Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  “Tarman! Look out!”

  One of Joram’s men slammed violently back against the wall. He hung there for a moment, then he slumped to the ground, his weapon, an ancient rifle, clattering on the brickwork beside him. A bloody trail smeared the wall behind his body. The man’s leg jerked spasmodically. Another bullet slammed into his head; he lay still.

  Jim Tarman. A good man. Knollys’s words echoed in Ayesha’s head as she stared at the body on the ground. She felt the insanity take over. She was going to die. So what?

  “Everyone up!” Ayesha raised her voice to make herself heard over the weapons fire from the courtyard. “Now’s your time!” She let fly with her bow. A mercenary dropped, arrow buried in his gut. Her student archers dispatched more camouflage-clad figures while Joram’s team fired their assorted weapons, enfilading the enemy.

  Their combined fire was telling, but not yet decisive. The mercenaries maintained a deadly suppressing fire, rendering it impossible for the castle defenders to aim and shoot with any degree of accuracy. The defenders’ ammunition was running out. Ayesha was down to her last arrow. Two more students lay on the floor of the improvised aid station. One, a girl, looked in a very bad way. Ayesha reached for Harold’s sword. Then a voice from below cut through the uproar.

  “Tate!” Miller’s bellow would have brought order to the most disorderly parade ground. “Get your people down! Now!”

  The mercenaries in the courtyard, those still standing—less than half the original complement—swung every which way. Their weapons were raised, seeking targets. One of them gestured wildly toward the gatehouse.

  Too late!

  Miller’s cannon roared.

  A plume of black smoke belched forth.

  The bodies of the mercenaries in the courtyard were flung about like rag dolls. Shrapnel gouged holes in the brick columns behind which Joram and his men sheltered. Blood and other, less identifiable matter splattered on the grass, against the brick walls, and over the bodies of men, some writhing in agony, some still.

  Ayesha leaned through the window. Her eyes widened as she took in the detail of the slaughterhouse below. Not a soul was standing. Relief washed over her. Something else, too. Pleasure, but not the happy sort. Something dark.

  “Be the day ours?” she whispered. “Herald, I cannot tell.” Ayesha looked up. The Zeppelin still hovered above the castle. Ominous. Watching. Engines hardly more than a murmur. Surely they’ve had enough. She sagged against the wall, her limbs trembling and her eyelids drooping as the post-adrenaline rush of exhaustion made itself felt.

  A piercing scream ripped the silence asunder, cutting Ayesha to the marrow. Marian.

  Chapter 50

  Marian’s scream still ringing in her ears, Ayesha snatched up Harold’s sword and raced to the end of the corridor. “Wait!” she snapped at Matt, as the student, grim-faced, made to follow her.

  A door barred Ayesha’s way. She kicked it open and almost fell into the room on the other side—a classroom.

  The tableau would be forever graven on her memory.

  Marian’s blouse had been ripped off. Her bra as well. Her chest was smeared with blood from a knife slash across one cheek. One of the mercenaries, a giant Japanese, gripped her hair with one hand. With his other, he pressed a blade to her throat.

  “Bastard!” Ayesha charged, pure white-hot fury blazing through every vein in her body.

  “Stop!”

  Ayesha, sword held like a dagger, froze. She glared at the woman who pointed the barrel of an Uzi at her head. Bebe Daniels.

  Marian sobbed and tried to cover herself.

  Ayesha tensed to spring. Death meant nothing.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  Ayesha swung round. Longo stood behind her, eyes blazing with fury, finger on the trigger of another weapon. This one was pointed at her stomach. She drew a ragged breath. She could help no one if she were dead. Slowly, she lowered Harold’s sword to the floor.

  “Cut the girl again, Zak,” Daniels ordered the Japanese, her heavily red-rouged mouth wet with excitement.

  “Please! Don’t!” Marian’s knees crumpled; she would have fallen had the mercenary not held her up.

  Ayesha calculated distances. She had to do something. Once more she tensed.

  Daniels’s mouth set in a sneer of delight. “You—” The student Matt stormed into the classroom, his bow raised as if to wield it like a stave. Daniels swung her Uzi toward Matt’s head, her finger whitening on the trigger.

  “No!” Ayesha jumped in front of Matt, her arms raised.

