Sign of the Cross paj-2

by Chris Kuzneski

  Franz shook his head. ‘There is button by every door. People can get out but can’t get back in. Not until system is deactivated.’

  Payne glanced down the corridor looking for movement. Water was falling from the ceiling, and all the doors were closing. Rooms that couldn’t offer them sanctuary as they moved down the hallway. For the next fifty feet or so, they were fighting naked. No turning back. No protection of any kind. A blind man could rip them to shreds with a slingshot. He didn’t even want to consider what a well-trained soldier could do. ‘How’s the heart, Franz?’

  ‘It is fine… How’s your bladder?’

  More smack talk. Payne was still lovin’ it.

  ‘I’ll go first. Do not, I repeat, do not follow me until I reach the end of the hall. If anything happens, lock yourself in the armory. You’ll have better odds against a fire than multiple guns.’

  He put his hand on Payne’s shoulder. ‘Be safe.’

  Payne dashed down the hallway at half speed, trying to get there as quietly as possible. The gear hung over his right shoulder, occasionally clanging against the back of his legs as he moved. He clenched two Lugers in his hands. He’d never used one in combat, although he’d fired several on the range. He hoped like hell they would hold up in the downpour.

  Halfway down the hall, he heard footsteps coming behind him. He dropped to one knee and spun, ready to take out his target. But it was a false alarm — just Franz disobeying orders. Payne waved for him to go back, but he continued to charge forward like a Brahma bull.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Payne demanded.

  He knelt beside Payne. ‘I thought you reached the end of the hall.’

  Payne looked him in the eye. He was dead serious. ‘You’re nearsighted, aren’t you?’

  ‘Ja. Nearsighted, farsighted, middlesighted. I’m an old man, what didja expect?’

  Things just got harder. ‘Don’t shoot at anything unless I shoot first. You got that?’

  ‘Ja, ja.’ He gave Payne a mock salute while mumbling a few vulgar words in German.

  Payne started down the hallway again, followed by his geriatric shadow. As they reached the end, they heard footsteps up ahead and the sound of Maria whispering. Ten minutes ago it would’ve been a welcome sound. Now Payne didn’t know what to think in light of the Pentagon information. Was she whispering to Jones or the enemy? Was she the one who called the soldiers, or had someone else from the Archives tipped them off? In Payne’s mind the next few seconds would tell them everything.

  Payne signaled for Franz to get behind him, then positioned himself on the floor along the right-hand wall. It gave Payne a chance to fire without giving his adversary much of a target. He sat like that for thirty seconds, struggling to hear what she said. But the sound of whispering had stopped. Either they had turned and were headed in the opposite direction, or they were doing the same thing that Payne was: sitting and waiting. His guess was the latter. The smoke was getting thicker, so there was no reason to head deeper inside the building. The risks were too severe.

  In truth Payne would’ve sat like that all night or until he felt flames, because he knew patience was a soldier’s best friend. However, their standoff ended quickly when he saw the tip of a knife slip out into the hallway near the base of the archway. The blade tilted back and forth like it was being pushed into a grapefruit, and he immediately knew what was happening. Jones was trying to see who was in the hallway by using the reflection of the stainless steel.

  Payne growled, ‘Drop that blade, soldier!’

  Jones paused before answering. ‘Come and make me.’

  Payne grinned, then looked back at Franz. ‘He’s on our side. Don’t shoot.’

  Once again, Franz mumbled in German. The same words as before.

  The first person in the corridor was Jones, followed by Ulster, Maria, and Boyd, who had a backpack strapped over his shoulders. Payne was relieved that everyone was together, because he didn’t feel like heading upstairs on a rescue mission. Somewhere above them fire-resistant boards were burning. Same with the carpets, the pictures, and all the knickknacks. He hoped like hell that the sprinklers were working on every floor, or the Archives were about to become a pyre.

