Chapter 8 - The Shadow Over St. Jude’s
The iron door groaned in agony as the pneumatic jaws tore the upper deadbolt out of the brickwork.
Arthur Vance whimpered, stumbling backward into the shadows between the tall filing cabinets.
"There's an old delivery chute under the paper racks," the old lawyer cried, pointing a trembling finger toward the back.
"It opens into the alley behind the fish market!"
Vincent didn't move; his eyes were locked on the handwritten confession of his dead brother.
Thirty years of grief, thirty years of guilt carried for Dominic's orphan had been a constructed lie.
Tony Bellini had sat at Vincent's Sunday dinner table while raising the boy whose father he had butchered.
"Vincent, we have to move now!" Elena shouted, pulling his arm with both hands.
The sound of the heavy metal frame snapping open shattered his trance.
A tactical flashbang sailed through the gap, bouncing across the concrete toward the printing press.
Vincent reacted on pure instinct, grabbing Elena by the collar and throwing both of them behind the cast-iron machine.
The grenade detonated with a concussive roar that blew the bare lightbulb into powder and rattled the floor.
Blinding white light and ringing silence filled the cellar for two agonizing seconds.
Through the smoke, two men in black ballistic helmets stepped through the ruined doorway.
Their carbines were raised, their weapon lights cutting through the lingering haze like white spears.
Vincent rose from behind the printing press before their beams could find his position.
He fired his carbine in three rapid bursts, the muzzle flash illuminating his grim, unforgiving face.
The first contractor caught two rounds in the chest plate and collapsed backward into the alley.
The second man dove behind a stack of corrugated boxes, spraying suppressive fire across the machinery.
Bullets ricocheted off the iron rollers of the Heidelberg press, sending orange sparks dancing through the dark.
Elena leaned around the lower chassis, firing her stolen pistol twice with mechanical precision.
Her second shot struck the contractor's exposed shoulder, spinning him out into the open corridor.
Vincent finished the man with a single shot to the center of his chest before he could re-engage.
"Arthur, move to the chute!" Vincent roared through the ringing in his ears.
There was no response from the dark corner of the room.
Vincent swung his weapon light across the filing cabinets and saw Vance slumped against the wall.
A stray round had torn through the thin sheet metal of a drawer and caught the old man in the throat.
Vance was choking on his own blood, his eyes wide and vacant as his life slipped away.
"He's gone," Elena said quietly, pulling the folded parchment from the press and sliding it inside her coat.
"We can't do anything for him now."
Heavy boots pounded down the alley above; more contractors were arriving to seal the perimeter.
Vincent grabbed Vance's dropped revolver, shoved it into his pocket, and headed for the delivery chute.
The chute was a steep sheet-metal slide used for loading rolls of industrial paper into the basement.
Vincent pushed Elena up first, bracing his shoulders to give her leverage against the slick metal.
She scrambled up the incline, kicking open the rusted street-level hatch that led to the fish market.
A wave of freezing air smelling of rotting brine and diesel exhaust washed over them.
She reached down, catching Vincent’s wrist as he vaulted up the chute using the framework for purchase.
They tumbled out into the slush behind the market stalls just as two black SUVs turned into the main alley.
Siren wails began to rise in the distance, echoing off the wet brick facades of the waterfront warehouses.
Marcus had used his connections with the city dispatchers to broadcast an active shooter alert on their location.
Every squad car in the fourth precinct was heading toward the docks with orders to shoot on sight.
"We cannot stay on the streets," Elena whispered, her teeth chattering from the damp chill.
"Every camera on the avenue is running through the central precinct server."
"The police belong to Tony tonight," Vincent said, pulling his coat collar up around his neck.
"Then where do we go?"
Vincent looked toward the stone spires rising through the sleet two miles to the west.
"St. Jude’s Cathedral," Vincent said.
"The church?" Elena asked, skepticism sharpening her tone.
"My grandfather built the sanctuary foundation after the docks went on strike in forty-six."
"Father Mateo has run the soup kitchen in the crypt for forty years."
"He owes his parish to the Torino name, and he answers to God, not the district attorney."
They abandoned the waterfront, moving through the narrow service alleys that crisscrossed the old immigrant quarter.
Every step sent sharp pangs through Vincent’s ribs where the explosion had bruised his chest.
Elena walked with a slight limp, her uniform soaked in dirty slush, but her jaw remained locked in defiance.
The weight of the truth hung between them heavier than the cold rain.
"Did Sofia know about Dominic's deal?" Elena asked as they cut through a dark public park.
Vincent shook his head slowly, his eyes scanning the tree lines for movement.
"Sofia knew Tony was stealing from the offshore accounts, but she never knew about Dominic."
"If she had known, she would have told me before she died."
"She kept secrets only when she thought the truth would make me tear the family apart."
They reached the massive oak doors of St. Jude’s forty minutes before sunrise.
The cathedral rose like a gray mountain of limestone against the bruised purple of the winter clouds.
The front doors were chained for the night, but Vincent knew the priest's entrance in the rectory garden.
He knocked on the heavy wooden door with the brass butt of his pistol.
After several long moments, a small peephole slid open, revealing the wrinkled, weathered face of Father Mateo.
The old priest looked at Vincent’s blood-splattered coat, then at Elena’s armed silhouette.
He didn't ask questions; he simply drew back the heavy iron bolt and pulled the door open.
"Come inside out of the cold, Vincent," the priest murmured softly.
May you like
"I saw the fires burning on the north ridge an hour ago."
"I knew it was only a matter of time before the blood found its way to my altar."
