The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Neuberg





The scene at the village was totally transformed as geese scurried from the path of thundering hoof-beats and five riders destroyed the serene setting. The leading Frenchman charged forward, pushing fearful villages aside as Hunter scrambled back across the creek. He reached inside his surcoat, unclipped the Sig from its holster, gave the silencer an extra twist and checked the clip. He checked the nearest rider and took careful aim.

The warhorses pranced about as white foam covered their steaming flanks. The senior ranking rider moved in Hunter’s direction, halted, distracted by a sudden flight of doves some twenty or so yards off. Another rider, adorned in shining armor, entered the fray. His armor was noticeably unlike the battle fatigued protection worn by the five Frenchmen.

Günter Neuberg charged headlong into the fray, his broadsword still in its scabbard. The French horsemen stared momentarily, glancing from one to the other, unsure of what to make of this madman with suicidal intent.

One Frenchman called, “Cet homme est fou!”

Hunter picked up on ‘this guy is . . .’ and assumed the last words could be something like, ‘f*ckin’ crazy.’

The charging rider raised a hand and in the blink of an eye, two of the French riders tumbled from their saddles. The remaining three parted and allowed the stranger to careen on through. Hunter remained hidden, his expression stone faced. From back of a hedge he spoke softly to himself as he admired the stealth and precision of this killing machine. He smirked, “Hellooo, Mr. Neuberg.”

Gunter Neuberg wheeled his mount about as riderless mounts cantered away from the foray. Hunter stayed crouched behind the thick hedge. He thought maybe they’ll do my job for me, if Neuberg goes down; all I need do is retrieve the sword and get the devise.

It wasn’t to be.

Neuberg raised his weapon, held it in a steady mounted position and fired off three rounds. The sound of each rider as he fell to ground resembled a drummer beating on a trash can. Hunter froze, awestruck at Neuberg’s firing skill. His training was telling him to take advantage of his element of surprise, but he procrastinated, remained behind the hedge, preferred to remain an observer. He momentarily reflected on his Sig, but in the confusion and speed of Neuberg’s assault his better judgment suggested he remain out of sight. There’ll be a better time, he thought, a time this guy will drop his guard. This guy’s a f*ckin’ killin’ machine at its best.

Neuberg sensed he wasn’t alone. He flipped his helm back, looked about, to the left; slowly looked ahead, quickly snapped to the right, saw no one. Hunter stayed low, one hand firmly resting on the butt of his Sig and stayed in a near breathless pose for a few long minutes.

The killer sat upright in the saddle, absolutely frozen. He reminded Hunter of a bronze sculpture – a medieval Remington. And then as quickly as he’d arrived on the scene, Günter Neuberg cantered off.

****

The odor of rotting flesh filled the cold night air. Hunter reined the horse, gazed about; caught a glimpse of decaying corpses amidst deep undergrowth. The attacker lurched wildly from an overhead branch as he shrieked, “Yeeeaaah!” He grabbed Hunter from back, one arm choking, pulling, and dislodging him from his horse. Two more attackers emerged on foot, brigands wheeling swords and pounding on shields. Hunter was more annoyed by their insolence than their threat as they yelled incessantly as though the shouting would increase their aggression. Hunter pulled the Sig and fired off two rounds, casually disposing of the two drum bangers. The larger man, the one who’d pulled him from his horse, was confused by the silent weapon. He saw no arrow, no bolt, had seen nothing. Hunter enjoyed the man’s idiotic quandary. He smiled and gestured the man to move nearer, the attacker oblivious to impending doom. He gave a half-nod to the attacker and smiled. “My name’s Hunter. I’m your angel of f*ckin’ doom.”

The aggressor wielded his blade and Hunter raised the Sig. When the screaming aggressor was ten paces off, Hunter squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

He squeezed it a second time.

Click.

He turned the gun sideways. Mud had jammed the

mechanism. He looked at the attacker and groaned, “Aw shit!”

A few seconds later they tumbled, rolling through mud, with leaves and stones adhering to their clothing and neither man able to stop the roll. Hunter freed one hand and grabbed hold of a branch. The jarring motion dislodged his attacker. He pulled a dagger and made an animal-like leap at Hunter, missed, and fell to his knees.

Hunter drew his broadsword and in a full threesixty move brought it down across the dazed man’s neck. His head tumbled forward and began a fast roll down the slope, his body still kneeling – pumping blood from the neck. Hunter raised a foot, kicked the body to one side, as the head bounced between saplings, over mounds and finally came to a slow bloodied rest at Neuberg’s feet. Gunter Neuberg took a quick step back, swung about and raised his weapon in the direction from which the head had tumbled.

