Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  Removing his pistol, Boyd popped the mag. Fifteen rounds. He only needed one to kill the Miller broad, but it was always a good idea to have extra ammo. Just in case.

  His movements quick and steady, he screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel.

  Locked and loaded, he shoved the Mark 23 into the small of his back, the janitor’s jacket hiding the telltale bulge. He jammed a leather scabbard next to the pistol; the Ka-Bar knife was his backup weapon of choice. Silent but deadly, a Ka-Bar could slice and dice a man in less time that it took to say howdy-do. Or a woman—Boyd having killed more than one bitch in his time.

  Suited up, he grabbed the mop handle and steered the yellow bucket toward the closed door of the janitor’s supply closet. Gray water sloshed up the sides, forcing Boyd to slow his stride. Opening the door, he rolled the mop and bucket across the threshold. Then, covering his tracks, he reached for the keys dangling from his belt. It took a few tries, but he found the right one, locking Walter Jefferson safely inside. That done, he hid his rolled ball of clothes, including his leather jacket, under a nearby bench.

  Approaching the crowded concourse, he surveyed the jabbering horde of touristos. Again, he thought that they’d make good cover; his plan was to kill the Miller bitch, chuck the untraceable gun into the bucket of water, and get his hairy ass out of the building before anyone realized what had happened.

  Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd could see that no one paid him any mind. Like he’d figured, he was just a big blue custodial ghost.

  Perfect. He loved when everything came together.

  ’Cause God help him, he knew what it was like when the fucking floor gave way. When you were sinking in quick shit without a buoy in sight.

  That’s how it was back in ’04 when he’d returned from his first deployment in Iraq.

  Fallujah.

  What a fucking shithole.

  Every night he woke up in a cold sweat. One night he actually pissed the bed. If his wife, Tammy, so much as brushed her bare leg against his, he’d bolt upright out of the bed, reaching for his M16. Except he didn’t have his combat rifle at the ready. Didn’t even have a damned sidearm; Tammy refused to let him bring a loaded anything into the house on account of Baby Ashley. Six months old, Baby Ashley cried all night long. Just like those fucking raghead babies in Fallujah. One night he couldn’t take it any longer: Ashley bawling for a milk titty. Couldn’t the brat just shut the fuck up?! With each ear-piercing scream, the pounding inside his skull got louder. And louder still.

  And then everything went eerily quiet, Ashley’s screams muffled with a pillow.

  Just like that baby in Fallujah.

  That’s about the time his wife ran into the room, jumped on his back, and actually sank her teeth into the side of his neck, the bitch going for his jugular. He’d had no choice but to fling the rabid cunt off his back. She hit her head on a nearby rocking chair; the blow pretty much killed her on the spot. Not knowing what to do, he’d telephoned Colonel MacFarlane. Like he was his own flesh and blood, the colonel took care of everything, giving him an airtight alibi, making it look like a robbery gone bad. The local police bought the story. Even the dickheads at the Daily News bought it; the local paper speculated that it was one of a series of local robberies committed by strung-out junkies looking to make some quick cash. Unfortunate Tragedy Befalls War Hero.

  The colonel said the same thing. Except he went one step further. He said God understood what it was like to be a warrior, to come home from a hard-fought battle only to have to fend off the devil.

  Colonel Stan MacFarlane was a great and good man, and Boyd owed him. Big-time. Not just for saving his ass, but for showing him the Way. For leading him into God’s fold. And when the little dick bastards at the Pentagon drummed that great and good man out of the Corps, Boyd went with him.

  Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd scanned the crowd, his nose twitching at the faint smell of stir-fried chink food.

  The Miller bitch was here. Somewhere in the jostling crowd.

  Soon enough he’d find her. And when he did, it’d be like shooting ragheads in a rain barrel.

  CHAPTER 13

  “. . . The story of the Ark of the Covenant is an operatic drama played out on the stage of the biblical Holy Land,” Caedmon continued in answer to Edie Miller’s question.

