Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (32 page)

“Bring ten million dollars in bearer bonds to Saint Peters Square at exactly eleven-fifty-five a.m. Instructions have been emailed to you.”

Those instructions had arrived as he was speaking. He and Reading had managed to get the bonds together with no problem, the accounts and passwords to Laura’s accounts working perfectly. Acton had known she was rich, but didn’t realize how much so until the moment the bonds were handed over in a secure brief case, the combination set by him, and only known to him and Reading, who he told “just in case”.

Acton looked at his watch again.

“Blimey, if he looks at his watch one more time I’ll go out there and throttle him!”

Reading checked his watch.

Two minutes.

In two minutes the exchange was supposed to happen. Security was tightened, but relaxed at the same time. The crowd was flooded with plainclothes agents from the Vatican’s security force, and agents from Interpol and the local Italian police. The front entrance security was relaxed to ensure Laura Palmer and her captor would successfully enter. The last thing they wanted was an incident at the front gate that might get Laura and other innocents killed. Once inside the gates, they could control the situation better, and quickly isolate the area with the rapid response teams placed strategically around the Vatican grounds.

“Sixty seconds.”

Reading looked at the display counting down the time to the meeting then at the Commander of the Swiss Guards, Mario Giasson, his shaved head beaded with sweat.
He’d fit right in with these white supremacists.
Giasson glanced at Reading as he ran a handkerchief over his scalp, sopping up the sweat.

“Let us hope they are on time.”

“Don’t count on it,” replied Reading, again looking at his watch, then the screen. On the display, Acton turned to face a couple of tourists as they approached him.

Acton fought the instinct to run to Laura. The relief at the sight of her was almost overwhelming. His heart raced and his face flushed with both excitement at knowing she was okay, and anger toward the man gripping her arm. Acton placed the tourist guide and camera down on the statue base he was standing near, not only to free his hands, but as a signal to all those watching that the exchange was about to happen.

“James!”

Laura’s cry of his name belied her fear.

“Don’t worry, babe, this is almost over.”

The look in her eyes told him she wasn’t convinced.

Did she just shake her head?

Acton scratched his left butt cheek, another signal.

Something is wrong, but wait.

The man holding her was now feet away. “Professor Acton, I presume.”

Acton nodded, controlling his urge to reach out and tear the man’s throat out.

“You have something for me?”

Acton removed the backpack he was carrying from his shoulder, and handed it over.

“Ah ahh, not so fast.”

Laura handed a plain black bag to him. She looked directly into Acton’s eyes, then took a darting look to her right, then back at Acton.

“Put the bonds into the bag.”

Acton complied, taking a knee to do so, and dropping his head so he could take a look to where he thought Laura was indicating with her eyes. He saw nothing, just a large crowd of tourists, slowly making their way around the square.

He stuffed the last of the bonds into the new bag, and looked again.

Wait a minute.

“Now zip it up.”

Acton complied, and as he stood, he glanced again. One man was standing, facing them, not moving with the crowd, and wearing a long, bulky trench coat. Acton knew they had relaxed security.
Could he be a backup?
Acton made a mental note as to where the man was, and scanned the crowd for other possible accomplices. He knew as soon as the handover was complete, and Laura was safely free of the man, Cole was supposed to be taken down, but only if Acton gave the signal.

“Hand it over.”

Acton handed the bag to Laura’s outstretched hand. She handed the bag to Cole, who slung it over his shoulder, momentarily releasing Laura. Acton saw Laura tense, her stance changing slightly as she fought the urge to bolt. As soon as the bag was over his shoulder, Cole immediately reestablished his iron grip.

“Now what?” asked Acton.

Cole checked his watch, a sickening smile creasing his face. The crowd cheered in unison and faced the west. Acton followed their and Cole’s gaze. On the middle balcony of Saint Peter’s Basilica, the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God, or, as known to the cheering throng, the Pope, stepped out and waved. A roar of adulation filled the square as the people surged forward. Cole turned back to face Acton, his face dark, conveying an evil Acton had never before experienced.

