The Thieves of Heaven (52 page)

Finster was in. And as far as Busch was concerned, he wasn’t leaving.

Al Graham did a stint in the National Guard and was in Desert Storm, although he landed on February 28, 1991, the last day of fighting, and never saw any action. In point of fact, Al had never once fired his gun in a combat situation. He had fallen under the command of Colonel T. C. Roberts, a mean-ass, leather-necked, sandfucker marine who could stare down a scorpion. The colonel had called him just four weeks ago enticing him with this cushy assignment with amazing pay. And if he was lucky, maybe he would get to shoot his gun at a live target for a change.

Al stood point with Javeed Waquim twenty-five yards up the driveway. They were the gatekeepers, but it was a pretty sturdy gate in their estimation, so the two men didn’t pay much attention to it. No one had ever made an attempt on their employer, Mr. Finster, and anyway who would be foolish enough to challenge the estate’s security precautions and guards? The colonel had informed them earlier that evening that this would be their last night and that as a result of their outstanding service they would each receive a bonus of five thousand American dollars come morning. To top it off, the colonel had offered them each a position as “peacekeepers” for some African military dictator who was looking to start an uprising. Six months pay upfront and a guarantee that on this assignment they would get to fire their guns. But Al and Javeed never got the chance. They were both dead before they hit the ground.

Michael had made quick work of the Hiecen laser monitors, quickly patching in a by-pass. He and Simon scrambled over the fifteen-foot wall and pulled the bodies into the woods at the side of the drive. Simon ripped off Al’s headset, shaking the blood away. Then he pulled Al’s radio from his waist and set it down on the ground next to his knapsack. Simon reached in and pulled out a small black box the size of a paperback book with a speaker and several LEDs. He hadn’t used a frequency analyzer/scrambler in years, but it was still pretty basic. He put on Al’s blood-encrusted headset and hit a button. The slight static cut out as the radio went into talk mode; it was still working. Simon flipped on the little black box and pulled up its antenna. He hit the talk button again. The black box went into scan mode. After about three seconds, a green LED lit up and the screen displayed the radio’s frequency; Simon clipped the box to his belt.

The woods of Finster’s estate were thick and dark as pitch. Simon wore a nightscope on his left eye, moving slowly as he scanned back and forth. Michael was right behind, doing his best not to lose sight of Simon. The closer they got to the house, the worse his stomach felt. The bad feeling that had started with his first kill grew with every step. They both held HK MP5s; Simon had taken the liberty of modifying the chamber and installing a silencer on each. They were dual-mode weapons capable of firing either a single shot or, when the trigger was fully depressed, fourteen rounds per second. The priest had spent a good part of the late afternoon and early evening teaching Michael how to use their assortment of weapons. How not to let the machine gun ride up as you shot, how to steady the gun, how to mark your target and not hesitate. The nine-millimeter Glock pistols they each wore contained seventeen rounds per with one in the chamber. Simon didn’t waste time teaching Michael the Israeli Galil sniper rifle; it took years of practice to become a marksman. And an expert marksman, that had to be a gift.

The radio squealed in Simon’s ear.
“Checkpoint.”

“Alpha,”
a deep voice said.

“Bravo,”
came the next.

“Charlie…Delta…Edward…Francis…Gary…”
Each voice was different, each responded in a rehearsed fashion.
“Hooper…Isaac…Jack…”
—there was a brief pause, then—
“Luke…Mark…Nathan…Oscar…”
—another pause—“
Quint…Richard…Steven…Thomas.”

A different voice, one with authority, spoke.
“Kevin? Paul? Come back.”

Simon immediately hit the frequency jammer on his belt, two quick hits sending a static signal across the band.

“Come again?”

Simon again hit the jammer, this time intermittently while saying, “Signal problem.” Of course it came across the headset as “Sig—…lem.”

“Hold your position, I’ll send someone down.”

Simon responded only by hitting the jammer. He grabbed Michael by the arm and they moved toward the road. In the distance they heard a motorcycle start up, its engine kicking in loud. “We’ve got eighteen, plus whoever is in charge,” Simon reported as he took up a position by the side of the road. He pulled out the Galil rifle with its fat high-powered nightscope.

“Nineteen guards,” Michael repeated. “And how are we going to get past nineteen?”

Simon screwed the silencer on the end of the barrel and did not answer.

The motorcycle was nearer. Simon lay flat in the grass. He unfolded the buttstock, flipped down the bipod, and attached it one-third back from the muzzle propping up the rifle. The light of the approaching cycle sliced through the trees. He slammed in the twenty-round cartridge and drew a bead on the middle of the road.

“Nineteen,” Michael said again.

The whine of the bike was growing louder by the second, its pitch increasing courtesy of the Doppler effect. Simon kept his focus on the road. The glare of the cycle’s light lit up the drive in front of them. The biker was almost there. Simon shrugged his shoulders, flexed his fingers, twisted his neck. He put his eye back to the lens piece. The biker was twenty yards off. Going at least sixty. Simon inhaled deep and held his breath. And, without fanfare, he pulled the trigger.