Hunter remounted, guided his horse to the precipice and leaned forward in the saddle to catch a glimpse of the man’s cranium. As he did his horse began to nervously prance about. He stroked its neck in an effort to settle the animal but the mount whinnied, stretched its head down the slope, laid its ears flat, and in an unexpected move charged down the hill at full gallop. Gardner Hunter held on for dear life, swallowing hard as tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. He thought this f*ckin’ horse has no intention of stoppin’, and his life and surrounding trees simultaneously flashed by his eyes.

Neuberg was bewildered by the madman hopelessly careening down the hillside. He raised his handgun but found that the rider, now mud soaked, blended with the color of the horse and became a difficult moving target. Hunter laid full forward, arms around the charger’s neck as Neuberg lowered his barrel. The horse continued to race down the slope, closer, closer, fifty yards, forty, thirty.

The German gently squeezed the trigger, got off a single shot that caught the charging horse between its eyes. Hunter catapulted off to the left, bounced off a soft rainsoaked embankment and rolled – rolled – and rolled a few more times until he came to rest beneath a large fallen tree. Mud added a brown earthy appearance to his chain-mail and made him indistinguishable from his surroundings - a perfect camouflage. His head throbbed as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Gardner Hunter’s world had entered an endless spin, spinning around – spinning – dizziness – black – black.

Gone.

****

From his vantage point, Neuberg watched the English army storm through devastated French infantrymen, intent on bringing Prince Edward to battle. He struggled to keep his involvement at bay as sweat peppered his brow. He exhaled in frustration and mulled over the ease in which he’d eliminated the first five riders. With his confidence high, he cantered into the fray. A hand chosen group of French moved ahead of the Black Prince’s men, forcing them to swing their massive Andalusians back into the marshlands. Neuberg dismounted and for a brief moment considered lying among the fallen, considered playing dead. He lifted one leg and began to dismount. As he swung the leg over the saddle the mount reared. He turned to steady the animal, saw two arrows embedded in its rump. The horse tugged away with anguished fury as Neuberg released hold of the reins. Ahead of him, the two armies slashed away at one another on a bloodied field, muddied by the overnight rain and constricted by woodlands on either side.

Neuberg frowned, gave another thought to lying among the dead as soldiers stumbled clumsily over body parts. And then he heard shouts of a different nature, these voices were English, not 14th century English, these shouts came from Americans. Neuberg shook his head as though the shaking would improve his hearing. He raised both hands, placed them either side of his eyes to sharpen his search, binocular-like eyes scanning – searching out the voices.

The German darted to the nearest group of bodies, dropped and lay among the dead as Blake and his two fellow agents shouted to Sir Nicholas who was totally unprepared for their sudden appearance.

Blake’s tone was unflinching. He exhaled deeply, shouted, “We can go two ways here – stay with our knight or go find the two Libra guys!”

Nicholas, now just a few yards off, failed to catch the words. “We must move away from this marshland,” he cried, “or our God will greet us before He allows the sun to rise.”

Two crazed warriors clanked one blow against another, shield to shield, each in turn, each shouting as they drew nearer to where the German lay. When they were about to stumble over him Neuberg pulled his handgun and prepared to fire. They skirted around the body pile, oblivious to the German’s presence. Neuberg took quick aim and froze as he caught sight of Blake and Hunter some sixty yards off. He thought I must lie quiet, must play dead, cannot give myself away.

A fresh flurry of longbow arrows stung the ground around him. He raised a shield in time to block one missile and it bounced off the cover. The onslaught caused the combatants to cease their attack. They dropped to their knees and huddled beneath their shields in turtle-like fashion. The incessant bashing of metal on metal came from all quarters as arrows zapped into the muddied battleground.

Neuberg strained to regain the location of the three agents he’d lost track of during the flurry. Again – a pause from the archers. He was surprised by the change in sound as the shrill pounding of arrows gave way to the slapping of swords on shields. He moved in a crouched position, eyes darting to the left, to the right, then to the skies, cognizant of the peril from above.

French forces were vastly outnumbered as Edward’s knights dismounted and continued the fight on foot, supported by their archers. The sound of arrows bouncing off shields recommenced with a nonstop rat-atat. Neuberg made a sideways glance, catching sparks from an occasional strike. One missile deflected from a shield ricocheted sideways barely missing his arm. He lifted his eyes, looked at the underside of the shield and waited – but the arrows had once again ceased. The two swordsmen paused and stared skyward. A half-minute later they turned to face one another like prize fighters exchanging taunts, each hoping for an impulsive attack from the other.

