Authors: Pamela Hegarty
Inside the case, like stars on a moonlit night, sparkled a diamond and a sapphire, brilliant against the jet black velvet. Impossible. Except an aura of energy surrounded the gems. And it wasn’t just an aftereffect of the adrenaline still rushing through her system. She’d encountered it before, a shadow of the souls left behind by those who had held an artifact. In the case of these two gems, that meant moguls, monarchs and a saint. “Impossible,” she said. “A theft of the Kohinoor and Edward’s Sapphire would be all over the headlines.”
“
You’ll hear about it soon enough, when they find the Crown Jeweler’s body at the Waldorf,” he said. “Synthetic copies of the diamond and sapphire are what the Beefeaters at the Tower of London are guarding right now.” He flourished his hand across the case like a trader presenting his wares. “And here are the slots for the Emerald and Turquoise, the two stones that you are destined to give to me.”
“
I can’t give you what I don’t have,” she said. No, take from him what she didn’t have, the diamond and sapphire, that’s what she had to do. How, without getting killed?
Contreras nodded to his two thugs. “Professor Devlin, I do not believe you.”
The walls pressed in as the two thugs approached. They clamped their beefy hands on Daniel’s shoulders and shoved him down onto the settee. They grabbed his wrists and slammed his hands, palm down, onto the engraved brass design. The tray table nearly flipped off its tripod with the force of it. They held him as firmly as if they’d nailed down his hands.
Contreras extracted a small plastic box from his pocket. He dumped its singular contents onto the table. A bright yellow frog tumbled out, kicking its legs to right itself. The thing was tiny, not much bigger than the Tear of the Moon, and twice as bright. Its neon yellow reflected in the brass of the tray table, even in the dull light of the restaurant.
“
Observe the Golden Poison Frog, native to Colombia” he said. “Used by the Muisca Indians to tip their darts for hunting. Currently considered the most toxic vertebrate on Earth.”
He lifted the small silver spoon from beside Christa’s tea cup. The tea’s mint aftertaste soured in her mouth as Contreras poked at the frog. The little creature was frozen with fear. She knew exactly how it felt. “Researchers claimed that a dog could die from merely contacting a paper towel that the frog has hopped across. I proved this to be true in my conservatory. Not to worry, it was only a stray, who had trusted the wrong master.”
He poked harder. The frog hopped. It moved towards the tea glasses in front of the crucifix and its tumble of gold chain. Contreras’s eyes darted from the frog to the crucifix. The frog diverted around it. Not a good idea to read too much into that. Contreras’s gaze, too, was diverted, coaxing the frog closer to Daniel’s trapped hands. “The poison from one tiny frog can kill two bull elephants,” Contreras said, “or a dozen men.” Daniel squirmed ineffectively against the thugs’ overpowering strength.
“
Don’t do this,” Christa said. The frog hopped. It was now inches from Daniel’s fingertips. His fingers were trembling, their heat and sweat fogging an outline on the brass. The thug holding him stretched back as far as he could without loosening his grip.
“
One gram holds enough toxin to kill 15,000 humans,” Contreras said. “It’s a terrible death. Spasms, contractions, heart failure. It is a toxin akin to the poison that will kill your nephew. Unless you give me the Tear of the Moon and I restore the Breastplate.”
She saw Daniel’s eyeglasses slipping down his nose as his skin grew moist with sweat. “He’s bluffing,” he said, teeth clenched to minimize even the movement of speaking. “Conroy said frogs raised in captivity aren’t poisonous. You can’t kill me, Contreras. I’m the one with the degree in theology. You need me as your high priest to wear the restored Breastplate, to interpret God’s word.”
“
He doesn’t look like he’s bluffing,” she said. And she couldn’t take the chance. Daniel was in this life or death game because of her. “Contreras, let Daniel go. I’ll get the Emerald for you.”
“
You do and he’ll kill Lucia,” said Daniel. “And Liam is as good as dead unless we are with Contreras when he gets that antidote.”
“
Dubler doesn’t care about your family,” said Contreras. “I know what you’re thinking, Mister Dubler. Why settle to be a man of God, when the Breastplate can make you a god of men?” Contreras licked his lips. Bastard. Part of him yearned for her to hold out. He parted his lips with an expression nearing lust. “I will make you my high priest, if she gives me what I need.”
