Table of Contents
About Den of Lions
Praise for Mark Posey’s Thrillers
Title Page
DEN OF LIONS
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About the Author
Other books by Mark Posey
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About Den of Lions
Backed into a corner, help comes to Alice from the most unlikely of allies...
The Federal Bureau of Investigation has reopened the murder of Bishop McGinty and has Alice square in its sights. They have the video, they have her fingerprints, and they have proof that the Pope himself ordered McGinty’s death.
Alice is stuck in an FBI interrogation room, while the Vatican is split between defending her and selling her out. Can Alice talk her way out of this predicament?
A Nun With A Gun is a series of short stories and novelettes about Sister Jacobine, the Pope’s hitwoman. They are best read in order.
1.0 Feet of Clay
2.0 A Port in the Storm
3.0 Excommunication
4.0 Requiem Mass
5.0 Den of Lions
6.0 The Narrow Gate
Thriller Short Story
Praise for Mark Posey’s Thrillers
Well-fleshed out characters to really care about, and a deep state plot that is very timely given current world affairs.
All in all, an enjoyable page-turner!
DEN OF LIONS
Alice sat in her usual chair at the Rafferty’s kitchen table and stared through the sliding door which gave access to the back deck.
The kitchen smelled heavenly. Frying bacon, brewing coffee, scrambled eggs, hash browns. The aromas wafting through the kitchen were enough to set anyone’s salivary glands into overdrive.
Alice barely noticed.
Even the back yard, with the light breeze stirring up leaves and grass, hardly captured her attention. It was all a blur overlaid with the mental image of Michael lying on his living room carpet, a bullet hole in his forehead, a bloody cross wiped over the wound.
“You want toast?” Rafferty said.
Alice felt certain it was not the first time he had asked. She forced her gaze away from the yard to Rafferty, where he stood by the toaster.
“No, thank you, Constable. I’m not hungry.”
“You still have to eat,” Geraldine said.
Rafferty stepped over to the portable radio on the corner of the kitchen counter and flicked it on. “It’s seven o’clock. Let’s see what’s going on in the world.”
As the pre-recorded news hour music faded out, the announcer’s strong voice began. “Breaking news at the top of the hour. The investigation into the murder of Bishop James McGinty has been re-opened this morning by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A city-wide hunt for the murderer will begin today in the greater Philadelphia area. The murderer is reputed to be a nun with ties to the Vatican.”
Rafferty’s gaze flickered to Alice. “Oh shit.”
“Indeed.”
“It was revealed earlier this morning that Pope Benedict the Seventeenth ordered the execution after Bishop McGinty was accused of improper conduct with altar boys within the Philadelphia archdiocese.”
Alice was aghast. “Oh, no. Roberto will be inconsolable.”
“It was further revealed that Philadelphia police detectives had a suspect in custody but were forced to release her when diplomatic immunity was asserted. Evidence against the woman included a video recording of the crime, obtained via police surveillance. The Secretary of State has suspended diplomatic relations with the Vatican, pending the outcome of the investigation.”
Rafferty snapped off the radio when the newscaster moved onto the next item.
The sizzling of the bacon and eggs seemed unusually loud in the still kitchen. None of them moved.
“I believe someone has been telling tales out of school,” Alice said.
Rafferty shook his head. “So much for having a quiet, easy first day back.”
*
The headstone looked lonely.
Alice stood in front of it, the Philadelphia drizzle splattering around her. Even with all the gravestones nearby, she couldn’t shake the feeling. This headstone was alone. Like a new novitiate in the priory during their first week in the order.
She had read “Michael Fredericks” and his date of birth and death more than a dozen times since she’d arrived, and she still couldn’t get the lump out of her throat. It grew larger with each reading.
She had not known Michael’s birthday was October twenty-first. In retrospect, what she did not know about Michael far outweighed what she did know. Yet she treasured even her limited knowledge of the man.
She knew he had a wicked sense of humor, that despite the gruff exterior he showed the world, he could be tender and caring and comforting. And his smile could make worries fade into dust.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, mingled with the Philadelphia drizzle and tumbled to the ground.
She also wished she had never met him. Then she would not be standing here mourning him. For that matter, he would not be here to be mourned.
This would be the last time she saw his memorial. After the news this morning, she had to leave the city. It would be quite some time before she would return, if she returned at all. By then, Michael Fredericks would be just someone she once spent time with.
Now, having said her goodbyes, here she stood in front of the forlorn tombstone of a man she barely knew. “How in the name of all that is holy can he have had such an effect on me in such a short time?” she muttered.
The only answer forthcoming was a bright flash of lightning. followed by the crack and rolling boom of thunder.
She tilted her head back and glared at the dark clouds. “Oh, shut up.”
She glanced once more at the lonely headstone and read the name and dates one last time. She couldn’t bring herself to mutter, “Goodbye, Michael.” She instead kissed the first two fingers of her right hand and touched them briefly to the top of the slab.
“Alice Fisher!” An authoritative voice came from behind her. “This is the FBI! Kneel down with your hands on your head!”
Alice took a deep, cleansing breath. “The Watchmen have arrived,” she muttered.
“Don’t make me ask again!” The voice sounded closer.
She didn’t dare
