“And what do we do if we catch up to them?” asked Acton to no one in particular. “We have no weapons.”
Atlas’ voice came through the speaker.
“Just catch up to them in case they smarten up and turn their phone off. I’ve got a Spec Ops Command buddy of ours heading your way.”
“Spanish Special Forces?” asked Reading.
“Yup. He’s got a few gifts for you. He’s coming from the north so you’ll intercept each other in about twenty minutes. Stand by to receive instructions.”
The line went dead and Acton looked at Laura then Reading.
“Is the fact that we’ll be armed better?”
Laura frowned, but said nothing.
Reading however had no problem expressing his opinion.
“Of course not. It means we’re obligated to fight if it becomes necessary to do so.”
“So not better.”
Schloss Rosen, Riquewihrweiler, France
It was a lavish if not exciting gathering. The finest of wine, spirits and champagne flowed, the hors d’oeuvres were to die for, and Lacroix knew the dinner that awaited would be exquisite, The Order sparing no expense at these quarterly gatherings of The Circle. The gathering was small, intimate, with just seven of the eight members in attendance, Numbers Two through Eight each being absent once every seven meetings so the eight were never together in the same place at once. The missing member would always be on another continent, far away from any natural disaster that might befall the others.
It was a security protocol implemented centuries before when the entire Circle had almost been captured by a local prince hell bent on their demise. It had resulted in The Circle moving its base to this very castle, now named Schloss Rosen, or the Rose Castle, where they had continued for centuries until modern travel and communications allowed them to move farther apart.
He had been to dozens of these gatherings. To call them enjoyable would be to insult parties that actually were enjoyable. Informative might be a better word. It was one thing to deliver news over the Internet, quite another to do it in person, which meant sometimes a member might hold back some tidbit that he knew would fascinate the others and make him the center of attention at least until the next tidbit was revealed.
But tonight all mouths were wagging over the Catalyst. Nothing would be able to top the news he had brought them, and with the phone call he had just received, he was about to cement his name in the history of The Order.
Lacroix rounded the corner and entered the room, having left only moments before to take the call. The entire room, including servants, all members of The Order, turned to face him. It was customary to leave the hoods of the robes up, but tonight he meant to make a statement, wanting everyone to recognize his face as the words were spoken.
He flipped his hood down to his shoulders as a smile spread across his face and he opened his arms wide.
“Brothers, I have news.”
He left the words to dance their way through the room, the small group seeming to move closer to him without their feet moving, their bodies leaning forward in anticipation.
“I am proud to announce that we have the Catalyst!”
Cheers erupted as they surged toward him, all his past transgressions immediately forgotten and forgiven as hugs and pats on the back were exchanged, even the wait staff hugging each other, then some rushing off to return moments later with a tray of champagne flutes filled to celebrate.
Number One took Lacroix by both shoulders, looking him in the face for the first time. The man looked even younger than the last time he had a glance.
“You shall go down in history, Number Eight.”
Lacroix almost found himself choking up. For the first time since joining The Circle he actually felt a part of it, the gathering suddenly making sense. This was a brotherhood, these men were supposed to be his extended family, his brothers, their vow of bachelorhood preventing any other type of family.
Finally, after decades, he found he had a family, one that was now embracing him, welcoming him back into the fold after years of embarrassment, his penance complete, his contribution strengthening the brotherhood beyond anything it had known since its origins.
A staff member entered the room and approached Number One, who let go of Lacroix and turned to the man.
“What is it?”
“A message from the village, Master. We have a problem.”
Niner and Mickey’s Chalet, Riquewihrweiler, France
Niner sat perched on a chair, a pair of binoculars glued to his eyes as he surveyed the castle below, their chalet offering them a perfect view of the magnificently restored structure. Even from here he could see there was a party of sorts going on, a grand ballroom at the back well lit, floor to ceiling glass extending from one end to the other, rising two full stories above the ground, definitely a new feature, any castle designed for defense never leaving an opening like that.
Not to mention the lack of glass when it was probably built.
He lowered the binoculars to rest his eyes for a few moments. Mickey had a fire going in the fireplace which was already taking the edge off the frozen solid room. He was bundled up with everything he had brought, it still ice cold by the window, his breath prominently displayed every time he exhaled.
“Looks lightly guarded at the back, mostly forward defenses,” said Niner, raising the glasses again. “When the guys get here it should be pretty easy to take the rear and use those windows to get our targets.”
“Foolish set up if you ask me.”
Niner nodded.
“Clearly they’re not expecting uninvited guests.”
“Arrogance once again.”
“Well, it is France after all, not the Middle East.”
“True.” Mickey threw another log on the now roaring fire then stood up, stretching. “Speaking of, did you notice how there’s an awful lot of Germans around here?”
Niner shrugged.
“Sure, they like to visit every few decades or so. Helps the French practice waving those big white flags.”
Mickey chuckled.