The frog hopped again. It poised mere millimeters from Daniel’s trembling forefinger. “Stop!” she shouted. “I’ll give it to you.” She cupped her fingertips beneath the circular rim of the table’s tray top. In one sudden, swift motion, she heaved the table top upwards and thrust it away.
CHAPTER
43
The pop was unmistakable, gunfire, small caliber pistol, followed by the crash of furniture and a man’s scream. Braydon kicked open the carved wooden door of the Marrakesh Restaurant. He blasted through, gun drawn. He had to save Christa before it was too late.
She was with Torrino. No, she was fighting with Torrino, over the Halliburton. Baltasar Contreras was sprawled on his behind, arms flailing across the breast of his suit. He looked like a cockroach stuck on its back, in a panic that its pathetic little life was about to be squashed. His body guard stood wide-eyed with fear, and then thrust his gun towards Braydon, taking aim.
“
FBI,” he shouted. “Lower your weapon.” He caught the twitch in the man’s eye before he heard the pop. He ducked and rolled. A shot splintered the door behind him. He dove behind a settee. Two more slugs tore into the upholstery.
Braydon thrust his gun around the edge of the settee, ready to shoot. But the man who fired at him dropped his smoking forty-five to the floor and doubled over, clutching at his heart. He let out a choking scream. He fell heavily to the floor, his legs in a spasm. The body guard to the man’s left leapt back, horrified, his eyes on a small, yellow object on the floor next to his partner’s cheek.
Torrino spun Christa away, his hand still clenching the Halliburton. Jared’s fake diamond and sapphire had to be inside. Another man had his eye on the briefcase. He was that prep school teacher he had interviewed for any possible leads connecting Contreras with the Abraxas theft. NewWorld’s historian on last summer’s expedition into Colombia. Dubler. Daniel Dubler, as nervous as he was arrogant. A jerk. Dubler pressed his back against the wall, his shoulder skewing a framed photo of camels in front of a walled medina.
The second body guard swung up his nine-mil, targeting that yellow object. It was a damn frog. The guy fired and obliterated the creature in one shot. What the hell?
Braydon crouched and aimed. “Federal Agent,” he yelled. “Drop your weapon.”
The guy pivoted toward him.
Dubler snatched the brass tray top of the nearest table and twisted it towards Braydon, whipping it at him like a giant Frisbee. The guy fired. The bullet zwanged off the brass tray as it flew by.
Braydon ducked and fired and ducked, knocking the pistol from the shooter’s hand. He twisted to recover his balance. A second golden object was on the floor at his feet. Not a frog, but a crucifix. It looked familiar. No time to think why. His gut told him to snatch it up. He slipped it into his pocket and stood. He crossed to Christa and yanked her away from Torrino. Contreras shoved himself up with surprising agility, swooping up his body guard’s dropped forty-five. Braydon pushed Christa toward the kitchen. “Get out of here, now,” he yelled.
She struggled to push him away and scratch her way back to Torrino. “Not without that briefcase,” she yelled back. Dubler approached Torrino from his flank. Braydon answered Torrino’s undecided look with a quick nod. Torrino yanked his nine-mil from his shoulder holster, blasted a round into the floor just ahead of the teacher’s feet. It was like Dubler hit an invisible wall, he stopped so fast.
Behind Braydon, the guy with the shot-up hand snatched up his nine-mil from the floor. He aimed it at Braydon’s face. Braydon swiveled and shot him through the heart, killing him close enough to instantly. That seemed to knock some sense into both Devlin and Dubler. Braydon pushed Christa towards the kitchen door with more force than he cared to use. She swept up her daypack, the one she had in Arizona, and rushed ahead of him. The teacher followed on his heels.
Braydon shoved Dubler and Christa down and through the swinging doors. The forty-five blasted. The bullet zinged into the kitchen just over their heads. He shut the doors behind them, grabbed a mop and thrust it through the door handles. It wasn’t an effective lock, but it would buy them a few minutes, time enough considering Contreras wasn’t the type to lead the charge and Torrino would sooner die than hurt them.
