Black Order (39 page)

The
ukufa
screamed. Pain and momentum carried it over Khamisi and yanked the spear’s handle from his fingers. Khamisi rolled clear, weaponless now. The
ukufa
thrashed in the grass, corkscrewing the impaled blade inside it. It screamed one last time, jerking hard, then went limp.

Dead.

An angry cry above drew his eye.

The woman on the bridge had found Khamisi’s rifle and had it pointed at him. The blast sounded like a grenade. A bush exploded at his heels, gouting up soil. Khamisi shoved back. Overhead, the woman shifted the rifle, fixing him more surely in its sights.

The second blast sounded oddly sharper.

Khamisi twisted away—but found himself unscathed.

He glanced up in time to see the woman topple over the cable, her chest a bloody ruin.

A new figure stepped into view on the walkway.

A muscular man with a shaved head. He had a pistol held out, steadied on the stump of a wrist. He leaned over the cable and spotted the boy, still dangling by his hands.

“Ryan…”

The boy sobbed with relief. “Get me out of here.”

“That’s the plan…” His gaze found Khamisi. “That is, if that guy down there knows the way out of here. I’m so friggin’ lost.”

6:44
A.M
.

The pair of gunshots echoed through the forest.

A small flock of green parrots took wing from canopy roosts, squawking in protest, flapping across the glade.

Gray crouched.

Had Monk been found?

Ischke must have thought the same, her head craned in the direction of the gunfire. She waved to the guards. “Check it out!”

She raised her radio again.

The guards, rifles in hand, pounded around the circular elevated walk, all coming in Gray’s direction. Caught off guard, Gray dropped and rolled, hugging his rifle to his chest. He flung himself off the planks. The closest guard would be in view in mere seconds. Like before, he snatched the planks’ support cable, but in his haste, off balance, he barely caught a purchase with one hand. His body swung. The rifle slipped from his shoulder, dropping away.

Twisting and reaching, he snagged the leather strap with one finger. He silently sighed in relief.

Guards suddenly battered past overhead, boots hammering, jigging and bouncing his perch.

The rifle’s leather strap popped off Gray’s finger. Gravity disarmed him. The weapon fell, spearing into the underbrush. Gray grabbed another handhold and hung there. At least the rifle hadn’t gone off when it hit the ground.

The guards’ footfalls echoed away.

He heard Ischke talking on her radio.

Now what?

He had a knife against her pistol. He didn’t question her compunction to use it or her marksmanship.

The only real advantage he had was surprise.

And that was severely overrated.

Hand over hand, Gray traversed the underside of the walkway and reached the circular concourse. He continued along the underside, keeping to the outer edge, out of direct view of the Waalenberg woman. He had to move slowly or his swaying weight would alert Ischke. He timed his movements to the occasional breeze that ruffled the canopy.

But his appearance did not go unnoticed.

Fiona crouched in her cage, putting as many bars as she could between her and Ischke. Plainly she had understood Ischke’s earlier words in Dutch.
We kill the girl now.
Though the gunfire had momentarily distracted the blond twin, eventually her attention would return to Fiona.

From her low vantage, Fiona spotted Gray, a white-jumpsuited gorilla scaling the underside of the walkway, half-hidden by the foliage. She jerked in surprise, almost standing, then forced herself to stay low. Her eyes tracked him, their gazes met.

Despite her noisy bravado, Gray read the terror in her face. The girl looked so much smaller in the cage. She hugged her arms around her chest, attempting to hold herself together. Hardened as she was by the streets, he sensed her only defense against a complete panicked breakdown was her prickly blustering. It sustained her—barely.

Blocking with her body, she signaled him. She pointed down and slightly shook her head, eyes wide in fear, alerting him.

It wasn’t safe below.

He searched the thick grasses and bushes of the glade. Shadows lay thick. He saw nothing, but he trusted Fiona’s warning.

Don’t fall.

