Logistics figured out, he very carefully picked up two pipe bombs. Ready to rock and roll.
As if on cue, his phone softly vibrated against his waist.
Finn set the bombs back on the table and checked the LCD screen. Incoming from Aisquith. He assumed the Brit was letting him know that he’d found Kate. He flipped the phone open.
Fuck!
Message read, Finn flipped the clam phone shut and clipped it on his waistband. According to Aisquith, there was an armed unfriendly headed in his direction.
He re-wrapped the six pipe bombs in the towel, taking care even as he hurriedly cleared the work table. He did not want it carved on his tombstone that he was a dumb-fuck bomb maker who died from bad dumb luck.
No sooner had he slipped the bundled pipe bombs into his Go Bag and unsheathed his KA-BAR knife than he heard footsteps just outside the door.
He ducked behind a rotund hot-water boiler, stashing his Go Bag in the corner.
The doorknob turned. Finn stilled his breath. Completely hidden out of sight, he had the advantage. And the beauty of an edged weapon? It would not run out of bullets or jam on him. If you knew how to hit the sweet spot, a knife could be just as lethal as a loaded gun.
The door swung open. Finn peered between the boiler and a set of copper pipes. A big bruiser with a solid build entered the room. He had the confident stride of a man who had some serious military training. Uhlemann’s muscle, obviously.
Luckily, the bruiser didn’t seem the least bit perturbed that the overhead lights were turned on. Finn’s gaze honed in on the holstered Sig Sauer P6.
Finn wanted that gun in the worst awful way.
Quickly he ran through his options: attacking and using the KA-BAR in a close-quarter situation, slicing or punching a hole in a major artery; tossing the KA-BAR at the dude’s heart; or tossing the knife at his backside, then disarming him from behind.
Settling on the last option, he soft-footed away from the boiler, keeping to the shadows. The bruiser was headed for the trio of big aluminium condensers on the other side of the room. Finn took aim and hurled the KA-BAR knife.
The bruiser, seeing the blur of motion reflected in the shiny aluminium, lurched out of the way at the last possible instant, the KA-BAR puncturing a hole in the condenser instead of the bruiser.
Possessed with quick reflexes, the other man spun on his heel as he reached for the P6.
Fuck!
81
0550 hours
Acting on a hunch, Cædmon silently trod the third-floor promenade that overlooked the mezzanine. Like a guilty thief with the goods in his pocket, he clung to the shadows. Off-script, he headed for the nearest room that had visible light shining through the frosted glass. Something was here, on the third floor. He could feel it in his blood.
The same blood that coursed through his heart muscle in dizzying contractions. The same blood painfully thumping against the gauze bandage wrapped around his skull.
Where are you, Kate?
He prayed that he’d find her sooner rather than later, his energy flagging. The tension wrought by the situation, his recent injuries and the lack of sleep, it was all starting to wear on his pitiful reserves, the initial burst of adrenaline having run its course.
Christ! Bugger the horse. My kingdom for a wee sip of gin.
Kicking that thought to the kerb, he trudged forward, walking, breathing, everything now noticeably laboured.
Ruger in hand, he approached the illuminated room. Grasping the doorknob with his left hand, he pushed the door open a few inches and furtively peered inside. On the other side of the threshold was a snuggery lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. All of them jam-packed with leather-bound volumes. For a crazed half-second, he thought he’d been transported to a parallel universe, albeit a tidier universe than the one at L’Equinoxe.
Cædmon cautiously stepped into the library, closing the door behind him. Like every other room he’d investigated, it was eerily vacant, although he sensed it had recently been occupied – there was a small stack of books and an open laptop computer on the centre table. He walked over and perused the pile. Nazi Mysticism. The Secret of Luxor. Parzival. The Monuments of Paris. An eclectic assortment, to be sure. And, in one way or another, all related to the Grail and the Axe Historique. He next examined the laptop computer, the screen frozen on an image from a football match. Curiouser and curiouser.
Espying a narrow passageway between two bookcases, Cædmon padded over to it. Holding his gun in front of him, he peeked around the corner. Although the lights were low, he could see that it was a small study. His gaze zoomed over to the boxy sofa set against the far wall. There was a huddled body, backside turned to him, curled on the cushions. Shoulders visibly shaking, the occupant was clearly sobbing.
Kate!
Clicking off the safety, he shoved the Ruger into its holster before rushing over to the sofa. Without turning her head, Kate raised a hand and limply waved it in the direction of the library.
‘You can set the tray on the table,’ she warbled in a tear-weakened voice.
Cædmon went down on bent knee beside the sofa and gently touched her shoulder. ‘It’s me, Kate. I’ve come to rescue you.’
‘You can’t rescue me,’ she said between doleful sobs. ‘You’re dead. Both of you.’
‘I fear those rumours have been greatly exaggerated. While I might be mistaken for a corpse, I’m still among the living. As is McGuire.’
Kate rolled over. ‘I don’t believe it! Cædmon!’ Clearly stunned to see him, she grabbed his face between her two hands. ‘You’re alive!’ Then, a sense of urgency about her, she said, ‘You have to leave! Now! Before –’
The look of dread fear that immediately marred Kate’s face was the only warning that Cædmon had before a dark shadow fell over the two of them.
There was someone behind him!
Still on bent knee, he straight away reached for the Ruger. Just as his hand grazed the stippled grip, the unseen intruder grabbed his right wrist, snatching his hand away from the gun. Imprisoning his wrist in a bone-crunching grasp, the assailant pulled tight, cinching Cædmon’s arm around his own neck. Jamming his chin into the crook of his elbow.
Cædmon bellowed in agony as several sutures instantly popped open.
The brute forcefully jerked on his wrist, spinning him in a semi-circle. Cædmon reflexively swung his left arm; a wild scything slash that connected with a leg muscle. Before he could retract his arm to take another swing, a giant fist smashed into his left temple. Hammer on anvil.
The ferocity of the blow hurled Cædmon to one side. The brute hauled him up by his manacled wrist. With his free hand, the attacker yanked the Ruger out of the holster before shoving Cædmon to the floor.
‘That vas too easy,’ the brute snarled in a thick accent.
Immobilized with molten pain, Cædmon spat out a mouthful of yellow bile. Dazed, his vision suddenly gone blurry, he struggled to bring the attacker into focus. It took several seconds before the scene crystallized. It took several additional seconds before he realized that he was one bullet from death, the bald-headed Myrmidon pressing the gun muzzle against the same temple he’d just tenderized with his fist.
Enraged that his life was about to end in such humiliating fashion, Cædmon impotently glared at the bald-headed gunman. He didn’t have the strength to stagger to his feet, much less rebuff another blow. Callously smiling, the brute’s right thumb flicked the safety into the ‘off’ position. Any second now.