The Templar Chronicles Omnibus Page 2

  Juan Alvarez was seated in the middle of the room in an old chair, his arms pulled back between the steel posts supporting the seat back and his hands secured together with a set of nylon flex cuffs. Wilson and Ortega stood a few feet to either side of the prisoner, their HK MP5s at the ready and aimed in his direction.

  His pistol still in hand but pointed at the floor, Cade crossed the room to stand in front of the prisoner. Alvarez looked as if he had just been roused from sleep; his normally slicked-back hair was in disarray, and all he was wearing was a pair of hastily donned jeans. His usual air of smug superiority was still in place, however.

  Cade fully intended to change that.

  Alvarez had been under surveillance by Echo Team for the last three weeks. During that time it quickly became clear that the Bridgeport police were correct in their suspicions; Alvarez was indeed the primary conduit for the movement of heroin through Connecticut and into the rest of New England.

  Cade didn’t care about the drugs.

  He wanted Alvarez for a far more personal reason, and he wasted no time getting to the point.

  “Where is he?” Cade asked.

  The prisoner gave him a look of disdain, and a stream of rapid-fire Spanish poured forth from his mouth. Cade understood enough to know that it was more a commentary on his mother’s background than an answer to his question.

  Shaking his head in resignation, Cade nodded to Riley.

  The larger man stepped forward and gripped the back of the prisoner’s chair, holding it tightly.

  Cade moved closer, placed the barrel of his pistol against the prisoner’s left kneecap, and, without another word, pulled the trigger.

  Blood flew.

  Alvarez screamed.

  Riley held the chair firmly in place against the man’s struggles.

  Cade waited patiently until the screaming stopped. Then, softly, he said, “I don’t have time for this. I asked you a question. I want an answer. Where is the Adversary?”

  This time, the answer was in English.

  “Drop dead, asshole. I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.”

  Expressionless, Cade shot him in the other leg, shattering the man’s right kneecap.

  Alvarez writhed in agony, his muscles straining against the pain. Riley’s arms tensed, but that was the only outward sign of the increased effort he exerted to hold the prisoner securely in place.

  Over the wounded man’s cries, Cade shouted, “Tell me where he is!”

  The prisoner lapsed back into Spanish, cursing his interrogator vehemently; but he did not acknowledge Cade’s demand. His blood flowed down his legs and began to pool on the cracked linoleum beneath his feet.

  Cade snorted in disgust and motioned Riley out of the way. The sergeant lost no time in following orders.

  Cade raised the gun and pointed it at the prisoner’s face. “Last chance.”

  With that, Alvarez went abruptly still. His eyes lost focus, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear, and his face went slack. Out of the corner of his eye Cade caught Riley looking at him quizzically, but he kept his eyes on the prisoner, watching him closely and didn’t respond.

  Without a change in expression, Alvarez began to shake. His head twisted from side to side erratically as it shuddered atop his neck, darting this way and that like a hyperactive hummingbird. His mouth opened wide, stretching impossibly far. It seemed as if he was screaming, but no sound issued forth. Finally, with a loud pop, his lower jaw dislocated itself.

  Cade calmly watched, his gun unwavering from the target.

  The shaking intensified, the legs of the chair skipping and bumping against the tiles, leaving little skid marks in the blood pooling beneath Alvarez’s feet. A strange squealing sound came from his throat. Alvarez’s eyes bulged from their sockets, and blood ran freely from his ears.

  Still, Cade stood and waited.

  It was only when a widening crack appeared in the center of the prisoner’s forehead, a crack that dripped a substance far darker than blood, that Cade reacted.

  With a twitch of his trigger finger, he put a bullet through Alvarez’s skull.

  The prisoner and his chair went over backward to lie still on the blood-stained tiles.

  In the silence that followed, no one moved for several long moments as they waited to be certain the thing that had once been Juan Alvarez was good and truly dead, then Cade gave the signal, and the team went instantly into motion. One of the men policed the brass from the floor while another checked to be certain no one had left anything behind that might betray their presence in the house. Thirty seconds later the team was filing out the front door and climbing back into the Expeditions, with Cade and Riley taking open seats in the lead vehicle.

  Less than five minutes after entry the team was on its way, leaving behind seven bodies to lie cooling in the darkness.

  *** ***

  Later that night.

  He stands alone in the center of the street, in a town that has no name. He has been here before, more than once, but each time the resolution is different, as if the events about to transpire are ordained by the random chance found in the motion of a giant spinning wheel, a cosmic wheel of fortune, and not by the actions he is about to take or has taken before.

  He knows from previous experience that, just a few blocks beyond this one the town suddenly ends, becoming a great plain of nothingness, the landscape an artist’s canvas that stands untouched, unwanted.

  This town has become the center of his universe.

  Around him, the blackened buildings sag in crumbling heaps, testimony to his previous visits. He wonders what the town will look like a few weeks from now, when the confrontation about to take place has been enacted and re-enacted and reenacted again, until even these ragged shells stand no more. Will the road, like the buildings, be twisted and torn?

