A Pius Man: A Holy Thriller (The Pius Trilogy Book 1)

by Declan Finn

Murphy turned off his mind, because he knew the answer already. There was only one thing he wanted at the moment: the truth. He had fallen for the woman in more ways than one — her story, her cover, her information, her looks, and the lights in her eyes… that look of joy in her face …

  Murphy couldn’t decide which would be the hardest to deal with: that he had bought all of it, or what his own personal fallout would be like. Between her personal strengths and occasional vulnerabilities, he had been quite taken by her.

  When you have to shoot her, please remember that you’re in love with an illusion. Otherwise she will probably gun you down.

  Murphy breezed past a Swiss Guard coming out of a perpendicular hallway. Murphy thought of calling to him for aide, but that would mean slowing down.

  The one in the Swiss guard outfit took no notice of him as Murphy sped by. He smiled, fully aware that Shushurin could kill Murphy all by herself, and she needed no assistance from him.

  The fake guard, whose real name was Sasha Suslov, looked behind at the real papal guard he had killed, his neck twisted at an odd angle. The nun tour guide lay underneath his body.

  The fraudulent guard held up his gun in one hand, his halberd in the other, and waited, making sure no one else would follow.

  * * *

  Sean A.P. Ryan charged down the hallway, halberd in hands, and felt like he wanted to inflict harm on a great many people.

  But one in particular would do.

  The traitor.

  Sean didn’t know how well-trained Scott Murphy would be, but he knew that Shushurin would be able to break him in two over her knee and keep running without breaking stride.

  Then there was the difficulty of Murphy’s relationship with her. Assuming that he was in fact an innocent Mossad agent — wow, what an oxymoron — and was not in league with the woman, Sean had seen how they were around each other, and saw Murphy becoming far too familiar with a woman he had only just met.

  Then again, I also thought that the affection was probably mutual, even more so this morning. But if he’s not in league with her, even if he’s as well-trained as I am, any feelings he had for her would slow him down.

  Speaking of slowing down…

  A Swiss Guard stood in front of him, halberd in one hand, gun in the other.

  I wonder what the hell he’s doing here?

  The Swiss Guard raised his weapon and fired.

  * * *

  The Swiss Guard next to Figlia fired down the hallway, and the head of the office of vigilance stepped back to reload. He glanced back toward the main room. The Pope was pushed against the wall only feet from him, and only Hashim Abasi watched their flank…

  And he has automatic weapons at his side… and no one else?

  Figlia ran back to the Egyptian police officer. “Ciao. Come stai?”

  Abasi smiled. “Cosi-cosi. I have weapons, but there are no good positions for cover in here.”

  Figlia nodded. “I’ve noticed. I’m down to half a dozen men and we’re pinned down. Where did everyone go?”

  Abasi gestured ahead of him. “Villie and McGrail went to clear the road, and it is possible they may get behind the gunmen at our position, but I doubt it; more likely they will get help from the outside and bring it here.”

  “But my men should have been here by now, in forte, without anyone asking. If Villie and Maureen are to get help, they might be the ones to clear the way for my people.”

  “Then what do you suggest? Follow them and hope the path is clear?”

  Figlia shook his head and pointed to his men exchanging gunfire with the assassins. “That would mean a running battle with these people blocking our way. I feel more secure here. And Ryan?”

  “Chased after Shushurin and Mossad through the stage door.”

  Figlia looked down at the blood-soaked chest of James Sherman Ryan. For some strange reason, he remembered that blood sank into marble and never came out. “Understood. Can I borrow a submachine gun? I’ll trade you for a smoke grenade.”

  “Take three.”

  Figlia nodded, then slung an MP5 over his shoulders, and grabbed both of the Russian guns, flipping them to automatic fire. “Grazie.”

  “Grenada,” Abasi muttered.

  That isn’t Italian. That isn’t even Spanish, for that matter. Oh well. He turned and ran toward his men. The Pope had been held back at first, and now he had relented, hanging back of his own accord. Figlia noted his men were low on ammunition. “Forester, Forsyth, smoke grenades.”

