The Milestone Protocol, Ernest Dempsey [100 best novels of all time txt] 📗

He wore a black shell jacket and matching pants. It took less than a second for Kevin to see the other three—all dressed similarly—as they surrounded him, corralling him back into the alley.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The man whom Kevin nearly bumped into spoke first. The others remained silent, staring at him coldly as would wolves at a wounded elk.

The men closed in, forcing Kevin to backtrack farther.

“What do you want?” Kevin asked, his voice full of fear.

“You know what we want,” the man said. His accent was thick, definitely not local. If Kevin had to guess, he couldn’t put a finger on it. The indistinct sound reminded him a little of Dutch, but also German.

“What’s in the bag, Dr. Clark?” The man pressed the question while pointing at the satchel hanging from Kevin’s shoulder.

Kevin involuntarily clutched it a little tighter, cinching it against his side.

“Just a few necessities,” he lied—and did a horrible job of it.

“You left Russia in such a hurry. I wonder what necessities you were able to get. Most of your things were at the dig site.” The man approached with one deliberate step after another, stalking down his prey.

Kevin swallowed a lump of fear and felt it catch in his throat. His breathing quickened, and his pulse raced. He saw the gun inside the man’s open jacket.

“You killed them,” Kevin blathered. “You killed innocent people. We didn’t do anything. They didn’t deserve this. None of us deserve this.” Tears welled in his eyes.

“Deserve has nothing to do with it, Dr. Clark.” The tone was cool, menacing, layered in an evil Kevin had never before heard in his life. “Everyone dies sooner or later. There is no point in fearing it.”

Kevin felt his back bump against the dumpster, and he looked over his shoulder. The alley stopped in another thirty feet. They were in the shadows now, far enough away from the streetlights that no passersby would notice the four men encircling their victim.

The man to the right of the leader produced a long blade. The knife glinted despite the darkness in the side street. Kevin realized they would kill him silently, make it look like a mugging gone bad. It happened every day in cities all around the world. Why not Plovdiv?

“I don’t even know what it is,” he whimpered. “It’s just a copper tablet.”

“But you said it was your belongings, Dr. Clark. Liars don’t sit well with me.”

“You want it? Fine. Take it. Please, just don’t kill me.”

He extended the satchel and set it down on the ground. The archaeologist in him was careful not to be too rough as he placed the bag on the damp surface. Even if he was surrendering the artifact, he didn’t want to damage it.

“Oh, Dr. Clark. We were going to take it anyway. And just because you offered it doesn’t mean we aren’t going to kill you. That decision has already been made.”

The way the man issued the death sentence sent a shiver up Kevin’s spine, and he finally lost control of his stomach. He vomited to the side, though most of his retching was nothing more than dry heaves.

The leader looked at him with disgust. “You’re pathetic. The future of humanity will be better off without your kind.”

The man twitched his head, an indication for his henchman with the knife to take care of the problem.

The knife-bearer took a step forward, but Kevin noticed a flash of movement in the shadows behind him.

The attacker’s feet abruptly flew up into the air. A distinct smack followed. The man’s feet flailed for a second, then Kevin saw a blur of blond hair, a tanned hand, and the flash of a knife blade. The blade sank into the man’s throat. The newcomer yanked it out and turned to the assailant next to him, who’d immediately reacted and drawn his pistol. The Walther had a compact silencer attached to the barrel, but the gunman’s reaction was too slow, and the newcomer kicked the man in the gut, doubling him over straight into the bloody knifepoint. The crimson metal plunged into the victim’s right eye.

The newcomer jerked it out with a stomach-turning, sucking sound, and the body dropped to the ground next to the first.

The third henchman spun around and drew his pistol in time to fire one shot, but the newcomer slashed the man’s wrist and the pistol fell to the ground. As the henchman grabbed at his wrist, unable to ignore the agony from the severed tendons and muscles, the stranger lunged forward and thrust the knife into the soft tissue at the base of his neck.

When the killer pulled the blade from flesh, the man fell back against the wall, gurgling and grasping at the wound as he slid to the wet cobblestone.

The leader reacted to the commotion around him with confused delay. When he realized they were under attack, he whipped around, drawing his pistol. The attacker ducked as he sidestepped forward and jammed the knife’s tip up through the man’s wrist. The bloody point emerged through the jacket sleeve. The leader’s fingers weakened, and the pistol fell to the ground with a clack, but he didn’t fall with it.

He retreated a step, trying to remove the knife from his wrist.

“You’ve made a big mistake,” the leader sneered, ignoring the terrible pain in his forearm.

The blond man didn’t reply. Instead, he stared back at the leader with bluish-gray eyes that could have frozen the sun.

Kevin watched in disbelief. He’d never seen anything like it. This man had appeared out of nowhere, and while his face continued to hide in the shadows, the eyes seemed to glow in the darkness.

The leader finally managed to pull the knife from his wrist with a grunt and a grimace. Then he readied himself to fight.

“Nothing to say?” the knife-bearer said. “You should have offered some last words.”

He lurched forward with his left foot, stabbing toward the newcomer’s throat. The stranger twisted, grabbed the man’s wrist, then jerked him forward,