They’d reached the restaurant’s main door when it opened and a group of men dressed in black edged in.
Straker and Bella stepped aside. Three, four, five, six large men in similar conservative dark suits. Outside, he glimpsed a woman with raven hair and red lips and his memory was triggered.
She was here before, too.
Sixth sense…
They were trapped between the group of men behind them and, outside the restaurant, a couple more who stood near the woman. She was fading behind the men now, whispering. Her distinctive eyes locked on his.
It was only seconds, but Straker saw it in slow-motion that seemed to last forever. Everyone went for guns.
His ears were suddenly plugged, so the screams from behind them seemed tinny and distant.
“Noooooo!” he shouted, unable to hear himself. He pulled Bella roughly aside, staying in the restaurant but running in a crouch toward a nearby solid square pillar. “Down!” he shouted. “Everybody down!” Then: “Guns!”
The screaming intensified as he glimpsed the suited men’s hands coming up with black pistols and stubby submachine guns.
Patrons were diving for the floor, sending platters of food and drinks clattering and crashing, and the ripping sound of suppressed gunfire broke out and that was all he could handle.
He and Bella dived behind the solid pillar and he came up with his own pistol.
The crawling, cringing diners on the floor were being ignored, but half the men in suits were shooting at Walton and Simon Pound. The other half were drawing beads on him and Bella, but holding their fire.
They wanted him and Bella alive.
While Walton and Pound were considered disposable. They’d ducked behind the tipped-over table and were firing back with their own weapons, Walton’s a loud semi-auto but Pound’s a strangely silent one. Glass shattered and slivers flew as slugs started hitting the front of the place.
A couple of the suits went down clutching their chests, and one took a dead-on head-shot.
Then Straker couldn’t take it any more.
These guys are fighting for their lives because of me.
His SIG barked as he began blasting at the remaining suits, who were now caught in a crossfire. Two more went down after being whipped around by his slugs. Some guns were still pointed at him, but no one took a shot.
Fuck them, I’m not that gracious!
Straker fired again and again, and saw that Walton and Pound were doing the same. The gunmen in black, down to just three or four, were being driven back toward the bar, where innocent people cowered.
He feared they’d take hostages if they had to, so first he replaced a spent magazine by slapping a new one into the grip, then he made every shot count.
Within seconds, it seemed all the suits were down—either dead or flopping around, holding severe blood-spraying wounds.
Straker’s ears unplugged and the diners’ screams were suddenly deafening.
What the hell caused that?
The wounded attackers were not screaming, however, even though they should have been.
He didn’t have time to process the strange detail. Sporadic gunfire was still happening.
“Let’s ditch!” He pulled Bella with him, heading for the door once again.
Outside, the remaining suited men leveled guns at them. But before Straker could react, the glass door and windows that had thus far survived untouched suddenly exploded into thousands of shrapnel shards.
The gunmen retreated to a black SUV at the curb. Straker glimpsed that woman again, directing the attack.
What the fuck?
Suddenly a black Mustang roared to a stop barely two feet away, its front passenger door flying open. Framed by a mane of long hair, a beautiful woman’s face turned toward them, her features just visible in the glow of streetlights and the restaurant’s lighting.
“Jump in, come on!” she was shouting. “Quickly!”
Straker didn’t know who the woman was, but he shoved Bella into the cramped cockpit and followed, barely getting the door latched before she shifted and floored the accelerator like a pro.
Frying pan, meet fire.
Rescued, but by whom?
Chapter 71
Docks Oyster Bar
Murray Hill
Manhattan, New York
“Everyone stay down, help is on the way!” Simon called out in the eerily quiet restaurant.
He wasn’t sure help was on the way, but he assumed multiple 911 calls had originated from the diners, and he and Walton had to get themselves out the door—fast. Hell, they looked like the bad guys here.
“You okay, Walton?”
Walton nodded, shaking off bits of plaster and wood. “What happened to Straker and Bella?”
“We’ve gotta move,” Simon said, heading for the door as people cowered away. “I texted my associate to get them the hell out of here.”
“What about us?”
Simon laughed. “We can handle it.”
When they stepped through the shattered front, there was no one to be seen. Seemingly hundreds of spent cartridges underfoot both inside and out, but no one alive. A couple dead thugs, but Straker and his girl were gone. Cat had come through, as he knew she would.
But one of the gunmen’s three SUVs—glimpsed while he was shooting out the window glass earlier—was speeding away.
Cat had picked up a tail.
Sirens—sounded like hundreds, he thought—were converging.
Fuck. Fuck!
Chapter 72
Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
Martin’s head was pounding. The VSS Director had never played video games, and staring at Giustino Ferro’s multiple monitors had caused the massive headache. But Ferro was a gamer and drove his drone through the city’s canyons without breaking a sweat.
They’d seen Simon leave Caterina with the car and go in to meet Walton and the treasure hunters, but then a convoy of three bloated SUVs had swung past Cat’s rental and Martin had texted her a warning. Now he badly wanted to know what was happening inside the eatery, but they couldn’t risk dropping the drone’s altitude—the international implications of disregarding the agreement’s primary guidelines were too much. No, he couldn’t be a fly on the wall.
