by Declan Finn
A knife flashed in the hand of the assassin. Before Sean could even roll out of the way, a burst from the Stechkin stopped the knife, and its owner, from going anywhere.
Sean blinked, staring at how close the knife had come to his ribcage. He looked up at Shushurin, her gun still smoking. “Umm, thank you?”
“Don’t mention it,” Shushurin replied, tucking her weapon away. She looked at Scott. “And you told me I should leave the gun in my suitcase.”
“Yeah,” Scott muttered. “Well, I think it’s time for us to depart before the cops arrive.”
Sean nodded, flipping open his cell phone. “Good idea. You people run, I’ll do something with this guy. By the way, did you get rid of the sniper?”
Shushurin shook her head. “Doubt it. I may have chased him off, but I’d sooner bet that I only made him duck. You should try moving off the other way, down the alley.”
“Gotcha. Did Goldberg update you two on the events of the day?”
Murphy nodded. “Two attacks, no waiting? Yeah. And what about your super soldier theory?”
Sean sighed. “It’s not a super soldier program. This isn’t a comic book. These guys are not Captain American, Captain Marvel, or even Captain Crunch.” He rose to his feet, brushing off his pants legs. “So, do you two want to come out of the closet yet? Join the party with the rest of the grownups?”
Shushurin shook her head. “Not yet, but thank you. Besides, all of you people are still being shot at, so I do not believe that it is safe to come out of the shadows just yet.”
Sean smiled. “Fine. In that case, as long as the shadows aren’t hiding something that’s hunting you, go with God, but go, okay? None of us want the cops to know about you, and frankly, if you’re going to stay in the hole, I want you to be the ace. Vamoose.”
Once they vanished, Sean bent over the body once more, gingerly checking for any identification, receipts, clothing tags, and ammunition.
He only found one more grenade.
Why the hell didn’t you use this in the first place, friend? Did you think it would have been faster with your gun already drawn?
A grain of gravel fell into the blood in the center of the corpse’s chest. Sean smiled.
* * *
Above the alleyway, the sniper who had tried to kill Sean slowly inched his way into position.
Ioseph Andrevich Mikhailov was graying, had been for a very long time. He had neatly combed hair with a part on the side, and swept over the front for a more business-bland look — the type of hair one saw on Washington, D.C. talk shows. His mustache was done in the handlebar style of Stalin, after whom he was named — Ioseph’s father really knew how to suck up to his boss.
Ioseph came closer into position toward this… stuntman, who had already beaten two of his agents today, which was two more than anyone had beaten in years. Ioseph wasn’t going to take any further chances. He was just going to kill this bastard. He moved slowly towards the edge, until he could point his rifle straight down.
The stuntman wasn’t there.
“You didn’t think your guys were the only people who could move fast, now did you?”
Ioseph paused, hesitated, then whirled around, leading with the butt of his rifle. Sean Ryan, only inches behind him, caught the weapon in mid-swing with his right hand. Sean landed a solid left hook, followed through with his elbow, and clamped down on the rifle stock, all in one motion. Sean twisted the rifle from his hands, pulling the gun away from Ioseph, and simultaneously slapping the rifle barrel across the Russian’s face.
Ioseph Mikhailov spun dangerously near the edge. Ioseph could sense it, so he threw himself to the side, away from the edge, as well as out of range of Sean’s legs, while whipping out his handgun. Before he could aim clearly, Sean dropped into a roll, drawing the Beretta confiscated from the earlier attacker, and hurled it like a shuriken, knocking away the handgun. Sean popped the magazine out of the assault rifle and fired the bullet in the chamber before dropping it.
By the time both of them were on their feet, Ioseph had drawn his combat knife, and Sean had a collapsed tactical baton in hand. They were fifteen feet away from each other, and evaluated their stances.
And the annoying stuntman was still there, and he was still alive. And he was smirking. His bright blue eyes twinkled with death. He was shorter than Ioseph, and narrower. How had he not killed him already?
