The Immortality Curse: A Matt Kearns Novel 3

by Greig Beck

  Something’s not right, Matt thought.

  “Hey?”

  The figure accelerated toward their SUV, his hand came up, and Matt caught a hint of something heavy looking and painted a murky green. As the person came abreast of the window, he tossed the item inside, his palm briefly showing, and displaying some sort of tattoo or scar. The thing landed on the seat between Matt and Sam.

  Samuel looked down at the baseball-sized object, his eyes widening. “Fucking grenade!”

  There was yelling – was it his voice or Sam’s? Time slowed down, but Matt’s mind seemed to work at normal speed. Sam’s mouth worked, forming words, his eyes round, and from outside, Matt thought he could see Rachel, head down and sprinting toward the car, but slowly, so slowly.

  Frozen with indecision Matt and Samuel sat staring at the lethal object, probably for only a second, but that second made all the difference.

  Samuel acted first. Maybe it was his training that kicked in. He snatched up the fist-sized explosive and went to toss it back out of the window, but Rachel appeared there, her face contorted, her teeth bared.

  Samuel turned to look at Matt, and at that moment they both knew his decision.

  “Down!” he yelled and wrapped both arms around the grenade, turning away and hunching over it. Matt just had time to throw himself back to the far side of the vehicle before the grenade detonated.

  *

  The figure in the black suit accelerated away, but from across the street another man sprinted hard toward them.

  Car alarms screamed all around him, and close bystanders were sprawled on the ground, either unconscious or groggy. The SUV itself was peeled open like a giant metallic flower, and he quickly crossed to the still-burning remains and threw himself inside. He frowned at the obliterated mess that was once the FBI agent, and pulled the professor roughly toward him, briefly checking his pulse. He smiled, relieved.

  He heard sirens approaching. He needed to hurry now. He ignored the flames and dipped a hand in his pocket and withdrew a small stoppered test-tube that had a clear capsule inside. Within that, there looked to be something like a long coiled glassine hair. It wriggled inside.

  Matt groaned and the man dragged his head closer. The young professor was a mess of burned flesh, broken bones and gaping wounds. He’d probably be fully or partially deafened as well. The man gripped Matt’s bottom jaw and pulled it down. He up-ended the tube, allowing the capsule to drop into his mouth, and then using two fingers, he jammed it as far down his esophagus as he could reach to get past the tongue, where the swallow reflex would take over.

  The man held Matt’s chin for a second or two longer.

  “Welcome, Brother Matthew.” He smiled, and withdrew from the ruined SUV. In another second he too had vanished around the corner.

  *

  Matt felt he was rising from the bottom of a molasses-thick ocean to hear a high-pitched screaming in his ears. Then the pain came, and every atom of his body howled in furious agony.

  Suddenly there was something cutting off his airway and he gagged momentarily. But as quickly as it came it was gone, and in its place an explosion of color.

  Matt suddenly experienced the bright flash of a waking dream – there was a long pool of brilliant blue water. It was so inviting, and cool, and promised to bathe his wounds to calm the hot, screaming pain that surrounded him. Then, rising from the water was a woman so intoxicatingly beautiful she could have been a goddess. She smiled at him.

  Then came a deep, calming voice: Welcome, Brother Matthew.

  His pain started to recede. He opened his eyes.

  *

  Rachel had a hazy memory of being at a cookout and smelling delicious meat roasting. She shook her head to clear it. One second she was talking on the phone, and the next she was slammed up against the front wall of the Ritz Carlton and peppered with shrapnel injuries.

  She sat there a moment more as she pulled all her senses together. Someone came to crouch beside her – one of the Ritz concierges. His top hat had been knocked off but she recognized his uniform.

  She grabbed his arm and pulled herself to her feet. She identified the smell then – charred flesh.

  “Oh, God, no.”

  The SUV was blown open, and smoke still billowed from inside. There was nothing but a carbonised splatter where the driver had been. In the back it was worse because she could see the damage. There was a single leg, still in a polished black shoe in the foot well, and red, ragged sheets of something that was either suit material or skin spread out over the remains of the flattened back seat.