Gas stoves were still turned on, pots boiling, ovens hot. Heady scents of curry and coriander would have been intoxicating under other circumstances. One back door, leading to an alley. That would be their point of egress. One dark-skinned man right out of central casting for Lawrence of Arabia lay on the floor, unconscious, bleeding from his left temple.
Shouts called from behind a heavy wooden door to a storeroom that had been padlocked shut. Christa grabbed a heavy pan with a long handle from its hook. She wedged the handle behind the hasp and yanked the pan down, breaking the hasp off its hinges. Five olive-skinned men in white restaurant kitchen uniforms stumbled into the kitchen. Braydon flashed his badge at them. “FBI,” he said. The Arab on the floor moaned, dizzily struggled to push himself up. “Enemy of my enemy?” Braydon asked Christa, nodding towards him.
Christa rushed to the injured man’s side, along with two guys from the kitchen staff. “He stood up to Contreras,” she said. “Got hit in the head for his trouble.” It looked like the Arab had suffered a severe concussion by the way his head wobbled and that he and Christa were close by the way she looked at him.
The Arab struggled to focus on her. “Christa, I feared I would lose you,” he said, in accented, slurred English.
“
Not me, Ahmed,” she said. “And not the Tear of the Moon, either.” She pulled a velvet pouch attached to a lanyard from between her breasts beneath her blouse and showed it to her friend. “You need a doctor.”
Ahmed clutched at her arm and fought to raise himself. “No,” he said. “You need to find the other stones. Or all of this is for nothing.”
Christa pressed her hand against his cheek. “I will try,” she said.
“
The crucifix,” he mumbled. “Your father, he said that the crucifix will show you the way.” Odd words for a guy who looked Muslim. The guy’s friends apparently didn’t care for it, either. Their expressions weren’t confused anymore, but downright angry.
Braydon kept one eye on Dubler. An adrenaline rush lent the delusion of strength; his behavior would be dangerously unpredictable, like throwing a brass tray and nearly getting him killed.
Dubler contrived a threat by clenching his slender fingers into fists. “Fox, you are an ignoramus,” the man seethed, in the kind of nasal voice that matched the elbow patches on his jacket. “You have no clue what you’re doing.”
“
Saving her butt,” Braydon answered. “Yours, I don’t care about.” Braydon pointed his Glock at the guy’s feet, to make a point, then stepped between him and Christa.
“
Agent Fox,” she said, her breaths still short and fast. “Braydon.” Her tone was just this side of pleading. She had to be more scared than she wanted to let on. “This is Daniel Dubler. He’s a friend.”
In his assessment, a friend didn’t stand by while she was physically engaged with a potentially deadly opponent twice her weight. And his tray slinging could have been an attack as much as a defense. “Contreras’s historian on last summer’s Colombia expedition,” Braydon said. “I questioned him on Contreras’s connection to a robbery in San Francisco.” He stepped towards Dubler. “I don’t think your boss is here for your employee appreciation lunch.”
“
He is not my boss,” snapped Dubler. “Contreras is my colleague.”
“
A robbery in San Francisco,” Christa interrupted. “Did it involve a stolen gemstone?”
She knew about the stones. Maybe she knew about the poison, too. Braydon had two courses of action. Coerce the information he needed from Contreras, or from Christa Devlin. Easy choice. He had to get her out of here, safely.
A knock rapped on the door. “Agent Fox, you were clever to find us here.” Contreras’s sickly sweet voice oozed through the cracks. Braydon considered shooting him through the door, just to shut him up. “You fancy yourself Professor Devlin’s protector,” he said. “But she has something that belongs to me, an Emerald. The only way for you to save her is to return it.”
An Emerald. It had to be one of the seven stones Jared was talking about.
Christa stood and crossed to Braydon. She grabbed his arm. “He’s lying. I don’t have time to explain, but Contreras has poisoned the water here and in Princeton. We need to find seven gemstones to get the antidote.”
Twenty minutes ago he would have called her crazy, but her story corroborated Jared’s. Braydon nodded to the kitchen staff, who looked even more confused than the guy with the head injury. “Get him out of here,” he said. “He needs a paramedic.” They half-carried him out the back door to the alley. Braydon started a mental countdown as to how much time he had left before the cops showed.