Passage Graves (28 page)

Chapter
67

SUNDAY, 8:04 a.m.

Boghole Farm, Scotland

A branch broke outside.

T
he tiny hairs along the back of David’s neck stood on end. Someone was outside. He shook Thatcher awake, and pressed a finger to her lips before she could speak.

Asor
was awake and listening, too. He sat up. The irises of his eyes were glowing. “She led them here,” he hissed.

Thatcher looked
at David apologetically.

There was only one entr
ance and exit—the front door. David’s eyes landed on the wood columns that extended from floor to ceiling. At least he could buy them some time. Niches within the columns were deep enough to climb. The pillars led to a network of ceiling beams concealed in shadow along the roof. He turned to Thatcher.

“Do you think you could make it up that?” He pointed at the pillar.

She nodded. Her leg had swollen to twice its size. The ceiling rafters towered more than thirty feet above. Even with healthy legs, it was a challenging climb. He helped her up. She gripped the column and quickly scaled up it, careful not to use her injured leg. She stopped underneath the crossbeam and caught her breath. Stretching toward the ‘Y’ joist, she leapt from the pillar, twisting in midair, and caught the edges of the joist. She pulled her good leg over the top of the beam and climbed on top of it. She looked down at David and Asor. “Are you coming?”

David
smiled.
Damn
.

Asor’s g
narled fingers lodged into grooves. He climbed toward the ceiling and stopped beneath the joist. The gap between himself and the crossbeam was a good two feet in length. He seemed incapable of the acrobatics he had performed the day before. His hands trembled as he reached for the rafter.

Thatcher
took his wrists. “I’ll hoist you up.”

Asor wobbled as he left the pillar.

Swinging him back and forth, Thatcher used the momentum to pull Asor up and over the crossbeam. She steadied him until he regained his balance.

David
climbed up the column. 

“Give him room.” Thatcher said, scooting along the post as David reached the top. “All the way to the corner.”

Asor followed her with a growl. They ducked into the shadows where the plank met the pitched ceiling. Thatcher backed into cobwebs. She looked down at David.

Her face went white.

Waving like a proud banner, her leg bandage had caught on a nail along the beam.

The church door
burst open. 

Scotland Special Forces
stormed the building. Men protected by hard-plate tactical vests and full-face helmets, spread around the room, carrying heavy artillery. They were yelling, eradicating what little sanctity was left within the chapel.

David pulled his legs up into
the shadows. It was too late. Pinned at the top of the column, he wasn’t going anywhere.

The mob quieted as they searched the last pews.

A man spoke into his radio. “It’s empty, sir.”  

A voice relayed back. “They’re in there goddamn it!”

The chapel door flew open, slamming into the wall. Lang met the officials at the center of the room. Sweat beaded across David’s forehead. He met Thatcher’s eyes in a moment of shared recognition. What was Lang doing there?

“They must have abandoned their
vehicles.” The guard removed his face shield.

“You’ve searched the pews?”
Lang asked.

David’s legs
were cramping. He set his forehead against the wood. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this.

Lang stepped into one of the pews
. He stuck a finger into one of the votives. The waxy candle gave way, milky warm at its center.  “Come on, David,” he said. “Where are you hiding?”

He
took a flashlight from the guard and shined it along David’s column. Light crept around the wood, nearly meeting David’s fingertips. It moved up the pillar and quickly across the ceiling beam.  

David held his breath.
Here we go.

The corner was empty.

Side-stepping across the narrow plank that wrapped along the ceiling’s perimeter, Thatcher and Asor were hidden from the light. The flashlight stopped on Thatcher’s bandage. A gust from the doorway blew the gauze off the nail. The bandage landed at Lang’s feet.

“They’re in the rafters,” he said. 

Laser scopes invaded the ceiling. 

“I’m not her
e to hurt you, David,” Lang explained. “I just need your mother’s ring.”

