The Terrible Ones (18 page)

“Every one of you will die!” he heard. “One after the other, and then you, last of all, but slowly—slowly, slowly, horribly! Tell me where it is, you son of Satan!”

Nick stepped over yet another body and stopped outside an open door. What he saw beyond it was a scene from hell.

Everything that Loves Must Die

“It is you who are the son of Satan,” the deep voice said quietly. The black robe was torn, the face was bared of its black cowl and streaked with blood, but the big man’s expression was calm. “What was left here once by evil men will be given up only when the people of my country come to claim it.”

He stood in a room that only hours before must have been a peaceful, simple chapel, facing a tall Chinese who had made it into a charnel house. The rough stone floor was strewn with the dead and dying, Chinese in drab fatigues and monks in their black robes. On each of several wooden pews was a living monk, each with his robe torn down to the waist, and each with his hands stretched above his head and tied to a wooden armrest. A sullen-faced Chinese stood over one of them, a curved knife in his hand; a machine-gunner stood in the pulpit with his weapon trained upon the supine men; a third figure in olive drabs stood several paces from Tsing-fu Shu and the only monk left standing. He, like Tsing-fu himself, was armed with a snub-nosed gun, and he also carried a carbine.

Nick clamped himself against the wall outside the door and craned his head toward the horror beyond, noting each position, every weapon, every detail of the scene.

Machine-gun, carbine, two pistols, one knife and possibly another gun in a hidden holster, and one belt-load of grenades. And four men to use them.

Versus one Luger, one stiletto, and one gas pellet that made no distinctions between friend and foe. Plus one squad of women too far away to help and whose presence anyway could only be an added complication.

The madman was still screaming at the tall, calm monk.

“Do you know what it is to die with a knife grinding into your belly?” he shrieked. “Do you think that these robed fools of yours will enjoy it?”

“Kill me, if you must kill,” the monk said calmly. “I pray that you will spare the rest of my poor brothers, for they know nothing.”

“You pray!” Tsing-fu howled with something like laughter.

“Yes, pray to me, you fool, and see if that will save them. Show me where that cache is hidden, or watch your ‘poor brothers’ swim in their own blood.”

“They are not afraid to die, and neither am I. It is better that there should be an end to this.”

“An end, yes.” Tsing-fu’s face twisted into a hideous mask of sadistic malice. “You will beg for the end, each one of you in turn. It is not yet the end. Mao-Pei!”

The man with the knife and the grenade belt looked up and grunted.

“Begin carving, if you please.”

The machine-gunner first, Nick decided swiftly, or there would be a spray of death across this room that would truly be the end for all but Tsing-fu and his men. Nick flicked his eyes away from the machine-gunner for a second and saw Mao-Pei bring his knife down against the bare chest of the nearest supine monk and begin a slow slice into the flesh and down toward the belly.

“He will be slowly disembowelled,” Tsing-fu said pleasantly.

The knife described a curving, agonizing path through the supine man’s gut.

Nick raised Wilhelmina and sighted carefully. The machine-gunner in the pulpit was watching the grim proceedings with such ghoulish fascination that he had taken his finger from the trigger and was resting the big gun lightly on the lectern. But Nick’s trigger-finger was already squeezing, and Wilhelmina’s elongated nose was pointing steadily at the inviting little scene between the gunner’s eyes. Wilhelmina spat once with her dull, thunking sound and sent her lethal message straight home in a blast that splashed blood and brains against the pulpit wall. She was already homing in on her next target as the machine gun clattered to the chapel floor and the gunner folded out of sight.

Next—the knifer with the grenades, the fellow who was carefully carving up the monk who could no longer contain his pain in silence.

There was a split second of confusion as heads swung toward the pulpit and the knifer froze. Nick grabbed the opportunity and moved forward rapidly in a low running crouch that had him ducking behind a pew in that same second, with the Luger stabbing toward the profile of the sullen-faced man with the knife. Wilhelmina spat once, twice; skimmed the back of the thick head with her first kiss and sliced away the top of it with her next. Nick was running again by the time the body dropped. Bullets sang past his head and Tsing-fu was screaming something incomprehensible.