Clermont’s knights struggled to support themselves beneath the weight of their heavy armor, their mounts unable to maneuver with their riders wearing long coats of steel that extended below the knees, with heavy leg harnesses, plate armor and hooded helmets. The weighted horses slid about and eventually sunk into the marshland. Their riders flailed about, restricted in their movement by the quagmire. French forces advancing from the rear were being trampled by their own retreating cavalry. The bottleneck made easy targets of the French infantry as their retreat and forward rush became compacted by the diminutive size of the battlefield.

Neuberg was torn between awareness of the battle raging one hundred yards off, the two men battling nearby, and Blake and Hunter now just a hand’s throw away. With peripheral awareness of their nearness, he began to slide away, snake-like, crawling between bodies. The rank stench of excrement mixed with nausea and blood created a foul taste. Although he blocked his nose and breathed through his mouth he could still taste it.

Edward’s archers fired off a further lethal storm of arrows into the compact mass of humanity. Those of Clermont’s men who were still able to retreat attempted to do so as horses stumbled among bodies until they too fell to archer’s arrows. Now a safe distance from Blake, Neuberg’s interest peaked, as far off archers lowered their bows. He stole a quick look as English longbow men scurried about, searching between the fallen, salvaging weapons and joining their English knights in compounding the bloodbath.

The battlefield was strewn with bodies of thousands of French knights and the cream of France’s ruling class. Edward’s forces had dealt their enemy another disastrous blow. Neuberg, a man accustomed to death, had never seen such horror. For each fallen Englishman Neuberg estimated there were, at the very least, six Frenchmen. He slipped on blood soaked muddied soil, stumbled and thrust both hands forward to break the fall. He laid there momentarily stunned, face down, cursing those men in Zurich, cursing Libra.

He thought of Blake, then with a strange awareness of being watched, wiped a glove across his face, tried to clear away mud from his eyes, and turned his face to the left. His mouth quickly dried as the man’s eyes pierced him. Neuberg recognized the face.

Dominic Moreau.

Every ounce of breath left his body as he disbelievingly searched the man’s face. He focused on the wound, on the neat hole. He slipped his gauntlet off and placed an index finger on Moreau’s forehead, smeared the blood away and mumbled, “Slug.”

Screams wavered through the early night air as men begged for mercy, some screaming through sheer pain, others in hope of salvation. With no help coming for the wounded, they were indiscriminately terminated where they lay. Their end was swift, a sharp blade through the throat. Many, seeing the approaching death squad dragged themselves off to quiet hideaways only to be found days later as searchers smelled their decaying bodies. Corpses, mostly those of Clermont’s and Audrehem’s French filled every corner of the marshland. Burial patrols had the task of retrieval. The dead were rolled onto carts, a countless parade of horse-drawn hearses that ferried their remains to long ditches, mass graves that took little time to fill. Such was the multitude of corpses at the Battle of Poitiers that after two days there was insufficient consecrated ground for burial. One trench joined to another, the stench giving rise to fears of a fresh outbreak of pandemic as fattened black rats added to the fear as they scurried among rotted remains of body parts.

Huge trenches accommodated bodies by the hundreds, trenches filled with corpses of both English and French. There was no regard for country of origin, no segregation. They were stacked in the wet ground like bricks in a kiln; each body covered with a minimal amount of earth in a mortar-like application until each trench reached capacity.

Neuberg sat on his haunches and stared into the man’s glassy eyes. He took in the silence of his friend. “Dom, Dom, Dom,” he sighed, “whoever thought it would end this way?” He exhaled and raised his eyes to God, gathered his thoughts and tried to feel inside the man’s vest but there was insufficient room to fit his hand. He tried lifting Moreau’s arm but it was stiff, hardened. He tugged and heard a crack as the arm loosened from the elbow. He felt the small package, carefully extracted it, and unrolled the wrapping. It held three red ampoules - Lucifer. He placed a hand on Dominic Moreau’s eyelids and slid them shut. He groaned. His eyes stayed on the body as he reminisced of early days when the two were mere Libra apprentices. For a fleeting moment, Günter Neuberg considered his loyalty to Libra. Considered how he truly despised Danzig, Bosch and even Beckman. He placed a hand on Moreau’s shoulder and grated, “Auf Wiedersehen mein Freund.”

The sound of approaching horses pulled him back to the present, his vision impeded by the incoming mist. He backed away from Moreau as his eyes locked on the nearest rider.

Neuberg mounted a nearby horse, pulled his handgun, but the sudden jerking movement caused his mount to throw back its head. Caught off balance, the German slid to one side and tumbled to the ground.

