A Pius Legacy: A Political Thriller (The Pius Trilogy Book 2)

by Declan Finn

  The dark form moved through the gray halls, mostly just avoiding being seen. There was no major conflict to be had there, not just yet. The first step would be to find, isolate, and secure the target before the shooting started.

  She came to one door that looked perfect for a cell.

  * * *

  Ryan heard the metal door creaking open and scurried over the examination table, taking the newly cobbled together vest with him.

  The first thing he saw was a gun poking out through the doorway, low to the ground. Ryan adjusted his aim for someone who was crouched, and cautious.

  Then there was a blur as the newcomer rolled into the room, and Ryan ducked behind the exam table, and popped up around the other end, in time to look down the barrel of a gun.

  He blinked, looked the other up and down, and said, “So, Manana, you wear a lot of bikinis do you?”

  Manana smiled. “Sort of.”

  “I figured.”

  As Ryan rose from behind the table, she blanched. Manana looked at him in horror. Ryan had multiple scars that ran up his body from the ankles. He’d had four major scars on the inside of his upper thigh. There was also a scar she recognized as the mark of an appendectomy, not to mention several obvious burn marks, and unless they came up with cigars that were the size of a Howitzer cannon, he’d been burned by the sort of flames in a house fire.

  Off of her look, he said, “You get trapped inside a burning Orc suit that wasn’t supposed to be on fire, see how you fare.” He looked over Manana. “Your guards were too large, too? Damnit, I feel like an idiot, running around naked, killing people.”

  “How do you think they’ll feel? They’re being killed by naked people.”

  He frowned as he slung the vest over his shoulders. “Didn’t your guard at least have a shirt?”

  “Yes, but he was a Slav,” Manana said.

  “Don’t you mean slob?” Ryan asked.

  “Slob, Slav, what’s the difference?”

  Ryan arched a brow and smiled. “Not that you’re bigoted or anything.”

  “I’m Russian, it’s considered a charming ethnic quirk to be innocently ignorant. Didn’t you ever see the movie Borat?”

  He grimaced. “No, I’d have more fun having my teeth extracted. By the way, did you have a chat with the gang leader?”

  She shook her head. “Just the one who intended to torture me. Why?”

  “It seems that your father is still alive.”

  She sighed. “Of course he is. If he stayed dead, that would have been easy.”

  She checked her weapon, then, moved towards the other two guards Ryan had killed. “I can only assume that he’s the one behind all of this.”

  She turned over the first guard. Ryan had stripped him clean of anything useful.

  “You certainly do a good job,” she muttered. She rose and slipped on the second vest as she moved to the dead French doctor and relieved him of his lab coat to wrap around her body. “Did he tell you what was the point of going after us?”

  Ryan braced himself up against the wall, looking through the slight opening. “Your father is under the impression that I’m the only person on the planet crazy enough to try and rescue the Pope.” He glanced back at her as she used a belt to wrap around her body. “And he’d torture us for the Pope’s personal viewing pleasure.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He is so predictable.”

  * * *

  Ioseph blinked at the Pope’s statement. “I did not think you would be threatening me.”

  “I am not.” The Pope smiled. “But if I broke because you were torturing Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan, he would hunt me down and kill me himself. Then you. Right now, only you are the one in danger, especially if you let him go. Besides, you would kill him anyway, once I cooperated fully.”

  Mikhailov frowned. “But you would put an end to his suffering.”

  “You do not seem to know my faith,” Pius answered. “To live is the greatest gift anyone can have, no matter in what form. If I gave in so you could stop torturing Sean and Manana, I would be effectively killing them myself. So, as the children say, ‘Go to Hell.’”

  “Ha! I think that you, sir, will—”

  The door creaked open.

  * * *

  The shadowy form pushed open the door slowly, only to look down the barrels of two guns. “Hello. About time I found you.”

  Ryan and Manana lowered their guns.

  “Maureen?” Ryan asked. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Saving you.” The woman in black tugged off the balaclava. Maureen McGrail’s green eyes flicked between Ryan and Manana, lingering several seconds on each of them. “Villie picked up some other signals, so we thought the bunker was a feint to hide the Pope elsewhere.”

