“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I swear, I don’t
know.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Viktor howled. “What the
fuck is wrong with you?”
Constantine’s fingers unbuckled the dead man’s belt and slid
it from his waist. He gripped the tail end in his palm and wrapped it
around his closed fist. If he kept his arm low and close to his body,
there was a chance Viktor wouldn’t see it until it was too late.
“Give me the whole password!” Viktor roared, gripping the
gun with both hands and pointing it at Natalie.
“I can’t,” she sobbed, clutching the bar and her sister’s
arms. “I don’t know what she’s talking about!”
“Tell me!”
Constantine grasped the belt in both hands and leapt at
Viktor, looping the belt around his neck. He pulled it tight and jerked
backwards, changing Viktor’s line of sight. “Natalie, move!” he
yelled.
Viktor lowered the gun and shot blindly. Bullets
splintered the bar and ricocheted into plaster and mirrors. Constantine
pulled the belt as tight as he could, keeping Viktor’s back arched. He
crossed his hands, straining to shrink Viktor’s airway. If Viktor were
able to lean forward, he could flip Constantine onto the floor and shoot
him.
Natalie and Beth scurried to retrieve the PP90 he’d kicked
across the room. Viktor realized what they were doing and squeezed his
trigger in their direction. Beth screamed and ducked, but Natalie kept on
crawling on hands and knees. He saw her reach out and clasp the
gun. “Got it!” she cried.
It didn’t matter. Constantine felt Viktor’s flailing
kicks and knew they were powered by the desperate shot of lightning in his
veins, the last effort the body could make to save itself. For the space
of a heartbeat, he considered letting him go. He could shoot Viktor in
the leg to immobilize him and simply walk away. But that would violate
the code of soldiers, written in blood on bones, skin, dirt, and everything
else they touched.
It should have been inviolable. It should have been
something each one takes to the grave—the knowledge of what it’s like to stare
into a man’s eyes as he dies, pinpointing the moment he is and then the moment
he is not. They were never supposed to talk about it. They were
never supposed to share it. They were never supposed to bring that on one
of their own. But Viktor had. He thought about every shot Viktor
had fired while standing behind him. Which had been meant as cover and
which had been meant for him?
Constantine jerked the belt as tight as he could. “See
you in hell,” he said.
July 2012
London, England
The BMW sped up along the limousine’s left flank and the
driver cranked his wheel to the right. The door didn’t buckle, but the
limousine’s rear end skidded to the left and smacked the BMW.
Gennady felt the car pull sharply and flung the wheel to the
left, trying to steer out of the deadly spiral. He eased off the gas for
a moment and waited for the car to stabilize. Sweat gathered beneath his
arms as he scanned his mirrors, looking for the rest of the cars he’d seen
following them.
“What are you waiting for?” Starinov yelled from the
back. The prime minister pulled a pistol from his waist and shot through
the glass separating them.
Gennady ducked, avoiding the shot and the spray of
glass. When he tucked his head down, his hands automatically steered to
the right. The car struck a second BMW lodged on the limo’s right front
side. It slammed on the brakes and dropped back.
The first car, still on the limo’s left, sped up. As
the car swerved right with Gennady’s unconscious movement, the BMW tapped the
limo’s bumper and floored it. The car’s momentum was enough to nudge the
limo into a spinout. Gennady tried to turn left and correct the spin, but
momentum was already working against the long, heavy vehicle.
From the back of the limo, another bullet flew
forward. Gennady shrunk into his shoulders yet again, pulling the wheel
to the right as he did. The limousine teetered on two wheels then flipped
to its side, skidding helplessly down the street and plowing through mailboxes
and bike racks.
Gennady let go of the wheel and covered his neck with his
hands, but no more shots pinged through the front of the car. He hung
suspended, held in place by his seatbelt. When the car struck a building,
he was thrown against the wheel. He felt it strike his head, twist his
neck, and then the world went black.