  “‘Operatic’? Don’t you think you’re laying it on a bit thick?” his companion sardonically remarked.

  “Not in the least. As you undoubtedly know, the Ark of the Covenant, or aron habrit in Hebrew, was an ornate chest that was roughly four feet long, two and a half feet wide, and two and half feet high”—as he spoke, Caedmon spanned his hands first in one direction, then the other, approximating the proportions in midair—“inlaid with hammered gold. But what you may not know is that the Ark of the Covenant was constructed exactly like an Egyptian bark.”

  “Like the gold boxes that I saw last year at the King Tut exhibit, right?”

  “Right down to the gold rim on the lid and the winged figures which adorned the top cover. Furthermore, the Egyptian bark and the Ark of the Covenant both had the same purpose: to contain their respective deities.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But I thought the Ark of the Covenant was a container for the Ten Commandments. What are you saying, that the Ark of the Covenant was some kind of magical God-in-the-box, like in that movie Raiders of the Lost Ark?”

  Caedmon chuckled, amused by the question. “Just as the sacred Egyptian bark contained the might and majesty of Aten, so, too, the Ark of the Covenant contained the power and glory of Yahweh. And once contained, the only means by which to control all that cosmic power was for the high priest to shield himself with the Stones of Fire.”

  Raising her steaming cup to her lips, Edie took several moments to digest what he’d just said. As she did, Caedmon surveyed the throng of museum patrons. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; his eyes took passing note of a man pushing a wheelchair-bound octogenarian, a custodian pushing a yellow bucket, and a harried mother pushing a covered pram. Briefly he noticed two youths, one fuchsia-haired, the other a tiger-stripe, locked in a passionate embrace in front of the massive glass wall that fronted a cascading waterfall.

  “Okay, we know what happened to the breastplate; it was confiscated by Nebuchadnezzar, hidden in Babylon, and recently rediscovered and smuggled out of Iraq,” Edie said, drawing his attention back to the table. “But what happened to the Ark of the Covenant?”

  Ah, a woman after his own heart, the topic long a favorite of his.

  “At some point after the construction of Solomon’s famous temple, the Ark of the Covenant disappeared from the pages of the Bible. Whether it was captured, destroyed, or hidden, its current whereabouts are unknown.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Yeah, well, I seem to recall you saying the same thing about the Stones of Fire, but the breastplate managed to mysteriously turn up. And because of it, you and I are now in serious danger.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Caedmon noticed that the custodian pushing the yellow bucket had suddenly broken ranks and was headed in their direction.

  Odd that the man was wearing military-style combat boots.

  Even more odd that the man was built like a Bristol rugger bugger.

  He was big. Really, really big. Steroid big.

  Recalling Edie’s earlier description of Padgham’s killer, Caedmon felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck.

  “I am beginning to concur with your assessment,” he murmured, his eyes still trained on the custodial giant, watching as the man removed his right hand from the mop handle and reached behind his back.

  In that instant, Caedmon saw the flash of a silver ring. In the next instant, he caught the dark flash of—He squinted, bringing the object into focus. Bloody hell! The man had a gun!

  CHAPTER 14

  There being no time to think, Caedmon shoved the bistro table aside and hurled himself at Edie Miller, flinging both of them to the
floor in one strong-armed motion.

  The bullet struck the upturned table and ricocheted off the stone top. With his female companion in tow, he scooted behind a nearby column. The second bullet went ping! as it struck a metal planter less than a meter from their huddled position.

  A woman in the crowd frantically screamed.

  A man gruffly shouted, “He’s got a gun!”

  Yet another man yelled, “It’s a fucking terrorist!”

  Several other people joined the chorus, a cacophony of fear.

  Not waiting for the third bullet, Caedmon went on the offensive. Stretching his right arm, he placed his hand on the back of a wheeled busboy’s cart parked to the side of the column. With a mighty heave, he propelled the cart forward. Dirty plates, stacked in a plastic tub on top of the cart, crashed to the floor. A smashing diversion.

