Avery averted her eyes as Martiel pushed her ahead of him, through the impromptu maze of bullet-pocked and blood-spattered K-rails. Her ears were still ringing from the tumult and the air stank of burnt gunpowder. In her peripheral vision, she could make out the unmoving shapes of the security guards who had been cut down in the onslaught.
While their attention had had been on her and Martiel, the rest of the men in the van had broken out automatic rifles and tactical gear from the Pelican cases and then slipped out the back to await the signal. When that signal had come, they had acted without mercy, gunning down at least four of the guards before any of them could return fire. Only one of Martiel’s men had been injured, sustaining a flesh wound to the thigh that had slowed him down but not taken him out of the fight. The van, however, had been riddled with bullets. The windshield was a spiderweb of fracture lines, and the radiator was venting steam from several holes. But even if it had remained intact, they still would have been forced to proceed on foot because of the barricades.
Martiel continued to hide behind her, gun pressed to the side of her neck, even though there had been no return fire since the initial exchange. They were at the rear of the formation, along with Stone and the limping wounded man, while the five able-bodied shooters moved in a tight knot, weapons at the high ready. Avery had overheard one of them reporting that at least some of the security guards had retreated to the main building, but even if that was true, there was little the survivors could hope to accomplish. Martiel’s deceptive and cowardly use of Avery as his human shield had allowed his smaller force to score a decisive victory. Now the odds were firmly in their favor.
Once past the barricades, they proceeded down the paved road to the rather plain looking entrance to the nearest building in the complex. There was just a single unmarked door with a large pull handle and lock plate equipped with an alphanumeric keypad. One of the men ran forward and tried the door, then looked back and shook his head. “Locked!”
“Blow it,” Martiel said.
Another man carrying a small duffel bag ran up, knelt down before the door and took out a small packet which he taped in place next to the latch plate. He then took out a spool of what looked like speaker wire, attached an end of it to the packet, and then returned to the group, gesturing for the rest of them to move back and get down. When they were about fifty yards away, he dropped to a prone position and, after shouting a final warning, squeezed the detonator trigger.
A bright flash and a puff of smoke. The noise wasn’t much louder than the reports of the assault rifles, but Avery felt the shock wave reverberate through her body. As the smoke cleared, she saw the door still mostly intact, swinging gently away on its hinges. The gunmen waited a few seconds to see if anyone inside was going to start shooting, and when that didn’t happen, they began moving forward. Martiel pulled Avery to her feet and propelled her toward the entrance. When he got within about twenty yards, he put the gun away and cupped a hand to his mouth.
“Attention in the building!”
As the echoes of his shout died away, one of his men produced the bullhorn they had taken from a dead security guard at the front gate, and handed it to Martiel. He held it up to his mouth and depressed the trigger, which resulted in a loud squawk, right in Avery’s ear. “Attention in the building. Mr. Spaulding, if you can hear me, I want to discuss a peaceful resolution.”
A shout came from the entry. “What do you want?”
“Am I speaking to Mr. Ray Spaulding?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“That’s not important, Mr. Spaulding. What is important is that you listen carefully and follow my instructions without delay or deviation. If you do, I promise no further harm will come to anyone. I think there’s been enough violence already, don’t you?”
“What do you want?” Spaulding asked again.
“First, I need all your remaining security men to come outside, one at a time, with their weapons held over their heads. Once outside, they will be disarmed and restrained. Do you understand?”
“You promise not to shoot them?”
Avery felt Martiel grow tense with impatience. “I promise only that if you do not follow my instructions, everyone will suffer the consequences.”
A momentary pause, then, “Okay. We’re coming out now.”
A figure wearing a black tactical uniform emerged from the doorway, his automatic rifle held high above his head with one hand. His other arm was bandaged across his chest with a makeshift sling, and a crude, blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around his biceps.
Martiel instructed the man to continue forward several more steps, and then to throw down his weapon and assume a kneeling position, after which he signaled for the next man to come out.