  Payne handed his bag to Boyd and told him to start loading the weapons with ammo. Meanwhile Maria just stood there, watching, not really sure what to do. At the time Payne didn’t know if it was because she didn’t know how to help or didn’t want to, but her lack of action caused Payne to pull Jones aside. ‘Did you confront her yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘Been kind of busy.’

  ‘Should we give her a gun?’

  Jones looked over his shoulder and stared at Maria. She gave him a sweet smile. He didn’t smile back. ‘Maybe a rifle. That’ll be tougher for her to use against us.’

  ‘Fine, but I’m keeping an eye on her. One false move, and I’m taking her out.’

  He nodded. ‘Shoot to maim, not kill. She might have helpful intel.’

  His answer didn’t surprise Payne. Over the years they’d heard too many horror stories of soldiers getting killed because they were thinking with the wrong gun. That’s why Payne positioned himself as her executioner, not Jones, just to be safe. No sense letting Jones’s hormones cloud his judgment. Changing subjects, Payne asked, ‘What are we facing?’

  ‘Four-man team out front, wearing camo. No guards in sight. The peak to our rear has us pinned. So does the perimeter fence… You and I could clear it. Not them.’

  Payne looked at his crew. A rusty CIA agent, a possible turncoat, an Austrian with an attitude, and a fat guy with a beard. Not to mention weapons built for World War II.

  All things considered, he liked their chances.

  56

  The pushpins were pissing Nick Dial off. They were supposed to be helping his focus — marking the kidnappings, crucifixions, and homelands of the victims — but they were having the opposite effect. One dot here, another there. No rhyme or reason. Just random spots on the map.

  Yet Dial knew it shouldn’t be that way. There should be a pattern, a logical pattern. But as far as he could tell, the only connection between the victims was their age and gender — two traits that they shared with Christ who also died in his early thirties. Dial wasn’t sure if that was a coincidence or not, but at this point he wasn’t going to rule anything out.

  Find the pattern to find the killer. That’s how it was supposed to work. But three different victims killed by three different crews in an identical way? That was unique.

  Frustrated, Dial removed the white pushpins — they represented the victim’s hometowns — and tossed them aside. He figured Erik Jansen hadn’t lived in Finland for years, and Orlando Pope had moved from Brazil when he was a child, so the odds were pretty slim that their hometowns had anything to do with this.

  Next he examined the blue pins — they represented the victim’s abduction points. One was an apartment in Rome, one was a sex club in Thailand, and one was a luxury high-rise in New York. Two of the three were the victims’ homes, although that wasn’t enough to establish a pattern. To do that he needed something consistent, something that didn’t change. He needed to find a rule. A steady rule. He could study it, crack it, and follow it right to the killer.

  But 66 percent? What could he do with that?

  In his mind it wasn’t even worth the space on his board, so he pulled the blue pins, too.

  That left only the red pins, which represented the murder scenes. One in Denmark, one in Libya, and one in America. Three victims scattered around the globe. None of the murders occurred on the same continent, let alone the same country, so how could there be a link? Then again, how couldn’t there be? There had to be a connection, maybe something so small that he’d overlooked it a hundred times. He just had to have the patience to find it.

  ‘Give it time,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Just give it time.’

  Dial took a deep breath and glanced out the window. People wearing shorts and tennis shoes strolled b
y at a leisurely pace. It had been so long since Dial had taken a vacation that he almost forgot what it was like. To wake up feeling refreshed, to eat breakfast while reading a newspaper instead of a forensic report, to spend the day at the beach or the museum or a -

  Tourist attraction. Somewhere like Disneyland. Or the Grand Canyon. Or the Eiffel Tower.

  Or a famous castle. Or a historic arch. Or a storied ballpark.

  A place where people go. Lots of people go. Where hundreds and thousands and millions of people go. Every day, every year. Guaranteed…

  Holy shit! That was it. Crowds could be the thread. The killers wanted crowds. Big crowds. Massive crowds. But why? Why did they need crowds?

  People. The killers needed people. Attention from the people. Of all races. And religions.

  Good Lord! That’s why the victims were so different. They represented all types of people.

