Julian paused, looking deep into his mother’s eyes. He felt no remorse or shame as he looked down upon her, thinking of her as a kitten trapped in a box.
“I would tell you that this won’t hurt, but that would be a lie.” Julian stepped back and ritually squirted the syringe in the air, a small stream arcing across the room. He gently picked up the IV line that ran into her arm. “It will actually feel like fire running through your veins, as it courses throughout your body. You just let me know when you are ready to talk instead of scream.”
“May God have mercy on your soul,” Genevieve whispered.
Julian was taken aback by the first words he had heard his mother speak in years. He allowed them to soak in, committing what might be her last words to memory, and finally smiled. He stared down at his mother, deep into her eyes, and finally at the cross on her chest. And without thought, he grabbed it, ripping it from her neck. “God has nothing to do with this.”
Julian slipped the needle into his mother’s IV tube. “You’ve always known, I have no soul.”
Chapter 57
Michael’s legs dangled in the night air as he hung by two fingers sixty feet above the craggy shore. The crashing waves had long since disappeared from his consciousness as he focused on his climb. His left foot swung outward and caught a one-inch outcropping, gaining purchase. He steadied himself and inserted a spring-loaded cam in the half-inch vertical crevice, allowing it to expand into a strong anchor point. He inserted a carabiner and slipped his kernmantle rope through the metal clip before continuing on. He was making the two-hundred-foot climb solo as Busch and Simon stood below in the darkness on the sharp rocks, looking up through the sea-spray mist. He was the expert when it came to climbing and he wasn’t about to foolishly lose his allies to inexperience. He would make the climb and secure two ropes for their ascent. There was no room for death, he told himself, not for Susan, Genevieve, Busch, or Simon.
Michael continued upward. The rock face was no less than an eighty-degree angle, the outcroppings were few and far between, taxing Michael’s arms more than he had anticipated. He never looked down or behind him, his focus only on the next handhold. He continued building a safe route via anchor points along his climb to ease Busch’s and Simon’s novice vertical journey.
By default, it was the only way into Julian’s compound. He decided the front gate was out of the question, and marching up the drive with the box in hand would only ensure one more death: his own. For they all knew, Julian had no intention of keeping Susan alive even if Michael did deliver the box.
And so it would have to be a smash-and-grab. They were faced with only one problem: they didn’t know where Susan was. Kelley had detailed the floor plans of the mansion along with the perimeter guard’s timetable but Michael wasn’t sure if she was there. He had to make his way to the security building. It not only housed the guards but the mainframe computers and monitors that serviced the entire grounds. It was the junction where the voyeuristic had a bird’s-eye view of everything. It was there that he would hopefully confirm where they were holding Susan and Genevieve, and he would also get a leg up on Julian’s security detail.
Michael shimmied up the last five feet of rock and peered over the edge to make sure the guards didn’t happen by on their rounds. There was only a twenty-foot strip of grass between the cliff and the main house; nowhere to hide except below the cliff top. Michael wedged in two more expansion cams and tied off the ends of both two-hundred-foot ropes. He had given Busch and Simon harnesses and ascension clamps to aid in their climb and help preserve their energy for the task ahead. Michael reached down, gave the blue rope three tugs, and watched as the two lines grew taut with the weight of his companions.
Michael quietly stripped off the blue mechanic’s coveralls he had swiped from the airplane hangar to reveal a black security uniform, the one that Kelley had worn to escape the compound. It fit Michael nearly as well as it had fit his father. Michael peered over the edge for a sign of Busch and Simon but saw nothing; the five-minute wait was going to be painful. Michael turned and looked at the enormous house before him; it filled his entire field of vision. The classic stone design was nothing short of breathtaking. The mansion was truly fit for a king, but held someone far less deserving.
