Sanctuary of Sins

by Roger Kazanowski

  Anne ruffled her hair, stretched her legs and pocketed her weapon of choice, her Glock 19. She was confident handling the lightweight gun. With a five-inch barrel it weighed just 30 ounces fully loaded. Even with a silencer, the Glock was compact. As a backup, she also carried a snub nose Taurus PT111. The small revolver wasn’t as powerful as her Glock, but it was very effective close range and carried 13 rounds. It was just about infallible—nothing to jam if she got into a pinch.

  Everything she wore was black: her baggy slacks, turtleneck, lightweight military boots and long canvas jacket. For hours, she waited. Then, at approximately 11:30 p.m. Anne moved to the window and pulled the curtain away to peer outside. Her senses were heightened, muscles poised to spring into action. But the streets were silent and still. It looked and sounded like all the people in city were gone. So out she went.

  To distract her two assailants, Anne had hired two cabbies to park in front of the apartment where they were located and act out a verbal disagreement, making a scene. Their noise would give her time to slip upstairs into their apartment and execute her plan. She expected to be through with her first mission by the time the cabbies settled their pretend argument and drove away.

  When she heard the sounds of angry male voices in front of the building, Anne hurried inside and carefully worked her way up the creaky wooden stairs. Positioned just outside apartment 313, she placed her hand on her gun and took a deep breath. Outside, the angry argument ensued in Italian:

  “I had the right of way, moron!”

  “Oh, you must be absolutely fucking blind!”

  Anne effortlessly jimmied the door, but it had a chain lock. She quickly drew a pair of bolt cutters from her coat and snapped the chain. Inside, Anne spotted the two men looking out their window at the disturbance. They were oblivious to Anne. Her muscles relaxed.

  Anne aimed her Glock. Fired. She perfectly placed her first bullet in one terrorist’s skull. Blood poured from the wound. He was dead before his body hit the floor.

  She quickly took aim at the second terrorist and struck him in the shoulder, just as she’d intended. He wailed, lurched towards her. She placed a second bullet into his thigh. He fell back, moaning. Anne placed the sole of her boot on his head, putting severe pressure on his temple. Stepping down harder, she aimed the Glock at his head. Her heart beat steady. Her hands did not shake.

  “Who hired you and the others?” she asked.

  “No English!”

  Anne rolled her eyes and pressed harder. “God, don’t you guys know you all try that bit?”

  “No English, none!”

  Anne moved the gun to his head and fired a shot, grazing his ear. He screamed as blood ran down his neck.

  “Either I get my information and you walk, or you end up like your friend—but at least he died quickly. You won’t.”

  “You’ll kill me if I talk or if I don’t, so why should I say a word!”

  With that Anne fired another bullet next to his face. He screamed again, his voice shrill.

  “That’s why. I have all night to enjoy this little interview. Now who hired you and where are they located?”

  He looked up at her with deep brown eyes, his features rigid with pain. “Kill me now. If you don’t they will when I’m found.”

  “If you give me the information I’m looking for, I have friends outside waiting to take you in for protection.”

  “How do I know that?”

  Anne shrugged. “You don’t. Now who are your contacts?”

  “We’re part of the jihad in Turkey. Our direct contact is Bin El Abin.”

  “Is there anyone in the Catholic Church involved in the plot?” she asked.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Oh yes you can,” Anne snapped. “There are three bishops dead and two more on the hit list. So stop boring me! Who are you reporting to?”

  “If I answer that, they will kill me,” the man said quietly. He closed his eyes, and Anne saw his hands trembling. The pool of blood beneath him grew.

  “You’ll bleed to death on this floor if we don’t get you out of here. Who in the Church is involved!”

  “Please, I don’t know! All we were told is the five bishops had to be killed along with one other person and that someone inside the Church was helping.”

  Anne frowned. “Thanks for your help. Now I’m going to help you.” With that she put the Glock to his head and pulled the trigger as if she were swatting an insect.

  As she retreated down the steps and into the darkness, Anne’s focus shifted to the four remaining terrorists. Once they found out about their accomplices’ deaths, they’d leave Rome quickly.

  Anne reclined the seat in her car and took a deep breath. She needed to find out if her next stops had been identified. It was just 1:45 a.m.—there was still time to carry out at least one more mission. Though she knew it was evening in Florida, she called Brett.

  “Looks like you were able to take care of two of your problems so far this evening.” Anne was never surprised anymore by Brett’s knowledge of events. It was as though he had connections with every government and intelligence agency in the world. “Did you really need to off the second guy though?”