Two down and two to go. The carbine next—but he no longer had the advantage of surprise and there was little cover. Tsing-fu was near the altar; he ducked behind the only statue in the chapel, probably a figure of its patron saint, and fired as he screamed. But the fellow with the carbine was in the clear. Unfortunately he was busy spilling the contents of his pistol in Nick’s direction, and his aim was getting better all the time.

Nick dropped down low behind a fallen monk’s body and squeezed off one shot that missed by inches. His human shield jerked with the impact of the answering fire; he sent one more fast shot toward the altar, heard it spit uselessly into either the statue or the wall, and he threw himself sideways underneath a pew. Both guns were trained inexorably upon him now. The last shot had singed him with its closeness, and Brother Whatsisname, still calm and proud and unafraid, had somehow gotten in his line of fire. Nick slithered quickly down a row of seats, briefly hidden by a clutter of wooden slats and bodies, and bobbed up yards away from his previous position with Wilhelmina poised for action. Tsing-fu Shu—he assumed that was who the fellow was—was still pumping shots from behind the statue, and Brother Whatsisname was still in line— no, he wasn’t . . .!

One of the guns had suddenly stopped firing, and the big, quiet-voiced monk was wrestling with the carabineer for possession of the carbine. For a fleeting second the man’s pistol waved silently in the air, and then it swung toward the Brother’s ribs for a close, but-blasting shot that never came. The big monk leapt away with astonishing agility—and he wrenched the carbine with him as he sprang. The other man turned on him with a snarl of animal rage and stuck the pistol almost in his face. Nick snapped off one shot at Tsing-fu’s cautiously emerging figure and fired again literally without stopping to think. Wilhelmina seemed to find her target automatically. The pistol flew from the man’s hand and skidded on the floor. The Chinese stood there for a moment, looking astonished, and then the great butt-end of the carbine landed against his head in a bone-crushing blow. Brother Whatsisname stepped back, satisfied with his killer-blow, and spun the rifle around in his hands so that its nose pointed at Tsing-fu’s covering statue.

“Attababy, Brother!” Nick shouted exultantly. “You cover his rear and I’ll get him from the front. And you’d better give up, you behind the statue. You’re the last one left.”

There was a second of absolute silence. Tsing-fu was out of sight behind the statue of the saint. Nick crawled rapidly toward him on his hands and knees, Wilhelmina ready. From the corner of his eye he saw the big monk quietly stalking the statue from the other side.

Then he heard a dull little click and a howl of rage. Tsing-fu leapt out from behind the statue, tossing aside his empty gun, and with a movement too swift for a gun to follow he was at the foot of the pulpit scooping up the fallen machine-gun.

“We all die, then!” he screamed, dancing a little jig of maniacal fury. “See the brothers on the benches, trussed like pigeons—see how they will die!” He whirled about and made a crouching leap for the pulpit stairway, landing with his body half-turned toward the pews and the machine-gun swinging toward the helpless figures of those few who still lived.

The big monk’s borrowed carbine roared and bit a great chunk out of the pulpit but left Tsing-fu unharmed.

“You first!” Tsing-fu screamed, and swung the gun toward the monk.

Nick dropped to one knee and fired.

Wilhelmina’s last bullet struck Tsing-fu full in the chest and rocked him backwards.

“Get the hell out of his way. Brother!” Nick shouted, and made a flying jump toward the pulpit stairs with one thought in mind—to wrench the murderous machine-gun from Tsing-fu’s hands before it sprayed death throughout the room.

He was a split-second late. Tsing-fu lurched convulsively in his dying agony and his finger tightened on the trigger. Streams of hot lead spat from the pulpit and bit chunks from the statue that had been Tsing-fu’s refuge. The big monk now crouched behind it bellowed angrily and dropped down low so that the rain of death slammed high above his head. Nick halted abruptly on the bottom step. Tsing-fu was crumpling slowly, the gun still cradled under one arm and its hot barrel spewing high, wild shots through the pulpit wall and chewing it to shreds. He was making no attempt to aim, no attempt to rise one last time and turn his fire into the room. He was looking at the statue with a strange, unreadable expression on his face. There was no need, now, to wrench the gun from him.

Nick turned to follow the gaze of those dying eyes.

The head of the statue was gone. Its body was chipped in a dozen places; one arm was off, and there was a great hole in the torso. Something was pouring out of it. The whole thing was tottering and crumbling. And then it fell. Nick caught his breath and felt a shiver running down his spine.

