The Thieves of Heaven (55 page)

Michael awoke to carnage. Blood ran in scarlet mini-rivers along the driveway. His body and mind were numb. Unsure if the blood was his own, he dared not move as he recognized the sound of hissing bullets overhead. As his eyes focused, he saw fresh soldiers’ bodies strewn about: two down, three remaining. And those three were firing in all directions.

Jax was to Michael’s right under cover of a green Peugeot. Wild-eyed, the mercenary was strafing the gardens, his body shaking with the rapid recoil of his assault rifle. One of the soldiers flew back, landing in a heap. Michael heard the last gasps of his breath through the nickel-sized hole in his neck.

“Where is the colonel?” the other guard shouted over the sounds of gunfire.

“Don’t know,” Michael’s captor said.

“A little firefight and he hides? I thought he was supposed to be this brave and glorious leader.”

Jax spun about, his gun aimed at his comrade. “Keep your attention on the enemy out there.” He pointed into the darkness beyond.

Michael waited silently as the dissension escalated. These men weren’t soldiers. They were military rejects, weekend warriors hovering at the very edge of sanity, and they were armed. Simon was somewhere out there, picking them off one by one. As far as Michael was concerned, it wasn’t fast enough.

Jax turned to see Michael lying there awake among the corpses, and what few viable brain cells the soldier had started spinning. “Look who’s up.” He grabbed Michael by the hair, dragging him to his feet.

“Well. I’ll be goddamned….” the other guard said, ashe stumbled to his feet.

“Shhh.” Jax cut him off. “Get down.”

“Hey, who made you God?” the guard snapped, as he stood squinting, trying to see into the darkness. A rifle shot cracked from somewhere off in the gloom, the report echoing through the valley. “Shit,” was all the soldier said as Michael and Jax watched him fall dead.

Simon lay behind an old stone water well, his nerves on fire. The hired guns never had a chance, each tumbling to the ground, their lives snuffed out by a single shot to the head. Simon never lost his center, never lost concentration.

By Simon’s count, there were only two remaining, the leader and one soldier. The soldier with the gray wisps of hair was still hiding behind the Peugeot, but where the other one was was anyone’s guess. Simon scanned the driveway through his rifle scope and found Michael. He stood on wobbly legs behind the Peugeot, badly beaten, his right eye blackening and swelling shut. The wispy-haired guard stood behind him, ramming the barrel of his rifle under Michael’s chin. Simon desperately tried to line up a shot but the guard wasn’t stupid; he moved Michael to and fro, leaving no room for a clear shot. One hundred yards in a crosswind, at a small, moving target. Simon couldn’t take the chance. He moved in fifty yards.

He lay down on the exposed ground, flipped out the rifle’s legs, and removed his pistols. He flexed his fingers, working out the kinks. Then he wrapped his right hand around the rifle’s stock, snuggling the butt in his left shoulder, slipped his index finger around the trigger, and nestled his eye in the sight. He swept the gun back and forth in infinitesimal amounts, finally settling the crosshairs on the hood of the green French car. He gradually raised his aim, lining up the shot, a spot inches to the left of Michael’s right shoulder. The guard’s head moved in and out of position for a good second and a half before withdrawing, then, an instant later, passed through the target range once again. Simon judged for the slight wind, drew a bead…Counted off…Exhaled…And began his prayer. As the guard’s head began to slide into position, Simon readied his finger.

The foot caught Simon square in the temple; the rifle flew out of his hands, discharging in the woods. He rolled with the impact, instinctively trying to cushion the blow. His skull throbbed as he leaped to his feet. Standing before him was a man with one of the worst scars he had ever seen, dressed as an officer in tan fatigues—of what army was anyone’s guess. But it was the confidence of the man that gave Simon pause. This “colonel” was armed with pistols—both hips—yet no weapon in hand. This soldier for hire possessed the confidence to kill, even without the benefit of his guns.

They were squared off, eyeing each other across an invisible barrier. The colonel struck first, a hard spin-kick to the ribs. Simon stumbled backward, but regained his footing just in time to avoid the follow-up. He threw a barrage of punches—all were blocked. It was if his opponent could read his mind. Simon was overmatched and knew it. The assault came in a salvo of kicks and strikes delivered without so much as a breath. Simon was steadily forced backward with each blow, farther away from his own weapons. He came in low, assaulting the colonel’s legs and stomach, beginning to make a dent, strain showing in the mercenary’s eyes. Simon continued his attack, pouring all his energy into each blow as if it was his last. But like a chess game gone wrong, he realized his bad move too late in the match. The colonel was letting him waste his energy, feigning pain and defeat when in reality he was the constant aggressor. And as Simon realized this, the colonel came back hard, raining down blow after blow.

