Pierce the Darkness, page 11
part #1 of A Blade Broussard Thriller Series
“Thank you for the offer, but I can take care of myself.”
She practically ran out of the cathedral, as if the very demons of hell were nipping at her heels.
CHAPTER TWENTY
November 28, 3:14 p.m.
Florence, Italy
“Did you think Dr. Pashkov would keep your little secret?” Ellis asked, her sugary drawl setting Alec’s teeth on edge. “I’ve been tracking your tart ever since she escaped.”
Earlier, when he’d told Martel about Blade entering the Consulate, he’d realized the bugger was even more paranoid than usual. This business about Vivienne and Blade continued to push the Spaniard to his limit. While Alec had studied his employer and mentor over the years, learning all he could from a master of finance and manipulation, he’d also observed Martel’s slow decline from fashion magnate to psychotic genius bent on controlling the world through nuclear threats and advanced surveillance techniques. As a consequence, his own life had come to remind him of living in prison—always watching his back, never living his own life. Although Alec could talk his way out of most situations with the man, he felt sure his boss would make him pay for this particular setback. Alec needed both women alive—at least for the time being.
“I’m ordering all of you to leave off,” Alec growled, addressing Ellis’ security team, especially Cruz Vega, the barmy bastard. “I’m handling this situation—my way.”
“I’m head of security,” Ellis said calmly, screwing her silencer into her Sig Sauer P320. “I answer to Martel, not to you.”
Alec had chosen this hotel, west of the Pitti Palace near the Piazza di Santo Spirito church, to meet with Ellis and her team. But after hearing about the botched abduction at the bistro, he needed to sort out exactly what Ellis knew and what Martel might suspect. Tourists stayed away from this area, and the guests kept to themselves. The room, large for an Italian hotel room, featured a living area separate from the bedroom.
Ellis handed the gun to Vega and nodded at the two men riveted to a soccer match on the television.
Before Alec could stop him, Vega shot each man in the back of the head. Brain matter and blood sprayed over the coffee table and rug. Some of the debris splattered on Vega. He didn’t seem to notice, just turned and smiled at Ellis. Their relationship, forged by blood and terror, was dangerous. Not only to Alec, but to the organization. The two could be brash and undisciplined. They were the reason Blade was in the wind.
“You bloody nutters! Martel wants Blade taken alive. You might as well have given her a neon sign saying we can bloody well track her,” Alec shouted. “You’ve brought undue attention to Martel’s business affairs. You will be lucky to make it out of this alive. People have died for much less.”
Ellis looked up sharply. “Martel is becoming distrustful of you, darlin’. Why do you think we’re here?”
“A nightclub entertainer bested the lot of you,” Alec chided. “I reckon Martel will get a kick, hearing about this cock-up.”
He was pleased to see a pall of terror pass over Ellis’s usually smug demeanor. “She’s more like Martel than I had anticipated, I’ll admit. Perhaps he should consider bringing her into the fold. She could be an asset.”
Not a bad idea, Alec thought. Lucky for Vega and his gang of merry men that Blade hadn’t had a knife with her. Would she have the juice to kill someone, though?
Blade was essential to his evolving plan. Unlike his increasingly psychotic boss, he didn’t need to rule the world, only a small portion of it. With Blade in his pocket, Vivienne and her team would take out Martel for him. He presided over the Spaniard’s empire, leaving Martel to run the legitimate side of his business. With Martel gone, he would proceed, business as usual.
Alec grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
“Where are you goin’?” Ellis asked.
“Out to finish the job.”
“I come with you,” Vega said in his halting English.
“You’re not going anywhere with me.”
Vega advanced, his gun still in hand.
“Give me the gun and go take a shower. You’re covered in blood,” Ellis told him. “And Quinn, be careful. You just never know who will sneak up behind you.”
“Oh, I’ve already updated Martel. My advice? Head back to the States. And clean up this damn room.”
