by Jon Tracy
Tom examines them one by one. A ball-peen hammer, a pointed seed dibber and a razor-sharp carpet fitter’s knife. He feels sick. Using any of these things will be an awful experience. To be effective, he’ll have to maim or kill an opponent.
Guilio reads his face. ‘Second thoughts?’
‘No, but I hope I don’t have to use any of these.’
‘You will.’ He leaves the bag for a second and stands up to face the big American. ‘You have to be ready to use all of them. Once we’re in there, they’ll be on us like rats on cheese. Hesitate, and they’ll kill you.’
He doesn’t wait for Tom’s reaction; he returns to the rucksack and pulls out his final purchases. ‘These two are on hire. I hope we live to return them.’
He hands over a strange orange contraption. ‘It’s a nail gun, fully charged, with a spare battery and a magazine of long ring shank nails.’ He points it at Tom’s head. ‘It’s no pistol. You’ll need to get up close, but if you do, it’ll be every bit as deadly as a bullet.’
Tom checks for the on-off switch and fires it up. Indicator lights flash and it trembles for a second in his hand.
‘The man in the shop said it’ll spit out three nails a second.’
Tom squeezes the trigger. It jolts in his hand, but nothing seems to happen.
An inch from his right foot, he sees the glistening top of a galvanised steel nail, sunk deep into the turf.
It raises a smile from Guilio. ‘Impressive, eh?’
Tom turns it off to save the battery. There’s no smile on his face. Just focus. The kind he used to reserve for the worship of God.
He turns the nail gun over in his hands.
He’s aware now of what it does and what he’ll have to do with it.
‘Let’s go,’ he says flatly. ‘I’ll never be more ready than I am right now.’
121
Major Lorenzo Silvestri stares at the clock on his office wall.
He wishes he had the power to stop it.
He’d give anything to be able to halt those hands and gain himself an extra twelve hours.
As one of the most experienced members of GIS, he knows he has to strike quickly. Unfortunately, speed and careful planning are not easy bedfellows.
If he rushes things, then whoever has Morassi will certainly kill her, and maybe other hostages as well.
But if he takes too long planning the search and rescue operation, then the kidnappers will cover their tracks and he may never find them.
‘Anything on Shaman’s phone?’ he asks Pasquale Conti.
The captain’s face answers before he does. ‘We had tech problems. We got a GPS lock and then lost it.’
‘What?’
‘I know. I could kill them too. They’re working on it.’
‘You got one location, right?’
‘Right. The phone company is playing ball and we managed to get a fix on where he called us from.’
‘Which was?’
‘He was near Parco di Porta, heading towards Via Appia Antica.’
Lorenzo drums his fingers on the desk. ‘How do you know he was heading that way?’
‘He turned his phone back on and we got a second brief fix on that, then it went dead again.’
‘Interesting. Who did he call after us?’
‘Morassi. The call lasted less than ten seconds.’
‘Sounds like she didn’t pick up.’
Lorenzo slides a sheet of paper across the desk. ‘The captain’s profile, from our intel unit. She’s a hotshot. A real high-flyer. Golden girl in Venice. That’s where she met this Shaman guy; they worked a murder case together.’
Pasquale taps Valentina’s photo. ‘You’re right about the hot bit. Man, she’s very, very hot!’
‘Enough!’ Lorenzo grins and slides over the brief on Tom. ‘Check out the boyfriend. The pic is from his visits to HQ.’
‘Not my type.’
‘Be serious. I called an old friend in Venice, Vito Carvalho. He used to be Morassi’s boss and briefly worked with Shaman. Turns out the guy used to be a priest in LA, until he stepped into a gang fight one night.’
‘What happened?’
‘Three on one.’ Lorenzo takes a beat. ‘The hoods were raping a young girl and had knives. Shaman beat the living daylights out of them. Left two dead and I think the third is still running.’
‘The original Good Samaritan.’
‘That’s not quite what Vito christened him.’
Pasquale’s intrigued. ‘Which was?’
‘Arcangelo Uriel.’
Pasquale is none the wiser. ‘Uriel?’
‘Heathen.’ Lorenzo shakes his head in mock disbelief and crosses himself. ‘If you were a good Catholic, you would know that Uriel means “Fire of God”. When the Almighty wants the dirty stuff doing, Uriel is the halo he hollers for. From slaying demons to burying Adam in Paradise, Uriel has always been the guy for tough jobs.’
Pasquale looks again at Tom’s ID picture. ‘And now he’s here in Rome, playing angels and demons. Lucky us.’
122
The drop from the field to the first level of the underground tunnel is enough to remind Tom that his knee is still swollen and unstable.
To make matters worse, it’s so cramped down there that he has to crawl along on a stony surface.
‘Wait!’ he shouts, virtually into Guilio’s backside, just a couple of feet away from him.
‘Shush!’ comes back a whispered shout.
Tom waits patiently behind the huddled form. He hears the thin noise of stone scraping on stone, and guesses the scalene pendant is at work again.