As Michael had a moment to stop and think, he was thankful for Busch. While Simon was a friend, he had a vested interest, an ulterior motive for entering the compound. Simon believed in the power of the box and its potential devastation. But Busch…he believed in none of it; despite a literally Hellish encounter a year earlier, he still thought they were chasing myths, stories meant to frighten, stories meant to impart the majestic power of God. He was here, climbing the cliff face for only one reason: to help Michael.
Michael checked the knife at his thigh and patted the pistol in its holster at his waist. He hated guns, but they were a necessary evil given the circumstances. He turned around and looked out over the moonlit sea.
“Not a bad view, huh?” The voice came from behind Michael.
“I prefer the view in the daylight,” Michael said without turning around.
“Mmmm, but we’re not here to look around, are we?” the voice said.
Michael slowly turned and was faced by two guards, each of whom held a Heckler & Koch G3 rifle at his waist, pointed Michael’s way. The man doing the talking was short and stocky. His buzz cut strained to make him look tough but failed; he was not very imposing but the same could not be said for his raised gun.
The guard looked warily at Michael, staring at him, assessing him. “We haven’t met.”
“No, we haven’t,” Michael said.
“Probably because you don’t belong here.” The lead guard motioned his rifle at Michael. The second guard was bald and had to weigh more than two hundred and seventy pounds. Michael noted that he had a surprising economy of motion for such a large man as he walked toward him and jammed his rifle into Michael’s back.
The lead guard peered over the edge and saw the ropes dangling from their anchor points. They danced back and forth in small increments against the rock face from the movement below. The guard turned back toward Michael. “How many?”
Michael said nothing.
The guard stared at him a moment longer and then pulled out his knife. He walked over and held the blade just below Michael’s left eye. “How many?” he asked again as he ran the blade against the soft skin of Michael’s lower eyelid, just short of drawing blood.
Michael didn’t flinch.
The guard stepped back. “Well…” He walked to the edge and craned his head over again at the dancing, skittering ropes, but still couldn’t see the climbers. He crouched down and leaned over the lip. He held the blade to the blue rope. “However many, it will be minus one.” And he began sawing. It took all of two seconds before the rope snapped with a sharp pop and fell away.
Michael’s expression didn’t change, but his heart broke. He wasn’t sure whether Busch or Simon was on the blue line, but whoever it was, he never would survive the fall on the rock-strewn shoreline.
“Here’s your chance to save whoever is on the other end of this.” The guard, still crouched down, began bouncing his knife against the remaining taut line.
Michael stood there, a gun at his back, staring at the lead guard with a literal lifeline at the end of his blade. Michael knew if he made any sudden move he would be cut down in a short burst of bullets through his lower spine. He needed a diversion, but no matter how hard he thought on the matter, nothing came to mind.
The guard continued tapping the rope, his blade bouncing as if on a trampoline, staring his point home to Michael. “Maybe I should make you cut the rope.” The guard smiled and motioned to Michael. “Come here.”
Michael refused to move until the butt of the gun jammed into his lower back, forcing him forward. Michael reluctantly walked to the edge and stood next to the guard with the knife. The guard sat there crouched down, his arm over the side incessantly tapping the
rope with his blade.
Michael was jabbed in the back again, this time knocked to his knees. He was face-to-face with the lead guard.
“Would you mind providing our friend here with a little motivation?” the lead guard said to his partner. The guard raised the barrel of his gun, placing it on the back of Michael’s head.
The lead guard handed Michael the knife. “Now, don’t be getting any ideas.”
Michael rolled the handle of the blade back and forth in the palm of his hand. His mind was racing but his head felt the cold metal of the gun barrel.
“You can do it,” the guard said. “Just lean over here and start cutting.”
Michael didn’t budge. The guard violently grabbed Michael by the wrist and forced his hand toward the rope, bringing the blade against the line. Michael fought back. The rope was still jumping about the rock; Michael glanced over the edge but saw no sign of anyone. The guard forced the blade backward, trying to pull it across the rope. Michael fought with all of his strength as the guard struggled to force his hand.