“No, I’m serious. At the airport, the guy’s name was Heinrich. The woman spoke with a German accent. At the hotel, it was a Gasthaus, which is clearly German. The guy on the phone was speaking German, and they both had German accents.”
“We’re close to Germany. Probably just ancestral.”
Mickey nodded as he walked toward the front door.
“Could be, just a little odd that the French haven’t made their presence known a little more and let this tiny enclave of Deutschland continue. If I were…” Mickey’s voice trailed off and Niner looked over his shoulder. “What the hell is that?”
Niner stood up and joined Mickey at the door.
“What?”
“Take a look.”
Niner looked through the small frosted window in the door. Outside he could see the snow continuing to fall, albeit much gentler than before, their SUV parked out front, and walking up the road from the village below, dozens upon dozens of people armed with shotguns and rifles, their flashlights leading the way.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” said Niner as he searched the room for any type of weapon, cursing their supplier for not being here on time.
“It’s too late,” said Mickey, backing away from the door. Niner rushed to the tiny window and saw the crowd spreading out. A glance at the window he had just been using to recon the castle showed half a dozen people marching by.
“Suggestions?” asked Mickey, grabbing a discarded ski pole, tossing a cane to Niner.
“We take advantage of the situation,” said Niner, putting the cane aside and opening a pouch in his suitcase. He retrieved a small bottle of pills, removing the lid. “It’s obvious these people work for the Rosicrucians. If we play our cards right, they might take us down to the castle rather than kill us.”
“No resistance?”
“No resistance.” Niner swallowed a pill then tossed t
he bottle to Mickey who took one as well. The door was kicked open, a shotgun barrel advancing, followed by its owner. Niner raised his hands and looked at Mickey who tossed his ski pole to the floor, raising his hands. Mickey shrugged.
“I guess we’re the inside team now.”
Highway C-16, Spain
Mendoza leaned forward and frowned. He had been watching their backs like a hawk, convinced they were being followed, but every time he saw nothing. No evidence of anything except cars travelling in the same direction, some passing them, some turning off, others continuing at their speed, occasionally long enough for him to have Delgado pull over or slow down so he could be certain.
And all along there had been nothing.
Until now.
A blue sedan had been racing down a straight stretch then suddenly slowed, pulling from the left lane into the slower right, and had kept itself several cars back since then, even making a point to slow down from time to time if they got too close.
This time he was convinced he was right.
“We’ve got a tail.”
“Not again.”
“Blue sedan, four cars back. He’s been with us for almost ten minutes.”
“Do you want me to slow down?”
“Next exit pull off, we’ll take the local roads through the Pyrenees.”
Mendoza knew it would be slower, but the local roads through the mountains were in his mind safer if they were being followed. They were only one lane in each direction, almost impossible to pass, and if they were lucky to get a truck or two between them and their tail, it would be almost impossible for them to catch up.
“Fine,” muttered Delgado as he signaled, turning off the highway as the GPS adjusted their route. He ignored her chattering as he knew the way like the back of his hand.
“See, they followed us.”
Delgado glanced in the rearview mirror and pursed his lips.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
He pulled onto the secondary highway and floored it, racing toward the winding road through the Pyrenees Mountains. The blue sedan fell behind a bit, but seemed to keep pace, only a little farther back than before.
“I told you!”
Mendoza grabbed his gun and made sure it was loaded.
“Let them catch up, I’ll take care of them.”
Delgado eased off the accelerator.
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Better than having them follow us until they can get reinforcements.”
“Never thought of that,” said Delgado as he slowed down even more. They rounded a bend, losing sight of the sedan, then suddenly it whipped around the corner as Mendoza leaned out the passenger side window, opening fire at the hood of the car.
Tires squealed and the vehicle swerved toward the guardrail on the left then corrected itself as the driver regained control after dropping more than half his speed. Suddenly Mendoza could see muzzle flashes as they returned fire. Delgado floored it as Mendoza ducked back in.
“I knew it!” yelled Mendoza as he reloaded. Bullets continued to ping off the car. Suddenly they jerked to the left, Delgado battling with the steering wheel.
“They got a tire!” he cried as he cranked the wheel back to the right, trying to keep them on the narrow road. They bounced off the guardrail and back toward their side. Delgado spun the wheel to the left, having overcompensated, and Mendoza screamed as they rounded a bend to find themselves careening directly at a large truck heading in the opposite direction.
The truck jerked to the left, the driver apparently figuring it was better for him to hit the rock carved out of the side of the mountain than the guardrail he’d most likely slice through. Smoke billowed from its brakes as the truck slid down the road, blocking both lanes.
Delgado was spinning the wheel back to the right but it was too late. The car’s right front bumper nailed the front tire of the truck. The car felt like it was just tossed aside as an inconsequential chunk of metal by the massive vehicle, and they suddenly found themselves heading for the guardrail. There was a crunch and the car leapt over the thin strip of metal and wood designed to somehow keep two thousand pound vehicles from certain death.
