They gathered the rest of the team and briefed them on the plan to blow the gates and seize the lyre. Hawke would lead a core team into the battle while Kamala and Nikolai would maintain their position on the ridge. Here, they could monitor the enemy’s movements and stay in radio contact.
Without wasting any more time, they walked down the final slope and approached the ancient castle walls. When everyone was in position, Hawke slipped out from behind the trees and crouch-walked through the darkness with one aim in mind: blowing the front gates and creating an ingress point.
The wrought iron gates had once been black, but were now covered in a turquoise patina of rust. He worked silently and quickly in the dark, drawing on years of experience. After rapidly securing the charges on the gates, he slipped back over to the team.
“All done. Everyone ready for party time?”
“Let’s do it.”
“Get ready then,” he said. “Because when these babies go off it’s going to be like sticking your hand in a wasps’ nest.”
Gripping the remote in his hand, he pushed the button and detonated the explosives he had just fitted on the gates. The charge blew them clean off their posts and sent bent, twisted iron bars, screw, nuts and bolts flying in all directions.
The car-sized explosion lit the black night in a short orange flash and then everything went dark. A few seconds later, a series of searchlights switched on and Reaper heard the screams of shocked, terrified men scrambling to see what had happened.
“Looks like it’s on,” Hawke said.
CHAPTER NINE
Joseph Kashala was staring at the Bulgarian as he opened the bag and looked inside. The mafia man’s face tightened as he reached inside and pulled out his treasure. Holding the lyre for the first time, his hands began to tremble.
He passed it over to a rotund, short man with ruddy cheeks and a messy bird’s nest of greying brown hair on his head. The man took the lyre in his hands and began to study it carefully. It was the right weight, shape and size but countless centuries on the seabed had eroded it and some of the ornamental carvings and embossed lettering had deteriorated badly.
“Well, Dr Parvanov?” Dimitrov said. “You are a leading authority in this field. Is it authentic?”
“I believe so.”
Dimitrov strolled to his window and surveyed the peace and quiet outside. To the south, the moon was shining on the tops of the fir trees in his beloved wolf enclosure. Stepping out onto the balcony he listened for the beautiful sound of them howling, but there was nothing but the wind in the eaves overhanging the balcony.
Perhaps they were feeding.
Walking back inside, he fixed his eyes on Parvanov. “You’re certain?”
“As certain as I can be at this time, but I will need time in a lab to make an official authentication.”
“Perhaps later,” he said. “There is no time for that now.”
Parvanov dipped his head slightly in respect. “As you wish, but at least allow me to continue studying it by eye.”
“Of course.”
“And now you give us our money,” Kashala said. He and his men had finished loading their trucks in the courtyard and were keen to get out of here. “One million dollars each.”
Dimitrov looked over at him. “Or perhaps you would like to earn some more?”
“Doing what?”
“Acquiring the lyre was merely the beginning of the story, General Kashala. At this precise moment in time, this harmless-looking bronze instrument is just about the most dangerous thing on the planet. If you want to see how the story ends, you will need to accept my offer and offer your protective services to me for a few more days.”
They were standing in the Bulgarian’s private apartment at the top of the castle, and now Dimitrov walked over to an antique drinks’ cabinet. Unscrewing the cap off the top of a bottle of expensive single malt whisky, he raised an empty glass in front of the Congolese general’s face and gave it a little shake. “Can I buy you a drink while you think about it?”
Kashala took the whisky and downed it in one. “What do you mean when you say it’s the most dangerous thing on the planet? It looks like a load of old junk to me.”
Mukendi and Demotte laughed and shared a high-five. When Kashala turned and glared at them they shrank back into the shadows.
“This lyre belonged to Orpheus, General.”
“So you have said.”
“And Orpheus was one of the only people ever in history to go to Hades and make the return journey.”
Kashala stepped forward, took the whisky bottle from Dimitrov’s hand and poured a triple shot into his glass. Tossing the bottle back at his men, Crombez caught it in one hand, took a long swig and passed it along.
“Go on.”
“It was my contention that this lyre would lead me to Hades. Upon inspecting it, I can now tell you that I am certain it will do that.”
Kashala sneered. “That thing will lead us to Hades?”
Dimitrov nodded again and fought the smirk on his face. “And just imagine that.”
“Wait a minute,” Chumbu called out. “Hades is hell, right?”
The mercenaries shared a silent, dark look with each other, each one determined not to look fazed by the subject. Demotte shrugged. Crombez rubbed a rag over the muzzle of his submachine gun. Mukendi laughed and slapped his thigh. “Whatever its name is, I can’t wait to go there.”
“It has many names,” the Bulgarian said. “Hell is merely one.”
Block took a slug of the whisky and coughed. “And why would anyone want to go to hell?”
“In the spirit of adventure?” Dimitrov said.
Kashala was unimpressed with the answer. Jabbing him in the middle of his chest with a thick, meaty finger, he made his point. “You tell me why you want to go there, and no more bullshit.”
“In the markets of Ankara, I once chanced upon an ancient manuscript written by Orpheus himself. In these he refers many times to a very violent and terrible power in the Underworld. I would like to acquire that power.”
“What power?”
The tense conversation was ended abruptly by a loud explosion, followed by the hard metal report of gunfire echoing up from the courtyard below.
A startled Dimitrov looked at Kashala. “What the hell is that?”
The Congolese man padded to the window. If he felt an ounce of fear he wasn’t showing it. Peering down, he said casually, “Mercs.”
“What the hell are they doing here?” Dimitrov said. “I thought I ordered you to kill Jagger and his whole team?”
“And we did, Mafia Man. This is another team. I don’t recognize them.”
Crombez glanced outside and saw the team streaming into the courtyard. They had blown the gates and were now firing on Dimitrov’s men. “I know one of them. His name is Reno. He works with a team called ECHO.”
Kashala looked anxious for the first time. “As in Joe Hawke?”
Crombez nodded.
“That spells trouble,” Kashala muttered. “But we can take them.”
Dimitrov snatched up the lyre and gripped it to his chest. “Whoever it is, you are to kill them all.”
“Who says we work for you?” Kashala said. “By my count, you still owe me and the rest of my team a million dollars each.”
More gunfire from below. Dimitrov heard his men screaming in Bulgarian as the invaders cut through them like a hot knife through butter.
“A million more for each man to kill this team and come with me to Hades.”
Kashala took his sweet time. Gunfire didn’t rattle him and never had, no matter how close it was when he heard it. After working some figures through his mind he spoke without a glance at any of his men. “We will do it. We will go to hell with you, Mafia Man.”