July 2012
London, England
Viktor made one last desperate kick and then his body went
limp, held up only by the belt in Constantine’s grip. Natalie stared at
the red, panicked man with clawed hands gripping his own throat. The
flesh of his neck was scraped raw and puffed out over the belt, like a woman’s
flesh spilling up out of a corset.
Belial shivered.
I tried to read him
,
but
everything inside was black.
The words of the twenty-third psalm
sprang to her mind but she quashed the impulse. Viktor didn’t deserve
them.
“Is he dead?” Beth asked, calmly wiping her face with her
sleeve.
“Yes,” Constantine answered. He let Viktor’s body
crumple to the floor and picked up the second PP90. “Get back behind the
bar, both of you. This isn’t over.”
“Ignore everything I said, Nat,” Beth said, gripping her
elbow and guiding her back behind their marble shelter. “Constantine
needed a distraction.”
“God, Beth, you scared the shit out of me!”
Beth flashed her a smile. “Bet you forgot I was the
president of the drama club in high school.”
She squeezed her sister’s hand then turned to
Constantine. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head. “I should have seen what he really
was.”
“You saw what was good in him, just like you see what’s good
in me. You couldn’t have helped him, even if you’d known.”
“No, but I could have killed him a hell of a lot earlier.”
“You did everything you could. Beth and I are only
alive because of you.”
Beth scooted over to them and pulled the PP90 from her
hands. “So what happens next? Is this a Butch and Sundance kind of
thing?”
“No,” Constantine said. “We wait. We hope
whoever wants in can overpower Starinov’s men. If they can’t…”
Beth nodded. “Then it’s Oscar speech time.”
Natalie looked at her sister, dirt-streaked and bloodstained
and blonde and petite, holding the gun as if she actually knew how to use
it.
She would do anything for you
, Belial said.
I know
,
she thought. “Beth, I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, babe. You’re my family. You
and me and Seth.”
“I missed Shark Week. He’s going to kill me.”
“He’ll forgive you,” Beth said. “Or he’s grounded.”
“Someone’s coming,” Constantine said. He crouched and
leaned around the side of the bar, aiming the PP90 at the door. “Stay
back.”
“The hell I will,” Beth said, mirroring his position on the
other side of the bar.
Natalie heard sharp commands in Russian followed by the
slick sound of nylon straps sliding off ballistic vests. From the foyer
where the guards crouched in wait, the sound of breaking glass punctured the
silence. Gunfire erupted and voices speaking English demanded surrender.
“Davies’s men!” she cried.
“Wait until they’ve subdued the guards.” Constantine
held his position, gun aimed at the door. “I don’t trust them
yet.”
Natalie nodded and listened for the sounds of the British
soldiers as they screamed orders at Starinov’s guards.
On your
knees! Hands on your head! Drop your weapons!
The door of the room broke open, kicked in by an S012
soldier in black vest and pants. Splinters rained over the pile of bodies
and the soldier stepped backward. He held a semiautomatic rifle at eye
level, making a visual sweep of the room through his rifle’s spotting scope.
“We’re over here!” Beth called.
The soldier whipped his head in their direction, stepping
over the pile of bodies and advancing slowly toward the bar. “Come out
slowly with your hands on your head.”
She looked to Constantine, who nodded. He tossed the
PP90 on the floor and Beth followed suit.
“Which one of you is Natalie Brandon?” the soldier asked.
“I am,” she answered.
“We have orders to bring you to the Bank of England.”
“Whose orders?” Beth barked. “Is Starinov there?”
Two more men ran in behind him with rifles raised
high. They swept the room, covering every corner before pronouncing the
room clear. “Jesus,” one of them said, eyes following the trail of
bloodstains across the floor that marked the paths of the dead, dragged
bodies. “What the hell happened here?”
Constantine cleared his throat. “My name is
Constantine Dashkov. I’m with the Bureau of Classified Intelligence of
the Russian Federation. Where is Prime Minister Starinov?”
The first soldier held out his hand out for Natalie.
“Come with us, miss.”
She shook her head and stepped away. “No! I’m
not going anywhere without Beth and Constantine. If you want me, they
come, too.”