Gray estimated how far he’d come. He was about at the eight o’clock position along the circular walkway. Ischke stood at the twelve o’clock. He still had a distance to traverse, and his arms were tiring, his fingers aching. He had to move faster. Stopping and starting were killing him. But he feared going any faster would draw Ischke’s attention.

Fiona must have realized the same. She stood and began kicking the bars again, rattling her cage, swaying it with her weight. The motion allowed Gray to increase his pace.

Unfortunately her effort also drew Ischke’s wrath.

The woman lowered her radio and yelled at Fiona. “Enough of your foolishness, child!”

Fiona still clutched the bars and kicked.

Gray hurried past the nine o’clock position.

Ischke stepped to the inner rail, half in view. Luckily her focus was fully on Fiona. The woman pulled a device out of the pocket of her sweater. She used her teeth to extend the antenna. She pointed it at Fiona. “It is time you met Skuld, named after the Norse goddess of fate.”

A button was pressed.

Almost directly under Gray’s toes, something howled in anger and pain. It thrashed out of the shadowed eaves of the jungle and stalked into the grassy clearing. One of the mutated hyenas. Its hulked mass had to tip three hundred pounds, all muscle and teeth. It growled low, hackles high on its sloped back. Lips snarled back as it barked and snapped at the empty air, sniffing up at the cage.

Gray realized the monster must have been stalking him all along from below. He suspected what was coming.

He hurried, swinging past the ten-o’clock spot.

Ischke called to Fiona, enjoying the terror, prolonging the cruelty. “A chip in Skuld’s brain allows us to stimulate its bloodlust, its appetite.” She tweaked the button again. The hyena howled, leaped at the cage, flinging ropes of drool, driven into a ravening bloodlust.

So that was how the Waalenbergs controlled their monsters.

Radio implants.

Subverting nature again to their will.

“It’s time we sated poor Skuld’s hunger,” Ischke said.

Gray would never make it in time. Still, he rushed.

Eleven o’clock.

So close.

But too late.

Ischke pressed another button. Gray heard a distinct
clink
as the trapdoor in Fiona’s cage unlatched.

Oh, no.

Gray paused in midswing. He watched the trapdoor fall open beneath Fiona. She fell toward the slathering beast below.

Gray prepared to drop after her, to protect her.

But Fiona had learned from Ryan’s demise. She was prepared. As she fell, she caught the lower bars of her cage and hung there. The creature, Skuld, leaped for her legs. She tucked up and hauled with her arms.

The beast missed and crashed back to the underbrush with a yowl of frustration.

Climbing up, Fiona now clung to the outside of the cage like a spider monkey.

Ischke laughed with dark delight. “
Zeer goed, meisje.
Such resourcefulness!
Grootvader
might have even considered your genes for his stock. But alas you’ll have to satisfy Skuld instead.”

From below, Gray watched Ischke raise her pistol again.

He swung beneath her, staring up between the planks.

“Now to end this,” Ischke muttered in Dutch.

Indeed.

Gray pulled with his arms, kicked back his legs—then swung forward and over, like a gymnast on a high bar. His heels struck Ischke in the belly as she leaned on the rail, steadying her aim at Fiona.

As his heels connected, her pistol blasted.

Gray heard the ring of slug on iron.

Missed.

Ischke was knocked back as Gray followed through and crashed to the planks. He rolled up, knife in hand. Ischke was down on one knee. Her pistol lay between them.

They both lunged for it.

Ischke, even with the wind kicked out of her, proved incredibly fast, like a striking snake. Her fingers reached the pistol first, snatching it up.

Gray had a knife.

He jammed his blade through her wrist and into the planks. She screamed in surprise, dropping the pistol. Gray tried to grab it, but the hilt bounced off the planks as Ischke thrashed. It flew past the walkway’s edge.

The momentary distraction was long enough for Ischke to yank her wrist free from the planks. She pivoted off her other wrist and kicked out at Gray’s head.

