Black Order

by James Rollins

  Gray knew he had to offer Baldric something, anything to stop him from switching the Bell on and irradiating his friends. He pointed to the monitor, repetitively cycling through the runes. The computer shuffled and sought a combination that offered some mnemonic cipher.

  “You’ll fail on your own,” Gray promised.

  “And why’s that?”

  Gray licked his dry lips, scared, but he had to stay focused. He knew with certainty that the computer would fail because he had already solved the riddle of the runes. He didn’t understand the answer, but he knew he was right, especially considering Hugo Hirszfeld’s Jewish heritage.

  Still, how much could he give away? He had to bargain to the best of his ability, balancing between the truth and the answer.

  “You have the wrong rune from the Darwin Bible,” Gray said truthfully. “And there are six, not just five, runes.”

  Baldric sighed. Disbelief deepened the lines around his mouth. “Like the sun wheel you drew before, I suppose?” He turned back toward Isaak.

  “No!” Gray called out firmly. “Let me show you!”

  He searched around and spotted a marker on one of the computer stations. He pointed and waved for it. “Pass me that.”

  Brows pinched, Baldric nodded to Isaak.

  The marker was tossed at him.

  Gray caught it and knelt on the floor. He drew on the gray linoleum tiles with the black marker. “The rune from the Darwin Bible.”

  He drew it.

  “The Mensch rune,” Baldric said.

  Gray tapped it. “It represents man’s higher state, the godlike plane hidden in all of us, our perfected selves.”

  “So?”

  “This was Hugo’s goal. The end result sought. Yes?”

  Baldric slowly nodded.

  “Hugo would not have incorporated the result into his code. His code leads to this.” He tapped the rune harder. “This doesn’t belong in the code.”

  Slowly understanding dawned…as did the old man’s belief. “The other runes in the Darwin Bible…”

  Gray drew on the floor, illustrating his point.

  “These two runes make up the third.” He circled the two double-pronged runes. “These represent mankind at his most basic, what leads to the higher state. As such, it is these two runes that must be incorporated into the code.”

  Gray wrote the original series of runes. “This is the wrong sequence.”

  He crossed them out and inscribed the correct set, splitting the last rune.

  Baldric stepped closer. “And this is the correct series? What must be deciphered?”

  Gray answered truthfully. “Yes.”

  Baldric nodded, eyes squinting as he considered this revelation. “I believe you are right, Commander Pierce.”

  Gray stood.

  “Dank u,” Baldric said and turned back to Isaak. “Activate the Bell. Kill his friends.”

  3:07 P.M.

  Lisa helped lift Painter out of the helicopter as the rotors wound down. The Zulu warrior Tau shouldered his other side. The sedative she had given Painter was short-acting. It would wear off in another few minutes.

  Gunther supported Anna, her eyes glazed. The woman had dosed herself with another numbing injection of morphine. But she had begun coughing up bloody sputum.

  Ahead of them, Monk and Mosi D’Gana stood over the dead bodies of a trio of helipad sentries. Security had been caught off guard, expecting to be accepting a prisoner. It had only taken a short spat from a pair of pistols equipped with silencers to commandeer the helipad.

  Monk switched places with Tau. “Stay here. Guard the chopper. Keep an eye on the prisoner.”

  Warden Kellogg had been pulled from the helicopter and dumped on the roof. He was gagged, his hands cuffed behind his back, his ankles tied. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Monk waved Major Brooks and Mosi D’Gana to take the lead. They had all reviewed the house schematics from Paula Kane and calculated the best route to the subbasement level. It was a ways to go. The helipad was situated near the back of the mansion.

  Brooks and Mosi led them toward the rooftop door to the manor house, assault rifles held at shoulders. The pair moved as if they’d worked together before, synchronized, efficient. Gunther also carried a pistol in his fist and a stubby-nosed assault rifle across his back. Bristling with armament, they reached the door.

  Brooks dashed forward. Key cards stolen from the dead guards unlocked the way below. Brooks and Mosi disappeared inside, scouting ahead. The others hung back.

  Monk checked his watch. Timing was everything.

  A short whistling rose from below.

