Pierce the Darkness, page 8
part #1 of A Blade Broussard Thriller Series
Blade sat on the bed and threw the borrowed clothes across the room.
For years, she had rarely thought of her adoption. Marie and Dominique Broussard were her parents—plain and simple. With the possibility of Vivienne Martel as her biological mother, Blade acknowledged a morbid curiosity about the circumstances surrounding her adoption. But being forced to meet with Vivienne rankled her.
As did Alec Quinn’s betrayal. That hit bone-deep. A mistake that could have cost her life. It also left her second-guessing her judgment. Chase seemed sincere. But in her current situation, living by her emotions was a weakness she couldn’t afford. The lives of hundreds, possibly thousands, depended upon her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
November 28, 8:45 a.m.
Florence, Italy
Chase maneuvered the Land Rover through traffic along the Arno River. Luc rode shotgun, intent on sending a text message on his phone. Blade ignored both men as she absorbed the beauty of Florence, an oasis of earthy pigments—mustard, umber, and sienna. She felt transported back in time to the Renaissance, where Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo created works that would ultimately endure for centuries. A shame she would not be here long enough to partake of the city’s history and culinary delights.
Being safely on the ground did not dispel her fear or mistrust of the people who held her. If anything, it made her a static target. Something she was familiar with.
Minutes ticked by. She did not have time to waste sitting in the back of an SUV crawling through morning traffic. Not to mention being forced to meet Vivienne.
All I need is one chance, one second to bust out of here.
After a few cursory orders at a private airstrip in Spain, neither man deemed it necessary to speak to her. Except for the occasional glance from Chase in the rearview mirror, she might have been invisible. She preferred the quiet. Admittedly, being a professional impalement artist didn’t seem the best choice for an introvert.
As they drew nearer to city center, the lure of freshly baked pastries and cappuccinos brought scores of tourists from their hotel rooms. The windshield glistened in the morning sunlight. A new day, a bright beginning for most people. For Blade, it was another chance to stick René Martel to the wall, while at the same time stopping a plot to kill hundreds at the UN. Although she had no tangible evidence against Martel, it would be a relief to report what she knew. With a clear conscience, life would go back to normal.
The car slowed to a near stop as pedestrians crossed the street. This was the break she’d been waiting for. Blade pulled on the door handle.
Damn child safety locks.
“We’ll be at our headquarters in a few minutes,” Luc said. “Here, put this on.” He threw something black in her direction.
Blade held it out before her. A black hood, suitable for a kidnap victim. Enough with this crap. “I’m not putting this on. Unlock the door, I’m getting out here,” she ordered.
A blue and white Lamborghini with the Polizia insignia rolled past. Desperate, she pounded against the window, trying to gain the attention of the officer behind the wheel.
Luc twisted around, locking his hand around her forearm, and attempted to pull her away from the unwelcome stares of onlookers.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, whipping her fist up and around, catching him on the cheek.
“Help!” she screamed against the closed window.
“Stai zitto,” Luc said, half his body now in the back seat. “Shut up, or I will knock you out.”
Chase accelerated, honking the horn at the stragglers who still blocked the street. He turned left as Blade grappled with the older man. Two blocks away, he braked—hard.
“Enough!” Chase shouted.
They froze, and his laser-like eyes bored into hers. “We’ve lost a good man on our mission to rescue you. Whether you like it or not, you are going to meet with Vivienne. I strongly suggest you play nice for a few more hours.”
The car moved back into traffic. Vivienne may be her biological mother, but she didn’t owe the woman anything. The fabric of her life was slowly unraveling because of her purported relationship with this stranger. She would meet the woman and leave. With any luck—and, she reminded herself, with plenty of money in her bank account—she’d be on a plane to New Orleans by midnight.
Vivienne slid the cell phone back in her jeans’ back pocket and resumed pacing the length of the conference room. Genevieve would be here within minutes. Her chest constricted, a dull pressure that reminded her of loss—and excitement.
