by Alex Lukeman
"A beautiful specimen, Father."
"Yes. She even has good Aryan bloodlines, but she is a traitor to her race. She is perfect for our needs. For His need."
Selena didn't like the way Greenwood said that.
"This is my son, Frederick, Doctor Connor. Frederick did a wonderful job in Jerusalem, don't you think? Frederick is here because you succeeded in removing General Dysart. The number of the Council must be preserved. He's a bit young for such responsibility, but I'm sure he'll grow into the task."
"Robes are out of style, Greenwood. I read that Hitler used to dress up when he was little. Are you carrying on the tradition? Didn't you get enough play time in mommy's clothes?"
Greenwood's face reddened. He stepped forward and slapped her, hard. Selena's head slammed back against the wall.
"Go to your place, Frederick. We begin."
Blood trickled from Selena's mouth. Greenwood stood in front of the carved chair. The others took their seats. From his robe, Greenwood withdrew a book. The cover was black, emblazoned with the SS insignia in silver. He began reading aloud in a slow and measured cadence. It took Selena a moment to realize he was speaking in the old Germanic tongue, the language of the runes. A ripple of fear moved through her as she recognized the ritual Arslanian had encoded on his flash drive. The torches flickered.
Nick, she thought, where the hell are you?
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Nick's ear felt like it was on fire. Selena would never be late like this. He couldn't raise her.
Lamont, Ronnie, Stephanie and Nick were in a McDonald's in downtown DC. It was a safe bet no one would look for them there. Even so, Ronnie had his black box out. It sat in the middle of the cardboard containers of hamburgers and fries. It was going on 8:40. Selena was over an hour and a half late.
Stephanie said, "I got the trace on the email to Dysart. About commanding him. It's Greenwood. We were right about him. He's the one running the show."
It was Halloween, the last night of October. A scattering of teens in bizarre costumes sat at tables nearby. Across the room, four sullen bikers in leather jackets and dirty jeans eyed Stephanie. Lamont gave them a cold look. They went back to whatever they'd been talking about.
Nick dipped a fry in ketchup, set it down. The slick surface of the table felt cold under his fingers.
"Selena's in trouble." It was a physical feeling, a bad feeling.
Stephanie's phone rang. She answered, listened, disconnected.
"That was someone I sent to her hotel. They found a waiter stuffed in a maintenance closet on Selena's floor, unconscious. His uniform was missing. Her key was still in the door slot of the room. Someone's grabbed her."
Nick felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.
"Where would they take her?" Ronnie ate the last bite of his Big Mac.
"I can think of one way to find out," Nick said. "We grab Greenwood. He'll know." He thought about how he would question him. "I can persuade him to tell us."
"Back to his house?"
"Yes."
Stephanie glanced over at a teen dressed as a vampire.
Her face paled. "Nick! That rite Heydrich wrote down. It's Halloween. In the old religions, it was the most powerful night for magic. A night of sacrifice."
It registered on everyone at the same time.
"Selena. They're going to sacrifice her, perform that ritual." Nick crushed the plastic cup of soda he held in his hand.
"There can't be much time," Ronnie said. "I've got my stash in the Hummer."
Ronnie's black Hummer had a concealed compartment in the back. He had weapons, ammunition and a variety of useful things for an emergency.
Nick nodded. "You, me and Lamont. Someone has to work the political and legal angles if this goes bad." He turned to Stephanie. "That's you, Steph."
She set her coffee down. "Gee, I love being Director." She looked at them. "Well, what are you waiting for?"
An hour later they were down the street from Greenwood's home. A tall hedge ran all along the front of the property. There were lights on in the house. One upstairs behind drawn blinds. One on the ground floor.
They'd changed into black clothing and body armor. They had pistols and silenced MP-5s.
Ronnie had brought a tranquilizer gun. Silent, auto loading three rounds, designed for use on humans, it featured a fast acting nerve agent that took the target down on the spot. The target got violently sick when he woke up but that was better than being dead.
