“Yes,” Grey said hastily. “I believe, God help me, I believe, but—”
With a snarl, Santoro withdrew the knife and with his free hand grabbed Grey’s shoulder and spun him violently around.
“God may believe you, but you are a piece of shit in the eyes of the Goddess!” Santoro wore a black mask, but through the eyeholes his eyes blazed with dark fire. He then snatched Grey’s right hand and slapped the knife into his sweating palm.
Grey sputtered with confusion and looked dumbly down at the vicious weapon he held. It had a six-inch double-edged blade and a handle wrapped in red silk thread. It looked as much like a tool of ritual as it did an instrument of destruction.
“Do you know what faith is, Dr. Grey?” Santoro asked quietly. When Grey shook his head, the small man smiled. “Faith is my shield; it is the armor that covers my flesh and soul. I am a man of faith, Dr. Grey. I know that the Goddess protects me. I know that she has forged me into her sword.”
“I … I … ,” was all that Grey could manage.
“If you are a true man of faith, Dr. Grey, then you will believe that the Goddess lives in you. Use that faith. Prove its existence to me and to yourself. Cut me.”
Grey looked at the weapon in his hand. His face twisted into a mask of horror as if he held a squirming scorpion.
“Do it,” insisted Santoro.
“I—can’t … No …”
“Do it or I will go into the house and find young Mikey and show him the knife. Would you like that, Dr. Grey? Would you like to watch? I will leave you one eye so that you can see it, and I will leave you most of your tongue so that you can scream. You will want to scream.”
Grey suddenly stabbed at the small man. He saw his hand move before he felt his muscles flex, the dagger point glittering as it tore through the shadows toward Santoro’s smiling mouth.
But Santoro was not there.
In the gloom of the garage he became a blur. He pivoted on one foot and shifted so that the stabbing knife pierced only empty air. His hands flashed out, striking and striking and striking, the movements unspeakably fast, the blows hideously powerful. He struck Grey in the groin and the floating ribs and the solar plexus and the throat. Santoro pivoted like a dancer and struck Grey in the kidneys and tailbone and between the shoulders. Then the scientist was falling, falling, all in a fractured second. His arm still reached for the stab, but his body crumpled within the cocoon of blows.
He collapsed onto the cold concrete floor of the garage, gagging, gasping for air with lungs that seemed incapable of drawing a spoonful of breath. His mouth worked like a dying fish, making only the faintest squeaks.
Santoro stood above him, composed, relaxed, not even breathing hard. He knelt and picked up the knife, cleaned away the surface smudges on Grey’s shirtsleeve, and stood. The knife vanished into its hidden sheath beneath Santoro’s jacket.
“When you can breathe again,” he said, “I suggest you spend some time on your knees. Pray to the Goddess, yes? Pray for forgiveness for the sin of doubt.”
He bent over and knotted his fingers in Grey’s hair and jerked the man’s head viciously back.
“And pray that I forgive you. Pray that I will leave young Mikey alone. And intact.”
Grey managed to squeeze a single word out of his tortured throat.
“Please …”
Santoro bent closer still, lips against Grey’s cheek. “Will you do what you have promised to do?”
Grey nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes!” Grey gasped weakly. Tears streamed down his face. “Yes … .”
Santoro opened his fingers and let Grey slump to the floor. “We will be watching, Dr. Grey. When you do what you have promised, you will have help.”
Grey raised his head at that. “H-help?”
“At work. You will not have to do this alone. You are never alone.”
As the reality of that sank in, Grey buried his face in the crook of one arm and wept.
When he stopped sobbing and looked up, Santoro was gone.
Chapter Eight
Park Place Riverbank Hotel
London, England
December 17, 11:43 A.M. GMT
I went back to my hotel to change clothes. My dog, Ghost, met me at the door with a tail that stopped wagging as soon as he smelled me. Shepherds have extremely expressive faces, especially the white ones, and Ghost gave me a “hey, even I don’t roll in stuff that smells that bad” look; then he lay down with great dignity in front of the TV and licked his balls.
I stripped and showered the stink of oily smoke from my skin and hair, and then leaned my forehead against the wet tiles and tried not to think about what was inside that smoke. Four thousand people. That was the current estimate.
I cranked up the hot water and tried to boil the reality of that out of me.
Four thousand.
God.
I have a little bit of religion. Not much, but enough to make me believe that there’s something bigger than all of this, and some reason that we’re all struggling through it. But on days like this, my faith takes a real beating. Or maybe it’s not my faith in God that gets pummeled. Probably it’s faith in my fellow man. I know I’m more than half-crazy, but it takes a whole lot of batshit insanity to want to blow up four thousand people. In the three and a half million years since our furry forebears started walking upright we’ve had more than enough time to clean up our act and get the Big Picture. The fact that we’re still killing one another doesn’t speak to an inherent ignorance or perceptual deficiency in the species. We do know better, so stuff like today is pure, deliberate evil. There’s no religion, ideology, viewpoint, or political exigency that can justify mass slaughter of the innocent. Not one.
Feeling bitter and hurt by what was happening, I toweled off, dressed in my least wrinkled suit, ran a brush through my hair, and headed for the door. I was expected at Barrier headquarters for a briefing. Ghost was sitting in my path.
“You’re not coming,” I said.
He cocked an eyebrow. I don’t know if that’s something all dogs do or if Zan Rosin, the DMS K9 trainer, had taught Ghost the trick just to piss me off. I suspected that it was both.
“Move.”
Ghost did. He got up and moved closer to the door. He sat down again and looked up at me with the biggest, saddest brown eyes in town.
We had this argument a lot. He usually won.
He did this time, too.
Chapter Nine
Barrier Headquarters
London, England
December 17, 12:21 P.M. GMT
The entrance to Barrier was via the Vermin Control Office. Cute.
I produced my credentials and a separate set for Ghost. The receptionist barely batted an eye at the eighty-five-pound shepherd at my side. A rat-faced man who looked very much like he worked for “vermin” control came and led us through a series of interlocking offices until we finally emerged into the actual offices of Barrier. When we’re out in public Ghost plays the role like he was trained. He walks to one side and slightly behind me, head up, ears swiveling like radar dishes, nose scooping in trace particles of everything around him. A well-trained dog is a wonderful companion. Loyal, smart, and they don’t talk.
“Captain Ledger?”
I turned as a tall, hawk-faced man came striding across the lobby toward me.
The man looked like a typical ex-military: thin, with great posture and eyes that were fifty degrees colder than his smiling mouth. I figured him for ex-SAS and maybe ex-MI6. He looked to be about sixty-five, but I’ll bet he could give me a run for my money over an obstacle course.