  Dial rushed to his bulletin board, theories flying through his mind. Jansen. A priest. Crucified. In Denmark. IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER. The beginning of a prayer. But what did it mean?

  Next case. Narayan. A famous prince. The son of a king. Crucified. In Libya. and of the son. The second part of the prayer. The same damn prayer.

  A priest then a prince. The Father then the Son.

  Keep going. Keep thinking. Put them together. String them together.

  Third case. Pope. The Holy Hitter. Crucified. In Boston. AND OF THE HOLY. The third part of the prayer. Add ’em up. Add ’em all up.

  A priest, a prince, and a Pope. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy.

  What did it mean? What did the message mean? What were they saying?

  A priest = a father.

  A prince = a son.

  Orlando Pope = the Holy Hitter. No, just Holy. The Pope = Holy.

  The Father, Son, and Holy… shit! What’s missing? The Spirit was freakin’ missing!

  Where’s the Spirit? Where’s the damn Spirit?

  Wait! It hasn’t happened yet. The fourth murder hasn’t happened. Where will it happen? At a tourist spot. It’s gotta be a tourist spot. But where? Think, Nick, think!

  The pattern. Follow the pattern. Find the pattern to find the killer. What’s the pattern?

  The Spirit. Find the Spirit to find the killer. Wait, who the hell was the Spirit? He didn’t know any goddamn Spirit. How could he find the Spirit? That was ridiculous! He needed to find the spot. Beat the killers to the spot. Don’t worry about the Spirit. Just find the spot.

  Dial glanced at the map, frantically searching for the spot. ‘People,’ he mumbled. ‘Millions of people. Where will people be this weekend?’ He ran dozens of events through his mind. ‘Think! Where are the most people? What’s the pattern? What’s the goddamn pattern?’

  Denmark. He placed his finger on the red pushpin at Helsingør.

  Libya. He drew his finger to the south to the pushpin at Tripoli.

  America. He ran his finger across the Atlantic and stopped at Boston.

  He held the fourth pushpin in his hand, not sure where to put it.

  ‘Dammit!’ Dial cursed as he punched the wall in frustration. He knew he was close. He knew he was on the verge of cracking this case wide open. All he had to do was finish the pattern, and the game was over. ‘Think, Nick, think. Where will they strike next?’

  Getting agitated, Dial rubbed his eyes, trying to massage away the stress that was building. It was a simple act, one that he did all the time, yet there was something about his hand moving toward his face that made him realize what he was missing. It was the hand movement, the simple gesture that all Christians did.

  ‘IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.’ The hand goes up to the forehead.

  ‘AND OF THE SON.’ The hand goes down to the heart.

  ‘AND OF THE HOLY.’ The hand goes to left.

  ‘SPIRIT.’ The hand goes to the right.

  Dial looked at the map and suddenly realized that Denmark was near the top. Way up at the top. Just like the Father. Just like his forehead. It was the beginning of the sequence.

  The next case was in Libya. Down near the bottom. Just like the prayer. That was the Son.

  The third was in Boston. Way over to the left. Following the pattern. It was the Holy.

  Which left the Spirit. Way over to the right. Somewhere on the right. But where on the right?

  With a burst of energy, he fumbled for a pencil and ruler. Three seconds later he was putting them next to the pin in Denmark and lining them up with the pin in Libya. He was about to draw a line between the two when he realized one existed. A freaking line already existed.

  Faintly, very faintly, he saw a thin blue line that stretched from the top of his map to the bottom, a line that arced ever so slightly along its path but went just to the right of Helsingør and Tripoli. Looking closer, he realized it was the longitude mark for 15° E, which meant the first two cities on his list were directly lined up at 12°E.

  Thousands of miles apart but in a straight line.

  Next he turned his attention to Boston, trying to remain calm, trying to stay focused even though he knew that he had cracked the riddle. He placed his ruler below the pushpin and ran the pencil from left to right, 5° below the 45° N line, near 40°.