A half dozen cars lined the circular drive in front of Greenwood's house. There was a meeting going on inside.
Carter scanned the drive with night vision binoculars. "There are two guards in suits by the entrance," he said. "What do you think, Ronnie?"
"If Earlston is inside, the suits could be Secret Service. Maybe we need to go easy."
"Okay, we'll trank 'em."
The moon was hidden, blanked out by thick, dark clouds. The night was black as Hades. They got out of the car, shadows in the darkness. They worked their way along Greenwood's hedge. They listened for signs of alarm. Dogs, a neighbor's voice, anything. There was only the whisper of a chill night breeze in the leaves of the hedge.
They came to the driveway entrance. One of the guards yawned and looked at his watch. Ronnie aimed and there was a soft hiss. The guard grunted and dropped to the ground. His partner turned toward the sound. Ronnie fired again and the second man crumpled to the grass. The team ran to the house.
Nick laid his hand on one of the cars. The hood was warm. There was cigarette smoke on the night air. Nick went to the end of the house and risked a glance around the corner. Halfway down, a figure leaned against the wall, smoking. No suit. He was dressed in black and had a MAC-10 slung under his arm. The man dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his foot. He began walking toward the front of the house.
Nick signaled. One coming this way. They faded into the bushes. The guard turned the corner and passed in front of Ronnie. The tranquilizer gun spat and he went down. Lamont turned him over.
Black paramilitary uniform, military haircut. Silenced MAC, fully loaded. A scar on his face. No ID. Definitely not Secret Service.
A silent, dark shape launched itself from the night and knocked Lamont down. Lamont jammed his arm between jaws trying to tear out his throat. They rolled on the ground and Lamont struggled to draw his knife. There was a strangled yelp and the dog convulsed and died. It was a large German Shepherd.
Lamont wiped the blade and sheathed the knife. His sleeve was torn and blood stained the ripped fabric.
"Waste of a good dog," he said under his breath. "They must have cut his vocal cords. I hate it when someone trains a dog like that."
They ran to the back door. A few seconds and they were in. An alarm box mounted on the wall blinked green. Another stupid mistake. Someone had failed to set the alarms.
They were in a laundry room. A night light burned over the washer/dryer. The door from the room opened into a dark kitchen. The crash of ice dropping into the bin of an icemaker sent Nick into a crouch, gun high by his cheek. A hallway led to the front of the house, where light spilled over from the living room.
He signaled with his hand. First him, then Ronnie, then Lamont. They nodded. They crept down the hall, the rubber soles on their shoes silent on the wooden floor.
Nick didn't like houses where someone might start shooting at you. Corners you couldn't see around. Stairs leading to God knew what. Closets and crannies and rooms and doors, and every one of them could hide someone waiting to kill you.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. There was no sound of conversation, nothing to indicate where the people from those cars were meeting.
It wasn't in the living room. Two men waited there, crouched behind furniture on different sides of the room.
Nick saw their reflection in a glass picture frame on the wall. He signaled Lamont and Ronnie. Two hostiles, right and left. Wait.
He slipped back to the kitchen and picked up a cushion from
a stool next to the counter. The men in the living room had to be on an adrenaline trip wire. Back in the hall, he signaled the others and threw the cushion up and out and into the room. The Macs opened up, shredding the cushion to confetti. Nick and Ronnie reached around the walls and fired to both sides, then came through the opening low and firing.
The silenced weapons stuttered and jumped, spraying the room with bullets. The MACs weren't silenced, and their barking shattered the night.
The nine millimeter rounds tore into Greenwood's expensive walnut paneling. The shooters went down, tumbling backwards. The MP-5s chopped up the walls and furniture around them.
"Upstairs," Nick shouted. No need for hand signals now. "Lamont, cover us." Another shooter appeared on the second floor. Ronnie fired and he tumbled down the stairs. An ugly man, dressed in black like the others. Ronnie followed Nick at a run up the stairs. Lamont took up position at the bottom in case someone came up from below or from another part of the house.
