Steve Berry: The Charlemagne Pursuit

She saw that McCoy had spotted him, too, and wondered why Gross didn't just shoot Smith. Surely he was armed and, apparently, McCoy had known the colonel was out there-two guns flying out the window had certainly conveyed the message that they needed help.

Then it occurred to her.

The president wanted this one alive.

He didn't necessarily want a lot of attention drawn to this situation-hence there wasn't a cadre of FBI and Secret Service here-but he wanted Charlie Smith in one piece.

McCoy gave a slight nod.

Smith caught the gesture.

His head whirled.

DOROTHEA LEFT THE BUILDING AND DESCENDED A SET OF NARROW stairs back to the street. She was next to the bathhouse, beyond the plaza that stretched out in front, near the cavern's end and one of the polished rock walls that rose hundreds of meters.

She turned right.

Christl was thirty meters away, running through a gallery of alternating light and dark that caused her to appear and disappear.

She pursued.

Like chasing a deer in the forest. Give it room. Allow it to think itself safe. Then strike when least expected.

She passed through the light gallery and entered another plaza, similar to the one before the bathhouse in size and shape. Empty, except for a stone bench upon which a figure sat. He wore a white cold-weather suit similar to her own, except his was unzipped in front, arms exposed, the top half rolled down to the waist, exposing a chest clothed only in a wool sweater. His eyes were dark hollows in a shallow face, the lids closed. His frozen neck had craned to one side, his dark hair brushing the tops of ashen white ears. An iron-gray beard was streaked with congealed moisture and a blissful grin danced across closed lips. His hands were folded peacefully before him.

Her father.

Her nerves racked into numbness. Her heart pounded. She wanted to look away, but couldn't. Corpses were meant to be entombed, not sitting on benches.

"Yes, it's him," Christl said.

Her attention swung back to the danger around her, but she did not see her sister, only heard her.

"I found him earlier. He's been waiting for us."

"Show yourself," she said.

A laugh permeated the silence. "Look at him, Dorothea. He unzipped his coat and allowed himself to die. Can you imagine?"

No, she couldn't.

"That took courage," the disembodied voice said. "To hear Mother speak, he had no courage. To hear you speak, he was a fool. Could you have done that, Dorothea?"

She spotted another of the tall gates, framed by square columns, sealed with bronze doors, these swung open, no metal bar holding them shut. Beyond, steps led down and she felt a breeze of cold air.

She stared back at the dead man.

"Our father."

She whirled. Christl stood perhaps seven meters away, with a gun pointed.

She stiffened her arm and started to raise her weapon.

"No, Dorothea," Christl said. "Keep it down."

She did not move.

"We found him," Christl said. "We solved Mother's quest."

"This resolves nothing between us."

"I totally agree.

"I was right," Christl said, "About every single thing. And you were wrong."

"Why did you kill Henn and Werner?"

"Mother sent Henn to stop me. Loyal Ulrich. And Werner? Seems you'd be glad he's gone."

"You plan to kill Malone, too?"

"I have to be the only one who walks from here. The lone survivor."

"You're insane."

"Look at him, Dorothea. Our precious father. The last time we saw him we were ten years old."

She didn't want to look. She'd seen enough. And she wanted to remember him as she'd known him.

"You doubted him," Christl said.

"So did you."

"Never."

"You're a murderess."

Christl laughed. "Like I care what you think of me."

There was no way she could raise her gun and shoot before Christl pulled her trigger. Since she was dead anyway, she decided to act first.

Her arm started up. Christl pulled the gun's trigger. Dorothea braced herself to be shot. But nothing happened. Only a click.

Christl seemed shocked. She worked the trigger more, but to no avail.

"No bullets," Malone said, as he entered the plaza. "I'm not a complete idiot."

Enough.

Dorothea pointed and fired.

The first shot caught Christl square in the chest, piercing her thick arctic wear. The second bullet, also in the chest, challenged her sister's balance. The third shot, to the skull, caused her forehead to burst red, but the frigid cold instantly coagulated the blood.

Two more shots and Christl Falk sank to the pavement.

Not moving.

Malone came closer.

"It had to be done," she muttered. "She was no good."

Her head turned toward her father. She felt as if she were awakening from an anesthetic, some thoughts clearing, others remaining cloudy and distant. "They actually made it here. I'm glad he found what he'd been searching for."

She faced Malone and saw that a frightening salvation had seeped into his thoughts, too. The exit portal drew both of their attention. She didn't have to say it. She'd found her father. He hadn't.

Not yet.

STEPHANIE QUESTIONED THE WISDOM OF MCCOY'S WARNING. Smith, unsettled, had stepped back and swung around, trying to focus on them while sneaking a peek at the window.

More shadows fluttered outside.

Smith fired a short burst that obliterated the brittle walls, shattering the wood with jagged wounds.

McCoy lunged toward him.

Stephanie feared he might shoot her, but instead he whirled the rifle around and jammed the butt hard into her stomach. She buckled forward, gasping for breath, and he thrust a knee upward into her chin, flipping her to the floor.

Instantly, before either Stephanie or Davis could react, Smith releveled the gun and alternated his focus between them and the window, probably trying to decide where the greater threat lay.

Nothing moved outside.

"Like I said, I wasn't interested in killing you three," Smith said. "But I think that's changed."

McCoy lay on the floor, moaning in the fetal position, cradling her stomach.

"Can I see about her?" Stephanie asked.

"She's a big girl."

"I'm going to see about her."

And without waiting for further permission, she knelt beside McCoy.

"You're not leaving here," Davis said to Smith.

"Brave words."

But Charlie Smith seemed unsure, as if he were trapped inside a cage, staring out for the first time.

Something thudded against the outer wall, near the window. Smith reacted, swinging the HK53 around. Stephanie tried to stand, but he popped her square in the neck with the rifle's metal stock.

She gasped and found the floor.

Her hand went to her Adam's apple-the pain of a kind she'd never felt before. She struggled to breathe, fighting an urge to choke. She rolled and watched as Edwin Davis catapulted himself into Charlie Smith.

She struggled to stand, fighting both to breathe and to overcome the throbbing in her throat. Smith still clung to his assault rifle, but it was useless as he and Davis rolled through the battered furniture, ending against the far wall. Smith used his legs and tried to wiggle free, keeping a grip on his gun.

Where was Gross?

Smith lost the rifle, but his right arm wrapped around Davis and a new gun appeared-a small automatic-jammed into Davis' neck.

"Enough," Smith yelled.

Davis stopped struggling.

They came to their feet and Smith released his grip, shoving Davis to the floor near McCoy.

"You're all crazy," Smith said. "Friggin' nuts."

Stephanie slowly came to her feet, shaking a fog from her brain, as Smith regripped the assault rifle. This had gyrated out of control. The one thing she and Davis had agreed on during the drive over was not to agitate Smith.