Lazarus answered slowly with a scowl. “When Movement stands upright in the North, it is the most powerful of all Runes. It means that a great and mighty power is present – a power that nourishes and heals. It means that a force beyond any other ... has arisen to enter the fight.”
Archette shook his head, perceiving. “But if you had seen his eyes, Lazarus, then you would know! He can’t be defeated! Nothing can defeat him! It is like looking into the eyes of God!”
With a faint trembling Lazarus turned Movement face down.
“There is another,” he said somberly.
CHAPTER 22
It was midnight, and Soloman crouched low on the roof of a building on East 83rd Street in New York City, watching as the proprietor closed the NYC Gun Shop.
Soloman waited one minute before he moved.
In seconds he reached the fire escape and descended, moving fast to slide down the ladder and hit the ground hard. Roving eyes alert to everything and everyone, he walked slowly up the alley and across the street. Then he strolled down the adjoining alley where he moved behind the gun shop, checking for tramps or vagrants or witnesses. But there was only an old wino collapsed in a cardboard box.
Soloman moved past him without a sound, knowing that no plan was perfect but not wanting to hurt anyone. In seconds he was at the back door and took a small grappling hook that he’d bought from a military surplus store. He whirled it and threw high, and then he was climbing, gaining the roof, staying low. He pulled the rope up behind him, just as he’d been trained to do.
He drew the Cold Steel tanto, the only weapon he’d managed to retain during the long conflict, and moved behind the heating unit to stab the tarmac savagely. He drove the quarter-inch-thick blade through the tar and drew it hard, carving a line. Then he hit it over and over and finally reached the wood. At that, he took out the small saw and with meticulous concentration cut a hole in the roof.
For certain, he knew without even looking that the gun shop was wired to the hilt. All of them were. It would have door alarms and window vibration alarms and motion detectors and everything else that high-tech security could provide. But Soloman knew there was always a way.
He blinked sweat from his eyes, breathless, refusing to surrender to the exhausting expenditure of physical strength required for the task. Finally, he managed to cut a narrow manhole. He gazed down at pink insulation and a layer of board beneath, the ceiling.
Without hesitation he slid into the hole, enduring the stinging sensation, out of sight. Then, turning on a small flashlight, he turned in the tightness and crawled until he found where the electrical units were tied into the breaker box, which was located downstairs.
Now for the difficult part.
He studied the wires until he found one of the phone lines, lines normally used for alarms. He couldn’t reach the alarm system itself because it was inside the building, but he could reach this.
He took out the tanto and placed the wire against a two-by-four, cutting it as the alarm hit hard. With a sigh Soloman bowed his head, knowing this was the moment that would determine the rest of his life. If he failed in this, he would be in prison forever. Federal authorities, already afraid of him, would come up with anything it took to keep him behind bars.
He waited for a sweating, trembling twenty minutes until he heard voices outside the building. But he understood cops just as well as he understood alarms. He knew that no cop was going to waste energy crawling on top of a building to see if someone had cut a hole in the roof.
They answered twenty of these a night and most of them were triggered by wind-rattled windows or punks throwing rocks.
After another ten minutes, with no lights shining through the hole in the tarmac, Soloman knew he was safe. They had checked the building and found it secure. There were no windows broken, the doors were shut tight, the fire escape was high, and there was no damage visible. NYPD had decided that everything was locked down. Checking the roof was beyond the pale for cops who simply wanted to get to the end of their shift in one piece.
Soloman knew he’d have less than two minutes after he hit the floor to find what he needed. The motion detectors inside would find him to set off a second alarm on an alternate phone line so he’d have to be in and out, forgetting ammunition if he was short on time. But that was tolerable. He could pick up ammunition later, if necessary.
First and foremost, he’d have to find the weapons he needed to take Cain to the ground. Then he’d have to make it to the LTD and clear the area before a pissed-off NYPD cop checked the alarm a second time.
He moved on it.
With a violent move he kicked out the plaster ceiling and descended hard, landing on a display case that shattered spectacularly at the impact, and then he was rolling, frantically trying to avoid splintered glass. But as he gained his feet he saw blood. He didn’t know where he was cut but knew by feel that it wasn’t serious. Breathing hard, he scanned the wall and saw instantly what he needed.
A Benelli .10-gauge shotgun was displayed, locked by a steel cord that ran down the wall. Good enough. Soloman glared at the glass display case and his eyes locked on the large-caliber handguns.
He identified a .50-caliber Grizzly semiautomatic, one of the most powerful handguns in the world. Instantly he shattered the case, removing it. Then he leaped over the counter and placed the tanto against the steel cord that secured the shotguns, pressing down with desperate strength.
There was a long straining moment, and Soloman watched steel thread severed by steel thread until the cord parted. He immediately lifted the Benelli and took five seconds to find two boxes of .50-caliber ammunition and .10-gauge double-ought buckshot from behind the counter, a dozen magazines. He threw all of it in a duffle bag and leaped over the case, angling fast for the display of black powder.
He moved fast, leaping the counter again. And in another moment he’d loaded everything he needed and was at the front door, forsaking stealth. He only had thirty seconds before police arrived, using the dependable two-minute time limit.
