Pierce the Darkness, page 10
part #1 of A Blade Broussard Thriller Series
But first he had to smoke out the serpent within his ranks.
Graciela’s silence on the flight to Gstaad had sparked distrust. Usually, her lively conversation about the newest fashion trends or tabloid gossip kept him occupied. Today she seemed aloof and brooding. After the limousine driver had deposited the luggage in the great room, she’d thrown her jacket on a nearby table and went upstairs without a word. He could hear the shower running and knew from experience he wouldn’t see her for the next hour.
“Alexa, play Obsessão,” he commanded. The passionate voice of Amália Rodrigues filled the chalet with suffering and abandonment as he laid his head back on the cinnamon leather sofa and closed his eyes. The Portuguese guitar and viola wept with all of life’s struggles—love, betrayal, and death—an entire life span in one song.
Vivienne was his obsession. Since her disappearance nearly twenty-seven years ago, he would catch glimpses of women through the years who reminded him of his twin, then ultimately be disappointed when they came into full view. Until a few months ago, when he caught the profile of a woman at an art gallery in Paris. He searched the entire building for the illusive woman. His pursuit proved fruitless. But his gut never failed him, and a few weeks later the surety of seeing his sister was cemented when he saw the Maxim photo of Blade.
Finding himself on edge, he reminded himself that his long road of unfulfilled need was about to end. He would soon have Vivienne and the entire population subjugated and bent to his will. But only after he identified the traitor within his inner circle. Once he’d confirmed that, punishment would be meted out, the delicious possibilities endless.
Once again, he ticked through the list of people closest to him.
Over the past sixteen years, Alec Quinn had earned his trust by working his way up in the organization, from thief to bodyguard to lieutenant. Martel considered the small fortune spent on Quinn’s education smart money. The man always followed through and never made mistakes. When it came to enticing Genevieve to Mallorca, Quinn had been the obvious choice. Martel not only respected Quinn, but honestly liked him. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that he considered him the son he may never have.
Ellis, expatriated from America, reveled in her work as an assassin. She studied the art of killing as she tackled any assignment—with tireless energy and laser-like precision. She reminded him of a thoroughbred racehorse, at times too spirited to control. Loyal, intelligent, and beautiful. Although her judgment could be clouded by her thirst for killing, that talent undeniably came in handy.
Although Quinn handled the extensive background checks and hiring of the security team, Ellis directly supervised them. All the men and women were ex-military with combat experience. The only exception being Cruz Vega, the loco SOB whose fealty lay with Ellis and her alone. Troubling.
That left the alluring Graciela.
For generations, the Belmonte family had worked on the Martel dehesa in Seville. The legendary fighting bulls were large, fierce, and cunning, much like Martel’s grandfather Francisco. As the Martel fortunes flourished, so did the Belmontes’. The two families were tied together by sweat and blood. Diego, Graciela’s brother, had been Martel’s lieutenant until a car accident took his life five years ago.
Martel had often visited the estate and marked Graciela’s transformation from a gangly girl who begged for treats to a stunning young woman. With an unerring eye for talent, he’d hired the fifteen-year-old to model his summer clothing line in an ambitious ad campaign. With her lithe body, mane of dark luxurious hair, and exotic beauty, she became an overnight sensation.
After Diego’s death, Martel comforted the sultry beauty by bedding her and taking her virginity. Since then, he had regarded her as his castellan, with absolute power to handle all administrative duties pertaining to his household and grounds staff. She knew every nuance of his daily routine.
Their fiery temperaments ignited into instant combustion in and out of bed. This was great in the sack—not so much in the day-to-day living. Eventually, Graciela had learned to accept his libertine nature, to co-exist in relative harmony. Impossible to think of Graciela as the traitor. Except…
Graciela’s appearance still excited him as she came into view wearing a fluffy white robe, wet hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun.
“Come, sit next to me,” Martel said, patting the seat beside him.
Ignoring him, she padded to the wine rack, finally settling upon her favorite merlot. Carefully, she uncorked the bottle and poured herself a glass. Taking a seat on the fireplace hearth, she kept the massive coffee table made from a teak tree root between them.
“I had time to examine the security footage from Genevieve’s bedroom on the flight over,” he said. “And guess what I discovered?”
Shrugging her shoulders as though beyond caring, she nonetheless looked wary, like a bird about to be stuffed in a cage.
“You searched her luggage, Graciela? Confiscated her knives, made the room escape-proof. Si?”
Defiantly, she grabbed the fireplace poker and battered it against the hearth. Again and again until she sagged against the wall. “You want to know what’s bothering me, René?” she asked, meeting his gaze. Did you order Diego’s death?”
Martel never shifted his gaze from her. “Your brother died in a car accident—five years ago.”
“Si, you said a car accident killed him.” Her voice rose in agitation. “That is what you told mi familia. But I read the police report two weeks ago. It says someone rammed his car off the road deliberately. A hit-and-run, with no witnesses. Convenient, no? Did you order it?”