The guard began to shake with effort and anger. “You’ve got three seconds to start cutting or Carl here is going to send your brain into the sea.”
Without warning, a hand reached up out of nowhere and grabbed the guard by the arm, pulling him over the edge. The guard cartwheeled past Simon, tumbling through the air, disappearing in the darkness. There was a long silence before a loud splat echoed up from below.
Michael spun around on the surprised guard, who watched in horror as his partner disappeared. Michael grabbed the barrel of the gun at his head with his left hand and jammed the knife into the guard’s thigh. But the guard kicked Michael hard in the chest, sending him tumbling backward, almost over the edge. The man dived on him, grabbing Michael about the throat with his left hand as he pummeled him with his right. Michael tried to fight back, but the man’s weight pinned him down.
Simon scrambled up over the edge and before the guard could react, Simon grabbed him by the hair and struck him three times in the throat. The man crumpled to the ground, clutching his throat, gasping through his crushed larynx, finally going limp.
Michael sat up, panting, trying to catch his breath; he looked at Simon who was already stripping the guard of his radio, gun, and uniform. Michael looked back at where Busch’s rope had been and nearly broke down at the loss of his friend.
“Hey.” A whisper came from below.
Michael looked over the edge to see Busch climbing Simon’s rope. Michael collapsed backward on the ground in relief as Busch ascended the last two feet.
“What the hell?” Busch whispered, more pissed than Michael had seen him in a long time. “I thought you were supposed to be some expert climber.”
Michael smiled, happy to see his previously-thought-dead friend.
“It’s a good thing I felt it giving out. Look at my hands.” Busch held out his palms, which were both lined with two-inch-wide rope burns. “You know, that fucking kills. I could have died.”
Michael continued to smile. “It’s good to see you.”
“Wipe that smirk off your face, this isn’t funny.”
Chapter 58
The small hangar was only big enough for Kelley’s jet. The owner, a seventy-three-year-old flight instructor, was more than happy to move his fleet of Piper Cubs out for the evening in exchange for five thousand euros. He would finally be able to take his wife to Greece as he had promised her annually for the past twenty years.
The hangar wasn’t fortified; in fact, it was nothing more than a corrugated tin, oversized box that dated back to World War II, but it would have to do. Besides, the five armed guards that Martin had arranged for looked better than metal gates and barbed wire. Kelley never questioned Martin’s ability to find the right person for the job, no matter where they were. Each of the guards was large and imposing with faces that had seen their fair share of street fights. All looked a little left of legal, but that was of no concern to Kelley. Current circumstances considered, the law be damned.
The airstrip was a wide open space surrounded by woods, mountains, and streams with a southerly exposure to the ocean. The stars seemed to shine brighter in this peaceful part of the world than anywhere he had ever seen. It rattled his very nature that abominations in the name of God and faith were being conducted not thirty miles away. The airstrip—he couldn’t call it an airport—was five miles outside of the small seaside village, and every now and then Kelley caught a whiff of the sea air that he loved so much. The winding road out of the mountain ran right past the strip and straight into town. It was the only way in or out.
Kelley sat in a folding deck chair on the side of the runway, sipping a whiskey. He tilted his head back, listening to the classical music that flowed through the open doors of the limo parked next to him. Martin emerged from the hangar, a bottle of Macallan Scotch whisky in hand and two cigars. He sat next to Kelley, poured him a refill, and handed him a Cohiba Lanceros, but Kelley couldn’t see smoking it in the face of everything. He would reserve the celebratory ritual for Michael’s return with Susan.
“Do you think he can do it?” Kelley asked.
Martin looked at Kelley and nodded. “There is a tenacity and ingenuity that runs rather deep in your family. Michael did penetrate the Kremlin.”
“I can’t believe he broke into the Kremlin.”
Martin nodded. “We all have our talents.”
