Saint (Gateway Series Book 2) (19 page)

“What?” asked Thay as he turned back toward the group. “He’s out of sight.”

“Fine,” answered Mori, her frustration showing. “The entrance to the housing units is through that access on the mezzanine two levels up,” she said looking at the hand-drawn map she had been using to navigate the underground.

“And from there?” asked Magnus.

“We cross the street and enter building TI-8. Our target should be in there.”

“Let’s go get him,” said Katalya as she picked up one of the dead guard’s rifles.

Chapter 14

Martin slowly opened her eyes. She felt the cold metal of the floor against her cheek. Then the pain in her head began to pulsate with each heartbeat. “Shit,” she grumbled.

She took in a deep breath and started to push herself off the floor. She immediately let out a groan and rolled onto her back. The elbow, damaged in her fight with Mori and not yet healed, had obviously been reinjured in her fight with the Saint’s followers. Staring up toward the top of what looked to be a holding cell and letting out a long breath through her teeth, Martin took a moment to assess her injuries. Other than the sharp pain in her elbow and throbbing in her head, there was a dull ache throughout her body as she began to remember the blows of dozens of followers as she tried to defend herself. After collecting herself and preparing for the pain of sitting upright, Martin pushed out a heavy breath and forced herself into a seated position with a grunt. She then dragged herself to the back wall of her cell and rested her torso against the hard surface to get her bearings.

The cell was small, cold, and damp with a thin stack of hay covered by a cloth blanket in the corner. She could tell her prison was antiquated with metal bars encasing both sides and the front of her cell. Martin could also see other cells across a small hallway.

She was intently studying the condition and layout of her confinement, including a person huddled in the corner of the cell opposite her, when she heard footsteps approaching. She slowly rose to her feet and made her way to the cell door as the footsteps grew closer.

In a few seconds, two men stopped in front of her. They had the same hairstyle as the other followers but wore fatigues and carried stun sticks and pistols.

“This is the one that attacked the Saint,” said the guard to Martin’s right.

“She killed all of those priests?” pondered the other.

“Despite her skill, the will of the believers was strong and the Word overcame in the end, brother.”

“As it always does.” Martin saw a smile come to the face of the guard as he spoke. “You see, nonbeliever, the Word is undeniable.”

“It’s inevitable,” said the other, smiling as well. “And the sooner you accept the Word and the power of the Saint, the sooner you will know peace and freedom.”

Martin gripped the bar tightly with the hand from her good arm. “Tell me more of this Word,” she said as she returned the smile.

“The Word—”

The guard had moved too close to Martin’s cell and Martin quickly grabbed his shirt and slammed his face into the bars with all of the strength she had left. The sound of flesh and bone crashing into the bars echoed through room. Martin pivoted as the second guard shoved his stun stick into the cell, passing only centimeters from her body. She grasped the man’s extended arm and, using her entire body for momentum, yanked it backward against the cell bars until she heard the bone snap and the guard let out a shriek of pain. She quickly slid the man to the floor and was reaching for the keys on his belt when a bolt of electricity sent her tumbling backward.

Her body tingled and her muscles ached with spasms as she looked up toward the cell door. Above her stood a tattooed man in a cloak holding a stun stick. Before she could fully focus on the man, however, she heard the undeniable sound of a pistol being pulled from its holster. Turning to her right, she saw the first guard, his nose broken and bleeding profusely, point his pistol toward her. Martin stared into the man’s eyes, daring him to fire.

“Put that away!” shouted the cloaked man.

The guard instantly lowered his weapon. “Yes, Priest-Bishop,” he said, “but shouldn’t—”

“Is it our duty to question the Word, follower?”

Martin saw the guard turn his head toward the floor.

“It is not, Priest-Bishop,” acquiesced the guard. “The believers turn themselves over to the Word.”

“Thank you, brother,” replied the priest with a smile and a nod. “You and follower Faras should report to the healer and inform the sergeant of the guard that you’ll need replacements.”

