The Thieves of Darkness (55 page)

Silviu looked tentatively at the room; he couldn’t be alone any longer.

He stepped through the doorway, his right hand wrapped about his rifle, his finger on the trigger. In his left he held his flashlight, an item he thought of as a weapon equal to or greater than his gun.

He shone his light about, looking for Michael, but his eyes were immediately captivated by the piles of gold. He had never seen such a trove of wealth: A handful alone would set him up for life. The momentary greed purged his mind of its fear, but it also purged it of its caution.

With a sudden realization, he knew the distraction had cost him his life. The blade plunged into his chest as his rifle was ripped from his hands. Despite the agony of his mortal injury, Silviu drew back his fist and hit Michael in the side of the head, sending him tumbling to the floor.

But that would be his last deed. As he took a step forward, he collapsed. He rolled onto his back and stared down in amazement at the jewel-encrusted dagger that protruded from his sternum. He felt the sudden chill pour over his body as his fear returned. He didn’t want to die and, of all places, he didn’t want to die here, where he knew evil lurked just beyond the shadows, waiting for his soul to leave his body.

As his lungs filled, drowning him in his own blood, Silviu couldn’t pull his eyes from the ornamental weapon of death that protruded from his chest. He longed for Romania, he longed for life, for a second chance. And as death finally washed over his eyes, he thought he saw the shadows move, thought he saw them come alive.

M
ICHAEL TOOK
S
ILVIU
by the feet and dragged his body deeper into the room. He stripped him of his rifle and pistol and found four ammo clips, a knife, a cigarette lighter, and a cell phone.

Michael knew his worth to Venue had evaporated. While he had
possessed the rod, he had value; as he searched the cavern, he had value; but now … he had nothing to offer but a threat to Venue and his endeavors, and they would kill him upon their return.

He walked out into the main cavern and looked at the rocky stairs that rose from the depths to freedom. Gianni would be back any second with Venue and who knew who else. A firefight without the higher ground was unwinnable. Michael’s mind began spinning, thinking of alternatives. He thought on the assets he had just stolen from Silviu; he thought of the world he stood within.

He was almost out of time when a plan coalesced in his mind.

Michael ran back into the room filled with gold and set to work.

Busch stood in the shadows of a stone archway, peering forty yards down the dark hall at the two guards who flanked a door. He could hear their murmur, as they were lost in conversation, unaware of the intruder in their midst. Intermittent torches glowed along the wall, casting undulating shadows that writhed along the floor. Busch felt as if he were looking back in time down some medieval tunnel, but he knew that this place, this impossible temple, was far, far older.

Busch glanced over his shoulder, saw no one there; he lifted the silencer-equipped sniper rifle off his back, quietly bringing it forward, flipping out its bipod V-legs under the front of the barrel. He silently got to his knees and slid onto his stomach. He peered through the gun sight at the two faces lit by dancing firelight; he could see their lips moving, absorbed by some story, unconcerned with whomever they were guarding. They were dressed in black, each with a holstered sidearm, clutching imposing-looking Heckler & Koch submachine guns against their chests.

Busch recognized the thin guard with the bony face and black hair; he had followed them to the airport and watched as the jet supposedly took Michael into the sky. There was no question these men had nothing to do with the temple. They were Iblis’s men and as such deserved their fate.

With no time for a conscience, Busch lined up the cross hairs, swept the rifle between the two men, and flexed his neck and trigger finger. He took a slow, steady breath, exhaled, and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The rifle kicked hard against his shoulder with two gaseous
pops
, and the heads of both men exploded onto the stone wall.

Busch was up and running before the echoes of the muffled gunshots had died out. He ran to the door, stepping over the dead guards, but did not find what he expected. The room was filled with men of the cloth of varying religions, each sitting silently, unconcerned with the two dead bodies.

Busch was surprised at the sight, expecting Michael or at least Cindy. He had anticipated bald Oriental men in saffron gowns, not the host of nationalities and faiths before him.

He found two Sherpas, their traditional climbing attire in sharp contrast to the dress of the men around them. Busch drew his knife and turned to the older one, whose eyes were wise with no hint of fear.

