Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (30 page)

He considered jumping, and pulled himself up further to make sure of the fit. He stared down at the wet, rippling water, and knew he’d never survive the jump, let alone swim away afterwards.

Multiple footsteps pounded the concrete stairs, slowly coming his way. Samuel jumped down, ran to the bed and sat against the wall, struggling to control his breathing, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt.

The door creaked open. Father Murphy backed inside, carrying the end of a large, brown leather traveling trunk. One of the goons who guarded him outside handled the other end. The other machine gun toting thugs carried in two more trunks and stood them upright. Everyone left the room without giving Samuel so much as a glance, except Father Murphy, who smiled on his way out and left the door wide open.

Sister Bravo walked inside. Samuel felt a surge of relief and almost ran to her, but resisted. Sister Bravo’s face said she’d read his mind, but she too kept her composure.

Samuel stood. “I haven’t been allowed outside for three days,” he said, mustering up his anger. “You promised.” Sister Bravo walked over and gently stroked his hair. “I’m sorry, my child, but it couldn’t be helped.”

Samuel looked up at her deceptive, angelic face. “I’m going crazy in here. It’s not fair,” he said.

The nun kissed his forehead then walked over to the first trunk. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. Samuel took a step forward in disbelief. A child, his age, with his face, stepped out of the trunk. Sister Bravo opened the next trunk, and another twin, this one with dark hair, stared back at him.

Samuel fell back against the bed and landed on his behind. “What?” The two boys looked as confused as Samuel. They all looked up at Sister Bravo, bewildered.

“Samuel, this is Felipe and Eduardo. They’re your brothers. Boys, this is Samuel,” she said in French, then Italian.

Each boy gave a half-hearted wave, their faces pallets of fear and confusion, echoing Samuel’s emotions. Sister Bravo herded the boys back into the trunks, then opened the third, which was empty.

“It’s time to leave the castle,” she said, firm and serious. “Get inside.”

Ten minutes later, Samuel heard footsteps again, and his trunk lifted into the air. They carried him down the stairs and outside, then loaded him on a truck or in a van, he couldn’t tell. He heard the other two trunks being loaded next to him. Doors slammed shut, the engine started and they drove away. They stopped abruptly, then kept going.

A few seconds later, gunshots rang out and he was tossed back and forth against the walls of the trunk. The engine growled louder and Samuel bounced up and down, hitting his head. There was more gunfire, then silence. Samuel thought he heard screaming in the distance, as the wind whistled his name.
Samuel!

I
n pitch-black darkness, Robert and Thorne silently maneuvered the rubber watercraft across the lake toward Astura Torre castle with ease.

The lightly clouded sky profiled a blanket of bright stars and bright moon, unimpeded by dull city lights as in Chicago or New York. Earlier, Thorne had asked to be dropped in the city to talk to one of her sources, so she could secure everything they needed. Father Kong and the others were less suspicious than they would’ve been if it had been Robert stepping out instead of her. She had secured all the equipment they needed to rescue Samuel. Two fifty foot sets of strong rope with grappling hooks, mountain climbing hooks and spikes, Mac-10 machine guns fitted with silencers, (they were out of 9mm’s and .45’s), and night-vision goggles.

Their plan, deceptively simple on paper, required a strong bit of luck.

They had launched the raft a little more than a mile down the coastline from the castle, out in the lake about a mile and a half, where they wouldn’t be seen. Thorne guided the boat slowly, and a half-mile away, Robert saw the shadowy, barely-lit castle. Although the engine was near silent, Robert signaled for Thorne to cut the motor and they rowed the last quarter mile. As they dug their oars into the lake, Robert wondered what Sister Isabella and the others would think when they discovered that they were gone.

Robert activated his night-vision goggles and scanned the coastline as they inched closer. Nothing. They reached the wall under the window where Robert had spotted what he was sure was Samuel’s flaming signal.

He turned off the goggles and grabbed the rope and grappling hook.

Thorne followed his lead. Robert threw his first, caught the top of the wall, tested the rope, and started to climb, the machine gun swinging from his shoulder. A few seconds later, Thorne’s hook found its mark and she pulled herself up right behind him. The closer they got to the top, the harder Robert’s heart pounded. One peek down by one of The Order’s people and they’d be finished before they got started.

