Gladiatrix (45 page)

I ground my teeth. Des, with his weak heart, couldn't take this mess.

Victoria was silent now. She'd stopped sobbing. I was desperate to get her out of there and tell her I was still alive.

Mertling said, smugly, ‘Now everything's been cleared away. Except for you.'

That was it. I motioned to Alex that we were going in, then waved him past me.

As we moved in, Victoria swerved from watching Mertling with hate and despair, to looking up at us in utter amazement. Her reaction sent everyone spinning round.

Alex caught Scolette's wrist, pushing it straight up to the ceiling just as the gun discharged. The shot was deafening in the small room.

Wrenching the gun out of her hand, Alex sent an elbow into her face, knocking her backwards and completely off her feet.

She dropped like a rock.

I rushed past Alex, in an effort get a clear line on Mertling and Rous without endangering Victoria.

Rous whirled, his hand searching inside his coat. When he recognised me his mouth locked open in surprise.

I shot him in the shoulder.

He spun backwards, savagely bouncing his head on the wall as he fell.

Mertling shot straight up out of the chair, as though on a spring. He was fast for a heavy man.

He saw Rous go down, focused on me, and instinctively kicked out at my bloodstained leg. It went right out from under me, pain flashed up my body and my vision blurred.

I fell to the floor, heaving.

‘Kannon. Are you all right?' Alex's voice cut through the mist. He was crouched at my side.

‘He kicked me, Alex. Made me dizzy. That's all. I'm okay.' I struggled up.

Rous was writhing on the floor, a growing pool of
blood spreading around him. Scolette hadn't moved since she went down.

But Mertling was gone.

‘Who are you?' demanded Victoria, her dazed, black eyes staring up at me.

‘Get Victoria free, Alex. And stay with her! Protect her for me. I don't know who else is involved in this. Get her safely out of here.'

‘Of course. But, Kannon …'

‘Swear you'll stay with her.'

‘But …'

‘You owe me, Alex! Swear it!'

‘Yes. I swear!' he growled.

I lunged out the door, still gripping the Glock.

Mertling was running for the fire exit at the opposite end of the corridor.

Over my shoulder I yelled, ‘He's going down the fire stairs.'

Two voices followed me down the hall. One demanding, the other imploring, both saying the same thing, ‘Don't go!'

I went.

That bastard was going to pay.

 

Mertling clattered below me.

I was slow and the stairs were hard to deal with, but he was no athlete, taking in big gulps of air as he bounced off the walls of the stairwell.

He tried the door on the next level down but it was locked. He cursed as he ran for the next flight down.

It was another six levels before he found an unlocked door. I was still one whole flight behind him, but the sound of the heavy fire door opening and then bouncing back again to thump shut, resounded up the stairwell.

When I reached the door, the sign said Exit to Parking.

The door was heavy. I had to stop and hold the Glock under my right arm and use the left to pull.

It was a fully enclosed security lot, three quarters full. At the far end, a guarded boom-gate sat across the combined entrance and exit. The driveway sloped up to the street beyond. It was colder here, the building had been warm, almost hot.

Mertling must have hit his stride once he moved off the stairs because he'd managed to sprint to a silver BMW parked right near the exit.

Two uniformed guards were watching him from the booth adjacent to the boom gate.

He was a mess. Clothes in disorder, hair sticking out. A gun in his hand. And he was panting so hard he scratched the car finish in his haste to access the lock.

The guards were so busy watching him that they hadn't noticed me yet.

No point in appealing to them for help with a Wanted poster of me in the foyer, so I used the other cars as cover to move closer to Mertling.

When Mertling managed to get his key in the lock I pushed myself into a run. I had to do something, once he was out of the lot I'd lose him.

I brought the Glock up and took a shot with my shaking left hand. I missed, hitting his back window instead.

I didn't really care what I hit as long as he didn't get in that car.

He dived for cover at the front of the car and returned fire.

