The Solomon Key (39 page)

“Religion
used
by people like you.”

“Faith is a powerful thing. It is very useful when controlled. But it has no place in the coming Empire. Division will be a crime. Our space brothers will come to save us, to illuminate our way of thinking, to reveal the true concept of the divine. They will have the answers man has been searching for. Answers they will want to hear. How we are all of the same spirit, part of Gaia.”

Scott changed the subject, seeing his opportunity approaching. “Did you kill Isaiah?”

“Slit his throat. What does that have to do with anything?”

Scott was counting on the heftiness of the Eagle to give him a fighting chance. Because of its size, weight, report, and blinding muzzle flash, the Desert Eagle was relatively clumsy for these types of situations and the reason it had become a relic among pistols. The Mark XIX that Mayhew was wielding had a ten inch barrel, as opposed to the six that other models had. If he fired it with his fatigued hand, the report would jack the barrel of the gun almost straight up into the air, pulling his whole arm up with it. He would then have to bring it all the way back down before getting off another shot. Scott just needed the first one to miss.

“One more question,” Scott said. “How do I turn off the fence?”

A look of astonishment swept over Mayhew’s face. “You think you’re going to make it out of here alive?”

He shrugged. “Just supposing.”

Mayhew sidestepped over to a console and brushed his fingers over the touchpad. He glanced down for a second, then looked back up to Scott. “There. It’s off.”

Scott just stared at him.

“But you know what? It doesn’t really matter whether it’s on or off, because I knew that the scientist was planning his little attempt at penitence. Why didn’t I stop it then, you ask? Because I knew it would bring the ring back. Oh yes, I know all about the little Christian commune. And, unfortunately, every last person within that community will be dead by tomorrow night. So, it doesn’t really matter if the prisoners here run away or not. They’ll be hunted down and shot all the same.”

“You don’t think they’ll get information from Melissa Strauss?”

“She’s a vegetable. Besides, they’ll soon be dead, and I’ll have the ring.”

“The ring that leads to the location of the Ark?” Scott was stalling now, waiting for Mayhew to transfer the pistol into his left hand.

“Well, the ring is the last piece of the puzzle concocted by the Jews.”

“Everyone’s always taking from the Jews.”

Mayhew shrugged. “I didn’t judge them.”

This was it, he could feel it.

“You know, years ago we actually lost track of the other ring. What a mess that was. But you don’t even know about the other ring, do you? What it is? Well, never mind.” Mayhew brought his left hand toward his right.

Scott tensed, only needing to confirm that he was in fact transferring it and not just getting a firmer grip with an added hand.

The gun rotated sideways, the barrel shifting up to the left ever so slightly. But ever so slightly spread out over distance could prove to be the difference between life and death. Granted, there was only thirty feet separating them… but it was his only chance.

The weight of the Eagle was now mostly in his left hand, his finger off the trigger and out of the trigger guard, and his right hand releasing the gun.

Now!

Scott pulled the silenced pistol out of the holster strapped to his thigh even as he moved forward up and off the chair. He threw himself sideways, diving for the cover of a desk.

Mayhew quickly fired the Desert Eagle. Too quickly. He hadn’t had the time to aim, and the blast made his arm jump. By the time he was able to settle his aim, both hands steadying the pistol, Scott was out of sight.

The shot tore half the table apart and blew out a chunk of the floor right beside Scott’s foot, but it was a miss. And now Scott had the advantage. He crawled across the floor, between rows of desks, heading for the far right wall. Once there, he sat with his back against it.

A whistle echoed throughout the room. “Wow, that was fast.”

Scott aimed the pistol at the farthest light and squeezed off a round. The bulb shattered, and the light went dark. He did it three more times, casting the room into more shadows.

“Clever boy,” Mayhew called out. “I know what you’re up to. Don’t think I didn’t see that night-vision hanging around your neck.”

Crawling across the floor, Scott made his way along the wall and toward Mayhew’s last position. Once he was across from it, he stopped. Listened.

The console next to him exploded, shooting a debris trail across the floor away from him. Mayhew was coming up behind him. He spun around and fired off a few shots just as Mayhew was peeking out from behind a row of desks. More multi-touch consoles shattered, and Mayhew ducked back out of sight, but not before Scott saw the M4 he’d surrendered in his hands.

