right.

Nothing.

Gunfire exploded in the cabin.

He whirled back, teeth exposed in a snarl, and decided instantly that he would have to get outside, quick, if he were to change the situation. He turned towards the LTD, his mind scanning through tactics, blitzing through dozens of defensive measures in seconds before locking in.

...
Assume all exits to be closed ... Create confusion, chaos ... Get out fast to break the perimeter ... Use the vehicle for cover ... Get outside them and force them to defend ... Speed, speed, speed ...

Gage snatched open the door of the LTD and leaped inside, automatically reaching out to find a grenade in the
duffle bag. His brain was combining tactics, turning a defensive position into an offensive attack.

Seconds flying.

... Chavez doesn't have a night scope, so he can't acquire targets in the dark ... You've got to create a light source outside for target acquisition ... Get outside and set off flares, no, wait, you don't have any flares in the car and there's no time to search so use something else, any source of light is enough ... Go!

Gage pulled the pin on the phosphorous grenade, fired the engine of the LTD.

He floored it.

Closed, the garage door provided only the briefest resistance as the three-ton vehicle smashed into the wooden planks. The door exploded into jagged black shards and Gage was outside, sliding sideways on the gravel.

He threw himself down sideways in the seat, felt rifle fire rocketing into the vehicle from every direction. He didn't try to steer but kept it to the floor, angling slightly to the right.

Seconds gone!

Make it happen! Make them go defensive!

The LTD's rear window blew out beneath rifle fire.

Enough!

Gage estimated that the car had spun 40 yards. He would reach the
tree line at 60. He jerked the steering wheel to the right and slammed on the brake, sliding sideways, spinning the automobile to create a ballistic break.

He threw the door open, heard rifle fire, and then he was out with the MP5 and the
duffle bag, low beside the car. He tossed the phosphorous grenade into the front seat and sprinted the 20 yards to the wood line, moving right as bullets shattered the trees behind him and the LTD exploded in a mushrooming blast that cast the entire glade into a violent and roaring white light.

* * *

The wind above Kertzman moved, a black patch sailing through the air. And that's when the object hit the wooden planks beside his feet. Instantly a half-dozen additional small objects hit the floor around the cabin.

"Grenades!" yelled Kertzman.

Deafening light!

Kertzman's coat was blown open by the savage concussion, his face scorched by the stunning shock wave.

Blinding! No fire!

The explosions were stun grenades. Survivable
, but everything was happening too fast. Kertzman swayed at the blasts, rocked by the concussion then somehow heard, beneath it all, a door kicked open and men rushing inside in the darkness.

Kertzman almost fired a shot in the dark and then his finger froze on the trigger, an almost-gone control resurrected instantly that prevented him from shooting until he could acquire the target.
He blinked in the dark, trying to see a shape as a sledgehammer hit him between the eyes.

Kertzman cursed, stunned, as two men leaped upon him. One grappled with the Marlin while the other wrestled to imprison his
neck and shoulders in a headlock. He howled and pulled the trigger of the Marl in. Thunder and fire exploded between Kertzman and the man in front of him, but the shot went into the ceiling, and the intruder grimly refused to release his iron grip on the rifle stock.

Together in a hulking, grotesque mound of straining arms and hands, they twisted, spinning, in the dark. Then something
massive hit Kertzman behind the neck.

Stunned.

Kertzman almost collapsed before he recovered, roaring, and surged with a scarlet rage. He whirled, hunching his shoulders to protect his neck. Frantically, breath blasting from his clenched teeth in a hissing curse, Kertzman pulled again at the Marlin and, even beneath the explosion outside the cabin, he felt the wooden stock crack against the twisting grip of his opponent.

Descending hatefully, iron thunder in blackness hit Kertzman again in the back of the head, an earthquake that struck deep with a crashing, tree-trunk forearm. Groaning and then shouting in rage, Kertzman released the rifle to the second man to throw him back, and his right hand swept down, finding the Colt at his waist. Pulled it out.

A huge forearm snaked around his neck, choking, lifting Kertzman completely off the ground. Kertzman quickly moved his arm across his chest to shoot behind his back when a two-handed vise closed on his right gun hand, crushing it with a merciless grip.