A bullet slammed into the car next to me. I ducked but kept moving, bent over.

The guards pulled out their guns.

One of them shouted to Mertling. He shouted something back and pointed to me. The taller guard moved into the booth and started talking on his phone.

The other one, using the cars as cover, began moving towards me, cutting me off from the exit. As I was pinned, Mertling darted out from behind his car and ran up the sloping driveway towards, the boom gate.

Before I could respond the stairwell door burst open behind me; Alex and Victoria poured out.

The guard stalking me took one look at their clothes and condition and halted. He recognised Victoria. Yelled at her to watch out. ‘Marshal Dupree. Get back.'

She just charged straight ahead, with Alex carefully blocking her from the guard's line of fire. He was doing what I asked. Protecting her with his own body.

The guard repeated his command. ‘You must take cover, Marshal Dupree! We have that terrorist trapped. Get back.'

‘She's not a terrorist, Clarkson,' Victoria boomed. ‘That fucker Mertling just tried to kill me, and she saved me.'

She pointed at Mertling. ‘Leave her alone and stop him!'

Confused, both the guards turned to Mertling for his side of the story. But by now he'd come level with the boom gate.

The guard in the booth stepped out. ‘Er, sir. I've just spoken to the FBI and they're on their way. I'll have to ask you to stay …'

Mertling raised his gun and shot him point blank. Then ducked under the gate and ran up into the street.

I ran past as the other guard fell to his knees beside his partner. He had his hands pressed into a blood-soaked wound in the man's stomach. There was nothing I could do for him.

Anyway it was better if Victoria had to stay there till the police arrived to explain it all. At least she'd be safe.

The exit ran into an alley, dead end to the right and the left formed a T with Stockton Street. But even in the few seconds it took me to get up to the passing traffic, Mertling had merged with the anonymous crowds.

It was a grey, freezing winter's afternoon and everyone was wearing hats and scarves, with their coat collars turned up. As I scanned them a wind every bit as numbing as a dental injection, pressed my tunic against my bare legs. I shivered. There were snowflakes in that gust.

But the cold was a blessing. Most people had their heads down as they charged, full throttle, for the next air conditioned building. But every third or fourth person would raise their eyes to me.

Covered in blood and carrying a gun, their reactions didn't vary — just veer away and walk faster. The freezing cold kept their minds focused on one goal, and one goal only. Get away. Get inside.

I turned back to face the alley and carefully tucked the Glock under my arm and into the folds of my tunic sleeve. People still lurched away from me, but at least no-one was going to tackle me for the weapon.

I scanned the crowd again, but couldn't see too far from the end of the alley. Diagonally opposite was the park. It was deserted, no-one would want to sit out in this weather, not even if a cardboard box was their only alternative.

Dodging honking traffic, I crossed the road, and got a much better view of the Square.

Right, left, behind me. Three-sixty degrees. Nothing. He'd disappeared. Where would Mertling go? His house? The airport?

It was hard to think clearly. The wind kept sweeping up my tunic, making my thigh ache instead of throb. The feeling in my sandalled feet was almost gone. They were icy stumps.

Looking across the street to the NTA, I wondered could Mertling have doubled around to go in the front of the building? He'd tried all the internal doors in the stairwell. Maybe he had an emergency plan, one that included help from his remaining buddies? Or he needed his passport? Money? Could he be in there now?

But he'd just shot an NTA guard, in front of witnesses, and the FBI were on their way. Would he risk it?

No. If he needed back-up, if he needed anything at all, he'd be ringing someone in that building to bring it out to him. Right now.

There was no other lead so I'd wait.

Counting each breath, hugging my arms to my chest for warmth, I watched the front doors. A short man, in a suit, carrying a briefcase, jogged out of the NTA. He was talking on a phactor and — from the looks of it — quietly arguing. He looked up, as I did, to see a fleet of black vans zoom towards us, down Stockton. Half pulled into the alley behind the NTA, the other half stopped right in front.