  “You know I did.”

  It was true. This was a top-secret search and destroy mission. There would be no prisoners, no agency interrogations, no protective custody. It wasn’t their decision—that’s just the way it worked, and they’d grown used to it by now. As far as anyone in the world knew, this was a random and unconnected killing.

  “It wasn’t as complicated as I thought,” Anne said. “But I was hoping to get more info. It’s clear Bin El Abin, our Turkish buddy, is involved with these hires. I wasn’t able to extract anything about who in the Vatican is involved, but there’s certainly someone holding the reins. Does it stop at Sibico, or is there someone above him? Not sure. Also, the one I interrogated said they were after the five bishops and one other unidentified person. Who could that be, Brett?”

  “I’m not sure. Cardinal Sibico is our man though, we’re all but sure of it. Listen, your next two men are located on the San Mirelli Park three blocks from the Vatican. I’m sending you the address now. Are you thinking tonight?”

  Anne nodded. “I have to. If I don’t hunt down the other four tonight they’ll make an exit.”

  “In that case, let me see if I can’t find out where the last two are held up. Gardelli’s contacts have been helpful. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but they’re shadowing you. Just in case something doesn’t go to plan.”

  Anne stiffened. “Call you again after my next move.”

  With that, Anne began making her way towards the next location. Once again, the terrorists had selected a second story flat. Anne knew it was because it provided a clear view of the street below and offered some time to hear any unwanted visitors climbing the stairs. There were four apartments on the second floor, two facing the park, one of which was theirs. Anne’s first task was to figure out which of the two apartments they were in. Though it was rudimentary, the easiest method of exposing them was to start a fire in the street. It was one of Anne’s go-to tactics.

  She stopped at a small convenience store and jimmied the lock, easily disabling the alarm system and avoiding security cameras. Inside, she loaded up with cans of lighter fluid and replaced her long overcoat with a shorter one with countless pockets for ammunition. The coat also gave her space to store the cans of lighter fluid. As she turned to leave, Anne was polite enough to leave payment on the counter for her purchases and lock repair.

  She picked out a Fiat 850 parked across the street from the apartment complex. Breaking the passenger window, she emptied multiple cans of fluid into it and threw a match. Whoosh. She savored the warmth of the fire on her back as she headed toward the side of the building to wait. Insurance could cover that one.

  Soon the fire department would show up. Anne just had to watch the windows for her guys. As the fire built and lights began to turn on in
the building, she spotted two tall men peering out from one of the second-story windows. Gotcha.

  She didn’t have the luxury of time like she did at her first stop. She’d have to hit fast—no time for interrogations. As she made her way up the stairwell, one of the terrorists was leaving the room with his gun drawn, eyes darting wildly. He knew it was a diversion. Anne fired three bullets into his chest before he even spotted her. As his body slumped over the railing, Anne heard a door close nearby. The second terrorist would be prepared.

  She knew these killers carried not only handguns, but AK-47 automatic assault rifles. She also knew he was probably already calling the other terrorists and telling them what was happening. Even if she eliminated him now, the last mission of the night may be all but impossible.

  She moved around the terrorist’s body and tried opening the door. She heard a click and stopped cold. Then a torrent of bullets erupted, ripping the door open and shredding the wood. Anne ducked away. She quickly tore the shirt from the dead man, dousing it with her last two cans of lighter fluid. Then she lit it and threw it into the room. Beneath the flames and smoke, she rolled into the room and took cover behind a sofa.

  Anne reached for a toppled floor lamp and threw it out into the middle of the room. The assassin burst forward, firing wildly toward the lamp. Anne raised her Glock and took the man down with one clean shot. He crawled toward the door, choking on smoke. With one more shot, he went still.

  Sprinting through an alleyway to the din of approaching sirens, Anne took out her phone. Brett would be awake, waiting to hear from her.

  “Hey,” she panted into the phone, struggling to catch her breath as she ran.

  “You certainly don’t take your time, do you? You have the authorities in Rome in a tizzy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “There is no time, Brett. We both know any of these guys will dash as soon as they hear something from the others. I’m sure the killer from my last visit made a call to the remaining two.”

  “Sit back and take a breath. I have a bit of news for you. While you were completing your last job, we knew the last two would be notified and on the run. Logistically you wouldn’t be able to complete all three services in one night.”

  Anne stopped running. “So?”

  “If anyone could have, it would have been you. But it’s just not possible.”

  “Brett, let me finish my mission. Give me the location.”

