Father Giustino Ferro was young, but you could see he was special. He was seated at the monitor array, hands on two joysticks, cans covering his ears.
Martin savored yet another espresso from his own to-go cup, watching the young drone jockey—all right, driver—working the controls as if they were natural appendages. He marveled at the young priest’s ability. Ferro’s instructors had selected him as the best in the program. Yes, you could see why, Martin mused.
Ferro was driving the XRP-UAS8 surveillance drone, a design based on the newest American technology. Martin himself had shepherded the R&D, later awarding the famed firm Piaggio the contract for the Vatican’s first proprietary drone design, to be secretly built and tested at a former Alpine monastery repurposed as a UAV base. Giustino Ferro’s drone was purely for surveillance, but it could easily be weaponized. Then the young priest would be a warrior for the Vatican.
Even though Martin had been instrumental in building this secret program, he wondered at the use of priests to wage war. Martin questioned the morality of it. But then, it wasn’t anything new, was it?
A fellow Jesuit who knew a little of Martin’s job had recently asked him, “How can God—our God—want you to kill people?” And Martin had replied, “It’s all in those mysterious ways, Alessandro.”
Smug, but it was true. Sometimes all choices were bad choices, and the world hadn’t softened in the last thousand years. In fact it had hardened. Martin was a perfect blend of the idealistic and the pragmatic, and he ran the VSS with the pragmatic side dominant because he had learned in his “normal” priest days that enemies abounded who used the Church’s morality against it, who knew they could commit heinous acts against Church assets—both human and inanimate—because retaliation would be nil. It was an earlier pope, much beloved for his pacifism, who had instituted the modern VSS in order to bring secret justice to those who thought they could escape it.
Peace through any means, justice through all means.
That pope had believed the warrior monk class should be rechristened, and that the Jesuits should reclaim their title as “God’s soldiers.” Under his secret guidance, young and enthusiastic warrior monks had been trained and integrated into the Jesuits’ “Company,” another old title, and the VSS had emerged from the ashes of previous attempts to deal with special enemies.
At the center of these efforts for centuries had been the agent Judas Iscariot, who was currently known as Simon Pound.
That the VSS had evolved and also become a preemptive instrument of justice as well as a reactionary one was merely a sign of the times. No, Martin wasn’t always happy with the darker aspects of his job, but even knowing all he knew, he was at peace with every assignment he had to sanction, and every hit Judas had ever performed had been pre-forgiven by special dispensation of that current pope, whose orders had been binding through eternity.
And so Martin had no fear for his soul.
Now he proudly watched the priest drive his drone over remote snow-capped Alpine peaks. The drone’s cameras switched to views of a landing strip carved on the side of a mountain. The drone landed smoothly.
Giustino Ferro shucked his headphones and turned, startled.
“Sir!”
“Relax, Father Ferro. Giustino, may I?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Follow me to the conference room.”
Moments later, behind closed doors and with all possible bug frequencies jammed, they faced each other over a table rich with African inlays.
“Giustino, you’ve heard rumors about a special assignment strictly for the director’s office, have you not?”
“Yes,” the priest admitted.
“Good, good. I wanted you to know you’ve been selected to work with one of our foremost agents. You’re assigned to this operation until further notice, but it will require you to maneuver your drone in a busy space, one for which we have special dispensation. It would cause us much diplomatic red-faced grief if we were…noticed.”
“That should be no problem, sir,” Giustino said.
“Good. You may be called upon to go beyond some tenets of your training, both religious and technical. I guarantee the reasons are all in line with our special mission as approved by His Holiness. Are you willing?”
“Yes, whatever is required of me. I will be proud to serve with Simon Pound…”
Martin laughed. “Ah, even his name was leaked to you, eh? That is humorous.”
They chatted briefly, then Martin left the conference room.
He was no longer smiling.
Chapter 33
Outside Miss Ella’s Diner
Queens, New York
Vandenberg stood at the rear of an ambulance, where a wide-eyed paramedic was cleaning his facial scratches. There were a near dozen more ambulances, all with lights blazing. People from the hotel were being triaged, transported, or released.
“All right, I’m done, I’m fine,” Vandenberg told the EMT.
“But sir—”
“Kid, there are people here who need you more. Find one of ’em.”
He spotted Simon approaching. “Where’d you disappear to, Padre?”
“I saw a tall guy running from the scene. Thought it was strange, so I tried to run him down.” No point lying.
Vandenberg squinted. “You priests always chase possible perps down the street?”
“When necessary.”
“Did you catch him?”
Simon shook his head. “Lost him in an alley, I’m afraid. He knew his way around here, I don’t. Think I just scared him off.”
“Probably, Padre,” said Vandenberg. Then: “What’s with the blood then?”
Simon glanced down.
Shit.
He’d rinsed his hands well enough, but had forgotten about the arterial spray when the assassin had slit his own throat. His shoes were dotted with blood splatter.
