His place was a shambles, but they weren’t looking at the broken furniture or ruined bookcase, the slashed seat cushions or even the dinged-up appliances.
It was the blood, splashed and splattered everywhere—floors, walls, ceilings.
Simon rushed up the metal steps, gun in hand.
The horror of it sank in as he stood in his bedroom space.
He couldn’t even swear it was Lissy.
Whoever had bled everywhere in the loft was no longer there. There was no body, not in a sense.
There were body parts.
No, to be more precise they were organs.
“Cat, don’t come up here,” he called down. “But close the door and be ready for anything. They might still be around.”
“Simon, who is it?”
How to answer that?
The brutality on display here was not far from what he had witnessed in many a place over the centuries. Crucifixions, burnings, beheadings, live disembowelments, drawing and quartering, other tortures beyond normal comprehension.
Here it had been as bad. Maybe worse.
The victim had been gutted, internal organs left behind in bloody little packages. A kidney on that chair, another on the table. A liver on the bathroom vanity. Other lumps of bloody tissue he couldn’t recognize here and there.
The worst was the heart, deflated and void of all humanity, in the center of the blood-soaked bed.
And a colorful piece of skin draped over the headboard.
Lissy.
A black curtain of rage flowed over Simon, darkening the world around him.
He stood, shivering, his trigger finger twitching, willing a target to appear. Someone he could hurt—torture—as much or more as they’d done here.
“Simon, what’s going on up there?”
He didn’t—couldn’t—answer.
His voice would have betrayed the darkness inside, the monstrous side of him that always threatened to overwhelm the gentler, more human aspect that had softened him over the centuries.
This was no different from what he’d seen in the Coliseum. No different from some of the things he had done, back in the early days of the Deal, when life came at such low cost that a single copper coin bought murder.
His eyes burned. A red haze painted the contour of his view.
I see a red door…
“Simon! I’m coming up!”
“No!” he said, unfreezing. He turned to bar her way, but she was already at the top of the stairs, pistol in her hand.
“Simon, who is it?” Cat didn’t look like a handler now, or an administrator. No, right then she was a magnificent female warrior, weapon ready, body tensed to spring like a panther’s, eyes blazing with the intensity of imminent battle.
“Simon?”
She looked into his eyes. He sensed she could see to the back of his soul.
“Lissy.” He whispered the name.
Her eyes widened. She remembered the pretty bartender who had scrawled her number on Simon’s napkin.
“Dio mio,” she uttered.
“No, this is the Opposition. It’s what we’re facing. They’re evil incarnate, Cat. They’re—” His voice faltered. “She was innocent, completely unaware of any of this…”
“And that’s why they left this message, Simon. That’s why she left this message.”
“She?”
“The adept who targeted us. Me. It’s personal for her.”
Chapter 68
Midtown Manhattan
New York City
“I can sense her. All around. It’s like a stench to me.” Cat was shivering in anger.
“It’s pretty bad as it is,” he muttered, referring to the metallic tang of blood and pierced organs.
“This is different from that. It’s almost an animal scent.”
They were waiting for another clean-up crew.
“Adepts can sense each other?” he asked.
“We can if we choose to. She was probably expecting to find me here, but when they found Lissy instead they turned her into a…message. And she chose to leave some of her own essence behind.”
“So the enemy adept’s definitely a woman?”
“Yes.” Cat’s face clouded, turning even grimmer. “It was personal when she went after me in the car, but this…” Her eyes had gone cold.
“They’re not trying to scare us off. It’s open season on the VSS, which means they know more about us than I expected.”
“You think there’s a leak?”
“Has to be. Only reason they’re not ahead of us is that I keep myself unpredictable and don’t use the same base of operations. Hopping around keeps them on their toes. They can’t possibly find all my places.”
“How many do you have?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “Figure I’ve called New York my home base for almost two hundred years…I—my shell corporations—have bought a lot of property in that time and even though I can jump to the West coast at a moment’s notice I’m more invisible here.” He paused. “Or so I thought.”
“If they have a mole, that could be how they’re getting data on you—on us. Plus we’ve never come up against someone with this solid an agenda, and so many resources.”
“Can we determine who has this kind of resources?”
She shook her head uncertainly. “Probably not, without solid evidence. I’d say someone would have to be a billionaire. There are plenty of those. He’d have to be a sociopath. Most billionaires probably qualify to some extent. He’d have to be ruthless. There you go, same. He’d have to be a megalomaniac. They all are, to differing degrees. We’d be looking at everyone who’s made a fortune and yet has a gripe. And, like you, he could have assets all over, including the West coast, so he doesn’t have to be from New York. Or even in New York.”
“His followers are either drugged or brainwashed—they attack ruthlessly and kill themselves rather than surrender.”
“They’re after you because they know you’re the one the VSS is counting on, Simon.”
“And they’re targeting my wrists, so somehow they’re well aware of my bracelet.”
“The mole again,” she said.
“Right. I’ve texted Martin my suspicions, but his response was noncommittal. I hope he’s keeping his eyes open. With the resources they have, an assault on the VSS isn’t out of the question.”
