The Circle of Eight (32 page)

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” said Niner as he searched
the room for any type of weapon, cursing their supplier for not being here on
time.

“It’s too late,” said Mickey, backing away from the
door. Niner rushed to the tiny window and saw the crowd spreading out. A glance
at the window he had just been using to recon the castle showed half a dozen
people marching by.

“Suggestions?” asked Mickey, grabbing a discarded ski
pole, tossing a cane to Niner.

“We take advantage of the situation,” said Niner,
putting the cane aside and opening a pouch in his suitcase. He retrieved a
small bottle of pills, removing the lid. “It’s obvious these people work for
the Rosicrucians. If we play our cards right, they might take us down to the
castle rather than kill us.”

“No resistance?”

“No resistance.” Niner swallowed a pill then tossed the
bottle to Mickey who took one as well. The door was kicked open, a shotgun
barrel advancing, followed by its owner. Niner raised his hands and looked at
Mickey who tossed his ski pole to the floor, raising his hands. Mickey
shrugged.

“I guess we’re the inside team now.”

Highway C-16, Spain

Mendoza leaned forward and frowned. He had been watching their backs
like a hawk, convinced they were being followed, but every time he saw nothing.
No evidence of anything except cars travelling in the same direction, some
passing them, some turning off, others continuing at their speed, occasionally
long enough for him to have Delgado pull over or slow down so he could be
certain.

And all along there had been nothing.

Until now.

A blue sedan had been racing down a straight stretch
then suddenly slowed, pulling from the left lane into the slower right, and had
kept itself several cars back since then, even making a point to slow down from
time to time if they got too close.

This time he was convinced he was right.

“We’ve got a tail.”

“Not again.”

“Blue sedan, four cars back. He’s been with us for
almost ten minutes.”

“Do you want me to slow down?”

“Next exit pull off, we’ll take the local roads through
the Pyrenees.”

Mendoza knew it would be slower, but the local roads
through the mountains were in his mind safer if they were being followed. They
were only one lane in each direction, almost impossible to pass, and if they
were lucky to get a truck or two between them and their tail, it would be almost
impossible for them to catch up.

“Fine,” muttered Delgado as he signaled, turning off the
highway as the GPS adjusted their route. He ignored her chattering as he knew
the way like the back of his hand.

“See, they followed us.”

Delgado glanced in the rearview mirror and pursed his
lips.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

He pulled onto the secondary highway and floored it,
racing toward the winding road through the Pyrenees Mountains. The blue sedan
fell behind a bit, but seemed to keep pace, only a little farther back than
before.

“I told you!”

Mendoza grabbed his gun and made sure it was loaded.

“Let them catch up, I’ll take care of them.”

Delgado eased off the accelerator.

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Better than having them follow us until they can get
reinforcements.”

“Never thought of that,” said Delgado as he slowed down
even more. They rounded a bend, losing sight of the sedan, then suddenly it
whipped around the corner as Mendoza leaned out the passenger side window,
opening fire at the hood of the car.

Tires squealed and the vehicle swerved toward the
guardrail on the left then corrected itself as the driver regained control
after dropping more than half his speed. Suddenly Mendoza could see muzzle
flashes as they returned fire. Delgado floored it as Mendoza ducked back in.

“I knew it!” yelled Mendoza as he reloaded. Bullets
continued to ping off the car. Suddenly they jerked to the left, Delgado battling
with the steering wheel.

“They got a tire!” he cried as he cranked the wheel back
to the right, trying to keep them on the narrow road. They bounced off the
guardrail and back toward their side. Delgado spun the wheel to the left,
having overcompensated, and Mendoza screamed as they rounded a bend to find
themselves careening directly at a large truck heading in the opposite
direction.

The truck jerked to the left, the driver apparently figuring
it was better for him to hit the rock carved out of the side of the mountain
than the guardrail he’d most likely slice through. Smoke billowed from its
brakes as the truck slid down the road, blocking both lanes.

Delgado was spinning the wheel back to the right but it
was too late. The car’s right front bumper nailed the front tire of the truck.
The car felt like it was just tossed aside as an inconsequential chunk of metal
by the massive vehicle, and they suddenly found themselves heading for the
guardrail. There was a crunch and the car leapt over the thin strip of metal
and wood designed to somehow keep two thousand pound vehicles from certain
death.

Mendoza raised his hands, covering his face as did Delgado.
It was an odd feeling as the car leapt into nothingness, like he was on a
roller coaster, the strange weightless sensation giving him the impression they
were at the top of the rise, about to plunge to the exciting conclusion.

The front tipped forward, removing all doubt this was a
ride to the death, the river carved out in the valley below over millions of
years rapidly approaching, both men now holding their hands out as if they
might stop their fall if they pushed hard enough against the ground they were
about to hit.

Mendoza dropped his gun, struggling to reach between his
legs for the Catalyst. His fingers kept touching it, refusing to gain a grip,
when suddenly he grabbed a corner, yanking it to his lap. As his head rose once
again above the dash, he gasped, the front of the car suddenly smashing into
the ground, the hood crumpling rapidly toward them, then airbags bursting into
their faces and their sides as the car stood on its end, then slowly fell
forward and onto its roof.

The car seemed to swivel, then bounce, a curious sound
and sensation enveloping them as Mendoza pushed the airbags away, the
compressed gas quickly dissipating, leaving him to realize they were in the
river, the car floating on top as the roof filled with water.

Mendoza looked over at Delgado, but his neck was
twisted, clearly broken. Mendoza released his seatbelt, falling onto the roof.
He screamed in agony as he realized his legs were crushed under the foot-well,
now stuck above him, his body pulling at them, gravity a cruel torturer. He
pushed at the door, but it was useless. The car spun as it hit something, then
suddenly the window smashed in as it smacked against a rock, spraying Mendoza with
glass and water. As he gasped for breath, he tried to pull his legs free but it
was no use, the agony causing him to almost black out.