  “Down we go,” Monk said.

  They hurried through the door and found a short stairwell leading to the sixth floor. Brooks stood at the landing. Another guard sprawled on the stairs, his neck sliced open, his life’s blood pumping away. Mosi crouched at the next landing, bloodied knife in hand.

  They continued down, around and around the stairs. They encountered no other guards. As they’d hoped, most of the estate’s forces were directed outward. The massing of Zulu tribesmen had to be drawing a majority of their attention.

  Monk checked his watch again.

  Reaching the second floor, they exited the stairs and aimed down a long corridor of polished wood. It was shadowy and dark. The wall sconces flickered, as if the electrical system was still fritzing after the blackout…or something was drawing off a lot of power.

  Lisa also noted a rankness to the air.

  The corridor dead-ended into a cross passage. Brooks scouted to the right, the direction they needed to go. He came slamming back around, flattening against the wall.

  “Go back…back…”

  A fierce and challenging growl erupted around the corner. A series of cackles followed…and excited yips. A single screeched scream drowned it all away.

  “Ukufa,” Mosi said, waving them back.

  “Run!” Brooks said. “We’ll try to scare them off, then catch up.”

  Monk tugged Lisa and Painter away.

  “What are…?” Lisa asked, words strangling.

  “Someone’s loosed the dogs on us,” Monk said.

  Gunther stumbled along with Anna. The giant carried his sister, her feet uselessly scuffling the floor.

  A burst of gunfire erupted behind them.

  Yips and ululations changed into cries of pain and anger.

  They ran faster.

  More blasts echoed, sounding almost frantic.

  “Damn it!” Brooks swore loudly.

  Lisa glanced over a shoulder.

  Brooks and Mosi abandoned their post and pounded down the corridor, arms pointing back, firing.

  “Go, go, go…,” Brooks yelled. “Too goddamn many!”

  Three massive white-furred creatures ripped around the corner behind the men, heads low to the ground, jaws slathering, hackles bristling. Claws dug into the wood floors as they raced in a serpentine pattern, almost anticipating the bullets, avoiding kill shots. All three bled from wounds but seemed more goaded than weakened from their injuries.

  Lisa turned back around in time to see a pair of the same beasts stalk out of rooms to either side at the end of the corridor, cutting off escape.

  An ambush.

  Gunther’s massive pistol went off like a cannon, deafening. His shot missed the lead creature as it shifted out of position like a flicker of shadow.

  Monk raised his own gun, pulling to a stop.

  Lisa’s momentum carried her forward. She went down on a knee, pulling Painter’s limp form with her. He crashed, waking slightly with the impact.

  “Where—?” he asked groggily.

  Lisa pulled him lower as the hall filled with gunfire.

  A sharp scream arose behind her.

  She jerked around. A heavily muscled form lunged out of a neighboring doorway and slammed Major Brooks into the wall.

  Lisa scrabbled away with a cry.

  Mosi dove to the man’s aid, a spear above his he
ad, a howl on his lips.

  Lisa hugged Painter.

  The creatures were everywhere.

  Movement caught Lisa’s eye. Another beast rose from behind a door to the left, creaking the hinges. Its muzzle was bloody with fresh gore. Crimson eyes glowed in the dark room. She flashed back to the madness of the first Buddhist monk she had seen, ravening, wild, but still operating with cunning and intelligence.

  It was the same here.

  As the monster stalked toward her, its lips snarled back with a growl of triumph.

  15

  HORNS OF THE BULL

  3:10 P.M.

  SOUTH AFRICA

  Khamisi lay in a gully covered by a camouflaged tarp.

  “Three minutes,” Dr. Paula Kane said next to him, also on her belly.

  The two studied the black fence line through binoculars.

  Khamisi had his forces spread out along the border of the park. Some Zulu tribesmen wandered in plain sight, switching cows along old paths. A group of elders in traditional beads, plumes, and feathers stood wrapped in shoulder blankets. Back at the village, drums and singing had begun, loud and bright. The gathering at the way station had been staged as a wedding ceremony.