  He does not know.

  He turns his attention back to the present, for even after all this time, he might learn something new that could lead him to his opponent’s true identity.

  The sky is growing dark, though night is still hours away. Dark grey storm clouds laced with green-and-silver lightning are rolling in from the horizon, like horses running hard to reach the town’s limits before the fated confrontation begins. The air is heavy with impending rain and the electrical tension of the coming storm. In the slowly fading afternoon light the shadows around him stretch and move. He learned early on that they can have a life of their own.

  He avoids them now.

  The sound of booted feet striking the pavement catches his attention, and he knows he has exhausted his time here. He turns to face the length of the street before him, just in time to see his foe emerge from the crumbled ruins at its end, just as he has emerged each and every time they have encountered one another in this place. It is as if his enemy is always there, silently waiting with infinite patience for him to make his appearance.

  Pain shoots across his face and through his hands, phantoms of the true sensation that had once coursed through his flesh, from their first meeting in another time and place. Knowing it will not last, he waits the few seconds for the pain to fade. Idly, he wonders, not for the first time, if the pain is caused by his foe or by his own recollection of the suffering he once endured at the enemy’s hands.

  He smiles grimly as the pain fades.

  A chill wind suddenly rises, stirring the hairs on the back of his neck, and in that wind, he is certain he can hear the soft, sibilant whispers of a thousand lost souls, each and every one crying out to him to provide solace and sanctuary.

  The voices act as a physical force, pushing him forward from behind, and before he knows it he is striding urgently down the street. His hands clench into fists as he is enveloped with the desire to tear his foe limb from limb with his bare hands. So great is his anger that it makes him forget the other weapons at his disposal in this strange half state of reality.

  The Adversary, as he has come to call him in the years since their fi
rst, life-altering encounter, simply stands in the middle of the street, waiting. The Adversary’s features are hidden in the darkness of the hooded cloak that he wears over his form in this place, his mocking laughter echoes clearly off the deserted buildings and carries easily in the silence.

  The insult only adds fuel to Cade’s rage.

  Just as he draws closer, the scene shifts, wavers, the way a mirage will shimmy in the heat rising from the pavement. For a second it regains its form and in that moment Cade has the opportunity to glimpse the surprise in the other’s face, then everything dissolves around him in a dizzying spiral of shifting patterns and unidentified shapes.

  When the scene solidifies once more, he finds himself standing in a cemetery. Large, carefully sculpted angels adorn the nearest of the gravestones, with only the word Godspeed carved beneath them. Older, more decayed stones decorate the other burial plots nearby, but he is not close enough to see the details etched there.

  A sense of urgency grips him in its bony fist.

  It forces him into motion, and he sets off across the lawn, winding in and out between the stones, letting that feeling guide his passage until he sees a small plot set off from the rest by a white picket fence. In the strange twilight, the rails of the fence gleam with the wetness of freshly revealed bone. The coppery tang of blood floats on the night air.

  As he moves closer he can see that the earth on the other side of the fence has been freshly disturbed. A grave lies open, a gaping hole in the peaceful sea of green grass that surrounds it, filled with a darkness deeper than that of the night sky above. This intrusion of the landscape and of the sanctity of the place draws him closer still, pulling him in toward it the way a fly is coaxed into a spider’s web.

  He stops just short of the small fence and gazes down into the darkness of the grave.

  Unable to see clearly, he places one hand on the fence and leans forward, straining to get a better look.

  Something moves down there, a furtive motion.

  Beneath his hand the fence begins to twist and turn, tumbling him forward toward the darkness of that open grave, just as two eyes gleam hungrily from that inky murk…

  Cade awoke in the darkness of his bedroom, his heart pounding and his body slick with cold sweat. He lay still for a moment, gathering his breath, and reached out for the phone in the second before its shrill ring pierced the silence of the bedroom.

  “I’m on my way,” he said into the receiver, then hung up before the startled novice placing the call could explain the reason for the late-night summons.

  He does not need that information.

  The dream has already told him everything he needs to know.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Just over an hour later there was a soft knock at the door of the Preceptor’s makeshift office.

  “Come,” said Michaels, without looking up from the report he was reviewing. A moment later the door opened to admit the Heretic.

  From his position behind and to the right of the Preceptor, Duncan could see Cade Williams was not a large man, but he was an imposing sight nonetheless. His face was all hard lines and angles, without even a hint of softness. This effect was heightened by the wide band of angry scar tissue that stretched from beneath the eye patch covering his right eye, down across his cheekbone and around behind his ear. He entered the room with a graceful economy of motion but with what also seemed to be an air of caution, as if he were gingerly moving through the world around him.

  Maybe he was, thought Duncan, as his gaze came to rest on Cade’s hands. The flesh-colored gloves were professionally made, and a casual glance would not have betrayed their presence, but Duncan had spent the last several years paying attention to even the tiniest of details in order to keep the Preceptor safe and he did not miss them. The sight forced Duncan to wonder anew at this man’s abilities.

