Another target sprang up from behind a row of canned goods. An old man holding something. A bag of groceries. Both hands visible. No weapon. She spun as she caught sight of movement to her left. A man with an automatic weapon.
She saw the shadow of another and was aiming as she turned, checking her target in a split part of a second.
The afterimage of a hand grenade floated in her mind as she stepped and turned and covered high and low, tracking with her eyes. She shuffled sideways to put two rows between her and a grenade blast. There was a bang, and wet confetti filled the air. None of it landed on her.
Then the lights went out and something brushed her. She whirled and faded left, looking for ambient light, seeing a glow splash across the face of a man with a smiling face, but the glow washed down across his chest. Shotgun.
Two targets came up together. Another teenager and a housewife. The teenager wore a sweatshirt with the name of the store. The woman stood behind him, one hand out of sight. The kid’s eyes were scared and painted so that he looked nervously back at Circe. It was an almost impossible shot in the dark. She took it.
Four hostiles down. Three rounds left. The lights came on—no, just the emergency lights. Weak and yellow. She turned at movement, saw a woman with a stroller. Lingered for a moment, looking for a trap. No gun, no bomb. Circe moved forward, turning left and right, checking her corners, checking behind her.
There! A figure rose from behind the counter. Big fat guy holding another shotgun. Circe turned, aimed.
Did not fire.
The man looked like an older version of the kid in the sweatshirt. Father? Uncle. The owner, defending his store against the attack. Circe kept the pistol on him.
“Drop your weapon! Do it now—
The shopkeeper silhouette dropped back.
And the lights came on.
“Clear and lock!”
Circe stepped out of her shooter’s crouch, turning to keep the barrel clear of the entrance. She eased the hammer down, removed the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. She held up the locked and empty weapon.
“Clear!”
Muhammad hit the button for the exit door to open and she stepped out, placing her weapon on the courtesy bench. Her ears were ringing and her hand tingled from the heavy recoil.
“Well, well, well,” said Muhammad, smiling around the wooden matchstick. “You’re not dead, Doc. Congratulations.”
“I almost shot that last target.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t. We don’t worry about ‘almost’ any more than we worry about any other distraction. Combat purifies thinking.”
It was one of his most common aphorisms, and she nodded, repeating it softly.
“Now,” he said, “it’s comforting to know that you
“Loud and clear, Chief.”
Muhammad smiled and wiggled the matchstick up and down. “Okay, let’s agree that your ass has been kicked. Now, Doc … what the hell’s got you so bent out of shape?”
“It’s complicated, but …” She hesitated, unsure how to begin.
“With what you do? No kidding.” He wore a crooked smile as he shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I believe that it’s Miller time. Let’s go someplace and talk this out.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Bars serve coffee. I’ll watch you drink.”
She still hedged. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“And that’ll change our relationship how?” He clapped her on the shoulder. “C’mon, Doc. Crazy one buys the first round.”
They sat in the T-Town canteen, huddled together in a private corner. She drank white wine; he drank hot tea. She told him everything that she had found online, and she told him all of her speculations.
Chief Petty Officer Abdul Muhammad did not think she was crazy. “I can see it,” he said after careful thought. “On both sides of this thing there are enough hotheads ready to pull a trigger or throw a firebomb, and that’s as true now as it was during the Crusades and maybe back to Moses and the Pharaoh.”
“What do you think about the
He sipped his tea. “What, do I think that there are radical Jews out there planning the downfall of the free world?” He shrugged. “Yeah, probably. Just like there are radical Muslims, Buddhists, Lutherans, and Hindus. There’s radical everything. That’s why there’s always a war somewhere. But if you’re asking if I think that these Web posts are being made by a vast secret society of Jews, then no. I don’t buy that for a moment.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Interstate Route 95 South
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
December 18, 5:37 A.M. EST
Dr. Rudy Sanchez hurried through the terminal, collected his suitcase, and picked up the late-model Ford. His annoyance at having been sent back to the States before even setting foot in England had long since passed, replaced by a growing sense of unease about the man named Nicodemus.
Once he was on the road in Pennsylvania, Rudy called Mr. Church.
“Bug called me a few minutes ago,” Rudy explained. “We had another call from the psychiatrist at Graterford. Have you read the transcript?”
“No, and I can’t read it now. Give me the highlights.”
Rudy did. When he was finished, Church said, “He actually mentioned the Kings?”
“His exact words, as Dr. Stankevi
ius recited them to me, were: ‘Lo! And behold the rise of the Seven Kings. All shall fall before them!’”
“Interesting,” murmured Church. “I’ll see that and raise you one.” He told Rudy about the Kings symbol on Plympton’s door and the reference in the note the man had left in his murdered wife’s hand.
“What does it all mean?”
“I would give a lot to be able to answer that question, Doctor. Maybe you can coax some answers out of Nicodemus.”
“I hope so, but I’m not optimistic. Nicodemus is supposed to be in isolation, without TV or newspaper privileges, and yet he’s making references to the London Hospital and the Seven Kings. He shouldn’t be able to get outside information.”
“You question the likelihood of an information leak in a
