Reckoning (4 page)

The stranger was dressed in subdued clothing, a vague array of gray and black. Yet the athletic build was evident, muscular but lithe, like the body of a professional boxer. Not over muscular, it was hardened and powerful, even in stillness presenting an impression of explosive power and swift agility.

Recovering with each moment, Malachi studied the stranger's features. Though only in his early thirties, the man's deeply tanned face betrayed the weathered signs of long exposure to sun and wind; it was lined and toughened, aged beyond his years. His collar-length dark brown hair was raggedly cut, providing a shaggy frame to the lean face. The faint image of a thin white scar
descended from an area beside his left eye, drawing a line past his cheekbone. It was almost imperceptible, as if the wound had occurred long ago. Smaller scars crisscrossed the weathered face: the white trace of another cut, a long, scarred burn mark, narrow as a man's finger, on the left side of his neck.

The face reminded Malachi of photos he had seen of the last Apache warriors, those hardened desert fighters who had savagely refused surrender until they were finally, brutally conquered only by superior force.

The man's mouth was tight and slightly frowning, as if stoically indifferent to pain or pleasure. But it was the narrow eyes, seeming to shift from blue to gray, that struck Malachi as remark-able, and held him.

Predatory and purposeful, the eyes did not blink, did not move as Malachi staggered back. They remained locked on him, had been locked on him with hypnotic intensity since the professor had first recoiled. Unwavering in their focus, they were almost opaque with concentration, the stare of a panther crouching before a kill.

And then, with a breath, Malachi knew. "You!" he began before he stopped, remembering the secret.

As if commanding the professor's submission to his will, the man suddenly rose
– a fluid, strong movement of confidence that demonstrated his power to subdue and control. But when the man moved slowly forward the gray eyes somehow softened and step by step became more and more open to reveal a pained and tormented soul.

Malachi felt the first strange sense of safety.

With only the faintest trace of emotion, of remorse, the stranger spoke.

"Simon is dead."

* * *

SIX

Unable to stand, Professor Malachi
Halder sat back heavily in the mahogany chair at his desk. The stranger was beside him, touching his shoulder, reassuring.

"Rest," he said.

With a trembling hand, Malachi wiped sweat from his brow, sweat sliding on sweat. Finding his breath, he inhaled and felt the room suddenly warm. But his flesh was chilled, and he unconsciously massaged a place below his sternum. Finally, forcing a calm, he looked up.

"I'm here to help you," the man said softly, then stepped away, moving cautiously to the window. Malachi saw that the curtains had been closed. The man edged back a corner of the curtain, staring into the street.

Malachi found his voice.

"You're Gage," he whispered.

"I'm Gage."

Malachi felt something returning; an ability to reason, to measure the situation. He realized that the stranger could have killed him easily, armed or unarmed. And yet the man had done nothing.

"How did you get in here?" Malachi asked, a deep breath following the words.

The stranger was expressionless. "I disabled your security system."

Amazed, Malachi wondered how the man had accomplished such a task.

"It's a simple thing, professor."

Malachi gazed evenly at him, said nothing. He had seen this man called Gage only once before, but the face was wrapped in bandages, burned by flame, sun, and sand. One arm was in a crude cast, the body mangled by wounds. Malachi was unable to identify that broken form with the strong figure standing before him.

Remembering the cunning of his enemies, the professor nodded and placed a hand on his chest,
attempting to ignore the pain. Head lowered, from beneath his gray brows Malachi studied the man, struggling to conceal his suspicion.

Gage remained motionless, gloved hands open. "You'll know soon enough, professor," he said simply. "When they come for you, you'll know."

"What has happened?" Malachi's eyes narrowed, and he was surprised to hear the emptiness in his own voice.

"Simon is dead," the man said
bitterly. "And you're probably next. Or Sarah. Or the translator. But I promised Simon that I would defend you.”

Malachi straightened, moved by the words. But even as he began to rise the stranger stepped to the side, cutting him off from the door. Malachi's analytical abilities had not deserted him, and he noted that the man had reacted even as he had thought of rising, not waiting for the initiation of the movement. The stranger's step toward the door had appeared slow only because it had begun so early in Malachi's decision to stand. But in truth the man had moved deceptively fast, simply without the appearance of haste. When Malachi had fully risen, the man was standing solidly
between him and the exit. Malachi noticed he had taken a position that allowed him to view the hallway, or the room, with only the slightest shifting of his eyes.