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
There was no other choice but to surveil the violin workshop and hope Blade would return.
Alec moved the curtain a fraction of an inch to check the street below. No sign of Blade. She could be cunning, resilient, and willing to take risks. Traits he admired. No one had ever escaped from Martel’s stronghold. He grinned. The cheeky bird was full of surprises.
Streetlights would make it possible to distinguish Blade from the dozens of tourists that raced from one store to another hunting for the perfect souvenir. The stores would be closing soon. That could work to his advantage. Once the plonkers scurried back to their hotels, he would move to the street and work within the shadows to surprise her.
He’d chosen this flat carefully, picking the locks of several contenders before deciding on it. It afforded a perfect view across the street from the violin workshop. After looking through the closets, he surmised that the occupants were an elderly couple that favored floral dresses and white dress shirts. A gallery of family pictures hung on the walls of the living room. Crucifixes and pictures of the Virgin Mary were everywhere else. The devout pair were most likely on holiday, judging by the empty refrigerator and bathroom counter.
Catholics…their Jesus, Mary, the saints, communion. Rubbish, all of it. His mum—or Jackie, as she insisted he call her—had entered a recovery program through the Catholic church when he’d been about twelve. With no family close by, social workers had forced him into foster care. The church extolled the sanctity of life and the family unit. Hypocrites. There was more honor and character among the disenfranchised on the streets than in the foster care system or the church.
Bloody hell. Could Mum still be alive? Such a possibility hadn’t occurred to him in a long while.
Impulsively, he threw a statue of the Virgin Mary across the room. The painted porcelain shattered into bits of fragmented color. The splintering sound echoed in the small confines of the living area. What a stupid blunder. The other tenants of this block of flats probably knew where the occupants were and that no one should be here. He stood, motionless, listening for any doors in the hallway to open. Nosy neighbors could unravel his entire plan. After thirty seconds, he let out a breath. No interruptions.
Earlier, he had dragged an end table to the window when there was still minimal light coming through the lace curtains. He unzipped his rifle case, removed the Remington 700, unfolded the stock, and attached the bipod. He slowed his breathing, holding the butt to his shoulder. Even just preparing to shoot calmed him.
He placed the rifle on the table and commenced to zero the rifle. He adjusted the scope until a young girl came into focus. She extended a hand to touch one of the violins. One pull on the trigger would obliterate the delicate features.
Once again, he scanned the street.
Before long, he let out a repressed sigh. Finally.
Blade drifted up the street, hips gently swaying, eyes observing the area . He smiled as he viewed an old woman slap her husband on the shoulder as he craned his neck to see her backside. Not a bad view, Alec had to agree.
He lost sight of her after she entered the shop. A good operative always knew their surroundings. He felt sure Blade would make a formidable partner, or opponent, depending on how this game played out. He sensed a ruthlessness in her. Life with Blade in it made it more interesting. Desire flooded through him. Her lips on his, her long legs wrapped around him…
His cell phone vibrated in his right jeans pocket. Not the replacement phone Ellis gave him; that was in his left pocket. Martel hired top surveillance talent, operatives who looked more like teenagers than someone who could find anyone at any time. Privacy was extinct, like the bloody dinosaurs. Fortunately, workarounds for Alec’s personal business affairs still existed.
“Is everything going as planned?” a woman’s voice purred on the phone.
Teresa Escobar could be insufferable, but she was pliant and an essential piece to the puzzle. The last time the two had rendezvoused in Paris, she had used her considerable skills to seduce him. He had laughed in her face. As if a bit of tail could turn him into a trained monkey.
“Are you calling me on a secure line?”
“What do you think?” Teresa said. “I’ve been at this game quite a bit longer than you.”
He held back a biting response. “Have you kept your part of the bargain?”
“I don’t want to raise alarms, but that has proven…problematic.”
A headache started to throb in his left temple. Alec put the phone on speaker and began to gently massage both temples, hoping to head off the migraine that too often plagued him under extreme stress.
