by G S Eli
“First squad, secure this room. Second squad, patrol the hallway,” he ordered. He took out his walkie-talkie and held it to his mouth. “Bring me the Gypsy,” Strauss commanded.
XXVIII
Battle for Power
The ache in Mila’s chest and face was worse than anything he’d ever felt. The painkiller had definitely worn off, and the irritating itch from the burlap bag over his head made him struggle for the use of his tied hands. His back was pressed against a rough, cold stone wall, and it was obvious to Mila that he was being held captive in some sort of dungeon.
He shuffled around it and found the space to be about six feet by four feet. He couldn’t tell how high the ceiling was, but he’d felt a breeze blowing. The door felt different from the stony walls: smooth and heavy. It must be made of thick wood or reinforced by metal, he thought.
His thoughts drifted to where he could be or how long his captors would even keep him alive. When he finally accepted that his hands were bound too tightly and there was no way of releasing them, he tried to meditate, but he couldn’t settle his mind. He kept thinking about how sorry he was for believing that being a Gypsy and living in the slums of Building A was so bad. He cursed the day that he had ignored Nasta and threw away the chukrayi. You wouldn’t be here in this godforsaken place if you had just done what she said. Maybe she would still be alive, he thought. His stress had reached its high point.
At one point, he heard a dog barking, and he had hoped that it might be Wolfy. “Wolfy!” he shouted. “Over here, boy!”
He called again and the dog barked and barked, then suddenly stopped, leaving nothing but dead silence. Mila waited in that silence for awhile. He’d lost all sense of time. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours.
Suddenly, he heard the door swing open on its creaky metal hinges. Firm hands grabbed him and pulled him out. Mila flinched at first, worrying he’d be beaten again. Fortunately, his captors just rushed him into the hallway. They were in a great rush and practically dragged him along. He could hear the footsteps of at least three men, maybe more. There were far too many to try and break away.
As they rushed along, a woman’s scream echoed through the hallway. “Check it out,” one of the guards mumbled in German.
Mila heard some guards leave, but the others pushed him forward. They took him down a flight of stairs where he nearly tripped, then into another hallway. Finally, Mila heard the creak of two heavy doors opening, and a gust of warm air blew past him. He heard a man shouting, but he couldn’t yet make out the voice. There was also a groaning sound, like someone in pain.
“A man like me doesn’t get to where he is by taking unnecessary risks,” the voice declared. “I’ve had your pet Garade in holding since early this morning.”
“Ha! You’re taking greater risks than you can imagine,” another voice retorted. “There’s no telling how many gifts have manifested within that boy.”
“You think I’m scared of some Gypsy magic? That’s nothing compared to the power of the nail. You’ll see that soon enough,” the first voice scoffed.
One of Mila’s captors roughly pushed him from behind, causing him to fall hard to the marble floor. Once down, he heard a voice: it was raspy and weary, but he immediately recognized it. He had known that voice for years. It was the voice of a man he swore he would bring to justice.
“Why bother showing me anything?” Leichman demanded between labored breaths. “You seem to think you have all the answers, so what are you waiting for? Kill me and get it over with.”
“All in good time, Father. Your connections to the Vatican might be useful to me. I’ll use the nail to get what I want from you, then I’ll kill you,” the voice said as if making a simple business deal. “Get that bag off his head!” he ordered.
The sack was pulled free, and Mila could see for the first time in hours. It was not very bright in the chamber, but he still had to squint at first. Mila took in the room for a few seconds. He saw the scarred twin dead on the floor with an armed guard looming over his body. Then he noticed Father Leichman on the floor leaning against a stool. He was definitely wounded because he was clutching his stomach in an effort to stanch some bleeding. Mila’s heart raced even faster, convinced he would die here. The sight of the wicked priest gave Mila a burst of energy. For a moment, Mila thought of trying to run clear across the room and fulfill his promise to himself by stomping the priest’s face in. Unfortunately, he knew that wouldn’t work. There were six TNC men inside, all with weapons at-the-ready. Mila also noticed the chains that fed into the dome of the ceiling. He wondered for a second what they were for.
