The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020), Rick Jones [learn to read books txt] 📗

his veins sticking out in anger along the sides of the assassin’s neck, Gruber grabbed Mr. Plato by the front of his jacket and hoisted him to his feet. Once on solid footing, both men began to dance around in a drunken tango trying to best the other. Gruber had Mr. Plato by the front of his jacket in a clenching grip, until fabric bled through his grasping fingers. Mr. Plato, whose hands were free, slapped them against Gruber’s ears to pop an eardrum. The action, however, only angered Gruber as he cried out with rage, cocked his arm back, and drove a piledriving punch forward. But Mr. Plato was much quicker to the draw.

Sweeping his right arm across in a swimming motion, Mr. Plato was able to knock himself free from Gruber’s clutch and with his left arm, deflected the punch. Finally freed from Gruber’s control, Mr. Plato went into an arrangement of fluid motions throwing fist after fist, blow after blow, with his hands connecting to the jawline, the face, and with chops to the throat. Gruber was backpedaling, the blows coming too fast, too quick, with Mr. Plato’s hands moving in blurs that were too fast for Gruber to counter.

Gruber, in desperation, threw punches that went wide, which left him open to more punches, more strikes. Mr. Plato pushed Gruber back to the railing, the assassin close to being punch-drunk from the deliveries he’d been receiving, blow after blow after blow. When the small of Gruber’s back hit the railing, Mr. Plato pinned the assassin against it by grabbing Gruber’s throat, and then threatened to force him over the side and into the gorge if he did not cooperate.

“The Eye of Moses,” he said while maintaining a clawed hand against the Klansman’s throat. “Where is it? Where’s the Shadow Klan’s Stronghold?”

When Hans Gruber parted his lips to smile, he revealed rows of teeth that were coated with blood. As he labored to speak but couldn’t do so because of the clenching hand that gripped his throat, Mr. Plato eased up.

“The Eye of Moses,” Mr. Plato said softly. “Where . . . is it?”

Gruber shook his head as though he was relenting, then he raised his hand in surrender. “I’m done.”

Remaining incredibly cautious, Mr. Plato released his hold and stepped away. Nevertheless, he stayed in an attack posture should Hans Gruber decide to go another round.

“You want to know where the Eyes of Moses is?” Gruber managed with a raspy voice.

Mr. Plato did not respond since he believed the question rhetorical.

“You’ll get nothing from me . . . Or from anyone else.” With that, Gruber leaned backward over the edge of the railing and tossed himself into the gorge.

Mr. Plato, racing with an extended arm to keep Gruber from falling, was too late. Looking over the rail, he saw Hans Gruber bouncing off the mountain’s wall repeatedly like a rag doll until he finally came to rest upon the valley floor.

Falling away from the railing, Mr. Plato had gained nothing for the benefit of the Consortium. Hans Gruber was now dead, and he took with him information that needed to be mined.

Pounding the railing with the flat of his palm in frustration, Mr. Plato hoped that his teammates were faring much better.

* * *

Misters Shakespeare and Galileo had been trailing Max Ueli and Alix Kristoffel ever since they left Gruber alone at the café. Their undertaking was to observe the assassins and to note contacts and locations before reporting back to Mr. Spartan who, in maintaining the chain of command, would contact Mr. da Vinci. Mr. da Vinci would then use the Consortium Command Center as a means for discovering the location of the Eye of Moses through satellite triangulation. Should Mr. Plato attain intel from Gruber that could be corroborated with the triangulation, then half the battle would have been won on the field. The other half, which would be the raid on the Shadow Klan fortress, would prove to be a much more difficult challenge.

As Ueli and Kristoffel walked in tandem through the streets of Lucerne’s main district, they appeared unaware of those who followed within eyeshot. At the point of a street-crossing, the two conversed for a long moment before going in separate directions, with one moving east and the other west.

Mr. Shakespeare followed Ueli in the eastward direction, whereas Mr. Galileo stayed close to Kristoffel.

The teams were now fully divided.

* * *

Mr. Shakespeare followed Ueli at a fair distance because he did not want to draw unwanted attention. And everything on the surface appeared copasetic since Ueli appeared fully unsuspecting of Mr. Shakespeare’s presence. Their pace was neither quick nor slow, but average. Nor did Ueli take mind to look over his shoulder, which made Mr. Shakespeare believe that keeping Ueli under surveyance from afar was about to pay off.

As Ueli rounded the bend whose corner was guarded by a row of tall privet hedges, Mr. Shakespeare quickened his pace. The moment he negotiated the turn around the thick wall of brush, Ueli was standing there and waiting.

Unlike his assassin brethren who wore their hair closely cropped to the scalp, Ueli held his like a Viking with long locks of raven hair that were lined with pewter streaks. Though his face was badly pitted and pocked, his most outstanding feature was the lateral scar along his cheek that had pulled at the skin to reveal the pink tissue underneath his left eye.

The sudden shock of Ueli’s awareness caused Mr. Shakespeare to hitch a breath in surprise.

“Is there a reason why you’re following me?” Ueli asked.

Mr. Shakespeare tried to shrug Ueli off by pretending not to know what the man was talking about, then excused himself while trying to go around him. But Ueli did not allow him to pass as he placed a hand on Mr. Shakespeare’s chest and shoved him back.

“I asked you a question. Why are you following me?”

“I’m not following anybody.”

Ueli’s one-sided smile curved on the side