The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Baltasar knew it was coming. There was no stopping it. Minutes were a precious commodity, as he had no clear idea what chaos the masters would bring down. It would happen quickly. It didn’t matter which town, which city, as soon as they knew his route they would have arranged something within close proximity of every point all the way to his home; and then potentially all the way to their true headquarters. He had never seen the Grand Lodge so intense, so focused. Because of them, nobody was safe in the world today.

Except him, it seemed.

Baltasar backed away from the tussle, forced to recognize the higher ideal. The redhead with the muscles stared at him hungrily, causing a moment’s confusion. It was rare to see an opponent still standing after a skirmish, let alone wanting more. Baltasar had not seen it since the training ground and it made him slightly nostalgic.

A few more moments with her…

Strangely, the network of old wounds that crisscrossed his body began to itch. Baltasar forced himself away, using every ounce of will, and then ran, remembering he was relatively blind now and had no idea how many his enemies numbered. He raced away from the bus station.

It was coming. Three minutes gone, and time was short.

The backpack bounced; inside it the map, a relic his masters held in higher regard than every life on the planet. Peripheral vision caught the sudden onslaught of two more people — a young woman and an older man. Both looked in good shape and were wearing flak jackets underneath their clothing. That put them in league with the redhead and the others.

Baltasar saw no way past them, and no option to slow down. He truly had no idea as to the scope of the event that was coming. Directives said ‘get clear’. For those on the ground, in the thick of it, directives were occasionally a little vague.

Baltasar met the black-haired woman head on, dipped and let her slide over his back. Still, she managed to drive a knee into his thigh, causing the muscle to bark in pain. Another interesting contest. The older man came next, stance betraying a belief that he could hold his own in this battle but telling Baltasar he was no match. The Hood slammed an elbow at the face, then a jab to the chest, a spinning kick that sent his opponent crashing to the floor with a tremendous double bounce.

Baltasar didn’t stop for even a second. The bus station ended up ahead — a retaining wall dividing the passenger area from delivery bays and other distribution areas. Baltasar slowed and looked back as he reached the wall, intent on quickly evaluating the threat.

The things he saw, despite his training, would live with him forever.

All this mayhem to cover one person’s escape.

He saw a bus driven by a madman, grinning and animated at the wheel. He saw the speed at which it was going, the back tires skidding precariously out of control, the entire vehicle leaning to the right. He saw the arc of its journey, and its destination. He saw travelers spot it and run and scream; heard shots being fired by the men and women that’d accosted him, causing panic.

The careening bus struck the back end of one that was already parked, the fanatical driver standing up at the end, arms in the air and pumping. He wore a suicide vest. The aftermath would paint him in only one way.

Civilians ran; jumped, screamed, leapt out of the way. Those seated inside the parked bus didn’t stand a chance; they never saw it coming. Sounds of terror filled the bus station. Many inside the shops and the café dived for cover. Baltasar saw four members of the team he’d fought and watched their actions.

The redhead and her geeky friend started sprinting as soon as they saw the bus, sensing the event. The geek was all for himself, head down, aiming for cover; the redhead shouted loudly as she went, herding individuals into her path. The other two — a woman with curly hair and a tall, clean-shaven man with dubiously white teeth — grabbed as many people as they could, shouting for many more to follow. They ran for shelter. The curly-haired woman fired her weapon into the air.

Whatever the reason, whatever the effect, it was a gesture too late. The bus struck its target and exploded. A fireball stormed the air, radiating outward as a massive explosion struck the bus station. Concrete shook and crumbled, windows shattered. A shockwave knocked running bodies to the ground, saving lives. Debris punched outward at a deadly rate — twisted metal and shrapnel, glass and plastic — a killer storm set alight by the deadly, blazing fire.

Baltasar embraced the mayhem. It was his shroud, his mantle. Something to hide behind and make use of. Now more than ever, he knew he would need all of his wits, his guile, and considerable training.

He would not be able to use the bus or the train, except perhaps on reaching Hungary, Austria or even Germany. The route remained open though, and he was ahead in every way. All they had managed to do so far was slow him down.

And look at what they had brought down upon themselves.

One tactic his masters used was to make an end result prove too costly. In any way possible. If his attackers back there were government funded — their wings would be about to be clipped.

Baltasar fancied that they were something else though. A diverse mix — they seemed like soldiers and something else. Confident, tough, resourceful. Their presence would be worth mentioning to his masters.

As soon as he got away from Thessaloniki.