  She smiled at Manana. “Your man Scott had a chat with Cardinal Canella, who confessed that Mikhailov has a base in Northern Belgium, and Deaglan Lynch had a report that they were holed up in an abattoir, also in Belgium.”

  Ryan frowned. “A slaughterhouse.”

  “Aye. This is the only one we could ID. I came in first to secure the Pope, or any other hostages.”

  “The Pope isn’t here,” Manana said. “They wanted a camera to show our torture to him, in order to break him. Why bother if he were in the building? A personal visit would have been better.”

  Maureen nodded. “Good point.” She reached up to her ear and touched the piece. “It’s the wrong target. He’s not here. Engage at will.”

  She turned back to find Ryan staring at her with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

  “The wrong target?” he asked dryly. “Gee, thanks. We don’t even rate a secondary target?”

  The Interpol agent smiled at him. “What’d you expect from the informal crowd?”

  “Informal?” Manana asked. She cocked her head. “Who did you bring?”

  McGrail smiled. “Toss me a radio.”

  Ryan frowned, pulled a radio out of his tactical vest, and tossed it to Maureen in an underhanded throw. She caught it, set it on the exam table, and pulled out some tape and an MP3 player. She held down the transmit button, taped it down, and then placed the MP3 player next to the hand radio’s speaker, and hit play.

  * * *

  Outside, there was a rumbling noise from the distance. It sounded like a cross between a growling dog and a large truck.

  Guards on the other side of the building started to head toward the minefield, and the front end of the building.

  And slowly, out in the darkness, they could see ghostly shapes start to form. As they came closer, the shadows solidified into two large bulldozers, each coming at a perpendicular angle to the other.

  One of the guards came out on a balcony overseeing the minefield. She literally tripped over the body of one of her fellow killers—she was quick enough not to land in the minefield herself.

  She raised the radio to warn that there were already intruders in the building, only to hear music come out of it.

  The guard tried her best to get through, but all that piped out of the radios was the song. Ioseph Mikhailov was the only one amongst the mercenaries, could identify the song.

  It was called Come out, Ye Black and Tans, an IRA song.

  * * *

  Sean AP Ryan looked at Maureen McGrail and said, “You have so got to be kidding me.”

  The Interpol agent smiled and shrugged. “They were available.”

  Manana rolled her eyes. “I’ll take whatever help we can get. What’s the plan?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Loughill Ambush?”

  * * *

  The bulldozers kept coming, no matter how many rounds of gunfire came at them. The first one ripped straight through the chain link fence like papier-mâché, digging into the ground, tripping all of the anti-personnel mines. The explosions echoed through the night, causing even the gunmen guarding the place to keep their heads down.

  From the balcony over the field, one female assassin watched, waiting for a chance t
o leap aboard the moving construction vehicle. Several others sprayed gunfire, providing cover. She hoped to board the bulldozer, and redirect it toward the second.

  As the cab approached, she noticed something wrong—it was empty. The bulldozer had no driver.

  Then, from out in the darkness, six bursts of gunfire went off at once, each burst cutting down a gunner. The tongues of fire flared so briefly, no one was able to get a good look at where they were. The next flare came as the first bulldozer crazed into the building as the second one ripped into the gate, tearing through the width of the field, ramming into the other wall forming the courtyard of the minefield.

  The two bulldozers ran over the anti-personnel mines, each mine exploding harmlessly beneath them, leaving a trail of tracks and gaps in the ground as they went along, stopping only when they crashed into each other.

  Several minutes passed before anything happened next, and all of the gunmen who heard the noise came close, to see what it was about this time.

  They secured the area with a single sweep.. As the assassins came within feet of the construction vehicles, the gunfire erupted again, only leaving a few still alive, many using the bulldozers as cover.

  Then the bulldozers—laden with as many explosives as would fit—detonated, the massive fireballs ripping the stone face off the buildings.