  Catching sight of the motion, the gunman spun on his heel, reflexively firing a third round. The bullet hit the sheet of clear glass that contained the cascading water fountain; the safety glass shattered on contact. Almost immediately, water gushed into the concourse.

  Chaos quickly ensued, people running pell-mell in every direction.

  Armor-piercing bullets, Caedmon thought, horrified. The man was using bloody armor-piercing bullets.

  Edie, flattened beneath the weight of his body, shrieked in his ear. Raising his head, Caedmon scanned the panic-stricken crowd, searching for the armed behemoth.

  The gunman was nowhere in sight. All that remained was the yellow bucket, a wooden mop handle protruding from its murky depths. He’d fled the scene. Or he’d moved to a different firing position. Either way, they had but mere seconds to escape the concourse.

  He pushed himself to his knees, yanking Edie off the floor as he did so.

  “What’s happening?” she asked in a strangled voice.

  “Padgham’s murderer has just paid his respects.”

  “Oh, God! We’re not going to get out of here alive!”

  Suddenly concerned that he might soon have a hysterical woman on his hands, Caedmon roughly grabbed her by the shoulders. “We will escape. But only if you remain calm and do exactly as I say. Understood?” When he received no answer, he shook her. Hard. “Understood?”

  She nodded. Satisfied with the mute reply—her input unnecessary and unwanted—he surveyed the damage. The frenzied swarm, some running, many crouched on the concourse floor, had become a shouting, screaming mass of collective hysteria. A Bosch painting come to life.

  Caedmon directed his gaze first one way, then the other, determining how best to navigate through the melee. To the right was a tunnel-like hallway. To the left was the adjacent gift shop. With its dimmed recessed lighting and numerous display counters, the gift shop offered the best cover. Grabbing Edie by the hand, he ran in that direction.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded, huffing as she kept pace with him.

  He sidestepped around a museum employee who was actually attempting to direct the frenzied horde, much like a traffic cop directing motorists after a crash-up.

  “We’re going as far from the madding crowd as possible,” he informed her, having to shout to be heard over the din. Spying a black trench coat hanging from a countertop, the owner having abandoned it in the rush to escape, he grabbed it as they ran past. He then dodged behind an oversized column. Out of sight, he came to a halt.

  “Quickly! Put this on!” Unceremoniously, he shoved the coat at his companion’s chest.

  “Why would I want to—”

  “Your outfit is preposterous. As such, it makes an easily discernible target.”

  Removing her tote bag from her shoulder, somehow managing to have kept the bag on her person during the rumpus, Edie shoved her arms into the trench coat. “With your red hair, you kind of stick out yourself.”

  “Point taken.” As he spoke, Caedmon plucked a knit cap from a bespectacled Asian teenager who ran past, too terrified to do anything other than keep on running. Having lived through several RIRA terrorist attacks on London, Caedmon knew that chaos had a way of making even the most truculent uncharacteristically pliant. He shoved the green cap with the gold-lettered emblem that read PATRIOTS onto his head. Cap donned, he reached over and yanked the two sides of the much-too-big trench coat across Edie’s waist, hurriedly cinching the belt around her.

  Camouflaged, he led them through the gift store in a zigzag pattern, the most difficult for the human eye to follow. Hand in hand they darted from sales counter to column to yet another sales counter.

  A few seconds later they emerged into a well-lit antechamber that housed a Henry Moore sculpture. Quickly, Caedmon assessed their three choices: escalator, lift, or staircase.

  Always execute the least likely maneuver, that being the only way to escape a determined enemy.

  A lesson well learned at the hands of his MI5 masters. Caedmon grabbed Edie by the shoulder, spinning her toward the stairs.

  “But it’s quicker to take the escalator.”

  “Quicker, perhaps, but far more dangerous.”

  Side by side, they ascended the steps, the staircase deserted, unlike the crowded escalator on the opposite side of the antechamber, people packed onto it like frantic sheep being led to slaughter.

