A Pius Man_A Holy Thriller

by Declan Finn

  And his entire world exploded into realms of pain he had never imagined.

  Abasi smiled as the microwave emitter worked. He grinned broadly before he slumped over on the sidewalk, his still form draped over the high-tech weapon he had risked so much to turn on.

  “Abasi is down! So are the bad guys!” Goldberg screamed. “Move in and get them.” She tapped another button. “This is Secret Service Agent Goldberg, we need medical attention now!”

  * * *

  Ioseph Andrevich Mikhailov breathed a sigh of relief. He had already found and disabled the power for the hangar, and had decided on which exit to take on his way out — thankfully, there was a back door.

  So he waited, in the dark, near the back; waited for the insufferable stuntman to show himself. He even knew how he would do it — there was a particularly sharp pole lying around that looked like someone had dropped a heavy piece of machinery on it, breaking it. As soon as Sean Ryan came in he would be shish kabob.

  Which is why it was a surprise when all hell broke loose.

  * * *

  Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan started the truck’s engine, shifting it to first gear and, soon after, switching to high. His finger hovered over the fuel release button, and he waited a beat before saying, “Releasing… now!”

  Jet fuel spilled from the hose at the back of the truck, flowing all along the tarmac. Figlia noted the spill, and spent his time from then on spotting where in the spill he could shoot. He already had a fresh clip in the automatic sniper rifle after driving Ioseph into the hangar. All he needed was for Sean to give the word, and then empty all the bullets into the target.

  Sean looked at the door of the hangar, and all he could imagine was his grandfather’s face at the moment of death. While he had been somewhat peaceful when he died, the image made Sean’s foot become heavier on the pedal. The bastard responsible was in that hangar, and he was waiting for Sean.

  “You want me, you little prick,” Sean murmured, “you’re going to get me… and this truck, right down your throat.”

  The truck’s engine protested at the speed Sean pushed it, but he was oblivious to the roar of the engine, the smell of the gasoline, or the planes that passed near him. He thought of the number of people endangered, the lives destroyed, all so this petty little Russian could act out a petty little vendetta.

  Sean had had enough.

  He pushed the speedometer to the limit, and stared at the walls, watching as he closed. Thirty yards… twenty… ten…

  “Figlia, now!” he yelled.

  * * *

  The former carabiniere fired at the line of jet fuel that had spilled out along the ground. The bullet struck, and sparked, igniting the jet fuel.

  With terrifying speed, the fire raced towards the truck, the hanger, and Sean Ryan.

  * * *

  The truck hit the hangar door at full speed, and Sean jerked the wheel sharply, making tires squeal to the point where three of the eight tires exploded, and the fuel tank nearly rolled over. Instead, the truck jackknifed, and the trailer broke off, the whiplash effect throwing it across the hanger like a grenade. Sean leapt out of the cab, breaking out into a run.

  A makeshift spear flew by his head as he ran past the line of jet fuel. He would have laughed, if he wasn’t so tired.

  A sharp pain in his leg brought him low. He fell to his hands, wondering what had happened. He looked back and found a knife sticking out of his thigh.

  Sean noted the hilt and realized that it was made of ceramic, nothing metal …the sort of thing you could use to get past the airport screeners.

  Ioseph came out of nowhere, stomping on his back. “Leave me to die, would you?” he asked. “Think you can kill me, little man?”

  The Russian dealt him a swift kick to the stomach, doubling him over. “I do not think you are about to have a good day,” he added.

  Sean coughed, in pain, his eyes locked on the swiftly advancing line of fire coming straight for him, a fuse attached to a very large bomb.

  Sean rolled onto his stomach, his knees tucked up against his chest, then pushed off on his good leg.

  Ioseph looked at the advancing flame, then at the fleeing, wounded man at his feet. He calculated he had enough time for one more shot.

  The Russian laughed aloud and leapt for Sean, ready to pound on him one last time.

  Sean flipped over, coming up with Ioseph’s own knife, driving it into the Russian’s stomach as he landed.