Marie had sent periodic reports and pictures of the girl through the years, but when she died, Dom stopped all communication. Vivienne nonetheless managed to keep track of the rising star, and was proud when Genevieve captured the International Knife-Throwing Championship. She’d even bought a plane ticket to New Orleans, but canceled it the next day.
According to Luc, Genevieve was combative and angry. Of course, who wouldn’t be? She could have been killed. As a senior member of the Soldati who had pressed the team into attempting the rescue, Vivienne accepted full responsibility for Shen’s death.
She pounded the wall with a fist. Her brother was a bastard. Fear had dictated her choices nearly thirty years ago. Not anymore. René fed on the innocent and vulnerable like a parasite. Spyāniẏārḍa. That one word had set her soul on fire. Unwittingly, from that moment, Vivienne had set into motion this particle of time. Somehow, in the midst of her desire for revenge, he had uncovered her most coveted secret. She should have known he would find Genevieve.
She leaned her forehead against the cold window overlooking the city. A tear, like a drop of rain, lazily rolled down her cheek. Vivienne closed her eyes and remembered the most important day of her life. Heavy rain had pelted the hospital window as she pushed Genevieve into the light. She held her daughter close and inhaled the sweetness of her newborn baby. Entrusting her delicate little girl to someone else to raise tore her soul into shreds. It was as if heaven itself were spilling the tears that she could not. Reason had forced her to give Genevieve away, the only and best protection for her daughter. But on rainy days, she allowed herself the luxury of fantasizing about her daughter. In her reverie, they would meet at her recently purchased villa in Tuscany, sipping sangria under a waning afternoon sun, sharing stories of their separate lives.
She shook her head. Not like this. Not under an umbrella of coercion and death. What could she possibly say to her daughter? I’m sorry I gave you up for adoption, but that was the only way I could protect you. This sounded trite. Focus on the motivating fact before them: My brother is a psychopath who will stop at nothing to destroy me. Genevieve had already experienced his insatiable need for control…and revenge.
A hand fell gently on her shoulder.
“It will all work out, Vivienne,” Thomas said. “God is in control.”
“Is he, Thomas? Sometimes I wonder,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I never wanted to involve Genevieve in my life. I should have sent René to hell years ago, before meeting you, before the adoption. I could have led an ordinary life.”
“You’re not a murderer,” Thomas said, standing shoulder to shoulder with his vice commander.
“I’ve killed people. I can never explain that away.”
“We kill in self-defense. The Soldati di Cristo vow to protect persecuted Christians. Period. Sometimes that includes someone’s death. It haunts all of us, but it is necessary. Think of the countless people the Soldati have saved for two millennia. We have been called to serve and are willing to sacrifice our own life for others. There is no stronger love. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
As if sensing Vivienne’s anguish, dark, heavy clouds blocked the sun, leaving a morning filled with secrets and lies. Even the rust-colored dome of Il Duomo di Firenze seemed diminished in the distance.
René posed a real threat to Genevieve. His life must be forfeited for her daughter’s.
At any price.
During her investigation into the Spaniard’s activities, Vivienne wasn’t surprised by the increasing atrocities he’d ordered. Even as a boy, he could not control his compulsion to torture those around him through manipulation and lies. Age had only refined his true nature. At her brother’s core lay a coward’s heart. Given his penchant for notoriety and adulation, he would not hide forever.
A life for a life.
Vivienne turned to her friend. “What if Genevieve hates me? What if I lose her for a second time?”
“She’s an intelligent young woman. Put yourself in her place. Genevieve has been thrust into a predicament she didn’t expect, nor does she understand. We will help her put these events into perspective. Give her the only things of importance you have to give: the truth and your love. Her soul will understand. It may take a while for her mind to catch up.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
November 28, 9:11 a.m.
