by K. T. Tomb
However, just as the thought had doubled the speed of her steps, she stepped on something and stopped short at the sight below her.
Chyna found herself staring down at a fine piece of jewelry strewn on the ground. A long chain of beautiful black and white beads, a perfect silver crucifix hanging at its apex; the rosary of Isabella was just lying there on the stones of the square beneath the soles of her shoes. Its box lay open a few feet away.
Now that the rosary was within arm’s reach, Chyna acquired a new perspective on how the battle that was progressing around her. Stooping, she picked up the wooden box and gathered the rosary inside it. She was about to tuck it under her arm, but when she looked up, her eyes met Tony’s. He was trapped along with his partner One Eye, pinned down, between Oscar and Sirita on one side and herself on the other. His irises were a storm of anger, helplessness, and what looked like fear. Could it really be that he was afraid? Of what, or more pertinently, of whom? The feel of the box in her hand gave her a strength which she felt had been granted to her by the power of God himself. In that very moment, it seemed as if her senses were alive, her hands and fingers moved of their own accord, aiming and shooting at the two remaining men in police uniform who were attempting to advance toward the inadvertent cage which trapped Tony and One Eye. The sounds of bullets whislted through the air from all sides, even Tony and One Eye, who tried and failed to shoot their way out, found themselves too well entrenched by Sirita and Oscar.
Chyna concerned herself with keeping Tacho covered as he edged away from the conflict, and with the rosary in her possession. As she worked on finishing off the fake cops who had accompanied Tony and One Eye to the scene, Sirita began to empty a clip into the bushes and fence that they were taking cover behind; splintering the wood and forcing them into the open. A volley of lead from Chyna’s nine millimeter followed and the only combatants left in the square were her team, Tony and One Eye.
Trapped between gunfire from two directions, it was only a matter of time before they would capture Tony, of that Chyna was sure. She checked on Tacho and repositioned herself to scan the square for the location of their quarry. That was when she saw Tony and One Eye retreating toward a narrow alley leading into the darkness, lit only at the entrance by a dim street light. Tony was moving behind the cover of a now bullet-ridden Fiat Cinquecento, blocking himself against any fire from Chyna’s position. She yelled a warning to Oscar, who did not look up from his braced and locked firing stance. One bullet rang out. One Eye cried out and went down. The shot had passed right through the smashed rear windscreen of the little hatchback car and struck One Eye in the hip. Tony dropped all pretenses at subtlety and fired wildly, one handed, forcing Oscar and Sirita to retreat for cover and Chyna to fling herself flat on the hard cobblestones, knocking all the wind out of her and leaving her gasping. In the few seconds it had taken her to raise herself to a knee, she found Oscar and Sirita already running toward One Eye. Too late to think about Tony, who seemed to have made good on his escape; they would have to settle for whatever they could get. They could chase Tony later, but interrogating One Eye might lead to some idea about the intentions of Illuminati Reborn and, objectively, that was the more important goal.
Chyna, however, was working on a different frequency. She had waited too long and suffered too much to let Tony get away on the brink of her success. She reasoned that having One Eye in their custody and behind bars, or dead, would not make too much of a difference. It was Tony who was the mastermind behind their plans. He was the one making the decisions and executing the plays. One Eye was just a pawn in his schemes. If he wasn’t, Tony would not have sacrificed him so easily.
She watched Tony’s retreating form like a hawk and did not even have to think before picking up her gun. With her eye on Tony’s retreating silhouette, she aimed, surer of herself than she had been before Dresden. There were only sheer focus and a determination to bring him down that were working inside Chyna. She filled her lungs and waited to exhale. As soon as he reached a tiny spot of light cast by another dim overhead street lamp, her finger tightened reflexively and the hammer dropped. A flash and a cry rang out, and the running shadow went down, clutching at his leg. She breathed again and slowly lowered her weapon.
Chyna Stone had found closure.
Epilogue
“Throughout history, it has been the inaction of those who could have acted; the indifference of those who should have known better; the silence of the voice of justice when it mattered most; that has made it possible for evil to triumph.”
—Emperor Haile Selassie I
One Eye had bled out so much that when the ambulancia arrived, Oscar and Chyna were both elbow deep in his vital fluids.
The paramedics stabilized him at the scene, and took him away under police guard. The real Spanish garda civil were understandably dismayed at the carnage wrought in the grounds of Barcelona’s most beloved building and celebrated plaza, and even more so when they discovered the bullets that had found their way into the brickwork of the La Catedral de Barcelona itself. Tony had been nowhere to be found. A trail of his blood in a dimly lit alleyway was the only evidence that he had ever been in Spain at all.
Fortunately, for the Found History team, Tacho proved most effective at negotiating their release from arrest, despite the multiple breaches of local and international law. The recovery of the Rosary of Isabella had helped to smooth the path to liberty, and when Cardinal Montego, head of the Catholic Church in Catalonia arrived to take possession of a relic which had been thought to be mythical or at least lost to history, their release was assured. The team was required to surrender their weapons, which they did gladly. At that point, Chyna was glad that she had left her beloved Sig Sauer in Geneva at Oscar’s suggestion in order to smuggle weapons into Spain; parting with it would have been more painful than even Tony’s betrayal.