“Yes, Priest-Bishop,” answered the other guard as he pulled himself erect with his unbroken arm.

“Good. Now let me have a word with the nonbeliever.”

The guards, bruised, broken, and bleeding, gathered themselves and started toward the opposite end of the hallway.

“Now,” said the priest as he looked toward Martin. “Let us talk a bit.”

She looked over the man. He wore the same style cloak as the other priests she had seen except the fabric was a smooth silk and the color was black with red accents. She could also see the same markings as the others, including the star-shaped tattoo on his forehead. His olive colored complexion accented his amber, almost yellow, eyes and a thick, well-trimmed beard outlined a strong-square jawline.

“Come a little closer, fanatic, and I’ll give you one hell of a conversation,” she taunted. She could see that the man wanted to take her challenge, but he also had the self-control to resist that urge.

“Maybe someday, nonbeliever. Someday.”

“Then what do you want with me?” asked Martin. She felt the effects of the stun stick subsiding and was working through how she could get at the priest. He wouldn’t be as easy as the guards—she knew that—but if she could trick him into getting closer…

“Just to talk. You’re interesting to me, nonbeliever.”

“And why’s that?” she asked as she stood once again, purposely feigning to be even more weakened from the shock than she was.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’m Paladin Martin and represent the ProConsul Astra Varus and the Humani Senate—that’s all you need to know.”

“Paladin?” mused the man. “That’s an antiquated title, isn’t it, especially for a member of the Elite Guard?”

“How did you—” Martin paused to inspect her inquisitor more closely. At first glance he looked very similar to the other priests she had faced in the Saint’s chamber. But he was different in subtle but significant ways. While the other priests had one single, thick braid of hair on an otherwise bald head and were clean shaven, this man was bearded and was completely bald, with no braid. Martin noticed the man carried a physical confidence that went beyond religious fanaticism.

“I serve at the will of the ProConsul,” replied Martin, almost choking on her own words. “Who are you?”

“I’m Priest-Bishop Dan-Lee. And you can quit playing the wounded lamb,” he said.

Who is this asshole
? wondered Martin as she stood more erect and walked closer to the cell door. “That doesn’t tell me a lot, jerk off,” she answered.

“Definitely Elite Guard,” replied Dan-Lee as he stepped closer to the opposite side of the bars. “You’re arrogant, angry, and probably a handful in a fight or the sack.” He smiled.

“What?” replied a Martin, trying to hide her surprise at his lascivious comment. “That’s no talk for priest, even a crazy one.”

“That’s Priest-Bishop, Paladin Martin,” he replied without a hint of anger at Martin’s derisive statement regarding the Saint. “And you’re not going to get a rise out me—at least that kind of a rise.”

“Really,” replied Martin, thinking she had found her opportunity. “What do you have in mind?” She playfully pressed up against the bars and put her hands through the bars at waist level.

“Oh, you have no idea.” The man smiled as he moved closer.

Martin grasped the man’s belt with one hand and smiled. He returned the smile.

She suddenly grabbed for his left arm to pull it through to her side in an attempt to gain the advantage. She gripped his sleeve and leveraged her body to pull Dan-Lee into the bars. Feeling the man resist, she attempted to strike at the man’s vulnerable privates with her other hand. Before she could make contact, she felt her hand being twisted painfully and she started to lose her balance and fall toward the bars. As she fell, she shifted her body until her back was facing the bars just as she impacted the hard metal. The impact against the back of her head rang through her body and her injured elbow sent out radiant spasms of pain, but she still had control of the man’s left arm.

Martin reached across her body with her injured arm in an attempt to gain control of her opponent’s hand. She grasped the top of his hand with hers and tried with all of her strength to pull his arm closer to her, but she was too weak from her injuries. And he was very strong. As she struggled with Dan-Lee’s hand, her scalp tightened as her opponent grabbed her hair. A bolt of pain rang through her head as she was again slammed into the bars.

“Son of a bitch!” grumbled Martin as she attempted to kick backward through the bars with her right leg toward her opponent’s knee.