A burst from the M4 cut into the wall above him and shattered the closest desk, filling the air with loose papers gliding gently to the floor. Scott got to his feet, replaced the empty clip in the pistol, and fired in Mayhew’s direction, shell casings bouncing off the floor at his feet.

Mayhew returned fire, the muzzle flashes from the M4 like a strobe light in the darkness. Scott dove back to the floor and waited for Mayhew to make the next move, but none came. Walking in a low crouch, he stepped into the aisle where their confrontation had begun, but there was no sign of him. Walking slowly down the aisle, the sound of sizzling and popping electronics accompanied by the glass crunching under his feet, Scott swept his aim from right to left.

Nothing.

But he
felt
something.

He broke out in a full sprint just as Mayhew’s M4 erupted from somewhere, everything around him exploding. Diving onto his stomach, he slid across the floor. He reached out and grabbed a desk leg, swinging himself around behind it just as he heard the empty
click
of the M4 and its clatter to the floor. Scott hopped to his feet and emptied the rest of his clip in the direction he’d heard the gun drop. Ducking low while reloading, he ran across the aisle, back to the right side of the room, toward the wall. Swinging around the corner, he came upon the empty M4 lying in a puddle of empty shells.

And then came the sound of a door banging shut ahead of him.

The door swung on hinges, had a handle, and didn’t require a keycard. Quickly peeking around the corner, Scott saw no trace of Mayhew in the empty corridor. Stepping in, he followed it to another adjacent wing. That one was empty too, running off in two opposite directions. But the report of Mayhew’s Desert Eagle suddenly sounded from the left. Following the sound, Scott came to one of Malachi’s men lying face down on the floor, blood flowing from his body. Stepping over him, he continued on.

There was a gradual incline to the corridor now, and drops of blood were dotting the floor, stretching all the way to the end of the passageway. The agent must’ve managed to get off a silenced round. That would hopefully slow Mayhew down. Coming to another door, he used the keycard, and as the door slid open and he spun through it, he saw Mayhew thirty yards ahead of him, limping and dragging his left leg. He was heading toward a huge white door that sat above a small set of metal stairs. It declared in big red letters, EXIT.

Scott raised his pistol just as Mayhew turned and fired a silenced submachine gun. Diving to the floor once more, he squeezed off a few rounds of his own, and Mayhew fell with a moan, dropping the weapon.

Scott stood, anger burning through his veins. “Well,
Titus
, looks like you won’t be seeing your New World Order after all.” His voice echoed through the corridor around them. He was taking his time reaching him, walking slowly. “But don’t worry, I’ll send you a postcard, let you know how it’s all playing out without you. Oh, except that I hear there’s only outer darkness where you’re going, and you probably won’t be able to read it.” He stood over him, shot him in the arm before he could raise the Eagle.

Mayhew screamed and cursed at him. And then he smiled.

“You think something’s funny?” asked Scott.

Mayhew began nodding vigorously. “I do.” He laughed. “I do.”

Scott kicked the Eagle aside, reaching down and grabbing Mayhew’s collar with one hand, pulling him up to his feet. Then he shoved him hard against the wall. “Do tell.”

“Well,” he licked his lips, “remember how I sort of insinuated that your wife wasn’t here?”

Scott’s heart paused.

“Actually, she
was
here.”

Scott moved his hand from Mayhew’s collar up to his throat and began to squeeze. “You’re a liar.”

He shrugged, his voice barely able to escape his constricted larynx. “Sticks and stones…”

“Where is she then?” His whole body was convulsing with rage, and he had to keep from crushing the Rosicrucian’s vertebrae.

Mayhew raised up a finger, indicating that his throat needed to be loosened in order for him to answer the question. “Well,” he sighed, “once we’re done with the subjects, you know, people who reportedly died in the nuclear attack, we have to remove any trace of them.”

Scott started shaking.

“You didn’t see the incinerator, did you?”

He didn’t know what happened next, only that Mayhew’s face was somehow reduced to bloody pulp, and that a severe stinging sensation had erupted in his right arm.

Everything stopped, sound itself vanishing. He was slightly aware of someone to his right, but it took him a year to turn his head. There was an NAU soldier pointing a gun at him, but then he was suddenly on his back, blood spurting from his body. Another year passed, and he was looking back at Mayhew. But he wasn’t there. Just an empty wall.

