The Messiah Code (33 page)

He had courage. She had to give him that. She shifted the gun to her left hand and reached for the first nail.

"Have you ever met Christ?" he asked, his tone now surprisingly calm. He sounded genuinely interested in her response.

She ignored him and concentrated on the nail. She only had one free hand. So she had to plunge the nail hard through his bullet hole to get some purchase on the wood, then use the mallet to drive it in deeper and anchor his hand to the table. But if she missed the hole, the nail would not pierce the wood sufficiently to stop him from pulling his hand away.

As she focused on this problem she didn't see his other hand move to the keyboard on the workstation behind him. She registered only a sudden movement to her left. A figure in her peripheral vision. Instinctively she turned and fired at it, but the shadowy person didn't even flinch. Mesmerized, she watched the ghostly form take shape, until a "man" stood not two feet away.

"Go on," she heard Carter say from some distant place. "Now you've met Christ, ask him what he really wants us to do with his genes!"

She froze, transfixed by the apparition beside her. The naked man was clean-shaven with long brown hair, and for a long moment she just stared at him.

Then, even as she took in the lights coming from the circular black pad beneath the figure, and realized it must be some kind of projection, she felt the glass flask smash over her head, and a strong hand push her, dazed, to the ground. Before she fell she lunged out and fired off three rounds.

It took her a second or two to sit up and wipe the blood from her cut forehead. Furious, she turned back to her prey. She would finish this now--crucifixion or no crucifixion.

But he was gone.

She turned to the main door just in time to see him limping out. She stood and lurched after him. At the doorway she looked left, through the wide expanse of the main laboratory, to the elevators beyond. And there he was, his tall frame standing out above the low workbenches and humming apparatus. The knee she had damaged in Stockholm slowed him down, and there was something comical about his awkward run. Through her anger she smiled at the spectacle, and the justice of it all. Then she raised her gun and aimed at the back of his head. Now this foolishness would cease.

It didn't matter what he told himself, because in the dark glass wall ahead he could see her reflection. She wasn't coming after him anymore, just raising her arm--pointing the gun at him. Shit, the flask he'd smashed over her skull hadn't even slowed the bitch down, let alone knocked her out.

He considered ducking behind one of the benches to his left, but that would only delay the inevitable. If he was going to be shot at, then he'd rather be moving, not cowering behind some piece of furniture. At least this way there was a chance--however small--that she might miss. He bent his head, trying to make himself as small a target as possible, and forced his stiff knee to propel him the last ten yards to the nearest elevator.

At that moment he saw the flash reflected in the glass, and heard the gunshot.

And he fell.

I
t was a lucky shot. And when Jasmine opened her eyes, she realized how lucky.

Coming up the stairs, she'd felt okay. Scared out of her skin, but in control. However, when she'd squeezed open the door to the main lab and seen the figure chasing Tom she'd frozen, suddenly realizing the stark reality of what she had to overcome: the Preacher.

If she'd ever experienced such terror before, she couldn't remember it. It rushed through her in great gusts that seemed to petrify every muscle in her body.

Then the figure chasing Tom had stopped, standing with her back to Jasmine, calmly aiming the gun.

Not allowing herself time to think, Jazz snapped out of her paralysis, eased open the door to the stairwell, and crept out behind the killer, her mouth so dry she couldn't have shouted "Freeze!" if she'd wanted to. She took the gun in both her shaking hands and aimed at the middle of the Preacher's broad back. Then, as her brother had told her to, she'd slowly squeezed the trigger, and as he'd told her
never
to do, she'd squeezed both her eyes shut.

The shot had deafened her. The recoil wrenched her shoulder, almost pushing her hands back into her face. And

the sharp smell of cordite had caught in her throat, making her retch.

Way to go, Razor Buzz.

When she opened her eyes and looked through the smoke the Preacher was down, lying motionless on the ground. But where was Tom? Then she saw her friend get up from the floor by the elevators and brush himself off. He must have fallen, but seemed unhurt.