Had the Floridians brought the statue with them? If so, Simon would secure it—with a pay-off or a take-away, if necessary. But the dark SUVs had arrived.
Then they’d seen gunfire flashes reflected onto the street. The restaurant’s front windows had been blasted out. The woman and man stumbled outside the establishment and started firing at the remaining gunmen. Martin caught a glimpse of a striking woman standing behind the gunmen, directing them. Her hair was straight and dark.
He tried texting Cat again. But his fingers were large and the tiny virtual keys frustrated him.
Some of the gunmen went down in the shoot-out.
Then Cat’s car screeched to a stop and the two leaped inside. Moments later they’d roared off.
Simon.
He must have texted her first.
And those two had to be the treasure hunters. They could take care of themselves. But what of Simon? And Walton?
And the damned statue?
Ferro hovered the drone so they could watch the surviving thugs pile into one of the SUVs and give chase.
The dark woman had disappeared like fog.
That’s the one, their adept, it has to be. Martin thought. If only they could have caught her…or killed her.
The drone camera grabbed an image of Simon and presumably Walton, stepping through the shot-out restaurant window onto Third Avenue. They were fine…but police lights were already nearby. Simon was capable enough—he’d slip through the cordon without much trouble. And if Walton’s dossier was accurate he was just as competent.
Martin racked his brain. How could he help Caterina and the two she’d rescued?
Give me a sign, he thought.
&n
bsp; Giustino Ferro said, “Director, we have a problem.”
Chapter 73
Murray Hill and Midtown East
Manhattan, New York
Cat whipped the Mustang north on Third Avenue and roared right when she reached 42nd Street, the Chrysler Building’s lit-up spire visible on their left. Blaring horns in their wake indicated she’d nearly cut off a column of advancing vehicles. She headed for FDR Drive, but in her mirror were the lights of another SUV, chasing closely.
This time it was her driving, not Simon.
What’s happened to Simon?
She didn’t have time to think about it.
The man and woman crushed together next to her were gasping. The big guy held a handgun.
“My name’s Caterina.” She kept her eyes on the road. “I’m with Simon Pound. He texted me to get you out of there.”
The man grunted. Not talkative? But he said, “Dev Straker and this is Bella.”
“Sorry I cannot shake hands,” Cat said, glancing at the mirror. “Some of them are behind us, very hard to shake off in this traffic. But they can’t do much to us, either.”
She kept the GT in the middle of the three northbound lanes, zipping around slower traffic just as expertly as Simon had done.
She’d sensed the enemy Adept back at the restaurant, just before all hell had broken loose—not literally, she hoped—and the gunfire had started. When Simon’s text arrived, she was already figuring on a drive-by rescue.
“We were able to take out a bunch of them inside the restaurant,” Straker said, his voice gravelly. Apparently he had decided to trust their rescuer—good man! “Walton and Pound were holding their own. But it’s us they want. Alive, for a while.”
She nodded. “The statue. You’re right, it’s definitely you they want. But they also want to kill Simon. Tell me how he looked as you left.”
“He looked like a demon with a gun,” Straker said. “Every round found a target. I doubt anyone was left to get him. I’ve never seen shooting like that.”
Cat smiled grimly.
Bella spoke up, her voice strained. “They risked their lives to save us.”
Cat sensed it had all been rough on Bella. Straker was the ex-soldier. If he was anything like Simon, a part of him was enjoying this. But Bella also looked tough.
She roared around a slow-moving truck. Behind them, the SUV did the same, but wasn’t gaining. They didn’t have the Adept with them. She sensed nothing altering either the mundane world or the magickal plane.
“I am not sure what Simon wants me to do, but we must lose these gunmen. They are, er, very tenacious.”
“I’m not giving the statue to just anyone, so don’t ask,” Straker growled.
“You were setting something up with Walton, and Simon came to talk to you. It was too brief. What happened?”
Straker glanced at her. “I don’t know, I got nervous all of a sudden. I thought it was, uh, Simon, who caused it. But now I don’t think so.”
“Was there a black-haired woman, very attractive?”
“Yeah, how did you know? In fact, I think I’ve seen her twice.”
“She’s the enemy,” Cat said.
Bella: “The enemy?”
“Oh yes, there is someone who wants that statue and its power. And this woman works for him. We need to find a way to track down her master. Her boss, I mean.”
Lights loomed up ahead and she had to start slowing.
“Oh, no!”
It was an accident. Three cars had spun in various directions, their chassis mangled or crushed, a wide dark stain across the road. Emergency vehicles were pulled up in a clump and blinking saw horses were directing the FDR’s lanes down to one, the outermost, creating a traffic bottleneck.
“Christ!” Straker said.
The SUV was roaring up on their bumper. Cat had been forced to begin braking as she approached the slow-down, but their pursuers had sped up and clearly planned to squeeze the black sports car between the motionless traffic ahead and themselves and the concrete side rail. There was nowhere to go.
