The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp 3)
He dropped the head back into the satchel, thank God, and slung it onto the table. He pressed the tip of the black sword against my throat. That’s it, I thought. I’m dead. If you’re nutty enough to carry around your father’s mummified head, there’s not much that will keep you from chopping off the head of the guy who killed him.
“The knights are no more, thanks to you,” he cried. “The Sword has departed, thanks to you! My father is dead, again thanks to you! His blood and the blood of all the knights cry to heaven for justice!”
His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing so heavily I could see his nostrils flaring. He nodded to someone behind me.
It was Vosch. He yanked me up and kicked away the chair.
I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next, and my mouth went dry.
“The knights are departed, their time on earth brought to an end by you, Alfred Kropp,” Jourdain said. “And so, like the knights of old, after I assumed my father’s place, I embarked upon a—what is the word?—a quest. A quest, yes! To finish what was begun. To complete the circle. The last knightly quest ... for the Thirteenth Skull.”
Two men appeared on either side of me, the guy who clubbed me in the car and the big driver. Each grabbed an arm while Vosch stayed behind me, hands on my shoulders.
“Jordain, listen to me,” I said. “I don’t know about any Thirteenth Skull. I don’t know about any skulls, period. All I know is all this crap has to stop somewhere and maybe we could agree it stops now, with me and you.”
Jordain nodded to Vosch, who forced me down to my knees.
“It won’t work, Jordain—why do you think your goons couldn’t kill me before? He won’t let it happen ...”
He was standing over me, the black sword shining in his hand, as I knelt at his feet.
“Who? Who will not let it happen?” he asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled that anyone would care.
I almost didn’t answer. Did I believe it myself? Did I really believe it the way Bennacio and Samuel believed it?
“Michael,” I whispered. “The Archangel.”
He stared down at my upturned face without expression.
“I’m—um—I’m his beloved.”
They burst out laughing, even Mr. Flat-Face, who didn’t strike me as someone with a finely developed sense of humor. Except Jourdain. Jourdain wasn’t laughing.
“Yes, the Angel,” he whispered. “It is almost time for Michael’s return—and the return of the gift. She has promised me and I believe her. The gift shall be given again to the true heir of Camelot, but not before the Thirteenth Skull is borne home.” He nodded to Vosch, who shoved his knee into the middle of my back, forcing me down. My right cheek smacked against the hardwood.
“I don’t understand!” I hollered. Maybe if I kept him talking I could postpone the inevitable. “Who promised you what? What gift? What true heir of Camelot?”
“Au revoir, Alfred Kropp,” Jordain Garmot said. He raised the black sword over his head, gripping the dragon-headed hilt with both hands.
“Saint Michael,” I whispered. “Save me.”
As if in answer, every window in the storehouse exploded inward and wide shafts of bright white light shot into the room.
05:03:42:19
It happened very fast.
Black canisters sailed through the broken windows, vomiting thick white smoke as they fell. My captors screamed at one another in French, except for the word “Kropp,” which I guess is “Kropp” in any language.
In seconds the room was filled with a thick, choking fog; it felt like someone was pressing hot matches against my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but could hear the sharp pop-pop of small-arms fire and the bumping and cursing that always came with people stumbling around in the fog. Someone yanked me to my feet and I instinctively flung my head back to butt him. He blocked my head with one hand and slapped a hood over my face with the other, I guess to protect my eyes from the tear gas.
“I am trying to help you, Miss Alfreda,” a voice purred in my ear.
Nueve.
He whipped me around, only I couldn’t see him through the hood. I heard a loud snap! and the handcuffs fell off my wrists and clattered to the floor. Then he lifted me right off my feet and slung me over his shoulder. The hood fell off my head.
He sprinted to the wall, grabbed a thick black cord hanging there, and pulled it through a harness he wore around his waist. He gave the cord three sharp tugs. The rope pulled taut and we began to rise toward the broken-out window.