Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

Only he never makes it.

Instead, he freezes midway during the draw-back.

A sharp pain erupts inside his chest. It feels like someone has stuck a knife in his heart.

And that’s because someone has.

The throwing hand of Guilio Brygus Angelis is still extended, his fingers pointing at exactly the spot at which the ancient dagger was aimed.

Rapid response units from the Carabinieri and the Polizia Municipale arrive within seconds of each other.

Both forces got panic calls from the public after Tom had fired the gun in the car. Both also had reports of a woman in the church brandishing a gun and claiming to be a cop.

Guilio is on his knees alongside Tom. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. Can you move?’

It takes Tom a second glance to realise that his Good Samar itan is the stranger he fought with inside Anna Fratelli’s apartment.

He’s got a dozen questions in his head and no time to ask any of them.

‘Help me up.’ He stretches out his left hand.

Guilio needs both his hands to pull Tom up. He glances at the body with the blade in it. If he pulls it out, he knows the guy will die, but if he leaves it, he will lose a dagger that’s two thousand years old and a set of his own fingerprints as well.

He leaves it.

He turns to Tom. ‘Follow me, or they’ll make you part of this.’

Tom lurches after the quick, slim figure disappearing down Via di San Michele.

Police sirens and whistles fill the air as he follows him into the shadows of a tributary of thin alleys trickling away from the church.

Pain is now starting to devour Tom’s shoulder, leg and ribs. He can barely pull himself upright as he runs.

He has no chance of keeping up with Guilio as he weaves a route through a labyrinth of back streets and passages that few locals even know of.

‘Down here!’

Tom has no idea where ‘here’ is. He stops for breath beside some low railings.

‘Here!’

The shout is from below him.

He swings his right leg over the small metal fence that’s supposed to keep the public out of what looks like one of Rome’s many excavation sites.

There’s a long drop down the other side.

He knows he doesn’t have time to look for a safer route.

He jumps.

His left leg buckles on impact and he falls heavily on to his damaged right shoulder.

Guilio shows no concern. He’s busy.

His hands are pushing hard against the black stone wall located directly beneath the barrier.

As hard as he possibly can.

He groans and strains again with all of his weight and might.

Nothing happens.

He turns and puts his back against the wall. Once more he pushes for all he’s worth.

His feet slip in the grit and soil.

Tom watches in amazement.

A thin section of the wall slowly starts to swing open.

Valentina keeps her gun trained on the body at her feet.

Whoever this jerk is, he holds the key to why Anna was so screwed up, and what’s behind all the killings.

She can’t wait for Trench Coat to come round.

The chiesa is silent.

Disturbingly silent.

Empty churches have spooked her since she was a kid, and this one is certainly a major kid-scarer.

She glances over her shoulder.

Two people are there.

A man and a woman.

They’re moving towards her and the man has a gun aimed at her head.

Valentina stays cool.

He’s slightly built and looks older than the woman – much older, maybe even in his sixties.

‘Lift your hands and move into the aisle.’ He waggles the gun towards where he wants her to go.

‘Not going to happen.’ She looks challengingly into his pale blue eyes.

‘Lift them!’

She places her bet. ‘I really don’t think so.’ She looks away from him and keeps the Glock pointed at Trench Coat. ‘You’ll have to shoot me before I give this creep up.’

The old guy’s gun kicks in his hand.

There’s a muzzle flash and a barking boom.

Valentina’s heart all but explodes.

She’s made the wrong call.

She doesn’t feel any pain, but then again, she’s been told that at first you don’t.

Still nothing.

Now she’s sure it was just a warning shot.

A warning duly observed.

If he’s prepared to let off a gun in a church, he’s desperate. Desperate men – even those who don’t intend to kill – often end up doing so.

Over in the pews near the entrance she spots two more figures.

Men, she thinks.

Younger than Shooter, maybe the same age as Trench Coat.

‘Drop it – drop the gun.’ He waves his pistol and speeds up his walk towards her. ‘Now!’

Valentina gives it up.

The clunk of the pistol on the floor is the cue for them to rush her. Not just Shooter and his female sidekick, but the watchers by the door.

A hand with a vice-like grip clamps around her neck. It forces her face first over the pew.

She feels the hard metal of a gun barrel against her temple.

Behind her, the young woman speaks for the first time. Her voice is shaky and nervous. ‘Is he okay, is he breathing?’

There’s a lot of movement. Valentina guesses they’re trying to resuscitate Trench Coat.

‘Attis, can you hear us?’ Someone slaps his face. ‘Attis, wake up!’

Valentina notes the name. She’s sure she remembers Tom mentioning it. Slowly it comes back to her. Attis was the unfaithful lover of the goddess Cybele, who was driven so crazy he castrated himself. Given the chance, she’d do the same to him, then stick the guy’s balls in Shooter’s mouth.

But for now, all she can do is listen and try to make sense of the voices.

‘He’s okay. He’s coming round. Get him to his feet.’ This is Shooter.

‘Come on, let’s get you up.’ This is a woman, an older, more authoritative one. ‘Let’s get moving.’

‘Which way?’ Another woman.

‘No choice.’ It’s the older one again. ‘We’ll have to go through the crypt.’

‘What about her?’ It’s the gentler woman speaking.

There’s silence.

‘She comes with us. We’ll deal with her later.’

Carabinieri snipers with Mauser SP66s crawl into position on rooftops in and around the courtyard of Santa Cecilia.

Soldiers speedily bundle visiting tourists and rubbernecking locals out of the church grounds and beyond the piazza.

Overhead, an Augusta-Bell helicopter hovers menacingly.

The 412 CRESCO is fitted with high-powered video cameras, infrared lenses, ground and surveillance radar and advanced heat-seeking thermal devices. Its eagle-eyed ops team is all primed and ready to track any sudden runners.

The crew watch paramedics stretcher an injured man into the back of an ambulance and then disappear with their sirens blazing.

Across the Trastevere back streets, troops spill from soft-topped Land Rover Defenders and start to stake out a dragnet.

No one is going to escape.

Public stabbings and gunfire in churches don’t go down well in Rome, as some jokers are about to find out.

From his command vehicle, Major Lorenzo Silvestri, the head of GIS – the Gruppo di Intervento Speciale – processes in information from his men, then calmly gives word for the operation to begin.

His team is the cream of the Carabinieri. Special-ops troops, specifically trained in hostage release, hijack situations and counter-terrorism.

Right now, they’re moving faster than the blink of an eye.

They enter in a cloud of tear gas, bursting through three main windows above the church and along two specific ground-floor routes.

Lorenzo’s soldiers move with startling synchronism. They sweep the sacred aisles with a deadly mix of Heckler and Koch MP5s and Berettas.