by Brett King
Harris headed for the door at the back of the warehouse.
Nebola turned a silver ring around his finger. “You’re a mistake, Visser. Mistakes need to disappear.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I won’t hurt you.”
“You won’t?”
“Nah. Now that guy back there?” Nebola gestured with his thumb toward a figure standing alone in the shadows. “That guy you need to worry about.”
Visser squinted. “Who is it?”
“Guy I hire for a few jobs. Ever read Dante’s Inferno?”
He shook his head.
“Dante uses this method when he writes about hell called contrapasso. Basically, it’s the idea that you punish a sinner in a way that fits his crime.” Nebola glanced at the solitary figure. “My friend over there? He’s an expert on contrapasso.”
“Are you talking about the Poet?” Visser swallowed. “The guy who made a kill for you in Thailand? I saw his work. That’s him? That’s Erich Metzger over there?”
Nebola frowned. “My friend likes a low profile. Right there? You didn’t make him happy mentioning his name.”
The blonde commando closed his eyes.
“If it helps any, think of it as an honor.” Nebola brought out another cigar. “You’re about to be killed by the best assassin money can buy.”
New York City
3:22 p.m.
Cori Cassidy drew in a breath, preparing herself to confront the bald man. He was sitting behind the wheel of a black sedan, talking on his phone with the window rolled down. She wasn’t a confrontational person—not at all—but she was determined to find out about this guy and learn why he was stalking Shayna Brynstone.
It still rankled her that Kaylyn had directed her blame to Cori and not to people like him. Moving to the curb, she took a quick glance at the school. Shayna and her mother stood on the sidewalk, talking to a male teacher. Another five or six children and parents lingered near them. Shayna seemed distracted, staring at a black fire hydrant with a silver top. She pulled away from her mother’s hand. Engrossed in conversation, Kaylyn Brynstone didn’t notice as the child wandered to a green metal mailbox.
As Cori waited for an oncoming commercial truck to pass, a slender African American man walked along the driver’s side of the bald man’s sedan. He moved with elegance, like a dancer. As the truck drove past, it blocked her view. Seeing that the street was clear, she crossed it. The black man had already passed by the bald guy and was now cutting back toward the sidewalk in front of the sedan.
Playing a conversation of defiant words in her mind, Cori trained her gaze on the bald man. He wasn’t talking on the phone now, but he stared straight ahead, watching Shayna.
Cori was ready to face him. She hurried to the car.
She clamped her hands on the open window, playing it tough. “You guys aren’t as smooth as you think. Tell me what you’re doing here.”
The man didn’t answer. Didn’t even turn to look. Didn’t acknowledge her presence. He didn’t pull his gaze from Shayna.
“I said, tell me—” Her mouth gaped open as she took a closer look at the bald man.
Blood dribbled from his ear, then traced a slender line down his neck. The man stared ahead, the seat belt strapping him into place. His shattered earpiece rested on his shoulder. His right hand was slung across his lap, still holding the phone. Blood speckled his frameless glasses and his fingertips. Someone had shot him at close range. Her breath caught in her throat. Blood droplets glistened on the opposite window and the dashboard and the seat.
Her legs buckled and she covered her mouth as the acid taste of vomit rose in her throat. She heard a small tinny voice coming from the phone. The words were faint, but distinct.
“Do you have a visual on Cori Cassidy?”
She raised fingers to her forehead, surprised to hear her name.
“Sparta,” the caller said in an urgent voice. “Your earpiece is off-line. Please confirm. Are you maintaining a visual on Cori Cassidy?”
Instinctively, she reached inside the window and snatched the phone from the dead man’s bloodied hand. She raised it, but didn’t allow it to touch her ear.
“Who is this?” she demanded.
The call ended.
A black van roared around her on the street. Dodging it, she pressed her body against the dead guy’s car to avoid being hit by the reckless driver. The van swerved to a stop along the curb in front of the school.
From the sidewalk, a man moved into position behind the van. She recognized him—it was the agile African American man who had walked past the sedan as she crossed the street. Did he shoot the bald guy? He was now leaning against the van, craning his neck around the vehicle to see Shayna.
Shayna Brynstone had moved away from the mailbox. She stood beside her mother, holding her hand. The male teacher made a flirty laugh at something Kaylyn Brynstone had said.
The guy behind the van was shielded from their view. He reached into his suit coat and removed a gun with a suppressor. With one fluid motion, he pivoted, bringing up his foot as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Raised the gun. Set his sight. Took aim.
Cori was suddenly terrified for Shayna.
And she screamed.
Chapter 5
Paris
9:24 p.m.
John Brynstone fell from the tightwire into blackness. Arching his leg, he snared the wire with the back of his knee. It saved him. He swung for a second, upside down, with a rush of blood driving toward his head.
An impression of Shayna’s face stole its way into his mind. Everything changed in that moment and a new clarity came to him. He knew he couldn’t die. Not yet.
Tensing his abdominal muscles, he curled up and grabbed the wire with his right hand, clinging to it as he grabbed its taut surface with his other hand. He wasn’t going to try to get back on top of the rope now.
