The Templar Chronicles (7 page)

Nick laughed suddenly at his own harshness and softened his tone. “I’m not trying to be hard on you. Even I have to admit that things are a little, um, different on the team. Cade doesn’t always follow the Rule precisely to the letter, and he has certain abilities that, frankly, scare the hell out of me sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect him or that he doesn’t deserve my respect. He’s the best damn commanding officer I’ve ever served under, that’s a fact.”

“So the stories are true?” Duncan asked.

“That depends on which ones you are talking about,” Nick answered, with a sly smile.

*** ***

From his position at his work area in the rear cabin, Cade could hear the soft hum of conversation between Sergeant Olsen and their new team member, reminding him that he had yet to go over the man’s personnel file.

With a sigh he turned away from his research in the
Apostolicae Sedis
and opened his laptop. Powering it up, he called forth Duncan’s service records.

He skimmed over the early details - born and raised in Georgia, the son of a preacher, home schooled for most of his elementary years, attended a parochial high school and later a Jesuit university, where he majored in religious studies - it was all fairly ordinary. Instead, Cade focused on the present, noting the short span of time Duncan spent in seminary before an unexpected departure for the Orient and a long missionary tour, then the equally short courtship to bring him into the Order. His zeal and desire to succeed once he had been christened a Knight was evident, and his service record over the last ten years was exemplary. He’d been selected early on to serve on the protection detail and had remained there, rising to his present position as detail command three years ago.

A series of photographs were included as scanned images embedded into the report, and Cade took the time to study each of them in turn, hunting for evidence that his hunch had been right, that the flash of Power he’d seen centered on Duncan’s hands in the Preceptor’s office was an earthly indicator of his ability to heal with just a touch.

He stopped to look more closely at one of the older photographs. The image was creased and worn; whoever had scanned the photo did not bother to clean it up. It was clear enough, however, to show a young Sean Duncan standing unhappily in front of an older man dressed in a suit. Duncan looked to be around ten or eleven years old. The man, looking stern and serious, rested his hands on young Sean’s shoulders. The pair stood beneath the entrance to a revivalist tent, the sign marking the doorway partially obscured by the older man’s arm.

Special Engagement

Tonight and tonight only

Pastor Patrick Duncan

Faith Hea…

Now we’re getting somewhere,
thought Cade.

He printed a hard copy of the photo and settled back in his chair, staring at the photo as if it might suddenly reveal some long-lost secret that only Cade would understand.

Perhaps, in a way, it did.

*** ***

Duncan was startled out of a light sleep by a hand on his shoulder.

It was Nick. “Boss wants to see you,” he said, gesturing to the smaller cabin at the back of the plane, where Cade had been sequestered since the fight began.

Nick returned to his seat. Duncan unbuckled his seat belt, walked down the aisle, and drew aside the curtain hanging at the end of the forward cabin.

The lights were on low but provided enough illumination that Duncan could see the area served as a functional work space. The standard aircraft seats, like those in the forward cabin, had been taken out. In their places were two reclining chairs with a table between them and a large drafting-style worktable. The lights were on over the worktable, shining down on several stacks of papers, a few open reference books, and a long black case.

Williams was nowhere in sight.

Noting that the lavatory lights on the rear wall were illuminated, Duncan guessed that Cade would be back momentarily. His curiosity getting the better of him, he made his way over to the worktable.

The books were old, centuries so, if the fine calligraphic script and the carefully drawn illustrations in the margins were any indication. A glance at the text revealed it to be Latin, a confirmation of the authenticity and age of the volumes. Judging by the images and the few snatches of text he quickly translated, each of the books dealt in some fashion with angels and demons.

His personnel file lay closed on the table nearby.

Resisting the urge to peek inside it, he turned his attention instead to the long, narrow case that rested on the table beside them.

It was a sword case. Duncan had no difficulty identifying it, for he had one of his own; every Knight in the Order did. They were given out by the Seneschal during the investment ceremonies, a symbol of the oath of fealty that each man gave as he joined the Order.