"How do you know that Simon is dead?" Malachi
asked. "I went to see him yesterday and I was informed by Archbishop McBain that he had fallen ill. I was told that they had flown him back to Rome for long-term treatment.” He waited. “Are you certain of this?"

"He's dead," said the man coldly. "He's dead in a house in Westchester. I was there." He hesitated. "He told me to help you if I could."

Malachi looked around, sighed deeply. The room seemed strangely unfamiliar to him.

"So,” he murmured, “it begins."

The stranger nodded. "Yes. And we don't have any time. You're going to have to trust me. Where's Sarah?"

Malachi's eyes centered on the man. "But how can I trust you? How can I know you are not here to kill me and my daughter, as well?"

The man took a
single swift step, and it was as if a cloak fell away to reveal the predatory savagery of the most ruthless killing machine. "If I wanted to kill you, professor, you would be dead. And Sarah is easy to track down. But I don't have time. I knew I could find you quickly. And I know that you can find her. Now, take me to her and I'll put you both someplace where you'll be safe – at least for a while." The man grew tense. "It's all I can do right now."

Malachi was silent, weighing the conviction. He was not
as afraid as he had expected to be. Logic suggested that this man standing before him, this man he had seen only once and for a brief time was, indeed, who he claimed to be.

Still, Malachi hesitated, the caution of a half-century overruling all else.

The stranger stared out the bedroom door. Strangely, Malachi thought that he was gazing at the chandelier suspended above the main room and the staircase. The action confused the aging professor until he realized—the globe. The man was studying the golden, polished globe that decorated the chandelier, watching the reflected area of the first-floor entrance that could not be seen directly from the doorway.

And Malachi knew.

Whether it was reason or instinct or something entirely beyond him, Malachi could not discern, but he was suddenly certain that this stranger was, in truth, the mortally wounded, dying American soldier that Simon had found beneath the desert moon of Israel over three years past.

The man turned back again. "Where's Sarah?"

Malachi moved toward the door. "She is just outside the city, at Saint Matthew's Seminary in Ridgefield. It is an hour's drive from here, but we can take the Lincoln Tunnel to save time. We must hurry!"

"Stay here," Gage commanded, cutting off the professor's movement. He pointed a finger at Malachi. His voice was a snarl. "Don't move until I return."

Malachi opened his mouth to object, but the man was gone, moving quickly down the hallway, toward the back stairwell. The steps descended into the kitchen, near the rear entrance.

Alone, his concern overriding all else, Malachi's pulse increased. He was frustrated and enraged to know that his daughter's life might be finally forfeit to those unseen enemies who had long threatened them all. But he felt helpless to combat his foes. As always, the situation remained beyond him. In the heat of the moment he found himself caring little for his own life. It was his child, who might now be lost, doomed by the cruelty of these
...

A dark form moved towards him. Gage paused in the doorway, leaning close. "Do exactly what I say, professor. When I say. Don't ask questions. Do you understand?"

Malachi nodded, bracing. "I have no pride, young man. And I now find that I have very little fear. Do what you must do. I will do anything to save my child."

Gage leading, they moved quickly down the hallway. Gage passed the front staircase and Malachi, out of habit, angled towards the spiraling steps.

"No," Gage said shortly, looking back. "This way."

He descended the rear staircase towards the kitchen, not switching on the light. Malachi noted the gesture and was careful not to reach for the switch from reflex. But descending the steps in the dark caused him instant disorientation. He reached out to locate his position with the wall and crept hesitantly down the stairs. Distantly, he heard Gage moving in the darkness below him, descending smoothly and quickly before the faint sounds
was completely gone.

"Gage?"

Silence.

Malachi descended another step. And another. In moments he was standing in the kitchen, surrounded by a darkened gloom that revealed only ponderous shapes of blackness beside him. Feeling a gathering panic, Malachi turned about, staring blindly into the darkness. He repressed an overpowering urge to call out.

A phantom came out of the gloom, moving in almost perfect silence.

"Hurry!"

Gage spun him around, pushing him through the darkness as someone would usher a blind man through a panicked crowd. Malachi was astonished at the power that gripped his shoulders, the crushing strength that guided him through the shadows with reckless haste.

Gage stopped quickly, opened a door. Malachi was oriented enough to know that it was a closet in the lower hallway that connected the rear entranceway with the den. Two strong hands gripped Malachi's shoulders, pushing him into the closet, to a
sitting position on the floor. The voice was a harsh rasp.