  Rachel gritted her teeth and raced toward the SUV, holding her breath, and looking for Matt.

  There was movement. She dived inside.

  “Don’t move. Help’s coming.”

  She felt liquefied foam rubber from the seats searing her legs and arms. It stuck to her, like toasted marshmallow, but stung like melted pitch. There came another cough, and groan, and then some of the smoking debris was pushed aside.

  “I’m stuck.” It was Matt’s voice.

  She pushed in further, ripping away shattered plastics, and other molded materials. There were jagged teeth of armor plating angled every which way, and she carefully avoided these still red-hot daggers.

  “Careful. Try not to move,” she said as a hand reached toward her. She grabbed onto it, careful not to tug too hard as the arm could have been severely damaged, and only shock was keeping the pain and trauma at bay.

  “Easy.” She backed up. Matt came with her. She tripped and fell back onto the pavement with Matt on top of her.

  He rolled off her and onto his back. Rachel knelt up beside him. His clothing was ripped, burned and smoking, and one of his shoes was missing. His long hair was singed, but looked sticky, and when she examined him she saw that there was a mixture of soot, blood, and gore coating his face.

  He coughed and a puff of smoke rose from his throat. Rachel pulled a gobbet of flesh from his cheek and shuddered at the thought that it was most likely a shred of Samuel. There were shards of steel sticking from him, but thankfully, there was no bleeding.

  She went to pull a particularly brutal-looking piece from his forehead, but Matt sucked in a deep breath, shivered, and when he exhaled, he coughed, hacking loudly. He spat blood.

  “It was a grenade.” He held his head. “Did you see the big guy? He threw it in at us.” He went to sit up. “I think I recognized…” He groaned and winced.

  “Don’t move.” Rachel tried to push him down, but he swiped her away. She was surprised at how strong he was.

  “We need to get after him.” Matt got unsteadily to his feet, looking like a shipwreck survivor. His hair was sticking up and matted, and his clothes were little more than smoking rags. One of his arms was red with raw, blistering skin.

  She held onto him.

  “I said, I’m fine.” He pushed her away.

  “Well, you don’t look fine, mister.” She pulled him closer, and the piece of metal fell from his forehead. She frowned. She’d thought it had been embedded in the flesh and skull, but it must have only been stuck on there. The wound seemed insignificant now.

  “Samuel?” Matt turned one way then the other. He stuck out an arm, and Rachel grabbed it, supporting him.

  “He’s gone.” She held on tight, and led him to the wall of the Ritz.

  Matt wailed and tried to tug away. He put a hand over his eyes and sunk back to the ground, leaning back on the wall.

  “He saved me. He took the blast.” Matt looked at one of his hands, flexing the fingers. “I’m alive because of him.” He stood back up.

  “But how?” she looked him over. “You were in an enclosed place with some sort of explosive fragmentation device. You should be dead.”

  Matt looked about confused. “Huh?” He looked down at his ragged clothing. “You don’t think.” His hand went down for the scabbard. “The sword’s scabbard; could it…?”

  The ancient scabbard was torn in half and burned.
Even the stones were shattered or missing. He gripped it, and his eyes lifted to Rachel. “I was wearing this.”

  “Impossible. And for something that’s supposed to be invulnerable, that didn’t fare so well.” She led him back to the wall. “Now goddamn sit down until the ambulance gets here.”

  “That man, who threw the grenade, I think I’ve seen him before.” Matt turned to the sound of police sirens getting louder and closer. He looked up at her. “You’re hurt.”

  Rachel wiped blood from her eyes that was running down her forehead. It stung like a bitch, and yet Matt was the one in the car, and now he seemed less injured than she was.

  “Don’t worry about me. Tell me about the guy.” She looked into his eyes. “Was it the same people who had murdered the families?”

  Matt seemed to think. “Maybe, I don’t know. I just can’t remember now. I’m sure I’ve seen… maybe in the foyer of the building, or somewhere else. You think the killers are following us?”