But Cade’s was different.

Where Duncan’s case was made from simple black fiberglass without ornamentation, Cade’s was covered with a soft supple skin of dark leather and held shut with three simple silver clasps. In the center of the lid, a word had been branded into the covering, its harsh, rough edges providing a stark contrast to the rest of the case’s beauty.

The word was in a language Duncan did not recognize.

Duncan glanced up at the lavatory lights, saw that they were still lit, and gave in to a sudden impulse. He reached down and opened the case.

Inside, lying on a bed of smooth, white silk was Cade’s sword, as Duncan had expected.

The weapon itself was an unadorned English longsword. Along the length of the blade that was facing upright in the case, the word
Defensor
had been inscribed in silver.

Latin again and easily identifiable to Duncan.

Translated, it meant Defender. It was etched into every sword carried by the Templars, for that one word neatly formed the foundation of the Order’s mission — to defend mankind against the evils in the world.

Awed by the beauty and craftsmanship that went into creating this particular weapon, Duncan couldn’t resist. He reached down and carefully withdrew the sword from the case. He held it up in the aisle, turning it slightly to and fro so that the dim lighting of the cabin made the script sparkle and shine.

Doing so, he noted something else.

On the opposite side of the blade, a second word had been inscribed, in a fashion similar to the first.

Ulciscor.

Vengeance.

Seeing it made Duncan pause, both for its very presence and what it said about the weapon’s owner. According to the Code, a Knight was allowed personal ownership of only a few, specific items. The sword given to each of them during the investiture ceremony was one of them, a symbol of their fidelity to the Order and their unrelenting dedication to its ideals. The weapons were supposed to remain undecorated, chaste, if you will. Enhancing the weapon in any manner after it is awarded is cause for a variety of punishments, for doing so is considered a sin of pride.

Duncan’s new commanding officer had clearly ignored this aspect of the Rule.

How many others does he ignore?

He didn’t have time to ponder the answer.

“Like it?” a gruff voice asked from the darkness at the rear of the cabin, startling the younger knight and almost causing him to drop the weapon in surprise as he looked up to find his new commander leaning against the door of the lavatory, watching him.

Embarrassed to be caught, Duncan mumbled an apology beneath his breath and quickly replaced the sword in its case. Cade moved farther into the cabin and took a seat in one of the reclining chairs, gesturing with one gloved hand for Duncan to do the same.

“Tell me about your gift,” Cade said.

Duncan started, clearly expecting to be taken to task for his transgression and unprepared for the question. “What?”

Duncan’s eyes followed Cade’s gloved hands as his new commander reached up and removed his eye patch.

“Could you heal this?” Cade asked.

Duncan stared.

He was unable to look away. The destruction to the right side of Cade’s face was worse than Duncan had expected. It appeared as if someone had taken a blowtorch to the tender flesh around his eye socket, the skin flowing and surging together in a grotesque parody of the natural order of things. The eye itself was still intact, but was nothing more than a milky white orb floating in a sea of damaged flesh.

“Good Lord,” Duncan breathed.

His hands drifted up from his lap toward Cade’s ruined face, seemingly of their own accord, but he snatched them down again as soon as he realized they were in motion.

Duncan glanced away, unable to continue to meet his commander’s gaze. When he again found his voice, he replied, “No. No, I couldn’t heal that.”

“Why not?” Cade asked, making no move to cover his face or lean back out of the light.

Duncan shook his head in frustration. “It’s too old. I can only heal things that are fresh. Tissue that hasn’t scarred over.” He stared at his hands, not for the first time cursing their limitations. Without looking up, he said to Cade, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” came the reply, and to his amazement Duncan heard humor in Cade’s voice.

“I’m long since over it. I was more interested in your reaction than anything else.”

“You were testing me,” Duncan said matter-of-factly.

“Of course,” Cade replied, nodding. Referring to the other man’s ability, he asked, “Does the Order know?”

“It’s not general knowledge, but it’s probably in my file somewhere,” Duncan replied.