Florence, Italy
The Land Rover stopped in the middle of a narrow street flanked by two multi-storied buildings. The neighborhood appeared to be part of a vibrant mixed-use block of retail storefronts, apartments, and cafés. Shopkeepers were beginning to open their roll up industrial doors for the eager tourists hunting for souvenirs.
“Don’t say one word,” Luc warned as he pulled Blade out of the car. His hand kept a tight grip on her forearm as they approached two solid varnished wooden doors that looked as if they could withstand a siege. A modern-day keypad marred the ancient façade of the stone building.
Entering, she was disconcerted to see dozens of violins displayed for sale. Not what she expected. Behind a wooden counter, a half-dozen men and women worked on violins in various stages of development. Fumes of varnish and wood shavings filled the air, reminding her of her father’s workshop. As a teenager, he’d helped her fashion a custom ax handle for her first international competition. She had thought this would bring them closer together. It hadn’t.
A young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, looked up from playing a red violin as Luc unceremoniously pressed her toward wooden stairs. An older man behind a sales counter appeared unfazed by the intrusion.
The cry of the violin carried upward as they climbed two flights to a landing. The wooden stairs and balustrade looked reasonably new, but the plaster walls, cracked and crumbling, were in serious need of repair.
The pair halted at an old, peeling door that reminded her of a voodoo shop she had visited upon moving to New Orleans. Then, as now, she was afraid of what lay behind the closed door. Curiosity about a strange milieu had driven her to turn the doorknob that day. Behind that door, she’d found an assortment of charms, gris-gris, candles, and other oddities that made her feel like exactly what she was: an outsider looking into a realm she didn’t understand. She felt the same queasy sensation over the prospect of meeting Vivienne and coming to terms with a truth she didn’t understand—yet.
Luc pressed the buzzer and the latch opened automatically. Blade wasn’t sure what to expect behind the door, but it wasn’t this. The interior elements combined patched plaster walls and arched doorways with glass walls separating work spaces. Dark walnut wood flooring covered the entire area. The juxtaposition of old-world and modern industrial worked within the cavernous space.
About a dozen people either sat at computer stations or gathered in workgroups with tablets in hand. Some glanced in their direction, but most went about their business.
Luc ushered her into an austere conference room, where he shoved her into a chair. “Stay there,” he ordered as he backed out of the room.
I will get even with you before I leave Florence.
In defiance, she walked to the window to canvas the area. From this vantage point, she gazed upon a vista of terra-cotta rooftops spreading out from the Arno River. Her eyes drank in the beauty of Florence. A red-domed cathedral dominated the city sprawl—a tribute to the great Renaissance period that moved the world from the Middle Ages to modernity. Years ago, when she attended an Art History course at UC San Diego, the instructor showed slides of Michelangelo’s David, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, and Donatello’s Penitent Magdalene. Despite the pull of this ancient city and its treasures, she longed for home. The Spanish moss hanging from mighty oak trees, the Mississippi lumbering through New Orleans, even the roughnecks at Gators.
“Genevieve,” a woman said behind her.
Blade whipped around.
Vivienne stood, a sliver of sunlight bathing her in light. Slowly, she closed the door behind her.
Blade found it hard to swallow past the lump in her throat as she gazed upon the stranger who claimed to be her mother. Casually dressed in jeans, a white oxford shirt, and boots, Vivienne looked more like her sister. Dark brown hair, drawn into a rope braid, fell over her left shoulder.
Forming words felt like an impossibility as a riot of emotions clashed with each other. What did you say to the woman who gave you away at birth? She’d rarely thought about her adoption or biological donors, but for what felt like the first time in her life, words literally escaped her. She stood there feeling like a child, lost and alone.
“My daughter,” Vivienne said in a hushed tone, as if she knelt in a confessional.
“I’m not your daughter,” Blade lashed out. “My mother died ten years ago.”
“Disculpa, I did not mean to imply a relationship. I’m only happy to meet you—after these many years.”