They reached the top of the wall simultaneously and unhooked themselves. Robert checked around the corner to the left, Thorne, the right, and gave each other the all clear. Up above about fifteen feet, the window emitted a dim light, but no sounds or voices. The wall, a maze of stony cracks and crevices, reminded Robert of the mountains he and Thorne climbed back in the States, only a bit more slippery.

“We’ll go up together,” Robert whispered. “When we reach the window, I’ll head inside first.”

Thorne nodded in agreement, then readied her weapons, the Mac-10, and her favorite, a Mosberg pistol grip pump shotgun.

They spread out to give each other room and started to climb. A few feet from the window, Robert heard faint voices and stopped, Thorne following suit.
If Samuel’s inside, he’s not alone.
They waited. Robert heard bumping and knocking, minutes later, silence fell, and they continued up the wall.

At the window, Robert pulled himself up on the ledge and peeked inside. The bedroom was empty, the door wide open, and the voices and stomping feet were headed downstairs. Robert climbed inside and stepped to the left, giving Thorne room to make it inside, his machine gun pointed at the open door.

They searched the room, but found nothing. Robert signaled his partner, and they edged toward the open door. At the bottom Robert heard the sound of men struggling, and cursing in Italian.

“They’re carrying something heavy,” whispered Thorne. “They said they’re heavy.”

“It could be the boys,” Robert whispered back. “Let’s go.” They carefully worked their way downstairs to a large room with a cobblestoned floor. It was empty, but the fireplace was blazing.

“They’re outside,” whispered Robert, tipping toward the front door.

A door slammed shut and an engine started. Robert and Thorne burst outside and spotted a van pulling away.

“Bastardo! Bastardo!” a male voice shouted to their right. “Shoot them!”

Robert and Thorne ducked to the left, firing at two men to their right who fired back. The van stopped momentarily then sped away. They both hit the ground and continued to fire. Down the road, Robert saw machine gun fire spray the wooded area where they had set up surveillance to watch the castle.

“Fuck this!” Robert heard Thorne shout.

She stood up and ran toward the two men, shooting and screaming something unintelligible. Moments later, both Italians were dead. Robert ran over to make sure his partner was okay, but should’ve known better.

She stood over the bodies and kicked them both.

“They’re gone,” she said, matter-of-fact, emotionless.

Against the night, Thorne radiated a beauty few women could achieve. At her feet lay destruction not many men could fathom. Robert shook his head. No matter how many times he witnessed her power, it always amazed him.

“I saw them shoot into the woods,” Robert said. “We better check it out.”

They ran across the compound to the woods. Robert cursed under his breath, wishing he hadn’t listened to the others and rescued Samuel earlier. He tried to remember as many details about the van as possible.

Plain white van, late model, spare tire on the rack on the back door.

R
obert and Thorne reached the woods and found two bodies sprawled out in the brush, Sister Agnes Mary Paul and Father Thomas Raul, both Il Martello di Dio operatives.

They examined the bodies, searching for signs of life. Two packed cars sped up to the scene. Father Kong and Sister Isabella hoped out, ran over, and at the sight of their comrades, fell to their knees and assisted Robert and Thorne in trying to revive their friends, prayers spewing from their lips.

Ten minutes later, Robert and Thorne stood, watching Father Kong and the others work on the two for another five minutes. Exacerbated, Sister Isabella stormed over to Robert and Thorne.

“You lied to us! You promised not to try this without us! Now our friends are dead, and Samuel’s gone!” screamed Sister Isabella.

“It’s not our fault,” snapped Thorne. “They were moving Samuel when we got here. They stopped to shoot your people on the way out.

They knew they were there. We’d been made.”

“Thorne’s right,” added Robert. “We shot two men up near the castle. You can check it out.”

Father Kong, listening, stood and walked over, his hands bloody.

“What did the van look like?” he asked. Robert described as much as he could. Thorne added her piece.

Father Kong dialed his cell phone and put it out on their network. “If it shows, we’ll find it,” he said, calm and focused. He turned to the other six people who were standing near the two bodies, tears in their eyes, and directed them to search the castle and surrounding grounds. “Show us the men you killed,” said Father Kong.

