"Compass," he whispered.
Presto turned on the flash-a-light; a minuscule beam hit the face of the compass in Lionel's hand.
"Northwest," said Presto, pointing left. He turned off the light.
Jack attached another glowing patch to the wall, and they inched their way down the left-hand passage. The red-tinged field of vision afforded by the goggles revealed little more to him than the crude outline of the walls; the glasses primarily detected objects that radiated heat. None were in sight.
Walks Alone caught the scent of something on a wind that blew toward them: chloroform, formaldehyde. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
Was it possible? She quietly pulled the knife from her belt.
Doyle, Innes, and Eileen crept down the stairs to the sanctum, entered the foyer, and waited for their eyes to adjust. Innes noticed a glowing green patch inside the hallway. He wanted to follow but on instinct Doyle held them back.
"Not yet," he said.
He led them back up the stairs where they stopped below-ground, rested their rifles on the plates, and trained them on the church.
"I'm not trying to be critical, but what are we waiting for?" whispered Eileen.
"I'm not entirely sure," said Doyle.
"Did you miss me, Arthur?" she whispered a moment later.
"Not at all," he said. "Desperately."
"Good," she said. "Sorry."
Dead silence from the direction of the church; looking through the glass, he saw a huge man in a long, gray coat move along the line of men in black outside the front doors. The big man stopped to glance at his watch; he gave a signal, the bars across the doors were removed, and a team of men began turning what looked like a machine gun around to face the cathedral.
"Good Christ," said Doyle.
Another patch went on the wall; they were following the track of the compass, but Walks Alone could have led them on the air coming toward them alone. Jack stopped, his foot encountering an irregular shape.
"Light," he whispered.
Presto directed the light to the ground and turned it on; Jack pressed his foot down onto a slightly elevated patch of marble. A three-foot-square section of floor directly ahead of them dropped away. Shining the light into the pit that opened, they saw a field of gleaming spikes.
"Jump over or double back?" asked Jack.
"This is the right way," said Walks Alone, pointing ahead.
"Jump, then."
Presto opened the aperture and used it to guide the leap across; Lionel carried the book and went first; Presto last, carrying the light. By the time they readied themselves on the far side and Jack had taken another reading of the compass, the light began to falter.
"Battery's fading," said Presto, switching it off.
They tested each step ahead. Reached another intersection that branched to the left and right; three passages from which to choose, all heading in the same direction. Jack stared down each of the corridors through the goggles. Presto thought he could make out a faint aura of light in each of the tunnels ahead.
"We're close," said Walks Alone.
Jack stuck a patch on the wall then handed the remaining ones to Presto and Walks Alone. "We'll each take a path a short way ahead. Lionel, with me. Call out at once if the light increases; we'll meet back here."
Jack attached a second patch next to the first.
They separated and edged up each of the three corridors. Presto widened the aperture and kept his finger on the switch of the light, a pistol in his other hand. Walks Alone gripped her knife and felt her way along the wall. Lionel held on to Jack's belt; Jack stopped when he heard a faint echo of voices ahead.
"Jacob!" Jack cried out.
"Father!" Lionel shouted.
Through the dim filtered screen of the goggles, Jack saw a line of heat and movement cross his vision in the nest of passages ahead and he realized his mistake.
Reverend Day's head twisted around as he heard the voices call out from the tunnel.
No, this was wrong, too close; the boy was supposed to stop them.
He pulled out his watch; two minutes before Cornelius gave the signal and the Holy Work began. He heard a laugh and whipped his stiff neck around to look at Jacob; the Jew was smiling at him.
"Expecting someone?" asked Jacob.
A low sustained rumble sounded from deep inside the pit.
"As a matter of fact, I am," said the Reverend, returning the smile.
Here we go again, thought Frank.
His hands were in the air; Kanazuchi had the rifle pointed at his back.
What the hell, maybe Hammer's black pajamas looked enough like what these men were wearing to get them close. If they didn't, not much else mattered.
They marched down the embankment and across the space between them and the line of men, then along toward the Gatling gun. The first of the men in black caught sight and just stared at them. Word traveled fast down the line, reaching the gun well before they did, just as Cornelius Moncrief walked around the side of the church.
"Two minutes!" he called out.
Two of the men in black pulled the bar out of the brackets on the doors. They swung open, and the team manning the machine gun pointed it inside.
Cornelius saw the two men approaching and started straight at them, pulling a pistol; Frank could tell they were going to meet up right in front of the gun. He noticed that its safety was off and the feeder belt had already been attached to the mouth of the gun.
Good.
"What the hell is this?" asked Cornelius.
They came together and stopped three feet apart.
"One of the intruders," said Kanazuchi.
"Hi, Cornelius," said Frank. "Remember me?"
Cornelius stared at him, eyebrows wriggling like caterpillars. Frank saw the pupils in the man's eyes constrict: Cornelius's gun started up.
"You dumb fuck," said Frank.
Frank drew the Colt and fired six times, punching a circle around his heart.
Kanazuchi turned and emptied the rifle on the men at the Gatling, killing all three. Before the men in the line on either side could react Kanazuchi pulled the Grass Cutter and attacked to his right.
Frank jumped to the Gatling and swung it back left; he caught a glimpse through the doors of a sea of white shirts down on the cathedral floor, a splash of red moonlight shining on them through a round glass window. His hand found the crank and he let the Gatling rip; a stream of bullets kicked up a cloud of dust, hitting the ground to the left of the line— damn thing wasn't calibrated; fucking army didn't know how to fucking maintain its fucking equipment.
Men in black in the line returned fire. Frank found the balance in the gun as it continued to fire and wrestled it to the right. Now bullets ripped directly down the flank of their line, chewing it up, tossing men back and to the sides; ones in the rear ran for cover as they saw the others fall.
A shot smashed through Frank's boot; his left ankle shattered. He staggered but kept cranking; heard a bullet clip his ear. Another ripped clean through his right upper thigh.
Missed the bone, thought Frank. He kept his right hand glued to the crank and screamed through the pain.
Behind Frank, Kanazuchi barreled into the right side of the line; the Grass Cutter never stopped. The men had trouble distinguishing him from one of their own, and the ferocity of his assault drew their attention away from the machine gun. All they knew before he was on top of them was that this man had a sword and he moved like the wind. Their bullets struck each other as they fired wildly, others taken down by shots that missed the man at the Gatling. Highly disciplined soldiers, all of them, but their panicked cries testified that they'd never faced this hot a fight before. Their bullets whistled through the man but didn't seem to strike him. They saw limbs fly off their comrades. Heads dropped from necks, bodies opened, and the sword mowed through them as if it possessed a life of its own.