“If everything’s fine,” Tyler said, “why do we have to be in here?”
“Because we promised Dad,” she said. “Remember?”
Rolling his eyes, he made his voice deep and mimicked his father: “‘Anything weird happens—gunshots, screams, little green men falling from the sky—get in there and bolt the door. Don’t come out until you hear me on the other side.’”
She nodded and glanced at the rectangular metal door set flush to the wall above Tyler’s head—the gun safe, just large enough to hold one handgun and a box of ammo. The lock was biometric: to open it, she or Jagger needed only to press a thumb on a square of black glass beside the door. She could get to it in seconds. Jagger wanted her to arm herself whenever she used the closet as a panic room—“If ever,” she’d corrected him, truly believing he was being overcautious but loving him for it. She had also told him she’d wait until she needed the gun. Despite his teaching her and Tyler how to handle it safely, she didn’t want to accidentally shoot herself or Tyler if something startled her while she was holding it in that tight space.
It was such a tight space, in fact, that if all three of them used it at once, Tyler would have to sit on one of their laps. She tried to imagine a situation in which Jagger ever would join them instead of fighting the threat, and she couldn’t.
What had turned the closet into a panic room were a metal door, a special door-length hinge, four commercial-grade deadbolts, the gun safe, a light, and a bunch of supplies like batteries, a first-aid kit, freeze-dried food, two gallon jugs of water, and blankets.
She wished they’d invested in a satellite phone, though she didn’t know whom she’d call. She didn’t even know what the danger was. She had been washing the dinner dishes, Tyler had been brushing his teeth, and Jagger had been out making his evening rounds when they’d heard an explosion, and a tremor had run through the floor. Both her and Tyler’s first inclination was to rush outside to see what happened, but she’d restrained herself and grabbed Tyler’s arm. Then they’d heard shouting and doors slamming; that’s when she’d guided her son into the panic room and locked the door. Since then, she thought she’d heard a helicopter, gunshots, and another explosion, this one farther off.
On the way into the closet she’d grabbed her Bible. She cracked it open now and turned to the book of John. It reminded her of God’s active involvement in their lives, and she felt a tinge of hope. The Bible had been given to them by John the Apostle—also an Immortal and now using the name Owen Letois—who’d appeared at the monastery in time to save Tyler’s life. And it was Owen who’d crashed his jet into the Tribe’s drone control center, terminating their attack on Las Vegas. That he walked the earth was wondrous and miraculous; that she could call him friend was God bestowing a blessing on her family.
She read aloud: “Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
Tyler smiled, and his face visually calmed. What she wouldn’t give to have the faith of a child. The Bible says it, so it must be true. She believed that too, but her adult mind had a propensity to overcomplicate, to put a but after every sentence: But bad things do happen . . . but my husband is out there, no doubt right in the thick of whatever’s happening . . . but I’m still afraid.
“Read more,” Tyler said, so she did.
[ 3 ]
As the assault team came more fully into the light, Jagger realized they weren’t monsters, only men—wildly dressed and cosmetically made up. One, two, three, all of them gripping assault rifles, two with big packs bouncing on their backs. They seemed a ragtag bunch, no uniformity.
One was bald with a mustache and long, pointed goatee; black raccoon makeup over his eyes; no shirt, showing off layers of bulging muscles. Another, tall, maybe six five, six six, wore jungle commando garb: an olive flak vest, matching long-sleeved shirt, and many-pocketed pants. Long black hair flowed out from under a camo hat, the soft brim pinned up on the sides. Two dark lines ran diagonally over each cheek from the bridge of his nose: war paint. The massive gun he carried easily, as if it weighed nothing, appeared to be a .50-cal Browning machine gun—BMG—the kind meant to be mounted in the rear of a Jeep. An ammo belt ran from the weapon and looped over his shoulders.
And one, he realized, was a woman. Jagger’s stomach tightened, but then he realized she wasn’t Nevaeh, leader of the Tribe. Where Nevaeh was catlike, smooth, this woman moved in sharp, fast jerks, twitchy. She could have fronted a rock band: shiny leather vest fastened in front with studs—bare arms and cleavage suggested nothing underneath—studded wrist bands, leather pants.