The muted rifle sounded like the pop of a toy gun. The guard slammed backward off the bike, the bullet catching him square in the forehead. He hit the ground, tumbling and cartwheeling like a sack of bones. The bike continued on, veering wildly before crashing out into the woods. The guard ground to a halt just feet from them, his body torn worse than his clothes. Simon wasted no time throwing the rifle over his shoulder and grabbing the corpse. With Michael’s help, they dragged it into the woods.

The smoke hung sour in the air, the stink of cigarettes and other smokables would permeate his clothes for days. Busch hated this scene: the loud music with no coherent lyrics seemed to him the sounds of a pounding rivet factory; the flashing lights left heavy black spots behind his eyes. Was it really that much different when he was younger? He never felt a generation gap like he was feeling right now in this bastard descendant of a German beer hall and Studio 54.

It had been an hour and the silver-haired mogul with the energy of a teenager was still pumping and grinding on the dance floor with his three ladies of the evening. Not a drink, not a rest. The guy had to be flying on something, no one could last that long, moving with that intensity. None of them looked worse for the wear, though, appearing as fresh as when they first arrived.

Busch was tempted to call Michael for an update but was afraid a ringing phone would be a distraction. His sole job tonight was to make sure that Finster didn’t leave. As long as he was within the walls of the club, Finster was powerless. Judging by the rapturous dancing, he wasn’t going anywhere. Michael and Simon would have all the time they needed. And as he nursed his drink, looking at the beautiful women, Busch thought he may have gotten the easier task of the night.

Finster and the girls continued to dance. Working the crowd. Moving through the dance floor. Pumping everyone up. He occasionally turned to the other dancers, hip-swaying in a seductive way with the gorgeous women of the club. And that was what Busch found so amazing: the women were completely captivated, no one ignored this white-haired guy as he drew closer, all entirely forgot their boyfriends for the moment. Yet no one lashed out, it was like the night owls of Germany held Finster in reverence. Maybe they all hoped that a little bit of his magic would rub off. Busch suddenly realized the source of the billionaire’s unending energy: he fed off of this—the envy, the lust, the way they were enamored of his presence.

As the music built to a frenzy, everyone, the dancers, the drinkers, the druggies, all were pulled toward Finster like he was a magnet relentlessly drawing their attention to him. Busch studied this strange quirk in human behavior and for the life of him couldn’t figure it out. But he knew one thing. This was what Finster craved; it was a kind of power, one he flexed at will, supremely confident in its strength. He could be the worst kind of cult leader, his charisma pulling in followers by the thousands, making a Jim Jones retreat or any of those fanatical suicide cults seem like a Cub Scout meeting. Perhaps that was how he held sway in business, charming his way through deals, his allure a deceptive knife, a lethal ally in taking down his opposers.

The song reached fever pitch and everyone was drawn, staring from the sidelines and balconies, dancing about Finster as if he was the chief of the tribe. All eyes were upon him, Finster felt them. The bartenders, the DJ, the entire crowd. All eyes except one pair.

Audrey’s. She was looking to the bar. Finster followed her gaze as he slowed his dance pace. And that’s when he saw Busch. Looking way too obvious among this retro Aryan crowd.

The spell broke within the club, the connection shattered, all went back to their own little worlds. Finster turned to Audrey, who trembled as if she was about to face death, a cold sweat of terror beading upon her beautiful face. He had been tricked, lulled into a false sense of security. Finster needed no introduction to know that the stranger was Paul Busch. What the cop from America was doing here he didn’t know, but he certainly wasn’t dead and if he wasn’t dead, then neither was Michael or that fucking priest.

He would deal with Thal’s failure later.

He had to get to his keys.

Audrey flinched as if preparing for a blow, waiting for death. Zoe and Joy continued to dance, not realizing Audrey’s terror; their hands were still upon Finster, trying to pull him back into the mood. Cursing, he pushed them away and raced for the exit, shoving any and all from his path. This time there was no parting of the sea as he pushed the dancing throng aside. The wall of people seemed to grow at his approach. His eyes were ablaze; his anger the match that lit a fire of rage. He would pummel anyone in his tracks who obstructed him. He had to get out and get home no matter the cost.

Busch was caught, panic welled within him. He stood frozen at the bar watching his quarry successfully fight his way through the crowd. The music that assaulted his ears only seconds earlier seemed to vanish into deadly silence as he watched his plan unravel before his eyes. If Finster got out the door, there was no possible way Michael and Simon could finish.

They emerged into the English gardens south of the mansion, the periphery lit up with floodlights. Michael hadn’t realized the enormity of the home on his first visit. It was truly vast, stretching out like a primordial beast on the land. The stone facade was etched with the distorted shadows of the manicured topiary. Suddenly he understood the allure of the place to a thing like Finster: not only was it a statement of power, but it was a dare to those who might be foolish enough to attempt to penetrate her.