Guilio squeezes to one side and hands back his flashlight. ‘Shine it over there; I can’t seem to move this last lock with only one hand.’
Tom takes the light and twists its head so the beam floods more strongly.
Guilio works away in the cramped space.
Several minutes pass.
‘Got it!’
He ties the scalene pendant back on to the strap of his rucksack and manoeuvres his body round.
Tom sees that he’s pulling up another disc, pretty much the same as the one they entered through.
It breaks and collapses inwards.
Guilio falls forward and almost tumbles head first down after it.
The broken cover makes loud but dull thumping sounds as pieces hit the earth two metres below.
A muffled sound, like distant rolling thunder, echoes through unseen tunnels.
‘That was close!’ Guilio looks into the hole. ‘We have to drop down through several more portals like this one before we reach the gallery that will lead us to where I believe your friend is being held.’
Tom nods. There’s nothing in his mind now but the job in hand. He’s ready to deal with anything and anyone that he comes across.
Guilio twists his body round so his feet dangle into the darkness.
He drops out of sight.
Tom follows.
This time he’s doubly careful to make sure his good leg takes most of the impact and that his damaged shoulder stays clear of the stone tunnel walls.
Within a dozen paces, the tunnel doglegs right and then opens into a larger area.
Tom’s relieved to be able to stand.
He pulls out his flashlight and sweeps the beam in front of him.
The walls have been cut out of sandstone. Four layers of deep shelves stretch from a dark earth floor to a high earth ceiling.
He knows where he is.
Long before he sees the first bones and the empty eye sockets of the stacked skulls, he knows he’s in an ancient cemetery.
A necropolis.
It could be Christian, or maybe even Etruscan.
He remembers Guilio saying they were journeying between – and beneath – the catacombs of Callixtus and Sebastian. Somewhere off in the hardened soil around him are the now well-trodden tombs and crypts of martyrs.
Brave people who died fighting for what they loved most.
&
nbsp; 123
Shooter grabs Valentina by the throat.
He’s a couple of inches taller than she is, and despite his age, he’s muscular enough to force her up on to her tiptoes.
‘Lesson number one, you only speak when I tell you to.’
His hand tightens. She can feel her airway closing off.
Shooter’s smirk widens as he walks her backwards to the rear of the cell. He crashes her into the rough stone wall and lets go.
Valentina opens her mouth and gasps for air.
She never sees his punch.
It catches her full in the lips and teeth.
She wobbles and starts to fall backwards.
Her feet almost cross and she falls.
But not flat out, just into an undignified sitting position.
Shooter smiles and holds up his grazed fist. ‘Teacher says you’ve still got some learning to do.’
Valentina puts her hands submissively to her face.
Blood trickles over her fingers. Her lip is split wide open, almost exactly in the same place where Anna caught her back in the Carabinieri cell block.
Shooter drops to his knees and grabs her by the throat again.
It’s exciting to hold her like this. To look into her eyes and see the fear rising.
It’s what he likes most.
He slips a hand between her legs and claws savagely at her trousers.
He sees the fear turn to panic.
‘Not so feisty now, are you?’
She’s terrified, he can see it. She recognises his power; knows he can do to her whatever he wants.
Valentina doesn’t struggle.
She reminds herself that what happens next is not about pride, it’s about survival.
124
The walls of the new tunnel are covered in ornate plaster paintings on white backgrounds, the lavish and intricate kind found on some sarcophagi.
Tiny human figures are crowded into horizontal and vertical storylines and from afar make no sense at all.
Tom tries to decipher the dozens of cryptic scenes. There are people mourning: women and children kneeling and crying, men carrying bodies, funeral pyres being built.
There are battle scenes too: soldiers fighting on foot and on horseback, swords half raised, shields fully lifted in desperate defence of the cruel slashing blades.
Towards the end of the gallery, a particular stretch of sarcophagi catches his eye.
A number of women are clambering out of a chariot.
They’re being chased by soldiers.
Some get caught.
They’re pulled to the ground by the men.
It is the Rape of the Sabines.
One woman has escaped.
She is running towards a bridge, a crossing guarded by a fierce she-wolf. A handful of soldiers are pursuing her.
Tom has to rub soil away to see more clearly.
The soldiers are crossing the bridge, tracked by the wolf. The woman is hiding underneath. She’s shown alongside a wide stretch of river.
He has to clear more dirt away to see the continuation.
Beneath the bridge is what looks like a crucifix.
It isn’t.
On closer inspection it’s a soldier, lying on his back, a sword stuck in his stomach.
The woman has vanished from the scene.
Guilio appears at Tom’s side. ‘What are you doing?’
He points to the wall and the start of the sarcophagi. ‘This story – it’s the one Anna told us.’
Guilio doesn’t understand.
He looks at the wall, and as it begins to make sense, he feels a sharp and unexpected stab of grief.
He puts his fingers to the clay and lovingly traces the outline of the female figure.
Anna.