Kelley nodded back. In an odd kind of way, he was more than impressed; he had no idea what it took to do such a thing, but if Michael was able to pierce such a high security location, then maybe Susan would return unharmed. It tore apart his soul that she was in such danger and all he could do was sit here helplessly. “I hate waiting.”
“You always have.”
“Doesn’t change the way I feel.”
“You always say the right attorney, the right expertise for the job. Well, this particular job is in the right hands.”
Kelley looked at Martin. For twenty years now, Martin had been the yin to his legal yang, balancing his irrational moments with foresight and clarity.
“If you don’t mind me saying, there is more than just a resemblance between you. He may be much different than Peter, but there’s no doubt—” Martin smiled—“he’s your son.”
Kelley looked away. The more time he had spent with Michael, the more he realized that their commonality went beyond appearance. Where Kelley first thought of them as polar opposites, he had come to realize that they were really two sides of the same coin. There was the Michael whom he had assumed he knew and there was the Michael he had learned about. He had only known him through pictures and articles, not character and soul.
Michael’s friends would lay their lives down for him and his beliefs, a quality unknown to most, which spoke volumes about the individual who inspired such blind loyalty. And Michael would lay his life down not only for them, but for strangers, people he had met not a week earlier, people like him and Susan, who didn’t exactly leave the best first impression. Michael would risk his life based on a story that would challenge even the most spiritually accepting of minds. When Stephen met Genevieve, when she visited him at his office to give him the lockbox for Michael that had contained the Kremlin underground map, she had said that Michael was one of the finest people she had ever come to know, a fact that he found hard to swallow knowing that he was a thief. She insisted that Stephen get to know Michael before judging him. And now that he had, there was no doubt; Kelley was proud to call Michael his son.
The sound of a truck broke the stillness of the night, it was distant but seemed to be getting closer. They couldn’t see anything, but its engine’s noise was enough to put everyone on guard.
Kelley squinted to see past the airstrip lights. But the truck never arrived.
One of the hired guns came running over. “You may want to take cover,” the guard said in a thick Italian accent as he continued past them to the electrical panel on the side of the hangar. He opened
the gray box, reached in, and threw the switch. The world was swallowed in darkness.
And then, without warning, gunfire erupted. Not just in front of them but everywhere. It was louder than anything Kelley had ever heard, splitting his ears, their ringing competing with the continued gun battle. Kelley instinctively dived down next to the limo. All around, voices shouted in staccato bursts of orders and confusion. The battle seemed to last for hours but was over in less than a minute, the world falling silent. Kelley lay there, a panicked mess of confusion; he dared not speak for fear of giving away his location. He looked about, anger replacing the fear. He slowed his breathing, gathered himself, and slowly rose up.
“Martin,” he whispered. In all of the confusion, he hadn’t seen where his friend had taken cover. He admonished himself for being so selfish in the face of danger. “Martin,” he whispered again.
As Kelley stood, he saw the first body, not twenty feet away. The bodyguard lay on the airstrip, his head haloed in blood. The silence left a question over the moment; Kelley was unsure if he would even feel the bullet from the darkness that would end his life.
He cautiously leaned down and picked up the guard’s gun, moved around the hangar, and nearly tripped on another body; one of Zivera’s men, his chest blossomed with gunfire.
Kelley ran to the breaker box and threw the switch. The airstrip flashed into brilliance. Two more bodies lay on the runway. Kelley stayed to the shadowed edge and walked around the strip. He counted eight bodies, checking each one not for a pulse or for a sign of life but for identity. He had to find Martin. He finally stopped at the gate. There was no sign of him or any living guard. The fear began to creep back in, taking over his senses.
“Martin!” Kelley shouted. But there was no answer, not a sound.
And then it hit him. Kelley broke into a full run back to the hangar. He raced into the darkened metal hut and up into the jet. He knew before he looked. The safe hung open. The files scattered the floor, one of the pistols was missing. And the golden box was gone.
The Thieves of Faith Page 39
