The Last Templar

Chapter 24

N o matter how hard he tried, Branko Petrovic couldn't keep his mind on his work. Not that his job at the stables needed his undivided attention. Most days, he watered and fed the horses and shoveled horseshit on autopilot, keeping his stocky body hard and fit. His brain was left free to work out angles, calculate odds, make plans. Usually, that was.

Today was different.

It had been his idea to hire Gus Waldron. He'd been asked to find someone big and tough who could ride a horse, so he'd thought of Gus. Okay, so he knew that Gus could be a wild man at times, but he didn't expect him to go lopping off someone's head with a sword. Christ, even the fucking Colombians didn't pull stunts like that. Not in public anyway.

Something felt wrong. He'd tried calling Gus that morning and didn't get an answer. He fingered an old scar on his forehead, feeling the ache that always came back when things went wrong. Don't do anything that attracts attention, he'd been told, ordered even, and that's what he'd told Gus. A lot of fucking use that had been. Right now, attracting attention was the least of his worries.

A sudden panic surged over him. He had to get the hell out of Dodge, while he still could.

He rushed across the stables and opened up one of the stalls where a frisky two-year-old flicked her tail at him. In a corner was a crimped-top tub packed with animal feed. Opening it, he thrust his hands inside, raking away the pellets, and pulled out a sack. He weighed it momentarily, then reached into it and pulled out a glimmering golden statuette of a rearing horse, gaudily encrusted with diamonds and rubies. He stared at it for a moment, then rummaged further and dug out a pendant of emeralds set in silver. The contents of the sack were nothing short of life changing.

Carefully fenced, provided he took his time and did it carefully, he knew that the jeweled pieces in there were enough to buy him the condo down on the Gulf that he'd always promised himself and that, ever since he'd been dumped off the force, had looked as though it would never happen—and a whole lot more.

Closing the gate on the filly, he headed down the walkway between the stalls and was almost at the door when he heard one of the horses snicker and stomp restlessly, alarmed. Another horse followed suit, then another. Turning, he looked down the walkway, seeing nothing but hearing the racket as all the horses in the stable block had now joined in.

Then he saw it.

A tendril of smoke, drifting out of an empty stall at the farthermost end.

The nearest extinguisher was halfway along the walkway and when he reached it, he dropped the sack, yanked the cylinder out of its clamp, and headed for the empty stall. By now, the smoke was more than merely tendrils. Pulling open the gate, he saw that the fire was seated in a pile of straw in one corner. He pulled the pin off and squeezed the handle, quickly putting the fire out, when it suddenly occurred to him that he'd only finished working in that stall less than an hour earlier.

There had been no pile, just the raked, level carpet of straw he'd spread himself.

Hastily, Branko stepped out of the stall, watchful now. No point in listening. Trying to hear anything but the frantic neighing of the horses, some of them also lashing out at the sides and gates of their stalls, was impossible.

He started back along the walkway, then saw more smoke, this time at the other end of the block.

Damn it. There was someone in there with him. Then he remembered the sack. He had to go get it. His whole life's plans depended on it.

Dumping the extinguisher, he ran for the sack, snatched it up, then stopped short.

The horses.

He couldn't just run for it; he had to do something about them.

Slamming open the bolt on the nearest stall, he leaped back as the horse cannoned out through the gate. Then the next bolt. Another horse shot out like a bullet, its hooves deafening in the enclosed space. There were only three more horses to release when an iron-hard forearm locked around his throat.

"Don't struggle," a voice said quietly, lips close to Branko's ear. "I don't want to have to cripple you."

Branko froze. The grip was firm, professional. He didn't doubt for a moment that the man was deadly serious.

He was quickly dragged back toward the stable door where he felt the man's other hand at his wrist, then the bite of a hard plastic strip against his skin and in a move faster than he could have managed on his best day on the force, his hand was cuffed to the stable's huge sliding door. The man switched arms around his neck, repeated the procedure, and now Branko was spread-eagled across the doorway.

The three horses still trapped in their stalls were now whinnying and bucking wildly, kicking at the wooden partitions as the flames licked their way closer.

The man ducked beneath Branko's right arm and, as he straightened up, he took Branko's hand in his and quickly and without apparent effort, broke his thumb.

Branko screamed in pain, lashing out with both legs, but the man stepped swiftly aside. "What do you want?" the ex-cop yelped.

"Names," the man said, his voice almost lost beneath the clamor of the horses. "And make it quick.

We don't have that much time."

"What names?"

Branko saw a sudden flare of anger cross the man's face as he reached out and grabbed his left hand. He didn't go for a finger this time. He also grabbed his arm and, with a sudden twist of ferocious intensity, snapped Branko's wrist. The excruciating pain shot straight through him, making

him momentarily black out, his howl echoing above the furor of the frenzied horses.

He looked up to see the man standing impassively, watching him through the thickening smoke.

"Names of friends. Friends you visit museums with."

Branko coughed, peering desperately over the man's shoulder to where flames were now cracking as the timber rails caught fire. He couldn't string this out. "Gus," he blurted out frantically. "Gus and Mitch. That's all I know."

"Mitch who?"

Branko couldn't say the words fast enough. "Adeson. Mitch Adeson. That's all I know, I swear to God."

"Mitch Adeson."

"That's it. That's how it was done. It's like a chain of command, blind cells, you know?"

The man studied him carefully, then nodded. "I know."

Thank God, the sick fuck believes me. "Now get me out of these fucking cuffs," he pleaded. "Come on!"

"Where can I find this Mitch Adeson?" the man asked. He listened intently as Branko spluttered out what he knew, then nodded and said, "There was a fourth man with you. Describe him to me."

"I didn't see his face, he had a ski mask on, he never took the damn tiling off. He had it on under die armor and the rest of that shit."

Again the man nodded. "Okay," he murmured. Then he turned and walked away.

"Hey! HEY!" Branko yelled after him.

But the man didn't turn. He proceeded down toward the far end, pausing only to pick up die sack containing the stolen relics from the museum.

"You can't leave me here," Branko pleaded.

Then he realized what the man was doing. He was releasing die last of the horses.

Branko screamed as the panic-stricken dappled filly led the other two horses out of their stalls. And then they were thundering toward him at a headlong gallop, eyes wild, nostrils flared, die flames behind them making them look like they were coming at him straight out of the mouth of hell.

And he was strapped across their only escape route.