The strange connection makes an even greater sadness well up inside him. His eyes fill with tears.
Tom’s attention has already drifted on to a new scene.
A woman in fine long robes is in the centre of what looks like a market square. Again she is surrounded by soldiers.
He directs his flashlight and looks closer.
It’s the same woman.
Cassandra.
She looks identical to Anna. Identical to Cybele.
Tom leans closer.
Perhaps his eyes are playing tricks. Maybe these evocative surroundings are influencing him.
For a moment he dismisses it.
If you reduce any woman’s facial features to those the size of a fingernail, then they all probably look the same.
But Tom knows that’s not true.
All around him is evidence of craftsmanship so supreme that he’s sure the perpetrators could fashion any different feature they wished.
The woman is Anna. Anna in the image of Cassandra and Cybele.
Tom looks at the crowd massed around her. They’re angry, waving their fists, stretching out their fingers to grab at her noble robes.
There’s a man on high ground holding a scroll. He’s reading to the mob and the woman is now being dragged towards him by the soldiers.
Tom turns away briefly to check on Guilio.
The eunuch is on his knees. Eyes blood-red from crying. Fingers still fondly touching the tiny sculptures of Anna.
Such grief threatens to undermine any attempt to free Valentina. Tom has to get him to snap out of it.
He puts his hands on Guilio’s shoulders and tries to comfort him. ‘You’ll always have good memories of Anna. Your thoughts of her and your love for her are precious and will stay with you until the end of time.’ In a deliberate and almost priestly gesture, he puts the palm of his right hand to Guilio’s forehead. ‘I pray that your suffering will pass quickly. In return, I beg you now to ignore your grief. Put it aside for the moment and have the strength to help me to finish what we came down here for. Please help me save the life of the woman I love.’
Guilio gets to his feet and looks lost.
Tom takes him into his arms and holds him tight.
‘What’s been done and is being done down here is evil. Pure evil. We can’t let these people get away with it. You must be strong now.’
Guilio pulls away.
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘I haven’t cried since I was a child.’
He turns and leads the way into the darkness again.
As Tom follows, he looks to his side.
On the wall is the final scene in the market square.
Anna’s hand isn’t placed inside the Bocca della Verita.
It’s on a sword that has been plunged into the guts of one of the guards.
125
Shooter looks down on Valentina.
The cop bitch doesn’t look so smart and arrogant now.
Flat on her back, face bloodied up, smart white blouse and black trousers full of filthy marks.
Now she looks different.
Now she looks like she knows who’s boss.
Shooter is.
Mater wouldn’t approve. She doesn’t like violence. Well, not unless it’s violence that she’s ordered, then of course it’s fine. Justified. Necessary. But Shooter’s violence is much more than those things.
It’s pleasurable.
And as Battakes, chief of the Galli, he’s entitled to indulge himself once in a while.
He pulls the cell door shut and enjoys its terrifying clunk.
He stares at Valentina through the bars. Despite the battering he’s given her, there are still no tears.
She has guts, he’ll give her that.
And she’s pretty, too.
No, more than pretty – she’s really quite beautiful.
Shame he doesn’t have the equipment to rape her, because he’d like to.
That’s what Mater doesn’t understand.
He still has the urge.
A raging urge.
Sex is in the mind, not just in your balls, the old woman should know that.
He looks again
at Valentina. She’s sitting up now, trying to get her shit together. Very nice. Those long legs stretched out like that are a fine sight. Shooter would like to see her undressed. Maybe jam things in her. Ram her full of sticks and dirt until the rage dies down.
He turns from the bars. Walks away while he still can.
She’s lucky.
Lucky that he remembered his place. His sacred place in Mater’s universe.
There’s a noise behind him.
A clank.
And now his back feels wet.
He turns and can’t believe what he sees.
She’s thrown her bucket of cell piss over him.
He’s soaked in urine.
And she’s laughing at him. Grinning through the bars.
‘You ball-less fucking faggot!’ She flaps her arms with anger. ‘Is that the best you can fucking do?’
She bangs the bucket crazily on the bars. Metal on metal. Loud echoes bounce all over the place. ‘Is it? Is that really your best shot?’
She keeps cracking the bucket, venting all her anger in a wild, frenzied outburst.
It amuses Shooter.
Amuses and arouses him.
She’s like a lioness.
Maybe it’s his job to tame her.
‘Testa di cazzo!’ She throws the bucket at the bars and turns her back on him.
‘Big mistake,’ says Shooter, slipping his key into the lock. ‘You just made the biggest mistake of your life.’
126
Tom and Guilio quickly descend two more levels.
It seems odd that the further beneath ground they go, the bigger the space around them gets.
They turn a corner.
Ahead is a giant statue of Cybele, flanked by two stone lions.
‘Wait,’ instructs Guilio, with raised hand. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
Tom comes to a halt.
Ahead he can see that instead of crude sandstone, there’s a lavish array of spectacular wall paintings, devotional graffiti and decorated amphorae.