A fourth attacker fast-walked into the brighter light, arms swinging like upside-down metronomes, and Jagger decided “ragtag” didn’t cut it; insane fit the bill better. The guy was a character straight out of a steampunk graphic novel. A tight leather mask covered his face and head, stitches everywhere; round brass-framed goggles; where his mouth should have been, a ribbed gas-mask hose dangled, ending in a canister bouncing against his sternum. He wore a leather trench coat, buttoned from collar to midthigh. The material itself went all the way to his ankles. He was carrying a crossbow, a quiver of arrows on his back.
Movement caught Jagger’s eye, and he saw a man standing on the opposite slope in line with the main gate. He seemed to have been there awhile, watching. He wore all black: a tee under a sport coat, snappy slacks, and gleaming dress boots with pointed toes. A fedora angled slightly over a movie star face, dark features, evening shadow, close-cropped mustache, and soul patch. One hand hovered over his chest, a smoldering cigarette between two fingers. The other hand rested on his hip. All casual, just waiting for the show to begin.
Which it did, with an overture of machine-gun fire. Bullets chipped away the stone edge in front of Jagger. Fragments pelted his forehead and cheeks. He scrambled back and jumped down to the roof. Going from there to the porch’s roof, in the darkness he misjudged the distance and slope and tumbled forward. He twisted himself around, continued to roll, and felt the roof vanish under him. His right hand grabbed the edge, lost it. RoboHand shot to an upright patio-roof support and clamped it with vise-like strength. He snapped to a stop, dangling fifty feet above a stone walkway.
He hefted himself up and over the railing and clambered down the stairs. He found Leo and the other monks just off the courtyard, huddled together between the Well of Moses and the basilica. They’d heard him coming, and every gun was pointed his way.
“What was that?” Leo asked. “The shooting.”
“I guess they wanted me off the wall.”
“And?”
“I got off.”
“The Tribe?”
Jagger shook his head. “Not this time.” He took in the monks, all with frightened eyes, none of them as composed as Leo. “They’re coming,” he said. “Four, heavily armed. There’s a fifth, but he seems to be just watching.”
Leo said, “You think they’re going to try blowing the gate again?”
“They’re heading toward it.”
At that, two monks pressed their backs against the building; three crouched and took aim at the gate. Jagger listened, but no sounds came from the other side of the wall. A breeze whipped at the smoke pouring from the damaged gate and blew it across the courtyard at the men. Bardas coughed, trying not to, throwing a worried glance at Jagger. He was a twenty-something, nerdy-looking guy, whose soft, Hellenic-accented words belied a fierce competitiveness Jagger had witnessed during the monks’ soccer matches in the gardens. Jagger smiled and nodded, trying to convey confidence.
He crouched beside Luca and patted his back. The monk turned his face to him—squinty eyes, hawkish nose. He reminded Jagger of Lee Van Cleef from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly; he hoped now the guy was as good a shot.
Seconds passed . . . ten . . . twenty . . . and Jagger felt his heart beating. He wanted to look behind him, up at his apartment, just to see the light in the window
and know Beth and Tyler were safe, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the gate: he expected everything to happen fast now.
Something clattered up high, on top of the wall, then rrrrrrrrrrrrrr: an electric motor. Another clatter.
“They’re coming over!” Luca shouted and sprang forward.
“Wait!” Jagger said, grabbing for Luca’s nightshirt. He missed, and the monk darted into the courtyard, then backed to the basilica wall, eyes and pistol panning the top of the front wall.
“Luca!” Jagger had been an Army Ranger and a personal protection specialist, and he wanted to tell him that one of the worst battle situations was engaging an enemy who occupied higher ground. But he might as well have been addressing a tree; the monk was too keyed up to listen.
Bardas spun around the corner and ran to the front wall, directly under the sounds. He flattened himself against it, glaring straight up, pointing his rifle. Not a bad move, less likely the attackers could get a clean shot at him.