He lunged back, but her shin struck his shoulder as hard as the bumper of a speeding car. Gray rolled with it, bruised to the bone. Damn, she was strong.

Before he could get up, she leaped at him, swinging her arm at his face, trying to use the tip of the blade impaled through her wrist to blind him. He barely caught her elbow, twisted it, and carried them both to the walkway’s edge.

He didn’t stop.

Locked together, their bodies fell off the walkway.

But Gray hooked his left knee around one of the walkway’s support posts. His body jerked to a stop, swinging by his leg, wrenching his knee. Ischke peeled off of him and dropped away.

Upside down, he watched the woman snap through some branches and crash hard into the grassy sward.

Gray hauled himself back up to the walkway, sprawling flat.

With disbelief, he saw Ischke climb to her feet below. She limped a step to steady herself, ankle painfully twisted.

A clatter to Gray’s side startled him.

Fiona landed on the planks, swinging over from one of the cage’s suspension wires.

During the fight, the girl must have crabbed her way atop the cage, then used the wires to reach the walkway. She hurried to him, shaking her left hand and wincing. Fresh blood flowed from where Ischke had cut her.

Gray searched again below.

The woman stared up at him. Murder in her eyes.

But she wasn’t alone in the clearing.

Behind her, Skuld raced toward the woman, the hyena’s muzzle low to the ground, a shark in the grass, scenting blood.

How fitting, Gray thought.

But the woman merely raised her uninjured arm toward the beast. The massive hyena ground to a stop, lifted its nose, dripping drool, and rubbed against her palm like a savage pit bull greeting its abusive master. It mewled and lowered to its belly.

Ischke never broke eye contact with Gray.

She limped forward.

Gray stared below.

Steps from the woman, Ischke’s pistol rested in plain view.

Gray climbed up, gaining his feet. He grabbed Fiona’s shoulder and shoved her forward. “Run!”

She needed no further goading. They raced around the arc of the walkway. The girl flew on fear and adrenaline. They reached the exit.

Fiona made the corner, hanging on to one of the support posts to keep her footing. Gray followed her example. As he swung clear, a ringing spark off the support post accompanied a pistol blast.

Ischke had found her gun.

Spurred on, they ran faster along the straight path, putting distance between them and the limping shooter. In a minute, approaching a crisscross of paths, Gray suspected they might be safe. Caution overcame panic.

He slowed Fiona by the same crossroads he had stopped at before. Paths led in all directions. Which way? By now, there was a good chance Ischke had raised an alarm—unless the fall had broken her radio, but he couldn’t count on that. He had to assume guards were already congregating between here and the outside world.

And what about Monk? What did the gunplay that drew off Ischke’s guards portend? Was he alive, dead, recaptured? There were too many unknown variables. Gray needed a place to hole up and hide, to let his trail cool.

But where?

He eyed the one path that bridged back to the manor house.

No one would expect to look for them over there. Plus the place had phones. If he could get to an outside line…maybe even find out more about whatever the hell was really going on there…

But it was a pipe dream. The place was locked up tight, a fortress.

Fiona noted his attention.

She tugged on his arm and pulled something from her pocket. It looked like a couple of playing cards on a chain. She held them up.

Not playing cards.

Key
cards.

“I nicked them from that ice bitch,” Fiona said, half spitting. “Teach her to slice me.”

Gray took the cards and examined them. He remembered Monk scolding Fiona for not stealing the museum director’s keys when they were trapped in Himmler’s crypt. It seemed the girl had taken Monk’s lesson to heart.

With narrowed eyes, Gray again studied the manor house.

Thanks to his little pickpocket, he now held the keys to the castle.

But what to do?

10:34
A.M
.
HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI PRESERVE
ZULULAND, SOUTH AFRICA

Painter sat in the mud-stone and woven-grass hut, cross-legged around a series of maps and schematics. The air smelled of dung and dust. But the small Zulu encampment served as the perfect staging spot, only ten minutes from the Waalenberg estate.

