Michaelerkirche
At the Same Time
The sound of the BlackBerry froze the two men, each turning his head like a wild animal trying to ascertain the source of a predator's scent.
The BlackBerry beeped again, the sound's origin difficult to determine in the confines of the crypt.
A third beep would surely give Lang away, as would any movement to turn the infernal thing off.
He had no choice.
Move now!
He rolled out of the coffin, the heavy Desert Eagle in both hands. He extended both arms, locking elbows against the anticipated recoil, and fired.
The silencer still on his weapon spared Lang's ears the concussive roar of a large weapon in confined space. Instead there were two spitting sounds. The man on his left flinched as a skull next to his head exploded like a hand grenade, sending fragments into his face and neck. He yelped in pain and surprise as he turned to bring his pistol to bear.
Long-past Agency training slipped into place as comfortably as an old shoe. Lang made himself forget the man on his right for an instant, ignore his own exposure as he looked down the muzzle of his adversary's pistol wavering under the weight of the silencer.
Although Lang rationally knew he was acting in split seconds, it seemed to take forever to place the stubby sight of his own Desert Eagle on the target's belt buckle, where even a near-miss would take the man out of the fight.
He ignored another puff of a sound suppressor and the sting of brick fragments on his hands and cheek.
He squeezed off a shot, and the man on his left was screaming on the floor, a rivulet of blood coursing its way across old brick.
Lang thought he heard the damn BlackBerry buzz again as he rolled to his left just as there was another puff, and the coffin in which he had been hiding splintered.
The remaining man was not visible. There were more than enough places to hide, and he had chosen one of them, Lang guessed. On his belly he was using the rows of caskets for a shield as he crawled toward the only exit, his arms crossed commando-style.
He paused and listened, unsure whether he could hear anything among the muffling effect of wood and brick.
He could clearly make out the moans of the man he had shot.
He turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Would the weakening cries for help draw out the remaining gunman? Not if he were a professional.
Lang crawled on.
After what seemed an hour of scraping elbows on brick, Lang was at the foot of the stairs. He had little doubt his adversary was waiting for him to try to escape that way, to expose himself.
But how else was he going to get out of here?
Lang was next to one of the open caskets. Still flat on his stomach, he reached inside. What he touched felt more like leather than human skin. He probed until he found the head. A gentle tug of the hair was enough to pull it free from its long-desiccated body.
The head in his left hand, he rolled onto his back, avoiding looking at what he held. Instead he concentrated on carefully aiming the big pistol at the naked lightbulb overhead. One more whisper of a shot and his area of the crypt went dark.
It would be obvious to his opponent that Lang was going to use the darkness for a rush up the steps.
Instead Lang, still on his back, threw the skull toward the opposite wall as hard as he could. Over the edge of the casket he saw the muzzle flashes of one, two shots in the direction of the skull's trajectory.
Jumping to his feet, Lang pumped two bullets into the area from which the gunfire had come. Two coffins exploded, emptying their contents. A third shot brought a scream of pain.
There was no return fire.
Weapon with the remaining round extended, Lang approached slowly, feeling his way with the hand not holding the Desert Eagle. His fingers touched something upright, cold, and smooth. A search of his pockets produced the slim matchbox he had taken from Mirabelle's.
He might be taking a chance, but if he couldn't confirm his adversary was down, using the stairs would be a greater risk. Holding the matchbook in the same hand as his pistol, he struck a match and pressed against the wall. The sudden glare in the deep darkness almost blinded him, but he managed to light the stub of candle his fingers had touched.
Ears attuned to the slightest sound of movement, he held the light aloft.
Beside the debris of old wood shattered by the shots, a man sprawled across the floor. The bottom half of his face was a bloody pulp, evidence of the damage a fifty- caliber Magnum round could do.
Lang stooped over and looked through the pockets of the man's windbreaker. He was not surprised to find them empty except for a full clip of ammunition.
He removed his own near-empty magazine and put it in a pocket before slamming the full one into his own gun. He was headed for the stairs when his BlackBerry beeped again.
"Yes?" he snapped.
There was the briefest of pauses before the voice of Sara, his secretary, asked, "Am I interrupting something?"