by C. M. Palov
‘Because you told me that if I retrieved the Evangelium Gaspar and killed the girl that, as a Defender of the Faith, I would receive an indulgence that would absolve me of any mortal sin committed.’
Not even attempting to hide his disdain, the cardinal snorted. ‘I lied.’
Hearing the cardinal’s callous admission, tears welled in Gracián’s eyes. ‘I am the one who has been betrayed. In truth, you’re no different than Mephistopheles; a demon in the guise of a gray friar who tempts men to sell their souls to the Devil. You claim to be a Prince of the Church, but you are really an evil man.’
‘Need I remind you that the much-maligned Mephistopheles never sought men whom he could corrupt. Rather, he chose only those pathetic characters who were already damned because of their sinful actions. You, Gracián Santos, are such a man. You sold your soul long before I ever made your acquaintance.’
‘It is true. If I had been a stronger, better man, I would have spurned your advances instead of becoming that most despicable of creatures . . . a collaborator in a malevolent plot,’ he murmured, heartbroken.
‘Where’s the third plate?’ the cardinal brusquely demanded to know.
Gracián shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have no idea, Your Eminence. Although, if there truly is a God, you’ll never gain custody of the ancient gospel.’
Hearing that, the cardinal’s face instantly flushed bright red, his fury plain to see. Livid, he turned to Hector and said, ‘Kill the Englishman. He’s a dangerous liability.’
Hector shook his head, baffled. ‘But we don’t have the third plate.’
‘And now that Aisquith has his daughter, I very much doubt that he’ll give it to us,’ the cardinal retorted. ‘But I want you to keep his partner, Edie Miller, alive. There’s a reason why women are called the weaker sex. Trust me, she’ll turn over the copper plate to save her life.’ Orders issued, Cardinal Fiorio waved a dismissive hand in Gracián’s direction. ‘I’m through with Father Santos. He’s all yours.’
Eyes burning with a dark fire, Hector raised the Glock.
The end nigh, Gracián spread his arms out to the side of his body. A human cross.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he whispered . . . seconds before he felt an excruciating burst of pain.
76
Edie extended her right arm into the air, desperately trying to get a mobile connection. About to step away from the maple – wondering if the massive tree might be blocking the signal – she suddenly froze.
‘Oh my God!’ she rasped, certain that she’d just heard a single shot ring out.
Someone inside Mercy Hall fired a gun!
Wondering what was going on inside the mansion, she watched as Javier Aveles dashed out of the building and jumped into the parked SUV. Loose scree flew into the air as he drove at a breakneck speed, heading in her direction.
Terror-stricken, Edie pressed herself tightly against the tree trunk as the SUV sped past, disappearing at the bottom of the hill.
He’s going after Caedmon!
Again, she tried to get a phone signal.
‘Damn it!’
Time for Plan B.
Clipping her phone on to her waistband, Edie sprinted towards the carriage house, vigorously pumping her arms up and down in the desperate hope that it would make her legs move faster. Since Caedmon had the keys to the rental car, she intended to steal a vehicle out of the Fellowship garage and go to his rescue.
Almost there!
Breathless, panting from exertion, she reached the stable door on the gable end of the carriage house. All thumbs, she fumbled a bit with the latch before she was able to fling the door wide open.
Quickly, she scanned the six bays: there was a black Toyota pick-up truck; a passenger van; a large, serviceable tractor; and a golf cart. The last two bays were empty. She dashed over to the truck, hoping to find the key in the –
‘Damn it!’ There was no key in the ignition.
Her stomach in knots, she hurriedly trotted over to the van. Again, no keys.
Hearing voices, Edie peered over her shoulder – just in time to see Calzada and Diaz enter through the open door. She immediately ducked behind the tractor.
Oh, God! Not those guys!
She didn’t know who scared her more: the crotch-grabbing Calzada or Diaz, the monster who’d gleefully relieved the Marqués de Bagá of his head. Holding her breath, she inched to one side, risking a glance around the side of the oversized rubber tire. Her eyes widened fearfully – Diaz had a sub-machine gun clutched in his hand!