In any event, the team did have to spend a night in the cells, and it was an exhausted and worn team who convened for a breakfast of torrijas and dark, sweet coffee the following morning. As the police station jail was segregated along gender lines, Chyna, Lara and Sirita had been separated from Oscar and Mark, who had clearly spent the night coming up with wild ideas, judging by the animated conversation which overrode their disheveled appearance and dark-ringed eyes.
“Ladies,” Oscar said, slurping his coffee. “Mark and I have decided that we need to go on a team building exercise.”
He emphasized the last three words with thumps on the table which rattled the china cups in their saucers. Lana groaned and then followed it with a mocking quip.
“Team building? You mean, going off to a sweat lodge and talking about how we can increase sales of vacuum cleaners in Ohio?”
Chyna burst out laughing, unable to get the visual out of her head of them sitting cross-legged in a steamy teepee, swaying from side to side. Lana had always had a knack for comebacks.
Mark took up the tale.
“Not quite, Lana. I, well, we think it’s high time we took some time off, together, you know? Chyna had her break, and that, well, no offense boss, but it did you no good at all. More like a psychotic break, of sorts. So, this time we’re not letting you out of our sight, OK? Right. Where are we?”
Chyna was about to thank him for his clever wit and obvious concern and insist she was in fact fine, but the question stopped her mid-thought.
“We’re in a coffee shop,” she responded.
“Very droll,” Oscar said. “I mean, geographically speaking, of course. We’re not even eight hundred kilometers from the champagne region in France…”
“That’s five hundred miles, y’all,” Oscar interjected, his Tennessee accent coming through plainly.
“So, I was thinking, how about we go on a road trip? We made a map while we were in jail.” He pulled out a piece of legal paper on which was drawn a fairly accurate picture of southern Europe.
“We drive to the Pyrenees,” Oscar said, tracing the route with his teaspoon. “Then we hi
re bicycles and run the route all the way from here, through Andorra, hit Toulouse, and then cycle through the wine country. Get all manner of drunk. Mark here reckons with a 4x4, his knee will hold up to drive as support vehicle. It’ll be fun!”
“Yeah, that’s a great idea!” Sirita said. “I’ve always wanted to do that, but we never have the chance, we’re always working. What do you say, Chyna?”
Chyna considered it. On the one hand, Tony was still at large, but it would be some time before he was able to cause any more trouble, thanks to the bullet she had put in him. In addition, she could use a break, a real break, and not one spent wallowing in self-pity. Getting hammered on good wine with good friends might just be the right kind of break. Her team, even Lana, was looking at her with looks of enormous expectation in their eyes. They needed something like that as much as she did, and they deserved it.
“Okay, we’ll do it; on one condition. First case of champagne is on me.”
The End
Chyna Stone returns in:
The Jeweled Crown
Return to the Table of Contents
THE JEWELED CROWN
by
K.T. TOMB
A Chyna Stone Adventure #8
The Jeweled Crown
Published by K.T. Tomb
Copyright © 2016 by K.T. Tomb
All rights reserved.
The Jeweled Crown
Prologue
“Farewell, my dearest. Do so much good to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel.” —Empress Maria Theresa of Austria
Marie Antoinette was essentially a symbol of the French monarchy’s excesses and is widely thought to have been the main provocateur of the popular unrest which led to the French Revolution and the overthrow of the monarchy in August 1792.
She was born on November 2, 1755, in Vienna, Austria and at the tender age of twenty, the consort to Louis XVI and mother of four was beheaded on October 16, 1793; nine months after her husband met the same fate.
After the conclusion of the Seven Years' War in 1763, the preservation of an increasingly fragile alliance between Austria and France became a priority for Austrian Empress, Maria Theresa. At the time, cementing alliances through matrimonial connections was a common practice among European royal families and the Empress saw this as the easiest way to keep the peace. In 1765, Louis Ferdinand, the son of French monarch Louis XV, died, naming his 11-year-old grandson, Louis-Auguste as heir to the French throne, so Maria Theresa arranged for Marie Antoinette and Louis-Auguste to be pledged in marriage to each other and in May 1770, at the tender age of 14, Marie Antoinette set out for France to be married.
The two teenagers were married on May 16, 1770. However, neither of the two adjusted well to a married life. It was obvious Marie was not ready; her frequent letters home revealed intense homesickness and a difficulty adjusting to the opulent lifestyle as it was observed in Versailles. She bristled at some of the rituals she was expected to perform as a lady of the French royal family and complained to the empress, making reference in particular to the fact that she was required to dress and even put on her makeup in the morning with dozens of courtiers as an audience.
At the same time, her relationship with her new husband was rather difficult and extremely strained. Their personalities could not have been more different. He was introverted, shy and indecisive, a lover of solitude reveling in activities such as reading and metalwork. She on the other hand was a social butterfly who loved gambling, partying and extravagant fashions.
In 1774, when Louis XV died, Louis-Auguste succeeded to the French throne as Louis XVI. This made Marie Antoinette queen of France at just 19 years old.