  Ioseph gasped as he looked down, blinking at the point of impact. He gaped in wonder.

  Sean grabbed Ioseph’s face with the other hand, making him look him in the eyes. “Tell your father that James Ryan kicked his ass. Again.”

  Ioseph Mikhailov was a blur, knocked off of Sean by a swift kick to the ribs by Manana Shushurin. Ioseph rolled across the hangar as Shushurin bent down and lifted Sean off the hangar floor with one hand.

  “What took you?” Sean gasped as Shushurin raced for the exit, literally lifting him off his feet. His feet dragged for five seconds before he had the presence of mind to add to her motion with a limping rhythm from his own wounded leg.

  “My ramp had a plane parked there,” she told him, looking at the advancing line of fire. The flames licked and lapped at the air, the intense heat warping the air around it.

  “You’re no fun,” he murmured.

  Shushurin burst out into the sunlight and pivoted, taking Sean with her, and made a break for the left wall of the hangar, made of solid concrete.

  The jet fuel burned so hot and so furiously that Shushurin was halfway towards her goal, and she could feel it as it crossed behind her.

  With a final burst of speed, she came within two yards of the hangar wall, and threw Sean behind it, leaping after him a moment later.

  And then, with a sound almost loud enough to break the human eardrum, the hangar exploded, ripping apart the inside, and turning the main hangar door into a massive source of burning-hot shrapnel that ripped into the surrounding area like a shotgun. Protective tarps for the next twenty yards caught fire just from the heat, and the tarmac on the ground liquefied. Sand that had been poured to cover up a small oil slick turned to glass as the fire raged over it. The vibrations traveled so far, they set off every car alarm in the parking lot. The smoke cloud could be seen all the way to the Vatican.

  * * *

  Scott Murphy, who stood directly behind Wilhelmina Goldberg, looked at the monitors and said, “Where’s Manana?”

  Goldberg frowned, looking at the screens. “I can’t see through the smoke, and I think that thing took out every camera in the surrounding area, or at least the ones that could give us a good angle.” She tapped into the communications network. “Sean, Manana, you want to tell us you’re still alive?”

  She paused, waiting a second before she did it against, repeating her message. “Hello, anyone?”

  Murphy’s hand gripped her shoulder intensely, so hard it hurt. Who knew the little goy could be that strong? “Hands off, loverboy. We felt that thing from here, they may have just lost their earpieces.”

  “If you believe that, you’re dumber than I look,” Murphy answered.

  Goldberg pried his hand off her, then tried something else. “Giovanni, can you see anything from your position?”

  “No,” the Commander said, “and right now, I don’t think anything other than the fire department will be able to get near them, if they’re still alive.”

  “Bull,” Murphy said, already walking out of the room. “Tell Figlia that I’m going out there, he should try not to shoot me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

  Figlia’s voice came back to her. “How is the situation out front?”

  Goldberg hmmed and flipped the main view back to the front of the airport. Apparently, guys with heavy body armor and assault rifles had shown up on the other side of the Russian mercenaries, and they had their own means of neutralizing a situation. She couldn’t tell if they were local cops, or more of the Vatican sho
ck troops, but either way, it looked settled.

  “That’s apparently old news. Some friends of yours have apparently shown up.”

  “Bene.”

  * * *

  Scott Murphy was not the first to arrive at the scene of the explosion, but he was the first person crazy enough to approach the building through the smoke. He did his best to come at the destroyed hangar from the side, avoiding the bulk of the smoke.

  Five minutes of exposure turned his shirt black, and he used a heavy cloth handkerchief over his mouth to breathe…

  And then he remembered that most people who died in fires died from smoke inhalation.

  Murphy ran faster.

  However, he almost ran into the wall. The only thing that saved him was that the wall itself had provided a windbreak, and the smoke was blown around the shadow of the concrete wall.

  And there, in the same shadow, were Manana Shushurin and Sean Ryan.

  Murphy ran over, already pulling pieces of cloth off his own shirt to make smoke masks for them. He slid to Shushurin’s side, reaching for her throat.

