I nodded. "Who wants to lay it?"
Rog was already rummaging in Boney's pack.
"Not too much," I said. "Maybe the explosion will be muffled by the stone walls. In any case, we'll have to get inside very quickly after it blows."
Pete and I watched as Rog rolled out four strips of the explosive, and then molded them around the frame till they joined up. He pushed a detonator in and set the radio- controlled fuse. He ran back and we retreated behind the cars, an old Land Rover and a Citroen minivan. That made me wonder how many were in the opposition team.
"Ready?" Rog asked.
Boney and I nodded, then put our fingers in our ears. Rog pressed the button on the control unit. There was an explosion that wasn't as loud as I'd expected-the walls must have absorbed a lot of the noise. When I looked up, I saw the remains of the panel hanging down.
"Nice one, Dodger," I said, getting up and running toward the hole. Dust and smoke were still rising when I reached it. I pulled myself over the rough edge and dropped into the tower. It was dark as the devil's armpit, but I couldn't hear any of the sounds people usually make after explosions, such as loud screaming or shouted orders. I moved aside as the others came through.
"What now?" Pete asked. He shone his torch around the square area. There was no furniture or anything else in it, just bare stone walls and a few arrow slits. Stone projections showed where the castle's upper floors would have once been. The only direction to go was down.
"There," Pete said, pointing to a large flagstone that had initially looked the same as the others. There was a small indentation on the right side, and in it had been fixed a well-disguised steel ring.
I went over and got two fingers under the ring. Then I looked at the others. "Ready?"
"Let's roll," Pete said, brandishing his pistol.
Rog shook his head in disbelief. "Just do it, Matt."
I nodded. "Lights out."
We switched the torches off. In the darkness, I braced my back and heaved.
The stone panel came up with surprising ease.
Now came the difficult part.
Andy had been using the vibration of the van, which was being driven at high speed again, to help him edge his fingers around the small knife. Finally he managed to grip it and slide it out of his pocket. Now he had to be seriously careful-if he dropped it, he'd lost the game. After a struggle with his damaged nails, at last he succeeded in levering the blade out. He stopped to rest his quivering fingers, then started to saw through the ropes that had been looped tight around his wrists. He felt the point jab into his skin several times and blood began to run, but he was glad he always kept the knife sharp-that meant he got his hands free quickly. He removed the gag and breathed deeply through his mouth. Then he cut through the bonds on his ankles and then stretched his legs without standing up-he wasn't sure if his shape might be visible in the rearview mirror. Besides, his only chance was to play possum until Sara or the old woman got close. He flexed his fingers and toes, feeling the pain of his blood circulation returning to normal. It was a good pain.
He was about to lean over the motorbike and see who was wrapped in the blankets when the van decelerated and took a left turn. Only a few seconds later, it pulled into the side and the engine was killed. Andy heard the driver's door open, followed soon after by the rear doors. The interior lights came on in the cargo space. He was leaning forward, feigning unconsciousness and waiting until his captor came close. When he heard movement on the other side of the bike, he opened one eye slightly and saw the back of a figure wearing black leathers. He took a deep breath and decided to go for it, in case the person he assumed was Sara was about to harm the other captive.
Andy launched himself over the motorbike, one arm whipping around the biker's neck. It was then that he realized he might have screwed up. Sara was still wearing her helmet. She was also in good shape, pushing back hard and almost loosening his grip. But he wasn't standing for that. With his free hand, he raised the knife and jammed it into her upper arm. That brought a yell of pain, then an elbow in his chest. He concentrated on moving the knife as much as the leather would allow and forgot about the helmet for a few moments, during which his captor crashed it into his face. He felt his nose shatter, not for the first time in his life. That made him change tactics. He let go of the neck and dragged the woman over the bike. Then he picked her up by scruff and groin, and rammed her head repeatedly against the side of the van. When he judged her brain would be suitably scrambled, he dropped her, moved around the motorbike and picked up the shrouded figure.
As Andy leapt from the van, he was aware of another person standing nearby. He couldn't understand why Doris Carlton-Jones was dressed so weirdly, but he wasn't sticking around to ask as she was holding a silenced pistol. He shoved her backward with his spare hand and took the low hedge in a running jump. He heard the cough of the pistol a couple of times, but didn't feel any hits. Then he was sprinting downhill, heading for a substantial wood beyond the field that was visible in the moonlight. His knees were creaking, but they didn't give out.
When Andy got to the tree line, he burrowed into a heap of leaves, blowing like a walrus. There was no way Sara or her mother would find him now. Sure enough, the van started up and moved off a few minutes later. Then it struck him. He'd seen Doris Carlton-Jones's face, but he hadn't seen Sara's. Maybe it hadn't been her in the helmet after all.
There was a faint groan from the cocooned figure he had laid on the leaves. Andy tugged the blankets away and sat back in amazement as the silvery light fell on a dirty, tear-stained face; one that he knew very well, indeed.
I shone my torch down the dark stairway. It turned back on itself after ten steps. I stopped at the corner, one arm raised to restrain the others.
Rog sniffed. "What's that smell?"
The air was filled with the unmistakable odor of burning flesh. I immediately thought of Andy. What were the lunatics doing to him?
I moved my head around the stone wall. The next flight of steps, about twenty, was clear. Light showed at the bottom. I beckoned the others forward and we went down as quietly as our boots allowed. An ornate doorway had been cut into the stone. It was covered in strange symbols.
When we reached the bottom, I became aware of a monotonous chanting. It sounded like there were dozens of people in the cavern ahead. I struggled to understand what was being said and then I realized it was in Latin. The only word I could make out was "diabolus."
"Oh, great," Pete whispered. "How many of them?"
I looked cautiously around the doorpost. I could hardly believe my eyes. The place was as ornate as the most baroque Catholic church, the walls covered in frescoes and light coming from gold chandeliers. Then I saw what the paintings depicted-demons tormenting the damned, monstrous beasts as foul as those spawned by the imagination of Hieronymus Bosch, and, in the center, a huge, black, bat-winged Lucifer rising out of the earth.
Then I heard a terrible scream. Over to the right stood two people in what looked like monks' robes, the cowls raised. They had their backs to us and were watching the smoke billow from a raised altar. I tried to locate the people who were singing. There was no sign of anybody else and I realized that the chant was coming from speakers set in the rock walls. It was a recording, unless there was some choir loft nearby.
I pulled my head back. "Action, guys. Looks like they're in the middle of a sacrifice."
"Andy?" Pete asked, his eyes wide.
"I can't see, but we have to go in now. There only seem to be two of them. My guess is that one is Sara.
"We'll start with a couple of smoke grenades to mix things up," I said. "Then, Rog, you go right, you left, Pete. I'll head straight toward the bastards. Only fire if you're sure you're in danger. Okay, let's do it."