"Get her gun, Jazz!" he shouted, limping toward his would-be killer.

Still surfing her wave of adrenaline, Jasmine rushed over to the still figure and kicked the dropped gun toward Tom, who picked it up in his right hand. When Jasmine looked down at the killer she saw a red gash on the back of her head where the bullet must have creased her skull, knocking her unconscious. Another millimeter higher and Jasmine would have missed entirely. A few millimeters lower and the Preacher's brains would now be decorating the floor below her feet. Both possibilities made Jasmine feel sick.

The woman's dark hairline looked odd as she stared down at her--sort of crooked and crinkly, like a hurriedly donned cheap shower cap. It took a second to realize that the close-cropped, utterly natural hair was actually a wig. Jazz's bullet must have dislodged it, and where the hair-piece had slipped Jasmine could see that the killer's scalp was completely shaved. She felt a shiver travel up the back of her neck.
Creepy.

"Good shot, Jazz!" said Tom, leveling the gun at the killer with enviably steady hands.

"Not really," she said, trying to control her own jelly-legs. "Considering I was aiming between her shoulder blades."

Tom smiled and hugged her, his eyes bright. "Well, in my book you're a marksman, a real Annie Oakley. If you hadn't hit her, she would have hit me
exactly
where she was aiming."

Jasmine's left leg began to twitch as she relaxed in his arms, coming down from the adrenaline rush. As he let go of her she noticed the bloody hole in his left palm. "What happened to your hand?"

He shrugged. "I'm okay. Let's just say the Preacher didn't plan on me having an easy death."

"So it is definitely the Preacher?"

"Yeah. You've just brought down one of America's most wanted criminals." A note of concern entered his voice. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just a bit shaken." She looked down at the figure on the ground. As she studied the masculine profile she thought of the beautiful hologram of the woman she had seen with Special Agent Karen Tanner. This was no longer creepy, it went way beyond that. She looked back to Tom. "I thought he...
she
had got you for a moment."

"You're not the only one. But I'm--"

The Preacher stirred and blinked open one eye. In that instant Jasmine recognized her from the hologram--the shape and color of that eye were unmistakable.

"Jazz, go to Jack's office and use a cellular to call for help," said Tom. "I'll look after our guest."

She nodded and made her way to the elevator, then heard Tom ask: "What happened to George, and the other guards?"

She turned, not sure how to tell him. "I don't know about the gatehouse."

"But the atrium...?"

She just shook her head. Tom stared at the waking killer. And for the first time since she'd known him, Jazz saw something in those blue eyes that frightened her. At that moment the man who had dedicated himself to saving lives looked capable of taking one.

"Tom? You okay?"

He didn't look at her, just muttered, "Someone once said that revenge was a wild kind of justice resorted to by animals. But that isn't true. Animals feel no need for revenge. Only we do. Now I can see why." He turned and she saw his full pain and rage, and was glad to be on the same side he was.

I
t wasn't the pain in her head that first intruded on Maria's consciousness, but anger. She had failed, and when she saw

the scientist standing over her with her own gun she realized the extent of her failure. Someone must have been behind her when she was aiming at Dr. Carter. Why hadn't she checked the building after killing the guards, and not just relied on the monitors before rushing off to confront the scientist? Her desire to kill him had made her an amateur.

For a moment she considered trying to overcome him, but could see from the look in his eyes that if she so much as moved he would gladly shoot her. She thought about risking it anyway, so great was her shame. She had failed twice--Stockholm and now this. She had failed the Father, the Brotherhood, and worst of all, herself. But then she figured that the longer she survived the more chance she had of putting everything right.

"You're a lucky man, Dr. Carter."

"Yeah, perhaps you weren't meant to kill me after all," he said with no humor.

She smiled. It did appear that the devil was looking out for the scientist, and for reasons she didn't yet understand God was letting him. "God tests us all," she replied, not taking her eyes off his.

"Looks like you failed yours big time. Last chance too. The next time you get a message from your maker, he should be able to give it to you personally."