As he reached the exit he viciously kicked a chair through the glass, smashing the shattering white shards outward in a shower of splinters that sent people screaming down the street. Then he was in the open, not caring about identification as he ran quickly toward the LTD. They would find him in the end, he knew. But by then it wouldn’t matter. He hurled everything into the backseat and fired the engine to break into traffic.
Aflame with stress, his hands gripped the wheel with crushing strength. But with maddening control he contained a silent roar until he finally brought it down again, settling into a sweating calm as he reached a side street, avoiding as much traffic as possible.
And saw Cain before him.
Not there . . .
“C’mon,” Soloman whispered. “Let’s finish this thing.”
***
His face was deathly pale, his eyes like ice.
Skin stretched across a haggard face made him seem more dead than alive in the darkness. Reverently, he removed the golden pentacle from his neck, laying it to rest on an obsidian disk holding a black candle.
The pentacle was large and intricately detailed with blazing white stars and dark clouds, haloed by a hauntingly cold night. He clasped his hands before it a moment, bending his head in prayer. Then he reached up to remove the great black cloak, settling it neatly.
In seconds, standing silently inside the magnificent Manhattan apartment, he once more resembled the man he seemed to be to the world, except on these nights of dark ritual, of glory. Then, last, he removed his soft leather boots, carefully pouring dirt from within them into a canister, for a sorcerer must always be in contact with the Earth in order to evoke a spell.
As he turned, he saw the gigantic figure seated behind him. Heart skipping, he began a wild movement to run and heard a startled shout erupt from his own mouth. But the figure di
d not move, made no effort to attack. And in a strange, spectral passage of time, no words were spoken. Each held his place in the silent darkness.
In the voice of a god, the giant spoke.
“Forgive me, Kano,” he rumbled. “But I have need of you.”
A gasp exploded from Kano, and his hands began to tremble violently. He did not know what to believe or not to believe. His breath came in quick pulls as he staggered. He swallowed, staring and shaking.
“I—I—I ... I am here,” he gasped.
“Yes,” the giant growled, seemingly pleased, “of course you are.” With terrifying strength, he rose and came slowly closer. “You have always been here for me.”
Kano fought to stay on his feet, glaring as the giant emerged from shadow. He had been warned, but he had doubted; it was too fantastic.
Yet now, and with a single glance, he knew—God.
He had come.
He had come to him and had chosen him as his servant! But still, somehow, it seemed surreal, and Kano made a visible effort to still the trembling in his hands and knees.
“There is no reason for fear,” the man said tenderly. “I am your master, and you have served me well – as I have served you.”
Kano almost collapsed from shock, but with volcanic speed the man instantly snatched him by the shoulders, supporting him with iron strength. He held him patiently until Kano reached up to feel the majestic might of those titanic arms, the hard firmness of the flesh.
It was real. It was real ... real ... real ...
The Master. . .
“I—” Kano swallowed hollowly. “I am here, Lord.”
“And yet you still do not know what to believe.” He smiled and nodded gently. “There is no reason for fear.” The Lord released him and walked slowly to the pentacle resting on the obsidian altar. “Yes, the Unknowable. One of my treasured Runes, for it portends death, enlivening the deepest of human fears.”
“Is it really you?” Kano staggered. “Is it really you?”
The man laughed. “Do you wish to know what I have seen, Kano?”
“Of course, Lord! I wish to know all that you know!”
Eyes moving from the pentacle, the man reached down and picked up a stack of Rune cards, tossing one of them casually onto the altar as he spoke. “Krist waes on rodi, hwethrae ther fusae fearran kwomu, aththilae til anum ic thaet biheald.”
Kano hesitated. “I ... I know this! I have heard it before! It is from the, uh, the ...”
“ ‘The Dream of the Rood,’” the Lord said. “From one who was there to watch the Nazarene die.” His frown was so terrible that an uncontrollable fear made Kano step back.
“Don’t be afraid, Kano,” he said without threat. “I will not harm you. No, certainly not you. For you have served me well, and now I need even more of your loyal assistance.”
Kano found the strength to walk forward. “Anything, Lord. I will do anything you demand.”
“As you always have.” The Lord laughed, suddenly focused. “I will tell you what must be done. You will write everything down. We must begin tonight. And by tomorrow I will be inside those granite walls to sit upon my throne ... once more.”
Kano searched for materials and saw the card that the man had tossed upon the altar: an image of three monolithic slabs as nobly proportioned as Stonehenge. Two stood upright, the other lay across them, a lintel. Kano knew the meaning, glanced up to see the man scowling.
“Gateway,” the Lord said, and after a moment broke himself from the trance. He released a heavy sigh that hinted of herculean power and asked, “Is The Circle in place?”
“The Circle, Lord?”
“Yes, Kano. The Circle. Those who protect The Family. Those who protect us from our enemies.”
“Of course, Lord! They are always in place!”
“Good,” the Lord replied. “Tell them to come to me tonight. They must accompany us to the Castle of Calistro in England, which is located beside the cliffs of Lifanis. Archette is making preparations for the flight.”
Kano acquiesced.
