Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Complete Boxset: Books 1 - 3

by Benjamin Laskin

  “Sir, grounds secured, Sir!”

  “Are you certain no one escaped that could get a message to the Academy?”

  “We cut off the road. No one got through.”

  “What about the woods?” Perseus said, gesturing to the surrounding forest.

  “Sealed, Sir. But just in case, we have roving patrols keeping a look out.”

  “Communications?”

  “Compromised, Sir. Every Academy channel has been shut down.”

  “Good,” Perseus said. “Now tell your men to fall in ahead of us and lead the way. It’s best they’re in front in case we run into anyone. We have two stops to make before we arrive at the Academy. Continue to play it as if you’re leading the delegation the Academy is expecting.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Deimos and Styx saluted and rejoined the rebels, passing on Perseus’s orders.

  20

  Cramped Quarters

  “Are you sure there aren’t any more searches waiting for us?” Gideon asked as he and Cyrus approached the lobby’s entrance.

  “I don’t think so,” Cyrus said.

  “And if there is?”

  “Think positive. And don’t look so suspicious.”

  “Me? You’re the one who looks suspicious with that stupid duster coat. Why couldn’t you just pack a couple of pistols like me?” Gideon shook his head. “What about surveillance cameras? Surely they are tracking our every move.”

  “No doubt, but they are also tracking the every move of about eight-hundred other guests. The key is not to stick out.”

  “You mean like by wearing a suspicious-looking black trench coat?”

  Cyrus smiled. “Three o’clock,” he said, nodding to the approach of a party of European beau mondes, also headed toward the mansion’s entrance. Three of the men in the group were wearing long, black coats not too dissimilar from Cyrus’s. “Aren’t I the trendsetter?”

  “Got your invitation in case anyone asks? These forgeries cost me three favors.”

  Cyrus patted his breast pocket. “Yep. Apparently, I manage a multi-billion global-dollar hedge fund. “How about you?”

  Gideon smirked. “I run an NGO trying to save the world from greedy bastards like you.”

  “Hey, is that any way to talk to your biggest donor?”

  To their relief when they got to the door of Rosso’s mansion, they were not searched, though a big, grave-looking man with dark glasses and a transmitter in his ear did ask to see their invitations. He glanced at their names, tapped at his tablet, and waved them through.

  Gideon took in the lobby and its huge crystal chandelier hanging above. An upstairs balcony ran the distance of the lobby. He whistled. “Sweet. It’s bigger than most hotels.”

  “Like I said, once upon a time it was a resort hotel. Okay, let’s go do what we came here to do.”

  “Don’t you want to mingle first?”

  “Mingle? No, why would I want to mingle? I’m not the mingling type.”

  “I already recognize about a dozen people I’d like to take behind the woodshed,” Gideon said. “One Worlder apparatchiks and Rosso tools who think they’re big shots.”

  “Yes, well, we didn’t come here to kill everybody,” Cyrus said. “The useful idiots will always be with us.”

  “Can’t I even punch a few of them in the nose?”

  “You could, but that would probably go under the category of suspicious behavior. Now, are you done talking like a London yob?”

  “Yeah,” Gideon groused. “Let’s go.”

  The two drifted down a hall off the main lobby that passed through a series of sitting rooms and small galleries. They paused here and there, pretending to admire the antiques, the priceless art on the walls, and other evidence of Alexander Rosso’s inestimable wealth. Cyrus had a short lecture for every item and picture they examined.

  “Good God, man,” Gideon said, amazed by Cyrus’s encyclopedic knowledge. “When did you ever have the time to learn so much about art and antiques?”

  Because Cyrus had downloaded the collective experiential knowledge of millions of people through the six degrees of separation, including that of numerous historians, art collectors and the like, it made him an expert in almost everything. What they knew; he knew. What they could do; he could do.

  “I never owned a television,” Cyrus answered.

  “Not good enough.”

  “Or went to movies.”

  “Not buying it, Cyrus.”