He pointed at the wounds on the cop’s face. “Maybe it’s yours, Jerry.” He pushed a little, careful to avoid overdoing it.
Vandenberg shrugged. “Maybe.”
But he seemed unconvinced.
A line of heavily armored NYPD counter-terrorist troops snaked past, heading for a mobile command post parked across the street. They seemed disappointed to have found no living terrorists.
Vandenberg nodded at their retreating backs. “I get why they’re here, but I still think we’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“You think the bomb was aimed at your witness?”
“Sure, cleaning up what they missed with the other one. Although I guess they would have gotten us, too, in another minute. Would have got you, Padre. Maybe I’m all wrong, maybe they’re really after a Jesuit who’s an exorcist and who spouts stuff about religious rituals and obscene artifacts…”
“I never said they were obscene, Jerry.”
Vandenberg grinned. “You think I just started this job last week? Maybe the witness they just blew up told me a lot about what he saw, and maybe I put together the rest from what you told me before this bombing. Maybe the fact that you know a lot more than you’re telling me makes me think I should arrest you for obstruction. What do you say about that, Padre?”
Simon chuckled. Vandenberg was altogether too immune to his pushes, that was certain. He’d have to remember that.
“I’d remind you what Hamlet said. There are more things in heaven and earth, Jerry, than even you can dream of.”
Vandenberg shook his head. “You’re no Hamlet, Padre, and these people didn’t get killed by ghosts.”
“There you have a valid point. Focus on the who and not so much the why.”
“If you know something…”
Simon walked away. “I’ll keep in touch.”
Chapter 34
On the Silver Star
Florida to New York
They’d opted for a sleeping car arrangement. Straker had a go-bag packed, to Bella’s surprise. His duffel included a fair amount of cash, so he’d been able to get
them decent accommodations on the Silver Star from to New York—not using plastic kept them off the grid for a while. His emergency stash wasn’t endless, however, and he’d have to switch to credit eventually. But he had a card tied to a fictitious identity and figured it could also knock a hunter off their trail. But he had no illusions.
The guys who had killed his brother and partner were professionals, despite how easily he’d foiled them. They just hadn’t expected him and his well-honed instincts, that was all.
But they wanted that damned statuette.
That was instinct, too. He couldn’t have explained it, but he was certain that as long as he and Bella had it in their possession it was like wearing a target.
Which was why he was taking it to the one person he knew who might be able to tell him something about it, and maybe even take it off his hands. Or maybe he’d know someone who would—better yet—buy it from Straker.
Just because it was a weird obscene item with people after it didn’t mean it wouldn’t sell. Straker wanted to keep it out of the hands of the bastards who would just take it, at whatever cost.
Hell, he already knew the cost.
Bella had raised an eyebrow when Straker unrolled the hundreds to purchase upper level sleeping car accommodations.
“Haven’t you always wanted a romantic train ride?” he said.
She half-smiled. “Yeah, if you think having savage murderers on your heels is somehow romantic.” She still had her sense of humor, but it was running thin.
Straker chuckled. The ticket clerk was staring at her, wide-eyed. “She’s a card, isn’t she?” he said with a wink. “Seen a few too many Hitchcock movies.”
The clerk looked back and forth at them, blankly.
Straker realized the guy was too young. Super-hero movies only for him.
“Thanks.” He took the tickets. Bella had wisely refrained from further comment.
The accommodations were amusingly miniaturized, so Straker’s size was definitely a problem—he barely fit in the convertible bed/bench combination, and the lavatory was nonsensical, a tiny square of floor space around which a toilet and sink were disguised. But it was spacious compared to coach on most airliners.
Their minimal luggage went into the overhead bins and Straker held on to a second black duffel, this one heavy with the wrapped gold statue.
“Tell me again what we’re doing.” They’d finally made themselves relatively comfortable on the bench seats. Bella’s eyes still had the distended look of a person in shock. “Tell me what we’re going to do about—about everything.”
Straker went over it again. He had a friend, a connection who would help them with the statue. “Which is clearly what the bastards were after,” he concluded.
“How do you know that’s it? Maybe Jim and Kev were…maybe they were involved in something we didn’t know about. Maybe they brought down somebody’s anger. Nothing to do with us at all.”
She clung to some sort of strange hope and he couldn’t explain why the statuette had caused the horror they’d suffered. Or why he was certain they’d be hunted even if they dumped the damn thing in a trash can somewhere. It was a vibe, a bizarre feeling, that made him see it as both treasure and deadly albatross.
If he played it right, Straker figured to both cash in from the thing’s value and somehow also shave the pursuing assholes from his life like old stubble.
Along with revenge.
Once he knew who wanted the thing at any cost, then he would pay that person a visit. Because whoever had ordered the pirate attack on his boat was going to pay, for Jim and Kev. It was as simple as that. On the battlefield, where he had excelled, there was only one way to survive with your conscience intact, and that was to repay every slight, every painful thrust with a parry and then a thrust of your own. He’d parried, now it was time to thrust.