"Do exactly as I say! Don't move! Don't do anything! Stay here until I get back!"

Malachi felt Gage's rage. "What—"

"Do you understand
!"

"Yes," the professor managed, nervously lifting his hands. "What—"

"Do as I say!" Gage hissed. "Don't make a sound! Don't move!"

The closet door shut.

Malachi sat on his knees, his hands on the carpeted floor, using his flat palms for balance, he leaned slightly forward, his face inches from the wooden panel of the door before him. He stared, amazed at the situation and the darkness, feeling his racing pulse increase until his heart thudded painfully in his chest with each thin, high beat. The blood rush caused his breath to quicken and his senses to expand.

Now vivid with fear, Malachi waited, wide-eyed and still,
listening. As time passed he heard only the disturbing loud sounds of his hands as they scraped lightly across the threads of carpet, his creaking joints and muscles cracking like thunder.

Disturbed by the impossible task of moving silently, Malachi tried not to move at all. He concentrated, listening for any sounds outside the door. Then, faintly, slowly, a subdued sound brushed past his face, a slight sound that was almost no sound at all. Was it his imagination?

A soft scrape on carpet.

Something was out there.

Malachi did not breathe.

A silent moment passed, and another. Then a scraping so close that the hairs on Malachi's arms prickled.

Outside the door.

Steps were moving down the hallway, slow and cautious. Malachi strained to hear the faint scraping. Tilting his head, he leaned his ear closer to the wood panels. He counted, an automatic activity, numbering the force of attackers outside the door. Neck tight and jaw drawn in tension, he attempted desperately to discern one presence from another as the slight sounds moved past him, only a foot away. He lowered his eyes, trying to detect whether the almost indiscernible light beneath the door would reveal
...

One shadowed movement
... two...

Three.

Malachi swallowed painfully, and risked one tense, silent breath through a tightly drawn mouth. He shook his head, unable to encompass the surreal terror of it all, even as his mind conjured red images of Gage moving desperately through the dark; outnumbered and alone, predator and prey, playing the deadliest of games against the deadliest of foes.

* * *

SEVEN

Gage quickly ascended the back stairs and reached the second floor, his mind racing to analyze what he had seen through the glassed rear entrance.

... Three men
... Civilian clothes ... One down to pick the lock ... No visible weaponry ... Assume all armed and two more at front and rear entrances ... But they weren't out there when I came in ... They won't know I'm here ... They'll move upstairs, where the light is ...

He ran lightly down the hall to the bedroom, keeping to one side of the corridor to reduce sound. As he moved he freed his mind to devise a tactical response.

... Get them tight ... Make them overconfident ... Careless ... Then ambush them ... Worry about the ones outside later ...

In seconds Gage was at the bedroom. Without hesitation, he ran into the adjoining lavatory. He turned on the shower and jerked the glass door closed, hoping they would hear the water downstairs, become confident of their target's location. Then he moved quickly into the bedroom, flipped on the radio, suddenly noticing he had broken a sweat.

No time left.

As quickly as he dared, Gage raced back down the hall, staying to the side nearest the rear wall. They would come up the rear staircase, he was certain. It was dark and isolated and unlikely to be as noticeable as ascending the front staircase at the balcony.

He reached the steps, risked a quick, panting glance down the darkened stairway, and ducked into a small room on the opposite side of the wall. Then he backed around the door frame so that he had a narrow view of the landing and reached around his waist, beneath his coat, to pull out his primary defense weapon.

Mind and body reacting on training alone, he silently notched the safety off and by feel, placed the selector switch into a fully automatic mode. Reflexively his mind recalled the specs of the weapon, reaffirming procedures for effective firing, clearing jams, clip changes. It was an MP5 assault pistol, maximum cycling rate of
900 rounds per minute, gas operated with the bolt staying open on the last round.

Mentally he rehearsed a clip change, reinforcing the necessary movement of
chambering. Then, without removing his attention from the darkened stairway, he lifted the heavy suppressor from his shoulder holster and screwed it carefully onto the short barrel. Although it had been three years since he had done it in combat, he had performed the maneuver so many times that it was done in seconds. No emotion. No thought. It was simply done.

...
I’ve got three 50-round clips ... If it ends with a firefight it'll be over with the first clip, one four-second burst ... No second chance ... Wait until they're near the top of the stairway, then make your move ...