  Seven years ago Williams had been a highly decorated officer of the Massachusetts State Police, serving on the prestigious Special Tactics and Operations team, first as a sniper and later as team commander. He’d been married to his beautiful wife only five months before disaster struck. A hostage situation had forced him into a confrontation with a supernatural entity that Cade had taken to calling the Adversary. His wife had died as a result, and Cade himself had been severely mauled. He’d lost the sight in his right eye, and the flesh on that side of his face had been so savagely disfigured that plastic surgery hadn’t even been considered.

  He had gone into seclusion for several months after the incident, avoiding the press and doing his best to come to grips with what had happened. Somehow he’d discovered the Order’s existence and successfully petitioned to become a member, claiming that his unique talents could be put to use on its behalf.

  Duncan knew it hadn’t taken long for Williams to rise through the ranks to his current position as Knight Commander.

  It was rumored that Cade had joined the Order with ulterior motives in mind, that he believed the information he gained was the best means of locating and confronting the Adversary, that the Order’s goals and objectives were secondary to his own. It was said that he was after one thing and one thing only.

  Revenge.

  In preparing for the meeting Duncan had read the unit’s after-action reports, the written summaries turned in after any engagement requiring the use of lethal force. Every one of them showed that Echo Team had been exemplary in the performance of its duties. This, of course, reflected well on the team’s leader. Yet, Duncan could read between the lines, could see what the other Commanders thought of Williams.

  While Cade flawlessly performed as was expected, those who had used his services were always uneasy doing so. They were happiest when he had completed his mission and was on his way. It was there in the written recommendations, in the seemingly casual comments made when discussing him or his unit.

  They were afraid of him.

  At its heart, the Order was still an arm of the Church. As such, it believed in the divine province of Man and in the salvation garnered through the grace of the Lord. How a man rumored to be able to walk with the dead and able to read a man’s mind simply through touch fit into this picture was difficult to determine. Duncan did not blame the others for their fear.

  If everything that was said about him was true, Cade Williams was a man who should be feared.

  Yet, watching Cade wait patiently the Preceptor to acknowledge him, his one good steel-colored eye taking things in with frank appraisal and seeming not the least bit uncomfortable in the Preceptor’s presence, Duncan knew one thing for certain.

  Cade Williams had the best chance of succeeding at the job ahead.

  Michaels finished with his reading, signed the form, and handed it off to his assistant. He rose and extended his hand in greeting. “Thank you for coming, Knight Commander.”

  “Sir,” replied Cade, shaking the man’s hand in return.

  This close Duncan could see that the patch over Cade’s eye hid the majority of the damage to his face, but the scar tissue that peeked around it gave testimony to the ruin beneath. His wide shoulders and strong physique clearly showed his dedication to remaining at the peak of performance. He was dressed in a black sweater, jeans, and a pair of work boots. His hair, thin and dark, hung to just above his shoulders, loose and unfettered.

  “Please, sit down,” the Preceptor said, indicating one of the two chairs arranged before his desk.

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Suit yourself.” The Preceptor turned to his new aide, a short, dark-haired man by the name of Erickson who was filing the just-signed report, and said, “That will be all,” and waited for him to leave the room before settling back into his own chair. Duncan remained where he was.

  “As you’ve no doubt heard, this commandery was attacked last night by persons unknown,” said the Preceptor. “While we don’t know precisely what happened, we do know that every single member of the Order that was on the grounds at the time was slaughtered. Clearly, our people re
sisted; the evidence of a massive firefight is overwhelming. But that’s all we know - they put up resistance, then died, down to the last man.

  “Which is where you come in, Commander. I’m assigning Echo Team to find out what happened here. Who attacked us? Why? And more importantly, how did they manage to wipe out an entire complement of our people?”

  Cade frowned. “With all due respect, sir, we’re a combat unit. Wouldn’t it be better to put one of the investigative squads on this? They’ve got the training and the connections to…”

  Michaels shook his head, cutting him off. “I’d considered that, but I’ve decided I want a combat team on this right from the start. Eventually, those conducting the investigation are going to run into whoever is behind the attack and will need combat experience to deal with the situation. With your particular expertise, I think you’ve got the best chance of determining just what is going on and coming up with a plan to put a stop to it.”

  Cade stared into the Preceptor’s eyes for a long moment without saying anything. He glanced up at Duncan momentarily, returned his attention to Michaels, then reluctantly nodded his agreement.

  Michaels went on, but Duncan knew by the man’s sudden tension that this was a delicate subject. “You’ll also need to replace the missing man in your unit.”

  Cade’s answer was swift. “My team is fine as it is, sir.” There was an edge of steel in his voice.

  Duncan tensed, his hand involuntarily moving to the hilt of his sword. He knew there had been a problem with the last Knight assigned to Williams’s team, but the file had lacked any details.

  The Preceptor apparently wasn’t about to bend on this issue just to keep the Echo Team leader happy, however. “We’ve been attacked, Williams. I want every unit at full strength, particularly yours. You can either pick another team member, or I’ll assign one myself. It’s that simple, and I’ll allow no argument on the issue.”