The Well

“Nephilim or Fallen,” Cotten whispered when the echo of the footfalls faded away.

“Quiet,” Ivanov said softly.

The basement was as black as the darkness Cotten felt in her heart. She had been tricked. They knew she would not stand by and let harm come to John. She would drop everything and race to his rescue. And the thing they wanted her to abandon, to leave behind, was her investigation of T-Kup, Calderon, and the Korean connection. Now it became the second most important issue in her life, next to getting John out of this horrible place. But first, she must grab hold of her emotions. She had to somehow make Colonel Ivanov and his KGB friends realize that they faced far more than gangsters in Wolf Castle. In fact, gangsters would be welcomed adversaries.

But how would they react to her? Certainly, she would sound like she had lost her mind. The simplest explanation for now would have to do. Any lengthy explanation involving God and Satan and Fallen Angels would distract them from their mission. But at some point, she would have to face the priest and the man dressed in the military uniform. And in doing so, she would be confronting her father’s kind and her own—the Fallen and Nephilim.

Ivanov pushed the cell door forward an inch at a time. After it stood open, he waited in the darkness another few moments before flipping on his flashlight. With caution, he took a step forward. Making his way to the end of the row of prisoner cells, he looked around the corner in the direction the two men had left. Finally, he signaled for the others to follow.

“Okay,” Ivanov said. “Now we go up to top of tower.” He started to take a step.

“Colonel, I recognized one of those men,” Cotten said.

“So did I,” he said. “Major General Nikolai Borodin. Big shot gangster general in former Soviet army. Most corrupt prick of all. I am not surprised he is behind this.”

“Well, the other man is one of the hostages. He is a Catholic priest. I saw him in the picture of the captives sent to the Vatican by the kidnappers. Now I know he is a traitor, probably responsible for setting up the abduction.”

“Birds of feather,” Victor said with a huff.

“Borodin is corrupt,” Ivanov said. “Now, so is priest. Both need to go meet God tonight.” He was about to turn and lead them on, but he paused and looked at Cotten. “What was strange word you said back in cell?”

She considered lying to him so they wouldn’t lose their momentum. Instead she said, “Nephilim.”

“It means?”

“Offspring of Fallen Angels.”

“Interesting,” he said. Ivanov lifted his brows and nodded. “Will Nephilim die if bullet go through brain?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “Fuck Nephilim.”

Motioning the group to follow, Ivanov headed across the torture chamber to a set of wooden stairs, arcing the floor ahead with his flashlight beam. Cotten saw tiny red spots as the light reflected off the retinas of rats caught in the beam. They took one look and scurried to the safety of the darkness.

The stairs were circular and extended upward for twenty feet or so. The group came to a wooden platform and a large, bulky door. Ivanov pushed, and with a creaking of rusty hinges, it opened. A blast of frigid air rushed in, smacking Cotten and throwing her off balance. She started to teeter on the edge of the steps when Victor’s strong grip grabbed and steadied her.

“Thank you,” she said and squeezed his arm.

“Would be bad fall,” he said.

One by one, they slipped through the door into the darkness of the freezing night. The wind howled across the top of the mountain and raced around the castle’s walls. Crouching below the upper lip of the parapet wall, the group waited for Alexei to unfasten his sniper rifle from his back and open his supply bag.

Cotten rose just enough to take a quick look over the wall. She saw the main entrance down to her left. It appeared that the drawbridge was in the up position. In addition to the tower they were gathered beneath, she saw three other tall, round towers connected by thick walls forming a large polygon-shaped fortress. The battlements protected what she estimated to be at least two acres of stone and wood structures. Inside the confines of the fortress the main buildings were capped with steep roofs that would shed the snow. Most of the structures were spotted with dozens of arched windows. A few lights were on behind the windows. Snow-laced wind whipped across the top of the medieval structure bringing a cold, damp edge that cut deep.

Cotten watched Alexei as he pulled a long, slim cylinder from the bag and screwed it onto the end of the rifle barrel. Then he removed a tubular-shaped device that attached to the top of the weapon. She assumed it was a night vision device of some kind. Alexei grabbed a magazine clip from the bag and pushed it into the bottom of the weapon. Pulling back the bolt, he slowly stood and peered over the top of the stone battlement wall. Sighting through the scope, he scanned the courtyard below. Back and forth he moved in a slow sweeping motion, stopping now and then to examine particular areas. Then he slipped back to his crouching position.

“Two men on front gate,” he said to Ivanov. “One on back wall.”

“Start with one on wall,” the colonel said.

Alexei stood and re-aimed his weapon.

A moment later, Cotten heard a muffled thud.

He shifted his aim, and two rapid thuds followed. The three shots, along with the clinking sound of the metal shell casings dropping onto the stone walkway, were swept away in the howl of the wind.

“Done,” Alexei said, as if he had just swatted an insect.

“Stay here and cover us,” Ivanov said. “Victor, go down to drawbridge and get ready. Krystof, hostages brought here in limousine. Find it and warm up.” He turned to Cotten. “Ready?”

As ready as she would ever be, Cotten thought. “Yes.”

“This way.” Ivanov led her, along with Victor and Krystof, down steps that hugged the inside battlement wall. At the bottom, he motioned for Cotten to follow while the other two headed off in different directions. As she and the colonel rounded a corner of a large structure, they both froze at the sight of a figure walking out of the building and heading across the courtyard.

“It’s the traitor priest,” Cotten whispered. “I want to follow him.”

“That would waste time,” Ivanov said.

“I have to.”

He shrugged, then waited until the man was past them.

“I think I know where he is going,” Cotten said.

“And where is that?”

“To the well to dispose of John’s cross.”

“We don’t have much time. Too much delay and you risk friend’s life.”

Without hesitation, she started after the priest. Ivanov gave out a grunt and followed.

They hugged the side of the buildings, staying in the darkest of the shadows. Cotten stopped when she saw the priest standing beside the round stone well alongside the old horse stables. She watched as he raised one of the wooden planks covering the opening and held his hand out.

“Give me your pistol,” she whispered to Ivanov.

He pulled his gun and handed it to her.

Boldly, Cotten stepped forward until she was a few yards from the priest. “Stop,” she said with as much authority as she could muster.

The priest turned around, the gold cross glittering as it dangled from his fingers. Staring at Cotten, he said, “You’re early.”