William Tyree - The Fellowship

The high ceilings and ornate molding told of a structure that had been breathtaking before it had been prepared for siege. Looking up the mahogany staircase, Carver saw that the entrances to the second and third floors had been sealed off with razor wire, and the dining room was piled high with floorboards, dirt, nails and other debris that pointed to a sizable construction project that extended both above and below ground. The fact that the debris had been piled here, inside the palatial residence, only added further confirmation they had come to the right place. Someone had gone to great pains to hide the project from outsiders.

The ratatatat of automatic 9mm gunfire broke out from the fourth floor. Carver grabbed Seven and Lang and scurried to the far side of the cavernous room. Lang’s fighters held nothing back as they returned fire.

Within seconds, they were already down a gun. A young, bearded Slovak had taken a round in the middle of his face, obliterating his nose and collapsing his airway. He fell sideways, narrowly missing Carver’s lap. As he pushed the body away, Carver saw into the man’s open pack. He had been carrying a double-braided polyester rope, eight-inch eyebolts and a heavy-duty portable hand wench.

They don’t just want to eliminate Wolf, Carver thought. They want to punish him. Just like the others.

The Villa

Carver and Seven carried Heckler amp; Koch G36 assault rifles that they had taken from Callahan’s stash of trunk treasure. Seven had used one while training with the Special Air Service, and spoke highly of the weapon’s reflex sight, which used adjustable battery-powered illumination in low-level light situations. But for now, Lang’s men would do the fighting. If all went according to plan, Carver wouldn’t need to fire a shot until it was time to collect on his end of the deal with Lang.

Father Callahan carried all the explosives in his pack. He whistled at one of the Black Order mercenaries and tossed him a standard grenade. The priest pointed a finger up at the fourth floor.

The mercenary smiled, gave Callahan thumbs up, and hurled it to the top of the stairs with the expert accuracy of a center fielder.

“You idiot!” Callahan screamed. “You have to pull the pin first!”

The priest’s words were gravely prophetic. Within seconds, the grenade flew back over the fourth floor balcony toward Callahan and the 10 surviving warriors.

Carver grabbed Seven and Lang and pushed them into an open coat closet. “Everyone down!”

The frag grenade exploded five feet above the surface of the chestnut marble floor. A burst of shrapnel hit the solid wood door protecting Carver, Seven and Lang. All was quiet for several seconds, during which Carver wondered whether they were the only remaining survivors.

Then two guns started up again, and he could tell by proximity — and by the sound of their weapons — that they were Black Order. The relief he felt at knowing there were survivors was an odd and unnerving sensation. The enemy of my enemy is my friend , he thought. No, that was bullshit. He and Lang were not friends. They were merely using each other.

He opened the closet and spotted Callahan unfurling himself from a cramped shelter position underneath a magnificently carved wooden chaise. All gunfire stopped, followed by a sickening thud. A body had fallen from the fourth floor landing, having been picked off by one of Lang’s men.

Lang staggered out of the closet and surveyed the bodies of the 10 who had fallen in the span of just a few minutes.

“Well?” Carver asked.

Lang looked up, knowing exactly what Carver was asking. He shook his head. Senator Preston’s killers were not among the dead. He nodded toward two survivors.

Carver regarded the two monsters that had travelled to Washington D.C. to kill the senator. Both were reloading. The elder of the two was in his mid-40s and had a crescent-shaped birthmark covering his left cheek. The other was in his 20s, with loose skin around his earlobes that Carver guessed were the effects of wearing gauge plug earrings.

Apprehending these thugs would solve nothing, for no trial was possible. Any criminal proceeding in the U.S. would expose the story the administration had released about Preston’s death, and possibly, the shadow war over the ossuary.

He wished he could eliminate both of these scumbags right now. But that would solve little except avenging a single death. We would have to exercise patience. For the next hour, they were in this fight together.

*

Sebastian Wolf sat cross-legged on the mattress, willing himself out of the meditative trance he had dwelled in for the past three days. He was unable to tell whether the explosions were coming from inside or outside, from above or below. The expansive maze of rooms and tunnels swallowed sound. The excavations down underneath the villa, into the lost catacombs and temples of Rome, had been ongoing for years preceding his arrival. So many entrances and exits. He had needed a chaperone to keep from getting lost.

A boom came from outside. From the hallway. He was sure of it. The sound of the nightingale floors was drowned out by Magi’s incessant barking.

They were under attack now. And yet Wolf was calm. There was no reason to be anxious. It had been foretold.

The destiny of the Great Mission now rested with Adrian Zhu and the girl. They had just been here. Or had it been days since he had seen them? He did not know. He had lost track of time and space.

By his own insistence, he and Magi had remained undisturbed for some time. Such was his destiny. To be a pure conduit of light for the reincarnation of their savior.

But the time for prayer was over now. The nightingale floors sang like a flock of a hundred birds all at once. Intruders were in the house. He tried to raise Lars, but all communications were down. Where were the guards?

He struggled to get to his feet, pulling at the black monogrammed pajamas as they slipped down his lean buttocks. As Lars had taught him during the drills, he went to his desk and punched a star pattern on the touchscreen monitor on his desk. The bookcase behind him hinged open, revealing a staircase.

He called for Magi. The dog was highly agitated, foaming at the mouth as the heavy bedroom doors bumped and flexed. The enemy was at the gates.

Wolf gripped the dog’s lead and pulled him through the hidden doorway. Motion-triggered lanterns illuminated a coiling spiral staircase. Built within a hidden shaft in the villa’s rear, it descended the home’s four floors and continued underground to the laboratory.

He paused as he descended the first few steps. Had there been some way for him to seal the passageway? Surely there was, but he could not remember. Maybe he had never even known.

But now he recalled where the guards had gone. They were with Adrian Zhu and the girl. He had ordered it, despite Lars’ protests. So be it, he had told Lars. We come into this world alone, and we leave it alone, he thought. And then we will finally feel the unconditional love of God.

But it would not happen yet. No. He wanted to be in the presence of the ossuary one last time. The lifegiver of the second coming.

And finally, on the first landing, he saw the two large black buttons that Lars had shown him. They were recessed in a steel casing and protected by a transparent cover so they could not be pushed accidentally. Yes, he remembered now. He was supposed to press them in sequential order, left to right. The first one would seal the stairway behind him. The second would release the swarm.

*

Lang’s men blew open the doors to the home’s master suite, releasing a wave of stale, putrid air. They held their weapons with one hand, using the other to cover their faces. The walls of the enormous room were adorned with crosses of every shape and size imaginable. Enormous books were strewn about the floor, many of them open and with pages ripped out, as if they too had been under attack.