“English?” Busch asked the older Sherpa as he cut the zip-tie binds from his hands.

“Yeah.” Kunchen nodded as he rubbed his now-free wrists. Busch handed him the knife and pointed at everyone else. “After you cut them loose, stay in here until I come back.”

“We can help,” the younger Sherpa said as Kunchen cut him free.

“Yeah, you can.” Busch grabbed one of the guards by the legs and dragged his dead body into the room. He stripped the man of his rifle and passed it to the young Sherpa.

“I’m Sonam,” the young man said.

“Sonam.” Busch smiled. “Keep everyone in here.”

“Where you going?” Sonam asked.

“I’ve got a date with a devil.”

KC found Cindy lying on the ground in a small, cold anteroom off the central corridor, her hand wrapped in a blood-soaked shirt. Her eyes were glassy and she stared at the wall, her body trembling from shock.

“Cindy,” KC whispered as she crouched next to her. She rubbed her hand over her forehead and through her auburn hair as if she were a child.

Cindy slowly turned to her, her eyes gradually coming to the realization that her sister was there.

“He…” Cindy sputtered as she clutched her hand tighter. “He’s my father, how could he …?”

KC didn’t know what to say in response to the disillusionment in her sister’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” Cindy said.

“No, I’m sorry,” KC said softly.

“He left me in here to die, KC. He’s our father.” Tears finally poured from Cindy’s eyes.

“I’ll get you out of here.”

“No.” Cindy shook her head. “Find Michael; they’re going to kill him.”

“I’m going to get you out of here,” KC said as she looked at her sister, at her blood loss, her pale skin.

“I’m sorry for judging you, for what you did to take care of me.” Cindy’s voice was weak. “You gave up everything for me. Don’t give up Michael, too.”

“Shhh,” KC hushed her as she had when they were younger, when their mother was ripped from their young lives, leaving them alone. She pulled her close and that’s when she saw the wound in her stomach. She wasn’t dying from the blood loss from her missing fingers, but from internal bleeding.

Cindy fell unconscious into her arms. KC held her close, rocking her, hushing her. Everything was on the verge of slipping away, Cindy, Michael—

“Hey.”

KC turned to see Busch standing in the doorway, his face sympathetic at seeing Cindy. He approached and knelt beside them. Their eyes met.

“I’m going to get Michael,” Busch whispered.

“No,” KC abruptly said. “It’s my father. I need to do this—”

“Can’t let you do that; you need to take care of your sister.”

“There’s nothing I can do for her.” KC’s words quivered as she spoke. She took a moment gathering herself. “Iblis will kill you on sight; I can get close. Paul”—KC’s eyes pleaded—“I need to do this.”

“You can’t do this alone.”

“Take care of her,” KC said as she offered her sister’s unconscious body to Busch.

Busch took a deep breath and finally exhaled. He gently took Cindy from KC’s arms and stood. He looked down on Cindy’s sedate, childlike face and back at KC. “You get him, and you get back up here, or I’m coming after you.”

“Thank you, Paul.” KC kissed her sister’s forehead and disappeared out the door.

Hemi Masko rounded the corner on the first level, the cold finally beginning to shake from his bones. He was never one for winter weather, preferring the beach above all. He had, in fact, been in the snow only three times in his life, and he always said that was enough.

At five-nine with 220 pounds of muscle, Hemi was as wide as he was tall. His life hadn’t taken the path he had intended. He had been a Grecian wrestler, but his career collapsed at the age of nineteen when his shoulder was torn out of its socket. As the years went on he found the remuneration for his fighting skills was far greater in the back alleys of Istanbul than it ever would have been on a wrestling mat.

He had worked for Iblis on and off for two years as a driver, a lookout, and a backup, but in all the jobs he had never been in a situation like this one, climbing up a frozen mountain like a Sherpa, wandering around a treasure-filled temple out of a folk tale. He had never been one for superstition or religion, but after seeing the rooms filled with gold and silver, after seeing an impossible land of greenery in the midst of a blizzard-encased mountain pass, he would be thinking twice about his faith, about what existed in the world beyond the reality he had grown accustomed to.

