Hell's Fury Read online

  She reached into her pocket and produced an envelope. "I’ve brought along a few friends for persuasion." She held out the envelope and, despite his fear, Schaufberg grabbed for it.

  It was an old lesson. Greed always outweighed fear.

  "And no one will know I was involved?"

  "Only if you tell them."

  The man held her gaze for a moment, and then he nodded. "It’ll take a minute or two to copy the files."

  "I’ll need the key."

  "The key?" He cocked his head with a frown, but not before she saw the flicker of fear.

  She lifted the Beretta. "For the encryption?" She waited, the silence growing louder with each passing second.

  Finally with a shiver, he sighed. "I’ve got it in a separate file." She watched as he loaded both the formula and the encryption onto the drive.

  "If this is a trick, I’ll find you. Or failing that, I’ll make sure they know you’re a traitor. Am I making myself clear?"

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he handed her the drive. "It’s for real."

  She watched for any sign that he was lying, but saw nothing more than a scared old man trying not to piss his pants—an overreaction, considering the amount of money in the envelope.

  "Then our business is done." She pocketed the disc and walked back through the bookcase without bothering to look behind her. Schaufberg was a predictable sort. Quick to follow the money and too spineless to do anything that might jeopardize his life.

  He’d never tell. And the man in the closet would never even know she’d been there.

  Mission accomplished. Now all that was left was to get the package to her client and collect the money. She stepped out into the now fading sunshine and turned toward Wilhelmstrasse.

  "You should have killed him." The voice came from just behind her and she whirled around to face her father.

  "What in the hell are you doing here?" She hadn’t meant to sound so angry but he pissed her off with his popping in and out at will. "I don’t have time for any of your games."

  "I still think you should have killed the old fart."

  "Let me remind you, that old fart is a hell of a lot younger than either of us."

  "I’m just saying ..." Her father shrugged his Armani-clad shoulders, twirling a silver-headed cane with one hand. Leave it to Daddy Dearest to dress to the nines.

  She started walking again. Maybe if she moved fast enough the old goat would disappear. His long stride easily matched hers. So much for the easy way out. "Why are you here?" she asked. "Surely you’ve got something more interesting to do than to interfere in my business."

  "It’s a ridiculous business if you ask me. You’re almost as bad as Marc—" He cut himself off before he had the chance to speak her brother’s name.

  "Marcus—Daddy, his name is Marcus."

  "I know what his name is." Her father’s tone forbade further discussion. Clearly, Marcus and her father had had a falling-out, a serious one at that, but neither of them would talk about it, so she’d had no choice but to let it go. "But that’s not why I’m here."

  "No, you’re here to annoy me. How long were you watching?" It was an old trick, her father zipping in just to check on her, but while his invisible antics had been humorous when she was a child, as an adult she found them trying.

  "I came in at the part where you were threatening Whale Gut." It was an apt description and Jessie fought against laughter. "Ah, come on, you know you can’t stay mad at your father."

  It really was easier than he thought, but to some degree he was right. Not that she’d admit it. "You never pop in without a reason." Pop being the operative word.

  "Can’t a father check up on his little girl?" If it was possible for the devil to look innocent, her father was doing a bang-up job.

  "What do you want?" She spat the words out, pulling him into an alley out of sight. One never knew when he’d get the urge to torment someone.

  "I need a favor." His face hardened, and she knew he’d finally come to the point.

  "From me?" The words were out before she could stop them. Her father had never asked anything of her before. Choosing instead to flit into and out of her life on a whim.

  "There’s something I need. And I think you can procure it for me."

  "Information?" She was the best when it came to securing the intellectual tidbits that others desired.

  "An object, actually."

  "I don’t do that. Call Marcus." She’d only meant it as a joke. A small dig. But his eyes flashed with fire, and she took a step backward. Sometimes she forgot exactly what he was. "I’m sorry. That was out of line. What are you looking for?"

  "A religious relic."

  "Religion. That’s not your usual shtick." She laughed, her surprise genuine.

  "And this isn’t just any religious relic. It’s something special. A box." He paused, flexing his long fingers over the head of his cane. "A golden box."

  "That’s it? A box?" She shook her head, trying to fill in the missing blanks.

  "It’s part of the treasure."

  That made a little more sense. There was only one treasure, at least where her father was concerned. "The Knights Templar?"

  "Exactly. Only this is the prize of all prizes. Something that has been kept hidden, but by happenstance was liberated. And now rumor has it that it’s on the move, which means that for the first time in eons, I have a chance to obtain it."

  "So why don’t you just get it yourself?" She swallowed a tingle of curiosity—she’d learned a long time ago to stay out of her father’s business. The repercussions simply weren’t worth the effort.

  "I can’t." It was unusual for her father to admit he was incapable of something.

  "Why?" She frowned up at him.

  "Let’s just blame it on infernal rules, shall we? The point is that I need that box, and you have the ability to get it for me."

  "I thought you didn’t approve of my endeavors."

  "I don’t. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be useful. And I promise you there’ll be ample reward if you succeed."

  "I’ve got everything I need."

  "But I can offer you more than everything."

