The False Door

by Brett King

  Raja heard footsteps. She pivoted, ready to face Paskalev’s men, but there were no guards to be seen. Instead, a woman stood beside the door. Simona Paskalev had seen her husband crash into the pool at the waterfall’s base. Had she called security?

  No.

  The woman opened the door and pointed outside. Simona Paskalev’s mouth was swollen. A reddish welt had risen near her eye. Without blinking, she said, “Thank you.”

  Rashmi Raja nodded.

  She slipped outside, moving into the night.

  Chapter 12

  New York City

  4:05 p.m.

  Filthy habit, Stephen Angelilli thought as he ripped a cigarette from his lips. He dropped it on the sidewalk, crushing the ember beneath his shoe. Good thing I’m cutting back.

  He stood on Madison Avenue, looking down Eighty-Sixth where Shayna Brynstone had been ambushed outside her school. Angelilli was here with one of his men, a CIA officer named Mason Eisermen, who was ending a call on his cell. Another member of his team, Patrick Langston, escorted an NYPD detective toward Angelilli.

  Angelilli glanced across the street, thinking about his wife. She had said this morning that her mother was flying in for a last-minute visit. It was nice of her to give a heads-up, but it felt more like a threat than a warning.

  He turned to Eisermen. “I gotta talk to this cop coming up with Midnight. While I’m doing that, get in touch with that data scientist I like. The cute one.”

  “Linda Lund?”

  “Her. Someone took the mobile device Jason Drakos was using. Get her on it.”

  Eisermen turned away to make the call as Langston walked up with the cop.

  “This is Detective Leland Aker.”

  Angelilli extended his hand. “Detective Aker, pleasure.”

  After a beat, the cop decided on the handshake. “We have a crime scene at an upscale private school,” Aker said. “I expected FBI, not CIA.”

  “Special case,” Angelilli answered. “Need to know.”

  “Last thing I need is your spooks stepping on our toes.”

  “It’s a delicate situation, detective. I get that.”

  “Sure is. A woman was murdered at the school and so was—”

  “No, she wasn’t,” Angelilli interrupted.

  The cop’s eyes widened. “What are you talkin’ about? She was shot back there. Right inside the school.”

  “I’m not talking about where she was shot. I’m telling you Kaylyn Brynstone wasn’t murdered.”

  “We loaded her onto the ambulance. They pronounced her dead en route to Lenox Hill.”

  “We contacted the hospital. Word going out is that Kaylyn Brynstone is in surgery and is expected to make a full recovery.”

  Aker squinted. “Look, some guys came in here and killed this woman. As far as we can tell, they kidnapped her daughter.”

  Angelilli watched a news van squeal a hard left off Madison onto Eighty-Sixth.

  “That’s your version,” he said. “That’s not what your people will tell the reporters. Instead, you’ll report that the child is now with her grandmother.”

  Angelilli wanted the men who shot Kaylyn Brynstone to think they had failed to kill her. He wanted the hostiles to think the child was safe with her grandmother in the hope they would go there. It was never an easy call going this direction.

  “Sorry.” The cop crossed his arms. “Can’t do it.”

  “Look, detective, I was NYPD for ten years. Five with SWAT. I know about the emphasis on honor and integrity.”

  “Yeah? What truck were you assigned to?”

  “ESS-2, Upper Manhattan. After leaving the force, I joined the agency. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Glad to hear you wore a shield.” Aker licked his lip. “Look, it’s one thing to withhold details from the media, but I’d rather not lie in front of cameras. Not unless you have a real good reason.”

  “I’ll give you a good reason,” Angelilli answered, bringing out his cell phone. He punched in numbers, said a few words, then handed the phone to the cop. “You’re going to do it because the guy on this cell is ordering you to do it.”

  Aker raised the phone to his ear. “Who is this?” Surprise registered on the detective’s face as he heard Isaac Starr’s rich baritone on the other end. “Mr. Vice President? That r-really y-you, sir?” the man stammered.

