The Thieves of Faith (48 page)

“I don’t suppose you have any more of those smoke bombs up your sleeve?” Michael asked.

Simon’s silence gave Michael his answer. He looked up, the elevator cab was on sublevel five now. “Almost here.”

Simon saw three men slipping toward the building; he fired three shots in their direction and tried a fourth. But the gun clicked empty.

He turned to Michael, his eyes wide in question.

“Three more floors.”

And Simon slid on his belly to Michael.

The gunfire stopped. A sudden silence as the onslaught ceased. And then footsteps, running, quick, echoing throughout the cavernous space—they were coming from all directions, both inside and out. The guards began pouring in, guns raised.

Michael and Simon braced for the end. They sat up, their backs against the elevator door. They both raised their hands.

And the elevator
pinged
on arrival.

The doors slowly slid open.

Simon and Michael, their backs to the elevator door, remained sitting as the contingent of guards aimed. Waiting for someone to exit the elevator, but no one came. The entire contingent focused their weapons.

Michael and Simon didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

And then, from within the cab, gunfire. Rapid and focused, three Russians down in the first burst. The guards reacted, ducking, rolling, moving for cover.

Michael and Simon fell backward into the cab next to a body as the elevator doors closed. The unconscious man looked like his face had run headlong into a train. Michael could swear he saw an indent in the man’s cheek that matched Busch’s wedding ring.

“Sorry I’m late,” Busch said with two guns held high as he looked down on Michael and Simon.

“I see you’re making friends,” Michael glanced at the comatose man. “I take it, it was a one-sided conversation?”

Busch smiled. “You know, sometimes actions speak louder than words.”

Chapter 49

A
perfect image of the moon reflected off the
ocean, its rays reaching across the waves like fingers spreading toward Stephen Kelley. He stood on the balcony of his room two hundred and fifty feet above the sea and scanned the narrow strip of land between the mansion and the cliffs. A pair of guards came by every twenty minutes—almost to the second—circling the perimeter with wary eyes. These weren’t rent-a-cops. These were former soldiers, military, people trained in precision. And as efficient as they were with their rounds, they were probably experts with the rifles and sidearms they carried.

Stephen had on a pair of jeans and a dark jacket he found in the closet; it was the only alternative he had to the dress shirt he arrived in or the white oxford shirt that Zivera had provided. Both would be like bull’s-eyes reflecting back the moonlight. Around his neck was a bath towel, draped as if he had just exited the shower. His chest felt like a horse race on the inside, his heart seemingly ready to explode, and he hadn’t even started running yet.

He had checked his room from top to bottom but found nothing he could fashion into a weapon. He would put his faith in his fists and his mind. And that was why his heart was pounding: he knew that what he was about to do was as foolish a thing as he had ever done, but he knew that staying was even more unwise. No point in lulling himself into a false sense of security. Zivera may have worn the image of a gentleman, but Stephen had no doubt: he was going to kill him and soon.

Stephen hiked his legs over the balcony and looked down. It was fifty feet. If the fall didn’t kill him, the guards would when they found him broken upon the ground when they returned in twenty minutes. Every room was designed around the view of the Mediterranean, designed around capturing its grand majesty, the vast vista of the open water. As such, each was equipped with its own balcony to afford a perch above the ocean, a place to smell the sea, to feel the breeze whenever the heart desired. Directly below Stephen’s third-floor room was another balcony, and below that one more.

Stephen climbed over the marble rail, slipped the towel around the balustrade, an end of the white cloth in each hand. He tested it, pulled against it, and finally, with his feet firmly planted against the outside edge of the balcony, he leaned back. Angled outward forty-five degress, he craned his head down. He saw the balcony below him and its darkened room beyond. No one there. He pulled himself back up and against the outside of the balcony’s marble posts. He paused a moment, centered himself, and crouched down on his knees. He held tight to the marble, suppressing his fears. His complicated world of running a law firm had suddenly been simplified. He was focused on only one thing: don’t fall. And with the towel firmly gripped in both hands he dropped. His body only fell about five feet as the towel snapped taut. He hung just below his balcony. He dangled for a moment, his feet kicking about for a perch, his arms aching from the jolt of the drop. His left foot finally caught the lower balcony rail and he gained his footing.

He steadied himself, balancing on the marble coping stone as if it were a balance beam. He broke out in a sweat; it wasn’t like the sweat from working out. This was all over, and it came upon him almost instantly. It was a cold sweat, like a misting of his entire body accompanied by sharp tingling. It was pure fear, like nothing he had ever felt in all his years.

Stephen released his right hand from the towel and, like a gymnast, quickly fell to a crouch, grabbing the six-inch marble rail where he precariously stood, pulling the towel down with his left hand.

He leapt onto the balcony and caught his breath. He looked below him, behind him, even above him, a paranoia setting in that he had surely been seen. He sat down on the marble balcony of the second floor and pulled his knees to his chest. He tried to steady his mind, catch his breath, convince himself that he had some chance at success, that he had some hope that he would live to see tomorrow. After the death of his son, having already lost two wives, he had spent the last year questioning his will to live. There was no question in his mind now. He rose up, checked his watch. He thought it had to have been at least ten minutes, but his watch told him the truth: only one minute had passed.

