THE VOYNICH PROPHECY EXCERPT: WGA REGISTERED ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
London
With her last ounce of strength, the girl shouldered her way through the door. The steady drizzle of rain felt cool and welcoming as she pounded across the rooftop. The cold evening air poured into her lungs as she ran. Almost there, she thought. A few more feet and Ill be free.
She stopped suddenly and inched her way toward the edge of the roof.
The wind rocked her as she stood blinking the rain from her eyes, arms outstretched and struggling to maintain her balance.
Looking down, she could dimly make out the stream of headlights as vehicles swam like fireflies through the darkness. They beckoned to her.
From behind, the door burst open and slammed against the wall with a loud thud. Light from the stairwell shot across the rooftop, reaching for her.
She turned. A knot of dark figures spilled out of the doorway and stood silhouetted in the weak backwash of light.
Even in the grayness, she could recognize the outline of the tallest form, her blonde-white hair capturing the watery light. Her stature, her body language was unmistakable; it held the raw cruelty of a coiled whip. She could almost feel the black wind of Margot Gants terror.
The sound of another familiar voice, winded from the fast climb to the rooftop, sent panic shuddering through the girl.
Time to come home, little one, Dr. Craven said.
She didnt answer.
Another figure at the doctors side took a step forward.
The girl inched closer to the edge. Then Margots arm shot outward, halting the other mans advance.
The blinding beam of a torch seared her eyes.
Shut it off, you bleeding idiot, Margot snapped.
To the girl, she said,No ones going to harm you, Wendy. As she spoke in soft, soothing tones, her hand glided to the tranquilizer pistol tucked neatly in her waistband at the small of her back.
Somehow, Wendy sensed the weapon; she could picture the cold black metal in her minds eye.
But as she stood with her arms still extended, she felt as if the wind might waft her to safety. With half-closed lips, she began singing a nursery rhyme. Rock a bye baby, in the tree tops. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock
Wendy took another step. Wind tore across the rooftop, flaming her hair.
When the bough breaks
Wendys eyes were closed tightly now,her eyelids heavy with memories that were not quite memories, dreams that were not quite dreams, as she rolled her head from side to side.
She took another step.
NO! Margot shouted as she dove forward.
Silent, graceful, and weightless as an angel,the eight-year-old girl disappeared before her eyes.
They stood at the edge, staring down at the street below.
Nervously peering over the ledge and shaking his head,the grub-faced doctor at Margots side said,Cant make out the street from here, ja? He took a step back, gave a sigh of relief. For a moment there, I thought just maybe, our little bird could actually fly.
Margots fiery eyes glared. She spun and backhanded the doctor hard across the cheek. She can fly, you fool. Thats the whole damned point!
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SOLOMON'S KEY EXCERPT:
CODIS,the FBI's Combined DNA Index System,has found a match. A link between the past and present. Between a royal bloodline and the world's foremost terrorist.
On the anniversary of their downfall at the hands of the papacy, the Knights Templar vow revenge.
The ultimate spies and the ultimate threat: Reunited lovers brought together by fate, Italian Secret Service agent Nick Rossi and beautiful Mossad agent, Josie Schulman, battle an al-Qaeda orchestrated wave of terrorist attacks directed against Rome, the Vatican, and the newly elected Pope. But the investigation means plunging into Rossi's own past and into the arms of Fatima, the alluring stranger, who may be his downfall.
The ultimate secret: Beneath the Dome of the Rock, in Solomon's Temple, an ancient scroll is found. It unlocks the Holy See's brutally suppressed truth concerning the location of history's most important tomb.
The ultimate deception: As world leaders converge on Rome for the Pope's funeral, Rossi and Josie race against time and follow a cryptic trail of symbols hidden within German Renaissance paintings: the keys to a mystery that points to a secret Masonic nexus of power, the secrets of the Widow's Son.
Will the truth of the crucifixion shock the world??
Josie sat chain-smoking. She crossed one leg over the other, counting away the minutes with each flex of her ankle.
After awhile, a feeling of dread leached into her. Fragmented thoughts ran across her mind like fire ants. She bolted from her chair and into the outer hallway. Empty . . . Nobody . . . Zip.
At first, walking hurriedly, searching, listening and then, she heard it, the ding of the elevator. A muffled cry.