  Angelilli left him to talk to Vice President Starr and pulled aside Patrick “Midnight” Langston, a twenty-seven-year-old former lieutenant with the Navy SEALs. He was a good kid with a big smile. Funny, but Angelilli wasn’t used to seeing a smiling SEAL.

  He whispered to Langston, “Is the team ready, Midnight?”

  “Affirmative, sir. We’re mobilized to search for Wonderland.”

  “Get on it,” Angelilli ordered. “We need to find her immediately.”

  Airborne over Connecticut

  4:06 p.m.

  Viktor Nebola interrupted his chess game to take the call. He glanced at the configuration of pieces on the board, then shifted his attention toward the window of the private jet. A landscape of clouds hovered below, canyon after canyon of feathery nothingness. With the cell pressed to his ear, he listened to the caller.

  “You’re not gonna like this,” Markus Tanzer reported on the phone. The strain was evident in his voice.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  Nebola sensed Erich Metzger’s gaze. He was seated across the table with arms folded over his chest. The assassin didn’t need to say a word—even in silence, his presence filled the cabin. He never seemed to blink, always maintaining a cold stare.

  “Know that CIA agent?” Tanzer asked. “Stephen Angelilli? He’s on the scene.”

  “I thought I made myself clear, Mr. Tanzer—I ordered a clean operation. In other words, no federal authorities.”

  “Yes, sir. You made it clear.”

  He traced his tongue along his bottom teeth. “Have you recovered Shayna Brynstone?”

  “Afraid not, sir.”

  “If you don’t find that little girl, you’ll be in a real shitstorm.”

  Metzger liked the line. He chuckled.

  “We’re underway, sir.”

  “Make it happen, Mr. Tanzer. It’s critical that you get this right. Do I need to remind you about your father?”

  Long pause. “No, sir.” Another pause. “Don’t hurt him.”

  “You understood the deal. You deliver Shayna Brynstone and Martin Tanzer will be released.”

  “I know, sir, but—”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Nebola interrupted. “I’m sending an updated image of your father in fifteen minutes. Bring me the Brynstone girl and you’ll make life a lot less painful for your old man. Now get to work.”

  Nebola ended the call and tossed the cell on the seat beside him.

  Metzger studied him. Nebola had known the assassin for years. He had been one of the first to recognize Metzger’s potential, and Nebola had given the man some of his first assignments for the Shadow Chapter. Justified or not, he saw himself as a mentor.

  “You see now why I work alone.” The assassin raised the queen, twirling the black piece once around before advancing her attack across the board.

  Nebola glared at the move. An isolated pawn several moves back had changed the complexion of the game and reminded him of Markus Tanzer. A misplayed pawn could wreck a brilliant strategy.

  “You don’t work alone,” Nebola answered, moving his rook. “You have Franka.”

  He had introduced his niece to Metzger years ago. Nebola could never determine if they were lovers, but Franka had become Metzger’s trusted ally and assistant.

  Metzger waved his hand. “I do the heavy lifting. For Franka, it’s an arson here, an arson there to conceal evidence. She seldom takes on a hit. The sight of blood troubles
her.”

  Nebola frowned at the board, then motioned for an aide to bring over cigars. “At least she’s reliable. She completes her assignments without screwing up everything.”

  “This is true,” Metzger answered. “Because Franka understands the consequences if she disappoints me.”

  Chapter 13

  Paris

  10:07 p.m.

  In the darkness, John Brynstone’s boot crunched down on a knight’s mummified chest. Bringing out his knife, he stood over the fallen cross. He had a plan, but would it work? He sliced the rope, unbinding the horizontal plank from the vertical one. Straining, he dragged the longer beam to the locked blue door. He had to act fast.

  Summoning his strength, Brynstone hugged the beam and slammed it into the door like a battering ram, the impact jarring his body. Backing up, he headed for the door again. This time, there was a loud cracking sound as he broke a hole in the door. Drawing in a breath, he made a third run. He smashed the door, rocking it on aged hinges.

