by Neil Howarth
He skirted Naples and came down onto the coast, west of Salerno. They crested a hill, and the blue waters of the Mediterranean spread out before them, sparkling in the afternoon sunshine. The small town of Vietri Sul Mare huddled around the bay, whitewashed buildings clung to the hillside, nestling amongst the lemon trees.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” Frankie called out, a broad smile on her face. Her hair was tied back with a bright red ribbon, and she wore a pair of dark, Ray-Ban sunglasses.
Fagan smiled across at her. “Just like you.”
“Let’s have some ice cream,” Frankie called out as she spotted a small Gelateria kiosk tucked in by the roadside.
The man watched them as the car pulled in to the roadside and the girl got out. She skipped across the road to an ice cream kiosk on the other side. A lady without a care in the world. He saw Fagan get out and lean against the car, his arms folded across his chest.
The man was parked in a small lay-by, cut into a tight bend in the road that wound its way down to the tiny coastal town. From where he sat he had a perfect view below him and the town beyond. He was not worried about losing them. He had followed them from Rome without a problem. The electronic tracker had done its job since he had planted it on the car when the rental company had delivered it to their hotel on the outskirts of the city.
He let his eyes roam across the hillside and picked out a likely spot. He got out of the car with some care. His chest was heavily bandaged from the bullet wound that had clipped a rib. But Jesus had guided the bullet’s path as always, bringing it close enough for him to be fully aware of what was at stake. He took out a long black bag from the trunk. His hand went to the bandage he had wrapped around his head, another mark where Jesus had placed his hand. The wound was still sore. He thought about the man who gave it to him. Normally he had no thought for his target. He had his orders, as he had now, but this time he would take pleasure in it. This time he would not miss. He tucked the bag under his arm and headed towards his chosen destination.
Frankie turned around. She had her sunglasses tucked on the top of her head, and held up two waffle cones, topped with generous scoops of Panna and Cioccolato gelato, drizzled with strawberry sauce. Joseph shook his head and beamed at her from across the road. She licked at the ice cream as it began to melt and run across her fingers. She glanced up the road. A large truck was winding its way down the hill, but she had plenty of time to cross. Joseph pushed himself off the car and took a step towards her as she reached the middle. Something glinted in the sunshine high up on the hillside. She kept on walking, but something tugged at her consciousness. She looked at Joseph, standing there a wide grin on his face. She saw it again, and this time she moved, the cry bursting from her lips. “No.”
Fagan saw the expression on Frankie’s face change. She dropped the cones and dived at him, a cry forming on her lips. Her outstretched hands dripping with melting ice cream caught him full on. Pain jarred across his chest from the bruises and the unhealed wound, and he reeled backward. Frankie seemed to falter and stagger. A strange look on her face. The realization hit him an instant before the sound of the shot echoed off the hillside.
“No.” The cry reverberated deep inside his head like the moan of a ghostly foghorn.
He grabbed for her, catching her before she fell and pulled her in close. Her teeth were ground hard together, and her eyes were screwed up in pain. A screech of brakes seemed to be screaming at him from another dimension as the shadow of a massive truck skidded towards them, then swerved and shrieked to a stop, missing the two of them by inches. The driver leaped out of the cab, cursing loudly in Italian.
“Call an ambulance,” Fagan shouted at the man in the same language. “Pronto.”
He held her protectively in his arms while instinctively looked around, searching for where the shot had come. But the truck was blocking the view, and the shooters aim.
He could see the blood now. The wound was low on her chest. There was a lump the size of a rock in his throat. He pulled off his shirt and pushed it down onto the wound attempting to stem the flow. He knelt there, holding onto her, shaking his head, trying to will it away. “Frankie, please, no.”
He looked up towards the sky, straining for something up there, some sign.
I tried so hard to talk to you, but you never answered. Help me now.
“Please.” He shouted it out loud.
Frankie opened her eyes. He could see she was in pain, but she managed a weak smile. She tried to speak but broke into a cough and blood appeared on her lips. He knew the shock would soon hit her. He hated his professional self as it assessed her condition. He knew it was bad, but he tried to push it out of his head.
“Don’t talk. Help is coming. I just need you to hold on.”
Her face was pale and had taken on a grey pallor that scared the hell out of him. She gave a slight shake of her head.
“Joseph, I am so sorry.”
“No, don’t say that.” But he knew it was happening, he had seen it too many times. He looked down at her, shaking his head. “I did this, I brought all this on you, all this trouble.”
Frankie smiled again. “My dear sweet Joseph, you brought me you.” She coughed again and bright blood, spattered onto her shirt front. “I have not a single regret, not for a single minute.” Her voice now was barely more than a whisper. “Not even one second.”