Just as the two men were about to get into the black pick-up truck, a discordant sound echoed in the distance.
Poppoppoppoppop!
Instantly recognizing the terrifying chatter of automatic weapon fire, Edie’s heart skidded against her breastbone.
Someone’s shooting at Caedmon!
She watched as Diaz, gesturing wildly, made harsh noises in the back of this throat, sounding more like a wild animal than a human being.
‘Calm down, bro,’ Calzada hissed, his stern tone instantly calming the savage beast. ‘It’s just Javier taking care of business. We’ll man the front gate. No way in hell is that English fucker gonna escape the premises alive.’
Seconds later, the automatic garage door opened, the pick-up truck speeding down the paved drive.
Hands trembling, Edie unclipped her phone and punched the numerals 9-1-1 on to the keypad, the emergency access code.
Nothing. Dead air. The fast-approaching storm must have knocked out the phone service. That meant there would be no taking up a defensive position behind the male bastions. She was on her own.
Another staccato burst of gun fire echoed across the dale.
Poppoppoppoppop!
On wobbly legs, Edie rushed over to the parked golf cart, relieved to see a chrome key protruding from the ignition. She yanked the plug out of the electric socket and jumped behind the wheel. As she drove the golf cart out of the garage, another burst of gunfire rang out; the sound nearly indistinguishable from the thunder that boomed in the near distance.
Praying that she wasn’t too late, she drove at breakneck speed – all of twenty miles per hour – across the lawn.
A wild bull charging a red cape.
77
Poppoppoppoppop!
As they came under a barrage of gunfire, Anala shrieked loudly. Caedmon, furious, damned near shrieked, a bullet whistling past his left ear.
A very close call!
No sooner had they exited the root cellar than they’d come under attack, the shots fired fast and furious. A deadly pummel that was near-deafening. One bullet right after another. Whoever was firing at them obviously had a sub-machine gun.
For fuck’s sake!
Although Caedmon had the Mossberg shotgun, there was no time to return fire. His first priority was to get Anala to safe cover.
Cinching his left hand around her upper arm, Caedmon charged towards the metal lean-to, Anala in tow. As they ran past a limestone outcropping, bullets ricocheted off the stone, causing sparks to momentarily flash as severed chips flew into the air. They ducked behind the truck just as a stream of bullets ripped through the rusted-out frame. Anala lurched, crying out in pain as she hit the ground.
‘Afraid I left my land legs back in the cellar,’ she huffed, quickly scrambling to her knees.
Caedmon spared her a quick glance. She was holding up remarkably well. Thank God.
Crouched side by side, they weathered the next deadly barrage, Anala, again, shrieking as the driver’s side window was suddenly blown out in a shattering blast. A third round tore up the turf beside the truck, clods of dirt plopping through the air.
‘Time for a dose of nasty-tasting medicine,’ Caedmon muttered.
He rose up on bended knee and raised the Persuader over the back-end of the truck. Bracing the rubberized butt against his shoulder, he took aim and fired. Then, just to give the unseen bastard something to ponder, he yanked on the fore-end, quickly chambering a
nother shell. Again, he pulled the trigger, blasting a second load of double-aught buckshot in the gunman’s direction before he lowered the shotgun and safely tucked himself behind the truck.
Although it was by no means a superior weapon, the shotgun was still lethal enough to give their gunman a moment’s pause.
Hunkered against the side of the truck, neither he nor Anala said a word. There was no point in stating the bloody obvious: that they were ensnared in a deadly trap.
Caedmon peered round the corner, scanning the terrain. They needed a sturdier bulwark. Something that could withstand sustained fire from a sub-machine gun.
‘Do you think that you have enough energy to run to the back door of the cottage?’ he asked Anala.
Still huffing from the earlier dash, she gamely nodded her head. ‘On three?’
‘Right. One, two –’
Three!
They took off in tandem, both of them crouched low as they ran towards the cottage. Gunfire followed in their wake, each fleeting second hideously drawn-out.
Anala was the first one to reach the back door. ‘It’s locked!’ she hollered.
Another burst of gunfire erupted.