A sudden thought shocked him, and Gage eased back quickly behind the wall, out of visual range of the staircase.

Stupid, he thought. They'll have night vision. They'll see me up here in the dark.

He reached into his coat pocket and took out the
night visor. Then he put it on starlight and eased one eye carefully around the door frame.

They were on the stairway.

Out of combat for too long, the adrenaline surge almost made Gage leap out and begin firing. His hands tightened on the MP5, but he locked down on his control, waiting for them to reach the optimal range of contact. He breathed deeply, quietly, hoping his body would adjust to the stress.

It was the fever, the blood, and the hunt. It was burning through him, and he felt himself going to it, while beneath the fever he felt the cold, that strange deathly center within him, locking in, like radar, on the life essence of his foes. It would guide him, had always guided him, by telling him how much to release, and when, and when death was truly death.

For the moment, he gave himself to it. It was the only way to survive.

Gage concentrated, focusing.

His eyes, blinking sweat, centered on target, and his mind shifted into an evaluating combat mode. The men were not wearing night visors. The lead man was large, big-chested with a truck-tire gut, gigantic shoulders, and long, heavy arms. He was the handler, the man who would probably do the real work, finishing the professor with a fall down the stairs, a broken neck. An accident.

Behind the big man were two more, smaller in size and
carrying, at port arms, what appeared to be CAR-15s. Gage blinked, focused intensely through the night visor, but couldn't be sure about the weapons. He scowled.

It wouldn't make any difference. They belonged to him now.

They approached, a terrifying image of men who held no pity and no remorse, killers trained in the art of horror, silence, and death; merciless, intent on murdering an old man who had done them no harm.

Come on
…

He had the advantage because stairways were always a tactical nightmare. There was no way to ascend them safely, ever. And they allowed no tactical defense, except that of returning superior fire-power.

Gage had hoped that the water and radio would lull the group towards complacency, inspiring them to ascend the staircase quickly, eager to finish the job and be gone. It would be an amateur's mistake; professionals would never deviate from procedures of safe approach. But professionals were rare, and expensive. Most societies needing special services of clandestine force were content to hire second-rate mechanics, men good at the job, usually ex-military, but men who often made mistakes for the sake of expediency, mistakes made simply because they were unwilling to rigidly adhere, without any deviation, to a strict code of procedures that forbid tactical miscalculations.

They climbed the staircase, fast and close. Confident.

Gage waited, palms slick with sweat.

They reached the top of the stairs together and moved past the doorway. Gage saw the clear image of the large CAR-15 and made his move. He stepped out into the corridor behind them, the MP5 leveled.

"Far enough," he said.

With a quick start
, they turned.

Gage centered the MP5 on the man with the CAR. Instantly the man understood the dynamics of the situation. He didn't point his weapon at Gage. But he didn't drop it either, and the situation spiraled.

Silence, tension climbing.

The other heavily armed man, the one on the left, did nothing. But his eyes went solid and cold, his face twisted in anger. All three looked like they had been in this position before. But Gage knew they were afraid, just as any sane man would be afraid. And yet, as they had turned, they had repositioned. Gage saw instantly that the one on the left held a semiauto pistol. The third man, hulking in the semidarkness of the hall, stood to the right, his hands empty. Without words, almost casually, they made a movement to spread.

"Don't!" Gage felt his finger tighten on the trigger.

They held in place.

"I'm going to make this easy on you," Gage added. "Put down what you've got. We're going to take a little walk."

The middle man blinked, focused on him. Gage saw his hand shift on the rifle. "You won't get all of us," he said quietly
, but there was vague fear behind the words.

Gage pointed the MP5 center mass.

"Yeah, but you won't be around to find out who lives."

No one moved.

"Now just do as I say." Gage hoped to carry the situation by his will, the determination of his tone. "Put it all down and turn around. This can go easy. None of you will be hurt if you just—"

The left man raised the semiauto and fired quick and smooth. Gage spun and dropped to the left, firing a long burst. Two of the men fell back wildly, and then something massive hit him in the chest, throwing him against the wall.

Stunning impact and the MP5 was lost. Gage realized that the big man had survived the lightning-fast, point-blank firefight to leap forward, colliding against him. Massively powerful, the man slammed Gage against the wall and then delivered one, two, three quick sledgehammer blows in succession, smashing his ribs and chest, pummeling.