  "Stop talking in riddles."

  "Fine." Her father blew out a frustrated breath and she couldn’t tell if he was disappointed in her or just exasperated. Probably both. "The box is a part of the Templars’ treasure. But it’s been kept separately from all the rest. And as such it’s infinitely more important. In the ancient scripts it’s referred to as the Reliquary of the Four Horsemen."

  She stared at her father, not bothering to conceal her amazement. She’d only heard one other person speak of it that way. "You’re talking about the Protector of Armageddon."

  "You’ve heard of it." Her father seemed pleased.

  "Only in passing. It was important to someone I..." She stumbled, trying for the right words. "Someone I knew."

  "David Bishop." Her father’s eyes flashed with anger. "I thought you were finished with him."

  "I am." She met and held her father’s gaze, keeping her own steady. "But that doesn’t mean he can’t be useful."

  "As long as you wind up with the Protector, I guess I can’t argue about the methodology." As usual her father skipped right over the touchy-feely parts.

  "Maybe I won’t need him." She shrugged, not really certain she was willing to take the chance on seeing him again. "Anyway," she said, shaking off her roiling emotions, "I haven’t agreed to find it yet. What am I playing for?"

  Her father smiled, her question distracting him just as she’d known it would. Never let an opponent see a weak spot. She’d learned it from the master. "My kingdom."

  "Say what?" It wasn’t a brilliant response but it was the best she could come up with. "Your kingdom?" she repeated, apparently losing all ability for cognizant thinking.

  "Lock, stock, and barrel."

  "You want me to take over for you?"

  "Well, I offered it to your brothers, and to Lu
cia. But they failed me."

  The idea was ludicrous. But maybe this was the answer she’d been looking for. Taking over for her father would mean an end to her life here. A way out of the endless yearning for the simple joys that came with mortality.

  "So all I have to do is find this box?"

  "Well, not exactly." Her father smiled, his ebony eyes remaining deadly serious. "What I want you to do ... is steal it."

  Chapter Two

  LONDON

  "You’re a hard man to track down." David Bishop studied the man in the chair opposite him. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have dismissed the prick without a second glance. But sources confirmed that Elliot Iverson was a master at hiding behind the innocuous.

  It had taken almost six months of digging to uncover the bastard, and now that David had him in his sights he wasn’t about to let Iverson slip away.

  "I don’t make a practice of hiding." Iverson shrugged, his eyes fixed on a point just beyond David’s shoulder.

  "Maybe hiding is overstating it, but the fact remains that I’ve spent more time than I care to admit tracking you down."

  "So, you have my attention. Make the most of it." Iverson’s upper-class English was as fake as the diamond in his pinky ring, and David fought to control his temper. It was almost as if Iverson wanted to be caught. But David had dealt with men far more idiotic, and so he wasn’t about to let the stupid act deter him from the prize.

  "I want the Protector of Armageddon. Or more important, I want the men who have it."

  "The protector of what?" Iverson frowned, the expression making him look more simian than human.

  "Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You brokered the deal." David fingered his pocket, resisting the urge to pull his gun.

  "I honestly haven’t got a clue."

  With a speed born of years of practice, David closed the distance between them, the man’s eyes widening as David slammed him against the wall. "There’s no point in pretending, Iverson. I know you’ve brokered a sale. What I need is information about the seller."

  "Everything I do is confidential. And if you’re as knowledgeable as you say you are, you’d know that there’s no way I can reveal a client."

  "In your business, the word client is an overstatement. Scum protecting scum is more like it." David tightened his hold on the little man. "Tell me who the seller is."

  "Seems to me that you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, old man. The important information here is the item being brokered, not the seller." Iverson frowned, his confusion laughable in any other situation, but David had been searching too long to see the humor. Hell, it was all he could do not to kill the man on the spot.

  "From where I’m sitting," David said, "I don’t see that you’re in a position to call the shots. Tell me who you’re representing."

  Iverson eyed him for a moment, calculating his chances, and then with a sigh he deflated, all bravado vanishing. "I honestly don’t know. Everything is done with blind e-mails and anonymous post boxes."

  David studied him for a moment, frustration cresting. It was the first hint of truth he’d heard from the man, and the reality was bitter. "Come on"—he shook Iverson, watching dispassionately as he winced—"you have to know something."

  "I swear to God." Iverson raised a hand. "I just helped arrange the details of the sale. I don’t know the buyer or the seller. I’m just the go-between." His eyes pleaded for understanding, but David had come too far to give a shit.

  "If you arranged it, you’ve got to know more than you’re telling me." He waited a beat, then produced his gun. A sweet little Sig Sauer that had seen more action than most government-issued weapons.

  Iverson blanched at the sight of the gun. "I’m telling you everything I know."

  "Bullshit." He leveled the gun.

  The man’s gaze shot over David’s shoulder again, the importance of the gesture coming about two seconds too late.

  "You son of a bitch ..." David hit the ground on a roll just as a bullet whizzed by his left shoulder.

  Iverson squealed and made an awkward dive for the protection of a table in the corner.