Anger, remorse, uncertainty, betrayal, love, hate. Rampant emotions suffocated her. As a teen, after the accidental drowning of a friend, Blade’s parents had taken her to a psychologist to better cope with and control events in her life. She was taught to recognize the downward spiral that could derail her personally and professionally. Blade needed to end this interview before she exploded.
“I wish I could say the same,” she said. “You forced me here. Your brother threatened me. And your friends aren’t much of an improvement. I want to forget I ever met René Martel or any of you. I want my life to go back to normal.”
Normal. The word hung in the air like a half-deflated balloon. “As long as René is alive, your life is in danger. You will stay with me until he is stopped.”
“Stay with you?” Blade repeated. “For how long?”
Vivienne took a tentative step in her direction, arm outstretched. Blade couldn’t think beyond her breath, which came in short, clipped gasps. A jackhammer pounded in her chest. The room shrank. Her vision narrowed. She grabbed her bag and brushed past Vivienne.
She needed air.
Blade jerked the door open and ran along the bare hallway into the heart of the building. People, alarmed at the sudden intrusion in their office space, stopped their activity. Chase appeared between her and the exit leading to the stairs, his feet planted, the only formidable obstacle standing between her and freedom.
Men often discounted her ability, assuming women could not compete with them in a fight. Her Savate instructor, always a realist, encouraged women to take advantage of this weakness—seize the initiative, and never fight fair. Blade had needed little encouragement to integrate this detail into her training. She closed the distance between herself and Chase at a run and sucker-punched him in the groin, leaving him bent over and sucking in air.
Blade needed to run, leave, find someone who could help. Tourists stopped browsing and turned in her direction as she leaped over the last two steps. Near the door, the young boy played a haunting melody, setting her nerves on edge. No one followed her outside. Recalling the view from her vantage point upstairs, people congregated around the Arno, a perfect location to lose herself. Surely, among the hundreds of people on the streets, at least one person could tell her where to find the American Consulate.
“What are you looking at?” Chase growled at his fellow Soldati. They scattered, leaving the former Navy Seal alone.
With hands on knees, Chase tried to catch his breath. Bested by a nightclub performer. He’d never live this down.
He stood up and closed his eyes, willing the wave of nausea to pass. Blade was a fighter, an independent thinker. If truth be told, he didn’t blame her for running. He would have done the same thing.
Luc chuckled as he slapped him on the back. “I wish someone had recorded that. You forgot one basic rule: never underestimate your opponent.”
“Found that entertaining?” Chase croaked.
“She is Vivienne’s daughter. I expected nothing less.”
“Did anyone go after that hellion?” Chase said.
“It happened so fast. That girl doesn’t just pack a punch, she can move,” Luc said, grinning. “Don’t blame yourself. She’ll be back. That firecracker will want to hear the truth from Vivienne. Of that, I’m sure, my friend.”
“She’s no girl. She’s a full-grown woman, and trouble. What if she goes to the Carabinieri? We’re a clandestine organization, remember?”
Luc stared at the younger man. “You’re right. If she goes to the Carabinieri, our entire organization could be blown. We have to find her. Any ideas?”
“Probably straight into a crowd, then the police.”
“No,” Vivienne said, sliding up behind them. “She’s scared. And she doesn’t know who to trust. She will go to the one place she feels safe.”
The two men said in unison, “Home.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
November 28, 11:17 a.m.
Florence, Italy
Alec Quinn smiled at his ace in the hole.
The red dot on his cell phone moved through Ponte Vecchio, the centuries-old bridge over the Arno River. From appearances, the bridge looked more like tenant apartments than a place to buy artwork or jewelry. The oil painting he’d purchased while on holiday the previous year from one of the vendors there hung in his flat in Barcelona. He bought anything he fancied. Living on crumbs in Liverpool’s slums had given him an apparently bottomless appreciation for the luxurious life Martel offered.