Cat put a hand on her neck. She wasn’t prone to mindless fears, but this one hit close to home for her, too.
“Better head out,” Simon said. “They could come back impersonating the clean-up crew, figuring we might wait.”
Keeping weapons handy, they stepped into the red door hallway. Simon wondered if any of his innocent neighbors had stumbled upon the assassins. How many more dead lay behind the red doors?
They reached the street without encountering anyone.
“Not taking the car?”
Simon shrugged. “Too much of a target. Why don’t we take your rental?”
“It’s at the hotel.”
“They didn’t find you first, they found me. I make you a target, but I think we’ll be safe just getting the car out of the garage. Then we’ll use another of my hidey-holes. Maybe a different neighborhood.”
Cat’s phone buzzed with a text requesting the meeting with Walton and presumably the treasure hunters. The meeting place specified was near the United Nations, a restaurant he’d heard of. “What should I say?”
“I have a place in Murray Hill, near the Catholic Parish. That’s not far from the United Nations, either. Get the exact location and time. We can do it within the hour.”
She texted back, and they walked two blocks before hailing a cab and heading for her hotel and rental car. Meanwhile the meeting details were texted over.
“Nice,” Simon said when she threw him the fob, “even if Steve McQueen himself didn’t drive this one.”
“No, but I’m betting it’s faster.”
“Let’s find out,” he said. Minutes later they were squealing out
of the hotel’s ramp in her black Mustang and heading to the meeting.
Chapter 69
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
Kessler was angrily staring out at the skyline again.
Occasionally somebody paid for whatever mistake had been made with his or her life, but Stoyanova knew she was safe. Unless he had another adept hidden in the wings—which was unlikely—she was his best chance of neutralizing the VSS and their pet hitman, the Betrayer. She had also proven her magick was what he needed to locate the statues for the ritual. They had two in hand, one was almost within their grasp, and another was on its way in the arms of Jill Harris.
Stoyanova looked forward to that meeting. The statue would take its place on the round table and she would have to suffer the cold, demanding flesh of Kessler himself. She did not crave that contact, but it would help them both and it was undeniably satisfying in some ways. But Stoyanova really craved the arms of Jill Harris. Their contact would come later, and it would be warmer and much more satisfying on a whole other level.
Right now she watched Kessler’s rigid back as he stood in front of the glass wall, like a lion surveying his reign. Not far was the iconic tip of the Chrysler Building, and off to the left was the Empire State Building. The Kessler Building was The Pinnacle because its height had eclipsed those two landmarks, but only technically and by a short vertical distance. She knew he plotted the demise of millions of people, when he would rise on the wings of Astaroth, and though she shivered with expectation at her role in all this, she also wondered about its wisdom. After all, wasn’t an unbound Astaroth likely to swallow the very humans who had freed him? Kessler swore the ritual would bind the demon of all demons to him, but how did he know, really?
She had lived her life pledging allegiance to no man, and though Kessler was an exception, she was ready to cut the rope and bail out if need be. She liked his appetites, and her own meshed well with his, but she also liked the ability to continue indulging those appetites on her own. She gained nothing from a completely scorched Earth, and for whatever reason this was the end result of all Kessler’s dreams.
All which meant Stoyanova was still considering her options.
But she didn’t want Kessler to know.
He was likely angry at her right now.
“You didn’t capture the Betrayer’s handler, did you?” he said without turning.
“She slipped through our fingers, Cornelious.”
“You know how much I detest failure and excuses,” he said in a growl. “You know I demand more of all my people than that sorry excuse.”
“It is only a temporary setback. We will get her, and use her to get to the Betrayer.”
“And the other statues, what of them?”
“One will be falling into the Betrayer’s hands very soon, we hear.” She licked her lips and took a breath. “We will strike then, and I expect we will get them both, the statue and the great papist assassin.”
“You realize I will not tolerate continued failure?”
“Yes.”
“A price has to be paid for every failure. It’s my philosophy.”
“I will bring someone. He will be a symbol.”
He whirled to face her. “I will not accept a symbol every single failure!” he roared.
She almost flinched. “Yes,” she said, forcing herself to stare into his blazing eyes. He really is mad.
Survival now became her greatest motivator.
“But it was his fault the Betrayer’s woman was not apprehended, and his decision to make a symbol of the other woman we found, that was a mistake.”
“Bring this man,” he said, still raging. “He will be punished.”
“It’s Pieter Curtis, Cornelious,” she said softly, consciously contrasting his rage.
Perhaps this was her chance to rid herself of that creepy bastard who ran Kessler’s mercenary army as well as his assassins, the “elite” killers who had so far failed at every turn.
Consumed by growing rage, Kessler was rendered speechless.
Then he leveled a trembling index finger at Stoyanova. The nail was long and sharp. “You try my patience, witch.”
She did not point out that an adept is not a witch. Her heart beat faster. Maybe the ploy wouldn’t work and it would be she who was punished after all, not Curtis.