“Have you tested its limits?”

Duncan’s mind swept back over the years spent overseas, the endless lines of the sick and the injured, the bright sparkle of hope in their faces, their utter belief that he and he alone could heal them of their afflictions. Wearily, he said, “Yes. I’ve tested it.”

Cade nodded but didn’t push him any further, for which Duncan was grateful.

“I suspect that you are going to learn a lot in the next few months,” Cade told him. “Things that you will probably wish you had never learned. You’ll see things the ordinary man will most likely never see, but that is one of the crosses that we bear in service to the Order. I’ll expect you to do your duty no matter what the situation. If you can do that, you’ll have the respect of every man in this unit. Understood?”

Duncan nodded.

Cade continued, “You’ve probably heard a lot about me — some good, some bad, I’ll wager. I won’t comment on any of that except to say that I’ll expect you to make up your own mind. Like you, I have certain abilities, abilities that not everyone understands. Sometimes I’m forced to use them in ways others would consider unconventional. But I took the same oath to the Order as you did. Remember that.

“As you know, Echo Team is made up of four squads plus a command unit. Martinez is in charge of First Squad, Wilson has Second, Baker and Lyons have Third and Fourth Squad respectively.” Cade continued by spending several minutes going over the standard operating procedures in the unit; hand signals, radio call signs, and the like. After a time, he dismissed him to get some sleep before they landed.

As Duncan was leaving, Cade spoke up once more.

“Let’s keep your ability between the two of us for now. It’s probably better that way. No sense in making the men uneasy, right?”

Duncan couldn’t imagine how his own healing ability would make men who called the Heretic their leader uneasy, but he nodded nonetheless.

Cade smiled and then leaned back into his chair.

The darkness around him seemed to swallow him whole.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The early hour and the hum of the aircraft engine finally lulled Cade into sleep.

The dream came quickly.

In reality, the events had played out in horrible slowness.

In the dream, they always flashed past like a strobe light, one scene after another in endless succession.

Flash…

“Williams here. Go ahead, Dispatch.”

“Urgent call from your wife, Cade. Says she needs you to call her on a landline.”

“Will do, Dispatch. Thanks for the relay.”

Cade replaced the mike and turned to Jackson. “She probably wants me to pick up some milk and bread on the way home,” he joked with his partner, Jackson, as he reached for his phone..

He dialed. Got a busy signal.

He hung up and tried again.

Still nothing.

He frowned, a small tendril of unease unfurling itself in his gut. He turned to Jackson. “I know I’m supposed to drop you off first, but would you mind if we go straight to my place? I can’t get Gabbi on the phone.”

“It will cost you a beer or two,” Jackson said good-naturedly, and they had a deal.

Flash…

The interior lights were all out.

A tentacle of unease began to twist and turn in his gut, churning with a life of its own.

Something was wrong…

He parked in the driveway behind his wife’s Audi.

The two of them got out of the car, Cade turning to say something to his partner.

Whatever it was, the words never left Cade’s mouth.

Jackson suddenly buckled, just as a sharp report reached Cade’s ears. A single flash of light came from the living room window off to his right and Cade knew Jackson had been taken down by gunfire.

“Run, Cade!” Gabrielle shouted from the darkened house.

Cade drew his gun and crouched behind his open car door, looking across the front seat to where Jackson lay slumped against the door, half-in and half-out of the vehicle.

“How bad?” he asked him.

“It hurts, but it’s a clean through and through. He didn’t hit anything vital.” Jackson grunted in pain, then, “I’ll call for backup.”

But Cade was no longer listening. He leapt to his feet and rushed the front door, hoping his severe departure from standard police procedure would catch their assailant off guard long enough for him to make the safety of the porch.

Flash…

Inside.

A harsh laugh coming from the kitchen, down the hall in front of him.

The light from that room spilled out into the hallway, and movement in the shadows cast on the floor let Cade know there were at least two people in there. As he got closer, he could hear his wife sobbing.