Two objects, each the size of a fruit crate, dropped off the top of the wall. They banged down hard on the stones and began humming and clattering, jittering like beetles on their backs. They appeared to be black metal boxes with tracked wheels, and judging from the positions of the wheels, one was upside down, the other on its side. Metal rods like insect legs swung across their bodies and pushed against the ground. Within seconds of landing they had righted themselves, revealing barrels mounted to their tops.
“Run!” Jagger yelled, but too late. The robots whirled toward the two exposed monks and began firing.
[ 4 ]
The chatter of machine-gun fire erupted from the monastery again, surprisingly loud in the still night air—even 1,500 feet up Mount Sinai, where Toby stood on an outcropping. He trained binoculars on the compound but couldn’t pinpoint the location of all the action. Too many buildings in the way. He sidestepped until his foot felt the edge of the razorback. Still, he could see nothing but the dark shapes of buildings, amber lights here and there.
“Come on!” he said, almost throwing the binocs down.
The boy thought, acted, and looked like the fifteen-year-old he had been when God had apparently switched on his telomerase genes—that’s what Ben had said—rendering him incapable of aging and accelerating his healing abilities. That had been 3,500 years ago: enough already. Which was why Nevaeh had sent him here again, to spy on Jagger’s mortal wife, Beth.
For the last six months Nevaeh had been obsessed with the woman, feeling she held some secret that could lead them all to salvation, heaven, God . . . as Beth had done for Ben, the Tribe’s previous leader. He had died after Beth had spoken to him at length.
Toby wasn’t so sure: What could a single person say, simply say, that would rattle a soul from the flesh in which it had been stuck for so long? What could she say that all of them hadn’t thought of a thousand times? Ben had stumbled onto something or eased into a realization over who-knew-how-long—he’d always been poring over theological and philosophical tomes, looking for a word or line or idea like a passkey into heaven. That it came together for him when they were holding the woman captive was pure coincidence. Had to be.
But there was no deterring Nevaeh from an obsession. She wasn’t so much like a dog with a bone. That implied she could let go if she wanted to. No, she was more like a fish on a hook. Over the years most of her obsessions had been rooted in her belief that they would bring her closer to redemption: fasting with the monks at Germany’s Säckingen Abbey (she twice consecutively repeated the monks’ forty-day fast and would have gone longer if they hadn’t threatened to expel her unless she ate); for a year, becoming a hermit in what she claimed was Elijah’s grotto on Mount Carmel (this was before the Order of the Carmelites turned the cave into a crypt and shrine in the twelfth century); destroying pagan temples alongside Martin of Tours, who’d become so alarmed by her zealotry he banished her to the Eberbach Convent.
So now it was with Beth. Nevaeh wanted to get her alone, find out what she’d told Ben. Not just pick her brain, but excavate it until something happened—a revelation . . . something. Toby hoped for the woman’s sake that whatever it was happened fast; knowing Nevaeh, she would keep Beth for however long it took—for the rest of her life, Beth’s or Nevaeh’s, whichever came first.
After securing a new home/headquarters for the Tribe’s remaining seven members, Nevaeh had declared it was time to pursue her new obsession and had dispatched Toby to St. Catherine’s. So far, he had determined Beth was still there and had identified patterns in her daily schedule—grocery shopping in the village, strolls through the gardens—that provided kidnapping opportunities.
But now this, an attack.
He’d better inform Nevaeh. She’d have questions he couldn’t answer, but if he didn’t tell her and something happened to Beth, she’d blame him. Never mind there was nothing he could do; she’d twist the facts to make it look like it was his fault.
He dropped the binocs, letting them dangle by a strap around his neck, and stepped to the rear edge of the outcropping. He lifted his T-shirt, squinting against the darkness to see the mesh, wire-laced belt around his waist. He toggled a switch near the buckle, turning on a green LED light. The high-pitched whine of charging capacitors came from the battery pack at the small of his back. His heavy carbon-fiber boots issued a series of metal-clunking sounds. He felt them stiffen around his feet, ankles, and calves; the braces running up the outside of his legs rattled slightly, and the two C-shaped clamps over his hip bones tightened. He rotated his hips to make sure the clamps weren’t gripping too much to prevent easy movement. Magnetorheological fluid—a suspension of tiny iron particles in silicon oil—under the boots’ insoles hardened and loosened in a ripple from heel to toe as electrical currents passed through it and turned off, testing its functionality and preparing the boots for use.