Enraged, Kertzman growled wordlessly but thrust the Colt towards the man in front of him, the man who had grabbed his gun hand. Kertzman twisted against them both, heard the man in front cursing in a thick Oriental accent.

The big man behind him hissed in anger and tension, while he squeezed, putting pressure on Kertzman's carotid artery to take him down with oxygen debt.

Defiantly, his entire body trembling under the stress,
Kertzman surged to move the gun barrel, inch by inch, towards the Japanese, who continued to squeeze his gun hand in a savage contest of brute strength. Jaw locked tight with the effort, Kertzman pulled inwardly in a volcanic effort, and moved the gun barrel closer to the chest of the Oriental.

Heat and red pain and Kertzman felt himself quickly
submerged in a conquering landslide of fatigue.

Breath hot, strained and thin. Pain exploding inside his gun hand. Bones breaking.

Too old ...for this!

Don't give up!

Kertzman strained his one arm against the Oriental's two arms, moving the Colt
inch... by... inch
!

Kertzman fired a shot.

Missed
!

But the explosion, so close beside them, shocked his two combatants. Together they twisted violently, screaming, trying to throw him down. Kertzman roared against them, staggering, face contorted with effort and surged again, wrenching the .45 toward the Oriental's shoulder and firing even as something cold slid across his forearm.

Razor sharp.

Kertzman shouted in agony. The Colt fell from his deadened hand and the giant threw Kertzman to the floor.

He landed in a heap, groaning, feeling quick blood loss from his wrist. His right hand had lost all feeling and he quickly grabbed his forearm with his left hand, felt heavy blood spilling out of the wound.

Lights. At once the cabin was illuminated again.

Groaning, Kertzman rolled to his side, teeth clenched in pain, trying to find his footing. He turned, saw the room as it now stood. Through the front windows Kertzman saw a car burning in the front yard.

Gage!

Exhaling explosively, Kertzman looked up at the giant, a black man, incredibly muscular and almost seven feet tall but appearing even larger because of the oversized ballistic vest he wore on top of the black fatigues. The giant was sweating, glaring angrily at Kertzman and breathing heavily. He held a night visor in one hand.

Kertzman scowled at him, looked away and saw the large
Japanese, dressed in somber black clothes, moving quickly and efficiently across the room. He held a long, bloodied knife in his right hand and a night visor in the other. He stopped at the kitchen table and in quick, efficient movements gathered all the papers, including Father Simon's letter. Kertzman remembered that Gage had destroyed the uncoded version revealing the manuscript's location.

The Japanese lifted the papers, reading quickly but carefully. Then he looked at the back door where another man stood and shook his head.

"They have destroyed it," he said somberly. "We must bring them."

Sweating profusely in the cold night air, breath hard and deep with pain, Kertzman swung his slightly unfocused gaze across the room. At the closed back door, standing over the unconscious body of Barto, was a tall, older man wearing a brown tweed overcoat. Kertzman couldn't tell if Barto was dead or rendered unconscious. His big chest didn't seem to be moving. The tall man had a hand on the light switch.

"Why didn't you just kill us?" Kertzman growled at the man, obviously the leader.

The man smiled benignly. "Do not presume that this situation will necessarily end in further bloodshed, Mr. Kertzman. The plan was to take you all alive. There is no need for unnecessary alarm. In fact, there is even the chance that none of you will die." He paused. "Except Gage, of course."

Kertzman said nothing. The man had given him the standard reply: Tell them something that won't alarm them further. Kill them all when it's convenient.

He looked toward the kitchen to see a muscular, blond-haired man standing over Sarah
Halder. She was holding her mouth, her hand and lips bloodied. She was hurt, possibly hit in the face to dislodge her grip on the pistol. But she was stoically silent, head bowed, not making a sound.

Kertzman rose to his feet, hell in his eyes.

"Sorry about all this, Kertzman," a man said.

Kertzman turned, recognizing the voice and cursing the name as he saw the face. His words contained a terrible and deadly edge as he spoke.

"Hello, Milburn," he said.

* * *