She waited him out, never breaking eye contact. Kessler was forceful, but she was also, and ultimately he needed her. There were several lower-level adepts in his employ, but she was by far the most powerful—and he knew it.
The rage-filled silence dragged out interminably.
He broke. Lowering his stare even for a second was an admission of surrender for him. When his blazing eyes found hers again there was defeat in them, but she was careful not to project victory. He’d never allow that.
“I will not punish Curtis,” he said, his tone more measured. “Yet.”
Stoyanova inclined her head. Being submissive.
Her role.
She was the tool, he was the wielder.
For now.
But those two words told her Kessler at least considered Curtis was not performing his duties acceptably. If she managed to get him the Betrayer’s head, then all would be forgiven and perhaps she’d also juggle Pieter’s head. The image was pleasing.
And now she had some idea how to proceed.
Chapter 70
Docks Oyster Bar
Murray Hill
Manhattan, New York
Straker didn’t like meeting in the same place twice, but Walton insisted it was likely to be safe because its tables were packed yet again. Straker didn’t mention that a train car full of sleeping people hadn’t provided any safety, so why should people who were stuffing their faces provide any more?
He shrugged, checked his watch again.
“He’ll be here,” Walton said. “We’re early.” He’d given a brief self-description for recognition. Straker had been disappointed there wasn’t any sign and countersign dialogue for Walton to use with this contact of his. Walton had chuckled.
Straker’s problem: he wasn’t quite sure who they were meeting. Was he a buyer? Was he a government agent? Would he know who wanted the statue enough to kill many people for it? Walton had been vague, though he implied he’d been in touch with someone in intelligence. But was it U.S. intelligence? He’d made one comment about the Church—as in the Church—also being interested. Was the guy meeting them a representative of the Vatican? And if so, why?
Bella, beautiful in more of the new clothes they’d picked up on their quick shopping trip, mostly from thrift stores, wore a brown—nicely tight—leather skirt, emerald silk blouse, and light wool maroon blazer. Her hair was tamed by a colorful scarf, so she looked different but sexier, her perfect features more prominent. Straker had observed various oglers, but tonight ogling could be a cover for eavesdropping. The place was raucous again—did oyster lovers make more noise?—but was it loud enough to provide cover?
He was too nervous to drink, but when a waiter approached they ordered cocktails anyway. When they arrived, no one touched them.
At the appointed time, a tall well-built male in his mid-thirties strode to their table.
Pretty boy, Straker thought. Can’t be him.
But apparently it was.
“Walton?” asked the man. Did he have a slight British accent?
Bella looked up at him and smiled. Very widely, suddenly, as if doing a double-take at the stranger’s unexpected attractiveness.
Straker also took a second look.
The stranger’s leather jacket was distressed in all the right places, the ribbed navy sweater underneath was typical SAS-wear—authentic, looked like—and the khakis were true outdoor gear rather than poser-city. He cut a fine figure with the unkempt dark hair worn longer than today’s style, more late Seventies but on him it didn’t look ironic. An expensive-looking a
viator watch on his wrist and…was that a handgun bulge under the jacket? Not noticeable to the average eye, but Straker’s eye wasn’t average.
So, not quite what he’d expected.
Dangerous?
Yes. Straker felt a coiled spring quality to the guy.
In the few seconds of Straker’s assessment, Walton said: “Are you Pound?”
“Indeed.” The stranger smiled and extended his hand. “Simon Pound.” He shook Walton’s first. Walton said, “This is Dev Straker and…Bella”—and Pound shook Straker’s hand with a deceptively strong grip, then made a small bow while touching Bella’s hand considerably more lightly. Straker thought he was about to kiss her hand, in fact, but Pound did not. He’d been on the verge, though.
“Pleasure, Mr. Pound.” Straker strained for civility. He wasn’t sure why, but something was clamoring in the back of his head. He tried ignoring it.
“Call me Simon,” Pound said. Walton waved him to the unoccupied chair. “Thanks.”
The waiter stopped by with a questioning look as Simon took the chair.
“Bourbon Manhattan, dash of Campari and one Kalamata olive.”
The waiter wrote it down, unable to hide his puzzled surprise.
Simon chuckled. “Not many Kalamata olives get requested, I’d wager.”
“No, I suppose not.” Straker felt out of his depth for the first time since this whole damn thing had unfolded. The statue find. The murders, the bloody shoot-outs, the running. All of it seemed to be well within his abilities, until now—a meeting with…who? A buyer? A secret agent or spy? A mercenary? Who had Walton brought them? Who was this Simon Pound, really?
What if he goes for that gun?
Straker’s sixth sense was kicking in.
He turned to Walton, grimacing. “We’re calling it a night. Let’s go, Bella.”
They headed for the door, weaving through tables full of oblivious people shoveling food and drink into happy faces. He pulled Bella along with him. She wasn’t resisting, but he felt her reluctance. She wanted to hand off the damned statue and get back to normal. He understood. There were moments when he, too, wanted nothing but that. Then he’d remember, and the rage would consume him again.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 21