‘Stand back!’ Raising his right leg, Caedmon kicked the wooden door at its weakest point – just below the knob – as hard he could.
The weathered door flew open, swinging forcefully on its hinges just as another round of shots was fired.
Anala dashed inside a small vestibule, Caedmon right behind her. Seizing a shovel that was hanging on the wall, he jammed it under the knob to keep the door closed. As he did, bullets pitted the exterior of the door, the impact rattling his spine.
Turning on his heel, he saw that the vestibule opened on to an old-fashioned kitchen. Dust-laden and cobweb strewn, the cupboards were all bare. The glass window over the kitchen sink suddenly shattered, a line of bullets plowing into the far wall.
Bloody hell! The gunman had them in his sights!
Snatching hold of Anala’s upper arm, he pulled her towards a row of cabinets. ‘Get down!’ he yelled as more shots were fired through the shattered window. ‘We need to stay out of the gunman’s line of fire!’
Anala obediently flung herself at the floor, wedging herself into the angle formed by two adjoining cabinets.
Sidling over to the sink, Caedmon popped into firing stance, aiming the Mossberg out of the shattered window. He wasted no time pulling the trigger, immediately yanking and shoving the fore-end, and firing a second shell. Two blind shots. While he didn’t have a prayer of hitting the unseen gunman, he needed to draw enemy fire. It was the only way that he could determine the enemy’s location.
The gambit worked, the load of expelled buckshot immediately answered with a poppoppoppoppop!
Catching sight of a muzzle flash, Caedmon ducked back to the floor.
‘How many of them are out there?’ Anala hissed in a low voice.
Not bothering to lower his voice – what was the point? – Caedmon said, ‘I’m fairly certain that we’re dealing with a lone gunman.’ At least for the time being, he thought but didn’t mention, not wanting to escalate her terror. He needed Anala to remain as calm as possible. No easy feat under the circumstances.
Unclipping his mobile phone, he handed it to her. ‘Dial 9-1-1 and inform the emergency operator that we’re at the Sanguis Christi Fellowship and to send a police car posthaste,’ he instructed.
‘A police car? I’m thinking an entire military battalion,’ she muttered under her breath.
Caedmon risked a quick glance out of the window. ‘Given the angle of the shots just fired, I’m fairly certain that our gunman has taken up a position on the outcrop of limestone that overlooks the cottage.’
‘I can’t get a signal,’ Anala exclaimed angrily as she repeatedly jabbed her index finger against the mobile’s keypad.
‘I suspect the hilly terrain and stone cottage are the culprit,’ he said, reclipping the useless mobile on to his waistband.
‘Do you think we could make a run for it?’
‘Out of the question. The gunman will mow us down before we reach the top of the hill.’
Anala pointedly glanced at the Mossberg. ‘But you have a loaded shotgun.’
‘Trust me. Not the best of weapons in a mad dash.’
Just then, another round of bullets was fired through the shattered window, shearing several chips of cabinetry.
Anala winced, clearly petrified.
‘A rather pitiful knight in shining armor, aren’t I?’ he muttered.
‘I didn’t want to die inside that dark cellar. This . . . this is better.’ One side of Anala’s mouth curved in a rueful half-smile. ‘At least now I won’t die alone.’
Caedmon’s gut twisted, horrified to think that her captors had intended for her to die all alone in that miserable little hole.
Extending his left arm, he put a steadying hand on her shoulder, needing her to emotionally hold it together. ‘We will get out of this mess alive because I’m not inclined to die today.’ He gently squeezed her shoulder before removing his hand. ‘Here’s the plan. I’m going to sneak out of the cottage and take down the gunman.’
‘By that you mean kill him, right?’ Anala didn’t miss a beat. Or a euphemism.
‘I have no choice,’ he informed her, certain that in his daughter’s eyes he’d just gone from white knight to dark demon. He considered telling her that he would derive no pleasure from the bloodthirsty act, but wasn’t entirely certain that would prove true. ‘The gunman knows that we’re armed with a shotgun.’
‘So, if he’s a smart man, he’s not going to enter the cottage.’