“If we stop, I can shoot out their windshield,” Straker said.
“No time,” said Cat tersely. “It’s just seconds from—”
Then she shouted: “Hold on!”
She stabbed her foot down on the brake and the car went into a skid, the sudden force squashing them all together on the passenger side.
As the car came to a noisy, bumpy stop just inches from the rear of the nearest stuck auto, there was a blinding flash and a deafening explosion.
And then they were engulfed in flames.
Chapter 74
Near the Queensboro Bridge
Manhattan, New York
“So I’m guessing you're not an antiques expert or a priest. Not the way you handle that piece.”
They were sitting in a tiny tavern just up the road from the United Nations, next to a small park overlooking Second Avenue. The Roosevelt Island tram station and the Queensboro Bridge access ramp were both visible through the window, albeit at opposite ends.
Simon shrugged. “You were the one who called Rome. You must have known who you were talking to.”
“Oh I did, but I was expecting a more...low-key approach.”
“Like they would have sent a couple of nuns? A kindly parish priest? Maybe a church secretary? No, they sent me. You must have figured what you were talking about wasn’t in any way low-key.”
“I guess,” Walton said. “But I didn’t think—”
“Listen, those guys are after the statue your treasure hunters have in their possession. Clearly they went for the overkill to get it. Again.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure most of their guns were aimed your way.”
Simon smiled. “They don’t like me, that’s for sure. Thanks for laying down covering fire.”
Walton was thoughtful. “I’m sure you weren’t all that put out by the gunfire. Straker and I shared some time in Iraq. You?”
“Oh, I’ve been here and I’ve been there, and I’ve been in between.” Simon didn’t think Walton would get the fractured musical quote.
But Walton did: “Anyone who can quote Sinfield…”
Simon chuckled. He’d shared plenty of drinks and other substances with Pete Sinfield and Fripp in the early days of the Crimson’s history.
“…is no mere functionary of the Vatican.”
“Nah, you’re right. I’m more at…the security end of things. Jobs have to be done. Some are pretty and clean. Others are dirty and not intended for public knowledge. But you know that, the call you made. You’re no virgin in this game.”
Walton was sipping an IPA. Simon had a straight rye whiskey. They were waiting for Cat to get back in touch. Simon had no doubt she had whisked Straker and Bella to safety, for he knew how efficient she was—aggressive, persistent, courageous, unflappable…she had it all, and in such a beautiful package, too.
She’s perfect.
She is beyond perfect. She’s a goddess.
He hated when the inner voice was right.
Now he almost regretted his dalliance with Lissy, poor sweet girl, which he’d probably allowed in order to needle Cat. Without his pettiness, Lissy might still be alive. Instead she had been tortured and killed and it was all his fault. He had borne enough guilt over the centuries, but occasionally he was able to gather more unto himself. He’d been playing a stupid game against Cat, his untouchable love. He just hadn’t counted on the Opposition wanting him—and her—so badly.
They’d proven he was their target, certainly, but now she was in more danger because obviously even on her own she was a target. If he hadn’t trusted her abilities he would have been worried by now.
Walton and Simon drank, suddenly awash in strained silence.
The bar had a couple widescreens on, but the sound was low. There was hardly any clientele, some kind of lull in business.
Simon glanced up and saw a local television station’s Breaking News banner, and what
appeared to be a burning vehicle on the FDR, according to the crawl.
“Ah, shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What?” said Walton.
“Look.”
They both stared at the blurred picture of the fire licking at the remaining paint on some vehicle. It was so mangled he couldn’t recognize it at all. Could have been Cat’s rented Mustang, or one of the thugs’ SUVs, or maybe both fused together by the explosion and fire.
Simon’s phone buzzed.
He grasped it like a lifeline, but then spit out a curse.
It was Vandenberg.
“Yes, Jerry, what’s the word?” he said, expecting the cop to mention the burning wreck that was right now splashed all over the TV.
But no.
“Got a hit on the facial recognition. Might be of interest to you.”
Simon tipped his head at Walton, who put down the beer glass.
“Where shall we meet?”
Chapter 75
The catacombs beneath the Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
Captain Emanuele Spada was still inexorably going insane.
The process was no longer slow, however. In fact, it seemed to be moving along faster and faster.
The voices no longer whispered in his head only while working at his post in the catacombs. No, now the hissing and muttering continued wherever he was. He heard whispering about him everywhere, but when he turned there was no one there. He’d hear echoes of faint laughter.
Mocking laughter.
At first it had sounded like insects, like flies buzzing around his head. But then the whispers and the buzzing combined and they’d started following the captain home.
His three crazy women were still there, now joined by a curious neighbor who had come to ask about the smell.
“What smell?” he said while standing at the door, a puzzled expression on his face and a hammer clutched in the hand behind his back. The neighbor, a crone-like busybody stooped from curvature of the spine and osteoporosis had to look up and still he felt as if she were looking down her nose at him. She knew he worked for the Vatican, but she was one of those Romans who didn’t much care for the city-state or its administration, let alone its religious history.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 22