And then there was a faint sound and a huge impact against his back. He was falling forward, slowly, and the floor was rising up to meet his face. He tried to put his arms out, to brace himself, but he couldn’t move them. It seemed like he might lie down gently… but then his face hit the floor, and everything went black.

When he opened his eyes a second later, he realized what had happened. He was beating Mayhew’s face in when the NAU soldier came around the corner and shot him in the arm, causing him to turn and fire back, letting go of Mayhew in the process. And then there was the pain in his back… he rolled onto his side and noticed Mayhew standing over him, the Desert Eagle back in his hand, its barrel smoking.

“So how does it feel to know that your wife was incinerated?”

Scott’s mind whirled through the chaos. Jennifer was dead. Nothing mattered anymore.

“Looks like I’ll be the one sending you the postcard,” Mayhew spat.

And Scott realized that something did matter. He had a phone call to make. Screaming in pain, he arched his back while placing his hand at the base of his spine, slipping the knife out of the sheath and into his hand.

Mayhew crouched beside him, blood dripping off his chin and splashing on the floor. He raised the Eagle and struck it against Scott’s head.

Seeing stars, Scott prayed for another blow before Mayhew shot him.

And he got it. Looking for a release to his own rage, Mayhew seemed intent on bashing Scott’s head in before using his last bullet. Reaching out, Scott blocked the next blow with his arm and lashed out with the knife in his other hand. It flashed quickly under the lights lining the corridor’s ceiling before sinking into Mayhew’s flesh.

Mayhew screamed and backed up, the knife retracting from his right bicep, the pistol falling from his grasp. Scott leaned forward and swiped the knife across the front of his shins.

Mayhew fell over.

Struggling back to his feet, Scott reached around his back and pulled out the shotgun still positioned there. It was disfigured and bent by the Eagle’s shot. He threw it to the floor.

Mayhew was sitting on the ground, pushing himself backwards toward the exit. But without saying another word, Scott bent over, picked up the Desert Eagle, and fired its last round into Mayhew’s knee, shattering it like glass. Mayhew screamed at the top of his lungs, nearly passing out from the pain. And then Scott threw the empty gun at him, striking him in the face.

Mayhew clutched his nose, rolling back and forth on his side, yelling in agony.

“You know what I’m gonna do for you?” Scott asked. “I’m gonna let you sit and think about your life, what it was worth. See if you can manage to find some peace in the end.” He flashed the knife around. “Doubt it though.”

Mayhew tried to move but couldn’t. “Please…”

Scott paused, fury shaking his hands. “Please?
Please?
Is that what my wife said before you stuck her in a microwave?” he screamed. Then he lunged down at him, the knife flashing back and forth, blood spraying all over the corridor. Mayhew was screaming, holding up his hands.

Finally, Scott stood. He was shaking, his chest heaving, craze in his eyes. Somehow he’d managed to miss any major arteries in the flash of insanity. No amount of plastic surgery would ever fix Mayhew’s face, he would never walk on his own two legs again, and he might be a little slower in the head, but he would live. If he got to a doctor soon. But that wasn’t Scott’s problem. He bent over to open Mayhew’s jacket, intent on retracting the books, when he noticed something through Mayhew’s torn and bloody shirt. Tearing it apart, Scott saw the entirety of the tattoo he’d gotten a glimpse of at Isaiah’s. It wasn’t just a cross… but the Rosicrucian symbol complete with the double-headed phoenix encircled by the passage from Psalms. Scott stared at it for a second before grabbing the books. Three in all. Two of the priest’s and Isaiah’s composition book. He didn’t ask about the two he’d already read. “Thanks,” he mumbled. And he turned and headed for the exit, limping.

Mayhew’s bloody lips opened. “See you in hell, Matthew.”

“Probably.” He climbed the stairs, slid the access key in the appropriate spot, and watched as the darkness of night came to greet him.

Lifting his head out of the pooling blood that was expanding beneath him, Mayhew yelled with all the hatred he could muster. “You’re wife died screaming like a little…” But he stopped when he heard the distinct sound of the metallic pin. Something clinking, bouncing down the corridor toward him. He craned his neck, trying to look up behind him, and was barely able to see the grenade roll to a stop just five feet away. It just sat there, staring at him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t reach it. He could only watch it and wait. Wait for the fires of hell to consume him for all eternity.