“Do you need additional funds?” he said, clenching his teeth against a wave of nausea.
“That would help.”
“I’ll transfer them. Keep me informed.”
He disconnected and sat heavily in one of the brocade chairs in the sitting room. He needed to relax. With any luck at all, Martel would kill Vivienne. The Soldati would eliminate Martel. And the attack on the UN would eradicate the loose ends. In Alec’s experience, survival of the fittest prevailed, and there was no one fitter than he.
And what of Blade? He wasn’t ready to address that question.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
November 28, 7:05 p.m.
Florence, Italy
Even though Blade’s feet ached after hours of rambling through the streets of Florence, she couldn’t help but appreciate the city’s beauty as darkness descended upon it like a shroud. None of that could distract her from the unsettling fact that every turn led her back to the Arno River and the Soldati headquarters. Scenario after scenario drew her back to Vivienne and Chase. The only two people who would believe her about the impending attack on the UN, aware of what René Martel was capable of.
Alert for any threat as she walked over the Ponte Vecchio, her eyes scoured over crazed shoppers anxious for their last big buy before shops closed for the evening. How could she hope to tell the good guys from the bad guys? As she approached the Soldati headquarters, she could only hope the knife she carried in her waistband would help compensate should she make the wrong call.
With a surge of relief, she could see the overhead lights shining brightly through the workshop window. The old man stood stoically behind the counter, making eye contact with her. After a slight nod of his head, Blade headed for the narrow stairs to the second floor. She stopped at the same peeling door, except this time, she noticed its sturdy hardwood. Not easy to breach. She knocked on the door and waited.
Confiding in Vivienne rubbed against the grain of her subconscious, yet her mind kept replaying the few minutes with her biological mother. Maybe she’d been rash to flee from her like that. If nothing else, she’d hardly exhibited mastery of her emotions.
The door was opened by a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. He wore an unbuttoned red polo shirt that exposed a deep one-inch ragged scar that seemed to encircle his neck. His eyes, the color of smokey quartz, assessed her from head to toe. She balked at the scrutiny, but stood firm.
“You made it back,” he said with a pronounced British accent.
“Who are you?” Blade blurted. “Part of Vivienne’s muscle?”
“I am the muscle,” he said with a grin. “Thomas Kazir. I lead this band of misfits.” He opened the door wider. “Come in. I’ve sent everyone home, including Vivienne. You caused quite a stir today. I thought everyone could use a little time to…decompress. You look like you could use a drink.”
She followed him in and locked the door. A drink and an airline ticket home.
Thomas followed Blade’s gaze to the inscription above an arched doorway. Lux in tenebris lucet. “The light shines in the darkness,” he translated, leading her into a glass-enclosed conference room. “Words we take seriously.”
Blade released her breath, patience spent. “Okay, Mr. Boss Man. No more games. No more secrets. I think I deserve the truth.”
Thomas poured brandy into two snifters. “Young lady, you don’t deserve any consideration. But, in your case, I can understand how overwhelming this must be for you.”
“Who do you think—”.
“Before you bolt again, I suggest you take a seat and hear me out.” Smiling warmly, he sat across from her and slid a snifter to her. “We are formally known as the Soldati di Cristo, Soldiers of Christ. It’s a mouthful, so we just go by Soldati.”
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Clever words in a movie she’d seen some time ago. Only now, those words carried weight, and there was no denying the price Shen had paid. She didn’t trust anyone, but the Soldati could very well be her ticket to safety—away from Martel and his hit squad.
“Is the Soldati a religious cult?”