  Hands sweaty, he dropped the beam. His intense hatred of Nessa Griffin drove him now. He kicked open the shattered door. He had to stop her.

  Brynstone stood on the L-shaped platform, his boot covering the word oculus. He looked up and saw without surprise that Griffin and her thugs had climbed the cord made from human bones, and then after reaching the tightwire, they had severed the cord. When he had first moved across the wire above, two cords hung side by side, leading down here. Both were gone now, lost to the dark pit below.

  He had to find another way out.

  Brynstone traced his hand along the smooth rock. He knew a thing or two about climbing, but this would be a tough ascent. The wall was stubborn about offering decent hand- and footholds.

  Thinking it over, he returned to the chamber and stepped through the gaping hole where his battering ram had smashed open the door. Highlighted in the glare of his headlamp, the broken knights of the Order of Saint Lazarus littered the floor. The warriors rested together, their heads drooping on the shoulders and chests of their fallen brothers. Despite their sunken eye sockets, it felt like they were watching him. He squinted, impossibilities filling his imagination as he searched for any sign of movement among their dead ranks. His mind was playing tricks on him. He’d studied dead bodies for years and it had never bothered him.

  Until now.

  Flushed with sweat before, a chill now came over him. Would he be forever trapped down here with these forgotten men? He rubbed his face. If he didn’t escape, he’d never see Shayna again. His little girl. For a time, he had become obsessed with protecting his child, but he’d overcome that obsession. Was he now paying for his loss of vigilance?

  Brynstone hurried to the long crossbeam near the door. He crooked his shoulder beneath it. Bracing the fifteen-foot beam, he lifted the front end and pushed it out the open door.

  It wasn’t easy going. The platform curved, making it a challenge to move the long beam. Raising it, he leaned the crossbeam against the wall. Then Brynstone pivoted the beam so it aligned with the tightwire above.

  Gripping with his arms and legs, Brynstone shimmied up the fifteen-foot beam. He hadn’t done mast climbing since the military. Adrenaline burned inside as he scrambled to the top of the cross.

  He found a rough groove in the rock and pulled himself onto the wall. Beneath his boot, the crossbeam teetered then toppled off the platform, dropping into the abyss. There was no going back now. He spied the tightwire not far above, then looked around for a better handhold. Scaling the wall, he made his way up to the high wire.

  Beneath it now, he grabbed the wire and swung away from the wall. Brynstone decided against climbing up to walk across it again. Taking it hand over hand again, he moved across the wire with his body swinging below. He made it halfway across when his hands started to ache and go cold. The problem with going hand over hand this far across a cable is that blood drained from your fingers. When that happened, it increased the chance you would lose your grip.

  He swung his legs over the tightwire. He could hang by his feet—he had done that once from the bottom of the Golden Gate Bridge to impress a girl—but he decided to crook his legs and hang upside down with the wire trapped behind his knees. Brynstone allowed his arms to drop straight down past his head. He took a breath and closed his eyes. Hanging upside down with his arms stretched out, the blood rushed back down into his hands.

  Better.

  After a minute hanging upside down in the darkness, he rolled back and grabbed the wire. He resumed the mixed hanging grip, going hand over hand again, making his way to the place where he had started. With a final huff, he snared one leg over the tightwire and reached for the ledge to pull up.

  His headlamp spotlighted a boot moving in from the shadows. Not what he wanted to see.

  “Nessa Griffin warned us about you,” Léon said.

  The man stepped on Brynstone’s fingers, smashing them against the ledge. Pain sizzled in his hand. With all the energy he could muster, Brynstone reached up with his free hand to grab Léon’s ankle. With one hard yank, he stripped the guy off the ledge.

  As he dropped, Léon managed to catch the line. Twisting his body, Brynstone grabbed the tightwire, his fingers still bright with pain from the crush of Léon’s boot. His body jerked downward and he lost his grip. Swinging upside down from one leg, Brynstone curled and reached up for the tightwire.

