by Brent Towns
Beneath Museo Gregoriano Egiziano
Vatican City
The screams that had echoed throughout the crypt for most of the night finally died away, and Cara’s frayed nerves were thankful for the respite, a small mercy. The sudden silence did her no favors as it was then that doubts began to snake their tendrils in to plague her mind. The new surroundings were cold and damp, which made her previous accommodation seem luxurious. Her captivity had been going on for so long that she wondered whether her team would ever come and secure her release.
No, don’t think like that.
Another scream. This time it was different. Who would have thought that a place held in such high religious esteem could hide a place so dark and sinister? The people who haunted the dark, dimly-lit catacombs beneath the city posed as priests by day but were in fact far from it. They were Druids, the personification of evil, practicing human sacrifice, and interpreting omens.
It was a ghastly place, and although Cara had only been there for a couple of days, with her hands chained above her head by rusted manacles, it was already affecting her.
A shadow flitted across the wall, and a man appeared wearing a hooded cloak. The garment was white but stained with large splotches of blood. He stopped in front of Cara and said, “It will be your turn soon. When the moon is full, you will be sacrificed to the Gods. They are crying out for a strong gift like yourself.”
The self-proclaimed druid reached out and traced a finger across Cara’s stomach, feeling the taut muscles beneath the thin fabric of her dress as she flinched. A cold smile touched his lips, and his finger moved upwards, found a breast, and traced around her nipple, which responded to the touch. Then he took it between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it gently. “It is a shame that such a fine specimen of womanhood should have to die, but the Gods’ will must be done.”
Cara’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to cut your heart out, asshole.”
The man chuckled, let go of her nipple and then squeezed her breast. “Yes, a pity.”
Cara strained against her bonds her jaw clenched. She lifted her right leg to kick him in the balls, but the chains around her legs snapped tight with a loud jingle. The man sneered at her and dropped his hand to his side.
“I see you can’t sleep either tonight, Brother White,” came a voice from behind the druid. The man turned to stare at another man dressed in an identical hooded cloak, minus the blood.
Cara stared at the man through the dim light. He was a craggy-faced man, the lines on which appeared to be burn scars from the distant past. The man he referred to as Brother White said, “It must be one of those nights, Brother Red.”
“It must be. I see that you’ve been busy.”
White looked down at his blood-stained robe and said, “I had a dream. I wanted to see what the Gods had to say about it.”
“Really? What was their message?”
“Nothing clear.”
“Maybe you need to talk to them again? Maybe a second time will provide some clarity for you?”
White nodded. “Maybe, Brother.”
“Which one of the poor wretches did you use in hope of getting answers?”
“The German one.”
“And did you satisfy your need before you cut the poor bitch’s throat?”
White smiled once more. “But of course.”
“Asshole,” Cara hissed.
White’s face screwed up with anger, and his right hand shot out, grabbing Cara’s breast once more. This time, however, instead of a gentle caress, he squeezed it cruelly, causing her to wince. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips as he said vehemently, “Your turn is coming, you bitch. I’ll rip that dress from your body and make you scream for mercy as I pound you into oblivion.”
“Remember yourself, Brother White!” Red snapped. “She is for the Gods, this one. There is a full moon in two more nights, and she shall be sacrificed on the altar from which they shall receive her spirit.”
White composed himself and stepped back from Cara. He bowed his head in remorse and said, “Forgive me, Brother. I forgot myself for a moment.”
“Yes, you did,” Red agreed. Then he reached into his cloak pocket and took out a small plastic bag with a fine white powder in it. “Maybe you need some of your medicine, Brother White. Maybe the answers you seek can be found within the dreams it induces.”
Cara snorted when she realized what it was. “You’re nothing but a fucking junkie. Hooked on what? Cocaine? Heroine? Your Gods must be so proud of you.”
“You know nothing!” White screeched, a vein popping out on his forehead. As though to reinforce his message, he closed in on Cara, his face only inches from hers. Seizing the presented opportunity, she snapped her head forward, her brow smashing into the bridge of White’s nose. Lights flashed in her head with the ferocity of the impact, and the druid reeled away with a howl of pain. Blood spurted then flowed freely, joining the blood already on his robe and, despite her own pain, Cara smiled when she caught sight of the damage she had wreaked.
“How’d you like that, you son of a bitch?” she asked, a smirk on her face.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” White screamed, his voice echoing from the damp walls.
“Enough!” Red roared. “Get out of here, Brother, before I lose all patience with you.”
Grumbling and wiping at the blood on his face, careful to avoid his ruined nose, White stalked off into the depths of the crypt. Red stared at Cara and said, “He will not be a forgiving man, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t care.”
He studied her for a moment and then chuckled. “I see through your façade, my dear. You are scared, and you conceal it behind bravado. But don’t worry, it will be over soon. Make your peace with God. I’m sure he will accept you with open arms.”
With that, Brother Red disappeared into the gloom, leaving Cara shedding silent tears as her tough exterior crumbled.
Chapter 17
Bucolic, Piacevole Valley
Italy
“Bluey, wake up,” Jacko said, shaking his team leader awake.
