James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (28 page)

I hope that damned thing closes a lot faster than that.

He reached the entrance and climbed under, finding a regular door behind it, closed. He reached forward and turned the handle. It opened.

Thank God.

He stepped inside, then turned back, pulling the two Swiss Guards inside. Gunfire from his men’s weapons continued, and they were answered by other types. This was definitely a firefight. Niner and Jimmy were laying down steady fire, most likely to let Atlas reach the door without having to look back.

Atlas’s large frame suddenly appeared, and Dawson pulled him inside.

“Let’s go!” yelled Dawson, and Niner and Jimmy stepped under the still rising door. More gunfire, this time exclusively from the enemy, sprayed at the doorway, and Dawson dove backward. “Captain, have them close the door!”

He heard the order go out over the radio, and suddenly the door dropped with a slam, the rattle of bullets uselessly bouncing off the thick metal surface indicating their mission secrecy had been compromised, but they were at least secure.

Dawson picked himself up off the floor, and turned to Captain Denzler. “Lead the way, Captain.”

The man nodded, heading toward a staircase.

Dawson forced a deep breath out through his pursed lips slowly.

That was the easy part. Now for Mission Impossible.

Piazza Pio XII Square

Rome, Italy

DC Vitale rolled onto his back, his leg screaming in agony, as a contingent of officers, along with medics, rushed up to them. He reached down to grab his wound, and felt the wetness of blood as he tightened his grip.

“Sir, are you okay?” asked the first to arrive.

“Never mind me, check them out!” he winced.

He pushed himself away, gritting his teeth as he struggled not to cry out in pain. He knew the other two were worse off than him; he hadn’t seen the young officer move yet, nor the Imam. The medics rolled the officer off the Imam, and he gasped.

“He’s okay!” said one of the medics.

“No!” yelled Vitale. “He’s been shot in the back, through the vest.”

The medic rolled him back over and checked, then nodded. “He’s been shot, through”—he paused and looked at his front—“and through.” Examining the wounds with his gloved fingers, he looked at Vitale and smiled. “He’ll be okay, it’s a through and through, nothing major hit by the looks of it.” They loaded him on a gurney, and pushed him inside a waiting ambulance within minutes.

The Imam though, was another story. A massive amount of blood stained his white robes, and Vitale, still gripping his leg, saw no signs of life, save for the fact the blood seemed to still pulse out of him, indicating a heartbeat. His view was blocked suddenly as a paramedic dropped in front of him.

“Where are you hit?”

“The leg.” He moved his hand, and felt the paramedic go to work, cutting open his pants, then sock. A gurney was brought over, and he was lifted on to it.

“Wait!” he yelled. “What about the Imam?” He pushed aside the medic still blocking his view, and watched with a sinking heart as a sheet was lowered, covering his body.

“Sorry, sir, he didn’t make it.”

“What about my leg?”

“You’ve got a bullet in there, but judging from the damage, most likely a ricochet. We’ll just patch you up and they can remove it at the hospital, and you’ll probably be released within an hour or two.”

Vitale pushed himself up. “If I’m not dying, then remove it here. I can’t leave the scene.”

“But, sir—”

Vitale pointed at his wound. “Fix it now, or I’m getting off this damned thing, and you can fix it later.”

The man frowned, muttering something under his breath. “At least let me push you behind the ambulance, in case there’s any more shooting.”

Vitale nodded. “Good thinking.”

He was pushed behind a nearby ambulance, then given a shot in the leg.

“What was that?”

“Tetanus,” said the medic. He held up another needle. “This one’s a local for the pain.”

“But it doesn’t hurt that much now.”

“It will when I start digging for the bullet.”

He felt the needle plunge into his calf before he had a chance to respond. A gentle warmness flowed through the area, numbing the pain. He lay back on the stretcher, looking around for someone to give him an update. Then he remembered his radio.

“This is Vitale. Report!”

“Barriers holding, crowd has dispersed further into the square on all sides.”