Only four men from the security detail had survived the attack at the gate, and of them, only three were ambulatory, but Spaulding gave his word that all the weapons had been removed from the building. Once the security team was dealt with, Martiel announced that he and his men would be coming in, and instructed everyone inside to gather in the lobby. Then, he handed off the bullhorn and drew his pistol, once again holding it to Avery’s neck as he moved toward the building.
There were only about a dozen people in the lobby, including the critically wounded security guard who lay sprawled out on a table. Someone had cut away his uniform and begun basic first aid—bandaging his wounds and even starting an intravenous drip. The others were all face down on the floor, as instructed.
Martiel’s men marched the zip-tied guards inside and forced them to kneel with others.
“Who’s Spaulding?” Martiel barked.
“I am.” A stout man wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt and Coke bottle spectacles looked up. Even though the air-conditioned lobby was uncomfortably cool, beads of perspiration were visible on his bald pate.
“Do you actually expect me to believe that this is everyone?”
“People are scared. A lot of them are hiding.”
“I warned you what would happen if you didn’t follow my instructions.” Martiel regarded him with a skeptical eye for a moment. “But I’m not interested in hurting people, and I don’t have time for recriminations. But I warn you, if any of those scared people cowering under their desks try anything, everyone in this room will pay the price.”
“Understood.”
“Excellent,” Martiel said with a grin. “Now, if you would be so good as to show me to your cafeteria.”
Spaulding might not have understood the unusual request, but Avery immediately grasped Martiel’s intent. So, evidently, did Stone. “Snack time, right? A little brain food?’
Martiel answered with a knowing wink.
The cafeteria was only a short walk from the lobby. Martiel had brought along one of his men, leaving the others to watch over the hostages, and while he maintained his grip on Avery’s arm, his manner was less aggressive than it had been outside. His ultimate victory was in sight, and he knew it. As they entered the fully-equipped institutional kitchen, he headed straight for the four-burner gas stove, barely able to contain his eagerness.
He let go of her arm and used both hands to unzip the backpack and take out the Brazen Head. He held it up, giving it a shake like a child trying to guess the contents of a wrapped Christmas gift, and then looked over at Avery. “You got it to work before, didn’t you?”
“In Paris. But only with distilled water.”
“I was tempted to try it out on the plane, but I didn’t want to waste the gift, especially since I don’t know how long the effects will last.”
Stone chuckled. “It would be pretty embarrassing if you reverted to stupid before carrying out your diabolical plan.”
Martiel ignored the jibe, and instead placed the Brazen Head on one of the burners. He glanced at Avery again. “Like this, right? Hess’ notes were a bit vague.”
She nodded. “It will take a few minutes to heat up, just like a tea kettle.”
Even though she was afraid and a little angry at being forced to help him, she was also curious to see what would happen when the Brazen Head began exhaling its mind-altering vapors.
He turned the knob, and heard a faint whooshing sound as a circle of blue flames appeared under the flat base of the brass automaton. An uncomprehending Spaulding hung back a few steps, as did Martiel’s gunman but Stone, despite himself, took a step closer.
After just a few seconds, the Brazen Head began ticking like an old radiator, the metal heating and expanding, the water inside making rushing sounds as the pressure built. Even before the first wisps of steam became visible, a foul odor filled the air.
Spaulding shuddered. “What is that smell? It’s disgusting.”
There was a softer clicking noise as clockwork gears began turning inside the artifact. Its eyes opened, flickering with barely visible light. and then its mouth opened too, issuing the cryptic haunting refrain that Avery had almost forgotten about.
“Memento mori. Memento mori.”
“Remember you are mortal,” Martiel whispered.
Stone laughed again. “I think it’s trying to tell you something.”
Avery laughed, too, unable to help herself. Her sense of terror was slipping away by degrees, replaced by a strange calm.
Memento mori, she thought. Remember you will die. Everyone dies. Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief. There was no escaping it. Nobody was immortal.
It didn’t matter if Martiel succeeded because eventually, he would die too.
