Too Secret Service: Part Two

by Declan Finn

Blaine smiled. “Don’t worry, we have three guns between Jennifer and me.”

  Koenig chuckled. “Upper right drawer.”

  The ITF agent cocked his head and pulled open the indicated desk drawer. He made a sharp gasp as he saw the weapon. He lifted it out for further inspection. It couldn’t accurately be called a gun—more like a cannon. His hand looked like a child’s next to a Howitzer. The weapon had to be at least a .50-caliber pistol and looked large held in both of Blaine’s hands. It was silver, spotless and gleamed as though it had never been fired.

  “Whoa.”

  “That’s the general idea,” agreed the giant, amiably.

  * * * *

  Catherine casually strolled up to the altar as the procession moved out. She could already hear the “cops” start to spread out all over the Basilica. If the carabiniere uniformed souls had actually left the Basilica, that would be one thing, but spreading out could only prove the suspicious nature of cops gathering all at one Mass.

  Williams calmly watched from the back of the church as the carabinieri walked into the aisles. Two went up the central aisle. They were probably going to take up defensive positions of some sort in case someone prematurely stumbled upon them. Checking once over his shoulder to make sure no one was behind him—the priests had all gone—he pulled out his weapon and casually aimed at the center two killers. Wayne swept his arm from left to right and fired four rounds, one into each shoulder, ruining any chance either one would be able to lift a gun. He fired into a third killer off to his left.

  The hunchback at the altar turned and his eyes locked on Wayne. With an “Oh shit,” he pivoted on a crutch and ran to the altar with both crutches over his head, running with his back straight. Catherine pulled out her weapon and rushed him, firing as she bound up the altar steps like a gazelle. A bullet zinged right in front of him. He turned, dropping one crutch and fell to his knees behind the altar, bringing the pad of the crutch to his shoulder and looking down the barrel at the charging assassin, almost like it was a gun. On instinct, Catherine threw herself to the side as the end of the crutch let loose a stream of bullets that blew apart the front two pews.

  These guys watch too much A-Team, Catherine thought as she hit the marble steps of the altar. When the hunchback ducked back behind the marble, Catherine knew the fake carabinieri would cut her down on the open marble with no cover.

  * * * *

  Williams leapt behind the door frame as his third victim hit the ground, lead filling the air where he had been a moment before. He blind-fired around the doorway and hit two shooters. He heard the sound of automatic fire and knew that someone else fired at Catherine. She was the open target, everyone would first turn their priorities toward her.

  Wayne wouldn’t wait for the fake police to change their focus. He ran out behind the last pew and kept firing, making himself the greater threat. An unexpected piece of Jesuit-taught trivia ricocheted through his mind: a murder in a church is a desecration requiring a full re-consecration. It wasn’t exactly something he wanted to do, but under the circumstances, he figured God—and il Papa—would understand. His first five shots were spread over three more people. After his first five running steps, he leapt to floor at the end of the pew, letting the wood cover him. The shooters had a great disadvantage: they were spread down one aisle with limited cover and their adversaries had surprise.

  Catherine rolled over to face the gunmen and her imminent death, ready to shoot. To her surprise, she found all of them firing at Wayne, who ran across the field of fire like a target at the FBI’s Hogan’s Alley, blasting away like someone in a bad Jackie Chan movie.

  She fired three rounds, hit three killers, and rolled back toward the altar, a round bouncing off the marble. The hunchback wasn’t there anymore.

  Where the heck did he go— Under the altar!

  Catherine pushed off the marble steps and rushed toward the altar, sure in the knowledge the hunchback was going to literally bring the Vatican hilltop down from the inside of the hill.

  * * * *

  Wayne counted three more shots that sounded like they had come from Catherine’s gun.

  That’s two in the center aisle, I nailed three running behind the pew, and possibly two while I fired from the doorway, add Catherine’s three, and the third one I killed in the opening volley, and we have eleven killers down from twenty…I wonder how many realize there’s an empty space under the pews?