  At the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a large vestibule where two matched bronze pumas stood sentry. On the far side of the vestibule the lift opened and a half dozen owl-faced patrons hurriedly spilled out. A few feet away, he sighted the public facilities marked with their respective male and female symbols. Just beyond the pumas was the Fourth Street lobby; the area was a veritable mob scene, with frantic museum goers running to and fro and harried guards attempting to corral them through the exit door.

  Like doomed fish in a glass bowl.

  Easy pickings for a hungry cat.

  Having evaluated the situation, Caedmon grabbed Edie by the hand and dragged her toward the WC. Shoving his shoulder against the swinging door, he pulled his companion into the ladies’ loo.

  “What are you doing?” she screeched, the shrill sound echoing off the stark white tiles.

  “Saving your life, I daresay.”

  “But you’re a man! You’re not allowed in here!”

  Ignoring her, he scanned the facilities.

  Six stalls. Five sinks. No occupants.

  He pushed open one of the middle stall doors.

  “Did you hear me, Caedmon? I said that you’re not allowed—”

  “Do calm down, will you?” He shoved her inside the stall, following on her coattails. “And while you’re at it, lower your voice. Getting into a dither will only make things worse than they already are.”

  An adamant look on her face, she continued to protest the trespass. “But this is the ladies’ room.”

  “Precisely why I chose it over the little boys’ loo. Mind you, it’s only a guess, but I seriously doubt our testosterone-driven assailant will think to look for us in here; the word Ladies will act as a natural deterrent. For the moment, at least, we’re safe.”

  “Not to mention cramped like peas in a porcelain pod,” she muttered, awkwardly twisting her upper body as she straddled the toilet; the stall was barely wide enough to accommodate one person, let alone two.

  After locking the stall door, Caedmon removed a visitors’ guide from his coat pocket, having picked up the map when he first arrived at the museum.

  “Now what?”

  “Now, we figure out how best to outwit our nemesis.” Unfolding the map, he held it in front of his chest. Edie, forced to stand on tiptoe, peered over his shoulder. “According to the map, there are five possible exits from the museum.”

  “The nearest exit is no more than fifty feet away. That being the one we just passed.” Reaching over his shoulder, she jabbed her index finger at the nearby exit. “Right there. The Fourth Street exit. My Jeep is parked outside the door. We can be out of here in seconds. As in ‘Gentlemen, start your engines.’”

  Caedmon negated her suggestion
with a brusque shake of the head. “I have reason to suspect you were followed to the museum. Which means the Fourth Street exit will undoubtedly be manned by either the gunman or an accomplice. Our point of egress should be the most distant exit from our current position.”

  She grabbed him by the upper arm, awkwardly turning him toward her. “Are you crazy? You’re talking about the Seventh Street exit!” she hissed in a highly agitated whisper. “That’s all the way on the other side of the National Gallery of Art. It’s three city blocks from where we’re at right now. If you think that’s a good plan, you’re totally insane!”

  “Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.”

  His mind made up, he refolded the map and replaced it in his breast pocket. Not bothering to ask permission, he searched the pockets of Edie’s pilfered trench coat. Discovering a black canvas rain bonnet, he handed it to her.

  “Here, put this on.”

  “Unh-uh.” She shook her head, brown curls buoyantly bouncing about her shoulders. “You might not care if you get a case of head lice, but I—”

  “Don the cap,” he ordered, thinking her adamancy yet again misplaced. “Head lice can be cured with a bit of medicated shampoo. Resurrection is trickier to manage. As I speak, the gunman is searching the museum for two targets: a redheaded bugger and a curly-haired maiden. Trust me. We have danger in spades.”

  “Not to mention hearts, clubs, and diamonds,” she muttered, stuffing her curls into the canvas bonnet.

  “Much better,” he said, nodding his approval. “Come. We’ve tarried long enough.” He unlocked the stall and swung it open.

  Edie stared at him, refusing to budge, her obstinacy now replaced with a look of fearful dread.

  “Do you think we’ve got a chance of getting out of here alive?” she whispered.

  Rather than make an empty promise he might not be able to keep, he said, “We shall find out soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 15