He considered going into a monkey crawl across the rope, but decided to take it hand over hand with a mixed hanging grip. With care and deliberation, he eased his leg from the rope and dropped it beneath him. He flexed his elbows, keeping the rope in line with his ear. Moving his legs in a stepping motion, he avoided a sideward swing.
Véronique shouted instructions, but he didn’t listen. He was absorbed. Immersed. Lost in a stubborn determination to make it to the other side. After a few minutes of work, he faced the twin cords that dangled on either side of the tightwire’s end.
Choose.
Two cords hanging six feet apart. One a marine rope, the other made of bones.
Choose.
The rope seemed an obvious choice. It was sturdy, even after all this time down here. He thought back to the word engraved on the ledge. Capio was a Latin word meaning choose or seize. But it could also mean to take something in a violent or hostile manner. And the derivative term, capi, could mean a state of injury or disease.
Violence. Injury. Disease.
He had chosen.
Hanging on the tightwire with his right hand, Brynstone reached with his left for the skeletal cord. He grabbed a thighbone, then pulled himself to it. The bones rattled an echo, but the cord held his weight. He started climbing down.
“I’m joining you,” Véronique said, testing the wire.
Her words finally sunk in.
“Stay there,” he demanded. “Let me see where this goes.”
Brynstone moved down the cord of bones formed from the countless remains of appendicular skeletons. Most had been lashed together from adult cadavers, but he came across a small tibia that had belonged to a child. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it.
From overhead, dust sprinkled onto his face. Blinking, he looked up.
Véronique balanced above him, hovering on the tightwire. He was surprised to see her up there on the rope. She stared straight ahead, not glancing
down.
“Damn it, I told you to stay back. This cord might not support both of us.”
“Not a problem,” she answered. “I’m choosing the other rope.”
He saw her feet leave the wire. Before he could make another protest, Véronique reached to her right, seizing the braided marine rope. The minute her weight yanked on it, the rope snapped free.
Bad choice.
She dropped.
Straining, Brynstone reached out. He grabbed Véronique’s arm as she fell past, her screams resonating in the cavern. Jerking his shoulder, he swung her around in an arc, straining to keep his grip on the cord. The question was, could a cord made of skeletal remains support their combined weight?
Despite a cracking sound near the top, it held. Their bodies swung in the darkness. Moving down his leg, she scrambled for a hold on the cord, clawing at a femur bone.
“I’ve got it,” she choked. “You can let go of my hand.”
He released his grip around her wrist.
Close to his foot, she clung to the cord, pressing her body tight to its bony surface.
“I thought the rope would be safe,” she said.
“That’s what they wanted you to think.”
“Who?”
“People who designed this place. Now start climbing down.”
She didn’t argue.
A rocky L-shaped platform waited below. Véronique touched down first, climbing off the cord. She backed against the wall, showing relief on her face. Now with her weight removed, the cord swung back toward the abyss, taking him with it.
Brynstone climbed down as the cord swayed out.
It was headed back to the platform where Véronique held out her hand. Timing was everything right now.
Taking a breath, he jumped.
Brynstone landed on the platform, his feet slapping dust as he hit. Véronique grabbed his arm. He released the cord and watched it swing back into the cold dark air. An upside-down human skull was affixed to the end of the cord. It seemed to watch them.
“Now what?” she asked.
He pointed. “That way.”
She inched along the platform. He glanced down and saw another Latin word carved on the surface.
OCULUS
It was another message.
Eye.
Was he supposed to see something significant? Look around, he told himself. Work it out.
Sensing movement, he turned. The cord was swinging back and forth, the skull at the bottom moving in then pulling away, all the while watching him.
He held his gaze as the skull approached the ledge. Bending a little, he caught the thing and pulled it toward him, rotating the skull in his hands, the long chain of bones reaching above like some exaggerated spinal cord. Peering inside the skull, he studied the orbit, the cavity that had once housed a right eye. He found a small object secured near the sphenoid bone.
Brynstone smiled. The skull contained a golden key.
Chapter 6
New York City
3:27 p.m.
“He’s got a gun!” Cori Cassidy screamed.
She pointed at the gunman as he stepped from behind the van, aiming the weapon at Shayna and Kaylyn Brynstone. Hearing Cori’s warning, the African American man turned and aimed the firearm at her.
Her breath caught in her throat. She ducked beside the black sedan, moving out of sight. Crouching close to the door, Cori heard people screaming near the school. A bullet glanced off the side mirror above her head. She was down on the hot asphalt now, hands and knees pressed against the pavement. Windshield glass exploded in a volley of gunfire. Hit again, the bald driver’s head slumped out the open window. Blood dripped from the dead man’s face, splattering her arm. She inched closer to the tire.
The gunfire seemed to stop.
Where was he? Maybe coming around to this side of the car to shoot her? From her crouching position, she looked back. He wasn’t there. Cori peered over the sedan’s hood, its black surface riddled with bullet holes. It sparkled with shattered glass.
The gunman stood beside the van, his weapon trained on the crowd. “Shut up, people. Everybody slap those hands behind your heads. You hear?”