Her kick found its mark and she heard the man grunt loudly but his grip on her hair did not slack.

“That’s enough of that,” he said and Martin felt the man’s foot driving into the back of her calf and forcing it, and her, toward the floor. As her knees hit the ground, Martin lost the battle for control of the man’s left hand and he pulled her arm through the bars with his other hand still gripping her hair.

Infuriated, Martin let out a primordial groan. Even injured, few warriors would be able to handle her as this man had. She let out a series of frustrated breaths as she remained pinned with her leg held down by her opponent’s foot and her hair and injured arm under his control. “You had better kill me now, asshole,” she warned. “Because if I get free I will—”

“Relax,” interrupted the man.

Martin felt the pressure on leg and arms disappear and her body fall forward against the force of the man’s boot on her back.

“We were just…talking.”

“Kiss my ass,” she replied as she pulled herself to her feet again.

“Don’t worry, Pal-a-din Martin,” he continued. “I’m sure the stun-sticks and that injury to your elbow took a little out of you. No shame.”

No shame—screw this guy
, thought Martin. No one had ever made an excuse for her and this dick wasn’t going to be the first guy.

“Come in here and finish this,” she taunted. The pain disappeared; it was replaced with a deep-burning anger that pulsated through her body. “Come on!” she shouted.

“Not today, Paladin,” he replied calmly.

Martin simmered, her fists clenched tightly and her gaze locked on the man. “What was all of this about?” she asked.

“Just a chat, Martin,” he answered. “And I enjoyed the conversation immensely.”

“What?” she asked with a mixture of confusion and fury raging through her.

“We’ll talk more, later. For now, let’s get that elbow healed.”

Martin saw the man toss a medi-pack into her cell.

“Keep that under your bed and don’t do anything else to injure your arm further… if you can manage that.”

Martin stared blankly at the man.

“Just keep your mouth shut and regain your strength. We’ll talk again soon enough.”

Confusion was quickly overtaking anger in Martin’s emotional struggle.

“But—”

“Soon, Martin, soon we’ll ‘chat’ again,” said the man as he turned and began to stroll toward the exit.

Martin quickly pressed her body against the bars to watch the man leave. “Asshole!” she shouted.

As the far door shut, Martin turned back toward her cell. “What was that shit?” she said out loud to herself as she walked to her bed and knelt next to the bedding.

“Damn,” she said as she opened the medi-pack. It contained everything she needed to get back into fighting shape—maybe not 100 percent but she didn’t need 100 percent. After injecting a pain inhibitor, neuro-replenisher, and anti-inflammatory cocktail, she rested back on her knees.

The painkiller was just starting to kick in when she heard rustling from the cell next to her. Martin looked over and saw a tall, attractive woman in a tattered dress that looked like the style worn by the dandies and rich bitches on Port Royal. Her hair looked freshly cut into the follower-style, but she could tell this wasn’t one of the fanatics.

“You should not fight them,” said the woman. “Why did you fight them?”

Martin could tell by the woman’s posture and her language she was probably the envoy she was sent to retrieve.

“Because fuck those guys,” she replied as she slowly rose to her feet. “Who are you?”

“I am belie—” The woman paused and shook her head as if to clear a haziness. “I am Envoy Rebecca Sterling, an agent for the Association and the Humani ProConsul, the illustrious Astra—”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know who she is,” interrupted Martin. “I was sent to retrieve you and the Praetorian, but I’m assuming he’s dead.”

The woman lowered her head. Martin saw a wave of chills pass over her body. “It was horrible.”

“Dying usually is.” quipped Martin. “Unless you do it right,” she added with a smile.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Rebecca.

Martin could see the fear and hopelessness in Rebecca’s face. She looked like a lost, beaten, and disheveled puppy in a pound. “We’re gonna get out of here,” replied Martin. “I’m not sure what that asshole that just left has in mind, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve me staying in this cell. And if that takes too long…let’s just say this Saint jackass has made an enemy of Astra Varus, and that generally doesn’t end well for people.”