  Daniels did not lower her Uzi, but her finger eased on the trigger, slightly. She glanced sideways at her lieutenant.

  Longo had been injured. A dirty white bandage was wrapped around his left forearm. He bled from a gash across his forehead. A series of scratches on his cheek had likely been inflicted by Marian, Ayesha thought. Good for her. Longo’s injuries had apparently not slowed him down, though. His face displayed bitter rage as he looked Ayesha up and down. No doubt he blamed her for the death of most of his men. She held her breath. She did not think Longo would need much excuse to open fire.

  Her fists clenched tight, Ayesha cursed herself for letting them be taken unawares. Daniels and her people must have come up the turret staircase. Or down, more like. The Zeppelin had probably landed them on the wall walk. She did the only thing she could. She raised her arms in surrender and took two slow steps backward, until she stood with her back to a window that looked over the courtyard. The gesture was intended partly for Bebe Daniels and the trigger-happy Longo. More so, it was intended to alert those below to what had befallen them.

  “You’re dead, Daniels. You just don’t know it.” Ayesha spoke through gritted teeth, her gaze on Marian. The Japanese mercenary had let the girl drop. She’d crawled beneath a desk and had curled into a ball, whimpering. From the corner of her eye, Ayesha saw Matt take a phone from his pocket. His fingers did something to the keypad.

  Daniels smirked. “You’re hardly in a position to make threats.”

  Ayesha sighed inwardly; Daniels hadn’t noticed Matt’s movements. Neither had Longo or the Japanese.

  “You have, Dr. Ryder,” Daniels continued, “wiped out most of my…retinue? Entourage? Whatever.” She looked at Longo—sneered would be more accurate. “You wouldn’t think it, given their performance, but they are, or were, the best mercenaries money could hire.” She sighed theatrically. “My Master won’t have to pay the dead ones, which is a plus.”

  “Your Master?” Ayesha played desperately for time. “Noel Malcolm?”

  “Malcolm? That fat fuck? As if.” Daniels glanced at her watch. “He should be dead by now. Along with that bitch Armstrong.”

  “Who then? Who are you working for? Why should Malcolm be dead?”

  “Philip Balfour is my Master. I serve only him.”

  Balfour? Ayesha’s lip curled. Daniels was a sub, Balfour her dom. She’d known such people. They took themselves very seriously. Daniels would do anything for Balfour. She’d give her life, gladly, if need be. Ayesha’s brain raced. Balfour was foreign secretary. If Malcolm was dead, unless the home secretary had put himself forward, unlikely from what Ayesha knew of Norman Eldritch, Balfour would be acting prime minister. Effectively the real thing, if Susannah was dead, which she might well be by now. “It was you, then?” she asked, still playing for time. “You killed the prime minister? Poisoned her?”

  “Of course. As my Master commanded.”

  “And Noel Malcolm? Who killed him?”

  “My Master himself.” Daniels looked at the ancient weapon at Ayesha’s feet. “My Master wants Harold’s sword. He also wants the Templar treasure. Take me to it.”

  “Fuck you, Daniels.” It wasn’t the best reply in the circumstances, but Ayesha was damned if she’d give the sadistic, murdering bitch anything.

  Daniels smiled with all the charm of a cobra about to strike. “You may not talk. But how many of your merry band do you think Longo and his
Japanese friend will need to rape and drop out of these windows before your friends down below do as I ask?” She stepped forward and rammed the barrel of her Uzi between Ayesha’s legs. “Why don’t we start with you?”

  “Bebe,” Longo growled, his expression flushed and eager. “Let me.”

  Ayesha glanced at the students who had crowded into the room behind her. They may have wanted to come to her aid, but there was no hope of that. The giant Japanese was covering them. One burst from his gun and they’d all be cut down.

  Daniels thrust her weapon harder into Ayesha’s crotch. Her tongue flickered across her lips in an obscene gesture. Then she nodded and stepped aside. “Be my guest,” she told Longo.

  Ayesha felt the Italian’s hot breath on her face. Felt his hands running over her body. Felt him unzip her jacket and slide his hands beneath her T-shirt. All the while she never dropped her gaze from Daniels’s face. Then Longo slid a hand beneath the waistband of her jeans. Slowly, keeping her eyes on Daniels’s, she raised her right foot. Then she brought it down. On Longo’s instep. She put her entire weight on his foot, and ground her heel till she thought she heard the bones crack.

