Shadow of the Templar Omnibus Read online

  The Templar Series:

  Shadow of The Templar

  by M. Chandler

  Frantic

  Static

  The Morning Star

  The Morning Star, Codicil

  November

  Coitus Interruptus

  Simon Says

  Thief of Hearts

  Double Down

  With A Bullet

  Happy/Merry

  High Fidelity

  Escort Services

  It's Rightful Owner

  Prodigal Son

  What Happens In Vegas

  Come Back To Texas

  High-Wire Act

  What Comes Naturally

  Frantic

  The light in the supply closet was out, the door closed. One of them had knocked a box of something off one of the shelves early on and now some kind of little plastic things crunched and slid under their shoes, turning something that had already been critically awkward into a weird, gasping, fumbling mess. If Nate hadn't been pushed back against the back wall, his narrow shoulders pressed hard against the painted concrete between a pile of Rich's old dead printers and the overloaded shelves, he probably would have already fallen down at least twice.

  The only reason he didn't fall down now was the knee jammed between his thighs like — like — Nate didn't know what it was like other than a bicycle seat, which was the weirdest thing to be thinking right now, but if he stopped thinking then he'd probably make noise and the rest of the team would hear them — one hand was flat against the wall under his arm for more support and the other hand was roaming around under his sweater and Nate was so flustered and distracted that he didn't even care about his scars right now.

  And oh, God, the confident mouth on his, that overwhelming devouring heat, the scrape of stubble and the occasional clumsy clatter of teeth against teeth — the offhand mastery in it was like — like — like getting conquered, like the enemy general riding into a fallen city following a year-long siege, and Nate had no idea where that had come from but he couldn't stop thinking, because of the noise, the horrible potential of noise — right on cue he heard a burst of coarse laughter from outside the closet and the buzz of voices, and very clearly he heard Mike say, "Where's Nate?" and Sandra answer, "I don't know."

  "Oh God," Nate squeaked, falling out of the kiss just long enough to say that, and then there was a soft laugh and that mouth captured his again and his sweater rode up on that wrist until almost all of his chest was bared to the steaming air and that knee lifted another couple of riveting inches and Nate's eyes rolled up into his head.

  "Nate!" Simon said, right outside the closet door, aggravated. "Dammit, where is he, anyway?" Simon asked, and Sandra repeated, "I don't know." Rich added, "Want me to go look for him?"

  Nate whimpered, the sound dying lost in the back of his throat. The supply closet didn't even lock any more — surely they'd look — surely — and just as the leg pressed up against him swept his mind away again, just as everything started to come to a frantic, boiling head, someone pounded on the closet door, one-two, one, one-two, one...

  "Oh God get off," Nate squeaked, pushing frantically at the chest pressed against his, but it didn't move, it wouldn't — "Yo!" Johnny called from outside, and there was another knock, one-two, one...

  "Ih-it's okay," someone murmured in his ear, his voice a rotten, giggling sing-song. "They nuh-never get here in time —"

  — Nate flailed bolt upright in bed, tangled in the covers and panicking, fighting to get free and failing. A shriek bubbled up in his throat, half-choking him, but by some miracle he came fully awake before he could actually scream and wake up his mother.

  Swallowing the panic and the scream alike Nate scrabbled for the bedside table and his glasses, folded up by his alarm clock. He fumbled them onto his face and checked the time, still breathing hard. Just before three in the morning. The world was fast asleep. He took off his glasses again, dropping them in his lap, and scrubbed his fists into his eyes like an overtired toddler, slowly getting his rapid breathing and his rabbiting heartbeat back under control.

  Eventually he managed to fight back against the terror, quelling it, calming. In his fear's absence, he became aware of his exhaustion, instead; he was still so tired, but the nightmare lurked in the back of his mind, ready to pounce on him again if he fell back to sleep. He knew that it would — it had, in the past. Moving slowly now, Nate patted his way blindly across the bedside table until one hand landed on his cellphone. He fell back down and brought the phone under the covers with him, wincing away from the light of its screen as he woke it up.