The shattered saint split down the middle and disgorged a stream of glittering objects. Brilliant stones cascaded from the plaster wounds—red ones gleaming with fire, green ones blazing like cats’ eyes in the night, ice-white ones throwing off sparks of suddenly released light. They clinked and clanked onto the floor, mingling with the gold pieces and the pendants, the rings, the chains, the plaster, and the blood.

Tsing-fu screamed once more. His face was twisted into something inhuman as he stared agonizedly at the wealth he had been searching for. The scream was a maniac’s babble that rose to a shriek of insane, sobbing laughter, and then stopped forever. He slumped where he was and lay still in his own blood. The gun went on coughing out its aimless hail of bullets, and then chattered into silence.

Nick made sure that he was dead before checking to see what had become of the big monk. But there was no doubt that he was dead, along with all those who wore the olive drabs and many of those in the torn robes of the Blacks.

He heard a long explosive sigh and turned to see the big monk gazing at his Brothers, at his charnel-house of a chapel, with a look of indescribable pain on his face.

“Forgive me for having come too late.” Nick said quietly. “I would give anything to have avoided this.” He slipped Hugo down his sleeve and started cutting the bound monks loose with swift, decisive strokes. “But you fight well, Brother,” he added. “You and all your Brothers.”

The monk stared at him. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Another treasure-hunter,” Nick said flatly. “And your name, Brother?”

“Francisco. Father. I am abbot here.” The pain deepened on the big man’s face. “Are you telling me that I have had your help only because you want that bloodstained dross for yourself? Because — I cannot let you have it either, my friend, even if I must fight you to the death. For you are not my countryman; it does not belong to you.”

Nick looked up from his task.

“Tell me one thing—did the members of the Trinitaria meet in this place?”

The abbot nodded. “They did. And only to such men will I release this treasure. Those who hid it have gone, I understand, but they were evil too and I would not have given it back to them. 1 myself moved it from the place they put it and hid it in the statue so that it would be safe for people who will make good use of it. I do not know if you are good or bad, but it must go only to my countrymen. It was stolen from them:’

“How about the wives of the Trinitaria?” Nick asked quietly. “Would you give it to them?”

Father Francisco looked at him with dawning hope. “I would gladly give it to them. To them, rather than to anyone.”

“I will get them, then,” said Nick. “You will need their help in—cleaning up.”

Five able-bodied monks with robes torn to their waists, one seriously wounded, one with blood seeping from his belly, and one disheveled abbot stared at him, astonished.

“I do not understand,” the abbot said.

“You will soon,” Nick promised. “And trust me, will you? Your people are my friends.”

A few minutes later he was out on the valley floor at the foot of the stone steps, emitting a piercing whistle that meant Approach—With Care. The answering whistle came as he looked about him in the early morning light. The dead Cubans were nearby. For the first time he noticed that one of them still held a badly damaged walkie-talkie. And with a sudden chill he wondered how much talking there had been before the fellow had had his head blown off.

Paula appeared on the upper rim of the ravine. He waved her over to the steps. She vanished for a moment and then reappeared directly above him, climbing cautiously at first and then with rapid steps. By the time the others appeared behind her she was running to him.

The sun was high when at last they left the Castle of the Blacks, Nick and five of the women. Lucia had kept Inez and Juanita with her to help the abbot and his men with their grim task of cleaning up the shambles of death and ruin that was Tsing-fu’s legacy.

One by one they climbed the crude stone steps. First Nick, eyes and ears alert and Wilhelmina ready, two Chinese grenades in his pocket. Next Paula, with a Colt .45. Then three of the women, each carrying crudely woven flour sacks tied firmly at the necks and each clutching a revolver. Finally Luz, with the Chinese carbine. One after the other they reached the top and gathered in a silent group beneath the trees, waiting for Nick’s cue.

Nick held them back with a wave of the hand while he scouted ahead, eyes trying to pierce the thick foliage for anything that should not have been there. Tree trunks . . . bushes . . . low-hanging leaves . . . Nothing new seemed to have been added. Yet his skin prickled with its familiar warning signal. The hillside was far from being an impenetrable jungle; beyond the grove in which his partners waited there were clearings broken by scattered growth and humps of lichen-covered rock, no challenge at all for anyone who didn’t mind a little exercise. But it was perfect cover for an ambush party.