The short man shut the phactor with a snap, as personnel wearing SWAT gear poured past him, and into the doors behind. He bolted across the road, glancing back at the FBI once, then turned into the Iseum walkway.

That was it.

I limped back across the road, keeping my face turned away from the FBI vans. It was on a poster in that foyer.

Is there snow in Death Valley? There was snow in this version.

The airport shuttle driver had said that the crater that surrounded the Iseum was a replica of a famous one in Death Valley. Now fragile icicles hung from its dark grey wall, and pools of frozen sleet lay in hollows in the black ash next to the walkway. Snowflakes began to fall faster and thicker as I followed the path leading through to the golden pyramid, turning everything from dark to white in a matter of seconds.

Up ahead, a line of worshippers calmly filed into the square entry chamber built into the front of the pyramid. Two red sphinxes sat like guardians on either side of it.

I hobbled up to the end of the line.

They were all wearing black. Wealthy, well groomed, winter black. Women with unnaturally tight faces and soft fur hats. Men in designer coats and shiny shoes. Money and dignity.

I didn't have time for either, so I moved off the path
and pushed in at the front of the line. The group next in line objected, but that was only until they took in my appearance. Then they stood back and let me through as though red lights and sirens were rotating on top of my head.

The entry chamber was really just a fancy cloakroom — all stone and stainless steel. The men and women automatically separated off from the main walkway into two side change rooms. They emerged, at the far end of the entryway, wearing lightweight clothes.

A uniformed usher spotted me standing indecisively in the middle of the walkway. He rushed up to me but didn't know whether to kick me out or assist me to a chair.

I no longer had the strength to fight my way through, so I invented fast. ‘There's been an accident.' I pointed back out to the street.

He took in all the dried blood and my black and swollen hand, and instantly believed me. God knows what he thought I was doing in nothing but a tunic and sandals, but he did. He even started out to the street, saying, ‘Should I go and …'

I shook my head. ‘Don't worry, the police have arrived.' The FBI vans made a convincing backdrop now that all the people carrying guns were not in sight.

‘Look, you have to help me.' I really did need help. It was getting hard just to stand on my frozen feet. ‘The husband of one of the injured is in here. He came in about five minutes ago. I have to find him before she dies.'

‘Oh goddess …' The usher was a boy, probably sixteen or seventeen. Tall, gangly and very concerned. ‘What does he look like?'

‘Balding Santa. Round. Early fifties.' His blank expression spurred my memory. ‘Navy suit, white shirt, dark tie.'

‘Sorry.' He looked back into the Iseum. ‘It's pretty crowded today. Are you sure he's in here?'

‘Positive.' A thought occurred. ‘Unless there's a back way out?'

‘No. Only this main entrance.'

‘Any fire escapes?' There had to be some of those.

He was surprised. ‘Well, yes. Two. Just off the main room. But a siren goes off if you open the doors?'

I ignored his questioning inflection. I wasn't going to explain anything I didn't have to. If Mertling used the alarmed doors I still could find him. My guess was he'd come back out this way unless provoked. He'd have to be worried that the FBI would be onto a siren so close to the NTA.

The usher still stood directly in my way.

I said, gruffly, ‘Well? Can I go in? I have to look for him.' If I didn't start moving I would fall down. ‘Now.'

‘Of course. Of course. But I'll have to guide you through to the sanctum. There's a formal service going on at the main altar. And it's really invited guests only. That's why everyone's wearing …'

I cut him short. ‘Fine. Fine. I'll be quiet. Just take me through.' I nudged him towards the next doorway.

The foyer was wide and ran the full front side of the pyramid. As soon as we walked in I understood why they used a cloakroom. They had to. It was hot in here. Tropics hot.

I also understood why the driver had said this Iseum was called the Cradle of Life.