"It's not over yet," she said.

He laughed at that. A bitter laugh. "It is for you."

E
zekiel looked into the young girl's beautiful eyes. She smiled nervously at him and he returned her smile. "Relax, my child," he whispered as he picked up the ancient dagger with its razorsharp blade. "It will be over soon."

He pulled her right arm toward him, so it lay above the pewter bowl on the altar. With a gentle movement he smoothed the sleeve of her ritual robe up over her elbow, revealing her forearm. Then with great care he traced the tip of the ceremonial blade up and down her flesh, allowing her skin to become sensitized to the steel. He felt her arm stiffen as the cold edge tickled her. He paused for a moment, then with one practiced movement cut into the arm. Her eyes showed pain, but she bit her lip and gave no other sign of her discomfort. When the threadlike crimson incision was three inches long, he removed the blade and bisected the wound with a horizontal cut, forming a cross. When the second incision was complete he replaced the dagger on the table by the pewter bowl. Then he twisted her forearm, pointing the cut downward. Gently he kneaded the flesh of her arm until the blood dripped into the bowl. He counted eight precious claret-red drops before the blood began to clot. It was enough.

He dipped the forefinger of his left hand in the ruby liquid, then painted a red cross on her smooth forehead.

"Your blood is his blood," he said solemnly. "Your body is his body."

Her voice trembled with passion. "I give him my flesh, so he may save my soul."

He nodded encouragement. "May he be saved."

More relaxed now, she smiled back at him. "So he may save the righteous." Brother Haddad, the initiate's Regional Head of the Holy Lands, wiped her cruciform cut with the scarring ointment, and the newest member of the Brotherhood turned away to resume her seat.

The cavern reverberated with a collective sigh of relief, both from the other nineteen initiates around the vast table and those at the back who had come to witness the ceremony. The first of the bloodings was always the most nerve-racking.

Ezekiel greeted the next initiate into the Brotherhood, a young man from Jerusalem, asking him to extend his arm over the bowl. As Ezekiel blooded him, he thought how fine the collection of twelve men and eight women looked in their white robes. Good stock to take the Brotherhood into the future. Most were children of current Brothers, or close friends monitored from childhood. About twenty of these relations stood witnessing the ceremony and no doubt remembering the day when they themselves had been initiated.

As the third initiate rose from the table, stepped forward, and extended her arm, Ezekiel De La Croix recalled how at eighteen his father had taken him here from their home in Damascus. He remembered the burden of expectation his father, a member of the Inner Circle, had placed on his shoulders. Even then Ezekiel was being groomed for the day when he would one day become Leader.

At that time only men could fully join the Brotherhood, but the blooding ceremonies had still been larger affairs, with sixty or more initiates attending. The young today had lost their dedication and discipline. Fewer and fewer could be trusted to devote themselves completely to the Brotherhood.

Still, he had just spent the last two hours explaining the laws of the Brotherhood, reminding the initiates of the sect's history and its Primary Imperative. They had also been told of their individual responsibilities; how each one of them would be expected to reach a suitable level of attainment in their chosen field to best serve the organization. They knew that there were Brothers and Sisters already placed at senior levels in the world's major churches, banks, hospitals, armed forces, police forces, and media organizations. All watching and waiting, ready to answer the call from the Brotherhood and ultimately their Messiah at a moment's notice.

The one practice Ezekiel and the others of the Inner Circle had not shared with them was the Second Imperative. That was only revealed to the six members of the Inner Circle and the two operatives.

The girl who now stood in front of Ezekiel reminded him of the young Maria Benariac, the daughter he had never had. He had known Maria was special from the very first time he'd seen those bewitching eyes. Even when the vindictive Mother Clemenza had told him about Maria's childhood lies, he had only become more convinced that Maria was in some way chosen. These claims of hers, made when she wasn't yet eight, may have been the fantasies of a lonely child. Even the older Maria had dismissed them as such, saying she couldn't remember them. But at least these "lies," incredible for one so young, had shown her vision and imagination.