“Take down my instructions,” the Lord said as blood gleamed in his eyes; blood or revenge. “A very powerful enemy has already cost me too much time. And I must prepare for him.”
Kano’s eyes widened; he could not imagine. “But ... but who could be your enemy, my Lord?”
The Lord frowned.
“The son of David,” he said.
***
Waves crashed behind him, and Ben stared coldly. He had found the address easily enough. It was a truly titanic mansion located behind the shore near Glen Cove, directly beside icy cold Long Island Sound. It was probably fifty-thousand square feet. Four-storied with sweeping picture windows and set on a fifty-acre sandlot, it was surrounded by a spiked fence.
After advising the chopper pilot to set down at Nassau, Ben had rented a car under a false identification. Then he’d found a discreet location where he could watch unobserved. It was an abandoned, sea-broken shell of a store located almost a half mile away, and he was forced to use binoculars. And although he doubted that anyone would disturb him, he was prepared to flash his phony identification again.
Now he only watched, and waited. Though sometimes he worried about it, wondering if he wasn’t being used, being fooled. But the voice on the phone had been coldly professional and certain – the voice of someone who knew. And, remembering the tone, he felt far less ridiculous about the stakeout, sensing that something would happen here.
And he knew something else.
If Archette had the guts to come out here, he was as good as dead.
***
“Only one of you will survive this.” Maggie stared quietly as Soloman prepared. “You’re like two freight trains on a collision course.”
Soloman laid cans of black powder and a bag of ammonium nitrate on the table, along with a small case of World War II—era hand grenades. Purchased at a late-night military surplus store, they had no explosive cores. He would have to make them himself from flares, black powder, and nitrate.
Soloman said nothing at the quiet comment. Then he removed a large quantity of black powder and placed it in a steel bowl. He carefully measured scoops of ammonium nitrate until he had the proper mixture, remembering the formula: forty percent nitrate, sixty percent TNT for maximum explosive compression.
“So.” Maggie sighed and leaned forward. “What are you making?”
“Amatol,” Soloman replied, mixing ingredients. “It’s the main explosive material used in artillery shells. These things don’t have working cores because it’s illegal to sell them with combustible material, but I can improvise what I need. I can build them.”
“How dangerous will they be?”
Soloman shrugged. “Inside a six-foot perimeter, they’ll injure seventy-five percent of the enemy. At fifteen feet it drops to thirty percent. Anyone outside twenty feet won’t be hit at all, usually. And these are World War II-vintage, less effective than modern grenades. Most of the shrapnel tended to skip along the ground. But I’m boosting the charge to give the fragments more velocity. That means they’ll probably go high. If I stay low to the ground, even if I’m close, I don’t think I’ll be hit.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed as he worked. “I understand chemistry pretty well, you know. If you add some ferrous oxide to the black powder, you’ll have more compression.”
“Iron?” Soloman looked up. He knew virtually everything about improvised explosives—he had spent his lifetime learning it—but he hadn’t heard of that. “Where do you get it?”
“There’ll be some in the kitchen,” she said. “It’s a pretty common household product. Usually you can isolate it from cleaning powders. I can cook some chemicals up and deoxidize them in about a half hour.” She studied the grenades. “What about fuses?”
“I’ll soak some cot
ton string in a solution of black powder and sugar, then dry them. I’ll measure them for five seconds.” He grunted. “Which means I’ll probably have about three.”
“Why’s that?”
“A version of Murphy’s Law.” He smiled. “A five-second fuse is always three seconds.” He decided the mixture was as perfect as he could make it. “The grenades have a flint trigger that’s struck when you release the lever. It causes a spark that ignites the fuse, and when the fuse reaches the amatol it explodes to send shrapnel. But I’m adding a heavy measure of potassium chlorate and mercury fulminate to make it more incendiary. Sort of like napalm. The detonation will spread shrapnel and fire over a wider area. It’ll have a larger sphere of destruction than a regular grenade.”
“Potassium chlorate breaks down very, very fast to oxygen.” She pointed to burning candles. “You’d better seal the caps with wax once we mix the ferrous oxide in. That’ll preserve it for a few days.”
“Good idea,” he nodded. “That’ll be good enough for who it’s for.”
Maggie watched him unscrew a port located at the top of the grenade, removing the stem. Then he poured a measure of amatol in the canister of the grenade and set it to the side. He completed the procedure with twenty of them, leaving them standing.
“Will those kill Cain?” she asked quietly. “I mean, you’ve already hit him with everything anybody could hit him with, Sol, and he’s still standing. I don’t ... I don’t think he can die.”
“Cain can die,” he answered coldly. “There has to be a point where we finally overload that healing factor. If I can hit him hard enough and long enough, I’ll wear him down.”
“But what if he uses Amy as a shield again?” From the look on her face Soloman knew she was terrified at the possibility. He looked down and laid a line of string in a solution of black powder and sugar. He would remove it in five minutes and pour a careful measure of mercury fulminate along the length.
“Amy’s not even going to be there when the shooting starts,” he said. “The first thing I’m going to do is get you and her clear. I don’t want anybody coming between me and Cain.”
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