  “Unlikely.” But Rachel flipped her coat back, exposing her gun. It was in easy reach as she laid a hand on Matt’s shoulder and scanned the crowd. “Just stay down.”

  She looked at the faces of the gathering throng. Sometimes terrorists came back to perform a double tap – a second hit to ensure their target was completely destroyed, or to clean up people who came to help – and that’d be her.

  Matt held up his hands, looking at them and making fists. “I feel fine.” He ran one hand through his hair. “More than fine.” He flicked shards of metal from his hand that had come from his hair.

  Rachel gripped his arm. The skin was dry now, and not raw and weeping. “Fine, huh?” She pulled her hands away.

  “Yeah.” Matt swallowed noisily and smacked his lips. “Odd taste in my mouth, but I’m fine.”

  *

  Hours later, Matt sat in a hotel room. He’d been checked over by a doctor and pronounced fit, but still disorientated. Since then he’d showered and had put on fresh clothes. The ringing in his ears had gone, but the shakes started the moment he sat down on the couch, and he cradled his face in his hands for a moment.

  He hadn’t really known Samuel all that well, but he seemed like a nice guy, and his last act was one of selfless heroism by wrapping himself around the explosive, just so Matt could live.

  He sat back, wiping his eyes. Given the way the car was peeled open, he should also have been dog meat. His eyes went to the destroyed scabbard – it was now junk.

  “Was it you?” he asked the burned leather. “If it was, thank you.”

  His phone rang, making him jump. He didn’t want to speak to anyone, so he pulled it from his pocket, intending to switch it off, but saw Rachel’s number. He stared for another few seconds and then guessed as she’d just lost a colleague maybe she needed contact more than he did. He answered.

  “Hi.”

  “Matt, how are you?”

  “Physically? Okay, I guess. Just feel like crap, you know, about Samuel.” He slumped a little lower in the chair and closed his eyes.

  “Matt?”

  His eyes flicked open a crack. “I’m still here.”

  “I’m coming over…”

  “No, don’t…” He groaned as the phone went dead. He contemplated calling her back, but there was already a knock on the door – of course – she was just down the hall, he remembered.

  He got slowly to his feet, opened the door, and stood to the side. Rachel came straight into the center of the room and stood looking around.

  “How are you holding up?” Matt asked, gesturing for the couch as he took a seat.

  Rachel shook her head and crossed her arms across her body. “I knew Samuel for a long time.” She looked down, her face shadowed. “He was a good agent. A good man.”

  She was quiet a moment and then cleared her throat. “We’re still combing CCTV images in the area, but the guys came out of nowhere.” She paced, watching him.

  “Guys?” Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “I only saw one.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Two; the bomb thrower, and another one that jumped into the car afterwards – while it was still on fire. Must have been burned or scared off by the NYPD. Then they both vanished.”

  “So they had help.” Matt said.

  “That’s what we’re thinking.”

  “Great; the circus comes to town… and just for us.” He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. He groaned and rubbed his temples. “My head’s throbbing like I’ve got a bad vodka hangover.”

  “Yeah, a grenade attack will do that to you.” Rachel sat down at the opposite end of the couch and hugged a cushion to her chest. “Matt, we need to find out what’s going on. If these guys came from Fort Severn, then we need to go there. It’s time we got on the front foot.”

  He looked across at her. “Yeah, well, no offense, but you need more backup. I think you might be a little short on firepower.”

  Rachel threw the cushion on the floor. “It’s a balance, Matt. If I drop into a Canadian town with 50 FBI agents, just how open do you think the locals will be with me? And with that kind of footprint you can’t exactly tread softly. Any bad guys will be long gone.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you right now, I’m not a great shot and can’t fight. So please don’t rely on me.” He gave her his best apologetic smile.

  She chewed her lip. “The district is patrolled by the Nishnawbe-Aski Police Service, a tribal-based service; they’ll be our backup. And don’t worry; I can hit a bird’s eye at 50 feet. I’ll only rely on you for your brain.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “And maybe some of your luck.” She hunched forward, resting her head on the back of the couch. Matt copied her, their faces only a handspan apart.