  Message one in his voice-mail box, almost three months old now: "Hey, Nate," Sandra said. Other voices gabbled on in the background. "Simon's birthday is coming up here in a few weeks and we need to get our asses in gear on that — anyway, come to my place an hour early this Saturday and we'll hash things out before Simon arrives, okay?" The old message was already doing its work, the dream's weird power fading in the light of sheer everyday normality. "If you've got any ideas on what to do, tell me then. Talk to you tomorrow. Bye-bye." Click.

  Message two, about a month old: "Specs," Simon said, raising his voice to be heard over the rumble of road noise. Nate shut his eyes, the cramp in his chest starting to relax. "Templar. Sorry to bug you when you're already busy, but I just wanted to remind you that I need the goddamned Brewster file back tomorrow or Upstairs will have my ass. If there's anything you still need, now is the time to Xerox it. ... that's all, I think. So, uh, how about them sports teams?" Click. Nate smiled, just a little, already starting to drift off back to sleep.

  Message three, three weeks old: "Yo," said Johnny. "Got your message, that's fine. Honda gives you any shit about it, you tell me, I'll kick his ass." There was a longish pause in the message here; by the time Johnny's growly recorded voice added "You take care, okay?" Nate was already asleep again, his cellphone slipping from his ear to land on the pillow beside his head.

  Static

  "We're clear," Sandra said, loud and clear over frequency, and Simon relaxed for the first time in nearly two weeks. "All right," he said, sinking down into his chair and clapping a hand to his ear. "The two of you bust ass back here, you hear me? I'm not going to be able to breathe properly until you get back."

  "We are en route," Sandra said, and fell silent.

  Simon shut his eyes and listened to the traffic sounds filtering in over his earphones. It didn't dawn on him what he was hearing — or more precisely, not hearing — for nearly five minutes: he could hear the traffic, and he could hear Sandra occasionally muttering imprecations, but he couldn't hear Mike at all. "You guys doing okay?" he asked, breaking into the silence.

  "What?" Sandra said, and followed that with exactly what Simon had been hoping not to hear: "I can't hear you, boss. Got some static on the line." Her voice was clean, precise, staccato.

  "Never mind," Simon said, clenching one hand into a fist on his desk. 'Static' was team code for 'a problem that we can't discuss on an open frequency'. "I'll meet you around the side entrance. Templar out." He pulled off his headphones and dropped them on his desk.

  "What's the word?" Johnny asked, cracking one eye open as Simon strode out of his office.

  "Static," Simon said tersely.

  Johnny immediately swung his feet down off the table and stood up, cracking his knuckles. "Springheel?"

  "Honda, sounds like," Simon said, thumping his fist against his forehead. "Christ. Texas, you're with me."

  Johnny nodded and fell in behind him as Simon dragged the saferoom door open and headed for the side entrance, nearly at a run.

  The van pulled up five minutes later, Sandra at the wheel. Simon, wh
o'd been pacing, immediately yanked her door open and helped her out. He didn't say anything and neither did she; after a quick distrustful glance at the doors leading into the compound, Sandra jerked her head towards the rear of the van. Simon nodded and followed her; Johnny followed him.

  Without a word Sandra stuck the van's key into the back door and popped it open, her other hand stopping the door before it could swing open wide. Johnny turned around and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping an eye on the parking lot; Simon stuck his head and shoulders into the back of the van.

  Mike was in a little huddle on the van floor, his arms curled protectively around his head. The thin t-shirt he was wearing was no concession at all to the February weather, and it left the festering track marks inside his elbows bared to the air. Simon hissed a breath through his teeth.

  "Hey, boss," Mike croaked, licking his lips. The two words were enough to make him start coughing, and Simon was forced to wait for him to stop.

  "Problems?" Simon asked, hunkering down in front of the van's bumper.

  "Yeah," Mike rasped. "What can I say, they weren't buying my act, they wanted proof that I was on the level..."

  "Jesus, Mike." Simon ran a hand through his hair and groped for something to say. "What, you couldn't just say no to drugs? You've made one former First Lady very sad, I hope you know that."

  That earned him a laugh, although it wasn't much of one and it made Mike start coughing again. "I'm gonna need a couple of vacation days," he managed to say when he was done.

