David Baldacci - Deliver Us From Evil

That done, he checked the gun he’d stolen. You never went into possible combat without doing something that basic. The Glock 17 had been designed in the 1980s by its namesake Gaston Glock, an Austrian who had never built a gun before. What he did have was a lot of knowledge about advanced synthetic polymers. So he made, basically, the world’s first plastic handgun. It beat out H &K, SIG Sauer, the Italians’ Beretta, the Browning, and the top-notch Steyr favored by special forces personnel in a competition to arm the Austrian army. Its success around the world had been immediate and immense. Seven out of ten cops in America carried it in their holster. And yet with all that, just like any other weapon it wasn’t infallible. Shaw was stunned he hadn’t noticed it before.

The muzzle was cracked. It must’ve happened from the collision of the heavy door and heavier toilet against the weapon’s polymer frame. Thank God he hadn’t had to fire the pistol. It probably would’ve exploded in his hand. A Glock could fire wet all day. No gun, however, could fire safely with a damaged barrel. Now he had no weapon and no way to get one. Frank was at least thirty minutes away and Shaw was out of time.

The only way to move was forward. So he did.

THIS MARKET is certainly well-attended,” said Waller as he walked next to Reggie along the crowded and narrow streets of Gordes. “But one could become quite claustrophobic.” Waller glanced behind him. His two beefy guards were pushing past vendors and customers, struggling to keep up with the pair. Reggie had her market basket in her right hand and her walking pace was brisk. She’d already purchased some things, including six hand-stitched table napkins from a man with his wares housed in an ancient van with ratty tires. He’d given her a good price and even a bonus item that rested at the bottom of the basket but still within easy reach: a Beretta pistol.

“Well, the Saturday market is the big one.”

“I can see that. Would you like me to carry your basket?” offered Waller.

“Never ask a woman that when she’s in a shopping frenzy,” said Reggie, drawing a laugh from the man. He held up his hands. “I defer to the consumer expertise of the fairer sex.”

“Thank you.”

Reggie glanced over Waller’s shoulder and saw the sign. On cue, a car started to putter through the crowds and the mass of people slowly moved out of the way to allow the vehicle to pass. Reggie counted off the seconds along with her footsteps. She had to hit her marks precisely.

“That’s strange,” she said, as she stopped to look at a pair of sandals hanging from a rack at one vendor’s spot.

“What?” asked Waller.

She pointed over his shoulder. “I’ve never seen any Muslims here before.”

Waller jerked around and stared across the road, where two bearded men in starched robes and turbans were climbing out of the dented car that had been puttering along.

“Oh my God, are those guns?” exclaimed Reggie.

Waller looked for his guards, but then several loud bangs sounded and the street became filled with dense smoke. People screamed and ran blindly, crashing into racks of goods as well as each other. Waller called out for his guards. He couldn’t see them anywhere. That was because they were both on the ground, having received well-placed blows to the back of the head. A young woman raced past them shouting, the items in her market basket cascading into the street. Everywhere there were screams and sounds of people running. Two more twin bangs occurred and the smoke in the street grew thicker. From out of the haze the two men in robes and turbans appeared with guns out and protective masks over their faces. They had the street completely blocked.

“Shit!” exclaimed Waller as he saw them approaching.

“Evan, do you know those men?”

“We need to get out of here. Now!”

She grabbed his hand. “Quick. I know a way.”

They raced down a side street off the main courtyard. The street dead-ended here. Waller looked up and saw the church’s bell tower.

“There is no way out,” Waller screamed in fury.

“There is, but we have to go through the church. It’ll put us on the other side of the village. Remember the way I showed you before? It’s the only escape route.”

That was why she’d shown him the route earlier. So he would know it was a way to safety. It was risky but otherwise she could not have counted on his following her. Only this time she would not be leading him to safety.

To give urgency to their flight, a well-timed bullet whizzed over their heads. Waller turned back to see one of the Muslims rushing after them.

“Oh my God, they’re shooting at us,” screamed Reggie.

“Just keep moving,” urged Waller, grabbing her by the shoulder and thrusting her forward. “To the damn church, quickly.”

Reggie pushed open the door and Waller followed her in. He slid a heavy credenza against the door before turning toward the altar.

“Who are those men?” gasped Reggie.

“Not now. Move!”

Reggie and Waller raced down the set of steps next to the altar. They passed through a door, which he locked behind them. Running down another set of stairs, they came out into an open but darkened area. Here was the critical moment, Reggie knew. The passage they’d gone down previously to exit the church was to the left. She was counting on the fact that under the extreme circumstances Waller wouldn’t remember that. She turned to the right. Waller glanced back up the stairs as something crashed overhead.

“They’ve gotten in the church,” he exclaimed.

“Come on, Evan.” She pulled him down the passage to the right and into the room.

The walls, ceiling, and floor burst with light. Waller shielded his face against this brilliance. When he looked at her Reggie was pointing her pistol at him.

“Welcome to hell, Fedir Kuchin,” she said.

STRONG HANDS grabbed Kuchin, pulled him over to a crypt, and tied him down on top of it. Kuchin looked slowly around. Whit, Dom, and Reggie had surrounded him.

“Who are you?” Kuchin said calmly.

Whit said, “I’m a bit disappointed the man’s not more impressed.”

“We’re people who know who you really are,” answered Reggie, her eyes on the Ukrainian. By her tone and attitude she was no longer role-playing as the naïve American Janie Collins. She was Reggie Campion and fully in the zone to finish this man.

“Fedir Kuchin,” added Dominic. “The real butcher of Ukraine.”

“And we brought back some of your victims,” said Reggie.

“Before we do to you what you did to them,” added Whit. “Although we’re normally very nice people, we’re working really hard to be cruel and evil for your benefit.”

Whit spread his arm wide. Kuchin looked up at the ceiling and over at the walls that were awash in light as Dominic’s projection equipment continued operating. Nothing Goya could have conceived would have equaled the horror captured in these images. The pictures of the dead or dying men, women, and children stared back at them. On one wall was the photo of the mass grave with the exposed small bones of the children buried there.

“One atrocity after another,” said Reggie. “Take your time. We want you to relive the past.”

“Who are you?” asked Kuchin again.

“Why does it matter?” retorted Whit.

“Because I want to know who I’m going to kill in the future. The near future.”

“I don’t see that happening,” said Whit.

“Then you are blind.”

Reggie pointed to one wall depicting a stack of bodies piled up like cords of wood. “The slaughter in Sevastopol.” She indicated another image on the ceiling where gaunt near-death faces peered out from behind barbed wire. “The torture camp in Ivano-Frankivsk Oblast in western Ukraine.”