Gasping, Gage reached for the Hi-Power semiautomatic pistol in his waist, but the big man grabbed his hand and smashed him against the wall.

Gage roared in pain, forgetting the Hi-Power while trying savagely to throw the hulking attacker back. But the big man hit him with a stunning punch to the face that tore off the night visor. Gage collapsed against the wall and saw the big man's hand sweep up, a long knife, and Gage came off the wall, grabbing the man's knife hand to...

In a volcanic effort behind a savage twist, Gage tripped them both. Locked together in the air, they rolled and smashed into the steps as they went down the stairs, the knife passing wildly over Gage, descending, stabbing again and again, and Gage was there as fire erupted between them, over them, Gage not knowing how or why and then they crashed to the first floor landing, and the big man came down on top of him, knife still in his hand, crushing Gage to the tiles.

A second passed and Gage gasped wildly for breath, struggling to reach out and trap the man's knife hand. Panting and enraged, he struggled for several moments before he realized he could not reach the blade. Before he realized that the man was not moving. Dead weight on top of him.

Not understanding what had happened or why, Gage twisted, squirming, to get out from beneath the man. He pushed the
massive body off of him, and the man rolled limply to the side.

Blood. Shot through the chest.

Dead.

Gasping, Gage struggled up, looking down.

He held the Hi-Power in his right hand.

He stared dumbly at the pistol, as if he had never seen one before. He did not remember drawing it in the chaotic battle down the stairs, did not remember aiming or firing the desperate shot. But he knew what had happened: In the terrifying descent down the stairs, in the frantic arena of kill or be killed, when he had been completely overpowered, his training had done for him what he could not do for himself—it had killed his enemy.

In a moment when his mind was totally overcome, when fear and rage had separated the mental from the physical, his body had done what it had done a hundred thousand times before, no, a million times before. It had finished the fight, adapting and adjusting and reflexively escalating force from level to level until it had found a way to destroy his enemy.

Exactly as
it was trained to do …

Exactly as
he
was trained to do.

A hundred million
dollars’ worth of military training had driven it into him, long ago replacing simple human instinct with lethal fighting skills. His reactions were more than instinct; he had not been born with the ability to kill so perfectly. Nor was it mere reflex; it was far too pure a reaction. Rather, it was as if his natural killer instinct had somehow melded to sophisticated fighting skills, creating an internal essence that was more than either would be alone. And they could never be separated again because the conditioning that had forged them had also altered them, changed them, so that they could never be what they were in the beginning, before the training had fused them into one.

Gasping, choking, Gage reeled and leaned back against a
counter. He shook sweat from his head, recovering, gathering, breathing deep, slowing it all down until he could think again.

Unable yet to determine whether he was wounded, he leaned over and grimaced, trying not to think. But one thought could not be denied.

"Oh, God," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Not again ... "

With a moan he bowed his head.

The Hi-Power was heavy in his hand. Still breathing hard, he looked up the stairs, into the darkness. It had been too long, and his mind wasn't handling the stress adequately. He felt his emotions spiraling off, too fired, too hot with the blood. He tried to find balance, to focus, but felt only rage and regret.

He needed a minute to figure this out, to find his place in it
but he didn't have time. The dead men wore headsets, which transmitted automatically. The thudding sound of the MP5, the screams, and even his chaotic descent on the stairs had certainly carried to the sentries outside.

Gage leaned over the dead man, staring.
Quickly Gage determined that he wore no ballistic vest. Gage nodded, steadily slowing his breath. Good. The ones outside probably wouldn't be wearing vests either.

Finally gathering himself, Gage checked for wounds, found blood on his hand, forearm. In the darkness he felt his right arm and located a jagged wound near his elbow. But there was no pain, no feeling at all. It seemed to be a bullet graze with a slight powder burn.

He closed his eyes to concentrate.

Had the man with the CAR-15 managed a burst in the frantic exchange? Gage couldn't recall getting hit; only chaos, fire flaming towards him, returning fire, ready to die, ready to kill.

Forget it. Finish wound assessment.

His knee was twisted but not crippled and his arm was
bleeding but not seriously. He could still move. The rest would come later. It was always impossible to determine how bad wounds were until hours afterward when the adrenaline was exhausted and the body protested the abuse. He might have fractured his arm or torn cartilage in his knee. His body would temporarily deny the injuries, anesthetizing the pain, running on speed.