  "Yeah, I guess so," Simon said. "Okay. You hang on. We'll get you taken care of."

  "'kay," Mike whispered, and then made a little noise that Simon could only qualify as a 'whimper', curling up into a fetal ball on the cold metal floor of the van.

  The Morning Star

  Part One: Codenames

  Part Two: Compromise

  Part Three: Coalition

  Part Four: Conflict

  Epilogue: CODA

  Part One: Codenames

  [saturday]

  "Well?" Simon asked, flicking two fingers against his lapel and raising an eyebrow at Sandra.

  Sandra reached out and smoothed Simon's hair down slightly, then nodded. "You're good to go, boss."

  "Great. Another day, another tuxedo," Simon said, straightening his bow tie and checking his reflection in the van's rearview mirror. "Let's do this thing, people. Pretend we're professionals. Are we set? Specs? Specs Two?"

  "Cameras are on-line and reasonably steady, Templar," Nate said from the back of the van, scanning the flickering monitor banks. "Party looks dull. Good thing I've got a camera in the ladies' room, or I might fall asleep out here —" Sandra promptly smacked the back of his head. "— ow! Springheel, I was kidding!"

  "Good thing, too," Sandra said, automatically double-checking the clasp of her diamond bracelet. "I love you like a particularly retarded younger brother, Specs, but I draw the line at letting you watch me pee."

  "Specs Two?" Simon broke in, scowling at Sandra.

  "Alarm systems hook-in is a go," said Rich. "Our link-up back to headquarters is working fine. I'm testing the second team's headsets now — Honda? Do you read me?"

  "Loud and clear." Mike's voice boomed in from the speaker over Rich's head. Rich frowned irritably and adjusted the volume.

  "How are things looking where you are, Honda?" Simon asked the speaker.

  "Looks pretty sweet, Templar. The door mechanism's smooth, the rich fucks seem okay with only being allowed in ten at a time, no static so far. Wallpaper's ugly as sin, though, and I'm considering mugging Texas for his flak vest and gas mask. These penguin suits are for chumps."

  "I hear you," Simon said, tugging grumpily at the wing collar of his tuxedo shirt.

  "Texas?" Rich said.

  "Yo." Johnny's voice was less clear and crackled slightly, but was perfectly understandable. "We're good in the display room. That sure is one shiny rock."

  "Headsets are a go, Templar," Rich concluded. "Lemme check your link-up. Springheel?"

  Sandra pulled a tiny cell phone out of her equally tiny purse and flipped it open. "Hello hello, can you hear me?"

  "Got it," Rich said, making minute adjustments to the dials in front of him. "Templar?"

  "Right." Simon pulled out his own phone and flipped it open. "Testing, testing, one, two, three, hang on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on..." Everybody in the van clapped their hands over their ears, and Rich ripped off his headphones. Mike's caw of protest made the speakers whine with feedback. "Guess it works," Simon concluded, just barely smiling, and slid the cell phone back into his pocket. Rich scowled at him and put the headphones back on. "Anything else, people?" Simon asked. No one said a word. "Ready, 'Tiffany'?"

  "Next time I get to pick my own alias, 'Adam'," Sandra said, grimacing. "Let me just get my heels on."

  "Right!" Simon clapped his hands together, suddenly and totally calm. "Springheel and I are going in. Let's keep up the chatter, it'll keep us alert. Remember that I can hear you, even if I can't respond."

  "Big Brother is listening," Nate intoned.

  "So speak up the instant something looks fishy," Simon finished, as if Nate had never spoken at all. "Yell for backup if you even think you need it. Let's bag this slick boy and make the world safe once again for shiny rocks."

  "Art Theft's going to hate us if we manage to do it," Mike said over the speakers. "Personally, I'm jonesing for that."

  "Art Theft," Johnny said, his snort of disdain crackling with static.

  Simon popped the back doors of the van and slid out, offering a hand to Sandra, who took it delicately and stepped down beside him, shimmying her hips to put her dress back to rights. "How do I look?" she asked, touching her updo lightly. "Think I'll pass?"

