C. Palov - Templar's Quest

A cocky bastard, the bruiser didn’t dive for cover. He knew damn well that phantom guns fire make-believe bullets. Still wearing his doofy-ass grin, the German sauntered towards the boiler.

‘If you had a gun, we would not be having this conversation. You would have shot me dead the moment I walked through the door.’ The German was now directly opposite Finn on the other side of the rotund tank.

With a quick tug, Finn yanked his belt through the loops. He then wrapped the leather strap around his right hand, buckle dangling. Flail at the ready, he waited until the German was a few inches from the torrent of hot water that spewed from the tank.

You’re gonna wish to God I had shot you , Finn thought maliciously … just before he whipped the belt around the corner with two hundred and twenty pounds of torque, smashing the metal buckle into the German’s face. The force of the assault knocked the gunman’s head into the metal tank. Scalding his left cheek with 170°F water. Forty-two degrees shy of a fast boil. Shock and awe, baby. Shock and awe .

The German howled in pain. Dazed, he staggered and fired two wild shots.

Finn immediately reeled in his belt. Surging forward, he crisply whipped it again, this time parallel to the ground. Hard and fast. The heavy buckle hammered into the German’s hand, knocking the Sig Sauer loose.

The gun clattered to the concrete floor, discharging a bullet. The German immediately came at him with a roundhouse high kick. Finn swivelled nimbly. Dropping the belt, he snatched hold of the bruiser’s raised boot with both hands and jerked upward as hard as he could, pulling the big German completely off balance. Literally sweeping him off his feet.

Upended, the bruiser’s head hit the concrete floor with a dull thud, his skull cracking on impact. Like a watermelon hitting the pavement.

Finn stared dispassionately at the dead German. Well, that sure as hell wiped the grin off Herr Fucker’s face.

‘Well done, Finnegan. You have, once again, proved yourself the better man.’

Hearing that sultry French accent, Finn’s jaw tightened. Although he figured it was a futile gesture, he raised both hands in the air and slowly turned around.

The Dark Angel – decked out in curve-hugging black leather pants, skintight black tank top and fingerless black leather gloves – leaned casually against a circuit box. She held a Heckler & Koch semi-automatic in her right hand. No surprise that it was pointed directly at Finn. Game over. Fade to black.

Not about to antagonize her, Finn kept silent. There was no doubt in his mind that the bitch would shoot to kill. And given that she was one sick bitch, she’d probably keep on firing long after he was dead.

Hips swaying provocatively, she strolled towards him. Smiling, she nudged the muzzle of the semi-automatic against his lower lip.

‘Suck very hard on that and maybe I won’t pull the trigger.’

Finn glared. The bitch wanted to emasculate him before she turned his grey matter into slurry.

Summoning all the false bravado he could muster, Finn looked her right in the eye and said, ‘You’ve got two choices, Angelika … kill me or take me to your leader.’

83

0610 hours

‘Oh, my God!’ Kate gasped. ‘He’s dead!’

Cædmon glanced at the corpse sprawled on the floor of the maintenance engineering room, a lake of blood pooled at his head.

‘I daresay the bloke had it coming,’ he remarked, unmoved at seeing the slain foot soldier.

The bald-headed Myrmidon prodded him in the back with the gun muzzle. ‘Shut up, wichser , and keep moving. Herr Doktor Uhlemann is expecting us in the viewing chamber.’

Trooping past a trio of aluminium condensers, Cædmon saw a knife hilt protruding from one of them. A battle had clearly taken place between Finn McGuire and the dead man. He hoped to God that the commando had escaped with his life. And would very soon come to their rescue.

To his astonishment, a steel door was hidden behind the condensers. Since the entryway had not been included on the architectural blueprints that he’d obtained for the facility, he assumed that it led to a secret ‘viewing chamber’. A security keypad was attached to the doorframe.

The Myrmidon hesitated, then stepped over and keyed in a numeric code. ‘ Scheisse ,’ he muttered under his breath when the door remained locked. He tried again, actually sighing with relief when the lock popped open. Holding the door ajar, he motioned impatiently for Cædmon and Kate to enter.

As he stepped across the threshold, Cædmon immediately saw that there would be no rescue. The vanquished Finnegan McGuire was seated against the far wall. Standing beside him, a leather-clad Valkyrie had a semi-automatic pressed to his left temple. Wearing a white lab coat, Dr Ivo Uhlemann stood a few feet from the pair.

A small room, the viewing chamber was no bigger than a home theatre with a glass partition in lieu of a movie screen. On the other side of the glass was the Vril Generator, housed in a pyramid-shaped bunker. The centrepiece of the device was the Grail, configured in some sort of crystal array. A second door led to the bunker. Like the steel door they’d just come through, it had a security keypad on the doorframe.

Still clutching the Ruger, the faithful Myrmidon slunk over to his master, insinuating himself between Dr Uhlemann and the blonde Valkyrie.

‘Oh, Finn … I’m so happy to see you!’ Kate rushed towards McGuire, only to draw up short when the Valkyrie took aim at her with the semi-automatic.

‘Sorry I couldn’t come through for you, Katie.’ The commando’s apology was punctuated with a rueful half-smile. Turning slightly, he jutted his head in Cædmon’s direction. ‘Hey, buddy. Glad to see that you’re still alive. The Death Star is due to appear in eighteen minutes. So you better grab yourself a front-row seat.’

Cædmon sensed that embedded within McGuire’s swagger was a covert message. But what?

He surreptitiously glanced around the viewing chamber. There was a clock above the glass partition, a chalkboard affixed to one wall, a video camera set on a tripod and three empty viewing chairs lined up in front of the glass partition. ‘ Grab yourself a front row seat. ’ Perhaps McGuire thought Cædmon could use one of the wood-backed chairs as a weapon.

Right.

He deliberately touched the blood-soaked bandage on his head as he turned to Dr Uhlemann and said, ‘May I have leave to sit down? Before I fall down,’ he added, hoping he appeared sufficiently pathetic.

‘By all means.’ The request was granted with a regal wave of the hand.

Playing the nursemaid, Kate solicitously helped Cædmon to his seat. In truth, he was a bloodied weakling, having yet to recover from the earlier thrashing. The painful crown that insistently pressed against his bashed head had become damned near excruciating.

Although not as excruciating as a bullet to the brain.

No time to waste, Cædmon quickly sized up the enemy. Crisply knotted silk tie. Perfectly tailored trousers. Tasselled leather loathers. All-in-all, a revealing book cover. Conservative, yet eloquent, the wardrobe indicated that Ivo Uhlemann was a man with a taste for the finer things. Cædmon suspected that the German was also something of an aesthete, a lover of all that was beautiful and perfect. As ‘Herr Doktor’ defined those two terms, of course, his arrogance plain to see. Paired with that conceit was a keen intelligence. Unlike the gauche Myrmidon who couldn’t juggle two balls at once, the elder German was a spatial thinker. A theoretical physicist who could problem solve in multiple dimensions.

He’ll prove a damned difficult nut to crack , Cædmon acknowledged dispiritedly.