  “What are you doing, Gianni?” the Pope asked.

  “Praying, sir.”

  “Good man.”

  Figlia waited for the hallway to fill with smoke. “Anti-traction gel.”

  Several Swiss Guards drew narrow weapons that looked like a super soaker. They fired at several different angles, covering the floor beyond the doorway, making it almost impossible to stand on. He also made a point of grabbing another of the anti-traction guns.

  With the assassins’ vision clouded and their footing unstable, Figlia charged. He leapt in under the field of continuing fire, holding both Stechkins at once. He half-rolled, half-slid toward the opposition, until he was almost point-blank with the still-firing attackers.

  Figlia held both Stechkins, aiming for muzzle flashes through the smoke, and fired. His first five bullets against their vests drove two of the gunmen from their feet, and the next three caught them in their unprotected neck, and shoulders. He kept firing into the smoke, and there were people shooting back this time.

  At which point, the gunman in front of him decided to break off, and he had good reason. With the two point men dead in front of him, there was no one to offer suppression fire, which meant no one could kill Figlia and take up positions before the Swiss Guards arrived.

  When the smoke cleared, a third body was dead on the floor, but there were no others.

  One of the Swiss Guards poked his head in the entrance to the hall. Heydrich Forester cocked an eyebrow. “Was that all of them?”

  Figlia glanced down the hallway, still face down on the ground, the front of his body covered in gel. “No, there was someone else. Stay here, take up positions in case he heads for backup. I need to secure His Holiness.”

  Figlia rolled, coming off the slick floor, until the ground was stable beneath him, then raced back into the reception area. “Your Holiness, you are all right?

  Pius XIII, pressed flat against the wall, out of everyone’s way, nodded. “Are they gone?”

  “No. Excuse me a moment.” Figlia made his way to Abasi and sat down on one of the chairs Sean had set up to serve as a brief cover. “Doing well?”

  Abasi almost laughed. “I’m alive and haven’t been shot yet. Given the circumstances, that’s an achievement.”

  “Do you think that if I left you here with Joshua, you could cover him until we clear out the building? I’ll get you some smoke grenades and flashbangs to hold off attackers.”

  He nodded. “This I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Figlia turned to the Pope. “I must insist that you stay here with Abasi until the building is secured.”

  Pius nodded.

  Figlia smiled. “Thank you.” He nodded to Abasi, handing him several smoke grenades and flash bangs.

  And then Figlia and his men were off.

  * * *

  On top of the reception hall, nine men with assault rifles were busy trying to totally eliminate the Swiss and Palatine Guards, and everyone of the Central Office of Vigilance that they had within range. A tenth man calmly took shots at the counter-sniper team setting up in the papal offices.

  One floor below, at the rear end of the building, one man opened the wooden window screen outward, and slowly slid himself onto the ledge. He bent his knees sharply, then pushed off, barely reaching the edge of the roof. He grabbed hold of it firmly and pulled himself over. He smiled at the ten men in front of him, firing with discipline; even though they were in single-fire mode, they still sounded like they were blazing
away with machineguns.

  However, none of them heard him come up, and none of them looked behind at him now.

  Captain Wayne pulled out one of Giovanni Figlia’s prized nonlethal weapons: a microwave beam gun. After jostling the settings a moment, he pointed the thermal beam at them and hit the button, knowing what to expect.

  Essentially, the microwave weapon only inflicts as much damage as a bad sunburn — if used properly — but even then, the sensation was much different. It was more like being set on fire. All of the assassins fell to the roof, screaming in pain, their weapons falling from their hands.

  Wayne simply sat back. He was tempted to find out whether there was any popcorn.

  * * *

  At the main entrance to the building, the two remaining gunmen doubled their fire, switching to full automatic. The gunmen stepped back calmly to seek cover behind the stone walls of the reception hall, still firing.

  The first gunman didn’t even see the elbow that struck the back of his right ear. He fell forward, unconscious.

  The second gunman turned, finding no one there. He turned to see who had felled his partner, but saw no one.

