Mason and his team ran towards the basilica’s entrance after putting Mario Gambetti at their fore. The cardinal’s face should be recognisable to the Swiss guards and should prevent any incidents of friendly fire. Of course, the team looked like civilians and so did the attackers, so things could still get messy. Mason had already noticed that the attackers had shrugged themselves into bulletproof vests. And most of them were wearing backpacks.
He ran fast, not drawing his weapon yet. They approached the remaining Swiss guards, standing in a line across the steps that led to the front doors. Some were on one knee, others sheltering as best they could, but still exposed up there. Two more had already fallen. The attackers were sweeping across from Mason’s left and were closing in quickly.
Gambetti cried out, ‘Do not shoot us. I am Cardinal Gambetti and these men and women are here to help!’
That would have to be enough. Mason was thankful for the cardinal’s bravery. Not every man of the cloth would have done that. The Swiss guards glanced at them as they tried to protect the doors to their magnificent church.
Gunfire rang around the square.
And then it got worse. Mason saw another wave of attackers running in from the same direction as the first. They had gathered outside the square with their backpacks and weapons and body armour and had outfitted themselves quickly. The police who had noticed them were now being gunned down.
Mason yelled out a warning and veered to his left. He drew his gun and started shooting as a wall of people ran at him. His team stood at his side. Bullets flew between them. Mason dropped to the floor, still firing, and pushed in another mag. They were too exposed. He scrambled back to the furthest arm of the colonnade, using it for cover. Behind him, the Swiss guards fought their attackers on the steps.
Bullets tore chunks out of the concrete above their heads. Mason couldn’t fire blindly around the pillars. There was no telling where his bullets would end up. He crouched and waited for the gap to diminish.
Which it soon did. Mason already knew that the attackers were no special forces team or even a bunch of mercenaries. He could tell by the way they ran and held their weapons, by the way they conducted themselves. They weren’t trained; they were civilians with guns. More of Marduk’s so-called Faithful, perhaps. He ducked as bullets flew around the corner of the colonnade, but then heard running feet. He tripped the first man who appeared. This guy sprawled to the ground in front of those following, effectively bringing them down too. They were all running as fast as they could, their guns held out every which way and just firing off shots. They weren’t disciplined, weren’t prepared or used to action like this. They went sprawling as they ran into each other.
Mason stepped around the corner, Roxy at his side. They fell into the heap of men and women and started clubbing heads with their weapons. When a gun rose near to them, they shot the owner. A fist struck Mason across the face. He fell to the side. He leaned on the man beneath him, grabbed another’s wrist, and tried to subdue both. Roxy fired her weapon twice, bringing a man and a woman down.
Behind, Quaid, Hassell and Sally also had their guns drawn. Gambetti sheltered behind them, the steps to the basilica at his back. The Swiss guards were still fighting there, scattered. Mason concentrated on his own battle. Only half of the attackers had fallen in the scramble.
Mason struggled to subdue them all.
The man with the badly scarred face walked in the rear of the second wave. He was the most important, the man who would matter. His brain was filled with dark visions and hatred. He worshipped the Amori and longed for the old days, the days when he had fitted right in. Marduk promised a return to those days. All the scarred man had to do was … destroy the Vatican.
He moved with a purpose, fired up. His muscles ached with tension. He wore a large backpack but hadn’t bothered with a Kevlar jacket. He didn’t care one way or the other. He was a big man, stout of chest and of stomach, with arms that might have been an impressive size if they were made of anything other than flab. He lumbered along in the rear, but his position was not down to his size. It was because all the others – the doctors, the politician, the stay-at-home mums, the counsellors and the accountants – had to protect him. That was their job. He ran in their wake as best he could.
He carried the biggest backpack.
And when they reached the end of the long row of colonnades, he fell to one knee, unhooked his heavy backpack and deposited it on the ground. He unzipped it quickly, catching part of the material on the weapon inside.
When he saw it, he breathed deeply, happily.
So perfect.
It shone. It was 40 millimetres in diameter, 950 millimetres long and weighed around 6 kilograms. The end was flared. The scarred man had trouble extracting the weapon from the rucksack; it only just fit. When he had it lying on the ground, ready, he reached back into the rucksack to extract the smaller grenade.
This was 70 millimetres in diameter and weighed around 3.5 kilograms. It would travel out of the launcher at 115 metres per second. It would ignite after 10 metres and sustain flight for up to 500, but that wouldn’t be necessary.
The RPG would make fine holes in the façade of St Peter’s Basilica.
The scarred man quickly assembled the weapon and used the optical sights. The steel was cold in his hands and against his right cheek; the weapon balanced nicely on his shoulder. He was still situated at the back of the fighting pack. Nobody had even noticed him yet.
Which was the aim.
He settled, wondering if Marduk would be pleased, wondering if this blessed shot would bring about the hallowed resurgence of the Amori. Even if he didn’t survive, the scarred man was at peace, knowing that he had done his part.
He was ready. He had a second grenade at his feet.