  “Our family members in Rome completed the project. They had a bit more time to speak with the two assailants and were able to acquire information and locations of the ringleaders in Turkey.”

  Anne shook her head, her mind spinning. “Okay, what information was acquired?”

  “Bin El Abin is no longer around to lead any more terrorist assaults—he and the others of his group were eliminated just under an hour ago. It’s done, Anne. That part, at least.”

  Anne leaned against the cool brick wall of the alley. She took several deep breaths. The moon was practically full overhead, casting long black shadows all around. “I’m going to head back and get some sleep. I’ll call you when I’m up and moving.”

  “Sleep well, Anne. Another job well done.”

  CHAPTER twenty-three

  The next morning, news scattered across town about the murders of the six terrorists. Charlotte woke up to the news from Monsignor Kay. Sitting up in her bed, she nodded solemnly.

  “Thank you, Kay. We’ll discuss this later.”

  When Charlotte first opted to join the seminary years earlier, giving up so much for the Church, it was supposed to be an exciting journey. She had no idea what she was really in for. She had not expected assassinations, disappearances, and terrorists trying to sabotage the Catholic faith. What had happened to the Church? Sure, it had a troubled past with dark secrets, but that was the past. This was supposed to be the modern Church. But it seemed things hadn’t changed much.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and pictured her alternate life—the one where she went left instead of right. The one where she stepped away from the Church and married John and raised their children together. The one where she had a normal life, free of all this crime and corruption and fear. The life filled with love and peace.

  The life she would never have.

  ✽✽✽

  Tens of thousands of spectators filled the grounds of Saint Peter’s Basilica. What should have been a ceremony of life for the pope was instead a day of fear for Charlotte. Who could she even talk to? Some of her trusted bishops could well be criminals. But which ones? She wasn’t even sure if Monsignor Kay could be trusted. She had to gather her emotions—she was the keynote eulogist and would be watched by tens of millions of people from around the world.

  Charlotte was in the preparation room putting on the appropriate robes when she peeked out at the thousands of people waiting for her speech. But instead of inducing nervousness, the sight spread a calmness inside her. She could feel Peter Paul with her. She smiled, focusing on his soft eyes and smile. Okay, she thought. I’ll get it together. For you.

  Charlotte entered the stage overlooking the spectators and cameras, where she described the beautiful history of the late pope in both English and Italian. 136 cardinals and many bishops were in attendance. Looking over the square, Charlotte thought once again about John; she knew wherever he was, he was watching her. For him, she smiled.

  ✽✽✽

  John watched the funeral from his sofa. Charlotte, as usual, spoke beautifully. But since losing Maria, death had changed for him. He couldn’t bring himself to really mourn for Peter Paul, a stranger. No loss would ever compare to the screaming emptiness his wife had left behind.

  As he watched Charlotte speak through tears on the screen, his phone rang. John’s heart sank—it was Brett. That man never called with good news.

  “What is it, Brett.”

  “You sitting down?” Brett asked.

  “I always sit down when you call,” John joked, but Brett didn’t laugh.

  “I requested that my inner-circle here at the ITA do some homework on Charlotte, as she’ll likely be a target of Sibico. Anne said the six killers were assigned to murder the five bishops and someone else. John, it wouldn’t surprise me if that someone else was Charlotte.”

  Onscreen, Charlotte tucked her hair behind her ear, looking out over the gathered crowd. Over the world. “Why?” John asked, his eyes stuck on her. Glued to the screen. He could not look away, so afraid that in the next moment he would hear a gunshot followed by pandemonium. “Tell me.”

  “Charlotte poses a serious threat at the conclave—her popularity is greater than any other cardinal. But here’s why I had you sit. Sibico will try to dig up any dirt possible to smear her reputation. Are you really sitting?”

  “Yes, tell me!”

  “John, we found out she had a baby, and you’re the father. Her name’s Sherri. She was adopted by Charlotte’s sister.”

  John’s breath caught in his throat. The image of Charlotte on the screen moved now as if she were underwater, a veil of confusion separating him from her. His voice was low. “Are you absolutely sure about what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  The world spun madly for a moment, Charlotte and her words and her beautiful, nervous eyes all just a noisy blur of color. The deep ache in his chest even melted into something different—something like new love. Sherri?

  John opened his mouth but couldn’t reply. They’d shared a child all this time? John had spoken to the girl, laughed with her. He’d last seen her at Maria’s funeral with dark, shiny hair and a gray dress. His daughter. Charlotte’s daughter.