  Wayne backed away from the pew a little and glanced underneath, seeing a straight line between him and the knees of one gunwoman who had slid behind another pew farther down for cover. All of them seemed to think of the pews as a solid barrier to hide behind. He reached under the pew and angled his gun slightly upward, firing the last four shots in his gun.

  The gunwoman went down without a sound in the noise of the constant firing. The pew splintered above him as the killers returned fire. He slammed a fresh cartridge into the gun and loaded the chamber. Williams crawled on his stomach and glanced around the corner. Another gunman hanging half out in the aisle, crouched down low. Wayne snapped off a round at his side and pulled behind the pew, crawling beneath the streams of lead. He slowly slid away as the heat from the bullets scorched his hair and splinters showered his skull.

  Hope Catherine is having more fun than I am.

  Catherine stopped at the entrance beneath the altar in a crouch. The gate had been blasted open by the bomber’s weapon. She recalled this led to the burial ground of St. Peter the Apostle, and they had recently found interconnecting chambers to the rest of the underground catacombs in an entire network of tunnels. The man with the bomb could go anywhere inside them and come out at any other end. She could never find him like that.

  Catherine reached inside her pocket and grabbed a handful of change. She knelt to the side of the altar and threw the coins into the entrance. She pulled her hand back just as the stream of bullets cut through the air where it had been. She blind-fired into the passage, sweeping the gun from side-to-side in a vain attempt to nail the bastard, or at least discourage him.

  The chamber slid open as her magazine emptied. She pulled back from the entrance. Catherine listened carefully for return fire over the sounds of the bullets in the background. Nothing. She quickly reloaded and swung her legs over in front of her, then around and down into the entrance. Her feet landed on the stairs and she pulled herself in with her legs and launched herself off the top step into the darkness. She landed and rolled along the floor, stopping just before a wall. She snapped her gun up before her. Nothing in the dark.

  Dark? She wondered. This is the first floor going down to St. Peter’s grave. They’ve led tours down here, for God’s sake. There have to be lights!

  She slowly stood, feeling out along the floor with her foot. She hit a piece of metal, heard it scrape along the floor. She bent down and reached out for it. It was a crutch.

  This one must’ve run out of ammo… which still leaves another one, not to mention what other artifacts he may have on him.

  She swept the room with her eyes, keeping her gun in front of her at all times. She remembered there were two more floors beneath this one. The floor below this was called the crypt of Peter, but he was a floor lower, his bones buried in the wall. The opposite wall was the one she had to worry about: it had the entrance into the rest of the catacombs.

  * * * *

  Wayne made it to the opposite end of the pew from the killers. They still fired at his last position, none of them having realized that they had a line of sight directly to him, had they only dropped to the floor and fired beneath the pews. He fired off two rounds, blowing out a set of kneecaps.

  Wayne cautiously backed into the center aisle, crawling on his stomach. Once certain the central aisle was at least as wide as he was tall, he rolled down the center aisle, both arms and gun flat against his body. He rolled past the pews so fast he bypassed a gunman who was brave enough to run toward where Williams had been.

  The man Wayne had kneecapped w
as in the next pew. Wayne lifted his body up on his elbows, put a final bullet in him and rolled along. The silenced pistol couldn’t be heard over the barrage. There wasn’t much of a back pew left to hide anyone anymore.

  Wayne pushed on, doing the same to the next gunman in the pew five up.

  “He ain’t here!” a voice bellowed.

  The shooting stopped.

  Wayne rolled faster, shooting another two gunmen. The second one was knocked into the aisle by the impact. The Secret Service agent rolled faster, knowing the body would give away his location. Three of them ran past him as he rolled in the opposite direction. He stopped and pulled his feet under him. He braced one hand against the floor, waiting for all of them to be gathered at one place.

  “Crap,” he heard on of them mutter. “Spread out, find the muther—”

  Wayne leapt up in the middle of him cursing and fired eight shots, two for each. The four killers fell to the floor without protest.