“So no one is leaving anymore?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, have our sharpshooters keep an eye out for weapons. If they have clean shots, they can take them.”

There was a pause.

“Do you need me to repeat that order?”

“N-no, sir, it’s just that we’ve been ordered to hold our positions until our relief arrives, sir.”

“Relief?” Vitale propped himself up on this elbow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’re to be replaced.”

“By who?”

“The Army.”

Vitale’s chest tightened.

God help us all.

The Vault

Vatican City

Acton emerged from the stairwell, and turned to the left, directing his flashlight up. About fifty feet overhead his beam caught the bottom of the platform as it jerked its way down with its cargo, a stretcher bound Giasson, with Stucco and Casey at the controls, pulling in turns on the rope that lowered them a foot at a time.

Acton heard the others join him.

“Bloody hell, I think I’d rather have taken my chances in the stairwell,” muttered Reading.

“He would have bled out,” said Chaney, who Acton remembered had trained to be a doctor before deciding to become a cop. “His wound is only being held together by bandages.”

“Do you think he’ll make it?”

Chaney grunted. “I don’t know. He’s lost a lot of blood, and really should have been sedated and forced to lay down, with an IV drip, immediately.”

“In ten minutes tops we’re outside.”

Acton looked up, urging the platform to go faster. It was only feet away, and each pull of the rope brought it that much closer, but it felt like an eternity.

Finally it hit the floor with a puff of dust and a clatter that echoed through the massive chamber.

Red pointed at Reading and Chaney with his flashlight. “You two take the Inspector General. Professors, you lead the way, we’ll cover the rear.”

Nobody said anything, they just carried out the orders. Reading and Chaney picked up the stretcher with Giasson, placing their flashlights beside either shoulder, providing Chaney an illuminated view of Reading’s ass, and Reading the occasional hint of something ahead.

Acton smiled with a shake of his head, then took point with Laura at his side, both with flashlight and weapon extended in front of them. Within minutes they were clear of the Vault, and into the storm drain. Another eternity later, they approached the opening Atlas had knocked in earlier. They climbed through, then stood aside as the stretcher cleared, along with the rest of the team. Stucco and Casey scrambled up and out of the storm sewer.

Reading and Chaney pushed Giasson up the ladder, still on the stretcher, pushing on his feet to keep him from sliding, with Stucco reaching down and holding the moaning Giasson under his good shoulder. With a grunt from Reading, the stretcher cleared the ladder, and disappeared. The rest climbed the ladder with Red bringing up the rear.

Acton breathed a sigh of relief and looked at Laura.

“You were expecting to run into them again, weren’t you?”

He nodded. “And you weren’t”

She shook her head slightly. “I was convinced.”

Red took one last look down the hole they had just exited, then at the team. “Okay, we’ll go first, give the all clear, then you guys”—he pointed at Reading and Chaney—“then the professors.”

He stepped through the opening in the wall from the construction with the rest of the Bravo team following. A whispered, “All clear!” was heard, and Acton motioned to Reading.

“Let’s go!”

Reading climbed through the opening, followed by Chaney holding the other end of the stretcher, then Laura stepped through with Acton bringing up the rear.

“Fermati!”

Acton raised his hands. They were surrounded by police. He looked to see what Red and his team were doing, but they were nowhere to be found.
Where the hell’d they go?

But he realized they weren’t needed. This wasn’t the enemy, these were the good guys. These were the guys they would have been looking for right now if they weren’t already found. And an armed team of American special ops soldiers on Italian soil wasn’t something that anybody wanted discovered.

He looked across the street where they had rallied earlier, and saw a face peeking out from the corner. It was Red. He gave a thumbs up, then disappeared. Acton smiled.
Mission accomplished, Sergeant.

Reading was already lowering his gun to the ground, and calmly speaking. “Now, I’m just going to get my identification,” he was saying. The officers continued to train their weapons on him, but Reading continued with his slow, deliberate motion. He unbuckled the body armor, and gently lowered it to the ground, then reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve his ID.