  Swiveling to try to spot his opponent, David rose to one knee, his gaze sweeping across the seemingly empty hotel room.

  For three counts the only sound was the rasping of Iverson’s breathing, and then, almost predictably, gunfire exploded as a man rounded the entryway corner, his handgun spraying bullets into the room.

  Iverson peeked over the top of the table, and then with a yelp disappeared again.

  David checked the magazine of the Sig, cursing himself for not bringing additional ammo. But then he hadn’t been expecting an ambush.

  Behind him, a drawer scraped, the sound abnormally loud in the silence. Damn it all to hell. Iverson was going for a gun. Popping up from behind an overstuffed armchair, David shot in Iverson’s direction. It was a waste of a bullet, but in response, the little man hit the floor in terror.

  Score one for the away team.

  "Don’t move, Bishop," a voice rang out from the entry hall.

  "Like hell," the reply came even before David had the chance to think it through. Truth was, he hated being told what to do.

  He popped up again and fired a couple more rounds. At least he wasn’t going to go down easy.

  Of course it was a last cry and it was coming too late. Without a balcony or easy access to even the window, he wasn’t exactly in a position of power. A part of him cursed the stupidity that had allowed him to wind up in such a situation, but another part of him, the part that loved his brother, accepted that there hadn’t been a choice.

  Besides, if he’d learned one lesson in life it was the fact that it was never over until it was—well, over. The best way to go out was with a decided bang, and so, with a silent count of three, David launched himself out from behind the chair, firing alternately toward the front door and toward the table that sheltered Iverson. A couple more shots and he’d be dead in the water. Not the way he’d planned to go, but, goddamn it, if he was going, he’d take a least one of these bastards with him.

  Return gunfire exploded all around him, and instinctively he hit the floor on a roll, eyes scanning the room for location and condition of his enemies. There was nothing from the entry hall. And from his current position, he couldn’t see Iverson.

  So instead he waited, his gaze moving from the entry hall to the table and then back again. Silence filled the room, its heavy presence almost more powerful than the staccato of bullet fire. David figured he had two options. Fake the shooter out and try to cut his losses by climbing out the window or come up shooting and pray that he’d manage to take out his opponents before they could kill him.

  Not the best of odds. But then David had never been one for playing from the strong hand. It was much more fun to beat the players at their own game.

  "Bishop?" Iverson’s voice was shaky but audible. "Can you hear me?"

  David considered not answering but rejected the idea almost immediately. He was cornered, no sense in denying the fact. "I’m here."

  "Well, unless you’ve got a death wish, I suggest that you throw your gun out here so that I can see it."

  "Come on, Iverson, why would I do that?" The question was rhetorical but David didn’t push the point. After all, for the moment at least, Iverson and his crony were calling the shots.

  "Because you’re not a stupid man." The son of a bitch sounded so confident David almost laughed. When it came to avenging his brother—stupidity seemed to be ruling the day.

  "Stop trying to read me, asshole," David hissed, shifting so that he had a better shot should the opportunity arise.

  "Yes, well, I really think we ought to talk about your attitude," Iverson said, all remnants of his fear dissipating in the wake of his colleague’s gun power.

  David sighed, cursing himself for allowing himself to be trapped. "If anyone’s got a problem, Iverson, it’s you. Tell me where the fucking box is."

&nb
sp; "Considering the circumstances, I don’t think that’s going to happen." The man actually sounded smug. "Maybe it’s time to let go of your obsession."

  "I’m not obsessed." The word grated. The last time it had been hurled at him, the impact had hurt—a hell of a lot more than he cared to admit. Not that any of it mattered now.

  "Right, you’re just hunting me down for the pure hell of it." Iverson’s cockiness had definitely returned, and David clenched his fist, resisting the urge to stand up and shoot the bastard, shutting him up once and for all.

  Better to concentrate on the gunman. The voice had been familiar. He struggled to place it, even as he popped up to take a shot in the direction of the entry hall, the responding gunfire indicating he hadn’t managed to hit the mark. But his brain had finally identified the man.

  Gaston Renauld. A cocksucker if ever there was one.

  "Give it up, Bishop. It’s over," Renauld called from the safety of the foyer.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" The words were out before he could stop them, and immediately he regretted his lack of control. He only had two more shots and they’d goddamned well better be on target.

  "Stalking you," Renauld said, the sarcasm in his voice making it clear that he wasn’t feeling overly taxed with effort.

  One beat passed, and then another—and then all hell broke loose, gunfire seeming to come from every direction at once. David got off his last two shots and then ducked back behind the relative safety of the overstuffed chair.

  There was a moment of silence and then another bullet pierced the air. Iverson gasped audibly and then fell to the floor, a cauliflower burst of blood staining his forehead. Two more shots and Renauld’s body fell into view.

  David edged around the chair, eyes scanning the room for the new source of danger.

  "Cat got your tongue?" Jessie Wyatt emerged from the entry hall, her hands raised slightly, the gesture doing nothing to negate the cold superiority of the Beretta in her hand.

  "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" David stood up and crossed over to Iverson’s body, feeling for a pulse. There wasn’t one, but then he’d already known that.