He gripped the Catalyst tight with both hands as the
progress of the car seemed to slow, the top now filled with water, weighing it
down, the buoyancy almost neutralized. The car hit something and he felt the
rear get forced high into the air, all the water in the car rushing to the
front, his head almost submerged. He extended one arm, pushing on the roof,
desperate to keep his head above the water, the other arm gripping the Catalyst
like it was his first born child.

He could feel the car begin to spin slowly around
whatever obstacle they were hung up on, then suddenly it smacked back down,
jarring the Catalyst from his hands. He cried out, reaching, but it simply
floated out the window, his ice cold fingers unable to grip the priceless
artifact.

He lunged for it, his fingers squeezing around the
corner, its escape halted, and he pulled it toward him, reaching out with his
other hand to secure a tighter grip. He felt the cube smack against something,
the jarring impact wrenching it from his grip as he cried out in horror, the
water now to his nose, his eyes dipping above and below the water as his
breathing turned to gasps when air momentarily became available.

But it didn’t matter anymore. He could see the Catalyst
floating on the water above, just outside the window, travelling with the car,
hopelessly out of reach, then suddenly slipping past and out of sight, lost to
The Order, and to history, its secrets once again locked away.

Schloss Rosen, Riquewihrweiler, France

Dinner was served, and they all sat at the table, Number One at the
head, the others, three down each side. With him being Number Eight, Lacroix
would normally be relegated to the far end, across from Number Six or Seven,
depending on who was missing at any particular gathering, but regardless, as
far from Number One, and those of the most influence, as was possible.

But tonight Number One, the Master of all, had requested
Lacroix be seated beside him. There were no grumblings this day, even from
Number Three, his most outspoken detractor, who had wisely ceded his seat to
the master’s left, he now relegated to the end of the table.

Which suited Lacroix just fine. He realized it was most
likely a one-time honor, but he didn’t care. His feelings of euphoria
continued, the camaraderie, the fellowship, still overwhelming. Hoods were down
all around, the excitement too much to bear as the night continued and the
alcohol flowed. Someone told the story of how the Catalyst had been lost in the
first place, a story well known to all, but listened to with rapt attention by
everyone. He told the story of how he himself had found the photo while
researching the archaeologists—an embellishment to say the least—then
interrogated the prisoners himself, faking the female professor’s death,
proving Professor Acton had no idea where the Catalyst was hidden. He left out
the part where they had escaped, killing his apprentice. Today was a day for
joyous stories, success stories, where the triviality of facts would not get in
the way of the legend now being woven, with his name featured prominently at
its center.

It was everything he could dream of, everything he had
ever hoped for, and with each passing moment he was certain his future included
the coveted head of this table.

As he finished his story, a servant bent down and
whispered in the master’s ear, pointing to a doorway. Lacroix looked and saw
what was obviously a resident of the local village standing in the shadows, his
head bowed, his cap literally in hand.

The village of Riquewihrweiler belonged to The Order. It
had for centuries. They weren’t members of course, The Order having no need for
ordinary commoners. They did recruit muscle from the village when they
absolutely needed it, but that was it. Almost all members were doctors or
scientists. But the villagers were a valuable asset. Over the centuries they
had helped repel those who would harm The Order, and each new generation was
raised to revere the residents of the castle, to render it service whenever
demanded, and to lay down their lives should it be necessary.

The village was isolated, forgotten, the armies of
Germany even ignoring it, several doctors prominent in Hitler’s Third Reich,
along with the long line of rulers before him, members of The Order. Which was
why security was always so light at these events. No one knew where they were,
and the villagers, all armed, were mere minutes away.

But things were different tonight. Somebody
did
know where they were, the proof the two Delta Force members locked away in
their dungeon, a remnant of yesteryear.

Lacroix could see the rage overcome his master, a sight
that was both terrifying, and wondrous.

“What?” he roared, dropping his fork on the table with a
clatter. “Again?” He turned to the table. “We have
more
company.” He
looked at the servant. “I’ve had enough of their interference. Kill them all! Now!”

Approaching Riquewihrweiler, France

“That must be where the party is,” said Red as all heads turned to
see the well-lit structure towering at the top of a long drive. Guards were
evident patrolling the front, two at the gate eyeballing their vehicle as they
drove by, Dawson thankful they had blacked-out windows courtesy of their
supplier. They were all armed now with Glocks thanks to a care package left in
a storage compartment in the back, but they didn’t have enough for a sustained
battle, merely an inglorious retreat they might survive.

If all went to plan, their supplier would have delivered
their requested gear to the chalet.

But things didn’t appear to be going to plan.

They had been unable to reach Niner and Mickey, which
could be explained as easily as bad reception due to the storm, or something
equally as simple—they were captured or worse.

“Anybody notice anything odd?” asked Jimmy from the
third row of seats in the back as they entered the village.

Dawson looked around from behind the wheel, noticing
nothing but a quiet village in the middle of a mild snowstorm.

“What?”

“Everything’s in German, no French flags, and every time
we drive by somebody, they stare at us then go inside.”

Dawson frowned, realizing Jimmy was right. He knew
enough from history to know this area had traded hands too many times to count
between the French and Germans, so perhaps it was as simple as that. But that
didn’t explain the behavior.

“Maybe they just don’t like tourists,” he said.

They turned up the road leading to the chalet, Niner
having sent instructions to Atlas when they first arrived. As they reached the
top they saw two vehicles, one with its engine running.