David lifted his head off
the pillar. He looked at the stone ring hanging on a chain around his neck. What was he talking about?

“Come on,
David—” Lang stopped short.

A whisper echoed across the chapel.

Tucked in the ceiling corner, Asor chanted something incoherent. The old man lurched back, his eyes rolling into his head. He tipped forward off the precipice.

Thatcher grabbed his shirt, almost falling he
rself. Targeting lasers glowed on her chest. 

Lang swatted down the gun nearest him.

The pews began to shake.

Thunder filled the chapel
. The stone floor began to crack, splitting in every direction. The pews shook, breaking away from the floor. Free from the foundation, the pews slid across the room, slamming guards into the wall. The sound of crunching bone made David flinch. Another bench screamed across the floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. Lang’s men were thrown into the pillars as the pews collided. 

There was an
eruption of gunfire. The few men that were alive fired at the pews in desperation, trying to shoot them to pieces. Pulverized wood exploded into the air. Splinters showered over the room like arrows. A bullet ricocheted into the ceiling, blowing apart the ledge near Thatcher’s feet. She tumbled off the platform, catching the edge with one hand.

Asor dropped to the floor, a lifeless ragdoll.

Thatcher dangled above the massacre. 

David leapt
onto the beam. He swung his body over the rafter as the benches snapped beneath him. All he could see was Thatcher.

He jumped diagonally onto the perimeter beam, catching her hand as she sl
ipped.

Lang watched in horror as his men
fell around him. The chapel was a choppy sea of bludgeoned men, bloody pews, and crushed body armor. Trails of human cruor were painted across the floor.

The morning sun burst over the horizon, igniting the stained-glass window
in a fiery blaze. Blinded by the light, Lang stumbled backwards, dodging another pew as it expelled two men through the stained glass window. The glass shattered. Its shards clattered to the floor, emerald, ruby, and diamond glass, sparkling, blood-soaked gems. The room was unrecognizable.

The last pew broke free.

Lang spun around as its jagged corner punctured his side, pinning his body to the wall.

Chapt
er 68

SUNDAY, 8:56 a.m.

Boghole Farm, Scotland

Thatcher helped Asor down the steps of the church. There was so much about him that sickened her. She had found him crumpled on the floor and comatose. His leathery body reminded her of the corpses at Stenness. Just like David’s story of the asylum, he slowly came back to life. This time, however, his breathing was labored. It was painful to listen to his rattling lungs. Smothered in deflation and perforated with holes, his lungs sounded as though they would give out at any moment.

She
helped him into the SUV. He lay stretched out along the back seat.

Ice filled
her chest. She had witnessed so much, seen too much horror.

Of course this was
the Apocalypse. How could she have doubted it?

Every time she closed her eyes
, she saw Marek with a bullet in his head.

Unexpected
emotion flooded her chest, the heaviness of guilt.

Maybe s
he could blink his face into oblivion.

When she reope
ned her eyes, she saw that Asor was staring at her. She shivered, remembering when she had lifted the old man onto the ceiling beam. His skin was so cold it nearly froze her hands. Her fingers were still stinging. She looked down her hands. There was a line of pinhole-sized sores across her skin where she had grabbed his wrists.

Something
prickly was wrapped around his body.

Whatever it was, it gave him power
. He had moved the pews. He had murdered twenty-two men.

She stooped over o
ne of the fallen agents who had been thrown through the stained glass window. His body was mutilated pin cushion of glass. He still clutched a handgun, his finger on the trigger. She took the weapon from his hand and tucked it under her belt. She was certain she would need it.

****

A smoky haze settled over the chapel. The church was defiled mayhem. Everywhere there was shattered glass and splintered wood, cracked helmets and broken body armor, corpses on the floor. David searched through the rubble for Lang. He pulled a pew away from the wall and found him buried under debris. 

Lang groaned.

David dropped beside him. “I’m getting you out of here, Bill.”

