Gapinski and Torres wasted no time following Farhad into the minor basilica.
“Come on,” he said, leading the pair to the same door on the side of the rust-colored building Farhad had entered a few minutes ago.
A man sat next to the original, ninth-century facade, welcoming them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Torres smiled and crossed herself. Gapinski did not, but nodded to the man in acknowledgment.
He flung open the wooden doors to the ancient church in pursuit. They thudded loudly inside the great hall beyond, echoing off its high ceilings. The two ran forward, only to stop short once they cleared the entrance and entered the nave, realizing their error.
They found themselves at the front of the massive, sacred space near the high altar, with all eyes of the congregants fixed on them. They had assumed it was empty, or sparsely occupied with a few tourists.
They were wrong.
Not only was it comfortably full, but they had interrupted a Eucharistic Celebration that had already commenced. A crowd of people had turned toward the sudden interruption, several of them gasping in surprise and disgust. The priest had stopped the ceremony and was staring at the couple, the host and cup prominently displayed on the altar.
Gapinski, shrugged and mouthed Sorry, then walked along the side of the sanctuary, scanning the large interior of the ancient space.
There he was.
Farhad was seated on the end of a pew next to one of six massive pillars. Gapinski glanced at the man as they passed him, who sat staring forward, newspaper resting next to him, bulky and proud.
What is in that thing?
Gapinski smiled slightly, feeling relief that they had caught up with the man and that he was within their sights once more.
Several people eyed them ruefully as they made their way around the interior of the ancient basilica across the colorful, hexagon tile work, past the giant, oak double-doors at the back of the nave and to the other side. They found an open spot for two at the end of a pew next to another one of the massive pillars holding up the ornately decorated ceiling. Gapinski motioned for Torres to sit next to a visibly irritated older woman, while he took the end.
As the priest resumed the sacred ceremony, Gapinski looked around the space, appreciating the architecture and holy ambiance that beckoned the worshipers heavenward. Six large windows at the top filtered in the bright sunshine down below. The ceiling was divided into four sections, each inlaid with gold bearing six inset panels of a sea of blue and a constellation of golden stars. It really was a sight to behold. A far cry from the clapboard country church of his childhood within the Deep South.
Having grown up a Southern Baptist, Gapinski had conflicting views about what was being performed at the front. The more confrontational side of him wanted to stand up in the middle of the service and set them straight about the error of their transubstantiation ways—arguing the loaf was a loaf, not Jesus' actual body; the chalice held fermented grape juice, not the actual blood of Jesus.
That's what his grandpappy would have wanted him to do, at least, a dyed-in-the-wool SBC preacher. He recalled helping the man dutifully prepare the Lord's Supper celebration in their country church every three months as a kid. He was responsible for cutting the crust off the Wonder Bread slices, while Grandpappy poured thimble-size plastic cups full of watered-down grape juice. As a teenager, he was hoping for at least some Yellow Tail, but the old man was definitely the teetotaling type.
The other side of him was mesmerized by the ritual, as it connected with something within Gapinski that longed for the tangible, the experiential. Before Christ crawled up on those ancient Roman boards of execution, he had given thanks at a Passover gathering of his disciples for the simple table bread before he broke it. Then he said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” Then after supper he took the cup of Yellow Tail, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.”
At some level, the bread and wine were Christ, whether in symbol or representation or actualization. They were given to feed the faith of his children to nourish it and satisfy it and grow it.
Gapinski’s faith was hungry. All the time.
He was transfixed on the priest’s upheld arms, which raised the chalice heavenward in thanksgiving. His mouth was moving slightly as he uttered a soft prayer, the wine transforming into Christ’s shed blood, as it was believed.
When the priest finished the blessing, the chalice exploded in his hands as a deafening gunshot rang out within the sacred space, pieces of the ritualistic vessel and the crimson liquid reigning down on the holy man. His mouth fell, his eyes widened. His face twisted with a mixture of surprise, fright, and disgust at what had happened as he stood behind the altar in stained garments.
