Another quickly barked shout of Swedish and someone ran left to right across the front of the warehouse. Crowley took a bead, then immediately, though too late, realized his mistake. Cold metal touched his temple and a gravelly voice said, “Don’t move.”
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, let his weapon drop. Idiot! He’d fallen for a decoy run. He felt like a newbie. I’m sorry, Rose, he thought.
The man with a gun to his head put a hand under Crowley’s arm and hauled him up, pushed him forward. One of the other two was checking their dead friend, while the third, a large, broad man with blond hair and a suit tight over large muscles, stepped forward.
“I should just shoot you where you stand,” he said.
Crowley shrugged. He had no answer to that.
“Karl,” the kneeling one said.
The blond man looked over and the kneeling man shook his head, said something in Swedish.
Karl looked back to Crowley, his eyes dark. “The man on the ground next to Phillipe? His name was Karol. He was a good man. He has been my friend for over twenty years. And you have killed him.”
Crowley lifted his chin. Defiant. “You lot started this! I’m only trying to get my friend back.”
“You have been more than troublesome, Mr. Jake Crowley.”
“Good.”
Karl backhanded Crowley and he tasted blood. But he refused to go down, remained standing, staring hard into Karl’s eyes. Phillipe moved to stand beside Karl, spoke again in Swedish.
Karl nodded, addressed the man still holding Crowley’s arm. That one moved away and carefully lifted Karol’s body from the ground and headed for the stairs to the offices above. A large, scarlet pool was left where Karol had lain. Crowley took a moment of perverse pleasure from it. These guys may have got the drop on him, but at least he wasn’t going down without some return damage.
“You will not die easily,” Karl said. “You will suffer for what you’ve done. And you will suffer in a uniquely relevant way.”
He turned to Phillipe and spoke rapidly in Swedish, not for a moment taking his gun away from pointing at Crowley’s chest. And he was just far enough away that Crowley couldn’t reach him. If he did lunge forward, Karl would shoot instantly and Crowley would take the shot full in the heart. He almost considered chancing it, but as he braced himself, his leg burned again. He glanced down to see his lower left trouser leg soaked in blood. He flexed the muscle a little and pain blasted up behind his knee. It didn’t feel like a terribly bad injury, a flesh wound really, but he was losing blood and it made him slow to move and a little woozy.
Scraping against the concrete floor drew his attention back and he turned to see Phillipe dragging two large metal stanchions over. He stood them about four feet apart and Karl pushed Crowley to stand between them. While Phillipe kept a gun trained on Crowley’s head, Karl stripped Crowley of his jacket and shirt, then pushed Crowley to his knees and tied his wrists high on the metalwork, leaving Crowley in a kneeling crucifix position.
“You are by now, I’m sure,” Karl said, “aware of the blood eagle torture?”
Crowley grimaced, hung his head. He cursed Karl, and Landvik, and everything that had happened since that day in the museum. This was no way to die.
“Prepare for more pain than you ever imagined,” Karl said, and Crowley felt the icy tip of a blade touch the middle of his back.
Chapter 39
Night had fallen properly by the time rough hands pushed Rose to her knees on the cool, damp grass beneath the large old tree. She struggled against the bonds that secured her wrists behind her back, but to no avail. The robed figures surrounded her, at least two of them women from the curves Rose saw pushing against the voluminous robes. Though her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the shadows were inky deep beneath the wide spreading arms of the tree under which they gathered. And perhaps it was only the fear at work, but something felt powerful in this place. The ancient tree seemed to press its age down upon them, the land itself felt soaked in history that rose to meet them like a mist.
Landvik stood before her, his hood still down, piled on shoulders, the only one to have revealed his face. It made Rose uneasy that he was unconcerned about her knowing his identity, made her fairly sure he planned to kill her after this was all done with. She imagined Crowley, maybe still in Rome, frantically trying to track her down. What must he have thought to find her gone? Had he heard the ruckus of her abduction? She had certainly tried to make enough noise to attract his attention, but now all that was academic. He could be anywhere in the world, but he wasn’t here. For that, she was strangely grateful. Crowley was, after all, simply a kind history teacher. He had a violent and difficult past, for sure, but he had retired from all that only to find himself caught up in all this. And, like a true gentleman, he had stepped up without question. Rose was pleased he wasn’t here to die with her. She didn’t want to die, of course, she would take any chance she could to escape when and if one presented itself, but she was glad Crowley remained out of danger. It offered a small comfort as Landvik approached her with a long, sharp knife in hand, glittering slightly in the wan moonlight that occasionally peeked through small gaps in the clouds.
“It is time,” Landvik said. “Try not to be afraid.”
Rose bared her teeth at him, but couldn’t bring herself to speak for fear her voice would be weak with fear.
Landvik placed a small vessel on the grass in front of her. It looked to be made of brass or bronze, strange symbols carved around its girth. The six others in the group arrayed themselves in a crescent behind Landvik as he crouched in front of Rose.
“I’m going to need a small amount of your blood,” he said, that wolfish smile still in place. He was clearly enjoying every moment of this.
“You’re mad, you know that?” Rose said. “Like, actually insane. This is the really real world, you nutter. There’s no magic, no past lives!”
Landvik, still smiling, ignoring her tirade, raised the knife.
“Don’t cut me!” Rose screamed, but Landvik held her jaw in one vice-like hand and drew the knife across her left cheekbone. The pain was sharp and electric and Rose whimpered, but Landvik’s grip was iron and he didn’t let her move.
He put the knife on the grass and lifted the bronze chalice to her face, pressed the cold lip of it to her cheek and watched intently. Rose imagined her blood leaking from the burning wound on her cheek, running into the bowl. After a moment, Landvik carefully put the chalice down again and pressed a handkerchief to her face. He held it there a moment, a look almost of apology on his face, then moved away, taking the chalice with him. One of the others stepped forward, wiped her face with something cold that stung furiously. Then a Band-Aid was carefully stuck to her cheek. She stared straight ahead throughout, ignoring their ministrations. She refused to be grateful for this small kindness given everything else they were doing to her.
Once that person returned to the group, Landvik turned to the crescent of six and held out the chalice to the first of them. Rose saw her chance, his back turned, the others watching Landvik and not her, and gathered her strength to leap to her feet and run. But even as the thought crossed her mind, Landvik turned back, pointed the knife at her. “Be still.” His voice was like a gunshot in the calmness of the night and Rose stopped short.