Shepherds’ Tomb, November 19,
The long line of motorcycles pounded through the little medieval village and out across the modern town. When they reached the empty open road they switched off their lights and drove by starlight. Once or twice the lead rider saw headlights approaching, and flicked on his own, the rest following suit. Then when their eyes had recovered it was back to dark running.
The sound of their exhaust
pipes played, now like the ram’s horn shofar, now like the serpent horn of the
The cold cut through
They rolled in the last
quarter mile with dead stick. Silently
the group pulled off and let
The others shivered and waited while he got an average distance. Then he had them gather around and shield the light while he called up a map on the laptop. He could establish compass bearings from the outline of the hills beyond. He located the tomb site on the map and, using a graphics program, placed a line from that site to the appropriate hill. Then he measured. Abruptly he shut the lid.
There was silence. At last Jon spoke, “It’s the Spring of the Magdalene. They were pointing at the spring of the Magdalene all along. We don’t even need a reading with the global positioning system; we know right where it is.”
Silently he repacked the briefcase, and then the four of them walked down to look from the brow of the hill out over the darkened wind swept valley while the riders got together to work out their next strategy.
Konrad came up to speak to
the four. “We must leave suddenly. We think men approach.” There was a disturbance a short distance down
the road. Konrad slapped
Behind them they could hear the roar of the motors as the club tried to cover their escape. The great motorcycles sprinted up and down the road, flipping their blinding headlights on and off, forcing the gunmen to respect them. Somewhere a cleated boot caught a gunner on the knee and took him down. But it did not last long. In the end the unarmed riders were no match for automatic weapons.
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