The Templar's Code (56 page)

Consciousness returned piecemeal, bogged down with an excruciating pain centered in his mutilated left hand.

Focus on something other than the pain,
he silently ordered.

An impossible command, the very act of pulling air into his lungs an agonizing labor.

Not entirely certain of his whereabouts, Caedmon glanced around the windowless room. As if on cue, the steel door on the far side of the room swung on a rusty hinge.

A stylishly attired man with a battered face entered the room. “My stoic Englishman has finally opened his beautiful blue eyes. I trust that you’re enjoying yourself.” Smiling, he fixed his gaze on Caedmon’s bloodied and mangled hand.

As though a bucket of ice water had just been tossed on his head, Caedmon instantly revived.

“A jolly good time was had by all,” he snarled, glaring at the sadistic bastard. Hatred the only weapon in his arsenal.

“And to think the night is still young.”

Caedmon inwardly groaned. Mystics, the chronically obsessed, and serial killers all shared a common trait—insomnia, the ability to function on little more than a cat nap.

Saviour Panos seated himself at the table. “We have much in common, you and I.”

“We breathe the same air—that’s all that we have in common.”

“A cunning man, even now, face bashed, hand broken, you are trying to figure out a way to disarm—” He broke off in midstream and glanced at the mobile clipped to his waist, the device emitting a muffled
whhrrr.
“Ah! Your lady love has finally returned my earlier call. I took the liberty of photographing you while you slept. A little memento to ensure her cooperation.”

Smirking, Panos took the call. “Perfect timing! My sleeping beauty has just aroused.”

Caedmon felt the sting of tears. Edie was no match for a monster like Saviour Panos.
Why in God’s name didn’t you go to the airport?
Although he hadn’t done the tossing, he knew that Edie had been thrown to the wolves. His fault.

A few seconds into the call, Panos’s mocking expression morphed into one of thunderous rage.

Jabbing his finger against the mobile, he disconnected the call. “That bitch!”

Hearing the rage in the other man’s voice, Caedmon suffered a bum-clenching burst of panic.

What was that from? She couldn’t remember, literary quotations Caedmon’s specialty. Didn’t matter. Probably popped into her head because the exchange with Saviour Panos would soon take place, Edie waiting in a Cimmerian chamber. A woe-is-me kind of place to be sure.

She’d devised a simple plan for the exchange—use the Emerald Tablet like a Trojan horse to entice the enemy into dropping his guard. Why overpower when you can outwit? Better to slay the dragon without breaking a sweat or raising a battleax. Kill or be killed. What else could she do? You can’t negotiate with a monster. Besides, the alternative was unthinkable.
Caedmon, his head awkwardly slumped, face swollen, hand mangled.
She’d make penance once her beloved was safe.

Then there was the bigger picture: If Rico Suave got a hold of the Emerald Tablet, she feared he would sell it to the highest bidder. A ruthless despot. A maniacal madman. And if Rico actually had the encryption key to unlock the Genesis code, the despot or madman could
create
a catastrophic burst of energy.

“ ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here,’ ” she muttered. In Atlantis, they didn’t even live to tell the tale.

Benjamin Franklin had been right: Leave creation to the Almighty. Mortal man was ill equipped to handle such heady power.

Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and visualized
yet again
how the exchange would unfold. To prevent a deadly mishap, her mind had to be free. Clear. Totally focused. Be deceptive. Be decisive. Be all you can be.
I am woman, hear me roar.

Edie derisively snorted. Who the hell was she kidding? She was petrified. Her heart was pounding in her throat, the sound echoing in her ears. Non sequiturs
and
anatomically impossible.
But oh so true.
One misstep and her well-laid plan would go the way of the mouse. The enemy had beauty, brains, and, lest she forget, bullets. But—and she had to keep reminding herself of this—she had the element of surprise. And a secret weapon. A cannon to his revolver.

Her cheap Timex emitted a tinny beep-beep
.
Edie pushed the metal nubbin to turn off the alarm. The show was scheduled to start in ten minutes.
We’ll make the exchange at three. Do not be late. And if you lay another hand on Caedmon, I will tie a cinder block to the Emerald Tablet and toss it in the Potomac.

Unable to see in the inky darkness, she gingerly moved her right hand. Butting up against the camping lantern, she switched it on. The fluorescent bulb cast a surreal white light on the Templars’ subterranean sanctuary.
Yawgoog’s Cave
. The eight stern-faced knights carved onto the chamber walls had creeped her out, the reason why the lantern had been turned off.

Scrambling to her feet, Edie took one last look at the Emerald Tablet she’d earlier placed in the niche behind the stone altar.