It was the ocean. Literally. The whole Iseum had been built over the top of a giant aquarium.

Below the glass floor, schools of coloured fish swam
between mounds of living coral. Around me, floor-to-ceiling glass columns contained floating forests of bright green kelp, swaying in time with the water flow. Here and there, brightly coloured fish swam up from the reef, to feed in the kelp towers. Above, the ceiling was painted a cloudless blue sky, slightly shimmering as it does when you look up from underwater.

Following the usher, I limped past the kelp columns and through the double doors into the sanctum, a huge, square room in the middle of the pyramid.

I paused in the doorway. The short, suited man from the NTA was nowhere in sight, but I noticed there were two archways leading off to the left and right.

‘Where do they go?' I asked.

‘They both lead into the Hall of Remembrance. It forms a U-shape, wrapped around the back and sides of the sanctum.'

Perfect. The fire doors were right next to the archways. Either way Mertling, or his little buddy, had to come back here to get out.

I leant back against the wall, let out a deep breath, and said, ‘I'll wait here. He'll come past. Don't worry about me.'

The usher was reluctant to leave me there. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘I'll just wait a little longer. Make sure your friend arrives.' He was uncertain. ‘You need a doctor. Do you want me to call for one?'

‘No.' I kept scanning the two archways.

He fidgeted a little, then decided to entertain me instead. ‘Have you been in here, in the sanctum, before?'

I looked around. The sanctum was cavernous, sitting squarely under the pyramid's peak. Directly
underneath the peak, the glass floor had been cut away to allow access to the aquarium below. A waist-high wall, made of the same glass as the floor, circled the big round pool. In the middle of the pool sat a small, flat island ringed by bulrushes. There, illuminated by spotlights from each corner of the pyramid, stood a giant statute of Isis, her strong, bare feet riding the backs of a dolphin and a shark, both appearing to leap across the island.

‘The statue is amazing, isn't it?' He was boyish, very boyish. ‘Most people … people who aren't Isiac, that is … don't know what to think. She's called Winged Isis, Goddess of Protection and Victory.'

‘Of course,' I said in a daze. She kept appearing everywhere I went. But completely different every time.

This was not the Egyptian Isis of the Nile delta. Or even the Roman one built of stately marble and gold. And certainly not Livia's malevolent creation.

This was an Isis born from a very different sea people. Rich, Californian, coastal dwellers. Her skin was aqua blue, her hair and wings covered in opalescent scales. Large blue eyes with white, white sclera, shone out of a strongly chiselled face.

It was a modern face. Ambitious. Knowing. Wall Street material.

‘What do the other Isiac sects think of her?'

He immediately blushed.

Ah. ‘They don't like her?' I kept flicking from left to right arches. Mertling or the other man had to come out soon, or I was going in.

‘We all have our own visions,' he said, simply. ‘We have to follow them. We combine the Bright Mother with the Dark Queen. She is both, so we worship both.'

More people filed past us to their appointed seats.
They all sat in a semicircle around the pool and facing the statue. In front of the seats, a group of men, all wearing the same black wetsuits, were busy carrying materials down a slipway that led directly into the pool. They were laying a strange assortment of goods onto a boat sitting there, ready to be launched into the pool.

‘What's the boat for?'

It was Egyptian, the kind you see in the old murals, woven from thick reeds, with a high curving prow and tail, and a little roof in the middle to give protection from the sun. The curved prow was painted gold and red, with green eyes drawn along the sides. Under the roof, in the middle of the boat, was a long altar, and around it they were placing a TV, a sound system, some luggage. It looked like the contents of someone's house.

The usher said, ‘It's for the ceremony. We call it The Liberation …'

A dorsal fin emerged from the water, directly down from the slipway. My eyes involuntarily darted back to the statue's feet, and then back to the water.

There are sharks in there?

The fin circled the island, then disappeared without a ripple. I looked down to my feet and watched a three-metre long reef shark circle lazily beneath.