He wasn’t going to let this go, not now. Not ever.
“I think my guy may be able to take the statue off our hands and maybe also get us a pay day from whoever wants it.”
“You want to benefit from that, that thing? That horrible thing?”
“We do. This thing changed our lives forever, Bella. We need to make it work in our favor. It’s a miracle we survived, and I want to take that miracle and make it grow.”
He wasn’t one to make speeches, but she was nodding—reluctantly, but at least she was listening. He didn’t want to tell her everything…that he intended to use his connection to learn the identity of the bastard behind the murders—and then follow it to where he was and make him pay.
They sat in silence for a while after the train pulled out of the station, heading north. The air conditioning was gasping away and a veil of humidity settled over them as they watched the scenery gather speed in their window.
The low rumble and the gentle sway of the cars proved an anesthetic and Bella, exhausted as she was—and likely traumatized, Straker thought—fell into a deep sleep.
Straker quietly pulled the duffel closer and unzipped it, recoiling at the feel of the thing inside. Even though it was tightly wrapped, his fingers felt the corruption of it, the evil washing off its shiny untarnished surfaces. It was more than evil, it was as soul-destroying as some of his battlefield days. No, worse.
He recoiled at the thought of touching it, but forced himself to unwrap it enough to gaze upon the disturbing debauchery. He wasn’t religious, so he wasn’t offended by its subject matter—no, it was an elemental feeling of corruption and evil that transcended faith and religion.
He watched Bella sleeping, her beautiful features almost relaxed in repose and not burdened by the recent horrors.
And, for a second, he felt an urge…
He would put that Amtrak pillow over her face slowly, softly, until all he had to do was lean all his weight on it and let enough seconds tick away along with her breath.
He could…
Smother her until she stopped struggling.
Then he would…
He shook his head and forced himself to snap out of the disgusting visions that had crowded his head just now.
What the fuck am I thinking?
What the fuck is making me think these things?
He rewrapped the statue quickly, zipped up the duffel again, and hefted it onto the luggage rack as far from both of them as he could get it.
Jesus, maybe this is why people want it.
He sat back shuddering and watched Bella sleep on, undisturbed and unaware.
Maybe after using the statue to find the man behind the attack, he would destroy it.
Now he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be until the pursuers caught its trail. He was suddenly sure it was like a beacon, bringing certain death down on them unless they could neutralize it.
The rails hummed below. He could feel and hear them as if there were nothing at all between those steel strips and his skin and bones.
He stared at Bella, afraid to sleep.
Chapter 35
JFK International Airport
Queens, New York
“Thank you, Miss Galassi.” The clerk handed back the limitless credit card with the black Mustang GT’s remote key fob.
It wasn’t exactly Take any car and go as advertised, but it was close enough. She stepped out into the chill New York air and found her preferred curvy rental without any trouble.
In a few minutes she was on the Van Wyck, opening up the engine and daring any police to try slowing her down. Sometimes her abilities led her to being less than cautious. This mission seemed one of those on which future events would hinge—and she was in no mood to let anything or anyone stand in her way.
Caterina Galassi was the perfect handler for Simon Pound, because she’d take no shit from him at all. Or anyone else.
After angling off onto Queens Boulevard for a bit of sightseeing at relatively safer speeds, she flew over the bridge and into Manhattan.
It had been a while since she’d been here, but not much had changed. She doubted
Simon knew she had checked up on him last year, and she’d kept it to herself. Martin had insisted.
Cat laughed with the windows down and let the cool air play through her hair. In some ways, this was like going home. Hopefully minus the trauma, even if tinged with danger. Danger she could handle.
She admitted it—she couldn’t wait to see him again. His hop into VSS headquarters had been frustratingly brief, and she’d been out of sorts after using up most of her energy trying to keep his plane flying. The only way she could combat someone whose magick force was dragging the plane downward was to use her own counterforce to hold it up—and when an Adept expended so much energy trying to force an outcome such as a plane crash, the opposing Adept spent all her energy trying to avoid it. She was certain whoever had done it was very powerful, but also had taxed his or her powers to the limit.
We’ve both had to sleep and regroup. Just thinking about it made her yawn and ache all over. Probably the other did more than just sleep.
Just speculation…but a thought swirled in the back of her mind.
She shook her head.
That was why Simon’s visit had been cut short—if the enemy Adept was also recovering from the effort, he or she wouldn’t be able to try again on the return trip. Cat doubted there were many Adepts with enough strength to recover so quickly. Likewise she doubted there was more than one on the Opposition’s payroll.
But you never know. Adepts had learned to avoid each other lest they be taken out from afar, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be two mercenary Adepts out there who shared the Opposition’s destructive goals.
Caterina had her own suspicions, but there was no point sharing them with Simon. Some things were better investigated first, and in part that was why she had come. Martin agreed with her motives, having known her most of her life. He knew things about her she could never have told Simon, not before. Maybe now she would have to.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 10