  A hand grabbed him fiercely, then pulled on him.

  A moment later, Murphy realized he was being hugged.

  “Good to see you,” Shushurin said groggily. “Did we get him?”

  Murphy almost laughed. “By now, I think you even got the roaches.”

  Shushurin squinted, looking at Murphy. “I can’t hear you. My ears are ringing. Say that again?”

  * * *

  Sean sat in the ambulance, his wounded leg dangling off the edge. Had Mikhailov gotten him an inch lower, he would have had a knife coming out of his kneecap. Aside from the muscle stab in the thigh, and some smoke inhalation, he was miraculously going to be fine. He was going to be taken to the hospital anyway. McGrail sat across from him in the ambulance, smiling, a bit of blood at her temple.

  “What happened to you?” Sean asked.

  She shrugged. “Oh, I’m fine. A bullet caused some concrete chips to fly into my skull, but that’s about it. I think there’s still a piece in there. Better than Abasi.”

  Blink. “What do you mean? I didn’t see him anywhere.”

  “He was shot. Maybe six times, they thought.”

  Three blinks. “He going to live?”

  McGrail nodded. “They think so. The only vital organ they hit was a lung, but he’ll need months of physical therapy. He saved our butts back there.”

  “Great. Just great,” he sighed. He leaned back, closing his eyes slightly. “I’ll need to call Inna, tell her I’m all right. Lord knows that this is going to be hard to keep quiet.”

  The ambulance door opened, and Figlia smiled at the two of them. “I am glad to see that the both of you are doing well.” He looked over at Sean. “You look like hell, however.”

  Sean shrugged. “I get that a lot.”

  “Is there any place you have gone where you have not blown something up?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  “Was it necessary to drop the building on him?”

  “I couldn’t drive a stake through his heart.”

  Figlia shook his head. “I will see you both later. And thank you both.”

  Sean stirred. “It’s not over, Gianni. We still need the guys who hired them.”

  Figlia nodded. “Governments hired them, and governments will take action. Italy will be filing an appeal with the United Nations, and they’re essentially going to take on all of the governments involved.”

  “Even if they don’t do anything about it,” came another voice as the other door opened. Scott Murphy stood there, wearing what was left of his shirt, face so black he looked like a coal miner. “I gave Israel the sketches of Manana’s brother — the Father Frank clone.” Murphy smiled evilly. “I’m sure my people can call in a few favors and break a few legs.” He looked at his watch. “I suspect we’ll soon be hearing the screams of someone having his gonads connected to a car battery. And I suspect Cardinal Cannella will find himself transferred into Darfur.”

  McGrail said, “Och, and won’t loose ends will be clipped soon enough? Haven’t I talked with me boss at Interpol? Don’t we have enough notices on these bozos that if the Mossad doesn’t get them, we will?”

  Figlia nodded. “Given what I know of the Mossad, I suspect all those that Manana can describe for us will be begging Interpol to arrest them before Mossad gets to them.”

  Sean nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t worry in any case. Without Mikhailov, the plan doesn’t work.” He chuckled. “Besides, if we have any leftover history we need to take care of, my fiancée is bringing in a professional historian to look over what we have.”

  Figlia closed the door, patting on it twice, firmly, to let the drivers know that it was time to leave. It pulled away, leaving Murphy and Figlia walking to the other ambulance.

  “How is Manana?” Figlia asked.

  “She’s good. She’s even better than Sean, but is going to be taken to the hospital anyway.”

  Figlia nodded, picking up his duffel bag with his rifle, handing it off to one of his men without looking at him. “And what about her end?”

  Murphy smiled. “I’ve already put in a word with my people to allow Mani immunity in Israel. Despite her being blackmailed, we worked pretty well together. She even managed to put together a lot of the case with details she learned the moment I did. She’ll be okay… we’ll be okay.”

  Murphy gazed off at the ambulance with Shushurin, and Figlia patting him on the back. “Buona fortuna, then. I will see you later.”

