After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted to the near total absence of light and he was able to increase his pace to a jog.  At first, the muscle aches from injuries incurred earlier in the night were almost debilitating, but as he moved, exercising the stiffness from his limbs, the pain became more tolerable; the Motrin tablets he had downed probably helped too.

During the two-hour ride across Long Island, he had struggled to devise a strategy for rescuing Tecla.  Fortunately, the property currently being used by Negron and his minions was listed with a real estate broker and floor plans and a full map of the estate were available on a realtor's market listing service.  It was a marginal piece of intelligence, but Kismet knew he was going to need every advantage to survive the night.

The forty-two room mansion was situated above the Atlantic Ocean and separated from the main road by several hundred acres of woodland, through which ran an elaborate maze of horse trails.  There were several satellite buildings, including a stable, an enormous garage with a coach house, and a full fledged guest house, but Kismet felt certain Tecla would be kept in the main residence, probably in one of the bedrooms that overlooked the surf.  He had outlined his plan to Turino during the ride, and the capo had given a guarded blessing.

"I won't be able to help you.  I'm going to have to go in there like he's beaten me, ‘cause if you fail, I'll have no choice but to do what he wants." Turino had grabbed his forearm meaningfully.  "Don't fail.  Once you're clear, call my cell phone; it's set to vibrate, so no one will hear.  When you give the signal, I'll pull out.  If necessary, I'll come out shooting.  And there'll be two cars of my guys waiting just outside the gate.  They have phones programmed for the same number, so they'll move as soon as you make the call."

Now, as he reached the edge of the woods, Kismet could see Turinos's car as it rolled to a halt in front of the marble stairs leading up into the main house.  Several men wearing casual clothes and openly displaying assault weapons surrounded the vehicle.  Turino was ushered up the steps, while his bodyguards remained where they were.  Kismet frowned, but this development was not entirely unexpected.

He skirted along the edge of the woods toward the east end of the house.  His quick surveillance led him to believe that Negron's men were not vigorously patrolling the grounds; they probably didn't have the manpower, and confident in their leaders omnipotence, must have reckoned themselves secure enough with guards at the main gate and the front door.  If he was wrong, and Negron's men had state of the art video monitors and motion sensors, then he would find out very soon.

He eased from the woods and moved smoothly across the open expanse between the forest and the house.  Once safely behind the screen of topiary that ringed the perimeter, he hastened to the rear of the house, perched high above the roaring ocean.  There was not a soul to be seen.

"So far, so good."

The mansion had been designed to resemble a medieval castle, but the stonework on its mock battlements had sacrificed security for aesthetic appeal.  The craggy surface presented no obstacle to Kismet as he climbed up to the level of the second floor balcony.  Several sets of French doors opened onto the long terrace, but without exception, the glass panes were dark; no lights were visible in the bank of apartments where he expected to find Tecla held hostage.

After a quick reconnaissance, he returned to the first door and examined the lock.  There was no keyhole to operate the mechanism and the bolt was hidden behind a thin strip of wood.

Frowning, Kismet reached into the black nylon waist pack–one of the items he had secured from his residence before making the long drive to Montauk, along with a change of clothes–and produced his kukuri.  The large chopping knife, which could almost be described as a short sword, was the signature weapon of the Gurkhas, a British infantry regiment originally drawn from a fierce Nepalese warrior tribe of the same name.

The knife was a memento of war, given to him by one of the men that had fought with him on the night of his initial encounter with the assassins of Prometheus, but was no less practical for all its sentimental value.  The boomerang shaped blade, nearly fifteen inches in length, could be used like an axe, a shovel, or in this case, a pry bar.

He slid the point of the knife under the fascia strip and twisted.  The wood splintered to reveal the thick lock bolt underneath.  The kukuri made quick work of the bolt as well, and a few moments later, the door swung silently open. 

He exchanged the knife for his Glock 17 automatic pistol, then moved inside.  The room beyond was empty. A thin stripe of light peeked from beneath the interior door, and Kismet dropped to a prone position in order to peek through the tiny crack.

There was no movement in the corridor beyond, nor any sound of voices, but his field of view was limited to the opposite side of the hallway.  After taking a deep breath, he gently turned the door handle and eased the solid wood door open a few millimeters.  The hallway, like the room, was as empty as a tomb.

The complete absence of any activity gave him pause; perhaps he had erred in assuming that Tecla would be held in one of the apartments.  If she wasn't there, then his plan to rescue her without raising an alarm was out the window.  He crept down the corridor and crouched at the end of ornate balustrade, which partitioned the landing above a sweeping staircase down to the main level.  Voices were wafting up from below and he strained to comprehend what was being said.

Turino's baritone thundered above the others.  His stentorian volume was intentional; it was his way of keeping Kismet abreast of developments.  The mafia leader was presently stalling by making outrageous demands of his Colombian hosts.  The thin voices of the men giving answers suggested that the dark monk was not present; there was still a chance to pull this off.

"I'm through with your games," Turino roared.  "If my granddaughter isn't standing in front of me in two minutes, I'm walking out of here."

Kismet's frown deepened.  He could just make out two of the Colombian's conversing in Spanish.

"Bring the girl out to the top of the stairs."

Kismet scrambled back from the bannister.  So Tecla was upstairs.  But now he had about ninety seconds in which to find her and escape, at which point the alarm would be sounded.

He swore under his breath and glanced at the uniform doors that lined the hallway.  Reasoning that her kidnappers were too lazy to drag her unconscious form any farther than they had to, he crept to the door closest to the landing.  There was a deadbolt lock on the door, but when he tried the lever the latch yielded and he hastened into the darkened room.

In the instant before he closed the door, ambient light from without illuminated a motionless form, bound and gagged, resting against a wall.  He had found her, but how long before the Colombians found him?  He needed a diversion, something – anything – to distract the man presently ascending the steps.

Then it hit him.  He dug out the cell phone, and, without a second thought, punched the send button.

Although the Colombians in the gate house were armed with semi-automatic assault rifles and machine pistols, the mafiosi had the element of surprise one their side.  The gate guards went down under a hail of .38 and .44 caliber rounds without getting off a shot or making an kind of call for help.

Nevertheless, the thunder of gunfire echoed across the estate, raising the alarm as effectively as a klaxon.  Negron's men, wherever they were on the property, came instantly alert and brought their weapons to the ready, looking for someone to kill.

On the steps inside the house, the man coming up to retrieve Tecla paused and looked back to his immediate superior for further guidance.  In those few indecisive seconds, Turino reached the front door, where he drew a snub-nosed .38 revolver from an ankle holster and broke into a run.  The Colombians managed to throw off their confused hesitancy and rushed to stop him, but the moment they crossed the threshold, Turino's limousine skidded to a halt in front of the steps, and the mobster's confederates emerged with weapons cocked and locked.  The war had begun.