  Longo’s scream must have resonated throughout the castle. Ayesha didn’t care. Daniels was going to shoot. The woman had stepped back to clear Longo, who was now hopping on one foot, bellowing like a maddened bull. Daniels’s finger whitened on the trigger.

  This is it.

  Ayesha was determined not to show fear. She didn’t believe in an afterlife. But now, when her life was about to be extinguished, she hoped there’d be something. She wanted to see her parents again. Her sister, Ghayda. Evelyn. Lawrence.

  A shot sounded. Ayesha fell back against the wall, clawing at her abdomen. She felt nothing. Was she dead? No. She was still standing. She felt the wall against her back. She touched her face. Her stomach. Nothing. She was unhurt. There was no blood. Then she looked at Longo.

  The Italian stared at her with a curious expression. His eyes seemed unfocussed. Only then did Ayesha take in the fact that his open mouth was a match for the other hole in the center of his throat, black and red-rimmed. His eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the floor.

  Bebe Daniel gaped at the body of her lieutenant. For a fraction of second. Then she swung toward the sound of the shot. “Fuck!” Her shoulders sagged.

  Ayesha’s eyes went wide. For a moment she was unable to speak, then, “Danforth!”

  “Drop it!” the CIA man commanded Bebe Daniels. Obediently, she let her Uzi fall to the ground.

  The big American, a pistol held in a two-handed grip, kicked Daniels’s weapon out of reach. He moved to the side, the better to cover her. This movement disclosed an open doorway behind her; the stairwell. Joram Tate stood there. He, too, was armed—with a Webley revolver, circa World War I. The librarian directed a tired smile in Ayesha’s direction.

  Unable to fathom the sudden appearance of Danforth and Joram, but not inclined to question whatever providence had delivered them, Ayesha relaxed. Just a little. Too soon.

  With Longo dead and Bebe covered by Danforth, Ayesha had forgotten the giant Japanese mercenary. Possibly because he was out of sight, hidden by Matt’s bulk and the other students gathered around him.

  Her mistake was nearly fatal. For all of them. The click of a trigger falling on an empty magazine alerted her to her danger. Swiveling on the balls of her feet, she lunged past Danforth, in time to see the mercenary ramming another magazine into his Uzi. In an instant, she gauged the distance between them. Too far.

  Danforth and Joram were now alive to the danger. Both swung their guns toward the Japanese. The student archers were in their line of fire. There was nothing they could do.

  Once more Ayesha braced herself for everything to end. Still it did not come. The Japanese, his face set and determined, couldn’t miss. His finger squeezed the trigger. Then he flinched and staggered back. A startled expression appeared on his broad face. His gun sagged and he looked down, at the metal point that protruded from his chest. His eyes showed vague puzzlement and disbelief. Then they went vacant. Blood poured from his mouth and he dropped to the floor without a sound.

  Another figure took the place of the Japanese. Her long dark hair was in wild disarray; her nose streamed blood and her pants, T-shirt, and jacket were also covered in blood, although Ayesha could not see the source. The broadsword the woman held in her hand—basket-hilted, typical sixteenth-century English, Ayesha observed with one small, detached, and dispassionate part of her brain—also dripped blood: the blood of the Japanese mercenary the woman had just run through with it.

  For a moment, Ayesha thought she was seeing some haunting revenant from the castle’s past. Then she realized it was Niobe Bagot. The archaeologist looked like the last survivor of a bloody and protracted siege.

  Niobe stared at Ayesha with eyes wide with shock. Her gaze dropped to the dead Japanese mercenary. Ayesha knew that look. The archaeologist was traumatized. Every nerve in her body had been keyed up to do what she’d just done. She’d killed someone. A fellow human. At close enough quarters to feel the life vanish from his body. It didn’t matter that he’d been a killer. That Niobe had saved Ayesha’s life; others’ as well. Niobe had taken a life. She might need years in therapy. Might never get over it. Ayesha hoped the archaeologist would get over it. She didn’t want to lose her new friend.

