The chanting of the crowd went on rising in pitch and intensity, the same incomprehensible phrases being repeated over and over like some hypnotic religious catechism that had taken hold of their minds. The chants were joined now by the harsh, rasping blare of musical instruments, like hunting horns, that sounded from the island and echoed over the lake. More flames illuminated the billows of smoke rising above the treetops.
That was when Wolf should have left. Should have just turned and run, got the hell out of there and just kept running and not looked back. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Transfixed by the spectacle, almost willing to believe he was being gripped by some nightmarish hallucination, he couldn’t help but keep watching.
Then it got worse. And it became too late for Wolf to turn away.
There were people on the island. Still filming the scene with the zoom of his phone lens wound up to maximum magnification, he saw four robed and hooded musicians – if the dissonant blaring from their horns could be described as music – appear as if out of nowhere through the smoke and assemble at the foot of the statue, two on each side. Moments later they were joined by three more figures that likewise appeared to have materialised by magic. Two of them wore the same robes and masks as the chanting crowd watching from across the lake, and carried flaming torches. But the third was something entirely different. It was a female figure, a blonde, clad in a plain white smock dress. From this distance and in the smoke and flicker of the flames Wolf couldn’t make out her features clearly, but enough to tell that she was young, perhaps still in her teens, more a girl than a woman.
But what was instantly obvious to Wolf was that she wasn’t there by choice. The two hooded, bird-headed men who accompanied her were clutching her by the arms and drawing her towards the base of the statue. She was struggling, but weakly, and her head lolled limply from side to side as though she was inebriated – or drugged. The hooded men thrust her against the base of the statue, pulled her arms out wide and tethered her wrists to what Wolf supposed, though he couldn’t be sure, must be iron rings set into the stone. She hung against the foot of the giant bird-headed effigy as though crucified, her long blond hair obscuring her face. As the hooded men who’d tethered her stepped away, another appeared from the smoke.
He was robed in crimson red with some kind of gold hieroglyph symbol emblazoned on his chest. His mask was more elaborate than the others’, like a ceremonial headdress or a bishop’s mitre. Except that a bishop’s mitre didn’t have horns. They were curly like those of a ram, rising into points that gleamed in the firelight. In his left hand he held a staff or sceptre. The right hand clutched a long, glittering dagger.
The masked crowd at the lakeside were going wild, baying and howling like a pack of bloodhounds. The horned figure in the red robe stepped dramatically in front of the tethered captive, raised his hands above his head and addressed the assembly from across the water, speaking words that Wolf couldn’t understand. His head was spinning and he felt sick as he began to understand what he was witnessing, and what was about to happen. The figure in red was the High Priest. The master of the twisted ceremony unfolding in front of his eyes. And the crowd of lunatics who’d gathered here tonight on this spring equinox were his worshippers.
Wolf had seen many terrible things in his life. Some of them, he’d caused to happen personally. He thought he’d seen everything. Thought that he was too hardened and jaded for anything to get to him any longer. But the scene he was witnessing now made his mouth go dry and his hands shake. He steadied his grip on the phone camera and kept watching and filming, despite himself.
Solemnly, gravely, the High Priest handed his staff to one of the other men. Then he turned to face the girl, reached out to her and ripped away the white smock with a single violent jerk. The crowd screamed. She was naked underneath. The incomprehensible chanting of the crowd became even wilder.
Now the High Priest stepped closer. He raised the dagger to show the crowd, its long, curved blade glittering in the firelight; then in a fast left-to-right movement that made Wolf flinch, he nicked the girl’s neck with the edge of the blade. The blood trickled down her throat and chest. The High Priest bent in front of her, and for a few moments Wolf couldn’t tell what he was doing. Then he stepped aside, and Wolf saw the five-pointed Pentacle drawn in blood on the girl’s stomach.
This was no theatre show. This was real.
Wolf had witnessed enough. He finally averted his eyes and turned away. But he didn’t turn away fast enough to avoid seeing the final stroke of the High Priest’s dagger that sliced deep into the sacrificial victim’s throat and ended her life. Fire and explosions lit up the whole lake island as the chanting of the crowd reached its climax and became a roar of delight and satisfaction.
Wolf staggered to his feet and stumbled away through the trees, twigs whipping at his face as he beat his retreat. To hell with the job. To hell with the agency, the money, the whole damn thing. He didn’t care any more. He was out of here. Done with all of it, forever. He already knew where he would run to: a special place in which nobody would ever find him.
Too late, Wolf spotted the gleam of something smooth and glassy, small and round, pointing down at him from the ivied trunk of a tree.
It was a camera. And he’d been caught right on it.
TERROR HAS A NAME …
A deadly terror plot. A race against the clock. Will evil prevail?
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE.
The wilds of India. A kidnap victim, a ruthless gang and just one man standing in their way …
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
DEEP SOUTH.
DEEPER SECRETS.
The courageous act of a slave girl changed the course of the American Civil War.
Now, over 150 years later, could it change the course of Ben Hope’s life?
UK readers, click here to buy now.
US readers, click here to buy now.
About the Author
Scott Mariani is the author of the worldwide-acclaimed action-adventure thriller series featuring ex-SAS hero Ben Hope, which has sold millions of copies in Scott’s native UK alone and is also translated into over 20 languages. His books have been described as ‘James Bond meets Jason Bourne, with a historical twist’. The first Ben Hope book, The Alchemist’s Secret, spent six straight weeks at #1 on Amazon’s Kindle chart, and all the others have been Sunday Times bestsellers.
Scott was born in Scotland, studied in Oxford and now lives and writes in a remote setting in rural west Wales. When not writing, he can be found bouncing about the country lanes in an ancient Land Rover, wild camping in the Brecon Beacons or engrossed in his hobbies of astronomy, photography and target shooting (no dead animals involved!).
You can find out more about Scott and his work, and sign up to his exclusive newsletter, on his official website:
www.scottmariani.com
By the same author:
Ben Hope series
The Alchemist’s Secret
The Mozart Conspiracy
The Doomsday Prophecy
The Heretic’s Treasure
The Shadow Project
The Lost Relic
The Sacred Sword
The Armada Legacy
The Nemesis Program
The Forgotten Holocaust
The Martyr’s Curse
The Cassandra Sanction
Star of Africa
The Devil’s Kingdom
The Babylon Idol
The Bach Manuscript
The Moscow Cipher
The Rebel’s Revenge
Valley of Death
House of War
To find out more visit www.scottmariani.com
About the Publisher
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