The Templar's Code

CHAPTER 79

Standing in the shadows of the sacro bosso, Saviour gasped. In a state of near ecstasy, he clutched his left breast, palm to heart, and swayed slightly. On the verge of swooning.

The Brit just uncovered the sacred relic!

His beloved mentor would be overjoyed. And for that reason, he wanted to cry aloud. To leap with joy. To twirl and dance and even hug the stern-faced Dante. Instead, he surreptitiously peered around the marble pedestal that supported the full-length bronze statue, verifying that no one else lurked in the vicinity. The discovery was too important for—

Christos!

A Park Service police officer was walking down the path that meandered through the sacro bosso and heading straight for the reflecting pool and the adjacent exedra. Where he would happen upon the Brit, the stolen backhoe, and the Emerald Tablet. Aisquith and the woman would be arrested on the spot for wanton destruction of public property. Not that he cared about the pair’s fate. But he knew that, if arrested, the authorities would confiscate the sacred relic.

He had to prevent the unthinkable from happening!

Stepping away from his hiding place behind the marble pedestal, Saviour strode to the middle of the pathway. He staggered a bit. A split second later, he jerked, then collapsed to the ground, writhing. Moaning insensibly. Spittle flying from his lips. Doing a spot-on impersonation of a childhood friend who’d suffered from epilepsy, prone to sudden uncontrollable seizures. As though possessed by a demon.

Just as Saviour hoped, the police officer charged toward him and knelt at his side.

“Hey, buddy! It’s okay! Whatever you do, don’t swallow your tongue! I’m gonna call an ambulance, all right?”

Still twitching, Saviour saw the cop turn his head toward the communication device strapped onto his shoulder. About to place a call for medical assistance.

Knowing all would be lost should that happen, Saviour shoved himself upright. Using his elbow like a battering ram, he smashed it into the other man’s jaw.

“Motherfucker!” the cop snarled, reaching for the holstered gun at his waist.

Saviour immediately lashed his left hand around the cop’s wrist, forcefully wrenching it away from the leather holster. He then grasped his adversary’s thumb and forcefully yanked it back, the bone loudly popping. The cop bleated like a cow. Seizing the momentum, Saviour toppled him to the ground.

In the next instant, he was on the cop, jabbing a knee into his testicles. Swift as a shadow, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of a sleek Italian switchblade. He pushed the raised nubbin on the handle. The blade dully gleamed in the dim light. Excited by the struggle, Saviour plunged the blade into the side of the cop’s neck. A spurt of warm blood hit him on the cheek.

At that moment, their eyes met. Such beautiful green eyes.

Saviour smiled. Shoved the blade deeper. Then, in one quick, vicious motion, yanked as hard as he could to the right, the honed steel slicing through pale white skin, severing the carotid artery.

Owl-eyed, the other man gurgled, shuddered, pushed one last breath between his lips before he went limp. Rudely and unexpectedly sent to the eternal black void.

Saviour scurried to his feet. Grabbing the dead cop under the arms, he dragged him behind the statue of Dante. Out of sight. He bit back a grunt, the uniformed cop no lightweight.

This is my eighth kill, it suddenly occurred to him. Eight. The number of creation. Like the eight points on the Creator’s star. For some inexplicable reason, that thought made him feel whole.

Quickly, he removed the pair of handcuffs clipped onto the waistband of the cop’s blue-striped pants. Then he slipped the cop’s gun out of the holster. Mimicking the Brit, he raised the gun to his lips and reverentially kissed it. Glancing up, he noticed that the stern-faced Dante held a copy of La Divina Commedia between his hands.

Yes, it was funny, wasn’t it?

Having disarmed the cop and stowed him out of sight, Saviour moved to the edge of the small clearing and peered down at the exedra. Only able to see a humongous pile of dirt and the abandoned backhoe.

The Brit and his woman were gone!

Enraged, he ran toward the exedra, the cop’s gun clutched in his hand. A few moments later, standing at the earthen pile, he turned full circle, hoping to catch a glimpse. A blurred bit of motion.

He could see nothing but lengthening shadows. In every direction.

Christos!

He removed the PDA smartphone from his pocket and checked the GPS map. Relieved. They could not escape him. He had a gun. He had a knife. And he had the vial that Mercurius had given to him in Philadelphia.

There were any number of ways that he could send the Brit and his woman to the eternal black void.