The scarred man pulled the trigger. Not having used an RPG before, he expected some recoil, as he’d seen with guns, but surprisingly there was none. The only feeling he experienced was a sudden lightness as the grenade left the tube.
That, and elation.
*
Mason heard the woosh and hiss of the RPG. Shock flooded his system. He hadn’t heard that sound in years and had never expected to hear it here, not even on this day. He looked up, attention taken away from the man beneath him, just in time to see the grenade impact one of the basilica’s front doors. What followed was a massive explosion and a spray of fire and a trembling of the ground. The detonation assaulted his ears. Deadly debris flew in all directions. The grenade blew the door off its hinges, destroying it and sending wreckage back into the basilica.
Mason’s eyes flitted towards the source of the RPG.
Already, a big man was fitting a second grenade into a launcher. The weapon looked like a toy in his hands. Mason lined him up in the sights of his Glock and fired. The bullet took the man through the forehead, between the eyes. The man toppled over, and the RPG fell to the ground with him.
Instantly, one of his companions scrambled to pick up the weapon.
Mason shot him, too. He pulled away from where he was, extricating himself from the battle there, and dashed over to guard the fallen weapon. Behind him, smoke wreathed the front entrance to the basilica.
The Swiss guards were faltering on the steps, almost overrun. In the midst of it, but staying detached from the fighting, was Cardinal Gambetti. Mason respected the man for staying put, although his face was grey with fear. One of the Swiss guards remained close to him.
Mason stood his ground as another man ran for the grenade launcher. The man was too close to shoot. They traded blows, but the man was no fighter; he was no boxer either. Mason delivered a couple of body blows and then a devastating uppercut that laid him out cold. To the right now, Roxy and Hassell were struggling with men and women. Hassell was on the floor with another adversary. Sally had her gun drawn, but had not used it yet. Mason could see the indecision in her.
It was then that Mason saw something that sent a river of ice slithering down his spine.
They were coming from the right, two of them. Walking fast. They wore heavy jackets, and they were sweating. Two men, with their right hands hidden in their pockets, their thumbs on the buttons of detonators. Their eyes were wide and wild, their faces like alabaster. Two men who had one purpose: to walk out into the middle of St Peter’s Square and cause mayhem.
The twin explosions rocked the air, shook the ground. Fire sheared up towards the sky. Debris flew for hundreds of yards in all directions. Mason fell to his knees, and not just because of the percussive blast. Even in Iraq, he hadn’t seen this scale of mayhem.
And now came a third wave of attackers, all fully armed. There were too many now, Mason saw. They would overwhelm his team and the Swiss guards within minutes. Already, they were lucky they hadn’t been winged by a stray bullet. Already, they were living on borrowed time.
Mason fixed another mag into his Glock. He could see the strain in the faces of the remaining Swiss guards as they sheltered behind bodies, behind a planter, behind a lone tree. He could see Cardinal Gambetti still standing tall, praying with his hands together. The priest did not falter.
Sudden shouts struck the air. Mason spun around. A stunning sight met his eyes. From the left, from the direction of the barracks, they came. Dozens of Swiss guards and gendarmes were flooding in from that direction, their guns held at shoulder height, their eyes steely with determination. Not just that, but Mason could see the cavalieré too, the special officers of the Vatican Gendarmerie, running in a stream alongside the regular guards. Like the cavalry, they swarmed towards the battle.
Galvanised, Mason swung back to the fight. He raised his weapon. The extra attackers were already here. A bullet flew past Mason’s shoulder. He didn’t back away from the fallen RPG. Roxy flung herself at three running men, bringing them all to the ground. Hassell and Quaid tangled with three more.
And it was then, right then, that Mason heard the desperate voice of Premo Conte.
‘Mason! Mason! They’ve caught Ivana! We need you to help with her now!’
Mason whirled. Conte was almost in his face. ‘What? How? Where?’
‘No time,’ Conte panted, holding a gun in one hand. ‘She’s three blocks away. Get there now. They’re gonna interrogate her on the spot and you and your team might hear something invaluable. You guys know her and Daga as well as anyone.’
Three blocks? Mason could run it in minutes. At that moment, the cavalieré came rushing by and ploughed into the attackers. There was the sound of crushing bodies and gunshots and yelling and groaning, all echoing across the wide expanse of St Peter’s Square.
Mason shouted to his colleagues. He yelled their names at the top of his voice, saw them disentangle themselves from the fight and come over, all looking bloody. He told them what Conte wanted.
‘Fuck, yeah,’ Roxy said. ‘Let’s interrogate that bitch right now.’
Around them, the battle raged. Mason had never seen anything so surreal. Conte gave them an address and then rushed off into the fight. The Swiss guards on the steps took a slight breather as their reinforcements arrived in the form of gendarmes. There was a heart-stopping moment when three attackers broke through and raced for the front doors of the basilica but, in that moment, Cardinal Gambetti read their intentions. He roared, picked up a weapon, and fired before they even reached the steps.
Mason had never seen anything like it.
He turned and viewed the quieter span of St Peter’s Square.
‘Ivana,’ he said. ‘This is our last chance to stop all this.’