A hole the
size of a baseball punctured Lang’s abdomen. David swallowed his nausea and turned to yell for help.

Lang grabbed
David by the shirt.

“I need to get you to a hospital,” David
said.

Lang grimaced
. He let go of David’s shirt. A tear cleaned a path along his bloodied face.

David couldn’t
swallow.

“
I’m sorry.” Lang whispered. He lifted his gun to David’s forehead.

David was still. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening. He
flinched as he felt the firing pin strike the primer of the cartridge.

The bullet didn’t release.

Lang tried again. The handgun clicked. He looked up past David. His eyes filled with terror. 

Thatcher
and Asor stood in the doorway.

The mouth of the gun twisted against David’s head. 

Lang pulled the trigger again.

Click
.

He
pointed the gun at Asor. The slide pulled back, the hammer cocked and released, pushed forward by the recoil spring.

Nothing.

“You can’t kill me, Bill,” Asor said.

Lang pulled the trigger again and again, shaking in desperation.

Asor found the end of the twine wrapped around his wrist. His eyes fluttered back into his head. He pulled on the twine. His hand formed a fist. He squeezed his fingers together until the knuckles turned white.

Lang’s
mouth fell open in a silent scream. Blood poured from his mouth down the sides of his chin. He reached for David, shaking his head, pleading. The gun toppled from his hand. Air emptied from his lungs as the organ deflated against his ribcage. The tissue was a pressed into a pancake flanking his heart, smothered by an invisible fist.

“Stop
it!” David screamed at Asor.

The top of Lang’s throat
looked distorted. It capsized into the pharynx. His esophagus cracked and began to collapse. Cascading from bone to bone, his throat crushed inward, drowning him in blood.

“Stop!” David grabbed the gun and fired at Asor.

The weapon wouldn’t discharge. He threw it at the old man and pulled Lang to him. It didn’t matter that two seconds ago Lang held a gun to David’s head. This man was more of a father than Brenton. If Lang wanted David dead, he had good reason.

Lang
expelled his last breath. His ribs popped inward, squeezing together until his chest caved. His slumped into David’s arms and died.

Asor grabbed Thatcher’s arm
. It was a strain to whisper. “More are coming!”

He fell to the floor, unconscious.

Chapter 69

I’m not dead
.

That was his first thought.

Blood, like lava, coursed through his veins. Scorching white cells dispersed through his lymph nodes. It was the perfect realization of every vessel, organ, and nerve. Everything burned with the remnants of whatever hellish concoction Javan had used to smother him.

The only light was
from a small ventilation shaft near his head. He could feel a roaring engine vibrate the floor. He lay on his side against the metal surface. It was too dark to make sense of anything in particular, but he knew this was an airplane. He tried to move toward the ventilation shaft, but his legs and arms were secured to the floor.

He
tilted his head and managed to see through a small portion of the vent. He caught a glimpse of turquoise ocean far below. It didn’t make sense. Why weren’t they headed to Jordan? To the location of the first seal?

“Quite a feeling
, isn’t it?” 

Ian flinched in pain.

Javan was sitting in the shadows at the opposite end of the cargo hold. “It’s a shame you’ve slept through most of it,” he said. 

Ian fought
against his bindings.

“Your father would be
proud,” Javan said.

Ian’s eyes
blurred. He spit at the Chancellor but missed the mark.

Javan smiled
. “You Americans are so refreshing.” He pulled a syringe from his jacket. “But I’m not in the mood for games.” He tapped the end of the siphon to clear the bubbles. “This one’s on me.”

T
he needle punctured Ian’s arm. Acid pumped through his veins. Boiling anesthetic circulated through his arteries. His muscles erupted with spasm. This higher, more concentrated dose was explosive. Fire crackled up his neck, blistering his throat and sinuses and then pouring into his brain. His eyes blinded over with sparks. The sound of the plane mutated into a clamoring barrage. His ears began to ring, and then everything went silent.