The light in her eyes seemed to flicker, and then it was gone.
Fagan let out an animal-like cry of pain, holding onto her, rocking back and forth, trying to shut out the nightmare. People were crowding around them, none of them were speaking. The moan of a siren wailed in the distance.
He looked down at her. She looked peaceful now. No pain was there. Drops of water dripped onto her face. Some vague thought in the back of his head told him it was raining. Then he realized that tears were streaming down his face. He began to sob, raw emotion racking through him, coming in waves, each one stronger than the last, shaking him physically as he clung on to Frankie’s lifeless body.
80
Church of Santa Clara, Tiburtini Hills, Rome.
It was there again, standing in the shadows, watching him. It was no surprise that it was back. He knew what it wanted. It was bolder now, moving out from where it hid, this half man, half beast creature, scarred and tortured with its black velvet wings. He could see it clearly now. He recognized it from the books he had studied in seminary. This time he could see its face. A soldier’s face, daubed with black and green face paint. He was not surprised at what he saw. It was as if he was staring into a mirror, seeing who he really was for the first time. It had always been there, waiting in the depths of his soul, waiting to step out and take control. It moved towards him and reached out with a clawed hand to touch him.
“Joseph.”
Fagan opened his eyes.
Walter stood there holding a steaming mug. “Coffee.”
Fagan tried to shake the image from his mind, but it seemed to persist, and then the reality came flooding back. Frankie covered in blood. The image obliterated all other thoughts.
“Are you okay?”
Fagan stared at the stone floor, trying to get some hook back onto reality. He took a deep breath and looked up at Walter. His friend appeared to have weathered the night as badly as he had. The Scot’s eyes were red and swollen.
“I will be.” Fagan took the mug. “Thanks.”
Walter had brought him to the church of Santa Clara. Father Roberto had offered some words of comfort but for the most part, had left him to himself. He had been given the spare room, but he did not want a bed. He knew he would not be sleeping, so he had spent the night in one of the priest’s armchairs. At some time in the early hours he must have dropped off, exhaustion had finally got to him.
Walter looked at him nervously. “How are you feeling?”
Fagan shrugged but did not say anything.
“I’ll make some breakfast. You should eat. We have to leave soon.” Walte
r moved off without waiting for an answer. His usual light step seemed heavy and flat as he went, his shoulders drooped like they were carrying a great weight.
Fagan watched him go, but his mind saw only one thing.
She had saved him. He realized that now. He could see it all as he reran it in his head. She had saved him, like she always did, sacrificed herself for him.
He sipped on the coffee. The last forty-eight hours was a blur.
They had taken Frankie away in an ambulance, laid out on a stretcher, covered with a blanket. He wanted to go with her, but they had other plans for him. They took him to the Palazzo Della Questura, the police headquarters in Naples. They had found him a clean T-shirt, his own was still with Frankie. They had allowed him to wash his hands and face which were still covered in Frankie’s blood, and then they had questioned him for most of that night. They took it in turns to interrogate him. He had told them little. It would make no difference anyway, and it would not bring her back. Someone out there was responsible for this, and there was only one person who could do anything about that.
Finally, they had allowed him his phone call. Walter had arrived with Julio, a short time later. Apparently, Julio had summoned up a helicopter and flown it down to Naples himself. He had talked to the officer in charge, pulled some strings and eventually they had released him. They had come back here, to the Church up in the hills. Fagan had not said a word on the journey.
He stood up. He was still wearing the T-shirt they had given him at the police station. He could hear Walter moving about in the kitchen. He headed for the door. It was still dark, and there was a chill to the morning that suited how he felt. He stepped up to the wall that bordered the church from the hillside and looked up. It was an unusually clear sky. Frankie always loved looking up at the stars. She would often point out her favorites, calling them by name and recounting their mythical stories. She had always said they were a perfect example of God’s miracle, spread out across the sky like magical fairy lights reaching out to infinity.
God was not someone he wanted to think about right now. But it seemed he had no choice. An image of the beast flashed into his mind, and he knew why it was there.
He had tried to resist it and what good had it done. If he had embraced it from the start, gone after Brennan when he had first fled the Vatican, he could have ended him there, and anyone else who had stood in his way. If he had done that, then Frankie could still be here now.
He looked up to the heavens again. Luca had always told him when God speaks to you, you will know. Was this it? What He wanted? To bring him to this point. To see himself as he really was. The assassin and the priest. He had tried to run away from both, but it seemed that fate had brought him back to here, looking at the two halves of who he really was.
Was this what God always had planned for him. What He wanted him to be.
Something shifted deep inside him as if some elemental change had taken place. It was clear what he had to do, and nothing, save God himself striking him down, would stand in his way. He was coming for those responsible, every single one.
