The colonel said the same thing. Except he went one step further. He said God understood what it was like to be a warrior, to come home from a hard-fought battle only to have to fend off the devil.
Colonel Stan MacFarlane was a great and good man, and Boyd owed him. Big-time. Not just for saving his ass, but for showing him the Way. For leading him into God’s fold. And when the little dick bastards at the Pentagon drummed that great and good man out of the Corps, Boyd went with him.
Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd scanned the crowd, his nose twitching at the faint smell of stir-fried chink food.
The Miller bitch was here. Somewhere in the jostling crowd.
Soon enough he’d find her. And when he did, it’d be like shooting ragheads in a rain barrel.
CHAPTER 13
“. . . The story of the Ark of the Covenant is an operatic drama played out on the stage of the biblical Holy Land,” Caedmon continued in answer to Edie Miller’s question.
“‘Operatic’? Don’t you think you’re laying it on a bit thick?” his companion sardonically remarked.
“Not in the least. As you undoubtedly know, the Ark of the Covenant, or aron habrit in Hebrew, was an ornate chest that was roughly four feet long, two and a half feet wide, and two and half feet high”—as he spoke, Caedmon spanned his hands first in one direction, then the other, approximating the proportions in midair—“inlaid with hammered gold. But what you may not know is that the Ark of the Covenant was constructed exactly like an Egyptian bark.”
“Like the gold boxes that I saw last year at the King Tut exhibit, right?”
“Right down to the gold rim on the lid and the winged figures which adorned the top cover. Furthermore, the Egyptian bark and the Ark of the Covenant both had the same purpose: to contain their respective deities.”
Her brow furrowed. “But I thought the Ark of the Covenant was a container for the Ten Commandments. What are you saying, that the Ark of the Covenant was some kind of magical God-in-the-box, like in that movie Raiders of the Lost Ark?”
Caedmon chuckled, amused by the question. “Just as the sacred Egyptian bark contained the might and majesty of Aten, so, too, the Ark of the Covenant contained the power and glory of Yahweh. And once contained, the only means by which to control all that cosmic power was for the high priest to shield himself with the Stones of Fire.”
Raising her steaming cup to her lips, Edie took several moments to digest what he’d just said. As she did, Caedmon surveyed the throng of museum patrons. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; his eyes took passing note of a man pushing a wheelchair-bound octogenarian, a custodian pushing a yellow bucket, and a harried mother pushing a covered pram. Briefly he noticed two youths, one fuchsia-haired, the other a tiger-stripe, locked in a passionate embrace in front of the massive glass wall that fronted a cascading waterfall.
“Okay, we know what happened to the breastplate; it was confiscated by Nebuchadnezzar, hidden in Babylon, and recently rediscovered and smuggled out of Iraq,” Edie said, drawing his attention back to the table. “But what happened to the Ark of the Covenant?”
Ah, a woman after his own heart, the topic long a favorite of his.
“At some point after the construction of Solomon’s famous temple, the Ark of the Covenant disappeared from the pages of the Bible. Whether it was captured, destroyed, or hidden, its current whereabouts are unknown.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Yeah, well, I seem to recall you saying the same thing about the Stones of Fire, but the breastplate managed to mysteriously turn up. And because of it, you and I are now in serious danger.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Caedmon noticed that the custodian pushing the yellow bucket had suddenly broken ranks and was headed in their direction.
Odd that the man was wearing military-style combat boots.
Even more odd that the man was built like a Bristol rugger bugger.
He was big. Really, really big. Steroid big.
Recalling Edie’s earlier description of Padgham’s killer, Caedmon felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck.
“I am beginning to concur with your assessment,” he murmured, his eyes still trained on the custodial giant, watching as the man removed his right hand from the mop handle and reached behind his back.
In that instant, Caedmon saw the flash of a silver ring. In the next instant, he caught the dark flash of—He squinted, bringing the object into focus. Bloody hell! The man had a gun!
CHAPTER 14
There being no time to think, Caedmon shoved the bistro table aside and hurled himself at Edie Miller, flinging both of them to the floor in one strong-armed motion.
The bullet struck the upturned table and ricocheted off the stone top. With his female companion in tow, he scooted behind a nearby column. The second bullet went ping! as it struck a metal planter less than a meter from their huddled position.
A woman in the crowd frantically screamed.
A man gruffly shouted, “He’s got a gun!”
Yet another man yelled, “It’s a fucking terrorist!”
Several other people joined the chorus, a cacophony of fear.
Not waiting for the third bullet, Caedmon went on the offensive. Stretching his right arm, he placed his hand on the back of a wheeled busboy’s cart parked to the side of the column. With a mighty heave, he propelled the cart forward. Dirty plates, stacked in a plastic tub on top of the cart, crashed to the floor. A smashing diversion.
Catching sight of the motion, the gunman spun on his heel, reflexively firing a third round. The bullet hit the sheet of clear glass that contained the cascading water fountain; the safety glass shattered on contact. Almost immediately, water gushed into the concourse.
Chaos quickly ensued, people running pell-mell in every direction.
Armor-piercing bullets, Caedmon thought, horrified. The man was using bloody armor-piercing bullets.
Edie, flattened beneath the weight of his body, shrieked in his ear. Raising his head, Caedmon scanned the panic-stricken crowd, searching for the armed behemoth.
The gunman was nowhere in sight. All that remained was the yellow bucket, a wooden mop handle protruding from its murky depths. He’d fled the scene. Or he’d moved to a different firing position. Either way, they had but mere seconds to escape the concourse.
He pushed himself to his knees, yanking Edie off the floor as he did so.
“What’s happening?” she asked in a strangled voice.
“Padgham’s murderer has just paid his respects.”
“Oh, God! We’re not going to get out of here alive!”
Suddenly concerned that he might soon have a hysterical woman on his hands, Caedmon roughly grabbed her by the shoulders. “We will escape. But only if you remain calm and do exactly as I say. Understood?” When he received no answer, he shook her. Hard. “Understood?”
She nodded. Satisfied with the mute reply—her input unnecessary and unwanted—he surveyed the damage. The frenzied swarm, some running, many crouched on the concourse floor, had become a shouting, screaming mass of collective hysteria. A Bosch painting come to life.