  Motorcycles, ATV bikes, and trucks had been parked haphazardly around the area. Some of the younger warriors, even women, skulked around the vehicles, a few couples clasped in amorous embraces, others lifted carved wooden cups, shouting in feigned inebriation. A group of bare-chested men, painted for the celebration, bounced in a traditional dance done with clubs.

  And except for the clubs, not a weapon was in sight.

  Khamisi adjusted the focus on his binoculars. He shifted and lifted his field of view above the tall game fencing topped by barbed curls of concertina wire. He could make out movement in the jungle canopy beyond. Waalenberg forces had gathered along the elevated walkways, spying over the fence, guarding the borders.

  “One minute,” Paula intoned. She had a sniping rifle on a tripod under their tented tarp, hidden in the shade of a stinkwood tree. He was surprised to learn she had won gold medals in Olympic marksmanship.

  Khamisi lowered his binoculars. The traditional Zulu attack strategy was termed “the Buffalo.” The largest body, named the “chest,” would lead a full frontal assault, while from either side, the “horns of the bull” would strike out at the flanks, cutting off any retreat, encircling the enemy. But Khamisi had made a slight modification, compensating for modern armaments. It was the reason he had scouted the grounds all night, planting his surprises.

  “Ten seconds,” Paula warned and began counting down quietly. She settled her cheek to the side of her rifle.

  Khamisi lifted his transmitter, twisted the key, and held his thumb over the row of buttons.

  “Zero,” Paula finished.

  Khamisi pressed the first button.

  Beyond the fence, the charges he had planted throughout the night ignited in fiery detonations, shattering through the canopy, igniting sequentially for maximum chaos. Sections of flaming planks and branches sailed high while an entire forest of birds took wing in fright, an explosion of rainbow confetti.

  Khamisi had planted C4 packets, supplied through British channels, at key junctures and supports for the elevated walkway. Explosions spread, encircling the mansion, crashing the canopy bridges, stripping the Waalenberg forces of the high ground, and inciting panic and confusion.

  Ahead, Zulu warriors dropped blankets to reveal rifles or knelt down and tugged free buried tarps that hid weapons caches, becoming the chest of the Buffalo. To either side, engines revved all around Khamisi as warriors mounted their vehicles, turning cycles and trucks into the horns of the bull.

  “Now,” Paula said.

  Khamisi pressed the next buttons, one after the other.

  The fence line for a full half mile exploded with a fiery twist of metal and barbed wire. Sections dropped flat to the ground, exposing the belly of the enemy.

  Khamisi shed his tarp and stood. A motorcycle sped up from behind, kicking sand and dirt as it skidded to a stop next to him. Njongo waved him to mount. But Khamisi had one last duty. He lifted a siren horn over his head and squeezed the trigger. Its trumpet blast echoed across the homeland of the Zulus, sounding once again the charge of the Buffalo.

  3:13 P.M.

  The explosions echoed down from above, flickering lights across the Bell chamber. Everyone froze. Baldric stood with his grandson Isaak by the control board. Ischke guarded Gray from a step away, her pistol leveled at his chest. Eyes drifted toward the ceiling, questioning.

  Not Gray’s eyes.

  His gaze remained focused on the power meter on the console. Its indicators slowly rose toward a full pulse. Deaf to Gray’s pleading, Baldric had activated the Bell. A rising hum penetrated the lead cylinder encased around the device. On a video monitor, the outer shell of the Bell glowed a pale blue.

  Once the power meter reached its peak, a pulse would erupt and broadcast outward for five miles, killing Monk, Fiona, and Ryan wherever they hid. Only Gray was safe in the chamber, under the shield.

  “Find out what’s happening,” Baldric finally ordered his grandson as the explosions died away.

  Isaak was already reaching for the red phone.

  The pistol blast startled all of them, coming on the heels of the muffled explosion, loud and intimate.

  Gray spun around as blood splattered across the tiled floor.

  Ischke’s left shoulder bloomed crimson as she spun with the impact, shot from behind. Unfortunately, her pistol was clutched in her right hand. Knocked around, Ischke took aim at the shooter by the door.