  He traversed the Atlantic, continued through France and Italy and Bosnia and extended through China and Japan before ending in the Pacific. Then he traced his finger from left to right, searching for major cities on the line, looking for anything that jumped out at him.

  Nothing in France. Or Italy. Or the war-torn lands of eastern Europe. But there, just beyond the Gobi Desert, just before he reached the Sea of Japan and the warm waters of the Pacific, he found the spot that he was looking for. The perfect spot. The one that followed the pattern. A city that was directly east of Boston. Far east of Boston yet in a straight line. Right near 40°.

  Located in China, the most populous country in the world. A nation where billions of people were suddenly looking to the West for organized religions. A place where the killers could get more bang for their buck than anywhere on earth.

  The Spirit would die in Beijing.

  57

  The Forbidden City,

  Beijing, China

  This one was going to be special. Not only because it was taking place so far away but because it was the final clue in a massive puzzle that would rewrite the history of religion. This would be the pièce de résistance that revealed their secret to the world.

  It would complete the sign of the cross.

  The Forbidden City, called Gu Gong in Chinese, served as the imperial palace for several centuries, and ordinary citizens were prohibited from entering its grounds until 1911. Protected by a moat twenty feet deep and a wall that soared to over hundred feet high, the rectangular city is composed of 9,999 buildings on 183 acres of land. All told, it took over one million workers to finish the project. Most of the large stones were quarried from Fangshan, a local suburb, then moved into place during the winter months on giant sheets of ice. To make the process go smoothly, the Chinese built a well every fifty meters to have a steady supply of water to repair the frozen road.

  Nowadays Gu Gong is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Asia, attracting millions of visitors a year, people of all ages, races, and backgrounds. People with cameras and sketch pads. People like Tank Harper. Except, unlike most tourists, the photos he’d taken over the past few days weren’t of paintings or shrines, but rather to illustrate the position of the armed guards and the weaknesses in the massive gates. Because unlike the tour groups who helped him blend in, Harper didn’t give a damn about China or their fucked-up Commie culture.

  Why? Because Harper wasn’t a tourist. He was an executioner.

  He’d been contacted a month earlier by a man named Manzak who’d heard of Harper’s exploits as a mercenary in Asia. One conversation led to another, and before long, Manzak was offering him a job. A big job. The one that would allow him to retire.

  After hearing the
terms, Harper was asked to choose three men he’d worked with before, three men he’d go to war with. Manzak took their names and ran a background check on each. They were natural-born killers, the scum of the universe, the type of men who would scare Satan.

  Simply put, they were perfect.

  Manzak insisted that he meet the four of them at once. Somewhere distant, somewhere private. It didn’t matter where, he’d said, just pick a spot and I’ll be there. Anywhere.

  Harper wanted to see if Manzak was as good as he’d claimed, so he decided to test him. He picked a bar in Shanghai near the Huangpu River, a place that only the locals knew about. No way Manzak would find it. Not in forty-eight hours. It was next to impossible.

  When Harper arrived, Manzak was waiting at the bar. He wasn’t smiling or gloating. He wasn’t even drinking. He was just sitting there, quiet, as if to say, Never doubt me again. Not surprisingly, Harper and the others agreed to his terms later that night.

  Manzak’s rules were simple. Sixteen men had been chosen to commit four crucifixions. Four men were assigned to each location. ‘Do not discuss your mission in public. Do not split up at any time. If a member of your crew is caught or killed, your team is disqualified. Same thing if someone talks or walks. The murders must be done as outlined. Bodies must be left as planned. Do not improvise at the crime scene. There is a reason for everything, even if you don’t understand it.’

  At the end of the week, everyone was to meet near Rome where the survivors would split up sixteen million dollars. In other words, if his crew didn’t choke, the least Harper would make was a cool million. And if the other teams fucked up, he could possibly take home four.

  Not a bad payday for something he was going to enjoy.

  Paul Adams was born in Sydney, Australia, the only child of two missionaries who spent their lives trying to make the world a better place. Whether it was bringing food to India or vaccinations to Africa, their only goal was to help those that were less blessed than they were.