Sean smirked. “You know, with all the twenty-somethings I’ve beaten today, you’re the last thing I expected.”
Ioseph smiled. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“The last young guy with silver hair I know is a priest; you’re not that young.” He looked at Ioseph’s hair. “You’re also more gray.”
“And do you believe everything priests tell you?”
Sean nodded. “Until I get proof to the contrary.”
“Pity,” the gunman replied with a smile. “You’re not going to live that long. Tell me, you had bullets left in that Beretta, why didn’t you just shoot me in the back of the head? Or if you knew I was coming, run?”
The stuntman allowed himself a broad grin. “I want you alive, and I’m going to take you, old man.”
Sean burst forward in two quick steps and snapped his wrist as though he had a whip, lashing at his adversary. Ioseph lunged forward with his blade. Sean diagonally sidestepped, twisting his upper body out of the way of the knife, using the baton to deflect the path of the strike. He then slashed for Ioseph’s temple. The gray-haired Ioseph snapped his head backwards and continued into a backwards tumble. Ioseph rolled skillfully, popping up with the knife still in hand — only to find Sean on top of him again, kicking away the knife before whipping his foot back across his face. Ioseph rolled with the blow and came up again on his feet, ready in a combat stance — grinning
Sean studied his opponent a moment, analyzing him. This man wasn’t like the others — they were stiff as a board. This guy enjoyed it. “At least you know how to have fun. The other guys just weren’t entertaining enough.”
Sean slipped away the baton, reached behind his back with both hands, and smiled evilly. With a quick motion, he hurled the hand grenade he had retrieved from the other assassin. The new assailant saw it, and leapt forward at Sean, trying to get away from the grenade. Sean grabbed him in midair and hurled him to the ground, landing on top of him.
Blows didn’t rain on Ioseph’s head so much as they came in a monsoon, each hook segued into an elbow, and each elbow segued into a hammer blow, which led into an opening with a hook from the other fist. As the assassin punched back, Sean blocked, drove the fist down, then threw himself forward with a head butt, nailing him between the eyes, and then biting down on his nose. The assassin roared and tossed him aside with a burst of strength. Sean rolled to a crouch, mouth smeared with blood.
Ioseph staggered to his feet, and looked toward the grenade. No explosion. “What was that about?”
“You thought I was going to use a grenade while I was in the same area? What sort of idiot do I look like to you?”
Ioseph narrowed his eyes. He thought of running, but Sean could always come after him, or throw the grenade for real.
Ioseph replied with a wolfish smile, and circled to his left. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, child.”
Sean shook his head, circling to match his adversary’s range and speed. “No, I think I do, why else would you be in such a hurry? At first, I thought you were just shooting at the first one of us you could get, but why not at least wait to kill the first duo you saw? You’ve wasted a guy on me before, and then another. Why bother... unless I know something?”
Ioseph laughed. “Maybe.”
He reached over and ripped a block from the roof’s ledge, hurling it. Sean leaped out of the way with ease, spun, grabbing it in mid-arc, and hurled it like a discus, meeting the next block in midair. Sean hurled himself after, leaping on the assassin’s back as he reached for another stone. Sean grabbed the attacker’s wrist and twiste
d his arm behind his back, locking it into place against the spine. Sean pulled him away from the edge and slammed his skull, face first, into the rock. Sean pulled him back, receiving the assassin’s elbow in his face, and a second one stabbing into his breastbone, knocking him away. The assassin flipped forward onto his feet before running toward the hand grenade.
Sean leapt after him — but Ioseph grabbed the grenade and drove his shoulder backward in one motion, catching Sean across the face, knocking him out of the air. The assassin spun, driving a roundhouse into Sean’s face. When Sean hit the ground, Ioseph quickly put in as many shots as possible, punching downwards. Ioseph pulled the pin out of the grenade, popped the spoon and slipping the grenade itself into Sean’s pants before the stuntman could recover. Ioseph grabbed Sean by the neck and belt, and hurled him off the side of the roof.
Ioseph smiled, turned, and ran, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.