Instinctively, Gapinski and Torres leaped out of their seats as the room collectively screamed and crouched for cover.
A collection of beige-clad gunmen wearing loose fitting clothes and scarves over their faces filtered into the nave from a single door at the center of the back of the church, firing semi-automatic weapons high and wide, shouting indecipherable commands.
“Always something,” Gapinski cursed as he and Torres moved behind separate columns along the edge of the nave.
Women were screaming and crouching where they sat. The priest was cowering behind the altar, trying to soak up the spilled blood of Christ with his robe. Parents were screaming for their children to climb underneath the wooden benches. Men were yelling to protect their family and friends, and in protest at the intruders, not knowing how else to respond.
Mr. Mustache had gotten up from his seat, quickly making his way into what looked like a small chapel through dark-gray, marble columns directly to his right. The hostile invaders quickly ran along the east side of the nave, one of them dragging a large case behind him. Two of the hostiles joined Farhad, while two others stayed outside of the chapel entrance, guarding whatever was happening inside and spraying bullets across the sanctuary every few seconds. Again, high and wide, but enough to scare the crap out of everybody.
Gapinski noticed Farhad’s newspaper was sprawled across the pew where he had sat. Which meant whatever it was Mr. Mustache had gotten in that drop-site package was now being used in that tiny room across the way.
“Over here,” Gapinski ordered, running to another large, square pillar directly across from the hostiles. Torres followed, attracting a spray of gunfire. It splintered into a wooden confessional booth, sending shards of wood into a family huddled behind them.
“What do you think is going on in there?” he asked Torres.
“My guess is the guy is after some relic. Only reason for all the firepower.”
Across the way, Gapinski spotted Farhad and one of the other operatives dragging a dark, marble-looking object, spotted with white into the center near the dark, gray case. It looked like an oddly large chess piece.
His watch chimed. He’d received a text from Zoe. He looked down, twisting his face in confusion.
“What’s Santa Prassede?” he said.
“What?”
“I just got a text from Zoe. She said we’re at Santa Prassede.”
“The Church of Saint Praxedes.”
“Saint who?”
She paused, face dropping. “What a minute. Praxedes. The name isn’t important. It’s what it guards.”
“And what’s that?”
She looked at the chapel, trying to discern what was happening inside, her adrenaline beginning to gallop her forward for a fight.
He asked again, “What’s inside?”
“One of the most important relics of the Passion of the Christ.”
“Passion relics?”
She nodded, gaze fixed forward with purpose on the side chapel. “Objects that were part of the events of Jesus’ crucifixion.”
She paused, remembering what her grandfather had taught her as a little girl. She said, “In this case, the black, granite pillar where Jesus was beaten to a bloody pulp.”
“Great. This is Notre Dame all over again!”
Suddenly, an explosion of violence and prolonged gunfire erupted from the chapel entrance, sending the congregants scurrying away toward their position in search of relief in the other small chapels behind them. Clearly the intent of the gunmen.
“That’s it,” Gapinski growled. “We’ve gotta end this. But we need a better angle of attack.”
He motioned toward the final square pillar at the front of the nave near the high altar, then made a run for it, drawing weaker fire this time.
Maybe they’re running out of steam.
He made it. Torres stayed put, giving them a double-angle advantage.
Gapinski aimed toward the gunmen guarding the entrance to the small chapel. He understood the oath he had taken when he joined SEPIO: seek to do no harm, use the minimum force necessary to execute the Order's missions. He agreed in theory. But in practice, with bullets of fire and fury whizzing this way and that, it was crap. The moment called for far more retaliatory measures, the kind that married gunpowder with cold, hard steel.
At minimum.
Three other operatives laid down more covering fire. Farhad emerged from the small room. One of his minions was dragging the large case behind him.
Sorry, dude. Not on my watch.
Gapinski waited for an opening through the crowd as it fled, then sent five rounds toward the hostiles. Two of the shots went wide. One of them lodged in a man's right leg. Another exploded into a marble urn above the entrance, sending heavy chunks to the ground around the gunmen.