The passenger door on the van opened. A white man burst onto the sidewalk, wearing a dark suit. He moved to the small crowd, shoving children and adults to the sidewalk. He grabbed Shayna’s arm, wrenching it to the side as he dragged her to the van. The little girl tried to drop down and resist as she screamed in terror.
“Let go of my daughter,” Kaylyn shouted desperately, chasing after them.
The white guy turned and punched her in the stomach. Despite the pain, she clung to him, trying to pry away her daughter.
“Let go, bitch,” he yelled, “before I put a bullet through your head.”
The black gunman watched them as he waved his weapon. Cori sprinted toward him. Leading with her elbow, she hit him from behind, colliding into his shoulder. It felt like slamming into a brick wall. He must have squeezed the trigger because a bullet hit the man holding Shay.
Clutching his chest, the man released her. Blood spread across his shirt. He collapsed on his knees, then fell headfirst onto the sidewalk.
Kicking as high as she could, Cori struck the black guy’s hand. The handgun spiraled from his grip and landed beneath the van. Anger burned in his eyes as he reached back for Cori, but she was smaller and faster. She scrambled around him, making her way to Shayna and her mom.
A second white guy scrambled out from the driver’s seat. He had a handgun, but it didn’t have a sound suppressor. Cursing, the black man looked around for his gun.
“I called for backup from the second team,” the driver shouted to him. “They’re almost here.”
From the crowd, a male teacher ran to the driver and tackled him. They both hit the sidewalk.
The school door swung open. A security guard hurried past the crowd. He brought out a gun and aimed in the direction of the van.
Kaylyn screamed.
“Get inside the school,” Cori demanded.
She jumped over a woman curled on the sidewalk. Reaching for Shayna’s wrist, Cori jerked on Kaylyn’s arm at the same time and brought them both toward the door.
As the security guy rushed past them, Kaylyn ripped away to grab her daughter’s free arm. Gunfire crackled around them. At first, Cori thought the guard had fired his weapon. Instead, the security guy flipped around as bullets tore into his neck and arm. She flinched, trying to block the image from her mind.
Cori made it through the door, pulling Shay with her.
“Let’s go.”
“Who are they?” Kaylyn shouted, her face red. She stumbled behind them, losing her grip on her daughter’s arm.
Cori didn’t let go of Shayna’s hand. She led her inside the school, knowing Kaylyn would follow. And she did. Cori sprinted down the hallway with Shayna.
She heard a gunshot. On instinct, she looked back.
Ten feet behind Cori, Kaylyn Brynstone hit the wall in the school’s foyer. Her eyes widened as a red mist erupted from her back, blasting hair around her head like a golden halo. She shuddered as color drained from her face.
Choking on her fear, Cori didn’t hesitate. She turned and headed up the stairs, running as hard as she could with the child keeping up beside her, hand in hand. She had to get Shayna to safety. She prayed the girl hadn’t witnessed her mother’s shooting.
Another security guard and several staff and teachers hurried toward them, all rushing to the school’s entrance. A man said something, but Cori burst past him. Two or three wore white lab coats, looking more like scientists than teachers.
What kind of school was this?
“Where are we going, Cori?” the child cried.
“You know my name?” she huffed.
She had talked
to the child only one time. That was back when Shayna was a baby.
“My dad has a picture of you,” she explained. “Is Mommy coming?”
“She’ll catch up. We’ve gotta get you to safety first.”
“Who are those bad men?”
“Don’t know.”
They hustled around the corner. The walls were covered with ornate paneling in dark wood. There were marble fireplaces and big potted plants scattered about. It looked like something in a turn-of-the-last-century mansion. In other words, nothing like any school she’d ever seen.
She checked a door. Locked. She tried the next one. Same thing.
A man’s voice called from around the hallway.
Gunfire rattled again, a quick pop pop pop. They were getting close.
Still running with Shayna, Cori hit full panic mode. She darted around a corner, seeing an office at the end of the hallway. The door was open.
Thank God.
Cori and Shayna rushed into the office. A woman dressed in a white lab coat jumped up from behind a desk and met them near the door.
“Stop right there,” she said, glaring at Cori. “Who are you?”
“Um, friend of the Brynstone family,” she panted.
Staring through glasses, the woman’s eyes looked cold and probing. “Your name, please?”
“Cori Cassidy.”
The woman checked a clipboard.
“Dr. Resnick?” Shayna asked. “Bad men are outside. They shot at my mommy. They killed Mr. Hansen.”
The woman stared at her.
“The security guard? When?”
“Just now,” Cori answered.
As Resnick turned to look at the door, Shayna reached up and unclipped a smart card from the researcher’s coat. The woman punched numbers into her cell, unaware of the theft.
“Stay here,” she ordered.
On her way into the hall, Resnick closed the door, locking it behind her.
Cori stared in amazement. “You stole that woman’s card.”
“We need it.” The girl hurried to the desk. “Dr. Resnick is wrong. We better not stay here.” She pulled open a drawer and grabbed keys. “Can you drive a car?”