Periodically, security helicopters buzzed the camp, rising from the estate, wary and watchful of their borders, but Paula Kane had the site well orchestrated. From the air, none could tell that the small sandy village was anything but a way station for the nomadic tribes of Zulu that eked out a living in the area. Nobody would suspect the council under way in one of the ramshackle huts.

The group had gathered to strategize and pool resources.

Across from Painter, Anna and Gunther sat together. Lisa kept near Painter’s elbow—as she had since arriving in Africa, her face stoic but her eyes worried. Near the back, Major Brooks stood in the shadows, ever vigilant, palm resting on his holstered pistol.

They were all attentive on the final debriefing from Khamisi, a former game warden here. At his side, leaning forward, head to head, was the most surprising addition to the gathering.

Monk Kokkalis.

To Painter’s shock, Monk had wandered into the encampment with an exhausted and shell-shocked young man, both led by Khamisi. The young man was recuperating in another hut, kept safely out of harm’s way, but Monk had spent the last hour relating his story, answering questions, and filling in blanks.

Anna stared at the set of runes Monk had finished drawing. Her eyes were bloodshot. She reached out a trembling hand toward the paper. “These are all the runes found in the books of Hugo Hirszfeld?”

Monk nodded. “And that old fart was convinced they were damn important, critical to some next stage in his plan.”

Anna’s gaze rose to Painter. “Dr. Hugo Hirszfeld was the overseer for the original Black Sun project. Do you remember how I told you he was convinced he had solved the riddle of the Bell? Performed one last experiment, one done in secret, attended only by himself. A private experiment that supposedly produced a perfect child, one uncorrupted of taint or devolution. A perfect Knight of the Sun. But his method…how he did it…no one knew.”

“And the letter he wrote his daughter,” Painter said, “whatever he discovered frightened him.
A truth…too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free
. To that end, he hid the secret in this runic code.”

Anna sighed wearily. “And Baldric Waalenberg was confident enough that he could solve the code, gain the lost knowledge for himself, that he destroyed the
Granitschloß
.”

“I think it was more than just that you were no longer needed,” Painter said. “I think you were right before. Your group was a growing threat with talk of coming out of hiding, going mainstream. And with perfection so close, the culmination of the Aryan dream, he could not risk your continuing presence.”

Anna shifted the paper with Monk’s sketched runes toward her. “If Hugo was right, deciphering his code could prove critical to treating our own condition. The Bell already holds the ability to
slow
down our disease—but if we could solve this riddle, it may offer a true
cure
.”

Lisa inserted a bit of reality into the discussion. “But before any of that can happen, we must gain access to the Waalenberg Bell. Then we can worry about cures.”

“And what about Gray?” Monk asked. “And the girl?”

Painter kept his face tight. “There is no telling where he is. Hiding, captured, dead. For the moment, Commander Pierce is on his own.”

Monk’s face soured. “I can sneak back in. Use the map Khamisi has of the grounds.”

“No. Now is not the time to divide forces.” Painter rubbed at a needling headache behind his right ear. Noises echoed. Nausea welled.

Monk stared at him.

He waved away the man’s concern. But something in Monk’s focus suggested that it wasn’t just his boss’s
physical
failings that worried him. Was Painter making the right choices? How was his mental status? The doubt touched a chord in himself. How clear
was
his thinking?

Lisa’s hand drifted to his knee, as if sensing his consternation.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled—as much to himself as to her.

Further inquiry was interrupted by the room’s rug door being shoved open. Sunlight and heat wafted inside. Paula Kane ducked into the dark interior. A Zulu elder followed her in full ceremonial regalia: plumes, feathers, leopard skin decorated with colorful beadwork. Though in his midsixties, his face was unlined, seemingly carved of stone, his head shaved. He carried a wooden staff topped with feathers, but he also bore an antique firearm, looking more ceremonial than functional.

Painter recognized the weapon as he stood up. An old smoothbore English “Brown Bess,” a flintlock from the Napoleonic Wars.