Upstairs were five large bedrooms and three baths, all empty. Greenwood wasn't there and neither was Selena. They retreated back to the ground floor. Less than five minutes had passed since they'd entered the house.
"The library." Nick pointed with his MP-5.
The adrenaline rush was in full swing. Where was everyone? They must have heard the shooting. Another hallway led from the living room to the library, where a single desk lamp burned in the darkness. The light reflected from a crystal pen and inkwell on the desktop and the silver surface of a closed laptop computer. There was no one there. There was no one in the garden, or the downstairs bathrooms, or the closets, or the maid's room, or the garage.
"Has to be the basement," Ronnie said. "That's all that's left. They're here somewhere."
They found the door to the basement and pulled it open. A light was on. They descended a flight of wooden steps into a room with a cement floor. The walls held shelves and a workbench. Boxes were stacked in one corner. Aside from storage, it was empty.
"What now?" Lamont said.
"Something's not right." Ronnie scanned the room. It looked like an ordinary basement, the kind you'd find almost anywhere. "This room is too small. Remember the plans? Greenwood did a major make over here a while back. It was a lot bigger than this. There's got to be a hidden door."
They walked around the room. There was a faint mark on the floor, like part of a crescent moon, at one end of a high bank of shelves. Nick tugged on the shelves but they didn't move. He felt around the side.
Nothing.
He traced his fingers along the upper edge and felt something plastic. A switch. He pressed it and the shelves swung away from the wall. They started down a flight of stone steps.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Greenwood's voice made the hairs on the back of Selena's neck stand on end. She'd always heard about that. There was something primal in the harsh rhythm of the old language. Barbaric. Threatening. Frightening.
Still chanting, Greenwood went to the table in the center of the room. The chanting stopped. He opened the box. Selena saw a flash of diamonds and gold in the torchlight as he lifted the lid away. Greenwood took something from the box.
Greenwood said, "Bring her."
Four men moved away from the circle and came over to where she hung helpless. Each man took a key and unlocked one of the iron cuffs that bound her, grasping an arm or a leg. Selena struggled. The men lifted her naked body and brought her to the pole in the center of the room. Two men kept her arms and legs imprisoned while the other two bound her with leather thongs to the rings embedded in the pole. Then they returned to their places in the circle.
Greenwood stepped forward and held up a long, tapered blade in front of her face. It was brown and rusted with age, notched and pierced and wrapped in gold.
The Vienna Lance.
Greenwood spoke to her in German. Something moved in his eyes, as if more than one person were looking out at her.
"My name is Gruenwald," he said, his voice guttural and wet. "My father was Master of the Council before me, as Himmler was before him, as my son shall be after me. Tonight, the Reich is reborn. Your blood will open the passage."
Greenwood took the Lance and made a deep cut in Selena's forearm, opening a vein. The ancient blade dug into her flesh. She clenched her teeth against the pain. Greenwood picked up the emerald cup and caught the blood running down. The point of the Lance gleamed red in the flickering light of the torches. Selena twisted in her bonds and hot blood ran down her arm, down her side, draining into the cup.
When the cup was almost full, Greenwood stepped away. Blood continued to flow down her arm and over her breast. It ran down her side, down her leg, dripping on the floor. She was getting dizzy. She fought it.
"Bind her wound," Greenwood said. "We don't want her to die yet."
Smothers taped a compress over the bleeding vein. He wasn't gentle. Greenwood went to the edge of the circle of the black sun. He dipped the Vienna Lance into the chalice of blood and began to draw the blood along the circle. He moved counter-clockwise, chanting in the grating rhythm of the Old Germanic tongue as he moved.
The air turned freezing cold. Selena blinked, blinked again. A darkness was forming in the room, a thin, black cloud near the ceiling. It had to be an illusion, brought on by the wavering light of the torches, the loss of blood. She fought to stay conscious.
She wasn't going to give up, no matter what. But she hoped the others had figured it out and were on the way. She didn't think she had much time left.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
There were thirteen steps. At the bottom, a short corridor paved with stone led to an arched door of thick, heavy oak. The hinges were of hammered iron, the black iron handle shaped like a snarling wolf's head. The door looked medieval. There was a faint sound beyond the thick door, a rhythmic chanting, harsh and guttural, rising in pitch.