He would be God’s messenger, his Avenging Angel — from hell.
And when he found them, he would grind them into dust.
81
Washington D.C.
“Why don’t you take an early lunch, Miss Dawson?” Konrad Krueger stood in the Grand Master’s outer office. “Mister Percival and I could be some time.”
“But Senator, I don’t have you in Mister Percival’s diary.”
The secretary looked uncertain, but Krueger stood his ground, a broad smile fixed on his face.
“It’s okay, he called me earlier. We may go out to lunch ourselves.”
She glanced towards the inner office door. “I should tell him I’m leaving.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell him.”
She still looked unsure, but eventually, she gave a shrug and picked up her purse and her cell phone, and hurried out. Krueger watched her go, then stepped towards the office.
It was time to act. He had been in damage limitation. He had been trying to work out if anyone else actually knew he was involved. There was Carlucci of course, but he had seen the news, so the Cardinal was not going to be an issue. The real problem was Excalibur and its links to him. He had used them in Bosnia, and again when Brennan had asked him for help. Maybe that was a mistake, but he could do nothing about it now. There was also the priest, Father Juergen. Of course, the two of them had history. Juergen had cleaned up for him when Dominic’s plan had gone to shit. He had tried to get him to do the same thing again with Fagan, but it seemed that fate had intervened once more.
Fagan would work it all out eventually and point the finger directly at him. He would be coming after him, but he would deal with that when the moment came. He had not planned to kill Fagan’s wife. In fact, according to Father Juergen, that was a choice she had made. But thinking about it, if he couldn’t take out Fagan, maybe she was the next best thing. Fagan would be angry, perhaps his judgment would be a little clouded, and he would have to come out into the open if he wanted to get close. And when he did, well, Krueger was confident he had enough resources around him to deal with that. But first, he had other business.
He opened the door and entered without knocking.
The Grand Master looked up from his desk as Krueger stepped into the room.
“Konrad, I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you would be up there on the hill, making sure everyone was lined up to do their job. The vote is this afternoon.”
“Don’t worry about the vote, that is in the bag. No, there was something else I need to talk to you about. I wanted to pass on an important message to you.”
“A message, what message?”
“The Grand Council members had a meeting.”
“What do you mean? I’m the Grand Master.” Percival stabbed a pudgy finger into his chest. “The Grand Council does not meet without me.”
Krueger gave him a tight smile. “Well, that was a little awkward. You see, the meeting was about you. The members have asked me to speak to you. They wanted me to pass on their acceptance of your resignation as Grand Master.”
“Resignation, what are you talking about? I’m not resigning.”
Krueger pulled out the Sig Sauer P226 with its fitted sound suppressor from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “I’m afraid it was unanimous.”
Percival started to rise, but the SIG coughed once. He slammed back into his chair, blood and brain matter splattering across his beloved Picasso on the wall behind him.
Krueger took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down the gun. He removed the sound suppressor and slipped it into his pocket. He moved around the desk and using Percival’s right hand, deposited a neat set of his prints on the weapon, then dropped it on to the floor. Not that it mattered, this was all for external effect. There would be no police involvement, no crime scene investigation. It had been agreed by the Grand Council. Lawrence Percival would just quietly disappear.
Krueger looked at the Picasso with its bullet hole and new brush strokes of brain and blood. Some might say, just the way the great man would have painted it. Still, a good restorer would sort it out, bring it back to its original best.
He looked out of the window towards the Capitol building in the distance. From the moment he had taken his seat in that grand auditorium, it had all unfolded before him as if it had been waiting for him to take his place.
He had anticipated this meeting with Percival, long before Carlucci’s fiasco. Regardless of the outcome there was never going to be room at the council table for the two of them. Then his benefactor had stepped forward and whispered in his ear. The other key members of the council had already been approached. They were all in agreement. It was essential to have the right men in your corner. Those who had the most influence. That was something the late Cardinal Carlucci understood very well. Unfortunately, he also knew the consequences of failing to deliver. Krueger was also
in no doubt about that.
His benefactor had laid out his proposal, showed how it linked to the previous Grand Master, Charles Liebeman’s vision, the one they had all bought into, and the one that Dominic de Vaux had been within touching distance of delivering. It was a solid plan, but this time it would be different. This time there would be no miracles, no acts of God to rely on.
This time they would be taking complete control.
The Day of Wrath
Coming Soon
The final chapter in the Armageddon Trilogy.
The Imperium, this time determined that their grand plan will succeed.
Joe Fagan - A man on a mission, determined to stop them. An avenging angel – from Hell.
The Armageddon Trilogy will end with The Day of Wrath, but Joe Fagan will continue.
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