The island of Björkö, Sweden
Crowley winced as the knife point spiked into the flesh of his upper back, then a soft sound rang down from above. Crowley frowned. It had sounded like a stone hitting the roof high above them, as if something small had dropped from a great height.
Phillipe, standing in front of Crowley, looked up, clearly questioning Karl. The touch of Karl’s knife disappeared and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, though he imagined it would be short lived.
Phillipe and Karl exchanged a few words, then Karl called out, presumably to the one who had carried Karol’s body up to the offices. There was a pregnant pause, silence growing heavy. Karl called out again, louder this time, and got no response. Crowley allowed himself a small smile.
More words and Phillipe pulled his gun from his jacket and jogged off. Crowley heard his shoes on the metal stairs, quickly at first and then slowing as he neared the top. Karl’s knife touched the side of Crowley’s neck, like a shard of ice.
“Don’t move and don’t speak,” Karl said softly, but his voice was a little distant. Crowley assumed he was turned away, watching Phillipe make his way along the mezzanine level.
Phillipe called out something, followed by a crash. Karl’s knife moved away fractionally and Crowley wasted no time. He hauled himself sideways, further from the blade, using all his strength to drag with him one of the metal frames to which he was tied. A gunshot rang out and a shout, then sounds of fighting. Glass smashed.
Crowley threw himself back and down, the metalwork falling with him. It clanged to the concrete almost on his head, close enough to have brained him senseless if he hadn’t twisted his neck to avoid it. But he didn’t spare that a thought as he kicked out, high and dead center. Karl was lunging forward, face twisted in fury, the knife raised high, and Crowley’s heel slammed into his solar plexus.
Karl woofed out his breath and for the first time Crowley saw a bruise across the man’s cheek, a swelling to one side of his mouth. In bizarre slow motion he had the impression this was the man Rose had hit, the one who had bled not six feet away from where he now lay. It drove a crazed laugh from Crowley and he threw his hip over to kick out again with the other leg, this time cracking his booted foot across Karl’s jaw. Karl’s head whipped to one side and he staggered away, dropped to his knees, his head swaying slightly as he fought to remain conscious.
Two more gunshots boomed from above, then another crash and a scream of pain.
Crowley used all the strength he had to haul himself back to his feet, dragging the two metal stands with him. They stretched his shoulder muscles almost to the breaking point, but he ignored the pain and took one step forward, then another. Then he pulled back one foot and, as Karl looked up, eyes swimming left and right, Crowley swung his kick in like he was punting for a field goal. Karl’s head snapped up and back, several teeth flying in a spray of blood, and collapsed onto his back.
Movement on the mezzanine above caught Crowley’s eye and he flinched back, restricted by the massive weight of metal hanging off each wrist, then he grinned.
“Need a hand down there?” Cameron asked.
“Phillipe?” Crowley asked.
“The guy who came up the stairs or the one who was already up here?”
“Either now you come to mention it.”
“Both deader than flower power and flared trousers, mate.”
Crowley laughed. “You’re a legend. I see desk work hasn’t made you soft.”
“Not even slightly, it would seem.”
Cameron came down the stairs, watching Karl as he did. The big blond man began to writhe slightly, a low moan escaping. Cameron took his knife and cut the bonds at Crowley’s wrists.
“Thanks,” Crowley said, rubbing his skin. He found his shirt and jacket and quickly pulled them on.
“You want me to finish this guy too?”
“Not yet, thanks. We need information. I’m glad you came when you did.”
Cameron nodded. “When you stopped responding to my texts I figured you might be compromised. Found a way in over the roof of the building next door.”
Crowley crouched beside Karl. “Where is she?”
Karl sneered, his mouth full of blood that ran over one cheek and dripped onto the pale concrete. He said something in Swedish that sounded rather unpleasant.
Crowley took the knife from Cameron and pressed it against Karl’s throat. “Where. Is. She?”
“You’re going to kill me anyway, I’m telling you nothing,” Karl said.
“I can make it very unpleasant for you,” Crowley said. “How about we do the blood eagle torture on you? I know exactly how it works, you know.”
Karl’s face blanched, his eyes momentarily wild.
“Oh yeah,” Crowley said. “And I’ll enjoy it too.”
Karl let out a humorless laugh. “It’s irrelevant, you’re already too late. And besides, if they’re still there you can’t sneak up on someone in open parkland. They’ll gun you down from a distance.”
“Open parkland? Near here?”
Cameron leaned forward. “Birka?” he asked. “Did they take her to the archeological site?”
Karl’s eyes flickered and Cameron shared a nod with Crowley. “I think that’s all we need to know.”