“Open the tomb,” Strauss ordered. “Bring her out.”
His men complied. One of them pulled a few ancient switches that were alongside the brick wall. Slowly, the old rusted chains began to lift the tile in the center of the floor. One of the men carried Casey from the tomb and placed her on the floor, her hands still tied behind her back. She almost immediately locked eyes with Mila. Her gaze filled him with pity at first, but as he looked deeper into her beautiful blue eyes, he noticed anger and darkness. This wasn’t the girl he’d come to know and care for. What is the nail doing to you? he thought as he held her angry stare with his gentle gaze.
Strauss stepped in front of Mila, cutting off his view of Casey. “You are going to kill her,” he announced, “using this.”
Strauss held out the nail, offering it to Mila while one of the guards cut his hands free. Mila lost his balance a moment and fell forward, sprawled on his hands and knees. He was filled with grief, more grief than he had ever felt in his life. He moved his head to gesture “no.”
“I can’t,” Mila said. “I won’t.”
“Oh, but you will. You must,” Strauss insisted, mocking him.
“That won’t work!” Father Leichman shouted. He winced in pain and clutched his stomach tighter. “Remember: the Garade must be willing,” he continued in wheezing gasps. “You can’t force his hand, and he’d sooner die than help you.”
Strauss swung his head around and gave Father Leichman a fierce scowl. “Luckily, you taught me exactly how to persuade Gypsies,” he snapped. He slowly turned back to Mila and stared down at him with a cold, bitter gaze. He took the nail and began to graze Mila’s cheeks with the tip. Mila tried to ignore the cold touch of the evil artifact as he stared forward in a defiant refusal to make eye contact with Strauss.
“I have your family, Mila. Most of them are on their way to my resettlement camp in Romania, but I kept a few close by here in Germany in case you were reluctant to help me.”
Mila returned his stare with wonder.
“I will kill them, one by one…starting with Petre, then Stephan and Rosa, and then there’s the loud-mouthed thief. My guards have become very fond of him. You know I could do it. You think it’s the priest that was protecting your family all these years? Well, look at your priest now.”
“You can’t do that,” Mila said in fear.
“Oh, but who will stop me? Furthermore, who will care? You think the world cares about Gypsies?” he reminded Mila. Strauss grabbed the back of Mila’s hair and pulled it back hard so he could look directly at his face. “Ahhh!” Mila moaned in pain.
“Whose name was on that rubber factory? I let you and the other parasites dwell there in case some day you were of use to me.”
Strauss took Mila’s hand and placed the nail in it. He felt the cold metal with its smooth engravings. He stared down at the golden spike, and for the first time, he believed the words Nasta had told him. He was special, and in his hands was the proof. He knew right then it was his mission to take the nail away from here, to keep it away from Casey and these evil men. If only he could figure out how.
Aunt Nasta, I need your help now, Mila prayed. I know you’re with God now. Please ask Him to help me.
He stood with his arms limp at his sides, not
knowing what to do. He looked into Casey’s eyes again, and this time he didn’t see hate. Instead, she was her old innocent self, and her gaze was pleading with him.
“I can’t!” Mila yelled, his words echoing across the dome.
Strauss looked over at Leichman, confused. “You’re willing to let me murder your entire family?” he asked Mila.
“I love her,” Mila whispered.
Casey stared back at Mila. A tear trickled down her cheek and dropped onto the marble. Weeping, she weakly whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Strauss saw the affection the young teens shared and gritted his teeth with disgust. Leichman began to laugh, mocking his old friend. It made him hack and cough, but he couldn’t stop laughing. It’s amazing he’s still not dead from his wounds, Mila thought.
This enraged Strauss. He took Mila’s hand with the nail still in it and pushed him toward Casey, trying to force him to stab her. Two guards joined in and shoved Mila forward. He drew closer and closer to Casey, with Strauss forcing him to aim the nail at her heart. Mila resisted.