  “Ciao, Commander.” Murphy turned, and walked towards the ambulance.

  “So, that was fun,” Wilhelmina Goldberg said behind him. He turned. “So, when will we be continuing the audit?”

  Figlia stared at her a moment. “Tomorrow, please.”

  “Certainly...” Wilhelmina Goldberg shrugged. “Arrivederci, e grazie per tutto i pesci.”

  Figlia blinked. “Goodbye, and thank you for all the fish?”

  The Secret Service agent just rolled her eyes and moved on.

  Commander Giovanni Figlia, of the Pope’s papal protective service, stood in the middle of the airport, where he had been fifty-four hours earlier, and smiled.

  And he walked towards his car. His next stop was home, and his family.

  Epilogue

  Pope Pius XIII sat down at his desk, reading over the report. It was a compilation of mostly Sean Ryan and Maureen McGrail’s statements to the police after all hell had broken loose at the airport.

  “Good God.” He looked up at Father Frank. “And Abasi survived all of that?”

  Father Frank nodded. “He’s still in surgery having the fragments pulled out of him, but they avoided anything vital.”

  The Pope arched a brow. “A lung is not vital?”

  “Not when he has two of them, Your Holiness.”

  The Pope sighed, leaning back in his chair, fingers pressed into his temples. “I cannot say I am enthused with that view.”

  “Perhaps not, Your Holiness,” Father Frank said softly. “But you lived in a war zone, you should be familiar with how this works. He has all of his limbs, will have full use of them, and he has his life.”

  “I know. I never accepted it, though.” With a sigh that turned into a groan, the Pope closed the folder with the report. He looked over at the priest’s hands, noting the flecks of black on them. “You told me once how you were trained as a physician assistant, and a corpsman in the military.”

  Francis nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness?”

  “That would include gunshot wounds, would it not?” He paused, but not long enough for Father Frank to answer. “How soon were you there to help Abasi?”

  “As soon as he turned on the beam, Your Holiness.”

  “Indeed… you need to wash your hands more thoroughly.”

  Father Frank frowned and looked down at his hands, with the blackened crusts of blood under his nails. “Oh.”

  “What about the
others at the airport?”

  “There were plenty of people wounded,” Father Frank said, “but no one was actually killed. Mikhailov crushed the windpipe of a guard, but another doctor on the scene performed a tracheotomy. Two more guards had been shot, more than enough times to kill them, but they were wearing armor to counter most of the impacts.”

  “How is that possible? So many bullets, and only one person died? Mikhailov himself?”

  “Ironically, not even by bullet.” Father Frank smiled.

  The Pope’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open slightly. “Should we be discussing a miracle?”

  “Perhaps. But keep in mind, firing rounds on full automatic creates great inaccuracies during firefights. One American shootout in Los Angeles, in two gunmen with fully automatic weapons had a forty-eight-minute firefight with the police. Thousands of rounds were fired, but only the robbers themselves were killed.” He shrugged. “It happens. Thank God.”

  The Pope nodded slowly. He gingerly rose from the chair, careful of the massive bruising on his chest from the bullets that morning. He looked out his window, over the square. “This has cost everyone a great deal, Francis. Greater than I could have imagined. It should not have happened.”

  Father Frank looked up at him and said, “We did not start this battle, Your Holiness. We were fighting with words. They shot first. We fought in defense of the truth… if Satan is the Prince of Lies, then, logically, we should be fighting for the truth. We could allow the popular lie to win… but we haven’t yet considered it.”

  He shook his head sadly, and the humor faded. “Where is Figlia?”

  “With his family, Your Holiness. He wanted to spend the rest of the day with them. Mr. Minor is in charge of your detail for today.”

  The pope smiled, which almost looked like a pained wince. “As though I will be leaving this office today. I will be having meetings on this morning alone from now until next week. How are the other arrangements going?”

  Now it was Father Frank’s turn to smile. “To start with, Cardinal Cannella has been restricted to quarters until further notice.”