“I trusted Diego with my life. I considered him a friend. Why would I want him killed? I read the report when he died,” he said, then added more gently, “I asked Ellis to look into the hit-and-run. I vowed Diego’s death would not go unpunished. But the trail grew cold.”
“He worshipped you. He trusted you,” Graciela said, pushing herself from the wall and pointing a finger at him. “Ellis murdered him. That bitch! I will kill her myself. She was always jealous of your relationship with mi hermano.”
“Enough,” he roared, flying at her. Squeezing her upper arms with both hands, he threw her onto her back on the sofa and lunged atop her, keeping her immobile with his body.
She struggled, trying to kick her way out from underneath him. But he easily pinned her with his leverage and weight.
“Idiota!” he shouted. “You betrayed me because you think Ellis murdered Diego?”
“I have never betrayed you,” she hissed.
“I saw the footage. You missed a set of lock picks in the room. And you are the only person with access to my personal computer.” He moved his hands from her arms to around her neck. “I could kill you,” he said, squeezing until she almost lost consciousness. “But I have a better idea.”
He dragged her to the soundproof safe room he’d built in case of attack. “Think about what you would like to say next during your brief stay,” he said to her prone body, locking the door behind him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
November 28, 2:53 p.m.
Florence, Italy
Sirens screamed through the streets, coming closer to the trattoria.
Blade was in over her head. She should have heeded Vivienne’s warning. Barely escaping with no apparent injuries, she may not be this lucky again.
Get up and run!
Blade grabbed her backpack and stood, swaying to find her equilibrium.
The young girl spoke to her in Italian, motioning to a chair, but Blade knew that if she stayed, the polizia would ask questions that she couldn’t answer, not after the disastrous encounter with the Consulate. They would almost certainly detain her, and she had no time to spare.
Her options were shrinking. She considered returning to Vivienne and the Soldati, but that felt like admitting defeat. What she needed was time—and, most immediately, the freedom to move once she decided on a course of action.
Blade took off at a dead run, turning on a narrow cobblestoned street. There she slowed, not taking the chance of falling on the uneven surface. She came to a T at a busy street. Few tourists could be seen in this depressed and derelict area. An elderly woman trudged into a building smeared with graffiti, its exposed wiring an obvious fire hazard, the windows marred with shutters that were filthy, the peeling paint a barely discernible green.
An underground parking garage lay ahead. Blade hurried into the dark structure. Her arms felt tender to the touch where the man with tattoos had held her. Those hands and every other inch of exposed skin were a sea of color. And the hard-eyed American woman, the blonde, probably from Georgia or the Carolinas, appeared to be the leader.
Blade couldn’t remember when she’d been so sore or tired. Every muscle in her body ached. She sat on the concrete, not caring about the dirt or smell of urine. Little light came in through the garage’s narrow windows, and the dim overhead lighting flickered. It seemed like a place the homeless would wander into overnight. If not offering warmth, it had to be better than sleeping in the elements.
It had only been a few days since her last training session in New Orleans, but she felt wiped out. She yawned and couldn’t seem to keep her eyes open. This isn’t normal. Nothing about her trip was normal. Leaning over, she made a pillow of her crossed arms and closed her eyes. Just a few moments of rest.
An awful, scraping sound—metal against concrete?—snapped her awake. It took a few panicked moments to orient herself. The parking garage. Damn. She’d fallen asleep. That sound, though. It was getting louder.
A ragged man, trailing a shovel behind him, shuffled in her direction. Probably just a panhandler—but why would he be carrying a shovel? And why was he advancing on her? It was obvious he saw her.
“Sei al mio posto!” the panhandler said, raising the shovel above his head. What the hell? It was only then that she noticed a gathered blanket and a battered suitcase tucked away in the corner just behind her. Unintentionally, she had intruded upon his safe place.
“Hey hey hey!” she said, scrabbling away from him, her palms held up as if in surrender.
Time to leave. Working her way around him, she backpedaled out into the street, leaving him grumbling in his cave.
The bright afternoon had turned a cold gray. She’d maybe slept a little more than an hour. Enough to clear the fog from her head. She headed east.
After twenty minutes, she came to a large plaza lined with cafés and high-end shops. Children squealed as they rode a carousel tucked away in the corner. A couple in a horse-drawn carriage ambled by while pigeons scattered out of the way. That’s all it took to summon a lump in her throat, triggered by a vivid memory of her first carriage ride through the French Quarter—a vacation with her father, another attempt to rebuild their relationship, which had only served to draw them further apart. Especially after he’d told her he planned to remarry a woman she’d never met. That had sealed their estrangement.
Blade started across the plaza when she saw a group of men in navy blue uniforms huddled near a van and police car. The Carabinieri. They seemed to be laughing over a joke, relying on their mere presence to serve as a deterrent to thefts or petty crimes.
Seeing no need to take any chances, she turned on her heel and hightailed it in the opposite direction.
Ahead, a woman holding a Hard Rock Cafe shopping bag stood in line before an upscale restaurant. There must be a store nearby. Changing her appearance might buy some time. After turning the corner, she saw the red awning with the iconic logo. She went in wearing borrowed clothing, she came out wearing new black jogging pants and matching hoodie.