“Now we change the world.”

Acton’s stomach flipped and bile filled his mouth as Cole raised his left arm in the air, revealing some sort of trigger in his hand.

“Allahu akbar!” he screamed.

Laura tore herself away from him, and dove toward Acton. From his left he glanced and saw the man from earlier pull open his jacket, revealing a vest bulging with explosives and dozens of wires. He raised both arms to the heavens and yelled, “Allahu akbar!” Acton distinctly heard two other praises to Allah screamed from other parts of the square as he grabbed Laura and jumped backward toward the fountain feet away.

Cole pressed the button.

And changed the world.

“Take the shot! Take the shot!”

Niner squeezed the trigger. Edison Cole dropped, but too late. Through the scope he saw three distinct plumes of smoke, fire and debris tearing through the historic square, and merging into one cloud, a thick, black, cloak of evil consuming the entire area. The rooftop he and Jimmy occupied shook, and a second later the sound from the triple blast ripped through the innocence, the sound unlike anything heard in Hollywood, but all too familiar to the Bravo Team surrounding the square.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Do you see him?”

Niner scanned the area with his scope. “No, I can’t see a thing, there’s too much smoke!”

“Mission aborted, return to rendezvous point Charlie!”

Niner heard it in BD’s voice that he was shaken. No one had expected this. This was supposed to be an easy hostage exchange, maybe a takedown, but not a suicide bombing. Niner glanced at Jimmy. “Keep looking!” Niner quickly packed away his M24A2 SWS Sniper Weapon System, while Jimmy scanned St. Peter’s Square with his scope. “Anything?”

“No, I can’t see—” He paused and adjusted his scope. “I think I see him.” Jimmy fell back on his haunches, making the sign of the cross, his face green, eyes closed.

“God help us all,” whispered Niner.

Reading raced into the square, the chaos that greeted him bringing him to a stop. Hundreds of bodies littered the ancient cobblestone, now covered in blood and other remnants he couldn’t bring himself to look at. It was worse than anything he had experienced as a soldier, and a police officer. The carnage was on a level his brain couldn’t cope with, and his vision narrowed, the world becoming dark. Tears welled in his eyes as he saw the bodies of children strewn about like the Devil’s play things, some whole, some missing limbs, some still holding the hands of parents no longer attached to their bodies. He bent over and vomited, collapsing to his knees. The security team that had accompanied him stood nearby, their weapons limp at their sides, their jaws slack as they too reacted. Some turned around and stumbled back inside, others collapsed as he had, still others fainted.

James!

Reading closed his eyes and took a deep breath, immediately regretting it, his mouth filling with the dried taste of death. He opened his eyes and willed himself to his feet. Focusing on the fountain not one hundred meters away where he knew he had last seen his friends, he walked, careful not to step on any of the poor souls who had only moments before been in a rapture of religious fervor at the sight of the Holy See.

Oh my God, the Pope!

Reading turned to where he knew the Pope had appeared promptly at noon, despite his security detail pleading with him to wait until the hostage situation was resolved. But he had refused. He would not disappoint his flock. He would leave his life in God’s hands. The entire side of the building was scorched, the stone work cracked and pockmarked as if the clawed hand of Satan had reached up from the depths of Hell and tore at the facade.

He resisted the urge to find out what had happened to the Pope, and instead turned his attention back to his friends. As he stepped through the carnage, the smoke slowly cleared, a stiff breeze sweeping through the square, as if the hand of God had swung across the area, clearing the cloak of sin stifling the square, and revealing to all the true horror this act of evil had wrought.

Reading’s eyes focused on the fountain. His heart leapt as he saw a hand gripping the edge. Then his chest tightened as he realized it wasn’t moving. He ran, zigzagging through the mangled bodies and debris, toward what he hoped wouldn’t be the final act in this unfathomable tragedy.