Crowley smiled. “It is. And I think we need to hurry. Goodbye, Karl.”
It didn’t take long to reach the site, but it was obvious from a distance that no one was there.
“We too late?” Cameron asked.
Crowley shrugged. “Lots of dark places under those trees. Let’s hunt around. We have no other leads.”
They jumped from the car and made their way quickly to the foot of the rocky hill with the cross on top, surrounded by a square, spike-topped fence. After several minutes of searching, growing increasingly frustrated, Crowley stopped and let his arms fall flat to his sides.
“That bloody Karl was right. We’re too late.”
Cameron shook his head ever so slightly, and gestured with a subtle nod to one side. Crowley didn’t turn his head, but let his eyes track sideways, searching the darkness. He saw what Cameron had seen; a small shape huddled in the darkness at the base of a large tree, trying hard to hide.
“Oh well,” Crowley said. “One last look around, you go that way.” He pointed away from the tree. “I’ll go this way.” He gestured back toward the car.
Cameron immediately took his meaning, knew they could go in opposite directions and circle around behind the tree unseen, to come behind whoever it was in case the person made a break for it. They trudged off through the darkness, then lightened their steps as they quickly doubled back. The man crouching had about two seconds to realize they had flanked him and leapt up to run, but they were on him, each grabbing one arm.
The man yelled in Swedish, struggled frantically for a moment. Crowley braced himself, wincing at the pain in his hastily bandaged calf. The wound was superficial, an annoyance more than a hindrance. He had been lucky. Crowley gripped the man’s arm harder, pushed him back against the tree trunk, and the man stilled. He wore a long dark hooded robe, like some kind of monk. Cameron reached up and pulled the man’s hood away, revealing a pasty, puffy round face and balding head. The man was in his fifties or thereabouts, and his eyes were wide with fear. He jabbered quickly in Swedish.
“English,” Crowley said in a low growl.
The man frowned. “Who are you?” he asked, his English heavily accented.
“I might ask you the same question,” Crowley said.
“I’m no one! Just a man enjoying a walk.”
Crowley laughed. “After midnight? Dressed like that? Try again!”
“I’m no one. Leave me be!”
“You haven’t been conducting any weird occult rituals lately?” Crowley asked.
The man winced, then pressed his lips together, his look suddenly defiant.
“Decided to clam up now, huh?”
Cameron looked at the man with a frown, lost in thought for a moment. Then he smiled. “I know who this is,” he said to Crowley. “I thought he was familiar but couldn’t think why for a moment, but it’s just come to me. When I was researching the Sons of Ragnar for you, this guy came up.”
The man’s breathing became rapid and Crowley grinned. “Got you there, hasn’t he?” he looked back to Cameron. “So who is it?”
“His name is Pietr Nilsson. He’s a far right wing politician here in Sweden. Quite a high profile character, aren’t you, Pietr?”
Nilsson clamped his lips together again, his eyes flicking left and right as he tried to watch both Crowley and Cameron equally.
“Now then,” Crowley said, “as we’ve established who you are, you can dispense with the ridiculous midnight stroll in your robes story. What are you doing here?”
“Re-consecrating the site of the knowing,” Nilsson said, his expression smug, like he expected them to simply not understand.
“That’s why they left you behind, is it? To do the cleanup work like a maid?”
Nilsson blanched.
Crowley leaned close. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
Crowley slapped Nilsson hard across one cheek. The politician yelped, his eyes going wide as saucers, bright in the night. The tears standing on his lower lashes indicated he wasn’t used to getting roughed up.
“I don’t have time for any more games!” Crowley said sharply. “Rose Black, the girl you took from Rome, who you just recently subjected to something here. Where is she?”
“I’m not telling you anything,” Nilsson said, but his voice was watery, weak with fear.
Crowley sighed, shook his head. “I am getting so tired of this. I can hurt you, Nilsson. I can make you beg for death. Just tell me what I need to know.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Nilsson said.
It was Crowley’s turn to widen his eyes. “Oh really?” He slapped Nilsson again.
“We can ruin you too,” Cameron added. “We don’t need to physically hurt you. Imagine what we could do to your career if we exposed your connection to the Sons of Ragnar. To everything you’ve been doing here. Not to mention the dirt I’m sure I could dig up on you in no time, should I choose to. You know I’m not lying.”
Nilsson began to shake, still looking left and right, fear making him paler than ever. “You’re too late anyway! She’s gone. Landvik took her.”
Crowley leaned very close, his breath tickling Nilsson’s chubby cheek. “Took her where?”