Outside the early morning sunshine spilled light through the stained-glass window directly behind the pulpit. A cool breeze drifted down the aisles, between the pews, between those worshippers who attended when they felt the need for the company of God. They were gathered in silent prayer in the small chapel, while the university’s church was undergoing extensive restoration.
The Priest kneltby the alter, his hands clasped together in prayer. He was a tall man; some would say skinny, beneath thick curly ginger hair, wearing casual clothes and a tweed jacket that had leather patches on each elbow. His eyes were tightly closed in this act of prayer. His face calm, almost serene, bathed in the coloured light filtering in through the stained glass window. By his side, sat his Bible, the Priest’s most prized possession, it was a small leather-bound edition with wafer-thin pages that were edged in gold. And, this man would willingly die for this little book.
The Priest was fully aware of the people around him and he felt privileged to be a part of their faith and to worship alongside them. They were all there to commune with the Lord and to receive his blessing. The Priest sighed; this was as close to contentment as it could get. Footsteps.
Something stirred inside him; something ate at the Priest’s karma like carrion pulling-over a rotting carcass.
The footsteps approached slowly, calculated, with care. The sound struck a discordant note in the Priest’s soul.
The Priest continued to pray, keeping his head bowed; he heard the sound of the other worshippers hurriedly leaving the small university chapel and he knew that this intruder was not friendly even before any words had been spoken or actions taken. He knew that this was the enemy.
“Lord, protect me against the dark forces of evil,” said the Priest suddenly, his voice loud with the clarity of polished glass, booming around the near-empty chapel. “For I am your obedient servant, Lord. Amen.”
The Priest climbed slowly to his feet. His hand reached down, closed over the small leather bound Bible, and placed the book in the pocket of his jacket. It was then, that he raised his eyes and looked straight at the intruder who now stood in front of him.
The man was tall, had a lean physique with a full beard and cropped black hair, wearing a black suit; his eyes were of the brightest blue that watched the priest warily, the stare drilling into his mind with pure hatred.
The Priest stood perfectly still, surveying the man.
“You are not welcome in God’s house,” he said, his words soft, steady. “This is a place of worship; peace and love.”
“I am here to kill you, Priest.” The man took a step backwards, his gloved hands making fists in anticipation. The blue eyes constantly fixed on the Priest and his moss green eyes slightly blood-shot noted the killer’s stance and assortment of concealed weapons; the fluid flow of movement.
“What creature from hell are you, who dare to enter God’s holy ground? I would liken you to vermin; I would say that you are infidel in God’s house; I would say that you need to leave before the wrath of God strikes you down.”
The Priest waited, arms folded across his chest.
The killer attacked.
The police patrol car drove through the roads of the University City. The officer at the wheel of the Ford Focus drove at speed, using his blue light at junctions and traffic lights; overtaking other motorists with only inches to spare as he raced towards his call.
He approached the university, went through the main gates; and could see a small group of people gathered outside the chapel. As the Ford neared they spread out, he parked the car and stepped out into the crowd.
A group of four older ladies stood huddled outside behind a man carrying a brown leather briefcase. They were all peering at the door of the chapel as the rotund older police officer came towards them.
“Come along now, people, stand back, let me through” barked sergeant Pat Crocker.
“There was gunfire!” said one frightened lady, her handbag clutched tightly to her coat. Her eyes held a haunted quality — she had been one of the worshippers, who had left hurriedly.
The man carrying the brown leather briefcase stepped forward, and immediately introduced himself as one off the university dons. “I didn’t know if I should have gone in to check on the Priest?” He looked relieved that the Sergeant had arrived. “Lucky to get here so soon, Sergeant!”
“Definitely not a good idea, sir. Whoever fired those shots could still be in there.”
The Sergeant cursed under his breath. Firearms! He spoke into his radio, asking the estimated time of arrival of the firearms unit. A moment later a BMW pulled-up and three SO19 officers climbed out of the Armed Response Vehicle. All three officers were heavily armed, carrying; Glock 17, 9mm automatics, Benelli M3 Super 90 12-guage shotguns, and Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine pistols.
“You are positive it was gunshots you heard?” The Sergeant asked the man, as the SO19 officers strode towards them.
“Oh yes. We all heard them. No mistaking, Sergeant.”
The SO19 lead officer stepped forward towards the heavy oak door, knarled and stained with the passing of time. He reached, turning the rusting iron handle. The other two officers had gone around to the back door and were mirroring his actions.
The Sergeant stood back looking on with the small crowd. A shiver ran through his body as a cold wind caressed him.
The lead SO19 officer knew; could feel that death was waiting for him inside the chapel. And then with a great act of courage, he stepped through the portal alone, his MP5 sub-machine gun clasped firmly in black gloved hands.
The Priest stood, hands in pockets, staring down at the dead Assassin. He had been tossed across the chapel; his head split open, like a melon, against unforgiving stone, tearing flesh and destroying bone. Blood seeping onto the aged flagstones, creating an interesting congealed crimson pool around the twisted broken corpse sprawled at the foot of the alter. The Assassin’s unique custom-made, mini submachine pistol lay, black and evil, against the floor of the chapel. The stench of cordite hung heavy in the cool air, gun smoke drifting from the barrel. The Priest nudged the weapon with the toe of his shoe. Then, stepping carefully forward with a word or two of annoyance, he reached down and grabbed hold of the limp body. The head rolled slack, but incredibly, there was a groan of immense pain and the right eye that was still intact, opened. The Assassin’s mouth moved wordlessly for a second or two and the Priest lifted the paralysed but miraculously living man up into a sitting position.
“Are you trying to repent for your heinous act of violence, my son?” He asked quietly.
“I… misjudged…” The Assassin’s left eye hung by a thread, its socket disintegrated on impact. The dull right eye screamed hatred, and anger, and frustration. “I will not make the same mistake again.”
“I fear you will not, my son.” said the priest as kindly as he could. He suddenly slapped the Assassin hard across his face, and a grimaced sound of pain came forth with spittle and blood, erupting from the man’s mouth. “Who sent you? And how did you know I was Ferran & Cardini?”
The Assassin’s lips formed a firm line.
He remained silent — he was not going to speak.
“Come on, do yourself a favour and tell me. I can make that pain go away.”
“I will tell you nothing, Priest.” The voice was hoarse, laced with agony; the Priest sighed again, and holding the body upright with one hand he reached down and pulled out a custom-made flick-knife. The gleaming titanium handle had been made for the Priest’s grip only, a sharp click, and the shining narrow six-inch blade appeared instantly. The razor sharp edge had been case-hardened to the highest standard