“Here, we can use these,” said Ajay, passing out his homemade walkie-talkies. He handed the blue electric brass knuckles to Nick. “These are for you. Push the button with your thumbs to activate the charge, which should be strong enough to take down a Cape buffalo.”
“Awesome.”
Nick slipped them into his pocket, took two steps back, then launched into a swan dive out the window. He tucked in midair and somersaulted twice. Will and Ajay rushed to the window and saw Nick land in the snowpack, roll, and hop to his feet.
“Why did he even bother getting rope?” asked Ajay.
“For us,” said Will. “After you.”
Will anchored their end. Ajay grabbed the rope and lowered himself down. When Ajay reached the end of the rope, Nick signaled him to let go. He splashed into a snowdrift. Will rappelled halfway down, untied the second rope from the first, pushed away from the building, and jumped toward Nick and Ajay. They sprawled into another deep drift, scrambled up, and brushed the snow off each other.
“Set your watches,” said Will. “We need to be in perfect sync.”
“Two-oh-eight,” said Nick. “Central Standard Chuck Norris Time.”
“Check,” said Ajay.
“We have twelve minutes,” said Will. “Here’s how this is going to go.”
He explained their assignments. Thirty seconds later, they took off running in three different directions.
OceanofPDF.com
THE PALADINS
Will had never run in snow before, and this was deep; in some nooks and hollows it piled up to his knees. Heavier and wetter than it had been earlier, it was the consistency of slick pebbled Styrofoam. His rubber-soled boots squeaked and struggled for stability with every step, costing him 30 percent of his speed. As he calculated time and distance, he realized that how he was running wasn’t going to get him where he needed to be in time.
He had to run faster. In the last week, he’d twice reached into his reserves past where he’d thought possible; now he did it again. He ignored the uncertain footing. Stopped caring about his bulky coat and lousy visibility and the cold air searing his lungs. Will accelerated, and like a hydrofoil reaching cruising speed, he lifted above the snow, running on top.
He sped past the quad, across the fields where no tracks preceded him, toward the snow-covered woods. As the eye of the blizzard passed over the Center, the wind stilled, the temperature plummeted, and a cold mist rose from the cooling ground. The snow fell straight down, a blank white curtain dancing all around him. He scanned the tree line ahead, then shot the gap onto the path he was looking for.
The path through the snow-covered trees that Will had seen in his first dream about the Center.
No footprints led to the Barn. The broad plain in front of the building was a pristine field of white. The Barn wasn’t visible through the snow and thickening fog until he was less than fifty yards away.
He checked his watch. Three minutes to spare, but he needed to give the others time to get in place. He slowed to a steady trudge. The statue near the front doors materialized through the mist, its head and limbs clumped with snow like icing on a cake. He pulled the hood of the new blue parka tight around his face until only his eyes showed.
Will had guessed there would be a hidden camera so they could verify he’d come by himself. He thought there would be a speaker as well so the Paladin could drop another clue that would lead him inside. Where’d they’d be waiting to spring their trap.
He walked up to the big bronze statue. The cold eyes stared past him. Between them he noticed a small button-sized lens just inside the mask. He waved at it. Then he waved at it again.
“You’re alone,” said the same warped and filtered voice from the instant message. With a speaker hidden inside the mask as well, it was almost like the statue was speaking.
Nice touch.
He nodded.
“And you’re on time,” said the Paladin.
He pointed to his watch and gave a thumbs-up. “What now?” he asked.
“Like I said, if you want to find me … look behind me.”
Behind the statue, the front doors to the Barn swung open. Keeping his head down, he headed for the doors. He reached into the pocket of the blue parka and flicked the button on his walkie-talkie.
“Chuck Norris to Base,” he said. “They bought it. I’m headed for a Barn dance. Going in. Over.”
If he’d looked behind him, he would have noticed a black carbon-fiber canister, about the size of a thermos, attached to a hole on the heel of the statue’s right boot. And he would have seen the head of the statue, with a fingernails-on-a-blackboard screech of wrenching metal, turn to watch him.
Ajay ran full tilt through the stable and into the riding ring, where he found Elise, alone, on her black stallion, working her way around the hunter-jumper course. Ajay waved her down, and when he’d explained—in less than one hyper-articulate minute—what had happened, where they needed to go, and how quickly they needed to get there, Elise held out her hand. Ajay took hold and she pulled him up behind her on the saddle.
“I’m not overly fond of horses,” he said, alarmed.
“Too bad for you,” said Elise. “Hold on.”
Ajay wrapped his arms around Elise’s waist—no complaints about that part of the arrangement—as she spurred the horse into a gallop. They soared over the top rail of the ring, back through the stable, then thundered out the open doors into the snow.
Ajay heard a voice crackle on the walkie-talkie in his pocket, but he was too petrified to reach for it.
* * *
A dim gray twilight filtered in from the casement windows in the Barn’s roof. They’d left the ceiling spots turned off and opened the grandstands, enclosing the practice field on all four sides. He walked between two sections of stands, across the oval running track, and onto the turf infield. The Knights appeared before he reached the center, emerging from gaps all around the grandstands.
There were six of them, wearing black sweats and masks from the locker room trunk: Clown. Devil. Fox. Horse. The tusked Wild Boar. The grinning Jack-o’-Lantern.
He slowed to buy time as the masks tightened the circle around him. They carried black metal police batons made of hard composite steel, with rubberized grips.
He slipped his right hand into the parka’s right front pocket, through the loops of Ajay’s blue metallic knuckle-duster. In his left hand he gripped the handle of the jump rope, coiled in the other pocket next to the walkie-talkie.
When his six stalkers reached the inside edge of the running track, one of the overhead lights turned on, and the masked Paladin stepped into view behind the closing circle.
“You don’t have your bodyguard this time, West,” said the Paladin in his droning filtered voice.
The walkie-talkie in the parka’s left front pocket crackled softly. It was Will. “Base to Chuck: In position. Two masks on the door. Go, dawg.”
“Wrong, Chuckles,” Nick said to the Paladin. “I’m right here.”
Nick dropped the hood and shrugged off Will’s blue parka. He raised his right hand, brandishing the knuckles, and assumed his guardian stance, alert and poised. He made eye contact with each of the masks as he turned slowly, whipping the end of the jump rope around in a tight, menacing circle.
“A little bummed at the turnout,” said Nick. “Only six? Seriously? No Benjy Franks or George W? And where, oh, where are your funky-fresh lids? I wanted to catch you guys stylin’.”
The Paladin stopped, then took a step back. The whole group slowed their advance, suddenly uncertain. Will’s plan had caught them off guard: So far, so good.