“Not a cult, a calling. After the crucifixion, Christians became the target of both the Jewish traditionalists and Roman politicians. In 64 A.D., a fire destroyed much of Rome. Some of the populace believed Emperor Nero started the blaze in order to rebuild the city in the Greek style he preferred, but, being a politician, he shifted the blame to Christians. Believers were fed to dogs, women were tied to bulls and dragged through the streets, and Nero impaled Christians to use as human torches to light his garden parties. From this depravity, the Soldati rose along with its mission: securing the rescue of defenseless and vulnerable Christians.”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” Blade said, hoping her sarcasm masked the sudden lump in her throat. “From my standpoint, you’re no better than Martel. Your Soldati killed people at the villa.”
Anger flickered behind the dark eyes. “Christians are still being killed or persecuted in North Korea, Nigeria, Pakistan, Somalia, just to name a few countries. Boko Haram extremists kidnap children and use them as suicide bombers to target Christian communities. In the past year, nearly six thousand Christians were killed for their faith.”
“The end justifies the means?”
“Not by a long shot. A few of our entrusted brethren don’t agree with our methods or mission. During the course of our work, we never intend to harm anyone. In most cases, we don’t use lethal force. But we do defend ourselves. As commander of the Soldati, all I can do is seek God’s will and soldier on.”
She heard his deep commitment and sorrow. But what he said only reinforced her own feelings about a non-existent God. If there was a God, why would he condone the use of children as suicide bombers, or murder, or the death of her own mother? Belief and trust in God were for fools.
“I didn’t come back here to debate,” she said.
Thomas took a moment before responding. “Why did you come back?”
A psychologist, hired by her parents when she was a teenager, once said people choose what to do with pain. They either retreated, gave in to fear, or fought back. She stood and poured another drink. “I prided myself on being a good judge of character until the past few days. I couldn’t have been more wrong. But my gut tells me to trust you. I need your help. The world needs your help.”
“I’m listening.”
Blade recounted the little she had overheard about the planned attack on the United Nations.
“When is this to take place?” Thomas demanded, rising from his chair.
“They didn’t say. But they mentioned TNA1, and two of his people are already in Geneva.”
“Dear God,” Thomas breathed as he hurried to the door. “Are you coming?” he said, looking over his shoulder at her.
Blade sprang up. “Where are we going?”
“To the war room. I’ll assemble the team, and I need you to tell us every bit of information you can remember. According to news reports in the last few days, the President of the United States will be addressing the UN in seventy-two hours. I don’t know what TNA1 is, but it’s most likely some sort of killing agent like Novichok. Martel could be planning to assassinate your President and every other head of state who attends the meeting.”
Two factions warred within her. One wanted nothing more than to unload her burden and fly home. The other needed to stay and pay Martel back—in full.
“I want to help,” she said, following him out the door. “I want to kick Martel’s ass.”
“We all want a piece of that man,” Thomas said.
Concealed within the headquarter’s second story, soundproof walls protected a state-of-the-art conference room. A massive oval table dominated the space, with a semi-recessed area at each end to accommodate a laptop. Six large LCD screens were affixed to the side and back walls, allowing anyone sitting around the table to view information being shared.
The Soldati might be a centuries-old organization, Blade thought, but they clearly embraced technology.
Thomas had told her to find a seat at the table, then disappeared. Bone weary and feeling out of her element, she felt compelled to choose an inconspicuous seat, but due to the room’s design, no such refuge presented itself. She opted for a chair facing the door, so she’d at least have some warning when someone entered. Just when she was beginning to feel she’d been purposefully marooned or forgotten, Thomas showed, followed by a young Asian woman whose venomous eyes locked on Blade as she sat at the laptop closest to the door. Hatred sparked from the woman like a touch of a finger connecting to a live electrical switch plate. It momentarily baffled Blade, but she steeled herself for the even more difficult interaction to come.
Thomas cleared his throat, and as if on cue, Chase, Vivienne, Luc, and Finn trooped into the room. Vivienne and Luc sat opposite her. With no way to escape Vivienne’s probing stare, Blade turned her chair to face Thomas, who stood directly at the head of the table. The two other men sat behind her, but she didn’t want to chance a glance to see who sat next to her.