Stephen looked about; he couldn’t shake the paranoia that someone was watching, lining up their crosshairs on him. He looped the towel through the balcony rail and continued to the next balcony below. He made it with a bit more ease the second time around and was thankful it was only an eight-foot jump to the ground from where he now stood.

He was already running when he hit the grass, off in the direction the guards went. As he ran, he stole a glance over the cliff face and immediately decided against heading down. It was a sheer drop to craggy, sharp rocks awash in a tidal surge that would crush anyone who happened into the surf.

He moved back to the mansion, remaining in its vast shadow.

As he peered around the corner of the building, he saw the driveway filled with cars, a group of drivers milled about, their conversations just out of earshot. Ahead of Stephen, running parallel to the mansion, was a stand of pines five hundred strong. It was thick, once part of what must have been a vast forest, but in keeping with the detailed and manicured grounds, it had been thinned, wiped clean of scrub and undergrowth. Fortunately, its canopy was still dense, sheltering out the moonlight. It was a perfect place to run.

Stephen cut across the thirty feet of grass and headed into the woods. The forest floor was nothing but pine needles and mulch, soft on the foot and softer on the ear. Stephen jogged cautiously through the darkness; what little light made it through the canopy was only enough to see a few yards ahead, but nothing more. He judged the mountains to be five miles east, but between them and the sea, he had no idea where he was. He was quite sure, though, he was far from home free. The compound was huge and, he was sure, gated. He ran with a soft step and a keen ear, his eyes darting about, looking for danger.

And he found it.

Up ahead.

At the edge of the forest boundary: a one-story building, twenty guards running out, loading into an open vehicle. They were being called into action and Stephen suspected he was that reason.

Stephen’s mind went to work. It wouldn’t be long until they found him; he had only traveled a mile from the mansion. The search perimeter would close in on him quickly and his race for freedom would be over. He was being hunted and he was easy prey. He looked about the forest; there was nowhere to hide that they wouldn’t find. But then he realized there was one place they wouldn’t look.

Stephen raced through the last bit of trees and came to a stop at the side wall of the structure he had spotted moments earlier. It was an old stucco-sheathed farmhouse. He peered in the doorway of the one-story building from which the guards emerged. It was a wide-open room. Nobody there. He cautiously stepped in. There were several large desks along the wall, computers and radio consoles upon them. A host of chairs and couches sat on the far side of the room. He looked out the doorway and windows and, seeing no one, he ran through the room opening drawers, closets, cabinets. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but he would know when he found it. The computers displayed log-in screens. The radios were password protected. There was a map of the compound on the wall. He tore it down and grabbed a pen. He quickly found his location, circled it, and drew a line along the shortest road to an exit. He tucked the map and the pen in his pocket and was about to head out when he checked the closet next to the door. And he found help.

Clothes. Uniforms, to be exact. Dark blue.
God’s Truth
emblazoned on the breast pocket. On the back in big bold letters:
SECURITY
. Stephen quickly stripped off his jacket and donned the shirt and security vest. There were pockets for radios, ammo, cuffs, etc.,…but they were all empty. No matter. He would at least be able to blend a bit. He finished putting on the pants, and tucked his old clothes back in the closet. He grabbed a baseball cap labeled
God’s Truth Security
and stuck it on his head.

He was feeling better. Where before he was desperate and hopeless, now he felt a plan coming together. He just might make it.

The butt of a gun came down on the back of his head. Sharp, brutal. Stephen fell to the floor in a lump, barely conscious. He rolled over and looked into the eyes of a man who carried no emotion. His bony face bore the appearance of someone who knocked people out as part of a daily routine, as common and boring as taking out the garbage. The man was shaped like a feral dog: long, lean, and muscular, his head shaved under his mesh security hat.

The guard placed his left foot squarely on Stephen’s throat and pressed. Not enough to crush his windpipe but enough to make him aware that he could. Stephen instinctively grabbed the man’s foot but quickly let go as the guard applied enough pressure to restrict his airway.

The man thumbed the microphone strapped to his right shoulder. “Command, this is Nash.” The man’s accent surprised Stephen. It was American, Southern; he figured in the vicinity of Georgia. Almost as an afterthought, the guard flipped the snap on his holster and withdrew his pistol.

“Go ahead, Nash.” The voice squawked back.

“I’ve got a white male, fifties, playing dress-up down here in the rec house. Figuring this is who the all-points was for.”

“Copy that. Stand by.”

Stephen lay on the floor, his head throbbing but his wits returning. And he didn’t appreciate the lucid thought, for it only confirmed his dark situation. He was captured not fifteen minutes into his escape. He imagined they would drag him back to his room to wait out his time before they executed him. He belonged in a courtroom, a place where he could control perception, where he could control people. Not have people controlling him.

“Nash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We do not wish to disturb anyone on the compound. Do you have your silencer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please use it. You are instructed to kill him without delay.”