Page 98 of The Medici Return

He’d try again, first thing tomorrow.

CHAPTER 67

COTTON HOPED THE FIRE ALARM HAD THE DESIRED EFFECT ANDroused everyone inside the monastery from their sleep. The more the better. He was counting on the lay brother who’d allowed them inside to be working alone, and that he could find some allies among the remaining residents.

He led the way as he and Richter hustled back toward the front of the complex, past the door where they’d first entered the vaulted storeroom. Their car was parked in front, outside the church in the main courtyard. Get there and they had a chance of outrunning any pursuers. Across the cloister he heard another door open. Through the dimness he spotted three men rush out, headed their way.

Fast.

Richter saw them too and asked, “What do we do?”

No question. “Into the church and let’s get out of here. No time for pleasantries.”

The iron lock clicked open on the first try and he shoved the leaden oak door inward, then closed it. No lock was on the inside. The three men would be there in a less than fifteen seconds. Friend or foe? No time to find out. They turned into the center aisle and headed for the main doors at the far end. The iron latch on thedoor behind them engaged. Was it the Golden Oakers? Or the others they’d seen? They would not make it out before company arrived. He searched the darkness and spotted the stairs he’d seen earlier to the right. A pallid glow strained from below.

He headed for them.

“Where are we going?” Richter asked, trying to catch his breath.

He pointed. “Down there.”

They descended into the crypt, a cold cloud of worry filling him. An iron gate opened into a three-naved wide space. The ceiling was low-vaulted, a small rectangular altar niche to the right. Three medieval stone sarcophagi topped with immense slabs of carved granite lined the center. The only break in the darkness came from a tiny yellow light near the altar that illuminated only a few square feet. The rest of the space remained in shadows, the air stale, fetid, and noticeably chiller.

Footsteps bounded across the marble floor above.

His eyes, alert and watchful, shot to the top of the low vault not two feet from the crown of his head. He signaled for quiet and led Richter across the crypt into the far nave. He handed over the pledge, gripped the Beretta, and searched the darkness. In a small apse about twenty feet away he saw the image of an iron candelabrum. He crept over. The ornament stood about five feet tall, a solitary wax candle, about four inches thick, rising from the center. He grabbed the stem. Heavy. And brought both back with him to where Richter stood. He handed over the candle.

“Use it if you have to,” he whispered.

He turned to leave but Richter grabbed him and mouthed, “Where are you going?”

“Over there. Stay here and keep still.”

He slipped across, taking a position behind another of the pillars. He was armed and could shoot his way out, if need be. But no sense killing or maiming anybody tonight. Not unless absolutely necessary. Instead, he slipped the gun back at his spine against his belt and gripped the iron candelabrum.

Someone started down the steps to the crypt.

He peered around the edge, past the tombs, through the blackness. The tiny altar light offered little assistance, but he was glad for the cover. He was galvanized into action, his emotions alternating between calm and excitement, his body alive with a strange kind of energy that always clarified his thoughts.

Bad decisions.

That was what got you killed.

Like the one the man at the base of the stairs was making.

The silhouette crept in. He tightened his grip on the iron stem and cocked his arms back. He knew he had to get the man away from Richter, so he ground the sole of his right shoe into the grit on the floor. A quick glance around the pillar confirmed that the shadow was now moving toward him.

His muscles tensed.

He silently counted to five, clenched his teeth, then lunged, swinging the candelabrum. He caught the man square in the chest, sending the shadow back onto one of the Romanesque tombs. He tossed the iron aside and swung his fist hard into the man’s face. His pursuer shot up and pounced. He was just about to punch again when the opaque shadow of the candle swooped out of the darkness and slammed into the nape of the man’s neck. There was a groan, then the form doubled over. He kicked at the man’s midsection and the assailant went down for good.

“Not bad,” he whispered, realizing what Richter had done.

“It looked like you needed help.”

Another set of footsteps bounded down and into the crypt. He shoved Richter behind the pillar and peered around the edge. The newcomer stopped his advance, taking up a position behind the farthest tomb, between them and the only way out.

The time for playing nice was over.

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