Chapter One
“It is time, my love.” The term of endearment was always added for the sake of the children. Though her heart belonged completely to another man, she still respected and admired her husband and the father to the four children who waited along with the Marquise de Tourzel and Madame Elisabeth.
Louis, who had been in a stupor since they’d left Versailles, looked up at her with vacant eyes, studied her without recognition for a moment, and then quickly snapped to attention. “Yes, of course, it’s time. The children are ready, then?”
“Everyone is ready,” Marie responded with a forced smile. It was the best she could do, given the circumstances. “We’re only waiting on you.”
“You’re certain that Count Axel von Fersen has designed this plan well?” Louis asked, turning his eyes toward the floor. Though he’d resigned himself to his wife’s affair with the count, it was still a reminder to him that he was a failure to her. In reality, they’d never loved each other and it was not something that could be overcome.
“He has, indeed, and there are 10,000 loyal soldiers standing ready to protect the garrison,” Marie replied. “He has assured me of it, as has Baron de Breteuil.”
Louis glanced up at her with a look of resignation. For a king to have to flee in the night didn’t sit well with him. He sighed heavily and then rose from the settee. “Very well, then, we’ll take our leave.”
They turned together toward the waiting marquise, Elisabeth and the children. Where outward appearances were concerned, the king and queen were as one. Louis stopped and surveyed the group before him. They were dressed in garb that was certainly not fitting of royalty, just as he and Marie were. “We certainly look the part of a lot of rapscallions,” he murmured.
“This dreadful getup does not suit me either,” Marie complained. An icon of fashion, Marie was disgusted with the bourgeois clothing and was ready to get on with the task before them. When it was over, she’d be able to dress herself once more in the finery that she adored. She cupped her hand next to her mouth as she confided in the marquise in a whisper. “I do hope Axel doesn’t see me in this.”
The marquise smiled and then took to playing the role for which she had been cast in their elaborate play. In a thick Russian accent, she took command of the group; command that she would have until they were all safe in the citadel of Montmédy. “Elisabeth, do lead off with the children and Governess Theresa. Our valet and I will bring up the rear.”
As Marie passed by her, the marquise whispered to her. “My lady, perhaps you ought to remove the tiara? It is really not fitting for a governess to wear one.”
Marie smiled and slipped the tiara from her head, concealing it among the ample pleats of her skirt.
With Marie looking more the part of the governess than the Queen of France, she continued taking charge. “That horrid monstrosity of a coach is waiting in the back alley. We ought to have ridden in two carriages and made a much more pleasant trip of it, but this is what we’re...”
“Our decision is made,” Louis snapped through clenched teeth. “We will not split our family into two carriages. And, marquise, I will remind you that though you are playing the role of my superior in this little drama, I am still the King of France.”
Noting the cold look in Louis’ eyes, the marquise bowed her head slightly and then resumed her role as Baroness Sophia Karlovna of St. Petersburg, who with her two children (Marie Therese and Louis-Charles), the governess of her children (Marie), and their nurse (Elisabeth, Louis’ sister) was traveling with her valet (Louis) from Paris to the citadel of Montmédy before leaving France to return to St. Petersburg.
The group moved as a silent unit down the corridors to the back alley. Each was assisted by the coachmen to mount their transportation and begin their trip to freedom. Hopefully, it would include the restoration of the monarchy of France and putting down the outrageous rebellion that had risen up, seized the family from Versailles and had been holding his family, like captives, in the Tuileries of Paris for almost two years.
Louis was the sixteenth king of France to bear the name of a long line of monarchs who had ruled France since the son of Charlemagne, Louis the first, became king. Louis XVI did not intend to be the last. Marie steeled herself against the emotions that threatened to burst from her as s
he watched her husband slide into the coach beside his six-year-old son, Louis-Charles, Dauphin of France, and pulled his frightened heir in close to his side. Their eyes met across the coach as Marie, seated beside Baroness Sophia, pulled Marie Therese, their daughter, into her side as well.
“Louis,” his sister, Elisabeth said in a low tone as she slid over and pulled Louis-Charles to her own side. “Sure the valet of a baroness would not be so bold with the baroness’ son.”
Marie watched the shadow of sadness come back into her husband’s eyes as he sat alone, no longer the King of France in any form. Since they’d been taken from their home in Versailles, he had been more suited to the valet role that he was playing as the coach lurched forward. She watched him and prayed silently that General François Claude de Bouillé, who awaited them at Montmédy was truly ready to retake France. Any hope of returning to the life that they were accustomed to was dependent upon their successful escape from Paris to Montmédy.
“We must stop,” Marie insisted. “We’ll all perish at this pace. I’d rather be wearing something more flamboyant when I meet my doom, if you don’t mind.”
“We cannot risk it,” Baroness Sophia cautioned. “We’re sure to be recognized if we quit this coach, even for a moment.”
“If we’re to be recognized, then why did we bother with these horrific disguises?” Marie countered.
“I think it would be okay for just a moment,” Louis advised. He raised his eyebrows in a gesture that reminded the marquise of their discussion before leaving Tuileries. “The children need a moment to stretch their legs and tend to other necessities.”
