The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3) (22 page)

“
Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!
” he whispered.

“Is that a tornado?” Gottschalk voiced as he walked up between Jethro and Gan.

“
Ich meinte, in bei den Griechen gebe es keine Tornados
,” Hirsch wondered aloud.

“That’s no tornado,” Jethro responded as the funnel cloud turned midair like a bent finger and stretched toward them.

Gan’s mouth widened in shock as the spinning black tempest rushed forward. “
Mein Gott
.”

Jethro grabbed Gan by the collar. “We have to get out of here… Now!”

• • •

“This old boy is armed,” Petros said as he shimmied over to where Vasili was pressed against the wall. Wood, plaster, and brick sprinkled down upon them like a powdered rain.

“How bad?” Vasili asked, checking to make sure his revolvers were loaded. They had been in tighter spots before—the bungled robbery in Chania was still fresh in his mind—but there was a strange sense of finality permeating this job. Even if they survived tonight, there would be no coming back.

Petros shook his head. “Big gun. Big
damn
gun.” He angrily spit a wad of yellow phlegm to the ground. “Remind me to kill Alexei when we get back.”

“Probably not the best idea you’ve ever had, old man,” Vasili said as he snapped the chambers into place.

“But it will make me feel better.”

“Please tell me there’s a plan,” Caraway said as he crawled over to them.

“Besides not get killed?” Vasili shook his head. “No, not really.”

Caraway gave Vasili a withering look. “Pull the other one.”

It was all Vasili could do not to put a bullet between the American’s eyes. Then again, accidents do happen… “Wait until he runs out,” he said. “My guess he’s got only six rounds left.”

“Oh, yeah? And how do you figure that?”

Vasili shrugged nonchalantly. “It was a guess.”

After another few shots—bullets, wood, and plaster flying madly like birds from a bush—they heard the shooter shout a jumble of throaty lyrical phrases. They exchanged a collective look of bewilderment.

“You get that?” Petros asked Vasili.

Vasili shook his head and looked to Caraway. “What about you, American? You understand what our friend is shouting?”

Caraway furrowed his brow. “Don’t look at me. English and Bad English, that’s all I understand.”

The three of them then turned to Ken, who was staring off into the distance, his head cocked to the side as he listened to the shouting gunman. His eyes went wide in realization. “Wait,” he breathed. “Wait! I know what he’s saying.” He looked to Caraway, his mouth curled into a smile. “It’s Hebrew.”

Caraway furrowed his brow. “How the hell do you know Hebrew?”

“Long story,” he replied, leaving it at that.

“So, he’s Jewish. Fantastic. How does that help us?” Caraway asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It means he’s one of the good guys!” Ken said excitedly.

“Yeah, but last I checked, we ain’t,” Caraway grumbled.

Ken’s face fell. “Goddammit.”

“Say something to him in Hebrew,” Petros said calmly. Off Ken’s expression, he added, “Humor me.”

“I only know a few phrases…”

“Say something—anything—but say it loud, Shakes. Make sure our friend can hear it,” Petros said with a wicked grin.

Ken cleared his throat and shouted: “
Eyfo ha-shirutim, bevakasha?”

Silence echoed from the other room. Petros flashed Ken a gracious smile before he whipped around and hurled his knives into the other room.

Ken and Caraway cringed at the scream.

• • •

Panic. The Nazi camp had fallen into bedlam as the storm rapidly approached, a lion’s roar that tore through the sky. Wind whipped dust and leaves swirled through the air, stinging eyes and skin. Gottschalk and Hirsch had run out in hopes of regaining some order and organize a hasty evacuation, giving Jethro and Gan the chance to break away.

“Dumont, what is that thing?!” Gan hissed, forcibly grabbing Jethro by the arm.

Jethro nervously kept his gaze on the approaching storm. “You remember the living storm I was telling you about?”

Gan pinched his eyes shut. “
Verflucht
.”

“Haste is the operative word, Herr Oberführer,” Jethro said with a quick nod. “I was able to stop it before, but I don’t know if I can do it again.”

“How did you stop it before?”

“I blew up a plane.”

“
Du Lusche!, Du bist schlimmer als Caraway!”
Gan cursed through his teeth. “Come with me,” he said, leading Jethro toward his Volkswagen. The air crackled with electricity, emerald bolts of lightning bursting in the distance. “Let’s get you out of the camp. Hopefully we’ll figure something out that doesn’t involve blowing up our only means of transportation.”

Jethro glanced back at the Obergruppenführer’s tent. He was foolish to even consider this, but what better time than now—with the Nazi regiment thrown into disarray? “What about the Shard?” he shouted over the wind.

“Now is not the time, Herr Dumont!”

“But if what you said is true, perhaps we can use it to stop the storm!” And hopefully prevent the prophecy from coming true, he didn’t say.

“We will just have to take our chances,” Gan said as they approached the vehicle. His driver, the white haired boy Jethro recognized from the attack on the consulate in New York, stared up at the sky, slack jawed, eyes brimming with tears. “Johann! Johann!”

“
Es will mich abholen…
” the boy whispered.

“Johann!
Fahren wir los!
” When the soldier failed to reply, Gan grabbed him by the collar. “
Mach schnell
, Johann!
Sofort!
”

Brought out of his stupor, Johann faced his superior, nodded briskly, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“
Das ist ’n braver Junge
,” Gan said as he and Jethro climbed into the passenger seats.

Johann started the car, revving the engine before peeling out of the camp, the back tires sending dust flying into the air. They launched down the hillside, swerving down the narrow dirt road. Johann, white knuckled, struggled to keep the speeding vehicle upright, the wind jostling them ferociously left and right.