Nick shifted the selector switch on his MP-5 to semi-auto.
"Lamont, you pull the door open, we go in. On three." He signaled with his fingers. The door opened and they stepped into the room.
The first thing Nick saw was a group of men dressed in white robes, standing in a circle in a stone room lit by flaming torches. The room was freezing. The next thing he saw was Selena, naked and slick with blood, bound to a pole set in the middle of the room. A man stood in front of her. He was chanting. His back was toward the entrance. There was a strange darkness hovering around him. He raised both his hands high over his head. Between them he held a long, dark blade, pointed down toward Selena.
Nick's bullet took him somewhere between his shoulder and spine, spinning him away from Selena. The blade flew from his hands and clattered against the polished floor.
An older man in the circle reached for something inside his robe. Lamont shot him in the chest. He staggered and crumpled over, the front of his robe bright with blood. The rest of the circle froze in place.
Nick slung his MP-5 and ran to Selena. He reached up and cut her bonds. She slumped into his arms. He caught her and laid her down. Ronnie and Lamont kept their weapons trained on the others.
Blood oozed from under a crude bandage on her arm, dark red against her pale skin. He felt her pulse. Strong, but erratic. Lying on the floor not far away, the man he'd shot groaned. Nick recognized Greenwood.
"Ronnie, get me one of those robes."
Ronnie walked over to the Vice-President. "Take it off."
Earlston drew himself up to his full five foot nine. "Do you know who I am?"
Ronnie put the muzzle of his gun on Earlston's forehead and pressed.
"I don't give a shit if you're the Queen of England. Take it off."
Earlston stripped off the robe. Ronnie tossed the robe over and Nick wrapped it around Selena. Her face was white. She opened her eyes.
"Nick."
"You're okay now. It's all right."
"It took you long enough." She closed her eyes.
He picked her up and carried her across the room,
sat her down in a fancy carved chair. That was when he noticed the Nazi flags. He looked around the room, at the swastikas, the torches, the words on the wall. He looked at Selena, pale in the light of the torches. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to hurt someone badly.
One of the robed men started toward the figure groaning on the floor.
"Don't move," Lamont said.
"That's my father, he's hurt."
"Tough shit. Don't move."
"You wouldn't dare shoot us."
Lamont looked at the speaker. Admiral Lang, Chief of Naval Intelligence.
"Do you know who we are? Do you understand what is going to happen to you if you harm us? I am your superior officer. I order you to drop those weapons, now."
Ronnie and Lamont looked at each other and began laughing. Lang looked confused.
Selena opened her eyes. "Take care of this, Nick. I'm fine." Her eyes were clear.
He walked over to Lamont. They stood with their backs to the open door.
"Nick, what are we going to do with these shitbirds?"
"Damned if I know."
"You will do nothing. Drop your weapons. You and the schwarze."
The voice came from behind them, from the passage beyond the door. Whoever was there couldn't see Ronnie, standing to the left of the doorway.
People who point guns expect the target to freeze. There's only a fraction of a second to react. Training took over. Nick and Lamont rolled in opposite directions away from the door and the line of fire. Nick came up kneeling with his pistol in his hand.
Ronnie opened up toward the hall, bouncing rounds off the walls of the passage at the unseen speaker. Shots came through the open door.
Selena dived for the floor. Lang pulled a pistol from under his robe and shot Ronnie. The bullet knocked him off his feet and back against the wall. He fell to the floor. Carter shot Lang twice, the .45 bucking in his hand. The circle of robed men scattered and more pistols came out. The room echoed with gunfire.
Ronnie's armor had stopped the round. He raised his weapon from where he lay and began firing. Lamont fired. Carter fired at anything moving in a white robe. Bits of stone flew and the air filled with rounds whining and ricocheting off the walls. The slide locked back on Nick's pistol.