The soldier lowered his rifle and spoke into the comlink on
his collar. A second later the answer came crackling through. “Come
on, then. There’s a vehicle waiting outside.”
“This is it,” she said, looking up at Constantine. She
slipped her hand into his and grasped Beth with her other hand. The
soldiers marched them through the embassy to the driveway where a black SUV
waited. They climbed in, followed by five armed men and the vehicle sped
off through the dark streets of London toward Threadneedle Street.
Natalie watched the narrow storefronts fly by, convenience
stores and pubs and coffee shops. She closed her eyes and waited for
Belial to shake his wings or shuffle his feet. But he didn’t. He
was at rest and she realized, with a shock, that she felt no fear: no
sweaty palms, no butterflies, no dry mouth.
You see? You have nothing more to fear,
Belial
answered.
You already know what you’ll be asked to do. And you
already know what your answer will be.
“Smart ass,” she muttered.
The man sitting next to her turned his head. “Beg your
pardon?”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Belial.”
“Don’t ask,” Beth interrupted. “Just go with it.”
The man nodded.
Twelve minutes later, the vehicle pulled up at the steps of
a large columned building with a triangular cornice. Another group of
soldiers waited for them there, surrounding the vehicle as it pulled up.
Each man held a gun, and they converged on the SUV as it parked.
“Uh-oh,” Beth said.
“This isn’t a welcoming committee, is it?” she asked.
“This kind of shit doesn’t happen to botanists. Why
didn’t I just become a botanist?”
“Botanists don’t make history, Beth. Besides, Belial
says we have nothing to worry about.”
“For some reason, that’s not helping me.”
“They have guns and we don’t,” Constantine said.
“That’s not helping
me
.”
“Belial’s right,” she said. “I can feel it. Come
on.” She followed the soldier out of the vehicle without waiting to see
whether Beth or Constantine followed her.
July 2012
London, England
It was long after business hours. The bank sat empty
and forlorn, its cavernous entrance veiled in darkness. Natalie’s
footsteps clattered on the gray stone as she crossed the threshold. She
started to wonder what would happen if Belial was wrong. What if there
were plenty of things left to fear? “If you’re wrong, Belial, I’m going
to kill you,” she muttered.
A thin man with wavy white hair stepped out of the shadows
to greet them. Deep pockets of reddened skin had settled beneath his eyes
like a ship’s ballast. He wore a navy blue suit with yellow bow tie and
pocket square. “Good evening,” he said, looking them up and down and
curling his lip. “Or perhaps it is good morning? I don’t suppose
the three of you would know.”
“I don’t suppose the three of us would care,” Beth said.
The man pointed at Natalie’s neck, still stained with blood
from her torn earlobe. “Are you in need of medical care, miss?”
“It’s self-inflicted. Thanks, though.”
One white eyebrow rose to the ceiling. “Of
course. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Algernon Perry, governor
of this bank. I believe you know why you are here.”
“I don’t know anything except that people have been chasing
me and shooting at me for a week straight. Belial is tired of it and so
am I.”
“Belial?”
“Don’t ask,” Constantine said. “Just go with it.”
Perry blinked and nodded. “You are here because Prime
Minister Davies has instructed me to give you access to a certain account,
provided you have the correct password.”
Shit
, Natalie thought.
I still don’t even
know if I’m right
. “About that…I have a little confession to make.”
Beth grabbed her arm. “Nat, now is not the time.”
“We’re in the fucking bank, Beth. I’d say now is the
perfect time.”
“Perhaps,” Perry interrupted, “until you’re sure of the
time, you’d be good enough to follow me?”
She glanced back toward the bank entrance, where the convoy
remained with guns drawn and vehicle lights flashing. She gulped and
followed the white-haired man across the foyer. “Mr. Perry, do you know
what this is all about?”
“Of course,” he said. “You must understand, we have
discouraged many inquiries about this account over the years. Most of
them are harmless and come from reporters or authors. Some of them are
less well-intentioned, like the Soviet incursion in the 1930s.”