Torres flashed him a look, then said, “I’m pretty sure that was a third-century marble urn you just destroyed.”
Before he could respond, the gunmen had recovered and sprayed a hornet’s nest of angry lead toward their position. They ducked behind the large, wide column as the bullets chewed chunks of ancient masonry to the ground.
Torres tried to steal a glance, but the assault was relentless. She relocated, crouching behind the splintered confessional, and when there was a reloading pause, she aimed her SIG Sauer with purpose and sent a barrage of her own, sending the hostile Gapinski had hit earlier to the floor clutching his other leg.
“Nice! But remember, I hit him first.”
They didn't get long to revel in their scores. The wall behind them exploded in another round of semi-automatic gunfire, sending them back behind their column for cover, and giving Farhad and his man time to escape from the small relic chapel and down toward the back of the nave.
“They’re moving,” Torres yelled.
“I know, but I can’t get a sight on them. Can you?”
The angle was wrong from both of their positions. Too far forward and too far off to the side from their route.
The gunfire seemed farther back now, so Gapinski stole a glance, bending around toward the high altar and then around toward the center of the sacred space.
They were slipping out the back door!
The nave had been cleared of civilians by now, all having either packed into the small chapels behind them for cover or exited out of the entrance to the left. So he let his gun rip, emptying his clip toward the exit at the back.
His bullets thudded uselessly into the set of hardwood doors as it closed behind the hostiles.
Gapinski cursed, then motioned toward the back. “Come on!”
Torres reached the exit first, positioning herself at the opening. Gapinski came up quickly and grabbed the handle. He looked at her, then nodded. He flung it open, and Torres inched through, arm outstretched with weapon at the ready.
They hustled into an open-air courtyard the size of a basketball court.
But no Farhad.
She inched forward, Gapinski close behind her. A door at the other end of the open space thudded shut. He ran forward, she followed closely, then opened the door for him.
Without looking, he ran through it, weapon pointed forward.
There was a long, dark passageway, made of old masonry work and stone flooring. Light at the end indicated an open door, and silhouetted inside the bright space was the outline of a man.
Instinctively he popped off three shots. He saw the man jerk forward, at least one of them connecting. Another silhouette appeared, answering his shots with twice the amount of power. He dove into a doorway along the passage, shielded by the ancient brickwork. Torres closed the door to the passage, protected behind its heavy, wooden weight.
The passageway darkened. Gapinski came out and ran forward, Torres joined him close behind.
Now or never.
He pushed through the door at the end with all of his six-foot-four weight and ran into a closed, wrought-iron gate. He tried opening it, but it was locked from the other side.
Speeding away was a black-panel van. He caught sight of the word Vesta and the image of a creepy-looking chick holding a bowl of fire.
He shook the bars in anger, but there was no give.
“Crapola!”
Torres came through the doors, finding her partner trapped. She was breathing hard, staring toward the end of the block as the van turned to join the city traffic.
“We need confirmation,” Torres said, motioning back toward the inside of the church.
Sirens were screaming closer as the pair walked back through the corridor, through the courtyard, and back inside the church through the opened, wooden doors. The priest had come out from his hiding place. He was shaking as he slowly made his way down the steps of the elevated platform of the high altar, his garments stained crimson.
The two walked underneath the faded mosaics of the basilica and to the right toward where Farhad had staged his coup. A small sign indicated it was the Chapel of Saint Zeno, whoever that was.
The first thing Gapinski noticed was a small drill and a cordless power sheer lying on the ground in the center.
That settled what was in the newspaper.
Second, leaning against a small altar at the front under an icon of what he presumed was Saint Zeno was a perfectly removed panel of glass.
Third, to the right of the altar was a small alcove. Inside was an ornately decorated reliquary made of pure gold sitting on a marble pedestal, with four small columns supporting a domed roof.
It was empty, but for a three-foot, glass enclosure with the missing panel.
And a missing marble scourging pillar.
The one containing the memory of Jesus’ suffering before bleeding out on the cross.