Simon’s body began to weaken and fail. He parried what he could, but the blows were getting in, brutally assaulting his face and gut. He continued backing up, away from his opponent and away from his guns, until he was stopped in his tracks, his back against a wall. He could feel the coolness of the stone at his waist; it was a well; Simon could smell the dampness wafting up from below.

Without warning, the colonel lunged; his hands gripped the priest’s throat. Simon tried desperately to pry them off, but his body was spent. He had come up against an adversary who bested him with not only strength but mind and strategy. The colonel leaned his body weight against Simon, bending his back over the lip of the well. Simon could see the depth of the scar, the white calloused skin running deep into the gouged bone. As powerful fingers relentlessly cut off his air, he could hear the throbbing of his pulse mixed with the echoes of pebbles falling deep into the pit over his shoulder, their echoes splashing at least seventy-five feet down. The night grew darker as he felt his world slipping away.

And then the fingers about his neck were gone. As Simon gasped for air, he felt the full weight of the colonel collapse against him. A migraine of proportions he had never known rushed in, as the oxygen returned to his blood. He squeezed out of his wedged position, bewildered and wheezing. The colonel slumped over the lip of the well, a knife in his back.

Michael stood there bruised and bloody, barely managing a smile as Simon slumped to the ground against the cool musty stone. Michael walked up to the colonel and pulled the long knife out of the mercenary’s back, the tan fatigues already darkened beyond maroon. Without hesitation, he grabbed the soldier’s legs, flipped them up in the air, and the dead weight did the rest, pulling him into the darkness. It was a good five count before the head of Finster’s security force hit the water far below.

Simon never asked Michael how he escaped the other guard but he had just gained a new respect for the man he had thought about killing just over a week ago.

Michael sheathed the knife in an ankle holster he’d lifted off one of the dead guards. It was the same knife he used to kill his captor, Jax, the repulsive mercenary who’d played chaperon for the last half hour.

As Michael was being held captive, spun back and forth as a shield, he had heard the single rifle shot. Jax threw Michael to the ground and drove his heel into the back of Michael’s neck as he took cover behind the Peugeot. Michael, weak and powerless, looked to the dead bodies for a weapon but could barely move his head under the weight of his captor’s heavy black boot. Then he remembered. They all had them. Strapped to their leg. Jax ground his foot into Michael’s neck hard, forcing his face into the asphalt drive. Michael reached up, felt the knee, the calf…And there it was. Michael quickly pulled it from its sheath and made three quick slices. The first was up and over, severing Jax’s right hamstring and femoral artery; the second drew the blade in the same motion behind the left leg. The wispy-haired guard collapsed as the blood from each leg spewed like a faucet turned to full-bore. Free of the restraint to his neck, Michael made the third and final stroke.

Busch had never driven over one hundred and twenty mph. Tonight, he didn’t drive below it. It had taken him ten minutes to get his car and another five to fight his way out of the Berlin side streets, all the while dialing his cell phone like a man possessed. Every time, it came back with a female German voice that he could only imagine was saying,
“We’re sorry, the mobile customer you are trying to reach has traveled out of the coverage area. Please leave a message at the tone.”

Busch had left a message, not knowing if they would ever get it. It was simple: “Get out, get out now! He’s coming!!!!”

In a matter of minutes their well-conceived plan had gone to Hell—literally. Busch had no doubt Simon could get past the guards and into the mansion. Michael would snatch back the keys and they’d be at the airport and in the air before anyone was the wiser. All Busch had to do was keep Finster in the nightclub formerly known as a church.

He hit redial. “Come on, come on, come on—”

“
Es tut mir—
”

“Shit!” Busch slammed the phone closed. Why didn’t they have the phone on? He wove in and out of the traffic like a madman, juggling the phone, flashing his lights, laying on the horn. Five kilometers out of the city, he spotted the ambulance at the side of the road, doors ajar, lights still flashing. He didn’t need to stop to know that the driver and the medic inside were dead.

Busch had only one thought: Finster was loose, pissed, and headed for home.

Chapter 33

J
eannie Busch was sitting vigil. The drone of
the respirator combined with the sterile hospital smell had brought on one of her massive migraines and that was two hours ago. The last minutes of the setting sun painted the little room orange: Jeannie was thankful for any color after staring at the antiseptic white of intensive care for so long.