Chapter 18 - The Sound of the Bells
Alessandro didn't drop. He surged forward.
Before the nearest gunman could raise his weapon, Alessandro closed the distance, his left hand deflecting the muzzle toward the marble ceiling as a burst of 9mm rounds chewed through the plaster frescoes above. With his right hand, Alessandro drew his heavy tactical knife, driving the steel blade upward beneath the man's ribcage with brutal, anatomical precision.
The man collapsed with a wet gasp.
Pop-pop!
I fired from my coat pocket. The recoil bucked against my palm, blowing out the lining of my jacket. The second shooter, who was leveling his weapon at Alessandro’s back, took two rounds to the upper chest, stumbling backward into the baptismal font, splashing holy water across the floor before he slumped motionless against the marble basin.
"Move!" Alessandro yelled, grabbing the fallen submachine gun and firing a suppressive burst down the left aisle, driving the two remaining mercenaries behind the heavy stone confessionals.
Glass shattered as the stained-glass windows along the nave were blasted inward from the street.
Silvio Moretti’s men had arrived.
Heavy automatic gunfire ripped through the wooden church doors, splintering the oak portals into flying shards. Three men in tactical gear stormed the entrance, firing indiscriminately into the nave, their weapons fitted with muzzle brakes that lit the church in blinding, rhythmic strobes of yellow fire.
"They're clearing the room!" I shouted, dropping behind a heavy oak pew as rounds shredded the wood above my head, showering my hair with splinters.
"The altar floor!" Alessandro shouted over the din. "The brass seal is under the reliquary!"
Dominic was scrambling up the altar steps on his hands and knees, clawing at the gold cloth covering the tabernacle, trying to reach the rear sacristy door.
Alessandro vaulted the communion rail, catching Dominic by the collar of his expensive coat and slamming him face-first onto the marble steps.
"Where is the original ledger, Dominic?" Alessandro demanded, his knee driving into his cousin's spine. "The one with the real customs stamps!"
"Go to hell!" Dominic spit, blood smearing across his teeth.
I crawled along the base of the rail, reaching the stone trapdoor behind the altar. My fingernails tore against the iron ring, but I pulled with everything I had. The stone slab groaned, shifting upward to reveal a narrow, dust-choked cavity beneath the foundations.
Inside, resting on a velvet cloth rotted by decades of damp, lay the heavy brass notary seal of Thomas Vance—and a thick, leather-bound volume stamped with the insignia of the Port Authority Inspector General.
The real ledger. The one that proved the Vance Trust was an audited whistleblower account, established under federal protection before my father's murder.
"I have it!" I screamed, pulling the heavy ledger into my arms.
A shadow fell over me.
One of Moretti’s tactical shooters stepped onto the altar, his assault rifle leveled directly at my forehead.
Time stopped. I could see the condensation on his tactical goggles, the black carbon fouling around the barrel of his weapon, the slight tension of his gloved finger on the trigger.
A deafening roar split the air.
The shooter’s head snapped sideways as a 12-gauge slug tore through his helmet. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, tumbling down the altar steps.
Standing at the fractured rear entrance of the sacristy, holding a steaming double-barreled shotgun, stood Rosa Morales.
She wore a stained yellow raincoat over her floral dress, her gray hair tied back in a bandana, her face as hard and unyielding as the granite bluffs of Maine.
May you like
"Rosa?" I choked out, unable to believe my eyes.
"You think I let two idiots fight the whole city alone?" Rosa rasped, racking two fresh shells into the smoking breach with an unhurried, professional flick of her wrist. "Victor called me three hours ago. Get the book, Clara. The car is outside."