The jewel finally returned to its proper setting.

She took another deep breath. “Time to gird my loins.”

She’d carefully planned every detail. The yellow flags leading the way through the forest. The rope ladder extending from the stone slab to the cave entrance. The strategically placed lanterns to illuminate the subterranean cavern. Such a cunning spider.

Saviour would take great joy in plunging a stiletto in the black widow’s belly. And he would make the Englishman watch as he did it.

Focusing on that calming image, he tried
not
to think about the fact that he was standing at the entrance to a most forbidding place.

“You might find this interesting; caves are symbolic of birth and burial,” Aisquith conversationally mentioned. “No doubt, that’s why so many of mythology’s sacrificial saviors are born in caves. Only the good die young, eh?”

Saviour glared at the battered Brit.
“As to thialo!”

“Fila mou to kolo,”
his captive calmly replied.

“Kiss your own ass,” he muttered under his breath. “And don’t forget who has the gun.” To make sure he remembered, Saviour waved the revolver in front of the other man’s face. Although not so close that Aisquith might foolishly make a grab for it. Because of the rope ladder, he’d had no choice but to cuff the Englishman’s hands in front of him rather than behind.

They’d gone no more than twenty feet when Saviour pulled up short. His heart was slamming against his chest.

“Christos!”
he exclaimed, recoiling.

Aisquith chortled. “Steady, old boy. You might inadvertently fire your weapon. With all this stone and rock, the discharged bullet could easily ricochet and hit the wrong target.”

“Do not mock me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sneering, the Brit gestured to the stone grotesque. “Allow me to introduce you to Asmodeus. The demon of lust and king of the Nine Hells.”

Saviour tightened his grip on the gun handle. “Take your pick, Englishman.”

“How amusing. Come. We mustn’t tarry. I believe the lady said three o’clock. A most portentous hour of the day.”

Uncertain what that meant, Saviour jutted his chin at the dimly lit passageway.

As they made their way through the narrow chasm, he silently conceded that “the lady” wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. She intended to launch an attack. Why else would she have gone to so much trouble? Dictating the time and place for the exchange. Choosing a dark place of “birth and burial.”

And soon he
would
be reborn. He’d lived twenty-five years with nothing to show for it. No accomplishments. Not one single thing that he could point to and say “I did this” or “I made that.” Fucking. That’s all he’d ever done—until he met his beloved mentor.

Mercurius had assured him that everything would be all right. That he had nothing to fear. That he had a plan to create the world anew. A better world.
No,
a perfect world. A world in which there was no disease to steal our cherished friends. And where a mother loves her only son.

Her funeral, not his.

The two men entered the Templar sanctuary. One carried a sturdy revolver in his right hand. The other had both wrists cuffed together.

Edie stifled a horrified gasp.

“Hello, love.”

Drained of animating color, Caedmon’s face appeared specter pale. The right side of his face, that is. The left side was a bruised and swollen mess. As though he’d gone five rounds in the Octagon with an Ultimate Fighter. That, or survived the bar fight from hell.

Her gaze moved from his battered face to his manacled wrists. A soiled makeshift bandage had been wrapped around his left hand. She winced, well aware that dirt, germs, and open wounds did not mix.

“I can see from your aghast expression that the photograph didn’t do me justice,” Caedmon sardonically remarked. “You have my companion to thank for that.” He jutted his chin at the armed man standing beside him. “Allow me to introduce Saviour Panos.”

Having taken a position in front of the stone altar, Edie folded her arms across her chest. If her plan was to succeed, she
had
to stick to the script. “You’re fifteen minutes late, Saviour.” The fact that Panos’s left visage was, like Caedmon’s, a grotesque parody of the right aroused no sympathy in her.

“We ran into traffic.” Wearing a smug smile, Panos placed his free hand on Caedmon’s shoulder. “And would you deprive me of an additional fifteen minutes with my new English friend?”

His jaw set tight, his mouth little more than a taut slash, Caedmon stared straight ahead.

“Gee, you certainly know how to make a girl feel unwanted. And speaking of girls, there she be . . . the Emerald Tablet.” Edie gestured toward the niche. “Yours for the taking.” She’d set the lantern on the stone altar, aiming it directly at the coveted relic, the inlaid gold script of the Eight Precepts gleaming in the fluorescent beam.

An awestruck expression on his face, Panos strode across the chamber.
But in the wrong direction!
Bypassing the niche completely.

“What the—” Edie caught herself in mid-curse. Flabbergasted, she watched as the dark-haired man came to a halt in front of a carved pilaster that was set between two octagonal walls.