"Robes are out of style, Greenwood. I read that Hitler used to dress up when he was little. Are you carrying on the tradition? Didn't you get enough play time in mommy's clothes?"
Greenwood's face reddened. He stepped forward and slapped her, hard. Selena's head slammed back against the wall.
"Go to your place, Frederick. We begin."
Blood trickled from Selena's mouth. Greenwood stood in front of the carved chair. The others took their seats. From his robe, Greenwood withdrew a book. The cover was black, emblazoned with the SS insignia in silver. He began reading aloud in a slow and measured cadence. It took Selena a moment to realize he was speaking in the old Germanic tongue, the language of the runes. A ripple of fear moved through her as she recognized the ritual Arslanian had encoded on his flash drive. The torches flickered.
Nick, she thought, where the hell are you?
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Nick's ear felt like it was on fire. Selena would never be late like this. He couldn't raise her.
Lamont, Ronnie, Stephanie and Nick were in a McDonald's in downtown DC. It was a safe bet no one would look for them there. Even so, Ronnie had his black box out. It sat in the middle of the cardboard containers of hamburgers and fries. It was going on 8:40. Selena was over an hour and a half late.
Stephanie said, "I got the trace on the email to Dysart. About commanding him. It's Greenwood. We were right about him. He's the one running the show."
It was Halloween, the last night of October. A scattering of teens in bizarre costumes sat at tables nearby. Across the room, four sullen bikers in leather jackets and dirty jeans eyed Stephanie. Lamont gave them a cold look. They went back to whatever they'd been talking about.
Nick dipped a fry in ketchup, set it down. The slick surface of the table felt cold under his fingers.
"Selena's in trouble." It was a physical feeling, a bad feeling.
Stephanie's phone rang. She answered, listened, disconnected.
"That was someone I sent to her hotel. They found a waiter stuffed in a maintenance closet on Selena's floor, unconscious. His uniform was missing. Her key was still in the door slot of the room. Someone's grabbed her."
Nick felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.
"Where would they take her?" Ronnie ate the last bite of his Big Mac.
"I can think of one way to find out," Nick said. "We grab Greenwood. He'll know." He thought about how he would question him. "I can persuade him to tell us."
"Back to his house?"
"Yes."
Stephanie glanced over at a teen dressed as a vampire.
Her face paled. "Nick! That rite Heydrich wrote down. It's Halloween. In the old religions, it was the most powerful night for magic. A night of sacrifice."
It registered on everyone at the same time.
"Selena. They're going to sacrifice her, perform that ritual." Nick crushed the plastic cup of soda he held in his hand.
"There can't be much time," Ronnie said. "I've got my stash in the Hummer."
Ronnie's black Hummer had a concealed compartment in the back. He had weapons, ammunition and a variety of useful things for an emergency.
Nick nodded. "You, me and Lamont. Someone has to work the political and legal angles if this goes bad." He turned to Stephanie. "That's you, Steph."
She set her coffee down. "Gee, I love being Director." She looked at them. "Well, what are you waiting for?"
An hour later they were down the street from Greenwood's home. A tall hedge ran all along the front of the property. There were lights on in the house. One upstairs behind drawn blinds. One on the ground floor.
They'd changed into black clothing and body armor. They had pistols and silenced MP-5s.
Ronnie had brought a tranquilizer gun. Silent, auto loading three rounds, designed for use on humans, it featured a fast acting nerve agent that took the target down on the spot. The target got violently sick when he woke up but that was better than being dead.
A half dozen cars lined the circular drive in front of Greenwood's house. There was a meeting going on inside.
Carter scanned the drive with night vision binoculars. "There are two guards in suits by the entrance," he said. "What do you think, Ronnie?"
"If Earlston is inside, the suits could be Secret Service. Maybe we need to go easy."
"Okay, we'll trank 'em."
The moon was hidden, blanked out by thick, dark clouds. The night was black as Hades. They got out of the car, shadows in the darkness. They worked their way along Greenwood's hedge. They listened for signs of alarm. Dogs, a neighbor's voice, anything. There was only the whisper of a chill night breeze in the leaves of the hedge.
They came to the driveway entrance. One of the guards yawned and looked at his watch. Ronnie aimed and there was a soft hiss. The guard grunted and dropped to the ground. His partner turned toward the sound. Ronnie fired again and the second man crumpled to the grass. The team ran to the house.
Nick laid his hand on one of the cars. The hood was warm. There was cigarette smoke on the night air. Nick went to the end of the house and risked a glance around the corner. Halfway down, a figure leaned against the wall, smoking. No suit. He was dressed in black and had a MAC-10 slung under his arm. The man dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his foot. He began walking toward the front of the house.
Nick signaled. One coming this way. They faded into the bushes. The guard turned the corner and passed in front of Ronnie. The tranquilizer gun spat and he went down. Lamont turned him over.
Black paramilitary uniform, military haircut. Silenced MAC, fully loaded. A scar on his face. No ID. Definitely not Secret Service.
A silent, dark shape launched itself from the night and knocked Lamont down. Lamont jammed his arm between jaws trying to tear out his throat. They rolled on the ground and Lamont struggled to draw his knife. There was a strangled yelp and the dog convulsed and died. It was a large German Shepherd.
Lamont wiped the blade and sheathed the knife. His sleeve was torn and blood stained the ripped fabric.
"Waste of a good dog," he said under his breath. "They must have cut his vocal cords. I hate it when someone trains a dog like that."
They ran to the back door. A few seconds and they were in. An alarm box mounted on the wall blinked green. Another stupid mistake. Someone had failed to set the alarms.
They were in a laundry room. A night light burned over the washer/dryer. The door from the room opened into a dark kitchen. The crash of ice dropping into the bin of an icemaker sent Nick into a crouch, gun high by his cheek. A hallway led to the front of the house, where light spilled over from the living room.
He signaled with his hand. First him, then Ronnie, then Lamont. They nodded. They crept down the hall, the rubber soles on their shoes silent on the wooden floor.
Nick didn't like houses where someone might start shooting at you. Corners you couldn't see around. Stairs leading to God knew what. Closets and crannies and rooms and doors, and every one of them could hide someone waiting to kill you.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. There was no sound of conversation, nothing to indicate where the people from those cars were meeting.
It wasn't in the living room. Two men waited there, crouched behind furniture on different sides of the room.
Nick saw their reflection in a glass picture frame on the wall. He signaled Lamont and Ronnie. Two hostiles, right and left. Wait.
He slipped back to the kitchen and picked up a cushion from a stool next to the counter. The men in the living room had to be on an adrenaline trip wire. Back in the hall, he signaled the others and threw the cushion up and out and into the room. The Macs opened up, shredding the cushion to confetti. Nick and Ronnie reached around the walls and fired to both sides, then came through the opening low and firing.