  Dr. Marcia Fairfield knelt in a shooter’s stance, but with her right arm incapacitated, she had shot with her left, missing her kill shot.

  Ischke was not so compromised. Even caught by surprise, her aim was rock solid.

  Until Gray dove into her side.

  Two pistols went off, deafening in the chamber—Ischke’s and Marcia’s.

  Both missed their target.

  Gray bear-hugged Ischke from behind, twisting her away from Marcia, but the woman was strong and fought like a wildcat. Gray managed to get his hand around Ischke’s fist that held the gun.

  Her brother ran toward them, a long German-steel dagger in his hand, held low.

  Marcia fired from her stance, but she had no clean bead on Isaak either as Gray’s and Ischke’s tussling bodies blocked her shot.

  Gray drove his chin into Ischke’s bloody shoulder. Hard. She gasped, weakened slightly. Gray got her arm up and squeezed her fingers. Her pistol blasted. He felt the recoil in his own shoulder. But the shot was too low, striking the floor at Isaak’s toes. Still, the ricochet grazed the man’s calf, stumbling him a step.

  Ischke, seeing her twin injured, savagely freed her arm and slammed her elbow into Gray’s ribs. The air was knocked from him and pain danced across his eyes. Ischke broke free.

  Beyond her, Isaak caught his footing, murder in his eyes, dagger glinting.

  Gray did not wait. Lunging forward, he shoulder-checked Ischke from behind. The woman, still slightly off balance from breaking Gray’s hold, flew forward into her brother.

  Onto his dagger.

  The serrated blade plunged into her chest.

  A scream of surprise and pain burst from her lips. It echoed out of her brother. The pistol dropped from Ischke’s fingers as she clutched her twin in disbelief.

  Gray dove and caught her falling pistol before it struck the ground.

  Skidding on his back, he aimed toward Isaak.

  The man could have moved, should have moved, but he just held his sister in his arms, his face a mask of agony.

  Gray fired from the side, a clean head shot, putting Isaak out of his misery.

  The twins collapsed together to the floor, limbs entwined, blood pooling together.

  Gray stood up.

  Marcia ran into the room, pistol aimed toward Baldric. The old man stared at his dead grandchildren. But there was n
o grief in his eyes as he leaned on his cane, only a clinical detachment, dismayed by disappointing lab results.

  The fight had taken less than a minute.

  Gray saw the power meter for the Bell was in the red zone. He had maybe two minutes until the pulse. Gray placed the hot muzzle of the pistol against the old man’s cheek. “Turn it off.”

  Baldric met his eyes. “No.”

  3:13 P.M.

  As the explosions echoed away, the frozen tableau in the upper hallway of the Waalenberg mansion thawed. The hyena creatures had flattened to the floor as the booming erupted. A few had turned tail, but the remainder stayed near their trapped prey. All around, muscled bulks rose back to their feet.

  “Don’t fire!” Monk whispered urgently. “Everyone into that room!”

  He waved toward a side door, where they could make a better stand, limit their exposure. Gunther hauled Anna. Mosi D’Gana stepped away from the beast he had impaled with a spear. He helped Major Brooks to his feet. Blood flowed thickly from a deep bite to the man’s thigh.

  Before they could move farther, a savage growl of warning arose from Monk’s other flank.

  His name was whispered. “Monk…”

  Lisa crouched over Painter’s limp form on the floor, near another doorway. A massive creature, the largest by far, rose behind the pair, sheltered in the door, shielded by Lisa and Painter.

  It shouldered up, stance wide, guarding its prey. Its entire muzzle rippled back from razor teeth, growling, blood and saliva dripping. It eyes glinted crimson, warning them back.

  Monk sensed if any of them raised even a weapon it would rip into the pair on the floor. He had to take the chance, but before he could move, a shout barked down the hall, full of command.

  “Skuld! No!”

  Monk turned.

  Fiona stepped into view at the end of the hall. She stalked right past two of the creatures, ignoring them as they dropped, mewling, falling on their sides. A Taser crackled with blue sparks in one hand. She held another device in the other. The antenna pointed at the beast hovering over Lisa and Painter.

  “Bad dog!” Fiona said.