  * * *

  As the building shook, Maureen said, “The Provos tried this once against a police station in Loughall, but that was blown because the SAS had been tipped off.”

  “That would put a damper on things,” Ryan murmured dryly. “You said we’re in Belgium right now? Perfect. I need to get in touch with Fr. Frank. If you have a clock, I need to know what time it is.”

  Maureen smiled. “We’re not out yet. You remember Giovanni’s microwave gun?”

  “Directed energy cannon,” Ryan corrected. “Why?”

  She held up a little GPS unit and checked her location. “We’re in luck—we’re not in the affected area…you do know that it penetrates walls, right?”

  An instant later, screams could be heard throughout the building. Survivors of the initial attack were on the floor, writhing in pain as though they were on fire—at the end of the day, all they would have would be a bad sunburn, but the effects of the AirLabs microwave cannon made flesh feel like it was doused in gasoline and set alight.

  “We can go now.”

  * * *

  Ioseph Andrevich Mikhailov glared at his son as he entered the Pope’s cell. “What is it?’

  “Sir, we’ve had some problems at our…northern facility. We keep getting …music.” He held out a radio, and it blared, “And you bravely faced each one, with your 15-pounder gun—”

  Ioseph’s eyes narrowed, and all he said was, “Ryan.”

  The Pope nodded solemnly. “I believe the phrase is, ‘I told you so.’”

  Ioseph Mikhailov stormed and seethed. Oh good Lord, he was close to committing homicide. Unfortunately, his son was the closest thing in range.

  He marched down the length of the concrete corridor, refusing to let their captive see him in a state of rage. This was horrific. It was insane. It was...

  He blinked. It was perfect.

  Mikhailov’s mood changed so fast it looked as if a switch had been thrown in him. “Call our Islamic contacts. Tell them to warm up al-Jazeera. We wanted Kovach to stop harassing us, and the world to not see a Papal victory in court. The Pope himself gave us the perfect distraction.” He grinned. “I only wish I had seen this earlier.”

  Chapter XXIV

  Tempest Fugit

  Day 8. 7:30 PM

  Sean Ryan and Manana Shushurin sat in the back of a moving van, blankets wrapped firmly around them. Across from them, Maureen McGrail smiled, loosening her black outfit.

  Commandant Deaglan Lynch was busy laughing as he lounged back on the bench against the van wall. “That was brilliant! A wonderful time!” His pushed himself up using his sword cane, readjusting the Uzi strapped over his shoulder.

  Manana looked at the white haired man with the wide, smiling mouth. “And who are you?” she purred, allowing a slight accent to slip out, that sounded like a combination of Russian and German.

  “The head of the Provisional IRA,” Lynch said with a smile. “Accept no substitutes.”

  She nodded slowly. “Well, Mr. Lynch, thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank us, dearie. We thought we were going to save the Pope. We got you instead. But I was happy to do so.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ryan said quietly, “you already saved the Pope. In fact, he’s going to be saved as soon as I can manage it.”

  Deaglan blinked, then, laughed. “Oh, sure, lad. But one thing at a time, eh? You have to get back to Rome, and—”

  “Why?” Ryan continued, not even raising his voice a decibel. “I’m here. I just need some of my people. And I don’t mean your people. No offense, but I have a political commando team in mind.”

  Deaglan chuckled. “No need to worry, I understand the politics of warfare. If it weren’t for politics, the Irish would never have had any successful campaigns. Such as they are. And sure, don’t you need some equipment in this plan of yours?”

  Ryan’s mouth twisted in thought, pondering the weapons he would need. He would at least need construction vehicles...

  “However,” Lynch added, “would it surprise you to know that some of your captors weren’t completely moved out yet? After all, didn’t we hijack a small truck full of their own equipment?”

  Ryan smiled. “When we pull over, I need you to fill me in on what we have.” He looked to Maureen and Manana. “You are already on candid camera, Maureen. And Mani, you don’t want to be caught by these people. They don’t like you, and they know you—they trained you. They don’t know me that well. At the moment, I need to look over the equipment, find a major construction yard, and I need an Internet connection.”