  Above him, next to the ceiling, a priest pressed his limbs to the walls, pushing against them, using friction to hold him up. He held himself there until the gunman stopped to reload, then dropped, falling on top of the gun, feet first, head butting the gunman.

  The gunner dropped his weapon and fell, quickly crawling backward to gain space.

  “Hello,” the priest said quietly. “My name is Father Frank, and you shouldn’t have come here.”

  The gunman kicked into the air and flipped onto his feet, firing a right cross too fast for most human beings to even see. The priest sidestepped and kneed him in the stomach before pounding him with a left pile driver, which spun him around. Frank grabbed him by the collar and belt and slammed him into the wall. The gunman spun out of his grip, and backhanded Frank across the face before going for his knife.

  The knife came out, and up, and so did Father Frank’s rosary. The loop of beads came up and around the knife blade like a whip. A flick of the wrist sent both the knife and the rosary flying across the hallway. The gunman lunged forward with a sucker punch. The priest slipped the punch, and the fist drove straight into the wall. Frank shouldered him off his feet, and the assassin fell to the floor. This time the gunman rolled to his feet, drawing his Stechkin before standing. Frank kicked out, knocking the gun away, and then drew the foot back, landing the next kick squarely into the man’s chest, sending him into the doorway, into a straight line of sight with the outside world.

  And into the path of the rifle bullets from the guards.

  Father Frank Williams smiled. At least his father was right about there being trouble.

  Father Frank headed toward the room where the Pope and the others were to meet, and stopped, turned, and picked up the Stechkin.

  Who knew when one would need to blow through annoying locked doors?

  * * *

  Maureen McGrail and Wilhelmina Goldberg moved through the hallway, Goldberg with the gun ahead of her. The hall came to a blank wall, and a hallway that split off, the crossbar of the T-shaped hall. The two women nodded at each other, and wheeled around the hallway as one, each facing a different direction to clear the hall.

  Goldberg barely even had time to acknowledge that she had an attacker before she fired from reflex. The bullet she fired landed squarely in the gun stock of the AK78. The assassin growled and kicked her weapon from her hand before swinging down with his rifle. She leapt forward, past his left side, and landed with a solid thud, her stomach even with his boot. He grabbed his Stechkin sidearm, drew it, and pivoted his upper body to aim. He couldn’t miss.

  McGrail disarmed his partner in a matter of seconds. She slapped aside the AK78, then pushed the gun into the man’s chest. Both hands came down like hooks and spun the weapon from his hands. She chopped into his leg with a low roundhouse kick to the knee.

  The gunman twisted, just saving his knee. He stepped back out of reach of kick or punch, drew his sidearm, and aimed.

  Wilhelmina Goldberg’s assassin had a clear shot, and all the time in the world to take it, in terms of proper assassination technique. Only Goldberg wasn’t an assassin, so she didn’t play by the same rules, as she had slashed both of his Achilles tendons. He fell flat on his face, and he was about to roll when he felt Goldberg’s commandeered commando knife plunge into his kidney. The pain shot through his body like an electric current attached to his genitals, an agony so painful he couldn’t even scream.

  McGrail sneered at her gunman and hurled the banana clip from the assault rifle like it was a Bowie knife. The point of the top bullet in the clip jabbed him right between the eyes, and the circular spin of the clip caused the bullet point to slash through the skin. Given that head wounds bled profusely, no matter how small the wound, blood flowed directly into his eyes. She threw the rifle into his chest.

  The assassin paused for a moment, then staggered back as he saw the barrel of his gun sticking out of his heart. He stared in bewilderment for a moment before he remembered…

  He had left a bayonet at the end of his assault rifle.

  McGrail rose to her feet and smiled at Goldberg, who was also getting to her feet. “Easy, wasn’t it?”

  The bolts of two assault rifles were drawn back.

  Goldberg looked on in disgust. “Guess not.”

  McGrail’s eyes flared to life. Then I’ll die with my nails in their—

  She whirled, and before she could finish the thought, a hand had already gripped the assault rifles from behind and pulled them both up and out of their owner’s hands.