“Enough of this nonsense!” Strauss yelled. He grabbed the Luger that he had retrieved from Father Leichman and ordered the guards to release Mila, who fell to his knees. He kneeled there, looking at Casey, both of them helpless. He began to weep, for he knew that Strauss and his men were not going to stop. He felt the metal barrel of the Luger pressing against his temple.
“On the count of three, you either thrust that nail into her heart or you’ll be shot!” Strauss yelled.
Mila looked at Casey once more. She whispered, “Kill me.”
Strauss began to count.
“One! … Two! …”
Boom!
XXIX
Bombshell
Morton and Deborah donned black facemasks and ran for the north tower like wild panthers locking on their prey. When they reached the moat bridge, they separated as Deborah had planned. She turned to the right, heading down a flight of steps and into the moat garden toward the outer wall of the north tower. Meanwhile, Morton crossed the bridge.
Once Morton reached the archway, he began to slowly walk through, pointing his powerful submachine gun ahead before entering the open area of the courtyard. His heart raced, for he knew he was vulnerable to anyone firing at him in the open space. Peeking through from the underpass, he saw the museum van heading toward him on its way out of the courtyard.
The driver, acting on instinct, slammed on the brakes and came to a stop right in front of Morton. The driver’s eyes locked with his for a moment. He noticed the gun and put his foot on the gas, sending the van barreling forward in an attempt to run Morton over.
Pffft! Pffft! Pffft! Morton let out a burst of submachine gunfire as he dove out of the way. The rounds cut through both driver and passenger. The van veered to the right, hitting the inner section of the underpass and blocking any traffic or additional security from entering the courtyard.
Morton quickly slipped into the door to his left, fearing that he would be noticed. The door read “Employees Only.” Once inside, he rapidly analyzed the place. There were offices to his left and a row of stairs to his right, and he heard guards heading down the stairs. He hid behind an ornate marble statue of a medieval nobleman and peered around to take a look at how many guards were coming. He counted four; they seemed to be escorting a hostage with a bag over his head. Though Morton couldn’t figure out who it was, he could tell it wasn’t one of the Americans. There was no time to worry about the captive’s identity. The group advanced toward him, and he knew the statue wasn’t enough cover.
To avoid detection, he slipped into an office. He glanced around to see what the layout was like. A table sat in the middle of the room covered in stacks of papers. He could hear the sound of a paper shredder coming from an alcove. Someone’s in here, he thought.
Morton’s eyes shot around the room looking for a place to hide. Too late—a tall, slender, blonde bombshell of a woman, her hair tied in a bun, emerged from the alcove. She dropped her papers and screamed, begging for Morton not to fire. “Nicht schießen!” she shouted.
Shit, Morton thought, ignoring the woman and aiming his submachine gun at the door.
A pair of guards entered with pistols drawn. Pffft! Pffft! Pffft! Morton fired, cutting down one of the guards. The other ducked back into the hallway. Morton aimed and emptied the gun’s magazine at the plaster wall near the entrance, hoping he might wound the guard in the hallway. He then drew his sidearm and stepped to the wall near the door frame. He waited for the guard to come back. He peeked through to see the man’s position but all he saw was the guard face down in a pool of blood.
Morton turned to the woman, who was now kneeling with her hands up. He began to interrogate her in German. He knew she would cooperate. It didn’t look like she wanted to face the same fate the two guards had. Morton asked her where they were holding the young American girl. Without hesitation, she pointed toward a stairwell and directed him down a hallway.
Morton wiped the blood from his face and reloaded his submachine gun before heading down the stairs. He pressed his back against the door frame of the stairwell and pulled out a small mirror. He angled it around the corner and saw two guards down the hall guarding the doors. Looking up from the mirror, he spotted Jack coming from the opposite direction with that damn dog. Does this kid have a death wish? Morton wondered. If the two guards saw Jack pass, they would surely kill him. With no time to reconsider, he leapt across the corridor, firing a burst at the guards. His aim was perfect, and both dropped dead.
