The Treasures of Saint Germain

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Dahl’s warning sent the entire team leaping like acrobats, away from the assumed impact point. It came a split-second later, a totally insane, unexpected blast from the turret gun of a rusted tank, the shell slamming into the piled snow and exploding, flames shooting for yards all around and shrapnel detonating. Most of the shards shredded the snow, peppered the canons or stuck into trees but a few sharp particles passed among the team. Dahl added a cut wrist to his scar collection; Kenzie a gouge to the abdomen. Lauren got a nicked ear, whilst Smyth was lucky enough to see deadly slivers deflect from the stock of his gun.

The door to the house flew open and a steady stream of screaming, black-robed sentries rushed out, all brandishing swords. Kenzie’s reaction was on the verge of orgasmic.

“Oh, come to Momma. Get your sweet, sweet-tempered ass over here!”

She met the first to arrive with gleeful abandon.

Dahl kept his head, raised his handgun, and conserved his bullets. One shot, one man. Around him, his team followed suit.

Smyth ran at the tank, man versus machine, growling and gnashing as if he might chew his way through the bulletproof exterior. The gun barrel stayed still, its occupants probably reloading. Smyth jumped at the vehicle, hit the side and jumped again from a tiny ledge, landing on top. The entry hatch lay before him, as old as the tank and as rusty and vulnerable. He stamped on it, then struck it with the butt of his gun, gratified to see chunks flying off. When the latch broke he hefted the lid and dived away, rolling to the front of the tank. Sure enough, bullets zinged up through the hole, shooting straight up at the sky. He wondered briefly how far they might get and where they might land, and then wished for a grenade.

No such luck.

Dahl shouted at his team to vacate their positions as Smyth hit stalemate with the tank. The robed swordsmen were still coming, half a dozen down and dead, but others leapt over their comrades and poured forward like rats deserting a plague ship. Dahl shot one point blank, the descending sword whistling over his shoulder. The next he barged aside. He deflected a blade with his handgun, clenching his teeth to keep the pain inside, and fired off a quick shot. This man fell to his knees, but then another leapt onto his back and flung himself at Dahl, snarling, robe flying in an impression of Batman or Dracula, sword slicing apart the very air that surrounded them, first left, then right and then left again all in the blink of an eye.

Kenzie whooped it up, disarming the first man who reached her. Free of him she spun and brought the sword arcing down, slicing clean through the arm of her first opponent, whose hand and sword spun away at an alarming rate. On the backswing she sliced a stomach, and then caught the next sword on her own, the clang of metal loud as the churned up ice and floating snow spun all around them, creating a magnificent vision. Kenzie pirouetted, confusing her foe, then left him bleeding. She stabbed and thrust and chopped, taking on battle after battle, and never once looked troubled.

Lauren and Yorgi stayed behind the others, planning their shots well and covering when magazines needed replacing. None reached them, but the enemy kept on coming.

Kinimaka planted himself behind Dahl, a solid rock against which all enemy waves broke. Firing to both sides he also ducked under two sword swings and then brought his bulk up hard, sending his opponents into the air in messy, graceless cartwheels. Fast shooting ensured they were dead before they hit the ground, clay pigeons destined to die.

Dahl backed off a little. The front door of the house continued to belch forth hooded killers. He took a bead on the door and emptied a full mag, filling it and blocking it with twitching bodies. He picked up one man and then another, throwing both into the pile. Kinimaka covered him, and Lauren and Yorgi covered the Hawaiian. Behind them, Smyth wrestled with the tank.

Kenzie twirled at the heart of a melee, bright blade flashing, snow and ice swirling and churning all around her, stirred up by the ferocity of her passing. Gouts of blood flared through the snow, screams erupted, and wherever the fray moved to, it left a pile of broken bodies behind.

A hand reached over the top of the tank’s hatch, but Smyth was ready, firing and blasting away the fingers. He leapt at it, firing straight down, pummeling a body with bullets. The tank didn’t stop humming, but no further sounds were heard. Smyth swore at it and thought his skills might be useful elsewhere.

Kinimaka’s text tone rang out in the heart of battle.

“Crap, hang on.”

Dahl doubled his efforts, guessing what the Hawaiian might be thinking. Sabrina might be suggesting a plan or directing them to Webb. At that moment Kenzie swept toward him, a majestic Queen of Swords, dripping the blood of her enemies and grinning from ear to ear.

That woman is so unbelievably dangerous.

Hard. Relentless. Confrontational. He was sure she cared deep down, but if that were true then the emotion was locked away behind impregnable doors.

Smyth jumped in too, taking the pressure away from Dahl. Feline-fast, he whirled toward Kinimaka. “What is it?”

“Not good. Our thief is out of the house. With Webb. Covered by guards.” He looked around. “Side door!”

Dahl saw it. Another black-robed torrent flooding from another angle, toward the far side of the house where the edge of the roof met the rock of the mountain. Even as he watched, the stream reached the far side.

“Webb!” he cried. “Right there.” He saw Sabrina’s black hair and Webb’s frame and the stick-thin figure of another man near the front of the pack, probably the High Master. The unmistakable sound of a garage door being rolled up prompted his next reaction.

“With me!”

To a man and woman they all broke with the Mad Swede, firing sideways, stopping sword-wielding maniacs in their tracks. Dahl hurdled a canon, sidestepped a bright red telephone box and used a frozen ice sculpture as a screen to race closer to the escapees. As he came around into the open an engine roared to life. Robed sentries spotted him and broke with swords upraised. Dahl slammed home a fresh mag and fell to one knee.

“Come get some, assholes.”