Jethro’s head throbbed as he heard the voices echo inside his skull over and over. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the heels of his hands against his temples in vain effort to fight back the pain. Gritting his teeth, he prayed: “
Om! Tare Tuttare Ture Soha!

Gan glanced through the rear window to see the funnel cloud charging toward them, blasting down the hillside. “It is following us!” he shouted. He turned to Jethro. “Why is the storm following us?!”

Jethro grimaced. “It wants me,” he admitted through the pain.

Gan’s jaw fell open. “Why did you not tell me this
before
I got in the car with you?” Without taking his eyes off the storm, he leaned forward and forcibly clapped Johann on the shoulder. “
Los, gib Gas, Johann!
”

“It’s almost on us,” Jethro said as he peered into the tenebrous tempest. He thought he could make out a shape within it, something almost human…

“I hate you, Dumont,” Gan said bitterly.

“Thank you, Herr Oberführer, that is very helpful right now,” Jethro replied.

The black cloud engulfed them in a blast of air. The windows shattered inward and the world plunged into darkness. Lightning flashed around them, shooting in every direction. Jethro’s body burst with energy, a sensation that seemed to tear at his flesh. It was all he could do not to scream. The Jade Tablet erupted in green light, casting an unearthly hue over the car, the fibers violently constricting around his finger. Johann did his best to keep control of the car as it barreled forward in the darkness. Black mist seeped in through the windows and swirled into place besides Johann, forming the outline of a man. Jethro and Gan watched in horror as the phantom’s hand instantly morphed into a blade and drove its way through Johann’s skull.

“Johann!” Gan screamed as blood exploded across the dashboard. The young soldier’s body crumpled forward, pressing his foot down against the gas petal. The car sped forward, blindly hurtling toward certain doom.

• • •

“You know what this book looks like?” Caraway indignantly asked Vasili as he kicked aside a pile of discarded books. They had been rifling through the small library for the last thirty minutes to no avail, tossing books haphazardly to the floor. The dry, dusty smell permeating the room reminded Caraway of his days in Sunday school, the dour white faced old men and crusty nuns that judged him with their eyes.

“Ask him,” Petros replied pointing to the gagged man tied to the chair on the other side of the room. They had shoddily bandaged up the knife wound in his shoulder, the white fabric now a deep maroon turning brown. His face was pale from blood loss but remained alert, his eyes watching the robbers as they moved about the house.

Vasili looked at their captive and shook his head. “He will not talk.”

Petros stepped forward and flourished his knives, the metal ringing. “I can make him talk,” he said with a devilish grin.

“Hey!” Caraway shouted, stepping forward. “He doesn’t know who we are, doesn’t understand what we’re saying… I thought we talked about this, quick and clean, right?”

“It is up to him,” Petros frowned. “He tells us what we need, I will make it quick.”

“We’re not going to kill him!” Ken snapped, grabbing Petros’s arm.

Petros dropped an indignant gaze at Ken’s hand. “Listen, Shakes, I like you. I do… but you do
not
tell me what to do,” Petros said with a quiet fury, aiming his knife at Ken.

Ken let go of Petros’s arm and took a cautious step back, holding up his hands. “Let me try to talk to this guy, okay? Maybe if we talk—instead of stab—he might be more helpful.”

“The man doesn’t speak Greek too well and he clearly ain’t gettin’ A’s in English,” Caraway stated, tossing their captive a frustrated gesture.

Ken looked to Vasili, pleading. “I have an idea.”

Vasili glanced at Petros, who only shrugged. Rolling his worry beads in his hand, Vasili thought about returning to Kamariotissa empty-handed. He held up two fingers and stepped back.

Ken nodded, gracious for the two minutes. He ripped out a small piece of paper from one of the books. With a pencil he found nearby, he scribbled three symbols and walked over to the old man. The man jerked back, cringing as Ken knelt down in front of him. Ken held up a placating hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.” He showed the old man the piece of paper and the old man’s eyes went wide. “
Emet
,” Ken said, reading the word. “Truth.”

The man looked at Ken, tilting his head quizzically. Ken nodded in response.

“Yup,” Caraway sighed. “This is
real
helpful.”

Ken shot Caraway a sideways glance and took a tentative step closer. “
Emet.
Truth,” he reiterated, and then whispered: “
Golem.”

The man’s eyes grew wider as he stared at Ken. He shifted in the chair and tried to remove the gag around his mouth.

“Don’t worry. I got it,” Ken said as he reached over and removed the gag.

The man opened and closed his mouth and moistened his lips with a slow roll of his tongue. He furrowed his brow. “Brickman?” he said with a hopeful breath.

A small smile cracked on Ken’s face. He nodded slowly. “Yes.
Ata yakhol la’azor li?
” he asked.

The man stole a glance at his other captors and then looked back at Ken. “
Ech efshar la’azor lecha?
”

Ken firmed his lips and said, “
Necronomicon.”

• • •

The phantom launched at Jethro, grabbing him by the throat and slamming his head against the door, stars erupting behind his eyes. Bullets whizzed by as Gan fruitlessly tried to shoot the immaterial assailant, grazing Jethro’s shoulders, chest, and cheek, and puncturing holes in the side of the car.

“
Give us the Tablet!
” the phantom hissed as it snaked itself around Jethro’s neck, his lungs screaming for oxygen. He struggled to pry himself free, but his left hand passed through the phantom as if nothing were there. It slammed him against the door again, the hinges breaking free and sending the door tumbling onto the road. Jethro swung out, his head falling just short of hitting the ground as he grabbed onto the inside of the car. The phantom pushed him down to the ground, the wheels tossing gravel into the air, stinging his face. Without his radioactive salts, Jethro’s strength was only a fraction of what it once was, but his grip held firm.