Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

The teen swung his forearm into Jagger’s wrist, grabbed the barrel, and took the firearm back. It wasn’t a matter of mimicking Jagger’s tactic; the kid’s movements were fast and sure. He had been taught and had practiced the maneuver.

Jagger acted before the teen could either fire, pull the gun away, or position himself more strategically. In a flash, he repeated the steps: slap and push the wrist… grab and twist the barrel. This time, when he had possession he swung his arm back and pitched the gun out of the cave, into the clearing. It had taken maybe eight seconds for them to exchange the weapon three times. He didn’t want to make it four.

With his right arm crossing his chest and dropping away from the teen’s wrist and RoboHand returning from its mission to rid the cave of the gun, Jagger was in no position to protect himself. So when the baton came off the ground and flashed toward his head, all he could do in that nanosecond of recognition was flinch. The hard molded-plastic grip struck his right temple, and he pitched left, slamming the other side of his head into the cave wall. He went down as the shadows engulfed him.

He was vaguely aware of the boy pummeling his body, kicking and punching it, but he couldn’t keep an eyelid open, let alone fend off the attack. Light cut into the shadows in dancing, jittering flashes, and Jagger realized that the boy had scrambled over him. Jagger rolled to see him scurry from the cave on all fours.

“Wait,” Jagger called, but the word came out on the weak breath of a whisper.

The boy grabbed the gun, and his black-khakied legs sprinted away.

Jagger remained in the cave until the exploding balls of green and purple light diminished from his vision. He rubbed his temple where the baton had made contact, feeling a big goose egg there. His brain pounded, and he laid his palm over his right eye, waiting for the drummer in his head to take a break. He found the baton, tossed it out of the cave, and backed out on all fours, dragging with him the sleeping bag and a backpack he’d found under it.

He wasn’t worried about the intruder coming back to hurt him. If that were his intention, he would have shot Jagger from the safety of the clearing while Jagger was incapacitated in the cave. He suspected the boy might have used the gun when they were playing hot potato with it, but he’d been cornered; the kid merely wanted his freedom and nothing to do with Jagger. Fair enough.

But everything about this boy bothered him: his brash helicopter entrance, his gun, his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, his surveiling St. Cath’s at the precise moment the monks mysteriously took in a wounded stranger. It all pointed to trouble at the monastery, and there was nothing he could do but wait for it to play itself out and hope no one got hurt.

Crouching in front of the cave, he opened the backpack and rummaged through it. Clothes, energy bars, beef jerky, a small first-aid kit, a candle and lighter, a flashlight and spare batteries. He removed a tattered X-Men comic book and thumbed it open: Dobbiamo ottenerli da qui prima che Logan trovi che fuori e ancora viva. Looked Italian, but he wasn’t sure. The boy had spoken English-only two words, but Jagger hadn’t detected an accent.

He unrolled the sleeping bag and patted it down. If the boy had identification or a phone, it must be in those multipocketed pants. He pushed the unrolled bag and the backpack into the back of the cave-no sense denying the kid his food or a warm place to sleep. As he backed out, something in the sand glinted. He picked it up, exited the cave, and sat back on his heels to examine the object. It was a medallion or coin stamped with a human skull. Clutched between its teeth was a banner bearing an engraved word, almost worn away, nicked in spots. He thought the word could have been Choroutte. It appeared to be old, but what did Jagger know? Probably something an Egyptian fast-food chain handed out with its kid meals. He slipped it into his shirt pocket.

When he stood, the pounding in his head turned into something fast and loud: Deep Purple or Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. He closed his eyes, and after a few deep breaths felt a little better. He retrieved the baton, collapsed it, and returned it to the scabbard. He walked a dozen yards along each of the other paths leading away from the clearing and didn’t spot any sign of the boy, or anything else interesting. He returned to the camel-mostly sliding over the scree on his butt-and headed back to the monastery, all the way wondering if the boy was just a boy or an omen of more bad times ahead.

Toby pulled the sleeping bag out of the cave and shook it, watching for anything that fell out of its folds. He got the backpack and dumped the contents on the clearing’s stone ground. He brushed his fingers over the objects, spreading them out. He crawled into the cave and sifted through the sand. The obol was gone. He’d kept it in his pants pocket with the Glock. When he’d drawn the gun, it must have fallen out, and the security guard must have taken it.

Should have killed him, he thought, sitting in the cave, feeling as gloomy as his surroundings. He’d had the obol for years and really liked it; it was both a lucky charm and sentimental memento. Nevaeh had tried all sorts of ways to get it from him, to add to her collection of death memorabilia, but he’d always resisted her wagers and appealed to Ben when she tried to claim the obol as his punishment for some misdeed or another.

The satphone in his pocket vibrated. “Yeah?” he said into it.

“No trouble with the man?” It was Ben.

“No.”

“He’s alive?”

“You said not to kill him, didn’t you?”

“Since when have you listened to me?”

“Since forever,” Toby said. “When are you getting here?”

“We’re en route. We’ll meet you at Deir Rahab. You know it?”

“Yeah.” Toby pulled a map and compass out of a pocket. Deir Rahab was an oasis-probably with a single farm-where the mountain met the plains about two miles north of his position.

“Sebastian’s arranged for someone to drop off a Jeep and supplies,” Ben said. “Can you be there by eight?”

“Tonight? I can crawl there by then.”

“As long as you’re there. We’ll arrive an hour or two later.”

After they disconnected, Toby wondered if Nev and Ben would let him participate in the night’s activities, and if he’d have a chance to get the obol back. He didn’t get a good look at the man who’d taken it-he was just a dark shape silhouetted by the light coming through the mouth of the cave-but how many security guards could St. Catherine’s have?

Guess they’d find out soon enough.

Three iron-clad doors-layered against each other like sliced bread-blocked the monastery’s main entrance. Inside the compound, Jagger pounded his fist on the one facing him. Solid as the stone walls around it. A single lamp bathed the courtyard in an amber glow. He turned in a circle, noting the few still-lighted windows scattered among the buildings. Most of the monastery’s twenty monks had gone to bed, and tonight only five other people called the place home: Jagger, Beth, and Tyler; Ollie, whose habit was to read in bed until about ten; and the stranger.

The stranger.

Jagger shook his head and tried not to think of him.

He let his eyes rise above the Southwest Range Building’s central dome to Mount Sinai, a looming presence, darker than the sky. Last night, sitting with Beth, it had been magical and holy; tonight it seemed like a dark being maliciously lording over a colony of caged insects.

He shifted his attention to the third floor of the guest quarters. A light burned in their apartment. He imagined Tyler asleep in his bedroom, Beth in the living room-which also served as dining room and kitchenette-studying C. S. Lewis or Thomas a Kempis with a Bible in her lap and a pen in her hand. The image made him want to get his rounds finished faster.