She broke into a dead run, screeching to a halt at the elevator door just as it closed.
"Damn it!"
Somehow she knew it, knew it in her gut, her father was in danger and in that elevator. Glancing up at the floor indicator, watching the numbers change as it rose steadily upward, she pounded the call button.
First floor.
Second.
She ran for the stairwell, crashed through the door and bounded up the stairs. Her Doc Martins slapping the concrete steps, layered echoes, intertwined in a chorus that followed her up the stairwell, barking at her heels.
She climbed two floors and realized this was hopeless (ten more floors to her father's office). She rammed the emergency bar of the exit door and tumbled sideways as she rounded the corridor back to the elevator door.
She heard it. Ding.
Standing at the door, lungs burning, she saw the doors begin to slide open. She took a step, hesitated and willed herself to move. Claustrophobia was her Achilles heel. She steeled herself and entered the elevator. Eyes searching everywhere, she strode to the rear and turned sharply. The elevator became sweltering; the air so thick Josie could hardly breathe. Beads of perspiration dappled her forehead. Her blouse, equally damp with sweat, matted against the small of her back.
The devil was in the details and in an instant her world became obsessed with details: the sibilant hiss of the closing elevator door, the blinding-harsh overhead lighting, the jolt of the compartment and the creak of cables as it rose.
Third floor. Fourth floor . . . Sixth floor.
The soft hum of the ventilation fan.
She wasn't alone after all. There in the corner, next to the control panel, stood a dignified little man. She took him in with a glance. His black overcoat was tailored; his complexion was pasty with a trace of pink like a baby's cheeks-no, more like an elf, with gray wisps of fine hair. His hands rested upon an ebony walking stick with an ornate silver handle. As he rocked on the balls of his tiny feet, he whistled the Disney song "Heigh-Ho."
"Floor please?" he said, turning with an innocuous but naughty smile.
"Twelfth floor, please?" she replied calmly, returning his grin. Two can play this game, she thought.
The surrounding walls seemed to crush in toward her like the plates of a hydraulic press.
Ninth floor.
Tenth.
Shrugging his diminutive shoulders, he lisped, "These old buildings and old elevators require patience." His watery little eyes stared, studying her, drinking her in.
... Are you a patient person, young lady? You appear somewhat distraught. Can you relish this moment, the ecstasy of doubt? The intensity of the unknown? Can you? You little Hmeshe Kurve(hometown whore)!
She heard the words, but couldn't believe her eyes. His lips never moved. No-just that impish little smile. It must be my nerves, she thought. Then her eyes zoomed in on the walking stick. Yes, it was the same. Just like the one the old man had carried when he brushed past her in the doorway to Tateh's office. Same man, same stick?
Just as she was about to answer the elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors opened and in walked a bosomy dowager with her consort tucked beneath her arm: a miniature French poodle, followed by a gaggle of students. The room shrunk around Josie now. The thought of sharing this tiny compartment with this press of bodies terrified her.
She peered over the top of the old dame's wide-brimmed hat, stealing a glimpse of the little man. He no longer looked old and fragile but her instincts told her it was defiantly somehow the same man. Had to be.
Her hand moved to the fanny pack around her waist; she slid her hand into the Velcro pouch that held her weapon. The cold gunmetal bolstered her courage and bridled her phobia.
Eleventh floor.
She felt something on her wrist, something wet.
Plop . . .
She glanced down. There, against her skin, a tiny blotch of red, and then another. Josie shook as the honed point of a blade ran between her shoulder blades. She looked up. A dark stain was flowering on the ceiling tile of the elevator cab.
Plop . . .
A droplet landed on a young, female student's nose. She raised her hand to wipe it away. The girl looked down and screamed.
Twelfth floor.
Like toppling dominos, the first the students, then the dowager, and finally her poodle, fell into panic. A chorus of screams erupted, the poodle threw back its head howling . . . bodies pushing and shoving each other . . . moving in a wave toward the door. Frenzy.
Ding.
Thirteenth floor.
Josie pushed and scrambled upward. Using the cab's handrail as a foothold, she reached up and pulled open the overhead trap-door. There, suspended from the steel cables--a body ....
copyright2007 by rdweber all rights revserved.