  Léon had a different idea. Hanging from both hands now, the man took the offense. Swinging in one fluid kick, his boot connected with Brynstone’s jaw. His head rocked back and his vision blurred. Léon didn’t quit. He kicked Brynstone in the chest. Fighting to stay on the wire, Brynstone wrapped his free leg around his other foot.

  “Playtime’s over, lads,” a gruff voice called from above. Standing on the ledge, Torn Kane pointed a handgun at them.

  He fired.

  Brynstone winced.

  It wasn’t meant for him. The bullet ripped through Léon’s arm. The man lost his handhold and dropped.

  Brynstone caught Léon’s wrist.

  Cursing in French, the man dangled beneath him. Red spots pulsated in Brynstone’s vision as he held on to the guy. Exhausted and hanging upside down, he had to find the strength to pull up the man.

  “Léon’s not worth saving.”

  Kane fired the gun a second time. The bullet found its mark in the Frenchman’s body. The vibration rattled Brynstone’s hand, making it difficult to keep his grip. He looked down. Smoke drifted from Léon’s chest and blood coated his face. His mouth gaped open like a dead fish.

  Brynstone released his grip on the man’s wrist, watching him drop into darkness.

  “Now get up here,” Kane demanded.

  Brynstone curled up and reached for the wire, his right hand still aching. After a struggle, he brought himself to a sitting position, balanced on the wire. The ledge was close.

  “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” Kane asked. “About the first time we fought.”

  “Wasn’t memorable.”

  “Don’t remember Ireland? You tossed me out a second-story window.”

  “That was you?” Brynstone growled. “You killed Reece Griffin?”

  “Nessa hired me to neutralize her brother. A college professor, he should have been an easy hit. Then you showed up.”

  Finding a new determination, Brynstone moved across the wire, closing in on the ledge.

  “Reece Griffin was a good man.”

  “His sister had a different opinion.”

  “His sister is crazy.”

  “True, but she pays well.” Kane grinned. “I remember seeing you in Reece’s flat. I had already killed him. You were in my sights. Then that blasted cat blew my cover. Next thing I knew, you sent me out a window. I hit a parked car when I landed, ended up with two broken ribs.”

  Almost to the ledge, Brynstone said, “No
w you want your revenge.”

  “Precisely,” Kane answered. From behind, two men moved into view, flanking him. “This time, I brought a little help.”

  Brynstone sagged. “You bastards left me down in that cave. Why’d you come back?”

  Kane grinned. “Nessa heard from her boss. He thinks you might be useful.”

  Chapter 14

  New York City

  4:21 p.m.

  The researcher from Shayna’s school lived in an apartment on the Upper East Side. The problem was, to get into Tina Resnick’s building, they had to pass a doorman. Just what I need. Another doorman.

  Cori watched the guy who worked the door at 1111 Park. He seemed attentive, dressed in a dark green uniform with a gold pinstripe running down his pant legs and another set encircling his wrists. There was no way to sneak past him. She scanned the area around the building’s green awning and didn’t see many options for hiding, either.

  Taking Shay’s hand, Cori tried to hail a taxi. Dozens of cabs came speeding along the uptown lanes of Park Avenue, but she couldn’t get one to stop. Lighted medallion numbers atop each cab signaled that they were off duty or already carrying passengers.

  She glanced down at Shay. Mesmerized by a burst of bright azaleas blossoming along the Park Avenue median, the little girl didn’t speak or move a muscle. Just then, a cell started ringing—the one belonging to the dead guy in the black sedan. Cori debated whether she should answer the phone.

  You said your brother would call,” Shay said. “Is that him?”

  “Someone else.”

  Uncertain what to do, she decided to answer. The caller was a man. He sounded professional but edgy.

  “Mind telling me who I’m talking to?” he asked.

  Summoning courage, Cori said, “Mind telling me why you people were stalking a little girl?”