  “Hobbies are addictive, what can I tell you?”

  “The truth, for once.”

  “Nah,” Cyrus said. “If I did it once, you’d want me to do it all the time.”

  A beautiful young woman with short, feathered, shiny black hair, peacock-blue eyes, and a dazzling smile walked up. She was dressed like a French maid and carried a silver platter of fancy hors d’oeuvres. It was Malkah.

  “Nibbles, gentlemen?” she offered.

  Gideon picked up a cracker with a slice of cheese on it. “Whatever happened to keeping a low profile? You look—”

  “Like a slut, I know,” Malkah said. “Don’t rub it in.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” Gideon said.

  “No, but you thought it. And I have had six slaps on the fanny so far to prove it! This wasn’t in the job description. I thought I was supposed to remain in the kitchen, but once I got here, the guy in charge of floor and kitchen management, a perv named Manfred, looked me up and down, asked me to follow him to what he called the green room, opened a huge closet, and then tossed me this getup, saying I had been ‘reassigned.’”

  “Did you protest?”

  “Of course, but he immediately speed-dialed Jean, strolled from earshot, and then returned, handing me the phone. She gave me my new orders, and so here I am.”

  “Have you learned anything that might be of interest to us?” Cyrus asked.

  “Besides this being a gathering of the most pretentious and arrogant bunch of namby-pamby creeps I’ve ever seen in one place?”

  “Something we didn’t already know,” Gideon said.

  Malkah reached into a pocket of her maid uniform and flashed a wad of globals. “Chauncey Matterson was right. They may be a preening bunch of narcissistic fops, fruitcakes and fairies, but they are big tippers!”

  “Anything useful? Have you seen Alexander Rosso?”

  “No. He’s in his office, just as you figured. I was told that he’ll probably stay there until he addresses the opening ceremony, which,” she glanced at her watch, “is scheduled to start in about thirty minutes.”

  “What about security?” Cyrus asked.

  “The perv told me that there are cameras everywhere and plenty of plain-clothed guards lurking about. How will you get past all that?”

  “Cyrus has a plan,” Gideon replied dubiously.

  “You don’t seem too thrilled about it,” Malkah said.

  “You haven’t had to live through one of them.”

  “You’re still here, aren’t you?” Cyrus said.

  “Only by the grace of God,” Gideon rejoined drolly.

  “Well, whose better than His?”

  “I’m getting nervous,” Malkah said. “What do I do if things go…bad?”

  “Nothing,” Gideon answered sternly. “You do nothing. You don’t know us. You’ve never seen us. In fact, get going. You’ve been here too long already.”

  Malkah pretended to offer them another hors d’oeuvre, which they declined, and said, “Please be careful.” Before she turned to walk off she said to Gideon, “Smack me on the tush.”

  “What?”

  “If you don’t want to look suspicious, give me a pat.”

  “No,” Gideon said, indignant.

  “And don’t forget the fat tip.”

  Gideon reached into his pocket and counted out twenty globals. He dropped them on the silver serving platter. “But no pat.”

  Malkah gave a thankful bow of her head for the cameras, smiled and said, “Cheapskate.” She turne
d and sashayed off.

  “Dear God, I hope I survive this day,” Gideon said. “I really would like to marry that woman.”

  “We can still back out. It’s not too late.”

  “Shut up and focus.”

  “Who are you talking to, me or yourself?”

  “Me. Let’s go…”

  According to the most recent blueprints, Rosso’s office was on the third floor of the mansion’s west wing. Taking the stairs would be too suspicious, and probably had guards stationed on them anyway.

  If Cyrus was right, however, a small kitchen, now a mini bar, was located off of the next sitting room. Blueprints and notes indicated that inside the wall behind the refrigerator remained an old dumb waiter leftover from one of the building’s earlier incarnations. According to Cyrus’s sources, the little elevator was left intact and functional, though not maintained. The alcove didn’t have a door, but the mini bar was out of view of passersby. As long as no one entered the short hall that led to it, they had a shot of disappearing unseen.

