cliff walls were pocked and serrated, as though God had raked his fingers down them.
Even grassless, the area would have made a decent picnic area; at least he knew Beth would think so. He pictured Tyler falling off one of the rocks and not stopping until he tumbled into the excavation site 1,500 feet below, and decided he wouldn’t tell her about it.
Back to operative mode. He stood in the clearing’s seven o’clock position; at eleven o’clock another fissure or opening-apparently leading uphill, judging by the ground’s steep incline there and the scree that spilled out into the clearing-and at two o’clock a third way out, leading to the right. At five o’clock, almost directly to his right, was the waist-high mouth of a cave. It couldn’t have been deep, given that it penetrated the outcropping on which the teen had stood, which was no more than ten feet thick at its base.
Still, it was a hiding place, and a good one at that: shaded, out of the way, near the boy’s stakeout location. Jagger pulled the baton from its scabbard and flicked his wrist to snap it into its full twenty-six inches. It was simply a precaution; he didn’t expect any real danger. Jagger would be fierce and demanding and he’d let the intruder know he was serious about protecting the excavation and monastery. Maybe it would be enough to dissuade whatever plans the boy or his cohorts had in mind. In law enforcement and security, the appearance of readiness and efficiency was as important as being ready and efficient.
“Hello?” he called. “I just want to talk.” He repeated the phrase in Arabic, which Hanif had told him. Jagger arced out into the clearing, eyeing the cave for a glimpse of a body part. When he was looking straight into it, he realized shadows cloaked its deepest reaches. He moved out of its line of sight-or, more accurately, a shooter’s line of fire-and approached from the side. He pressed himself against the cliff beside the cave’s mouth, took a deep breath, and moved fast: he spun into the cave, dropping onto his knees to accommodate its low ceiling, and scampered toward the rear with the baton thrust out like a lance. First the baton, then his arm disappeared into blackness. The tip of the baton struck the rear wall.
Nothing. No one.
He realized that the rock at his knees was in fact a rolled sleeping bag, and he caught the glint of two eyes in the darkness, their moisture reflecting the light behind Jagger.
“Hello?” he whispered.
He shifted to sit back on his heels. As he pulled back on the baton, something seized it. A hand, gripping the baton, slipped out of the shadow and into the light.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Jagger said. “I-”
He froze. The boy’s face leaned into the light. He was a young teen. Fourteen? And he didn’t appear frightened. A pistol came into view. Its large muzzle stared at him.
“Don’t move,” the teen said.
Jagger let go of the baton and rammed his forearm into the boy’s wrist under the gun’s grip. At the same time, RoboHand grabbed the barrel and twisted it up and around, counter to the direction Jagger was forcing the teen’s wrist. It was a standard disarming technique, which-fortunately because of the confines of the cave-didn’t require feet and body movement. He wrenched the gun out of the boy’s hand. Jagger switched the pistol into his right hand and pointed it into the darkness.
Less than three seconds after first seeing the gun, Jagger possessed it. Under normal circumstances, in the open, Jagger would have quickly stepped back, out of the assailant’s reach. It was a luxury he didn’t have here, and the boy immediately took advantage of that.
The teen swung his forearm into Jagger’s wrist, grabbed the barrel, and took the firearm back. It wasn’t a matter of mimicking Jagger’s tactic; the kid’s movements were fast and sure. He had been taught and had practiced the maneuver.
Jagger acted before the teen could either fire, pull the gun away, or position himself more strategically. In a flash, he repeated the steps: slap and push the wrist… grab and twist the barrel. This time, when he had possession he swung his arm back and pitched the gun out of the cave, into the clearing. It had taken maybe eight seconds for them to exchange the weapon three times. He didn’t want to make it four.
With his right arm crossing his chest and dropping away from the teen’s wrist and RoboHand returning from its mission to rid the cave of the gun, Jagger was in no position to protect himself. So when the baton came off the ground and flashed toward his head, all he could do in that nanosecond of recognition was flinch. The hard molded-plastic grip struck his right temple, and he pitched left, slamming the other side of his head into the cave wall. He went down as the shadows engulfed him.
He was vaguely aware of the boy pummeling his body, kicking and punching it, but he couldn’t keep an eyelid open, let alone fend off the attack. Light cut into the shadows in dancing, jittering flashes, and Jagger realized that the boy had scrambled over him. Jagger rolled to see him scurry from the cave on all fours.
“Wait,” Jagger called, but the word came out on the weak breath of a whisper.
The boy grabbed the gun, and his black-khakied legs sprinted away.
[33]
Jagger remained in the cave until the exploding balls of green and purple light diminished from his vision. He rubbed his temple where the baton had made contact, feeling a big goose egg there. His brain pounded, and he laid his palm over his right eye, waiting for the drummer in his head to take a break. He found the baton, tossed it out of the cave, and backed out on all fours, dragging with him the sleeping bag and a backpack he’d found under it.
He wasn’t worried about the intruder coming back to hurt him. If that were his intention, he would have shot Jagger from the safety of the clearing while Jagger was incapacitated in the cave. He suspected the boy might have used the gun when they were playing hot potato with it, but he’d been cornered; the kid merely wanted his freedom and nothing to do with Jagger. Fair enough.
But everything about this boy bothered him: his brash helicopter entrance, his gun, his knowledge of hand- to-hand combat, his surveiling St. Cath’s at the precise moment the monks mysteriously took in a wounded stranger. It all pointed to trouble at the monastery, and there was nothing he could do but wait for it to play itself out and hope no one got hurt.
Crouching in front of the cave, he opened the backpack and rummaged through it. Clothes, energy bars, beef jerky, a small first-aid kit, a candle and lighter, a flashlight and spare batteries. He removed a tattered X-Men comic book and thumbed it open: Dobbiamo ottenerli da qui prima che Logan trovi che fuori e ancora viva. Looked Italian, but he wasn’t sure. The boy had spoken English-only two words, but Jagger hadn’t detected an accent.
He unrolled the sleeping bag and patted it down. If the boy had identification or a phone, it must be in those multipocketed pants. He pushed the unrolled bag and the backpack into the back of the cave-no sense denying the kid his food or a warm place to sleep. As he backed out, something in the sand glinted. He picked it up, exited the cave, and sat back on his heels to examine the object. It was a medallion or coin stamped with a human skull. Clutched between its teeth was a banner bearing an engraved word, almost worn away, nicked in spots. He thought the word could have been Choroutte. It appeared to be old, but what did Jagger know? Probably something an Egyptian fast-food chain handed out with its kid meals. He slipped it into his shirt pocket.
When he stood, the pounding in his head turned into something fast and loud: Deep Purple or Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. He closed his eyes, and after a few deep breaths felt a little better. He retrieved the baton, collapsed it, and returned it to the scabbard. He walked a dozen yards along each of the other paths leading away from the clearing and didn’t spot any sign of the boy, or anything else interesting. He returned to the camel-mostly sliding over the scree on his butt-and headed back to the monastery, all the way wondering if the boy was just a boy or an omen of more bad times ahead.
Toby pulled the sleeping bag out of the cave and shook it, watching for anything that fell out of its folds. He got the backpack and dumped the contents on the clearing’s stone ground. He brushed his fingers over the objects, spreading them out. He crawled into the cave and sifted through the sand. The obol was gone. He’d kept it in his pants pocket with the Glock. When he’d drawn the gun, it must have fallen out, and the security guard must have taken it.
Should have killed him, he thought, sitting in the cave, feeling as gloomy as his surroundings. He’d had the obol for years and really liked it; it was both a lucky charm and sentimental memento. Nevaeh had tried all sorts of