  * * *

  FBI Special Agent Jennifer Lane’s wide green eyes glittered with amusement as she glanced over at Blaine Lansing. The plain FBI agent sat on the floor, blazer tossed over him like a blanket. It was cute, in an exceptionally awkward sort of way. She loved the computer genius, no matter how eccentric he might be at times.

  A little chime pinged on her computer. She gave a little sigh and turned to the monitor. A new message had popped up.

  Kishote24601: Lansing?

  She paused and took a moment to consider replying.

  NTFRCGEEK1: No, Lane. I’m on shift now.

  Kishote24601: Either will do. I need you to jam some communications in Belgium, at the place discussed with WG. Not the slaughterhouse. Can you do it?

  Jennifer blinked firmly. Lansing had talked with Wilhelmina Goldberg about the fortress where they could be holding the Pope. She considered it a moment.

  NTFRCGEEK1: I can jam external communications, but not for long, not unless I went higher up.

  Kishote24601: It’ll do. What about the layout and security procedures in a building?

  NTFRCGEEK1: We can get into a computer mainframe and turn off anything the computer controls. Why?

  Kishote24601: I’ll email you the details. Just be ready at 3am Belgium time. I’ll contact you if there’s something wrong.

  Kishote24601 has signed out.

  What exactly does he think he’ll be able to do, I wonder? “Wake up, Blaine, we have work to do.”

  * * *

  Wilhelmina Goldberg looked over at her computer as the voice of Legolas said “Hello,” telling her she had an instant message.

  The Secret Service agent put down her hand of cards. “Quick time out, fellas, I’m going to have to check what the Federal Hacker wants.”

  Scott Murphy, Frank and Wayne Williams conceded, putting down their cards with caution.

  Goldberg smiled, amused as she carefully squared her cards before rising. “Does it worry anyone here that the best we can do is sit around and play poker while the rest of the world is going mad?”

&n
bsp; Wayne smiled. “You’re here for the connection to Lansing. Kovach and Inna are PR, Scott is no use in a gunfight, and Frank and I are here to protect Kovach—the bait. I am the only person here able to lead a commando raid, but at the moment, I’m busy babysitting. And we don’t even have a target to hit until McGrail gets back with a report on the complex in north Belgium.”

  “Don’t worry on my account,” Kovach murmured from the corner, blogging on his laptop.

  Scott pondered his cards a moment longer, then placed them down. “So, Kovach, why don’t you join us?”

  “I’m busy posting comments on half the important blogs, inserting links to my own blogs, and dear lord, have you psychos even looked at who you’re playing with?” He clicked the enter button, and while it loaded, he turned to them. “Captain Williams is a ‘military attache’ to the embassy in Rome—cough,” he said, “spy, cough—Fr. Williams is Vatican intelligence, and you’re frigging Mossad. I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Hey, Inna,” Goldberg said from the back of the room, “do you know the screen name Kishote24601?”

  Petraro nodded. “It’s Sean’s.”

  “Apparently, he’s free—” she looked to Scott, “with Mani,” she looked at Fr. Williams, “and he says your plans with him are a go. Be there in twelve hours.”

  Frank blinked, his violet eyes suddenly sharpening. “Really?”

  Goldberg glanced at the screen. “He says six a.m.” She looked back—and Fr. Williams was gone. She sighed. “Why do I bother? By the way, Scott, he says Mani is on route. ETA is an hour. She’ll be here and—”

  A little information bubble popped up on her screen, the form of a digital Gollum holding the bubble—edged in a gold ring, of course—and the bubble was flashing. She had programmed any news reports involving the Vatican to be highlighted immediately, on the assumption that the news would know before they did.

  She clicked open the bubble, and the link brought her directly to an al-Jazeera website. The video feed seemed to have images from the Pope’s session in court that day, but it was dubbed with an Arabic voice-over. She frowned a little, ran the speech through her computer’s translation program, and it ran in a text along the bottom of her screen like ticker tape.