‘Even a halfwit will avoid the deadly welcome that awaits him if he does. Since he knows that there are only two means of entering the house –through this door –’ Caedmon jutted his chin at the nearby vestibule – ‘or the front door located on the other side of the cottage, I suspect that he’s taken up a position where he can safely monitor both points of egress.’
‘But he won’t be able to keep a watchful eye on all of the windows.’
Caedmon nodded. Even in a weakened condition, Anala had a nimble mind. ‘Which is why I’ll exit through one of the windows on the southern side of the house where, hopefully, I won’t be observed.’
‘Don’t you mean that we’ll exit?’
‘Actually, it’ll be safer if you remain inside the cottage. I’ll leave you the shotgun.’
‘But I think it would be better if –’
‘The matter isn’t open for discussion,’ he interjected, tabling her objection.
She opened her mouth, presumably to lodge another protest; then just as quickly clamped her lips shut.
Caedmon passed her the Mossberg. ‘Have you ever fired one of these?’
‘No. So you’d better give me a quick primer before you leave.’ Eyes narrowed, she peered over at him. ‘While I never thought I’d ever feel this way, I’m rather hoping the bastard does walk through the kitchen door . . . I want to look him in the eye when I pull the trigger.’
78
The dead tread softly . . . And those stalking the living tread even more lightly.
A ghoulish thought that occurred to Caedmon as he slid open the dining-room window. Having already decided upon the one and only rule of engagement – that the last man standing at the end of the deadly bout would be declared the winner – he ducked his head and swung a leg over the sash, lowering himself to the ground.
Hugging the shadows, he stealthily moved away from the cottage, careful to stay out of the gunman’s line of sight. It meant taking a more circuitous route; one that cost him precious minutes. But it was time he gladly relinquished in the hope that he could buttonhole the unsuspecting bastard.
Bent at the waist, he maintained a low profile as he snaked his way across the overgrown side garden. Happening upon a pile of metal posts – the kind of heavy-duty stakes that were used to pen farm animals – he pulled up short and plucked a five-foot-long
pale out of the pile. It had good heft. More importantly for his purposes, it could be used as a deadly weapon. During the Middle Ages, before the advent of gunpowder, men marched into battle armed with far cruder weaponry.
Buoyed by his fortuitous find, Caedmon dashed across the overgrown front garden. Although he’d not yet seen the enemy, he’d pinpointed his position to a small limestone outcrop due north of the cottage. While that gave the gunman an obstructed view looking to the south, it also put the enemy at a distinct disadvantage: it left his aft unprotected. If Caedmon executed a wide flanking maneuver, he could creep up from behind and take the bastard by surprise.
A few minutes later, he crested the small rise that lay directly behind the gunman’s position. A summer storm was almost upon them, dark clouds clashing and colliding as the tall grass violently wavered to-and-fro. Standing behind the cover of an ancient oak, he scanned the rolling fields, searching for his quarry. His gaze methodically moved from one clump of dried vegetation to the next. On a nearby hillock, he spotted a parked SUV. But no gunman.
Where the bloody hell are you?
About to move to another location, Caedmon suddenly saw a flash of motion in the field grass.
I’ve got you, you bastard!
The gunman didn’t know it yet, but he was hiding in plain sight. If Caedmon had been armed with a firearm instead of a fence post, he could have easily bagged his quarry from where he stood. He trained his eyes on the jagged outcrop of limestone. The gunman was so cocksure of his defenses that he’d actually set the sub-machine gun on top of the stone slab.
How bloody perfect is that?
Caedmon slipped the fire axe out of the loop on his waist pack, grasping it in his left hand. A man can’t have too many weapons when charging into battle. The enemy’s position pinpointed, he made his way across the overgrown meadow, steadily advancing on the slab of limestone.
Ten meters from his quarry, Caedmon was able to positively identify the man negligently leaning against the outcropping – it was Javier Aveles.
Well, well, well . . . what do you know?
Caedmon came to a halt; afraid that if he got any closer, Aveles would hear his approach. He eyed the sub-machine gun in plain sight on top of the stone slab. A Mini-Uzi unless I’m greatly mistaken. Prized for its compact design, it was highly coveted by Mexican drug lords.