  Cyrus hooked a left into the hall and Gideon followed. The area was empty, and a quick search revealed no cameras there. They worked quickly, each man grabbing a side of the refrigerator and pulling it away from the wall.

  “Bingo,” Gideon said.

  “It’s going to be a tight fit,” Cyrus said. “It wasn’t meant for people, but this model was intended to carry a maximum of 300 pounds. I’ll go first. You pull the lever. Once I arrive, I’ll send it back to get you.”

  “What about the fridge?”

  Cyrus reached into his duster and withdrew a nylon rope. He quickly ran it through the grill on the back of the fridge and handed it to Gideon.

  “Once you’re crammed in, drag the fridge back as close as you can and retrieve the rope.”

  “You thought of everything, didn’t you?” Gideon said. “It’s almost as if you’ve done this before.”

  “You know,” Cyrus said, crawling into the cramped space, the memories of a very successful cat burglar bubbling up in his mind, “I think I might have. Okay, pull.”

  Gideon pulled the lever on the side and the dumb waiter began to creak upwards. Then he heard voices that were too close for comfort. They sounded like they were just at the entrance of the short hall that led into the kitchen.

  Oh crap…

  “Hurry up, Cyrus!” he said in a roaring whisper into the elevator shaft.

  As the elevator continued its slow, groaning ascent, Gideon worked on an excuse in case he was confronted. Perhaps he had dropped some coins and they rolled behind the refrigerator? He dismissed the idea, figuring that none of the dandified attendees would go to such efforts for a little spare change.

  The elevator stopped. The pause seemed interminably long. The voices around the corner continued in conversation. They belonged to two guests discussing how hard it was to get “these rich bastards” to open their wallets for their gallant causes.

  The elevator began to creak again, starting its descent. “Come on,” Gideon whispered impatiently.

  One of the voices said, “Where’s a damn waitress? I need a drink.”

  “Did you see that one with the short black hair in the French maid getup? What a beauty. What I wouldn’t —”

  “Forget it,” the first said. “You can’t afford her.”

  “She doesn’t know that,” the second rejoined confidently. “What I lack in money, I can make up for in honey.”

  “Dream on, Bill. A babe like that has seen and heard it all.”

  “You underestimate me, my friend. Remember that Norwegian hottie I scored a few months back at the Swiss conference? Connections are as good as money to these chicks, and I got plenty of names to drop.”

  “Is sex all you think about?” groaned the first.

  “Is booze all you think about?” retorted the second.

  “It is right now. I don’t see a waitress. Maybe there’s some liquor in here. Knowing Rosso, he’s probably left the stuff all over the place, just for guys like me…”

  “Crap,” Gideon muttered.

  Just then the dumb waiter landed with a clank.

  Gideon threw open the screen door and crawled inside. Immediately a cramp began to form in his left calf due to his awkward, huddled position. Down boy, down, he ordered the muscle. He dragged the fridge back into place, retrieved the rope, and closed the cage a second before Cyrus above hit the switch to bring him chugging upwards.

  The two men stepped into the room.

  “What’s that sound…?” said the first.

  As the elevator continued its slow, grinding ascent, Gideon nearly bit through his lip to keep from screaming in pain as his calf clenched and solidified into stone.

  “Quick,” Gideon squealed as soon as he saw Cyrus’s face, “pull me out!”

  Cyrus yanked him from the elevator onto the room’s dusty cement floor. Gideon rolled away in agony, clambered desperately to his feet, and falling palms first against a wall, attempted to stretch his rock-hard, knotted-up calf muscle.

  “Son-of-a-bitch…!” he seethed.

  “You okay?” Cyrus said.

  “Do I look okay?!”

  Gideon continued to stretch his calf. Slowly the muscle relaxed, the spasm having released its death grip. “Gawd, that hurt…”

  The room was dark, lit only by a smear of daylight filtering through a curtained window. Cyrus parted the curtain to allow a little more visibility, revealing a dusty storage room half-filled with boxes, unwanted furniture, a stationary bicycle and treadmill, old lamps, obsolete computers, paint cans, fixtures, and other chucked or stored junk that the Rosso estate had no use for.

