Stones of Fire

the chest with his finger. ‘Boy, you’re not going soft on me, are you? I hate to think that you’ve been pussy- whipped.’

‘No, sir. You don’t need to worry about that, sir.’

‘You make certain of it, Gunny. Each and every day, you make certain.’

His subordinate properly chastened, Stan Mac-Farlane stepped back, such discipline necessary to keep order in the ranks. A lesson he had learned during his thirty-one years in the Corps.

A full colonel when he left the service, he’d still be in uniform had his career not been abruptly derailed two years ago by the Pentagon watchdog group FREEDOM NOW! a godless cabal made up of left-wing lawyers and activists. They targeted him soon after he was promoted to the intelligence office of the undersecretary of defense. Hypocrites, one and all, they claimed their purpose was to protect religious freedom in the US military. Because of his strict adherence to the word of God, FREEDOM NOW! had branded him a religious fanatic bent on converting the whole of the US military to the evangelical faith.

Well, guess what, you godless hippie freaks? It was already happening.

When FREEDOM NOW! caught wind of the weekly prayer meeting he held in the Pentagon’s executive dining room, they wasted no time blowing the whistle, somehow getting their lily-white hands on a photo of him standing in a prayer circle with other uniformed officers. The photo made the front page of the Washington Post. In the accompanying article several junior officers claimed they’d been personally harassed by him, told they would eternally burn in hell if they didn’t attend the prayer meetings.

Left-wing pundits, Washington politicos and military-bashers unwilling to let the story drop had had a field day. Soon after, he’d been relieved of his command.

God, however, worked in mysterious ways.

No sooner did the furore die down than Stan founded Rosemont Security Consultants. In recent years private contractors had become the mercenary might behind the US military, tens of thousands of private fighters hired in Iraq alone. With his top-level Pentagon contacts, he was soon making money hand over balled fist. Made up entirely of former special ops soldiers, Rosemont was twenty thousand strong. As leader of this well-armed flock, Stan made certain there wasn’t a pluralist or atheist or agnostic among them. Holy warriors, each and every one.

‘Sir, what do you want me to do about the woman?’

MacFarlane glanced at his subordinate, the former gunnery sergeant a member of his handpicked Praetorian Guard. His eyes and ears in the nation’s capital, this elite team were embedded in law enforcement agencies all over the city. Contemplating how best to clean up the mess, he opened the satchel that had been retrieved from the museum and removed a leather wallet. For several seconds he stared at the driver’s licence photo of a thirty- seven-year-old curly-haired woman.

‘You heard Gunny… What shall we do with you, Eloise Darlene Miller?’ he contemplatively murmured.

A quick background check had uncovered the fact that the Miller woman had been arrested in 1991 for protesting against the First Gulf War. In Stan’s book that made her a Chardonnay-sipping left-wing tree hugger. Like the bastards who had derailed his military career.

Nothing like a ‘terrible swift sword’ to keep an unruly woman in her place.

‘Any word on the whereabouts of —’ Stan glanced at the name scrawled on a sheet of paper ‘— C?dmon Aisquith?’ A similar background check had turned up a noticeable dearth of information, prompting Stan to order his intelligence team to dig deeper.

‘Aisquith managed to slip out of the bookstore undetected. We’re keeping a close watch on his hotel, but he’s yet to show up,’ the sergeant informed him.

‘Hmm.’ Stan MacFarlane contemplatively rolled the silver ring that he wore on his right hand, the intertwined crosses worn smooth over the years. ‘This man Aisquith is another loose end we can’t afford to let dangle.’

‘I hear ya, Colonel.’

‘Then hear this.’ Stanford MacFarlane looked his subordinate straight in the eye so there would be no misunderstanding. ‘You will search. You will find. And you will destroy.’

The order clearly to his liking, the gunnery sergeant smiled. ‘By day’s end, sir.’

6

Feeling like she’d gone fifteen rounds with the heavyweight champ, Edie Miller dragged herself out of the cab. From her skirt pocket she removed a crumpled ten-dollar bill. She handed it to the driver. If the dark-skinned man with the turban thought it odd that she’d made him pull into the alley behind her terraced house rather than dropping her at the front, he gave no indication.

Relieved to be back on familiar terrain, Edie raised a weary hand, letting the cabbie know that no change was necessary. Small recompense for whisking her to safety, the driver of the plum-coloured cab a godsend. Her Mini Cooper, her purse and her keys had all been left behind at the museum. But she’d got out with her life and the digital camera she’d stuffed in her waistcoat pocket right before Jonathan Padgham had been killed. And that’s all that mattered.

What a nightmare, she thought, still in a daze. What a surreal, unbelievable nightmare. The cops were actually in on the murder. Moreover she had no idea how many other people were involved in the theft of the breastplate. All she knew was that they had no inhibitions about resorting to murder to achieve their objective. And right now their objective was to ‘get things tidied up’.

Shuddering, she bent down and lifted a long-dead chrysanthemum out of a terracotta pot. Holding it by the stem, she shook a key out of the clump of brown compost. With a quick backward glance, she scurried up the patio steps. Unlocking the back door, she stepped inside her kitchen.

Spirulina. Barley grass. Pysllium husks. She glanced at the worktop and the neatly lined-up containers of vile- tasting health concoctions that were supposed to ensure a long life and laughed aloud. A waste of time if the grim reaper, dressed in grey overalls, came a-calling. Although all she wanted to do was stuff her face with Haagen-Dazs ice cream, she couldn’t afford the time. She had to quickly gather her things and get out. Before they found her. Before they did to her what they had done to Jonathan Padgham.

Edie snatched a canvas shopping bag from a peg on the back of the kitchen door. Bag in hand, she opened the freezer and removed a box of spinach. Not bothering to open the box, she tossed it into the bag. Having learned at a tender age the importance of having a ready supply of cash on hand, she always kept five thousand dollars hidden in the freezer. Money stowed, she grabbed a vintage motorcycle jacket from the next peg. Pulling off her bloodstained khaki fisherman’s waistcoat, she stuffed it into the bag. Hurriedly she donned the jacket.

Next she strode down the hall into the small home office at the front of the house. Yanking open a filing cabinet, she thumbed through the dog-eared folders until she found the one marked ‘Personal Documents’. Inside was her passport, her birth certificate, the deeds to the house, the results of her last cervical smear and an official copy of her college transcripts. She unceremoniously dumped the contents of the file into the canvas bag.

About to head upstairs to get her toiletries, Edie stopped at a sound outside. Peering through the window, she saw a dark blue Ford saloon pull up in front of the house. Behind the wheel was the buzzcut killer. At his side, the bent cop.

Quickly she ducked away from the window.

The killer must have found her satchel.

Knowing she only had a few seconds to escape through the back door, Edie closed the filing cabinet. She slung the canvas bag over her shoulder and retreated to the kitchen, where she grabbed her BlackBerry out of its charger. She then snatched a set of keys out of a brightly coloured ceramic fruit bowl, souvenir of a fun-filled vacation in Morocco.

Keys in hand, she let herself out the back door, taking a second to lock the dead bolt. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d been home. She then tiptoed down the circular staircase that led to the alley below. She paused a moment, listening. She heard Spanish music emanating from the apartment building opposite. But no voices from her house. So far, so good.

Not knowing how long her luck would last, Edie squeezed past her neighbour’s parked Jeep Wrangler and hurried up the adjoining set of stairs to his house. Garrett was in Chicago on business. He was frequently in Chicago on business. And when he was, she watered his plants and fed his cat. Good friends, they each kept a set of keys to