As he neared another hand appeared. Someone was alive. Reading raced to the fountain edge and reached over the side, pulling both hands, praying against all hope the bodies they belonged to were still there, and alive.

Laura’s head appeared first, gasping for breath. Reading pulled her over the edge, enough for her to rest, sprawled across the stone, and out of the water. He let her go and pulled with both hands, lifting his friend from the water. The soiled liquid ran off his body, mixed with what Reading soon discovered to his dismay was blood, blood oozing from his friend’s back.

Reading tore open Acton’s shirt, revealing a six inch sliver of stone, protruding from his back, near his left kidney.

“James!” Laura gasped as she saw the wound.

Acton moaned.

“Stay still mate, I’ll get help.”

Laura reached for the shard, as if to remove it on instinct.

Reading grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch it! It may do more damage on the way out.”

Laura stared at him blankly for a moment. Reading gripped her by the shoulders and shook her. “Laura, snap out of it! You’re okay. I need to get help! Are you with me?”

Laura stared into his eyes and suddenly gasped. “Oh my God!” She looked at Acton then back at Reading and nodded. “I’m okay, go get help!”

Reading stood and searched for a medic. He didn’t need to look far. Ambulances filled the square, emergency personnel racing toward the worst terrorist attack in Italy’s history. Reading ran toward one pair and seized them by their collars. “Follow me!”

Within moments they were at Acton’s side, and Reading breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his friend being tended to.

That’s when he heard the weeping.

He and Laura turned toward the sounds, toward where the balcony should be, and no longer was. Below, in a pile of rubble still being desperately cleared by the survivors, lay a mangled body, trimmed in white and gold, twisted amongst the wreckage.

Another gust of wind filled the square. The Papal mitre, his ceremonial hat, tumbled toward them and came to rest at Reading’s feet. He reached down and picked it up, looking at Laura, then at the horror in front of them. He hugged the stained hat to his chest and closed his eyes in silent prayer.

“Il Papa è morto!” someone yelled. More wails filled the air, and more screams as the word spread.

“Il Papa è morto! The Pope is dead!”

“Look!”

Acton, Laura, Reading and Milton all sat around the television, watching the live coverage of the Papal Conclave. “Is that white smoke?”

Reading nodded. “Certainly looks white to me.”

“CNN is confirming white smoke! The Papal Conclave has decided, and a new pope has been chosen!”

“I guess it’s white smoke,” said Milton as he stretched his legs out from the couch. Acton glanced over and smiled at his friend and the tremendous progress he had made over the past couple of weeks. He still wasn’t walking, but he had movement back, and that was more than they had ever expected.

“I wonder who they chose?” asked Laura.

Reading shrugged his shoulders. “No idea, but whoever he is, I don’t envy the mess he’s going to have to deal with.”

Contrary to Edison Cole’s hopes, the world hadn’t fallen into chaos. There were protests, there were some isolated murders and backlash against the Muslim community, especially in the hours that had immediately followed. But Vatican security was quick to get the news out that it was a white supremacist group that was behind it, and the footage of Cole squeezing the trigger proved enough to have the protests turn quickly into prayer vigils.

Around the world political and religious leaders of all stripes had condemned the attacks, and pledged to work toward peace. Whether it would succeed was doubtful, but at least the holy war to end all holy wars had been averted. What came out over the coming days had also clarified some of the confusion. The three bombers were indeed Muslim, but had been coerced into wearing the suicide vests, their families kidnapped by New Slate, their detonators controlled by Cole, their cries of “Allahu Akbar” not those of celebration at what was about to happen, but pleas for deliverance from the horror they were about to participate in.

“In other news, India has claimed responsibility for detonating an underwater nuclear weapon in the Arabian Sea as part of its continued testing program. The President condemned the test, calling on India and Pakistan to return to the negotiating table. The Pakistani Prime Minister, in an uncharacteristically conciliatory tone, condemned the Indian government, however pledged to not escalate the situation by conducting any tests of their own.”

Reading looked at Acton. “I wonder how much that cost the US taxpayer.”