Three rooftops away, he heard the explosion, and knew that Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan, ex-stuntman, bodyguard, and annoyance, was now dead.
Ioseph’s laughter floated through the night sky, merging with the sound of the police sirens.
* * *
Giovanni Figlia ran down the street, following the sounds of gunfire and smoke. Trailing behind him was a tactical team of Swiss Guards armed to the teeth with M16A2 assault rifles, MP5 submachine guns, RPGs, microwave cannons and beam-Taser rifles. Wilhelmina Goldberg toted a leftover Uzi, while Maureen McGrail had nothing but her nightshirt and sweatpants on (when queried about a weapon, she answered cryptically, “I am the weapon.”). Hashim Abasi carried an M16.
Thankfully, the evening was warm enough to let them all out without needing anything heavier than what they went to sleep in. They had all been armed and ready as soon as Figlia heard that no one knew where Sean Ryan was — Figlia knew one thing about Sean Ryan, and that was if someone went after him, it wouldn’t be done quietly (automatic weapons and grenade launchers, at the very least).
Figlia knew he had found the right area when he discovered the burning embers of a car in the street. “Here’s the place! Guards, spread out and secure the area.” He looked at Goldberg, et al. “The rest of you, with me. Superintendent McGrail, you know Ryan, you lead, where is he?”
McGrail smiled. She walked toward the middle of the street and surveyed the area. She scanned the alleyway on the opposite side of the street, and noticed a fragmentation grenade had detonated, and there was only a body and a grouping of shells and bullet holes. She followed the trail of shells with her eyes, to a Spectre, along with .9mm shell casings.
Follow the devastation. There was also another gun involved. Sean’s?
She stepped around the burning car into the alley. She spotted shoeprints on the alley walls, and smiled, knowing one of Sean’s old tricks. These prints were above a dead body...
McGrail knelt down at the victim’s side and noted it closely. It had been shredded by a grenade, as if the explosive were either on top or right next to him when it went off.
She blinked at her conclusion. “Oh, God. I think I found him!”
“Will you people, for God’s sake, look up!” someone roared.
McGrail looked up with her pale green eyes to a form dangling from a long rod — each end of the rod seemed attached to either side of the alley, but on closer examination realized it was two of Sean’s batons linked together at the base to form a long, seven-foot staff. Each end was jammed into the sides of the alleyway, and Sean was essentially hanging there because of the friction generated by the staff being just a little longer than the alley was wide.
McGrail smiled. “Should we try getting you down?”
Sean sighed loudly enough for her to hear even several floors down. “Why, do you want to catch me?”
“Can’t you just walk down the sides of the alley?” she asked with a smile.
“Get real. At the moment, I’m very lucky I had this on me, assembled, from a demonstration I gave this morning. I had to throw a grenade out of my pocket while falling in mid-air. There’s only so much I can do in one take, and unlike the movies, I wasn’t going to get a second shot at it.”
* * *
“One of them got away, I should add,” Sean noted at the end of his briefing out at curbside while the carabinieri stood off to the side, taking notes.
These cops, Goldberg noted, were far more respectful than the ones from this morning, and several referred to Figlia by name. Old cop buddies?
Sean took a sip of his coffee, blanket wrapped over his shoulders by the firemen who had gotten him down. “Now these guys have been good, but this last guy was better, an older fellow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he trained the others. It’s also possible he just had more experience.”
The carabinieri thanked him for his report and moved away, asking him not to leave town. Figlia assured them that Sean wouldn’t, and walked off with the cops, deliberately leading them away, shooting Sean a look, as though it were the American’s fault that he was being shot at all the time.
Once they were out of earshot, McGrail turned to him. “Could it be our man?” she asked, meaning the last, most-discussed suspect.
“Don’t worry, I have an alibi,” said a soft voice. Almost everyone jumped except for McGrail and Sean — Sean was too numb to be shocked, and McGrail was always ready for surprises when around the former stuntman.
Frank Williams smiled quickly at the scene. “So, what happened other than that someone made the mistake of attacking Mr. Ryan here?”