Paula Kane introduced the visitor. “Mosi D’Gana. Zulu chief.”

The elder spoke in crisp English. “All is ready.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” Painter said formally.

Mosi nodded his head slightly, acknowledging the words. “But it is not for you we lend our spears. We owe the Voortrekkers for Blood River.”

Painter frowned, but Paula Kane filled in the details. “When the English drove the Dutch Boers out of Cape Town, they began a major trek into the interior. Friction escalated between the arriving immigrants and the native tribes. The Xhosa, the Pondo, the Swazi, and the Zulus. In 1838, along a tributary of the Buffalo River, the Zulus were betrayed, thousands killed, their homelands lost. It was a slaughter. The river became known as Blood River. The Voortrekker conspirator of that murderous assault was Piet Waalenberg.”

Mosi lifted his old weapon and held it out to Painter. “We do not forget.”

Painter did not doubt that this very gun had been involved in that infamous battle. He accepted the weapon, knowing a pact had been forged with the passing of the flintlock.

Mosi settled to the ground, dropping smoothly into a cross-legged position. “We have much to plan.”

Paula nodded to Khamisi and held open the rug flap. “Khamisi, your truck is ready. Tau and Njongo are already waiting.” She checked her watch. “You’ll have to hurry.”

The former game warden stood. Each had their own duty to perform before nightfall.

Painter met Monk’s gaze. He again read the worry in the man’s eyes. But not for Painter—for Gray. Sundown was eight hours away. But there was nothing they could do until then.

Gray was on his own.

12:05
P.M
.

“Keep your head down,” Gray whispered to Fiona.

They strode toward the guard at the end of the hall. Gray wore one of the camouflage uniforms, from jackboots to black cap, the brim pulled low over his eyes. The guard who had lent Gray the outfit was unconscious, gagged, and hog-tied in a closet of one of the upper bedrooms.

He had also borrowed the guard’s radio, clipped to his belt and trailing an earpiece. The chatter on the line was all in Dutch, making it hard to discern, but it kept them abreast of events.

Walking in Gray’s shadow, Fiona wore a maid’s outfit, borrowed from the same closet. It was a bit large, but it was better to hide her shape and age. Most of the house staff were natives in various shades of dark skin, typical of an Afrikaner household. Fiona’s mocha-brown complexion, her Pakistani heritage, fit well enough. She also hid her straight hair under a bonnet. She could pass as native if no one looked
too
closely. To complete the act, she walked in tiny submissive steps, shoulders slumped, head down.

So far, their disguises had not even been tested.

Word had spread that Gray and Fiona had been spotted in the jungle. With the manor house shuttered down, only a skeleton patrol kept post inside the mansion. Most of the security forces were searching the forests, outbuildings, and borders.

Unfortunately, security was not so thin here as to leave an outside phone line open. Shortly after using Ischke’s key card to gain entry back inside the mansion, Gray had tested a few house phones. Access required passing through a coded security net. Any attempt to gain an outside line would only expose them.

So their options were few.

They could hide. But to what end? Who knew when or if Monk would make it to civilization? So a more proactive role was needed. The plan was to first gain a schematic of the mansion. That meant penetrating the security nest on the main floor. Their only weapons were a sidearm carried by Gray and a hand Taser in Fiona’s pocket.

Ahead, at the end of the hall, a sentry manned the upper balcony, guarding over the main entryway with an automatic rifle. Gray strode up to the man. He was tall, stocky, and his heavy-lidded eyes made him look piggish and mean. Gray nodded and continued toward the stairs. Fiona followed at his heels.

All went well.

Then the man said something in Dutch. The words were beyond Gray, but they had a lurid ring to them, ending in a guttural low laugh.

Half turning, Gray saw the guard reach to Fiona’s bottom and give it a firm pinch. Another hand went for her elbow.

Wrong thing to do.

Fiona swung to the man. “Piss off, you wanker.”