Hunter pulled his mount to a sliding stop, dismounted and placed the Sig at Neuberg’s head. Blake rushed forward, pushed the Sig aside and shouted, “What the f*ck are you thinking?”

Bellinger half leaped, half stumbled from the saddle and was caught by Dal. She gave a smile and moved to Neuberg who was now on both knees. No one saw the bowman. The arrow pierced Neuberg’s breastplate with ease, digging deep into his stomach. He dropped his chin, looked down, stunned by the missile’s velocity.

Whap. Whap.

Two more arrows zapped by, one just scrapping Hunter’s chin. Blake dropped behind Moreau’s body as Dal dived alongside a slain English bowman. Bell emerged from behind a fallen horse, saw the arrows protruding from Neuberg and quickly resumed her cover.

Hunter pulled the Sig and fired four rapid shots. One of the bowmen reeled about, convulsed momentarily and slumped to the ground. The other whipped an arrow from his sheath, took aim, and in the time needed to draw back on the longbow, Bell scrambled and lunged forward, her foil bouncing uselessly off the Frenchman’s armor. Dal reeled about, his mind in automatic mode and stopped the bowman with a single round.

Neuberg forced a chuckle – a strange sound. Blake was unsure if it was a laugh or a painful, shuddering groan. Both he and Hunter dropped to their knees as Dal placed a hand on the lower arrow that had penetrated the German’s abdomen. He grimaced as deep purple blood seeped from the edge of his mouth. He moaned, “Did you get him?”

The question eluded Blake. Neuberg sensed the question mark on their faces. Hunter flicked his eyes to Bell and back to the German. Dal shrugged, “Get who?”

“The . . . the shooter, the archer, did you get him?”

Dal looked about, stared into the mist and squinted at where the archers had stood. He began to reply. “Yeah, we g...”

Neuberg placed a placed a hand onto his sheathed dagger and made a desperate attempt to lunge at Hunter, but the lunge only served to drive the lower arrow completely through his abdomen, forcing it through the rear of his chain-mail. The painful groan returned – an out of control mix of nasal exhalation and low level laughter, as though Neuberg was capitalizing on his dying breath. He moved a hand inside of his chain-mail.

Bell leaned forward, suspecting Neuberg was merely easing his discomfort. Dal stepped away and pointed the Sig at the German’s forehead. Neuberg let out a sick chuckle and Dal hesitated, lowered the handgun.

Bell allowed her feminine virtues to overcome her. “If you’re not gonna put him out of his misery, least we can do is make him a bit more comfortable.”

Dal tipped his head to one side. “You’re joking, right Patrice?”

Neuberg let out a timely groan. Blake kicked at the mud, reached a hand to Dal and said in annoyance, “Gimme the f*ckin’ gun. I’ll do it.”

Neuberg eyed Dal. The German groaned, “Why did you stop?”

Dal glanced at Blake and back to Neuberg. “You’re one crazy f*ck, you know that?”

“A crazy f*ck - yes, I am a crazy f*ck,” Neuberg groaned, his icy German eyes cutting into Dal, “but you should have killed me.”

The broadsword lay by his side, out of view of the three Americans. Neuberg held Dal’s stare as the fingers of his right hand discretely manipulated the pommel. Dal, Blake and Hunter had mutual respect for the man’s work ethic, for his skill, his sharpshooting, for his professional killing ability. They were one and the same – extremely proficient killers sharing a mutual respect.

The German couldn’t quite pull the pommel from the sword. He strained, dragged the sword across his chest and passed it toward Dal. Hunter reached across as Neuberg croaked, “Here, take care of this.”

As Hunter accepted the sword, the pommel detached and a cylindrical devise rolled into Neuberg’s hand.

Hunter watched as Neuberg raised the odd cylinder. His left arm was immobile, he couldn’t unscrew the cap. He placed one end between his teeth, bit down hard and turned the devise anticlockwise, grimacing as he simultaneously removed a return disk from inside his surcoat. In an instant he pressed the disk against his clenched teeth with sufficient pressure to activate the digital readout. His eyes dropped to the numbers flickering across the display. Eight, seven, six, five, his face stretched, contorted. His breastplate emitted short bursts of static electricity, like mini lightning bolts. Hunter sensed panic in Neuberg’s eyes as the German fumbled the devise. It began giving off a clicking sound and Neuberg relaxed, satisfied he’d accomplished whatever he’d set out to achieve. A slight buzzing aura glowed around him. Dal, Blake and Hunter quickly backed away and Bellinger shielded her eyes as she stumbled and fell across the legs of a French bowman.

The glow came to an abrupt stop as though all power had been shut down. Hunter cautiously returned to Neuberg’s side.

Hunter asked, “What the f*ck have you done, man?”

