“Yes, I wondered about that. Whoever is in charge of this bunch, they were fucking well prepared.”
Pieter grinned an unpleasant grin. “Oh I know who’s running the show. And they’re fucking mine.”
“Be my guest. What about through the curtain down the corridor? What’s in there?”
Pieter told him briefly, about the catacombs, and the crazy ceremony, and of course Officer Joos. This last bit made Dyatlov wince. He patted Pieter on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry. The bastards aren’t getting away this time.”
It soon became clear that Lotte’s deranged followers had no intention of trying to escape. Their fanaticism and total obedience was absolute, and they fought tooth and nail for every room and staircase, every landing and corridor and square foot of ground, regardless of the cost to them. Perhaps they had been pumped full of drugs or maybe they were just utterly brainwashed. Whatever the case, surrender was not an option for them. So it fell to Dyatlov and his men, with Pieter’s help, to prise them out and neutralize them one by one.
In the large room containing Officer Joos’ butchered remains, hidden at the back of one of the archways, they quickly located another staircase, this one leading upwards. They followed it up, heading towards the sound of gunfire.
Signs of fighting were everywhere, the wood-panelled walls and balustrade splintered with gunshot and grenade. On one landing they stepped over another masked corpse still gripping on to its assault rifle. A little further up, another body sitting slumped over, again dressed in those sinister dark robes. From the looks of it he had ripped away his wood-carved mask and taken his own life by placing a handgun into his mouth and pulling the trigger.
Smoke was everywhere, catching in the back of Pieter’s throat, and his eyes watered from the tear gas, but he pushed on just behind Dyatlov.
Over his comms suite Dyatlov was informed that the last of the holdouts were now contained on the upper landing. They reached the spot moments later, amid the fierce firefight taking place.
One end of the hallway was occupied by members of Black and Red Team, the other by a handful of the enemy. Every now and then a robed gunman would pop out from a doorway and fire towards the police, and the police would respond in kind.
Pieter hung back, realizing this was a job for the professionals, and he found himself wondering if Lotte was amongst the group still holding out. Most likely she was. He listened as Dyatlov issued a series of instructions to his men. Enough was enough, it was time to end this, he told them. At his command they would fill the far end of the hallway with as much gunfire as possible together with stun grenades, tear gas and concussion grenades. They would use maximum force. If they wanted to die like crazy fanatics, then they would grant them their wish.
Pieter moved away and sheltered behind a nearby corner, hunkering down as much as possible, and braced himself.
When it came the cacophony of noise was frightful. The sound of sustained machine-gun fire, accompanied by a series of violent explosions, ripped apart his world and sucked the air from his lungs. His ears rang like bells in a church tower, and the dust made him cough and splutter, and he lay flat on the floor, and prayed that the building would not split apart.
Slowly a strange hush settled and Pieter pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his hair and face. He waited a moment, hoping it was over. Then he heard voices, a few muttered words and then a nervous laugh, and he relaxed.
It was done.
From further down the landing by the end wall, Bart watched him through the smoke.
During the fighting, he’d sustained a nasty wound to his scalp, and his face was a mask of red blood. His clothes were torn, and his knuckles were raw from fighting with one of the policemen. He’d lost his gun at some stage and instead had scooped up one of the scythes somebody had dropped onto the floor. Now he stood there, still and silent, with the weapon in his hand and a fury bubbling deep inside, hating this man with a cold fury at what he’d done, the way this interfering fool had wrecked their plans, their years of careful preparations.
They should have killed him weeks ago, months ago, just like Bart had said. It was too dangerous having a police officer, the main homicide detective investigating their crimes, so near to the heart of their plans. Yet Lotte had insisted, saying she had everything worked out, that all of the pieces were slipping perfectly into place exactly as she had predicted. So he had gone along with it, trusting her judgement. Totally devoted to her as he was.
Yet it had all fallen apart. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong. Perhaps his sister’s abilities in the dark arts were not as refined as she thought, in spite of the things he had seen her do, the wonderful feats she had performed.
Maybe, just maybe, her feelings for the cop had been her undoing.
Because of that everything was over, their schemes lay in ruins, with most of their followers dead.
There was still time to put one thing right though. It would not alter the eventual outcome, but it would be a fitting way to exact revenge.
Lifting the scythe and gripping it in both hands Bart charged at the cop, screaming his hatred.
Pieter heard the heavy footsteps and then the loud yell, which shattered the stillness. He spun in alarm, and saw the huge figure racing towards him, instantly recognizing Bart, and then registering the wicked-looking blade of the scythe swinging straight towards his head.
He pulled up his pistol and fired at nearly point-blank range, three rapid shots, all of them finding their target and thudding into Bart’s huge bulk. Bart stumbled slightly, then carried on running, the momentum of his charge propelling him forward, and Pieter’s fourth shot