“That’s about it,” Sean lied. “You caught me at the tail end of the story. You want to take a look around, see if I missed anything? I suggest starting with the roof. I slugged it out with a good old boy with a mean right hook, a left hook, and a couple of good jabs.”
Father Frank smiled. “Certainly.”
The priest vanished as suddenly as he had arrived, just as Figlia walked back. “Did I miss anything?” the Italian asked.
Sean paid Figlia no attention for a moment, listened carefully for Father Frank, and when he was certain Frank had left, Sean turned to the others. In a low, almost threatening voice, he started, “No offense to the good father, or even to any of you, but at the moment, Maureen is the only one I trust here.”
Figlia smiled. “You trust no one, do you?”
Sean’s bright blue eyes focused on him like a laser. “Not at the moment, no.” He looked at each one in turn, making sure that he timed each stare to be exactly the same amount of time. “Either someone’s been compromised or someone’s a direct turncoat. These guys put a lot of effort into trying to kill me, and I suspect they did it because of my idea of Soviet terrorist training camps. Either I hit the nail on the head with a sledgehammer, or I came close, and they heard about it from somebody.” He turned to Goldberg. “I’d also leave this conversation out of the next report you file with Mr. Mossad and friend, okay? They both showed up, and his partner killed the poor schmuck in the alley when he pulled a knife on me. Considerate, but also convenient. Yes, she saved my life, but I’m feeling paranoid right now.”
Goldberg gave an involuntary smile. “Join the club. I’ve been paranoid about the priest for a while.”
“Why would you be?” McGrail added. “Isn’t my victim a priest? Can you see them killing one of their own?”
The Secret Service Agent gave her a half-smile and a glance. “Tell it to the Mafia.” Figlia’
Giovanni Figlia smiled. “I am also not, as you would say, their biggest fan. I have a set of choice words I would use on signori Coppola and Scorsese, should I get the chance.”
Sean looked at McGrail, and blinked a few times, tuning out the conversation. The Interpol agent raised a brow. “Something?”
He smiled broadly. “You’re right! Your victim, the dead priest, what’s his name? Harrington?”
Sean hopped up, throwing the blanket off of him. “He’s dead!” he exclaimed, excited and energized, from adrenaline if nothing else. “But why? He was in Rome dur
ing World War II. And he did what!”
“Worked with children,” Figlia recounted. “The Boys Town of Italy.”
Sean shook his head violently, like a dog thrashing around a bone. “No! You said it yourself, Maureen! The answer’s not with him! It’s with his boss.”
McGrail took a small step backwards, about to drop-kick Sean into next Tuesday if he had finally gone around the bend. Even the others looked at him tentatively, as though he were a bomb approaching zero at an erratic rate of speed. “Father Carroll-Abbing?”
“You’ve heard about him! But you never heard about Harrington! Because Abbing was more important.”
Figlia was the first to relax, and even chuckled. “Is it just me, or did Signore Ryan hit his head harder than I thought?”
Sean growled in frustration. “No, dammit! I …” Sean cursed under his breath and stood, looked up to the roof and called out “Williams! Father Frank, you up there?”
“No need to shout,” the priest softly answered from just inside the building’s doorway.
Sean wheeled on him. “Tough. Have you heard about Father Abbing?”
Father Frank raised a brow and quizzically studied him. “Monsignor John Patrick Carroll-Abbing? Of course, he—”
“He wrote a book, didn’t he?”
He nodded. “It was—”
“Thanks.” Sean looked to the others. “Something I learned from my girlfriend: when you can’t trust your secondary source, read their sources. If Abbing was in the rescue operations, and he wrote his memoirs, he’d have written about it. I want what he said. Look at the sources, and start breaking it down. I want a list of primary research materials, and I mean as soon as possible. If we’re right about involving Pius XII and the Holocaust, we should start there,”
Giovanni Figlia nodded slowly, calmly taking in the erratic thoughts Sean shot off. “Why not flip through everything on the subject? Look at all the priests, instead of just the one?”
