Chapter 32 - THE DEVIL IN THE SACRISTY
The silence that followed was suffocating, punctuated only by the drumming of rain through the blown-out window and the crackle of burning vestments near the altar.
Margaret’s mind worked with terrifying, cold clarity. She looked at William Vance—the brother her late husband had warned her about forty years ago. *“William doesn't see people, Margaret. He sees assets, liabilities, and collateral.”*
Underneath her coat, Lily's tiny hands gripped Margaret's sweater so hard that the fabric stretched to its breaking point. The child didn't make a sound. The sheer terror had locked her vocal cords, but her body was trembling like an engine rattling itself to pieces. In Lily's pocket, the tiny, notched brass key pressed hard against Margaret's thigh.
That key wasn't just a trinket. Emily had bled to keep it hidden. Arthur had risked his life to escort them here. And now, the true monster of the Vance dynasty was standing six feet away, holding all the cards.
"You're a sick bastard, William," Margaret said, her voice dropping into a register so steady and low that William’s eyebrows twitched with surprise. "You used Julian as your attack dog. You let your own son think he was hunting an enemy, just so you could track where Emily’s network would run. You played all of us."
"A good general lets his enemies expend their ammunition before he enters the field," William said, unbothered. "Julian was too reckless. His greed made him sloppy. He burned the red barn; he left a trail a blind man could follow. He will be handled in due time. But you, Margaret... you were always predictable. Driven by sentiment. Bound by guilt. You ran to holy ground. Did you really think God had jurisdiction over Vance interests?"
William glanced toward Father Thomas, who was sobbing softly against the ruined pulpit. "Thomas did his job. Unwittingly, perhaps, but effectively. Now, step aside."
One of the masked operatives stepped forward, his carbine lowered, reaching out a heavy, gloved hand toward Lily’s shoulder.
"Touch her and you die," Margaret hissed.
The operative chuckled beneath his mask, taking another step.
Margaret didn't wait.
She didn't plead. She didn't pray.
With the explosive fury of a mother fighting for her cub, Margaret drew Arthur's snub-nosed .38 revolver from her coat and fired point-blank into the operative's knee.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed room. The hollow-point round shattered the mercenary’s kneecap. The man screamed—a guttural, agonizing howl—and collapsed like an felled oak, his weapon clattering across the slick floorboards.
"Down!" William barked, his face darkening with sudden rage as he instinctively took two steps back behind his lead shield-bearer.
Margaret didn't hesitate. She grabbed Lily by the waist, spun on her heel, and lunged toward the heavy oak door leading behind the altar—the narrow entry to the church’s private sacristy.
"Take her legs! Don't hit the girl!" William roared from behind the wall of ballistic shields.
Submachine gun fire erupted behind them. 9mm rounds ripped through the air, chewing into the wooden pews, splintering the ancient cedar into thousand-needle shards, and obliterating the plaster statues of saints into white dust.
A ricocheting bullet grazed Margaret’s forearm, tearing through her coat and leaving a white-hot line of agony across her flesh, but the surge of adrenaline drowned the pain. She slammed her shoulder into the sacristy door, bursting through into the darkness just as a hail of lead tore through the oak frame behind her.
"Hold the door!" a voice gasped from the dark.
Margaret gasped, raising the revolver blindly into the blackness.
A strong, calloused hand clamped over her wrist, pushing the barrel safely toward the stone ceiling.
"It's me! Margaret, it's me!"
It was Arthur.
His face was streaked with soot and rain, his tactical jacket soaked through, but his eyes burned with fierce intensity. Behind him, the heavy iron bolt of the subterranean cellar door hung open, revealing a yawning black staircase descending into the depths beneath Saint Jude’s.
"Arthur!" Margaret gasped, clutching Lily to her chest. "William is outside! He's not in Europe! He's here!"
"I saw the convoy," Arthur whispered harshly, pulling the sacristy's heavy iron-reinforced door shut and throwing both heavy deadbolts into place just as heavy bodies slammed against the outside. *BAM! BAM!* "The rectory is encircled. But this church sits on an old underground coal route from the 1890s. It leads to the river culvert half a mile west. If we go down now, we have a chance."
"They have thermal gear, Arthur," Margaret said, her voice shaking as she felt warm blood running down her sleeve. "They'll hunt us through the dark."
May you like
Arthur looked down at Lily. The little girl’s face was pale as chalk, but her green eyes were wide, staring at Arthur's vest.
"They don't know what's underneath this floor," Arthur said, pulling a heavy flash-flare and a tactical shotgun from behind a cabinet. "And more importantly... they don't know what Emily left down here."