  Williams gave a heartfelt sigh, and put his gun back in his shoulder holster, looking around at the devastation before him, twenty bodies in hall, seventeen by his own hands.

  They’re going to have to re-consecrate this place, he thought as he collected Catherine’s purse. I can just see the next time I go to confession. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been six months since my last confession. Since then, I have blown away seventeen people in St. Peter’s.” I’ll be saying rosaries until the next Pope’s elected, self-defense or not.

  He stepped out into the courtyard of St. Peter’s and took a deep breath.

  Then three dozen rifle bolts locked into place, level to his chest.

  Chapter 37

  Catherine walked slowly through the catacombs beneath the Vatican. She kept her body pressed against the wall—or the crypt, whatever was there at the time.

  Where in God’s name is this guy? Catherine cringed at the bad pun, considering where she was. She moved on, coming to an intersection of two tunnels.

  Catherine closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the silence around her. There was no sound of breathing, no rats scuttling along the floor—

  Except for that big one I just heard in the tunnel to my left.

  Catherine turned as she dropped to one knee, barely avoiding the bullet that singed her hair. She fired once into the catacomb, catching the fake hunchback in the left shoulder. The kick of the impact sent him spinning down the hallway and out of the assassin’s line of sight. Catherine pulled back into her hallway, pistol clasped firmly in both hands. She took a deep breath and pushed herself forward, running into the darkness faintly illuminated by light bulbs strung along the wall.

  Wait, no one runs away from a .45-caliber bullet just like that. But he did. Otherwise, where else would he—

  Catherine threw herself onto the ground an instant before the gun fired. She rolled to a stop, facing the way she had come. The hunchback stood next to a crypt. Spider webs hung from his fake crutch. He had been knocked into a crypt and she had run right by him.

  Damn! she cursed herself as she brought the gun to bear. He ran back into the other hall. Stupid—she fired—stupid—again—stupid.

  “I’m pissed now, you Goddamned sonuvabitch!” she yelled. She rose to her feet, attempting to maintain calm. The hunchback only had two ways to go, up or sideways. If he ran back toward the Basilica, Wayne would have him for lunch. If he ran deeper into the catacombs—which she suspected he would—then she’d finished him soon enough.

  Catherine sighed. Why do I feel like I’ve walked into an Indiana Jones movie?

  Catherine calmly strolled back toward the hall she came from. The hall ahead would take her away from the Vatican, somewhere towards its edge, possibly. Left into the catacombs, or right to St. Peter’s?

  After a moment of thought, Catherine raised the pistol in front of her and fired. Off to her left, return fire echoed from down the hall.

  Moron.

  * * * *

  Wayne had a bizarre feeling this wasn’t going to be his most favorite trip to Rome. He opened one eye and stared down the rifles in front of him. The men in black outfits didn’t look happy.

  The one in front, a brawny man about Wayne’s height said, in Italian, “Vatican Security Service. Get down on the ground.”

  Williams just looked at the man with his marble blue eyes. “Secret Service.” He slowly lifted one arm, two fingers open. “Could I get my identification?”

  The leader nodded once, never letting the gun waver. Wayne slowly pulled out his ID and handed it over. One of the subordinates took it. He looked to his superior and nodded confirmation, giving him a glimpse of the ID folder. The big man relaxed. “They told us the advanced team wasn’t going to stop here for another two weeks!” he growled.

  Wayne took his identification back and tucked it away. “I’m on vacation; the advance team hasn’t arrived yet. I just want to get a look around so I know where I’m going when the rest of the team arrives.”

  “But the Basilica isn’t on the Presidential tour,” the leader noted accusingly.

  Wayne shot him a For God’s sake look. “Can I be allowed to go to Church?” He waved it away. “Look, enough of this. Lei ha venti corpi nella Basilica.”

  The leader’s eyes widened. Twenty dead guys? In St. Peter’s? He looked at his men and jerked his head toward the church and they poured in.

