Page 69

CHAPTER 68

S TEFANO SAW THE FACES OF THE C ARTHUSIANS WHO’D FLED THE monastery office. Concerned. As was the prior who stood before one of the windows.

“This facility holds the recipes for all of our liqueurs,” the prior said. “Those are precious secrets that many have tried to obtain. We have to protect them.”

“This is not about your recipes,” Ascolani said.

“Please enlighten me, Eminence. What is this about?”

“As I made clear, this is Entity business.”

“Inside my charterhouse.”

They watched as the two fleeing men disappeared through one of the cloister doors.

“They went into the church,” the prior said.

Two of the Carthusians followed, the third headed for the door from which the other two had emerged. More people now exited from another door. One a woman. Inside a restricted monastery where females were never allowed? And quite the crowd. Six people, along with the other Carthusian. A downright party in the middle of the night.

The klaxon continued to wail.

“Holy mother of God,” the prior muttered, then he fled the office.

Stefano moved to follow, but Ascolani grabbed his arm and shook his head.

“Let him go.”

Ascolani turned and headed out the office’s front door, away from the cloister. Stefano followed. They hustled down the path back to the entrance courtyard.

Two figures emerged from the church.

Darkness blocked faces but Stefano could see that one held a gun, the other something large and stiff, like a piece of cardboard. They climbed inside one of the cars, the engine cranked to life, and they sped through the gate.

“Who is that?” Stefano asked.

“The American, Malone, and Cardinal Richter.”

Ascolani found his phone and tapped the screen.

T HOMAS’S PHONE VIbrATED WITH A TEXT.

A car is emerging. Take it out. Use your toy.

Headlights burst from the open gate and turned left, heading for him. He grabbed the rifle and assumed a position where he could take a shot once the car cleared a curve about a quarter of a kilometer away. The weapon still had its high-powered sound suppressor attached to the end of the long barrel. He lay down prone on the pavement, balanced the rifle on its built-in bipod, and sighted through the nightscope. The headlights would be a problem, amplified by the night-vision capabilities, and potentially blinding. So he told himself to focus away from them. Down. On the tires.

He had eight rounds in the clip.

Should be plenty.

C OTTON WORKED THE ACCELERATOR AND STEERED THEM OUT OF THE monastery, beyond the walls, and back on the highway.

They’d escaped with the pledge.

“Is the document okay?” he asked Richter.

“I think so. The plastic sleeve is thick, and I’ve tried to hold it carefully.”

Good to hear.

“You did not seem surprised by what Camilla Baines did.”

“I knew she’d make a move, and this seemed like the right time and place.”

“So Cardinal Stamm provided you with some protection.”

“Always pays to be prepared.”

He took another curve in the road and kept speeding ahead, headlights probing the darkness.

Would they follow?

Damn right they would.

T HOMAS WAITED AS THE CAR DREW CLOSER, STILL NOT IN SIGHT, BUT as it rounded the curve and found the straightaway that led to him, he prepared to fire. The headlights burst into the scope as momentary twin flashes that he avoided, focusing the crosshairs instead on the front driver’s-side tire.

He pulled the trigger.

Missed.

Another shot.

The tire exploded.

He quickly shifted his aim to the passenger side and planted a third round into the second tire.

Good shooting.

All that practice paid off.

The car was now skidding out of control.

C OTTON WAS MINDFUL THAT THE ROAD THEY WERE ON WAS ELEVATED with trees and steep slopes on either side. He was an experienced driver in pressure situations, so he relaxed his foot on the accelerator and kept a light touch on the wheel. He also managed to buckle his shoulder harness, as did Richter. The serpentine road sloped downward toward the valley, no lights anywhere. Darkness all around.

Up ahead something appeared in the road.

A person lying flat?

He heard a bang.

The front end veered left.

He could feel resistance and knew that a tire had blown. Then another lurch from the opposite side. A second tire gone? The steering wheel slipped from his hands and their momentum kept sending them forward in an uncontrolled slide that crossed the center line into the opposite lane. The driver’s-side tires, or what was left of the front one, wobbled on the road’s edge. He hit the brakes to slow their acceleration and tried to cut the wheel to the right.

Metal grated asphalt.

The brake pedal gave way to a spongey sensation signaling that the pads were not working. He tried the opposite. Jamming the accelerator to the floor, increasing speed, and working the front end as best he could to keep them on the road. But the car continued to drift left, the front rims screaming against the pavement. He strained to keep the vibrating steering wheel under control, but the car began to fishtail even more.

No guardrails anywhere.

“We’re going over,” he said to Richter.

The car veered, then vaulted over the embankment. They tore through scrub, bumping and weaving, sliding across the rocky scree between the trees. They hit one tree, then another, and the car tumbled. Over and over. The windshield shattered into spiderwebs. Trails of light arced before his eyes. Nothing he could do now. They were at the mercy of gravity, which kept applying itself until they slammed squarely into something hard.

All movement stopped.

And a deep blackness engulfed him.