By then, Jack was within a few feet of the door. Morton grabbed him, causing Wolfy to bark with surprise. He pulled the boy into the stairwell and pushed him against the wall. Then Morton noticed Jack’s odd choice of armament. “Why do you have a sword?” Morton demanded.
“Habit, I guess,” Jack said.
They heard footsteps echoing down the stairs. Reinforcements, Morton thought. He pulled Jack into the cavernous stone hallway. The boy didn’t resist as they rushed toward the doors. Wolfy ran straight ahead and began to scratch at the heavy wooden double doors in front of them.
“Casey’s in there—Wolfy knows it,” Jack said.
Jack pulled away from Morton and tried to open the doors, only to discover that they were locked. Morton took a look back at the end of the hall. A large team of guards in assault gear was heading their way.
“Did someone call for a party?” Morton said sarcastically.
He quickly removed a metal attachment from his belt and the silencer from his weapon, dropping it to the ground next to the fallen guards. He attached the metal tube to his submachine gun. Jack’s eyes widened at the sight of the impressive weapon. “Is that a grenade launcher?” the boy asked.
“Yes, now get back!”
The humans pulled back to get a safe distance from the blast. Wolfy, with his supernatural instincts, also withdrew.
Well, Deborah, you did say I could blow something up, Morton thought. He pulled the trigger.
XXX
The Tempest
Riiiiiiinng…
The constant ringing vibration penetrating Casey’s ears overtook all of her senses. There was a complete absence of any other sound.
She struggled to look around the room. At first, all she could see was a cloud of smoke and debris coming from the entrance. The acrid scent of sulfur and charred wood burned deep within her nostrils. An explosion? she wondered. A dull rat-a-tat-tat began and gradually built, overpowering the incessant ringing. Casey realized it was gunfire. She strained to see out the door, but the dust from the blast was too dense.
Squinting to protect her eyes from the dust, she saw a guard appearing from out of the haze, holding a rifle and heading straight for her. Her survival instincts returned, quick as lightning. She tried to move away from the guard, squirming back as far as her limited position would allow. She tightly close
d her eyes and pushed back as hard as she could. When she opened her eyes, she only managed to get about two feet back. Fearing the certain attack from the approaching gunman, she closed her eyes in pure terror and began to scream. When no one came, she reopened her eyes. To her amazement, she saw Wolfy latch on to the guard’s arm. He dropped his weapon. The dog kept his jaw clamped tightly around the gunman’s arm, shaking his strong canine head from side to side and wrestling the intruder to the floor.
Casey swiftly took another look around, this time with a stronger sense of purpose. She knew Mila was somewhere in the room with her, so she scanned the area, searching for him. Before she could find him, two TNC guards came from behind, grabbed her, and dragged her across the floor away from the ruined doors.
As she uselessly struggled, she spotted Mila being pulled back by two other TNC men. He, too, was struggling with the guards, but in his weakened condition he stood no better a chance of escaping than her own. Overseeing the whole thing was the old man, Strauss. He frantically waved his hands. With her hearing still restricted she couldn’t make out what he was saying, but her best guess was that he was gesturing to his guards to get them all away from the blasted doors.
Crash!
Shattered glass sprayed into the room from one of the overhead windows. Boom! Boom! Two more gunshots rang out in the chamber. Suddenly, she felt the guards’ grip on her arms loosen and then the heavy weight of both men fell on her, crushing her. “Oof!” she cried.
She turned her face around to see a guard. His face was pressed against the stone floor just inches from hers. His blank eyes stared lifelessly into hers, and a trail of blood trickled from his mouth. Is he dead? she wondered.
Again, her terror gave her the strength she needed to keep moving. Writhing, still bound, she managed to pull herself from underneath both guards. She looked back and saw a bullet hole in the back of the other guard’s head. With barely enough time to get over the shock of that sight, she turned toward the shattered window, only to find a masked figure, dressed all in black and decked out in combat gear, heading toward her. Casey tried to move away from the strange figure.