“What is it?”
“Time to go. Reaper One is due in soon.”
Bluey looked at his watch and then at the lightening tinge in the eastern sky. He touched his talk button and said, “Bushranger Team, check in.”
Each man responded in turn, indicating that everything was clear, then Bluey called Bravo.
“Copy, Bushranger One, this is Zero.”
“Sitrep, please, Zero.”
“At this point, all seems OK.”
“Copy. We’re about to move into position.”
“Roger that. Good luck. ETA on Reaper One is ten minutes. Out.”
“OK, Jacko, let’s move.”
The two men came out of their hide, and stealthily approached the house. They climbed over an old stone wall and into the rear yard. Bluey took a knee and swept the area while Jacko moved up to the back door. A moment later, Bluey joined him and then said into his mic, “Bravo Three, copy?”
Teller’s voice came over the net, “Copy, Bushranger One.”
“What have we got with the house? Over.”
“Our eye in the sky tells me that there are six people inside the house. At this point, you have four on the ground floor and two on the second. I suspect that one of them could be the package.”
Bluey thought for a moment. “Zero, request permission to try for the package.”
“Wait one, Bushranger.”
“Waiting, out.”
Just Outside Bucolic
“Reaper One, Copy?”
The SUV bumped over the unmaintained road, forcing Kane to slow. “Copy, Zero.”
“Reaper, Bushranger One is requesting permission to go in after the package.”
Kane glanced at Axe. The big man shrugged. “It may work,” he told his team leader.
Kane nodded. Then he said, “Bushranger One, copy?”
“Copy.”
“Sitrep?”
“How certain are you?”
“You know about our game and certainty, Reaper. You could show up on their doorstep, and they could shoot her with you looking on. But I say our way is sound.”
Kane still wasn’t sure, but what he said next made sense to him. “Do it. We’ll be onsite in five mikes.”
“Copy. Bushranger One going hot.”
“Good luck.”
Bucolic, Piacevole Valley
Italy
“Bushranger One to all callsigns. Plan Beta, I say again, Plan Beta. Acknowledge.”
“Copy that. Plan Beta,” came the reply from every team member.
Each SAS man, except for Lofty, broke cover. He would stay in the old bell tower and watch over the rest like a clucky mother hen. The others would now perform the job with the military precision they’d been instilled with. “Bravo Three, I need you to call all targets to my men as you see them. You’re about to become a busy man.”
“Copy, Bushranger One. Calling targets.”
In the background noise of his comms, Bluey heard Teller start to do just that for individual operators. Each one was answered with a tango down call. “Come on, Jacko; let’s get in there.”
The two men climbed onto the lower level roof and then up to the second-floor window. Bluey took out his suppressed sidearm and tried the window. It was open. “Bushranger One is breaching.”
“Copy, One, the room is clear,” Teller responded.
The SAS team leader raised his right leg and slid it over the window ledge. Then he followed it with the other. Once inside, he quickly swept the small, sparsely-furnished bedroom. With no visible threats, he moved across to the door, his heavy boots silent on the floor. Bluey tried the doorknob. It turned freely, and he cracked the door to look out. The hallway on the other side was clear.
“Bushranger One, you have a mobile target approaching your position along the hallway.”
Bluey froze. The fact that he couldn’t see the tango meant that they were coming from the other direction. The SAS man stepped back from the door, leaving it ajar. He lifted the Glock 19 and waited. Behind him, Jacko had his M4 raised and ready.
“In Bluey’s ear, Teller was whispering, “Hold. Hold. Hold. Now.”
Just before that final word, Bluey heard the soft footfall just outside the door. The Glock fired twice, and the rounds punched through the wood. A grunt emanated from the other side of the door as the bullets buried deep into the man beyond. As he slumped to the floor, Bluey pulled the door open and swung it wide, stepping through the opening and bending to check the fallen man. There was no doubt; the man was dead.
“Tango down in the hall.”
“Roger, One,” Teller said. “If you go along the hall to your right, you’ll find your next target in the room there.”
With more than a modicum of stealth, the two men made their way along to the indicated door, and once again, Bluey tried it while Jacko covered his back. This time, the door was locked, so the SAS man reached into his pocket and retrieved his lockpick.
Bluey placed the Glock beside his knee while he worked on the lock. A few moments later, it clicked open.
Bluey put the picks in his pocket and came to his feet. He opened the door and slipped inside with his gun up, ready to fire.
The room was dim, the early morning light beginning to filter through the thin curtains. In the center of the floor was a chair. On the chair sat a figure, with its back to them, a hood placed over its head.
Bluey said softly into his mic, “Zero, we’ve found the package. Just confirming that it is who we are after.”
At the sound of their voices, the hooded head snapped around from side to side, a muffled noise coming through the material. Bluey crossed quickly to the figure, walked around in front, and reefed off the hood. It was definitely a woman, but not the one they wanted. It wasn’t Cara.
“Zero, this is Bushranger One, copy?”
“Copy.”
“The prisoner is not the package, I say again, not the package. Wait, out.”
“Copy.”