Her skirt brushed the man’s knee. A blue spark burned through her pocket and zapped the man’s thigh. His body arched back, a strangled noise gargled forth.

Gray caught him as he fell back, still convulsing in his arms. Gray dragged him off the landing and into a side room. He dropped him to the floor, pistol-whipped him unconscious, and began gagging him and tying him up.

“Why did you do that?” Gray asked.

Fiona stepped behind Gray and pinched his butt, hard and sharp.

“Hey!” He stood and swung around.

“How do you like it?” Fiona fumed.

Point taken. Still he cautioned, “I can’t keep tying up these bastards.”

Fiona stood with her arms crossed. Her eyes, though angry, were also scared. He couldn’t blame her for her jumpiness. He wiped some cold sweat from his brow. Maybe they had better just hide and hope for the best.

Gray’s radio crackled. He listened hard. Had their attack by the staircase been noted? He translated through the garble. “…
ge’vangene
…bringing in the main door…”

More followed, but Gray barely heard much past the word
ge’vangene
.

Prisoner.

That could only mean one thing.

“They caught Monk…,” he whispered, going cold.

Fiona uncrossed her arms, face concerned.

“C’mon,” he said and headed toward the door. He had relieved the downed guard of his Taser and shouldered the man’s rifle.

Gray led the way back to the stairs. He whispered his plan to Fiona as they hurried down the stairs to the main entrance hall. The lower floor was empty, as was the foyer ahead.

They crossed the polished floor decorated with woven rugs in African motifs. Their footsteps echoed. To either side, stuffed trophies mounted the walls: the head of an endangered black rhino, a massive lion with a moth-eaten mane, a row of antelopes with various racks of horns.

Gray crossed toward the foyer. Fiona pulled a feather duster from an apron pocket, a part of her disguise. She crossed to one side of the door. Gray took a post, rifle in hand, on the other.

They didn’t have long to wait, barely getting into position in time.

How many guards would be accompanying Monk?

At least he was alive.

The metal shutter over the main entrance began to rise, clattering upward. Gray leaned down to count legs. He held up two fingers toward Fiona. Two guards were accompanying a prisoner in a white jumpsuit.

Gray stepped into view as the gate trundled fully up.

The guards saw nothing but one of their own, a sentry with a rifle manning the door. They entered with the prisoner in tow. Neither noticed Gray palming a Taser or Fiona coming up from the other side.

The attack was over in moments.

Two guards convulsed on the rug, heels drumming. Gray kicked each in the side of the head, probably harder than he should have. But anger fueled through him.

The prisoner was not Monk.

“Who are you?” he asked the startled captive as he quickly dragged the first guard toward a neighboring supply closet.

The gray-haired woman used her free arm to help Fiona with the second man. She was stronger than she appeared. Her left arm was bandaged and secured across her chest in a tight sling. The left side of her face was savaged with jagged scratches, sutured and raw. Something had attacked and mauled her. Despite her recent injuries, her eyes met Gray’s, fiery and determined.

“My name is Dr. Marcia Fairfield.”

12:25
P.M
.

The Jeep trundled down the empty lane.

Behind the wheel, Warden Gerald Kellogg mopped his sweating brow. He had a bottle of Birkenhead Premium Lager propped between his legs.

Despite the hectic morning, Kellogg refused to break routine. There was nothing else he could do anyway. Security at the Waalenberg estate had passed on the sketchy details. An escape. Kellogg had already alerted the park rangers and posted men at all the gates. He passed on pictures, faxed over from the Waalenberg estate. Poachers was the cover. Armed and dangerous.

Until word of a sighting reached Kellogg’s office, he had nothing to keep him from his usual two-hour lunch at home. Tuesday meant roasted game hen and sweet potatoes. He drove his Jeep across the cattle guard and into the main drive, lined by short hedges. Ahead, a two-story beadboard Colonial sat on a full acre of manicured property, a perk of his position. It had a staff of ten to maintain the grounds and household, which included only himself. He was in no hurry to marry.