Maybe Stone was right. Maybe everything—finding the Brazen Head, solving the mystery of its purpose and function, and ultimately, losing it to Martiel—maybe all of that was inevitable. Maybe everything happened the way it did because it couldn’t happen any other way, and if that was true, nothing really mattered at all.
The shiny brass head looked vaguely angelic as it floated above the flames, white steam began rushing from its mouth and nostrils, chanting its solemn wisdom.
“Oh my, God,” she whispered, giggling a little. “I’m totally tripping.”
Martiel leaned in close, sucking greedily at the vapors. “This is amazing,” he said, his voice dream-like, full of awe, though that might simply have been caused by Avery’s own hallucinatory experience.
“Memento mori. Memento mori.”
The words carried her out of her body. The kitchen walls seemed to shift and stretch like taffy. Thom Martiel, hunched over the Brazen Head, looked both silly and demonic—like something from a cheap carnival house of horrors.
The familiar crack of automatic gunfire in the distance snapped her back to reality.
Martiel looked up abruptly. “Sounds like someone decided to play hero,” he remarked. “I warned them what would—”
He was cut off by the sound of another report, but this one was louder and deeper, like the boom of a cannon. A moment later, there was another just like it, and then all was quiet save for the mechanical voice of the Brazen Head.
“Memento mori. Memento mori.”
A look of sober worry flitted across Martiel’s face. He turned to the gunman. “Find out what’s going on.” As the man started from the room, Martiel called out again. “Wait. Take these two with you.” He drew his pistol, pointed it at Avery and Stone. Then he grabbed Spaulding’s arm. “Take me to the master terminal.”
“I can’t—”
“Don’t test me,” Martiel warned. “You can and you will. I don’t need you alive to get past through the biometrics on the door. I’ll drag your corpse if I have to.”
Avery lost sight of both men as Martiel’s goon stepped between her and them, jabbing the barrel of his automatic rifle at her. “Move.”
She complied, still feeling a little numb and dislocated from the mind-altering effects of the steam cloud. As they moved down the connecting hallway, she thought she could hear shouts, not just one person, but many voices jumbled together in an atonal buzz of crowd noise. Underpinning it were bursts of a strange crackling sound, much louder than the clockwork ticking of the Brazen Head. For some reason, it reminded Avery of a party, and the thought almost made her giggle again.
The gunman, however, appeared much more alarmed by the tumult. “What the hell?” he muttered, pushing past Avery and Stone.
As he did, Stone leaned close to Avery, and in an urgent whisper, said, “Keep him busy.”
She let out a snort of laughter, and turned to ask for an explanation, but Stone was already gone, sprinting back the way they had come. The gunman didn’t even glance back, but continued forward at a jog.
Avery laughed again. “Party pooper,” she said, and then headed after the gunman, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do to keep the man occupied, especially since he was already thoroughly distracted.
She was about twenty steps behind the man when he reached the door to the lobby. He paused there for a moment, then pressed his back to the wall beside the door and, with his weapon still raised to his shoulder, cautiously reached down with his left hand and gave the panic bar a push. As the door swung open, he brought his left hand back up to steady the rifle and then swung around the corner....
And was knocked back as if he’d been hit by a charging bull. The unfired rifle flew from his suddenly nerveless grip. Simultaneously, another cannon-like boom rolled, deafeningly loud in the close confines of the hallway.
The gunman writhed on the floor, curling like a worm on a fishhook, clutching his abdomen, though there didn’t appear to be any blood. That surprised Avery; judging by the decibel level of the shot that had felled him, she expected him to be blown in half.
An imposing figure filled the doorway, the smoking weapon held to his shoulder and still trained on the fallen man. Avery let out a squeal of delight as she recognized him.
“Bones! What are you doing here?”
Uriah “Bones” Bonebrake looked back at her and grinned. “Yo, chica. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by and see if you want to party.”
She threw her arms around him, squeezing him as if afraid that he might evaporate if she let go.
Bones chuckled. “I guess that’s a ‘yes.’”