C. Palov - Ark of Fire

In truth, he’d given it scant consideration, focusing, instead, on deciphering the quatrains.

“I mean, do we hand it over to a museum? Or do we give it to a church or synagogue?”

“Perhaps we should wait until we find the Ark before consigning it to a second party,” he evasively answered.

“Or maybe you intend to keep the Ark for yourself,” she pressed, refusing to let the matter drop. “Fodder for your next book.”

“Bloody hell! I must have talked in my sleep.”

“I’m serious, Caedmon. So far, you’ve refused to give me a satisfactory answer as to why we’re on this insane quest.”

“I believe you’ve just hammered the nail square on the head. It is a quest, is it not? Like a knight of old, I seek knowledge and enlightenment.”

“Oh, puh- leeze .” Her voice fairly dripped with derision. “Henceforth, Sir Gawain, I would appreciate it if you gave me a straight answer rather than a canned sound bite.”

Caedmon inwardly cringed at the comparison. In later Grail legends, Sir Gawain, possessed of a singular arrogance, failed to grasp the holy import of the quest. He suspected that Edie had purposely plucked the name from the Round Table cast.

“All I’m saying is that we need to give this a little forethought before rushing off like a pair of fools into the great unknown. And what about MacFarlane and his holy warriors?” She stared at him, clearly apprehensive. “What happens if we run into them while wandering around in Godmersham?”

Although most fringe groups were all mouth and no trousers, he knew MacFarlane’s group to be the exception to the rule.

“Rather than succumbing to fearful scenarios, let’s concentrate on finding the blasted Ark.”

A pronounced silence ensued. Uncomfortable, he feigned an interest in the passing shop windows.

“We can always go to the police,” Edie suggested, the first to break the unnerving quietude.

“And promptly be accused of two murders we didn’t commit.” He forcefully shook his head. “We can’t go to the authorities unless the situation absolutely warrants it.”

“And who gets to make that call, you or me?”

“We’re a team, are we not?” As he spoke, he slung an arm around her shoulders, marrying trunks, hips, and thighs, one to the other. “‘She winters and keeps warm her note,’” he murmured into her ear, reciting the lyric from an old English song.

Edie wrapped an arm around his waist. Turning her face upward, she smiled. “Yeah, I’m with you. I much prefer to make love than war.”

CHAPTER 50

Oh, man, he wanted to fuck her.

So bad his johnson had been standing on end for the last couple of hours. Ever since, with his peephole video camera shoved against the hotel room door, he’d had a front-row seat on what turned out to be an unbelievable fuck fest.

At first he’d been pissed that he’d been given the graveyard surveillance shift. Small wonder Sanchez had been grinning when he relieved him of duty. Who the hell would have thought the curly-haired bitch had the moves of an experienced whore? It’d been all he could do not to hump himself against the adjoining hotel door like a Pakistani raghead in an Islamabad alleyway.

The colonel was fond of saying, “When lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin. And sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.” The Bible verse helped keep his lusts in check. Usually.

Placing a hand over his crotch, Boyd Braxton rearranged his equipment.

A shopkeeper hauling a bucket of flowers behind a plate glass window glared at him. He glared right back and continued on his merry way, Aisquith and the woman one block ahead of him. The streets were practically empty of pedestrian traffic, so shadowing them was a piece of cake. Besides, the redheaded Brit was too intent on whispering sweet nothings into the bitch’s ear to even realize he had a tail on his six.

On account of the audio surveillance, he knew they were headed to the local bus depot. His job was to head them off at the pass, grateful for the chance to redeem himself after the goat-fuck four days ago in D.C.

He adjusted his stride, quickening the pace.

As he did, his heart excitedly pounded against his breastbone.

He couldn’t wait for the takedown. Knowing it would happen in ten, nine, eight . . .

CHAPTER 51

Craning her neck to examine a storefront window display, Edie caught a sudden flash of movement reflected in the plate glass.

She turned her head. First stunned, then shocked.

It was Dr. Padgham’s killer. No more than twenty feet behind them.

Without thinking, she pivoted on her booted heel, placed both hands on Caedmon’s shoulder and shoved him as hard as possible. Right off the curb and into High Street.

“Caedmon, run!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, realizing too late that she’d pushed him directly in front of an oncoming vehicle.

Car horns blared. Tires screeched.

Deciding that Caedmon would be safer in the roadway than in the killer’s line of fire, she took off running, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder.

As hoped for, the killer, forced to choose between the two of them, decided to pursue her rather than Caedmon.

Up ahead, Edie caught sight of an aproned man pushing a wheeled handcart loaded with cardboard boxes. A second later, he disappeared into a building that fronted High Street. Without thinking, she followed the delivery guy, surprised to discover that the entry led to an indoor shopping arcade, its narrow corridors snaking out in several directions. As if he’d vanished into a big, black hole, the delivery guy was nowhere in sight.

Not so Padgham’s killer; the behemoth had followed her into the shopping arcade.

Edie willed her legs to move that much faster as she veered down a deserted corridor. All of the shops were closed, their darkened windows decked out in Christmas greenery. Pet supplies. Home accessories. Jewelry. Leather goods. It all passed in a blurry flash.

Hearing a heavy footfall directly behind her, Edie, frantic, grabbed a carousel of Christmas cards that had been wedged into the doorway of a closed gift shop. With a yank, she hurled it to the ground, spilling the cards willy-nilly onto the floor. Roadblock erected, she kept on running.

A second later, she heard a muttered curse. Then a crash. Evidently, her assailant had slipped on a greeting card.

Good. She hoped the bastard broke his neck.

Catching sight of what looked to be plucked and trussed birds hanging from a wall, she ran in that direction, making a sharp left when she reached the poultry shop. The course adjustment took her down a different corridor, this one well lit. Several shops—a greengrocer, a coffee emporium, and a butcher—were actually open for early-morning business, although paying customers were few and far between. And the ones that were afoot gave no notice to the harried woman running past.

On the periphery of her senses, she became aware of an almost nauseating swirl of fused scents—Stilton cheese, ground coffee, fresh meat. As though a hundred years of smells had coalesced into one uniquely weird odor. She opened her mouth and gulped down a breath of air.

Which is when she ran headlong into a pimply-faced, tattooed youth carrying a wooden box of iced fish.

“Silly cow!” the teen bellowed as iridescent fish and white blobs of crushed ice arced through the air, pelting him on the head and shoulders. A scatologically detailed rant immediately ensued.

Managing to stay afoot after the collision, Edie muttered an apology as she sprinted forward. Her energy flagging, her leg muscles now protested each and every forward stride. And she didn’t have to turn her head to know that her assailant was fast closing in on her, the collision with the fishmonger voiding whatever gains she’d made.