Called Austin boots, after TV’s Bionic Man Steve Austin, the lower-limb exoskeleton was part of a Future Warrior System developed by DARPA—the government’s research and development arm—to augment human performance on the battlefield. Super-fast microprocessors sensed movement in the hips, legs, and feet to determine the wearer’s intentions to walk, run, or jump, then instructed the boots to assist the action. Versions currently being field-tested allowed twenty-foot leaps and fifteen mile-per-hour sprints. The ones Toby wore were several generations beyond those, capable of propelling a person fifty feet in the air and across terrain as fast as twenty-five miles per hour.
Nevaeh had found them in a crate that arrived at a warehouse in London, which the Tribe used for such deliveries. Ben had arranged their acquisition prior to his death. She didn’t have the same connections at DARPA he’d had—cultivated by years of exchanging his vast know-how for early prototypes—but she was working on it. “This may be the last technology we see from them for a while,” she’d said. “Let’s make good use of them . . . and not destroy them,” she’d added, referring to the invisibility suits that had vaporized in the plane crash that had ended their last mission.
DARPA had shipped five pairs of the boots—Toby couldn’t imagine what Ben had promised or threatened to get even one, let alone enough for nearly the whole Tribe. With Ben and Creed gone, even Jordan had secured his own; Sebastian had shortened the braces, tightened the hip clamps, and used water booties to make them fit the seemingly eleven-year-old boy. So now the Tribe’s usual strike team—Nevaeh, Phin, Elias, Toby, and Jordan—were all the fastest soldiers on two feet. They’d practiced with them in the open, rugged terrain of Alia, thirty-five miles outside Palermo. They weren’t easy to learn. Putting them on the first time, Toby had stomped his feet and done a backward flip out of his chair into the wall behind him, the first of many bangs and bruises earned in mastering the Austin boots.
Now he jumped off the outcropping to the ground twelve feet below. The boots sensed the fall, and the system prepared to absorb the landing, extending its pistons in the soles and using its braces to force Toby to bend a bit
at the knees. Upon impact the pistons retracted; shock absorbers at the knees defused downward momentum, and the hip clamps squeezed in, easing him down like a daddy helping his son jump out of a tree. Not that Toby knew what that was like; he hadn’t seen his father in 3,500 years. But he did watch movies, so he could imagine.
He landed in a circular clearing mostly surrounded by cliff walls and felt a hot wire of pain shoot from hip to tailbone. Not the fault of the Austin boots or even the leap from the outcropping: this was an injury left over from Owen’s successful effort to stop the Tribe from wiping out Las Vegas with weaponized drones. Six months ago—on the same day Ben had knelt to pray for the last time—the nut had flown his jet into their command post. Toby, Phin, Cabot, and Nevaeh had suffered injuries that truly challenged their healing powers. Broken bones, torn away and burned flesh, internal injuries. Besides the hitch in his hip, Toby still felt an ache deep inside and wondered if this was what it was like growing old. Maybe something had mended incorrectly and his body would never feel quite right again. He didn’t like the idea of spending another few months, let alone centuries, feeling this way.
Ignoring the pain, defying it, he hurried to the small cave he was using to sleep and store his supplies. It was the same cave in which Jagger—that’s what he called himself these days—found him when Toby was watching the monastery for Creed. He didn’t think Jagger would come looking for him again, and it was too good a vantage point to give up. He reached into the cave and grabbed the satphone from the top of his sleeping bag. He stood and looked at the phone, thinking about what he would tell Nevaeh.
When he’d seen the helicopter fly in and then heard the explosion, it’d struck him that maybe she had changed her plans. It would be just like her to scrap the idea of a quiet kidnapping for a no-holds-barred, get-it-done assault. Then he thought: Nah, she would have told me. Wouldn’t she?
Judgment Stone (9781401687359) Page 2