“You should have . . .”

“What . . . what’ve you done?” He stared at the object gripped in the German’s hand.

Again, the clicking.

Neuberg gave a half nod at the devise. “You should have . . . killed me.”

Hunter placed a hand back of Neuberg. Felt the tip of the arrow, felt the warm blood dripping through the man’s chain-mail. He lowered his ear to Neuberg’s mouth. “I have . . . I have . . .” Neuberg froze, coughed as blood splattered from his mouth and sprayed Hunter’s face. Hunter backed away, wiped his cheek. Neuberg increased his pressure on the devise. Then with a look of shock: “Ah Scheiße! I have reset incorrectly. I am going to . . .”

“Great,” Hunter said, “that’s just f*ckin’ great. So where are you goin’?”

“To the wrong year . . . the wrong . . .”

“To another place?” Hunter pried, “to the wrong f*ckin’ what?”

Neuberg rolled his eyes and Hunter shouted, “Hey! Hey! Stay with us! Neuberg! Neuberg?” He grabbed hold of the German’s shoulders, rolled him to one side. The Iron Cross swung loose from its chain and tumbled to the ground alongside Neuberg’s breastplate. Blake reached for it, placed a hand on the Cross. Neuberg opened his hand and revealed the three red ampoules. Blake paused, then reached for them. Get the ampoules, activate the discs and we’re outa this f*ckin’ hell and back to Zurich, Blake thought. He was just inches from Neuberg’s palm, from the Lucifer ampoules. There was a blinding explosion of light and Blake felt the charge shoot through him, stun-gun. A moment later he squinted, thought stun gun and re-focused on Neuberg but Neuberg wasn’t there. Neuberg had left the year 1356.

Dal mumbled, “F*ck-up,” as he squatted alongside Blake. “Zurich, huh?”

“Yeah, gotta be. Who else? They pulled him back somehow. Dunno.”

Hunter asked, “So uh . . . wha’d’we do now?”

“We go home,” Blake groaned. “No ampoules – mission’s done. We’ve gotta activate and get on back.”

*****

Libra Facility Zurich

April 3, 2015

Paul Danzig sat alone at the central control panel. A steady bleep, bleep, bleep indicated Neuberg’s transmission, and a series of wiggles and lines danced across a monitor forming troughs and peaks. Beckman had a sense of urgency in his step as he entered from the adjoining control room. He reached for a hand piece and began mumbling cryptically in German, “What is going on?”

Beckman waved him off.

“Are you sure?” Bosch shouted as he hurried into the room. “Are you certain?”

Beckman punched in a sequence of coordinates. Looked gloomy. He ran the sequence several more times as all three hypnotically awaited the result. The monitor blinked and numbers, dates, and coordinates began scrolling down the screen.

Beckman sank back in his chair. Bosch lost control of his bladder and Danzig seeing the pee pooling at Hans Bosch’s feet took three quick steps away.

“Neuberg has activated the devise prematurely,” Beckman groaned in a shaky voice. “He has incorrect coordinates. Something is terribly wrong here.”

The information on the monitor was in source code. Danzig pointed at the screen and asked, “What does that mean?”

“A computer malfunction,” Beckman said. “I need to gather the information required for configuration. I need to reinstall the cache engine.” He switched to an alternate system, checked the monitor, enabled the cache support in the router and found the cache engine installation to be corrupt. “I do not understand,” Beckman groaned in a quivering confused voice, sweat dripping from his nose splashing onto the keyboard. “The problem does not appear to originate from Neuberg’s end. Someone has tampered with our configurations . . . someone within this facility.”

“But this is impossible,” Bosch snapped. “The Frenchman, where is le Blanc?” He looked about and shouted, “Where is that f*cking Frenchman!”

His shout echoed through the corridors of Libra. But the Frenchman was moving with stealth, down one flight of steps, into another, scrambling, bumping the walls, descending. He slammed through the storage room doorway, startling d’Artagnan as he attached a transmitter to a red collar. He jumped back, dropped the collar as le Blanc buckled and began vomiting. He tried to speak, but wasn’t able to perform both functions simultaneously.

“It is done, but . . . but . . .” and he eventually panted, “Il est activé.”

“Neuberg?” d’Artagnan said with a questioning look.

The Frenchman was momentarily incoherent. “Yes. Yes. Oh my God. Yes, but the date. The date...”

****

Danzig, Bosch and Beckman stared at the monitor in disbelief, each fixated on the reprogrammed detonation date.

April 4, 2015

The coordinates: Forty-six degrees, thirty-seven feet north, eight degrees, thirty-six feet east.

The city: Andermatt, Switzerland.