Truthseekers (22 page)

Phillip Glenville had been a student of many forms of the martial arts since four years of age. As a child in his small hometown of Dubbo in New South Wales, Phillip had used to do flips in the front yard of his home, and go missing for hours climbing trees and jumping from tree to tree pretending he was Bruce Lee. As he grew he studied all Lee’s work, including his spiritual teachings and then formally entered his first Dojo on moving to Sydney at age sixteen. There he learnt fast and sidestepping the traditional route of belts and formality he was able to learn an art to black belt or greater level in a matter of months. Now in his mid-thirties he had been made an honorary black belt in over a dozen different disciplines and whilst he no longer competed in any competition, he still practised his arts daily and had been hired by various factions to train everything from cage fighters to military personnel.

In recent years he had become a successful and sought-after actor, appearing as a co-star in several blockbusters. To the world he was an actor, yet few realised he did his own stunts and fight choreography for
those roles. This had led him to a Bafta nomination and several smaller awards and a street being named after him in his hometown.

Phillip ran up the stairs to the left of the atrium below. This led into the large hall where everyone was gathered from the function. The museum was technically open, yet most of the security was occupied with the group. One of the advantages of Glenville’s stride was that he was incredibly light on his feet. He arrived at the top of the steps, just as he saw a man in a suit peer over the balustrade on the other stairway across the mezzanine from him. The man was a typical security type, and Phillip could see he was packing a pistol beneath his jacket.

Glenville knew immediately this was one of the men who had taken Stacey. His years of training and intuition simply told him that. He would need his skill as an actor so instead of crossing the floor stealthily he decided to make a scene.

“Excuse me… You … Mr Security Guard. Are there any bathrooms up here darling?”

Phillip Glenville put on his best gay accent, one he had perfected doing stand-up comedy routines, and acted a little more than tipsy as he tottered across the floor toward the guard.

“Hello… I see you behind the pillar. Please can you help me? I’m busting… Oh and I may need help with my pants. They are a little tight.” Giggling he kept coming to the position of the guard, who was now annoyed at being seen and more annoyed at this gay man approaching him. He stepped out from behind the pillar and held up a hand.

“You’re not allowed up here, go back down the stairs now.”

Glenville kept coming. “Oh please I’m busting. That Champagne has made me a little tipsy. I normally wouldn’t be so forward.”

Now stepping fully out from behind the post the guard drew himself to a fully and imposing six foot three and said.

“I won’t tell you again. Go back down…”

He was cut off in mid-breath. Glenville had got close enough to him to turn side on and side-kick him a direct strike to the larynx. This feat of athleticism sent the guard sprawling back in full flight again knocking
his head on the marble floor of the museum. Clutching his throat, he was out cold in an instant. Glenville quickly disarmed him and tied him up using his own coat, sticking his tie firmly in his mouth after making sure he was still alive. He noted that he was out of range of any of the cameras, probably why the man placed himself there in the first place. Glenville then took on his slightly intoxicated role again and after dragging the man behind a display case in a room that was not being used he tottered off down the hallway in search of Stacey.

John had left the taking care of Rocko to his two consorts, whilst he himself went to deal with Stacey. When they found Rocko they would report in.

Chant stood back watching Leon’s speech and the unveiling of a particular piece gifted to the museum from an unknown private collector. That collector of course was Mr Black. As Leon unveiled it he read from a small part of the inscription that was the basis of alchemy, from Sumeria and thought to be around 4500 BC. The piece showed a man with a long beard sitting in a chair. Below him and much smaller than him were two kneeling men with their hands held out. Above them in the sky was a strange symbol. Chant knew it as the Triskelion, a symbol found on only a few ancient pieces.

Rocko was on the ground floor. He had successfully dodged a security guard and was now in the depths of the museum. All in all he had found himself in area representing the tribes of the Americas. He was not
giving himself much stealth and any closed door he literally tried to rip off its hinges. He was trying to tell himself to be calm and go through a process yet realising how big the museum was, he was considering turning back and grabbing the microphone off Leon and rousing every guest. The truth be known he was very confused about a strategy to take.

He didn’t have to wait any longer. Behind him he heard a sound and spun to face a security type of person. The guy was a few inches taller than him, wearing a black suit and tie (why did they always wear that?) and was approaching him fast.

“Sir, you have to leave this section of the museum. This is private,” said the second of the guards.

“Like hell,” retorted Rocko, “You bastards have Stacey and you are going to be very sorry.”

The man’s reaction was not at all what Rocko was expecting. He expected more words yet the man, who had one hand behind his jacket, had pulled a long military knife. Rocko had less than a split second to react. The man would obviously be highly experienced in hand-to-hand combat, yet Rocko had learnt a thing or two in all those years of boxing and street fighting.

As the attacker lunged at him with the full force of thrusting the blade fully into Rocko’s sternum and shredding his heart, Rocko grabbed the man’s arm and thrust himself fully at the knife. This was an old boxing trick. No one could hit you full force or on the right spot if you stepped into the punch.