  Their assailant launched a kick to one side, breaking the knee of the one on his right while his hands shot left to grab a hold of the other’s head and slapped it against the wall. Before the assassin fell, a right hand fired a vicious backhand behind the ear of his partner, making the remaining gunman’s head ricochet off the marble wall. They both hit the floor at the same time in roughly the same condition — out cold.

  McGrail noted her savior and cocked her head at the odd-looking sight before her — Father Frank Williams in full clerical garb.

  * * *

  Sean dropped under the “guard’s” field of fire and thrust the halberd at him like a lance. The sharp tip stuck into the gunman’s hand and sent the Stechkin flying. Sean pushed off the floor with the halberd, grabbing it at either end before swinging the axe-head at the fake Swiss Guard. The guard blocked it with his own halberd, and pulled back, trying to hook Sean’s axe on his pole Sean jerked the halberd away before that.

  Sean launched an overhead blow with the blunt end of the halberd. The guard blocked, and he was also ready for Sean’s attempt to swing his halberd’s axe into the man’s side. The guard caught the axe edge on the pole itself, which was a bad mistake because all Sean did was pull back, sliding the axe blade down the pole, and thrust forward, jabbing the point for the man’s stomach.

  The fake guard leapt back and parried. After the parry, he swept his weapon back and thrust at Sean. Sean didn’t leap back or try to block it, but instead dropped to his knees, below the halberd’s point. He thrust his halberd up to meet his adversary’s, using the middle of the pole to intercept it, and then he swung his halberd to hook his adversary’s pole. Sean locked the halberd from two different sides — the hooked end of Sean’s axe had locked the pole, and Sean used the blunt end to push against his attacker’s axe.

  Sean sharply twisted his halberd, ripping away his opponent’s. The halberd clattered to the floor, and the guard backed up slowly to get out of range. Sean smiled, straightened and tossed the fake guard his own halberd.

  “Catch,” he told him, as though he were throwing a ball.

  The guard caught it on reflex, and Sean dropped into a roll, aiming for the legs out from under the pseudo-guard. The guard jumped up, over Sean...

  And Sean stopped his roll and spun, still in
a crouch, and jammed an uppercut into the gunman’s groin. The killer hovered there a moment before he dropped to one knee, bringing him level for Sean to drive a right hook into him so hard, his head snapped to one side and he passed out.

  * * *

  The Pope held the smoke grenades as Hashim Abasi and the Swiss Guard who stayed behind held their guns on the doorway, no one saying a word, and no one needing to. They were merely waiting for news, good or bad.

  The old saying is that news travels fast.

  Bad news just happens to travel faster.

  Three gunmen charged into the room. The Pope’s bright white garments, and the Swiss Guard’s uniform, the brightest objects in the room, distracted the gunmen’s attention for a split second – they shot the guard immediately in the head. Abasi fired as the Pope threw his smoke grenade. The grenade hit one of the gunmen in the head, while one felt the full impact of Abasi’s automatic burst, dropping dead to the floor.

  The third gunman disappeared into the smoke. Abasi paused a moment and emptied his gun into the cloud, sweeping from side to side. After hearing nothing, he shrugged, and charged into the smoke himself, only to literally trip over the gunman he’d been shooting for. The gunman and Abasi regained their feet at the same time, and Abasi slammed himself into the attacker with his shoulder, hitting him so hard that they were both flung outside the room. Abasi backhanded the assailant before violently head butting him. The gunman did the same to him, trying to step back to get a little distance and maneuver properly.

  Abasi didn’t intend to let him have the chance. If the assessments of the mercenaries’ abilities were accurate, he couldn’t let this man have a chance to breathe properly, never mind maneuver. Besides, Sean Ryan was a trained stuntman with years of experience and fight training, Maureen McGrail had a black belt, and they had trouble dealing with these men.

  Abasi was just a lowly cop with nothing on his side but intelligence.

  That would have to do.

  * * *

  Three additional assassins had charged through the smoke, past the two struggling parties. The Pope stood his ground as the three men charged in with AK-74s, weapons high.