“Now here it is, I’m Agent Reading from INTERPOL. Here’s my ID.” Nobody reacted. “Is someone going to bloody look at it?”

Giasson moaned, then said something in Italian. One of the officers snapped his heels, and got on his radio as the others lowered their weapons. A hurried conversation in Italian was held, then a moment later an ambulance tore around the corner, spilling a gurney and two medics out as it arrived. Within minutes Giasson was in the back of the ambulance, being rushed to a hospital, leaving Acton, Laura, Reading and Chaney standing there, unsure of what to do.

The officer with the radio received additional instructions, then in broken English, said, “Follow me, please.”

They climbed into a nearby squad car, two officers in the front, with Acton squeezed against the side, Laura in his lap, Chaney, shoulders rolled forward in the center, and Reading, knees in his face, tucked behind the passenger seat of the impossibly tiny car.

“Rapido, please,” said Reading.

The officer they had been “dealing” with looked back and grinned. “Not long.” They raced forward along the northern wall, then the car jerked to the right, along the front of the walled city, and moments later they passed the northern colonnade of Saint Peter’s Square. As they rounded the massive structure, they skidded to a halt behind two flatbed trucks, and the doors were thrown open.

Everyone climbed out, with far too much grunting and moaning for the action heroes Acton felt like they were portraying, and they were led to a man lying on a gurney, his leg, by all appearances, being operated on in the middle of the piazza in front of Saint Peter’s Square.

“Agent Reading, Detective Inspector Chaney,” said the man on the gurney. “Forgive me if I don’t get up to greet you.” He laughed, then winced.

“Keep still!” yelled the medic who was in mid-stitch.

“Professors Palmer and Acton, this is Deputy Commissioner Vitale.” Reading looked at the pale man. “Are you going to be okay?” asked Reading.

The medic raised his head. “This stubborn ass won’t let me take him to the hospital.” He shook the curved needle at Vitale, each shake yanking at the string, causing Vitale to pale a little bit more with each pull. “If you die from infection later, don’t be blaming me.”

“Just get on with it, dammit!”

The medic frowned, then turned his attention back to his sewing job.

“I understand you were inside?”

Reading nodded. “Retrieving this,” he said, pointing at the case Acton still gripped tightly.

“What is it?”

“It’s the scroll that caused all of this,” said Laura, swinging her arms at the massive police operation.

“And what will you do with it now?”

“We’re taking it to His Holiness,” said Acton. “He’s arranging a handover to Muslim authorities.”

Vitale nodded. He motioned to the cops who had brought them here, saying something in Italian. Vitale turned back to Reading. “They will take you to the summer residence.”

“In two cars,” said Reading, holding up two fingers at the officers. They both smiled and laughed, then one of them trotted off to commandeer another vehicle.

Vitale reached over and grabbed Acton by the sleeve. He motioned with his eyes at the silver case.

“Get that damned thing out of my country.”

Acton nodded.

“You can count on it.”

Saint Peter’s Basilica Façade

Vatican City

Hassan’s heart pounded hard against his ribcage as he watched the crowds, screaming in fear, rush toward his vantage point at the front of the basilica. His plan had worked. The annoying appeal, repeating over and over, was gone. And the crowds, fleeing the return fire from the police, would never return to the gates. Unless he told them.

And that was not about to happen.

He raised his hands, stepping out of the shadows, as the crowd approached. He had no illusions that they were stopping out of respect for him, but more out of respect for the weapon he held in his hand.

The crowd stopped, and quieted down.

“My brothers! You have seen their treachery! You have heard their lies!” He pulled out his cellphone and held it up. “I have just heard what the infidels are doing! They are arresting our people as soon as they are out of sight. They are
not
letting them go as they would have us believe.”

Angry mutterings began to permeate the crowd.

“Return to the gates, show them your courage, show them the power of Allah when it fills your heart, but don’t trust the liar, for he cares not for you, but only for his craven idol”—he pointed at the church behind him—“built not to honor God, but to honor a man!”