As he rounded the corner he saw the woman clinging tight to the
shadows of the first hallway leading off the central mandala vestibule. Venue’s daughter had returned, this time clutching a gun.

Hemi fell into a crouch, and he raised his pistol, drawing a bead on the blonde woman’s forehead … It had been a while since he had taken a life; he had looked upon it as neither thrilling nor deplorable, equating it to smashing a bug on the wall. He closed his left eye and lined up his sight.

A sound came from behind him. He spun about, gun raised, but lowered his defenses when he saw it was only Iblis approaching. Turning back to his target, Hemi realigned his gun sight on KC. He flexed his trigger finger and gently began to pull…

And his body went limp. He fell backward, no longer able to control his legs, his arms; his entire body had gone numb. He tried to breathe but it was as if his lungs no longer listened to his brain, and he slowly began to suffocate. He tried to scream, but the only sound was the terror-filled shriek in his mind.

All his senses were gone but for his sight, and as he looked up his mind spun out of control. For looking down upon him was KC’s savior, his killer, the man who had plucked him off the streets and employed him all these years, the last person he would have expected to sever his spinal cord.

Gianni emerged from the stone stairway, Karl, the twenty-year-old neophyte guard, right behind him. Bendi and Thut, the brothers, came next, and behind them was Venue, who walked like a victorious king about to examine his new realm.

They emerged into the cavern and found it eerily dark. Only two torches that sat fifty yards away were lit. Where ten minutes earlier the cavern had been aglow in firelight, now it was heavy with shadows that danced among the stalactites and stalagmites, creating the appearances of black ghosts flitting about. The guards seemed to tighten up at the hellish sight, but it had no effect on Venue. He felt like he was home.

“Where’s Michael?” Venue said, looking around.

“Where’s Silviu?” Gianni responded with concern for his friend.

All eyes searched. Gianni and Karl flanked Venue. “You need to go back upstairs,” Gianni said.

“Not with him loose down here,” Venue said. “You find him and kill him, now.”

The four guards huddled around Venue were all ready to take a bullet for their leader, as if he were the president. Gianni led the way to the black door, the group moving en masse. He shone his light into the chamber to find only one torch lit and no sign of Michael or Silviu.

“I really think you need to go upstairs until we find him,” Gianni said to Venue.

“Funny, I thought I was in charge.” Venue cast a withering look at the guard. “You take a man and go search the cavern, leave two with me in this room.”

Gianni held his resistance in check, turned to Karl, and nodded, the silent command given. Bendi and Thut flanked Venue and entered the room filled with gold as Gianni and Karl headed toward the two distant torches.

They both turned off their flashlights, so as not to be targets, and headed in opposite directions. The cavern was impossibly large, its calcite columns and lime deposits fragmenting the enormous space, creating pockets and obstacles where someone could hide without detection. The temperature had to be at least a hundred degrees and the sweat slid down Gianni’s back, pooling at the waistband of his pants.

Gianni held his rifle high as his eyes scanned the darkness; he moved along the wall, using the stalagmites for cover. The two burning torches were thirty yards off. He worked his way toward them, using the glow of their dancing light to search for any movement, any sign of Michael. He didn’t bother looking for Silviu; there was no question he was dead. The Romanian was his friend; they had both worked for Iblis for several years, slipping around the Istanbul underworld and sharing too many drinks together. Gianni promised himself he would toast his dead friend as soon as he dispatched his American killer.

The torches were twenty yards off now, with no sign of Michael, when Gianni suddenly caught motion out of the corner of his left eye. He froze in place; there was no mistaking the movement ten yards to his left, shielded by the rocks and lime deposits.

And then he heard an odd noise, like a distant crowd, a buzzing in his ear that slipped ice into his veins. He had never heard anything like it and wondered where it was coming from. He strained his vision to see the man lurking not far away but knew he couldn’t attribute the voices to just one man.

The man stopped. Gianni raised his rifle as the voices grew louder.
He felt the fear wash over him, the dark creating a terror in him such as he hadn’t felt since he was a child. It drove rational thinking from his mind, and he began to see things.