Noting an organized group of tourists being led by an Italian woman, Blade drafted behind, close enough for someone to believe she was part of the group, yet hopefully far enough away to escape the tour guide’s notice.
Ten minutes later she stood before a church in awe—Il Duomo.
Hundreds of people filled the square before it, some taking pictures, others on tours, and about a dozen artists at their easels drawing or painting the Gothic structure. Controlled chaos. She’d never seen a church so magnificent. It dwarfed everything in sight. Various shades of green and pink marble tiles, bordered by white marble, adorned its exterior.
The adrenaline that had fueled her since that morning’s kidnapping attempt burned itself out. Exhausted, she longed to lay her head on a pillow and forget the past few days without worrying about something blowing up or being assaulted or meeting her biological mother. Maybe a pillow would be too much to ask for. But just a private space, to think about her limited options. By the look of the line that curved around the church, though, it would be impossible to get inside. There wasn’t even an empty seat at any of the nearby cafés. She dropped her backpack on the ground, dejected.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” an attractive man in his mid-forties said, bending to retrieve a dirty brochure from the pavement.
Wary, Blade scrutinized him. He appeared harmless, but she wouldn’t be taken by surprise again. “It’s unique,” she agreed.
“Ah, American. Happy to meet a fellow countrywoman. Catholic?”
Blade shook her head.
“Well, no one’s perfect,” the man said with a smile. “I’m Father Sean McCann, originally from Minnesota but now a resident at the Vatican. I’m on holiday, but I can’t resist the pull of Italian cathedrals.”
He wore no clerical collar. Dressed in a conservative navy suit with athletic shoes, his wire-rimmed glasses and the leather satchel over one shoulder gave him a scholarly look. “Genevieve Broussard,” she said. “On holiday, too.”
“Here for the tour?”
“It appears I may be too late, if the line is any indicator.”
“Would you like to see the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore? There isn’t an entrance fee to the cathedral itself, and the inside is spectacular.” He winked. “I’ve been here for a few days, and I do have connections.”
“Do you often give tours to perfect strangers?”
“Pope Francis says we’re to be among Christ’s people. To me, that means talking with strangers and being authentic. Perhaps more personal.”
“I’m not a believer. I don’t want to waste your time trying to convert me.”
His contagious laughter brought a smile to her face. “Are you kidding? How often does a guy like me have an opportunity to hang out with an attractive woman like you? I’ll answer that question for you: next to never. Come,” he said, reaching down for her backpack.
“I can carry that,” Blade blurted.
Father McCann, not offended by the brusque response, merely handed it to her.
After entering the cathedral, Blade stopped abruptly, taken aback by its vast expanse and beauty. The high-domed ceilings, the mosaic flooring, the stained glass windows, the marble arches—all worked together to create a place of almost surreal tranquility.
“Not what you expected? I felt the same way the first time I visited. Somehow all the elements blend together to make one feel at peace.”
Father McCann continued to lead her through the church, side-stepping other tourists, but stopped mid-way. “Look behind us. The clock above the main door is liturgical and still works. It’s a one-handed clock that shows the twenty-four hours of the hora Italica, or Italian time, a period of time ending with sunset at twenty-four hours. Used until the eighteenth century.”
“I think you’re more a historical enthusiast than a priest,” Blade remarked as he led her on the tour. Not that she had ever associated with priests or any other religious institutions. Father McCann was an unexpected surprise. She liked him.
He blushed. “Perhaps. I do get consumed when history and architecture collide. I suppose it’s my own form of worship. C’mon, I want to show you the dome.”
Although Blade and Father McCann were about the same height, she found herself hustling to keep up with the exuberant priest. “Look,” he said, pointing to the ceiling. “This is a representation of The Last Judgment and in my humble opinion just as beautiful as Michelangelo’s at the Sistine Chapel. Giorgio Vasari and Federico Zuccari painted this from 1572 through 1579.”
“I could use a pair of binoculars.”
The priest laughed. “I agree. There is one more thing I want to show you before your eyes glaze over.”
Dusk was darkening the interior of the church. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said, “but I really need to get going.”
“Of course,” he said, leaning closer to Blade. “I could help, or try to help, with your situation.”
Blade wondered if priests could read minds or souls. “I don’t have a situation.”
His eyes rested on her forearm. Embarrassed, she pulled her sleeves over the purple bruises already forming.
“You say that you don’t believe, yet God led you here. Fate doesn’t exist. God orchestrates divine interventions. He uses ordinary people like me to do his work on the ground. I’m not here to judge. If you’re in trouble, I can help. Trust me.”
Those two words carried a weight few people understood, much less demonstrated. How she wanted to tell the priest her story, to unburden herself. But she couldn’t draw him into the mess she’d stumbled into through her own greed and bad judgment. She should have stayed home and never set foot on that private jet or accepted the outrageous payout. This was her burden, and she wouldn’t put Father McCann in harm’s way.