  Ayesha extended a hand. Niobe ignored it. The archaeologist dropped her sword; it hit the floor with a dull clang. She slumped down next to the blade, sat cross-legged, and buried her head in her hands. Her shoulders heaved with dry sobs.

  Ayesha took a step toward Niobe. Before she could take another, she was shoved in the back, hard. Startled, she tried to maintain her balance. But her feet slipped in the pool of blood that had oozed from the body of the Japanese. She sprawled on her back on the floor. A booted foot slammed into her side, used her chest for purchase, then was gone.

  Ayesha half rose, struggling desperately. Her hands scrabbled against the floor; slipped in blood. She jerked her head up. “Joram!” she cried. “Look out!”

  Like Ayesha, Danforth and Joram had both advanced toward Niobe. Intent on offering her assistance, they’d both ignored the threat still constituted by Bebe Daniels. Sick to her stomach, Ayesha could only watch as Daniels swooped down and grabbed up Harold’s sword. In one vicious movement the woman swung it up, then down, catching Joram across the back of his head, fortunately with the flat of the blade. The librarian collapsed without a sound. Another wild swing missed Danforth but sent his gun flying from his hand. Daniels sped up the staircase. She was gone from sight in an instant.

  Furious at herself, appalled at what had befallen Joram, Ayesha wrenched herself to her feet, slipping helplessly in the widening pool of blood. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” A powerful hand took hers in a strong grip and helped her upright.

  “Come on, Ryder!” Danforth grasped the hilt of the blade with which Niobe had struck down the Japanese. “She’s got Harold’s sword.” The big American let go her hand and flung himself up the turret staircase after Bebe Daniels. Ayesha scrambled after him, scooping up Joram’s Webley from where it had fallen.

  “Fuck!” The magazine was empty.

  “Take this.” Matt, one arm around the shoulders of a sobbing Marian, whom he had wrapped in a blanket—heaven knew where he’d found it—held out an Uzi. Daniels’s or the Japanese’s, it didn’t matter which. “This, too.” He jammed his phone into her jacket pocket.

  Ayesha raced after Danforth.

  The staircase had been designed for defense. It wound tightly with room for only one person at a time. Ayesha had mounted a half dozen steps in Danforth’s wake, before she heard the clang of metal on metal. An instant later she came upon him. The institute’s librarian lunged upward with Niobe’s sword. Danforth thrust. Then he parried. Ayesha felt she was watching one of the old black-and-white movies she’d been addicted to as a child. Swashbuckling heroes like Errol Flynn and Stewart Grange
r.

  Danforth’s bulk was deceptive, Ayesha realized, as she watched the ripple of muscles beneath the cloth of his suit. In fact he was in superb training, and, despite the restrictions that his recent wound must be imposing on his movements, he seemed to be getting the better of his opponent, which had to be Daniels. It can’t have hurt, of course, that he was much taller and had a longer reach.

  The American agent moved steadily up the staircase, stamping up a step each time he lunged. Suddenly, a blade flashed from above, slicing open the sleeve of his sword arm. Danforth gasped and fell back against the wall. Not before Ayesha had seen the spreading blood on his suit.

  Ayesha was beside Danforth in an instant, holding him up. He shook her off. “It’s nothing.” He ground out the words, breathing hard. “Come on, get her!”

  Ayesha was close behind Danforth as he burst through the guardhouse at the top of the stairs and out onto the wall walk. She spotted Bebe Daniels immediately. Harold’s sword held two handed across her body, she raced toward the safety of the Zeppelin. The airship hovered just a few feet above the wall walk; a rope ladder dangled from the open doorway of the cabin. Even as she and Danforth raced after Bebe, the Zeppelin dropped lower, until it almost grounded on the wall walk. Suddenly Danforth stopped, spun round, and seized Ayesha by the arm.

  “Down!” he roared, pushing her to the ground and throwing himself on top of her. Winded by the shock of the fall, she felt the stone of the wall walk grind against her hips and breasts as the big American used his greater weight to hold her down. A rattle of bullets sounded overhead. She understood; the crew of the Zeppelin was giving cover to their mistress.

  The firing stopped. Ayesha raised her head. The Zeppelin was rising, turning away from the castle. Bebe Daniels tossed Harold’s sword to a crewman inside the cabin and threw herself in after it.