The four quickly walked over to the bodies Thorne had laid out.

Father Kong and Sister Isabella knelt, prayed for the two, then examined them closely.

“I think I recognize them,” said Father Kong. “They’re mafia, but I can’t place who they work for.”

Sister Isabella adjusted the bodies face up and took pictures with a digital camera. “I’ll run these through our database,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll get a hit. If we find out who they worked for, we might be able to pick up Samuel’s trail.”

The four of them went inside the castle to help the others search for clues. Robert went upstairs to search the bedroom. The room was plain, and reminded him of a medieval jail cell. The trashcan was filled with soda cans, potato chip bags and half eaten fruit. Robert turned over the mattress. Wedged in between the box springs he pulled out a piece of folded newspaper. It was the front page of the Chicago Tribune, showing a distraught Alison Napier walking behind Donovan’s casket. A smile crept across Robert’s face.
He’s still alive.

Screaming voices brought Robert out of his momentary bliss. He ran downstairs where Thorne met him.

“We have to get out!” she screamed. “The place is rigged with explosives!”

“Can we diffuse it?” he asked.

“No, I tried, it’s too late!”

Everybody ran out of the castle and sprinted across the compound.

They reached a safe distance near the woods, and turned. Nothing.

“I didn’t see a timer,” said Thorne. “It could go at anytime.”

“We’ll get to the city and notify the police anonymously,” said Father Kong, breathing hard.

They loaded the bodies in the trunks, piled in the cars and headed down the road. Sister Isabella’s cell phone rang. She put her head in her hands and cried out. “We’ll be there right away,” she said, hanging up.

She faced Father Kong. “It’s Cardinal Maximilian, he’s been stabbed.

It’s a heart wound. He’s in surgery at Salvador Mundi International Hospital. It doesn’t look good.”

Robert collapsed back into the car seat. Thorne’s face twisted with anger. A massive explosion detonated behind them. Austra Torre castle was no more.

F
ather Kong slashed through the dark back roads of Italy like a seasoned pro. The car engine growled a warning to those ahead.
Get out
of the way.
Nobody spoke as the car rumbled over dirt roads and asphalt.

Thirty minutes after the Astura Torre castle exploded, they roared into the bustling streets of Rome. Both cars reached the front of Salvador Mundi International Hospital, a six-story, tan brick building, crowded with reporters, Vatican clergy, the prayerful, and the curious.

Father Kong parked across the street, made a u-turn and eased through the driveway to the back of the main building. He ordered his people to wait in the car, while he, Robert, Thorne and Sister Isabella hurried to the fifth floor ICU ward, where a group of Vatican leaders, including Bishop Ruini, were gathered, some deep in discussion, others in prayer. The bishop spotted the four and motioned for them to follow him to an empty private room.

“The cardinal has a deep chest wound,” Bishop Ruini told them, closing the door. “The knife plunged into his chest and nicked his heart.

He lost a lot of blood, so it’s touch and go.”

“How did it happen? Who did it?” asked Father Kong, anxiousness in his voice.

Bishop Ruini placed his hands behind his back, walked to the window, and stared down at the crowd below. “We’d just left a meeting in the Sistine Chapel. The cardinal spent the evening entertaining a group of English businesspeople, and we were on our way to see the Holy Father. Two men, both Italian, were waiting in the shadows outside.” The bishop turned to face them. “They stabbed our guard in the neck. I fought one of them and the cardinal took the other. I sustained cuts and bruises to my hands and arms.” He showed them his bandaged hands.

“The cardinal hurt the other man badly, and, forgive me, but I think he broke the bastard’s arm. When the two ran away, I looked over and the cardinal was flat on his back, the knife protruding from his chest. I called out for the Swiss Guard, but by the time they reached us, the two men had sped away in a waiting car.”

“Sounds like a hit,” said Thorne. “But kind of sloppy. They could’ve just shot him.”

“Yes, but that would’ve attracted too much attention outdoors,” said Sister Isabella. “The Swiss Guard would’ve shut the place down.” Bishop Ruini lowered his head and cried. Tears filled the eyes of Father Kong and Sister Isabella.