  “So, where are we?” Gideon whispered, having regained his composure.

  “In the blueprints this was a bedroom,” Cyrus answered. “But it looks like it became a holding tank for all the stuff on this floor that Rosso didn’t want around. You ready?”

  Gideon gave his calf a few final stretches, slid a can of fluorescent red paint aside with his foot, and walked off the last of the tightness by pacing back and forth.

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  They maneuvered through the maze of boxes and junk to the door. Gideon gently tried the handle, turned to Cyrus, and shook his head. “Locked from the outside.”

  Cyrus motioned for Gideon to stand aside. He fished a small tension wrench and a bobby pin from the breast pocket of his duster, and got to work. After a few seconds of jiggering, he freed the lock.

  He stepped back and turned to Gideon, as if expecting his questioning look. “I’ve known some people who work with these things,” he said.

  Gideon shook his head and tried the door again. He eased it open and peered through the crack into the hallway. He pulled the door back and turned to Cyrus.

  “There’s one guard outside Rosso’s office about forty feet away,” he whispered. “Big dude.” He pulled out his Walther P99 and attached the suppressor.

  Cyrus put a cautioning hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “Too messy.”

  “Got a better idea?” Gideon whispered back.

  “I can take him down.”

  “With what?”

  Cyrus opened his coat and withdrew a dart. He held it up. “There’s enough tranquilizer in this to drop a horse.”

  Gideon frowned in incredulity. “From here? No way.” He waved his gun. “I like this much better.”

  But Malkah Stern had a third idea.

  Gideon’s jaw slackened as he saw her glide by, silver serving tray in hand.

  “What the hell is she doing here?” he hissed, furious.

  Not knowing what he was talking about, Cyrus knelt and peered through Gideon’s legs. Catching sight of Malkah, he murmured cryptically, “Grace…”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” Cyrus said.

  What he was thinking was that somewhere, Grace the celestial must be in play too. As above, so below. It didn’t make it right, and it didn’t mean it was good. It was what it was; is what it is.r />
  “Hey, you!” shouted the guard in a thick Russian accent. “Stop right there!”

  He approached her, hand on the butt of his holstered Glock. The man was a six-foot five-inch brick of concrete, with a square head and blond crew cut.

  Malkah stopped ten feet from the door Gideon and Cyrus were hiding behind. Gideon pulled the door to a slit, allowing just enough visibility to view the scene.

  “No one is allowed up here,” the guard snarled.

  “Oh,” Malkah said innocently. “Then that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Why no one is here,” she said. “I was told not to forget the guests on the third floor, but Manfred must have meant the other wing.”

  “Turn around and go back,” he ordered.

  “I have a tray of hors d’oeuvres, would you like some? The pâté is very popular.”

  “Leave,” he growled. “Now, or I’ll have someone throw your sweet ass off these grounds in ten seconds.” To show he met business he waved a walkie-talkie.

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Gee-whiz…”

  Malkah turned, took two steps and stumbled to the ground, the tray of delicacies flying across the carpet before her.

  “Oh, look what you made me do!” she cried. Still on her hands and knees, Malkah picked up the empty tray and began to reach for the scattered appetizers.

  “Leave it,” the guard commanded stepping up behind her, “and get the hell out of here, now!”

  “Okay,” she sniffled. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  The man’s hand flew to his neck as if smacking a mosquito. His face registered incomprehension, and then rage. He reached for his gun.

  Malkah, spotting her opportunity, sprang upwards and smashed the silver tray against the guard’s head with all her strength.

  The guard stumbled sideways and bounced off the hallway wall, but quickly recovered from the blow. He growled and charged at Malkah, who backed up and planted a fighting stance. As he rushed at her each step wobbled more than the last, as if he was sinking into quicksand. The guard collapsed unconscious at her feet.