  "You look just like a real girl," Simon assured her as Nate pulled the van doors shut again behind them. "No slimy thieving lowlife in the world could possibly resist you."

  "Thanks so much, Adam," Sandra said, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm. "You sure know how to sweet-talk an ex-girlfriend."

  "Aww, Tiff, you know that it was your sarcastic tendencies that broke us up in the first place." Simon touched his ear, making sure that the tiny earpiece was still hidden. "Let's go party with the rich people and the thieves."

  Sandra laughed. "Assuming there's a difference between the two."

  The party was already in full swing by the time they arrived. Simon paused in the doorway, Sandra clinging demurely to his arm, and scanned the room. Sam and Brenda Morning's enormous Virginia mansion was packed to the roof with glittering socialites and Washington DC's politics-heavy version of 'reasonably important people'; this early in the evening they were mostly standing about in clumps talking or clustering about the buffet tables, although a few hardy souls were already braving the mostly-empty dance floor, circling the completely unnecessary fountain in the very center of the room. In the corner of the room a string quartet played steadfastly on, although from Simon's vantage point they could barely be heard at all.

  "And there you are," Nate said in Simon's ear. "We've got you on camera ten. Adjust your bowtie if you can hear me." Simon touched his fingers to his tie. "Good. Great. Springheel, look to your left." Sandra glanced left and smiled. "Great. Looks like you're both still in touch."

  "Bring me back some of those little shrimp things," Rich added.

  "There are shrimp things?" Mike said, plaintively. "I'm down here staring at wallpaper and missing shrimp things?"

  "Sure are," Rich said as Simon and Sandra headed into the room. "Looks like there are cheese things, too. Oh, and curly vegetable things. At least, I think those are vegetables."

  "Oh, and your favorite, Honda: booze things!" Nate said.

  "Booze things?!" Mike's voice went from 'plaintive' to 'incredulous'. "Man, I wanna switch jobs with someone. Hey, Springheel, you come down here and guard the door and I'll be Templar's date for the evening."

  "Gack... unwanted... mental image... killing brain cell
s..." Nate croaked.

  Rich snorted. "You'd look ridiculous in that gold dress, Honda." Nate moaned in Simon's ear in what sounded like real pain.

  "Shut up, Specs Two," Mike said affably. "You shrimp thing, you."

  "I hate them sometimes," Sandra breathed through a smile suddenly gone brittle.

  Simon patted her hand. "Patience, dearest. You can kill them all after we're done."

  "Promise?"

  "Check in, Texas," Nate said.

  "Still here. Rock's still shiny."

  "Check in, Honda."

  "Three more groups of gawkers in and out, no problems. The wallpaper hasn't gotten any prettier, either. Least someone brought me a chair." Mike whistled. "Man, I am just in the lap of luxury. All's I need is a sandwich and a TV."

  "And this is Specs, on line."

  "Specs Two, on line."

  "We've still got you on camera eleven, Templar and Springheel..." Nate's voice suddenly went soft and silky. "...and there's our priiime suspect, on ten."

  Simon did not look up through an effort of will, concentrating very hard on the shrimp he was nibbling on. Beside him he could feel Sandra tense. "By the fountain in the center of the room, Templar," Nate went on, immediately all business. Everybody else on the link-up was silent. "Shadow's talking to your charming hostess right now. If you and Springheel can get over there quick you can probably finagle an introduction and confirm the ID."

  Simon dropped his half-eaten shrimp into a nearby potted plant and swung out across the dancefloor, Sandra's hand tucked into the crook of his arm again. The hostess, a heavy-set middle-aged woman in a froth of black ruffles, saw them coming and flashed them a nervous smile. "She's going to give us away," Sandra gritted out through her teeth. Simon squeezed Sandra's hand warningly, his eyes locked on the man talking to the hostess. Jeremy Archer. Almost certainly. If he'd just turn around —

  "Mrs. Morning!" Sandra trilled as soon as they got within range, her voice frothing with vapidity. The sudden change in his 'date' made Simon blink. It also made both the hostess and her companion turn to look at them, and Simon kept the jolt of recognition off his face only through an effort of will. Well! he thought. Fancy meeting you here, Jeremy Archer.