Bluey took the gag away from her mouth. “Who are you, Miss?”
“Tiffy. Are you here to rescue me?” she asked with an English accent.
“We’re here for Cara. Do you know where she is?”
“Who?”
The SAS man shook his head. “Zero. This is a bust. We’re going to secure the house and see if we can find someone who knows what the hell is going on.”
“Roger that,” Ferrero acknowledged.
“Come on, Jacko. Let’s go and clear the rest of the house.”
“Wait, you can’t leave me here,” Tiffy pleaded.
“We’ll be back. I promise.”
“At least untie me.”
Bluey raised the gag back into place. “Safer for you if we don’t.”
The pair left the room, closing the door behind them and worked their way along the hall to the top of the stairs. When they found them to be clear, the team leader placed a heavy boot on the first step to test it. The wood appeared to be solid and made no sound.
On the ground floor, both men proceeded to clear each room on that level. When they reached the kitchen, one man was there brewing coffee, and they took him out quickly with two shots to the chest. Which left three tangos in the house.
Bluey followed Jacko through the door into the living room and found the three remaining people that had been unaccounted for. Two men and a woman. The largest man’s reaction was a fraction too slow in bringing up the Steyr he was holding. Two bullets from Jacko’s M4 punched into his chest, and he dropped to the slate floor in an untidy heap. The guard died choking on his own blood.
Bluey centered his sights on the chest of the other man who seemed to be frozen to the spot. Beside him, the woman began screaming and didn’t stop until the man snapped something in Italian. Bluey said into his mic, “Zero, house is secure.”
“Fucking Americans,” the man hissed.
Jacko smiled at him. “No, mate, we’re Australian.”
“All callsigns, sitrep?” said Bluey.
The rest of the team called in one by one, informing their leader that everything was fine and all threats had been eliminated. Nodding, the team leader pressed his talk button once more. “Zero, village secure.”
“Copy, Bushranger One. Good job.”
Bluey passed his M4 over to Jacko and turned on Amando Bellandi. “Right, asshole, where’s the woman?”
“Screw you.”
“Wrong answer,” Bluey said and slapped him across the face. “I ain’t got time for your shit. Pretty soon Italian intelligence will be coming in here, and I’m almost certain they’re going to put a bullet in your head. But before that, we’re going to need answers.”
Bellandi snorted. “Do you know who I am?”
“Mate, I don’t give two shits who you are. All I want from you is the answer to my question.”
Bellandi spit on Bluey’s boot.
“OK, fine. Jacko, get the woman out of here.”
“What do you want me to do with her, Boss?”
“Show her how much of a gentleman you can be.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Elettra blurted out.
Jacko took her by the arm. “Get up.”
“No.”
He squeezed harder. “Get up.”
The front door snapped open, and the void was filled by a solid figure, the face a mask of frustrated rage. Crossing the room to where Bellandi sat, an M17 came into his hand, and he placed the barrel against the killer’s right knee. Without compunction, he squeezed the trigger blowing a bullet through the Italian’s leg.
The Reaper had arrived.
Milan, Italy
Three CIA agents burst into the large room, looking around with troubled expressions on their faces. The
y found Thurston and snapped a few words in Italian. Immediately, she went into action. “Traynor, Arenas, on me. We’ve got tangos inbound. It looks like the prophecy has come true. The rest of you keep an eye on things.”
The three of them left the room, followed by one agent, and out into the warehouse proper. They hurried across to the cage that served as their armory and immediately kitted up with vests and ammunition. “Do we know how far out they are?” she asked Crowe, the agent in charge.
“About a minute, Ma’am. They’re in three SUVs.”
“How did they find us?”
“They have eyes everywhere according to Efisio Capello. I guess what he actually means is they have someone on the inside.”
Thurston nodded. “I’d like to find out who.”
Joined by the other two CIA agents and Bravo elements, the Reaper team members jogged towards the main doors of the warehouse. Thurston was thankful that they were there, especially after past events.
They exited the building, and the general noticed that Arenas had scooped up a 110A1. He raced across to one of the SUVs and set up. Then he waited the thirty seconds that it took for the first vehicle to appear. A BMW X5 followed by two more. Arenas squeezed the trigger, and the 110 slammed back into his shoulder. The 7.62mm slug punched through the front screen and smashed into the driver’s face, killing him instantly. The vehicle pulled left at speed and slammed into a concrete wall.
Arenas shifted his aim to the second SUV and fired again. It left the road and hit a dirt embankment, rolling onto its side, its rear end kicking around, blocking the path of the one behind it.
“That stopped the bastards,” Traynor snapped and opened fire at the shooters starting to scramble from the vehicles, with the 416 he was holding.
“I can’t stand gilipollas,” Arenas cursed, picking off a Steyr-wielding Italian.
The intruders began to return fire from behind the upturned vehicles, and the SUV where Arenas was leaning, tapped out a staccato beat as bullets punched through its panels and doors, creating a Swiss cheese effect. He slipped back down behind the engine block, using its solidity as cover. “Mama ain’t going to be happy about this,” he said out loud.