  “By the way,” he said, hefting his gun, “I’m Rafael Figlia.”

  Wayne nodded. “Wayne Williams.”

  Rafael Figlia frowned, then radioed in. Wayne understood his name. A female voice responded.

  Was that Italian laced with hints of Brooklyn? And since when do the Swiss Guards hire women?

  Rafael nodded and walked after his men, only to have Wayne put a hand on his chest to pull him aside. “I also have a…”—Wayne hesitated at the word choice—“…friend down in the catacombs after the last one. He’s got a bomb on him.”

  The larger man gave him an odd look. “A ‘friend’?” he asked with the suspicion ingrained into any good soldier whose sole purpose in life was to protect one person.

  Williams gave him a convincing glare, his marble-blue eyes burning with anger. “Listen, my sex life is my business. But she’s down there with a gun and a guy with a bomb on his back, so you had better chuide la boca and tell me where the hell the catacomb leads to from here.”

  “The closest place I know is the chapel.”

  Wayne patted his shoulder like he was his best friend, murmured “Grazie, signore,” and ran off toward the Sistine chapel.

  Rafael watched Wayne take off like a madman and shook his head. Americans. Pazzo, every one of them. Could be worse, could have been Irish. He shuddered at that thought and walked into the Basilica.

  * * * *

  Catherine never let her heels touch the ground as she ran after the hunchback. She followed the trail of footprints he had made in the dust on the floor.

  Before she turned right with the footprints, she stopped and looked around the corner. The hunchback started to take the raincoat off his hump, probably about to set the weapon under the stairs so the tons of marble above would shield it from any detection. She carefully took aim, desperately not wanting to hit an ancient Russian device whose quality of design was suspect at best. The bomber straightened out, about to slip the coat from his shoulder. Catherine pulled the trigger an instant after the overbalanced killer fell over onto his back.

  “Shit!” Catherine cursed. She set her sights lower and found herself looking down the barrel of his second crutch. The assassin pulled back around the corner. The wall let out an air of marble dust from the bullet strike. Catherine edged farther into the corridor. She didn’t know how much the bulletproof long johns would take, and she suspected that the crutch fired bullets well over fifty caliber. An impact from a shell that size would kick her old boyfriend halfway across a room, perhaps farther.

  With her left hand, she reached out across the way, feeling her way back
ward as she kept her eyes on the wall. Another cloud of dust exploded into the air with the whip-crack of a bullet close behind. Her hand came across something, and she spared a quick glance to see that she had actually grabbed a tibia off a skeleton.

  The crunch of boots from behind her made her whip around with the bone. The thighbone caught a piece of glistening steel. The piece of steel was long and thin, connecting to another piece just like it. Catherine spun away, not particularly anxious to find out what that metal was. As she spun, her right hand collided with the wall, knocking her pistol out of it.

  Catherine got enough distance from the bomber to note what he had in his hand could have come off of a set of old fashioned leg braces—which just happened to be what he had on. She switched the bone to her right hand and set her right foot straight in front of her and the back foot perpendicular.

  The bomber smiled and nodded in appreciation. Perfect fencing position.

  But with a bone?

  The bomber lashed out with the razor-sharp metal like it was a set of nunchakus. Catherine parried, catching the blade in the bone. She pulled down and away, wrenching the weapon away in one smooth arc, at the end of which the blade set went flying out into the darkness behind her. She whipped the bone back toward his head, only to find he had half-pivoted, letting the bomb on his back intercept the blow. He swept his arm down like a pendulum and knocked the makeshift weapon to shatter against the wall. He rushed her, slamming his shoulder into her and lifting her off the floor.

  Her assailant ran back around the corner while Catherine went flying. She landed on her hands and did a quick back flip, easily landing on her feet. She rushed forward and dove toward her fallen gun. She scooped it up as she landed, rolling head over heels into the intersecting passage, gun at the ready. The bomber was already halfway up the stairs.

  Quick bastard, ain’t he?