The result was that the knife missed its mark, yet Rocko took the hit all right. The knife plunged deep into his torso to the side of his abdomen, and now Rocko was face to face with his attacker. He knew he had a split second to react before the pain kicked in, the heat of the knife wound collapsing his spirit and from there with such a hardened fighter he would have no chance. He had grabbed the man’s knife hand with his left hand and with his brutally strong right hand in a split instant he took the attacker’s head from behind and drew it to him. He then reached up and bit hard on the man’s nose. He could feel the cartilage and sinew
crush between his teeth. All those years of BBQs and steak bars came to good use and Rocko shook his head from side to side and ripped the nose clean off. The man screamed and lost his grip on the knife, which was firmly implanted in Rocko’s side. Rocko reached up with his left hand and in his last effort before his own pain kicked in too greatly he did what he could to poke the man in the eyes. The man fell backwards screaming and Rocko dropped to his knees. He could feel the searing heat of knife pain in his side and it looked macabrely amusing to him.

His instincts alive, he grabbed the knife handle and pulled it out with a long groan and threw it to one side. He then gathered his strength and took to his knees and then stumbled to his feet. The last few seconds had seen his attacker writhing in agony and disbelief on the floor. He was struggling to see, not because of Rocko’s attack on his eyes but more so because his whole face reacted to the trauma caused by Rocko’s solid Middle Eastern style jaw.

On his feet now Rocko mustered some energy and kicked his attacker firmly in his vital parts. The man doubled and passed out.

Rocko felt scattered and in substantial throbbing pain as he watched blood constantly drip from his wound. He looked around and quickly pulled a vest off an Indian display. The thing was probably 300 years old yet to Rocko it was no more than a bandage and he shoved it firmly on his side. He would now need to find a way to get Stacey, get out, and stay alive, but firstly he would need to stay awake and not pass out.

28

John had served in the military in the country that was Czechoslovakia and he was proud of it. He served in Russia on various missions and then went on secondment to the Russian Militia, a group of mercenaries. It was here he built the team along with Jack, whose death in Cape Town he still hadn’t dealt with, and made his services available through his connections to the families. He had completed many simple missions but this one was out of control and he had to finish it.

Now he was stuck again. His comms were down with both his agents. He had the girl and he wanted to interrogate her yet now he had to deal with the Middle Eastern tank himself. He had the museum
surveillance system set down except on the event, so he and his team could move around without too much issue yet now even that had worked against him. John was smart enough to know that if there was no communication from his team, it was because they no longer could communicate. He was on his own.

His six-foot muscular frame had in fact had very few hand-to-hand fights except in the ring, where he always won, yet in this instance he felt that to do anything else except shoot Rocko would be a mistake. Too many mistakes had been made already. He had a mission and he would not fail. He took out his Mauser and screwed on its silencer. He took a final look at Stacey who was passed out and tied up, some rag stuffed unceremoniously in her mouth. He spat on the floor at her feet. He would enjoy interviewing this one, even though he knew she would talk quickly, and then he locked the door behind him, tucking his Mauser down the back of his black pants and pulling his suit jacket over the gun.

He straightened his jacket and ran his hand over his cheek. The scar from the spear gun on Abbey’s boat was starting to form under a discreet skin-coloured bandage that drew both sides of the wound together. He then felt the other side of his face where the Eagle’s bullet had literally just grazed it. The skin was indented for a few centimetres and catching himself in a mirror on the wall made him feel even more vengeful. He had become a menacing and somewhat ridiculous sight with matching facial wounds. John strode off down the hall.

Phillip Glenville was stealthily searching for Stacey. If the truth be known, the actor had been quite smitten with her. Stacey’s friendly smile, cheeky attitude and softness was a reality that Hollywood didn’t afford. With his looks he had more than his fair share of playgirls, wannabe starlets and had even had dated one of the Hilton girls a few times, yet there was a realness about Stacey, even though she may have been a few years older than him. He immediately liked her and felt more relaxed bathing in her smile than at a glitzy party.

Phillip had moved up to the second floor above the event. He had avoided the cameras, which he didn’t feel were working for some
reason anyway, and the stairs. His flexibility, balance and physical ability for gymnastics allowed him the luxury of clambering up the columns and balustrades between floors, keeping off any normal route. He had no idea how many of these black-suited spooks there were, or where Rocko was. In his mind he hoped to find Stacey first and become her hero and show the Middle Eastern that he was more than up for the task at hand. He also knew if Rocko got to her first he would never hear the end of it.

Phillip was opening doors and looking in rooms. Occasionally they were locked so he simply kicked them in. Tests done on his abilities on the Science Channel had measured his kick at 15,000 pounds per square inch, over double that of any other martial artist measured. A full-force kick from Phillip was like being hit by a car doing 75 kilometres an hour. Also because of his martial arts, he was exceptionally light on his feet at the best of times, being called the Human Cat on the show. John never heard him coming.

John turned the corner of the hall in which Stacey was locked in an adjoining room and literally bumped directly into Phillip. He never heard Phillip and as he turned Phillip was standing right against the wall leaning on it.

John could not even get out the “Who the hell are you?” he had started to say. His suit had given him away. Instinctively John had reached behind for his gun, but Phillip was all too quick for him. Having heard John a few seconds before he pushed himself against the wall and as he suspected saw the black suit come around the corner. In a split second he saw the scars on John’s face, and knowing that he wouldn’t have got them playing tiddlywinks with his kids, Phillip went into a technique he called Eagle Eye.

The Eagle Eye technique was simply not to look at the person but to look at everything at once, blurring the vision. It was the opposite of what a non-fighter would do. Mostly they would try to focus harder. Eagle Eye meant that Phillip would see and sense the twitch of a muscle well before an action. It was a technique he had learnt from ancient
masters in Japan in his youth. He literally saw John reach for the gun behind him as he made the first move positioning his body to draw and shoot.