Mendoza raised his hands, covering his face as did Delgado. It was an odd feeling as the car leapt into nothingness, like he was on a roller coaster, the strange weightless sensation giving him the impression they were at the top of the rise, about to plunge to the exciting conclusion.
The front tipped forward, removing all doubt this was a ride to the death, the river carved out in the valley below over millions of years rapidly approaching, both men now holding their hands out as if they might stop their fall if they pushed hard enough against the ground they were about to hit.
Mendoza dropped his gun, struggling to reach between his legs for the Catalyst. His fingers kept touching it, refusing to gain a grip, when suddenly he grabbed a corner, yanking it to his lap. As his head rose once again above the dash, he gasped, the front of the car suddenly smashing into the ground, the hood crumpling rapidly toward them, then airbags bursting into their faces and their sides as the car stood on its end, then slowly fell forward and onto its roof.
The car seemed to swivel, then bounce, a curious sound and sensation enveloping them as Mendoza pushed the airbags away, the compressed gas quickly dissipating, leaving him to realize they were in the river, the car floating on top as the roof filled with water.
Mendoza looked over at Delgado, but his neck was twisted, clearly broken. Mendoza released his seatbelt, falling onto the roof. He screamed in agony as he realized his legs were crushed under the foot-well, now stuck above him, his body pulling at them, gravity a cruel torturer. He pushed at the door, but it was useless. The car spun as it hit something, then suddenly the window smashed in as it smacked against a rock, spraying Mendoza with glass and water. As he gasped for breath, he tried to pull his legs free but it was no use, the agony causing him to almost black out.
He gripped the Catalyst tight with both hands as the progress of the car seemed to slow, the top now filled with water, weighing it down, the buoyancy almost neutralized. The car hit something and he felt the rear get forced high into the air, all the water in the car rushing to the front, his head almost submerged. He extended one arm, pushing on the roof, desperate to keep his head above the water, the other arm gripping the Catalyst like it was his first born child.
He could feel the car begin to spin slowly around whatever obstacle they were hung up on, then suddenly it smacked back down, jarring the Catalyst from his hands. He cried out, reaching, but it simply floated out the window, his ice cold fingers unable to grip the priceless artifact.
He lunged for it, his fingers squeezing around the corner, its escape halted, and he pulled it toward him, reaching out with his other hand to secure a tighter grip. He felt the cube smack against something, the jarring impact wrenching it from his grip as he cried out in horror, the water now to his nose, his eyes dipping above and below the water as his breathing turned to gasps when air momentarily became available.
But it didn’t matter anymore. He could see the Catalyst floating on the water above, just outside the window, travelling with the car, hopelessly out of reach, then suddenly slipping past and out of sight, lost to The Order, and to history, its secrets once again locked away.
Schloss Rosen, Riquewihrweiler, France
Dinner was served, and they all sat at the table, Number One at the head, the others, three down each side. With him being Number Eight, Lacroix would normally be relegated to the far end, across from Number Six or Seven, depending on who was missing at any particular gathering, but regardless, as far from Number One, and those of the most influence, as was possible.
But tonight Number One, the Master of all, had requested Lacroix be seated beside him. There were no grumblings this day, even from Number Three, his most outspoken detractor, who had wisely ceded his seat to the master’s left, he now relegated to the end of the table.
W
hich suited Lacroix just fine. He realized it was most likely a one-time honor, but he didn’t care. His feelings of euphoria continued, the camaraderie, the fellowship, still overwhelming. Hoods were down all around, the excitement too much to bear as the night continued and the alcohol flowed. Someone told the story of how the Catalyst had been lost in the first place, a story well known to all, but listened to with rapt attention by everyone. He told the story of how he himself had found the photo while researching the archaeologists—an embellishment to say the least—then interrogated the prisoners himself, faking the female professor’s death, proving Professor Acton had no idea where the Catalyst was hidden. He left out the part where they had escaped, killing his apprentice. Today was a day for joyous stories, success stories, where the triviality of facts would not get in the way of the legend now being woven, with his name featured prominently at its center.
It was everything he could dream of, everything he had ever hoped for, and with each passing moment he was certain his future included the coveted head of this table.
As he finished his story, a servant bent down and whispered in the master’s ear, pointing to a doorway. Lacroix looked and saw what was obviously a resident of the local village standing in the shadows, his head bowed, his cap literally in hand.
The village of Riquewihrweiler belonged to The Order. It had for centuries. They weren’t members of course, The Order having no need for ordinary commoners. They did recruit muscle from the village when they absolutely needed it, but that was it. Almost all members were doctors or scientists. But the villagers were a valuable asset. Over the centuries they had helped repel those who would harm The Order, and each new generation was raised to revere the residents of the castle, to render it service whenever demanded, and to lay down their lives should it be necessary.
The village was isolated, forgotten, the armies of Germany even ignoring it, several doctors prominent in Hitler’s Third Reich, along with the long line of rulers before him, members of The Order. Which was why security was always so light at these events. No one knew where they were, and the villagers, all armed, were mere minutes away.
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 24