The Egyptians often used animals, sacred to their gods, to strengthen their own faith and demonstrate the power of those they worshipped. Walk through scorpions. Play with crocodiles.

The usher was still talking.

I broke in. ‘Are those men going to swim with the sharks?'

A woman walking past me heard my disbelieving tone. She jerked her face round to give me a full view
of her offended expression, then said, ‘Yes, sharks! They're sea creatures too. Does this celebration of life seem more repulsive to you than worshipping a poor tortured man dying on a cross!'

‘I didn't mean to offend — I was just surprised.'

She wasn't mollified, but the usher came to my rescue. He took her off to find her seat, patting her gently on the shoulder as they went.

A movement to the left caught my eye. The short man from the NTA strode briskly out of the archway and towards the exit. I was standing to one side, and he was focused on getting out as quickly as possible, so he didn't see me. He wasn't carrying the briefcase any more.

I crossed to block his way. ‘Where is he?' I showed him the gun tucked under my armpit.

He looked around at the crowd, trying to work out whether he could use them as protection or not. Then he jerked his head back to the left archway, and dodged around me at a run.

I let him go. Then hobbled towards the archway, gun out.

The Hall of Remembrance was roughly the same width as the foyer, only instead of a forest of waving kelp it contained a series of chapels dedicated to each of the deities associated with Isis.

Osiris, Horus, Anubis, Thoth … Or rather, modern takes on the old deities, with an oceanic twist. Osiris, King of the Underworld, was the King of the Underwater here — a green-skinned merman with gills and a trident.

Halfway round, with Mertling nowhere in sight, I realised he must've decided to exit through the other archway. I pushed myself into a wobbly jog.

By the time I'd made it the full way around, and
back out the other archway, my vision was blurring again and the concussion was making my head throb.

I held onto the sanctum wall and tried to focus my eyes.

The sanctum was silent, everyone seated, everyone in place. Mertling was nowhere in sight.

The ritual had started. Four people in wetsuits and strapped into diving equipment were standing at the lower end of the slipway. Three figures wearing costumes and masks stood between the boat and the worshippers.

Dog-headed Anubis was holding a bright silver pair of scales before him. On his left, ibis-headed Thoth was writing in a large book. On his right, falcon-headed Horus stood guard with a spear gun.

Anubis had one object in each of his scales. One weighed against the other. Something red against something blue.

A red satin heart against a blue feather?

It was the Feather of Truth.

This ritual was the weighing of the heart at death. Anubis weighed. Thoth wrote down the result. Horus …

I looked back at the boat. The altar was covered with a fine gold cloth now. And there was something under it?

A body.

I looked around at the people in black, at the man crying in the front row. This was a funeral.

This was the judgement of the dead. They were taking the body across to the little island. To the island of reeds.

To the Field of Reeds.

Mersekhet said it ends here.

A sharp crack and something hit the wall next to me, sending fragments of plaster into my eyes.

Instinctively I spun away and overbalanced, falling hard, face down, into the floor.

Excruciating pain! My broken fingers were crushed under me. As was the gun.

Coloured fish swirled and schooled beneath me, as the screaming started, and the noise of chairs crashing to the floor echoed.

I just managed to turn my head and look up.

The crowd scattering around him in total panic, Mertling stood over me, taking the time to carefully line up his next shot. Into my head.

So this was it. After all.

Then I saw her. Face like a tigress. Winged Isis directly behind her. Victoria had the spear gun. Raised.

Mertling saw my expression and whirled round, gun ready.

The spear was in flight as he turned, ramming into his chest with a hollow throck. The metal barbs, fully extended, burst out through him in a hose of blood.

He flew backwards to land on the floor, the long protruding barb holding him off it, and bending his body into an arc.

He twisted once like a fish on a boat deck. Like the fish god on the table in Rome. He choked out blood, and lay still.