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.
48
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.
49
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