  “Yeah right, luck,” he said. He let his eyes travel from her forehead to her lips; he saw that the attractive features were bleached and drawn.

  He sighed. “Rachel, I’m not your guy for this.”

  She shushed him and leaned across and gently touched the side of his face, stretching the skin near his eyes. Immediately his headache felt better.

  “Amazing.” She was so close he could smell a soft, slightly floral scent floating from her skin. She continued to stare into his face. Her hand lingered; her touch warm. “You should buy yourself a lottery ticket, Professor.”

  “Maybe.” He drew in a breath and put his hand on the couch between them. “Rachel, I’m not sure it’s a good idea me getting involved in this thing. I think…”

  She took her hand from his face and placed it on top of his. “I think we owe it to Samuel, don’t you?” she said softly. She looked up into his eyes and held his gaze.

  Sultry – the word jumped into his head as he stared into eyes so deep he could have fallen into them. Matt felt his heart beat faster. He nodded. “Yes, we do.”

  Her phone pinged, breaking the spell. Rachel withdrew her hand and stood up. She strode across the room to examine her phone. Matt swallowed hard and shook his head.

  “Get some rest,” she said. She headed for the door, grabbed the handle, and turned. “Pick you up early.”

  “Good, fine, see you then.” Matt nodded at the closing door. He looked down at his hand. “And now I’ve just been guilted into going along.” He closed his eyes. His headache was coming back with a vengeance.

  Chapter 5

  Saudi Arabia, Riyadh, House of Saud

  Prince Najif al ibn Saud pulled in another wheezing breath and exhaled, feeling like his throat had narrowed to that of a drinking straw. He had fallen from a horse twice, survived a dozen assassination attempts, walked away from a high-speed car crash, as well as living through two heart attacks, and yet, it was the small pleasure of smoking cigarettes that was hurrying him toward death.

  Najif was 72 years old and tenth in line for the Saudi throne, a prince and a direct descendent of Ibn Saud himself, the modern founder of Saudi Arabia. His family numbered over 15,000 members, but the enormous wealth was held by only a few thousand of them, each of them a multi-millionaire or bill
ionaire.

  Najif personally had a portfolio of mansions in Paris, New York, London and Berlin, and also a palace in Saudi Arabia, where he now sat, alone in his hunting den. The huge open room was decorated with the skins of lions, tigers and leopards, with dozens of mounted heads of various horned creatures on walls, and in one corner stood his prized possession: a magnificent black rhino trophy, taken decades ago in Mozambique.

  The southern wall of the den held a flat-screen television the size of a garage door. It was this that transfixed him. He played again the grainy footage of the man in Canada holding out the roll of paper, and then the image jumped forward to where he had collapsed into decrepit skin and bone. He backed up the film to where the man sipped from the small vessel. He paused it, enlarged it, and then reran it over and over.

  Najif stroked a long iron-gray beard until the coughing took him again, forcing him to hold a silk handkerchief to his lips. He knew his life’s clock was counting down, and when modern medicine had given up on him, he had at first turned to alternate treatments of vapor inhalations and concoctions of salt bush, kale, and a dozen other revolting herbs and plant extracts. But other than assaulting his taste buds, they proved less than useless.

  It was then that he had turned to magic. His researchers had explored every myth and legend of the healing hands, ancient maps, magical cloaks, and potions made from impossible ingredients. But nothing worked, and his research always led him back to the legend of the mysterious hidden wellspring that was a fountain of youth.

  He was positive there was something there to be found. And suddenly Mr. Clarence van Helling had turned up. The man was missing for 75 years, and then reappeared looking the same as when he had embarked on his search. It was obvious; the man had taken something or been somewhere that had stopped him from aging.

  Prince Najif had enormous wealth but little time or patience now. He also had a ruthless streak that meant he would trample over anyone or anything to get what he wanted. And right now, he wanted to know where Mr. Clarence van Helling had been.