Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

They approached the front door, which hung open. Most of the windows were shattered clear. The house was, she estimated, two to three thousand square feet, its glory having faded long ago.

They entered cautiously.

The day was clear and cold and bright sunshine flooded in through the exposed windows. They stood in a foyer, parlors opening to their left and right, another corridor ahead. The house was single-story and rambling, connected by wide hallways. Furniture filled the rooms, draped in filthy cloths, the wall coverings peeling, the wood floors buckling.

She caught a sound, like scraping. Then a soft tap, tap, tap. Something moving? Walking?

She heard a snarl and growl.

Her eyes focused down one of the halls. Davis brushed past and led the way. They came to a doorway into one of the bedrooms. Davis dropped behind her but kept his gun aimed. She knew what he wanted her to do, so she eased close to the jamb, peeked inside, and saw two dogs. One tawny and white, the other a pale gray, both busy eating something. They were each a good size and sinewy. One of them sensed her presence and raised its head. Its mouth and nose were bloodstained.

The animal growled.

His partner sensed danger and came alert, too.

Davis moved up behind her.

"Do you see it?" he asked.

She did.

Beneath the dogs, lying on the floor, was their meal.

A human hand, severed at the wrist, three fingers missing.

"You're in league with her. I saw her go into your room."

"I don't think a one-night stand qualifies as being in league with someone."

"She's evil."

"You're both nuts."

He stepped toward her. She jutted the weapon forward. He stopped, near a doorway that led out into the adjacent room. She stood ten feet away, before another wall of shiny mosaics.

"You two are going to destroy each other, unless you stop," he made clear.

"She's not going to win this."

"Win what?"

"I'm my father's heir."

"No. You're not. You both are. Trouble is, neither one of you can see that."

"You heard her. She's vindicated. She was right. She'll be impossible to deal with."

True, but he'd had enough and now was not the time. "Do what you have to do, but I'm walking out of here."

"I'll shoot you."

"Then do it."

He turned and started out the doorway.

"I mean it, Malone."

"You're wasting my time."

She pulled the trigger.

Click.

He kept walking. She pulled the trigger again. More clicks.

He stopped and faced her. "I had your bag searched while we ate at the base. I found the gun." He caught the abashed look on her face. "I thought it a prudent move, after your tantrum on the plane. I had the bullets taken from the magazine."

"I was shooting at the floor," she said. "I wouldn't have harmed you."

He extended a hand for the gun.

She walked over and surrendered it. "I hate Christl with all my being."

"We've established that, but at the moment it's counterproductive. We found what your family has been searching for-what your father and grandfather worked their whole lives to find. Can't you be excited about that?"

"It's not what I've been searching for."

He sensed a quandary, but decided not to pry.

"And what about what you've been searching for?" she asked him.

She was right. No sign of NR-1A. "The jury's still out on that one."

"This could have been where our fathers were coming."

Before he could answer her speculation, two pops broke the silence outside, far off.

Then another.

"That's gunfire," he said.

And they raced from the room.

Part of the interior wall swung open, the rectangle beyond deep with shadows. She studied paw prints in the dirt and dust that led to and from the open panel. "Apparently they know what's behind that wall."

The dogs' bodies tensed. Both started barking.

Her attention returned to the animals. "They need to go."

Their guns remained aimed, the dogs holding their ground, guarding their meal, so Davis shifted to the other side of the doorway.

One of the dogs lunged forward, then abruptly stopped.

"I'm going to fire," he said.

He leveled his gun and sent a bullet into the floor between the animals. Both shrieked, then rushed around in confusion. He fired again and they bolted through the doorway into the hall. They stopped a few feet away, realizing that they'd forgotten their food. She fired into the floorboards and they turned and ran, disappearing out the front door.

She let out a breath.

Davis entered the room and knelt beside the severed hand. "We need to see what's down there."

She didn't necessarily agree-what was the point?-but knewDavis needed to see. She stepped to the doorway. Narrow wooden steps led below, thendog-legged right into pitchdarkness. "Probably anold cellar."

She started the descent. He followed. At the landing she hesitated. Slivers of darkness evaporated as her pupils adjusted and the ambient light revealed a room about ten feet square, its curtain wall hacked from the ground rock, the floor a powdery dirt. Thick wooden beams spanned the ceiling. The frigid air was unmolested by ventilation.

"At least no more dogs," Davis said.

Then she saw it.

A body, wearing an overcoat, lying prone, one arm a stump. She instantly recognized the face, though a bullet had obliterated the nose and one eye.

Langford Ramsey.

"The debt is paid," she said.

Davis bypassed her and approached the corpse. "I only wish I could have done it."

"It's better this way."

There was a sound overhead. Footsteps. Her gaze shot to the wood floor above.

"That's not a dog," Davis whispered.

MALONE AND DOROTHEA FLED THE HOUSE AND FOUND THE EMPTY street. Another pop sounded. He determined its direction.

"That way," he said.

He resisted breaking into a run, but quickened his pace toward the central plaza, their bulky clothing and backpacks slowing progress. They rounded the circular walled pit and trotted down another wide causeway. Here, deeper into the city, more evidence of geological disturbances could be seen. Several of the buildings had collapsed. Walls were cracked. Rocks littered the street. He was careful. Their legs couldn't be trusted over such unsure footing.

Something caught his eye. Lying near one of the faintly glowing elevated crystals. He stopped. Dorothea did, too.

A cap? Here? In this place of ancient and abandoned possession, it seemed a strange intrusion.

He stepped close.

Orange cloth. Recognizable.

He bent down. Above its bill was stitched:

Mother of God.

Dorothea read it, too. "It can't be."

He glanced at the inside. Written in black ink was the name vaught. He recalled the court of inquiry report. Machinist Mate 2 Doug Vaught. One of the crew of NR-1A.

"Malone."

His name had been called out across the vast interior.

"Malone."

It was Christl. His mind jolted back to reality.

"Where are you?" he yelled.

"Over here."

STEPHANIE REALIZED THEY NEEDED TO FLEE THE DUNGEON. IT WAS the last place they'd want to confront anybody.

A single set of footsteps thumped above, moving to the other side of the house, away from the room at the top of the stairs. So she lightly climbed the wooden risers, stopping at the top. Carefully, she peered around the open panel, saw no one, and exited. She motioned and Davis flanked one side of the hallway door, she the other.

She risked a glance.

Nothing.