Unknown 9 by Layton Green (each kindness read aloud txt) 📕

jerked back and away, avoiding a fatal stab to the heart, but the blade slid deep into his side, biting into the soft flesh beneath his ribs.

From behind came cursing in Spanish and chairs scraping the floor. Dr. Corwin jerked the blade out as Hans screamed in pain. The men at the table jumped to their feet and reached for their pistols, followed by the deafening crack of gunfire echoing through the restaurant.

Except the first shots had not come from one of Hans’s men, but from two of the cooks, who had opened fire on the four men at the table from behind the parrilla’s wood-fired grill.

Pandemonium erupted. Tables were overturned to act as shields as bullets flew. One of Hans’s men was sprawled dead on the floor, someone shrieked in agony, and the fire in the grill roared higher, either sparked by the ammunition or stoked deliberately by one of the men posing as cooks. A sprinkler doused the room, and shouts of alarm came from the kitchen.

Hans was using his heels to squirm away from Dr. Corwin on the floor, clutching his bloody side, his enraged curses punctuated by moans.

Dr. Corwin had also flipped over one of the solid wood tables to protect himself. Instead of trying to finish off Hans, which would have exposed the professor to enemy fire, he turned and shattered the window beside him with his blade.

Knowing how vulnerable he was in the city, and the allies Hans had, Dr. Corwin had dined at the same restaurant every night during his stay for a specific reason—and had chosen his seat by the window very carefully.

“Damn you, James!” Hans shouted.

“You may own this town,” Dr. Corwin said, “but we own this restaurant.”

A black sedan screeched to a halt by the curb outside the shattered window. As the professor stepped over the litter of broken glass, hurrying toward the Society car, pain exploded in his left knee and he was thrown violently to the ground. He tried to hobble to his feet and failed, his knee crumpling like a squashed paper bag beneath him. He looked up to find Hans pointing a gun at him from the floor with a grimace of pleasure.

Before Hans could shoot again, a strapping Brazilian man, an associate of Dr. Corwin’s, flew out of the sedan and laid down a round of cover fire. Hans was forced to roll behind the table to avoid being hit. Still firing with one hand, the Brazilian grabbed Dr. Corwin by the collar and dragged him across the sidewalk and into the waiting vehicle.

Feeling as if he might pass out from the pain, Dr. Corwin collapsed across the seat and gasped a final series of commands. “Go! Alert the boat captain! We must leave the city at once!”

   19   

The day after they arrived in Hanoi, Andie joined Cal for breakfast at the hotel buffet.

“I did some research on the Temple of Literature this morning,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him.

Cal’s plate was stacked with eggs, bacon, and pancakes. “This morning? It’s seven a.m. When do you sleep?”

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

“The good. And just skip the bad.”

She slurped a mouthful of pho. “There’s not a ton of information on the Temple of Literature online, but listen to this: Each of the five courtyards is unique, with its own significance and history. The first courtyard is called Entrance to the Way, and the gate leading to the second courtyard is symbolic of how the path to enlightenment is both continuous and outside the contours of space and time.”

“Okay,” Cal said, “we’re definitely looking in the right place.”

“Scholars are supposed to proceed slowly on the stone path through the temple, all the way to the final courtyard, absorbing each lesson as they approach the pinnacle of knowledge.”

“Did Dr. Corwin design this thing himself?”

“It’s got LYS written all over it,” she agreed. “The bad news is, the fifth gate was destroyed by the French in 1946.”

“I told you not to tell me that.” He set his coffee down. “Doesn’t that wreck our theory?”

“It was rebuilt twenty years ago, and I’m not sure what that means. Is it too new to be historically relevant? Are we on the wrong track? Is it a symbol of rebirth? Maybe the cracked door symbolizes the transition from the fourth to the fifth courtyard.”

He met her gaze. “It sounds like we won’t have any answers until we see it for ourselves.”

She took a sip of coffee. “I’m glad you agree.”

The heat and humidity had turned Hanoi into a steam basket by the time Andie and Cal stepped into a taxi and rode a mile west to the Temple of Literature.

Taking a cue from Kolkata, Andie was wearing a traditional Vietnamese dress called an ao dai, which she had purchased at the night market. The dress was a tight-fitting green silk tunic that covered her from the snug collar all the way to the top of her tennis shoes. Though surprisingly tolerable in the heat, her conical rice hat made of tightly woven palm leaves was not so breezy. She felt awkward next to the legions of tiny Vietnamese women wearing similar outfits—but at least she felt hidden. She had also purchased one of the surgical masks the locals wore while riding motorbikes and mopeds and sometimes just walking the streets, to protect their lungs from pollution.

Cal had opted for a pair of cargo shorts, a black T-shirt, a wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses. A cheap daypack, hiking sandals, and a money pouch around his waist completed the outfit of traditional Western tourist.

The rush-hour traffic was a symphony of epic proportions, a frenzied dance of barely controlled chaos that would have made Beethoven stand up and applaud. Andie gawked at an old woman serenely riding a bicycle as motorized vehicles raced past her like water flowing around a stone. As the taxi approached the high brick wall