The Backup Asset

…76

“Lady, I’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to get to church,” the cabbie said, grabbing the fifty-dollar bill offered to him. “Here we are,” he said, bringing the cab to an abrupt halt with a prolonged tire squeal.

“Wait here,” Alex said, pulling her weapon and heading for the church.

She entered the church quietly, her senses in full alert, taking in the stillness of the place, the dimmed light coning through the stained-glass windows and the strong smell of burned incense. She looked ahead and saw a man walking toward the iconostasis. The man had a slight asymmetry; he walked with his right shoulder a tad lower than the left.

“Smolin, stop right there!” she yelled, pointing her gun at the man’s back.

Out of nowhere, a priest approached and smacked her in the head with a prayer book, sending her to her knees and her gun sliding under the nearest pew. She shook her head a little, trying to dissipate the sharp pain, and rubbed her hand against her temple, where the pain was worse. Her hand touched something warm and moist, with a strong metallic smell. Blood. Her own.

She turned while still on her knees and grabbed the priest’s legs, throwing him to the floor. Then she sprung on top of him, hitting him hard in the chest with her knee, and in the side of his neck with her fisted right hand.

She reached under the pew and grabbed her weapon. Smolin was nowhere in sight. She ran toward the iconostasis, hesitated a little, then entered the sanctuary just in time to catch a glimpse of Smolin making a clumsy run for the back door.

She holstered her gun then sprinted ahead, jumped, and clasped her hands around Smolin’s neck, coming from behind. Then she let all her weight on him, kicking the back of his knees. They fell to the floor, Alex on top of Smolin, and Smolin grunting and swearing, feeling the pain in his shoulder. Her hands still held tight around his neck, squeezing as hard as she could.

“Shoot me,” Smolin managed to articulate, in a strangled voice, probably trying to get her to release her grip.

“No,” she panted, “first you talk. Then, maybe I will.”

He suddenly rolled over on his left shoulder, catching her under his weight, crushing her. She gasped for air. He was massive, and still strong, despite his shoulder wound. She started kicking blindly from underneath him, and finally hit his crotch, while her fingernails dug deep into the skin of his neck, gripping and tugging at his Adam’s apple. He yelped and curled on his side, then threw himself against her as she was trying to get up, and slammed her into the wall.

A couple of icons fell off the wall and shattered, and she fell alongside the wall, landing hard. Smolin punched her with his left hand, almost missing, yet hitting her hard.

Her vision darkened, and she felt she was about to lose consciousness. She managed to pull her gun and shoot, getting Smolin in his left shoulder. He yelled in pain and fell to the floor, crouched and writhing.

She stood with difficulty, still pointing her Walther PPK at Smolin, and wiped the blood off her face, grimacing in pain. Her entire body hurt, and a sharp pain pierced her under her ribs every time she breathed. Her head was throbbing, and she was angry as hell.

“Now let’s see who’s gonna wipe your sorry ass, motherfucker,” she said, just as she heard in the distance someone yell, “Clear!”

“Ah… she’s got vocabulary too,” Weber said, as he entered the sanctuary with his weapon drawn and a couple of agents in tow. “Remove this piece of trash from here,” he said to the other agents, then turned to Alex.

“Are you OK?” he asked, then he replied to his own question. “No, you’re not. We need to get you to a hospital. Let’s go,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder and helping her walk.

“Hey, Jer?”

“Yeah?”

“Did I just break the law of sanctuary?” she asked, feeling a little ridiculous for asking that question. “I chased a man and shot him in a church. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“And you cussed in a church too! Forgot that already?” Weber laughed. “You’ll have plenty of stories to tell your grandkids.”

His voice turned a little more serious, as he added, “The law of sanctuary was abolished centuries ago, and all it really stated was that the fugitive seeking sanctuary in a church couldn’t be killed, but would still have to be held accountable for his criminal acts.”

“Oh…” she said, suddenly feeling drained, as the adrenaline washed away.

“The churches weren’t meant to be havens for killers and rapists, you know,” he continued, speaking as if he spoke to a wounded, vulnerable child. “They were protecting people from political prosecution mainly, like running from an irate king, jealous of one’s land, or choice of fiancée. Plus, you didn’t even kill him, so you’re good.”

She looked at him with thankful eyes.

“How come you know so much about this?”

He cleared his throat before speaking and smiled briefly.

“Oh well… I chased and arrested someone in a church one time, and my mom gave me grief about it for weeks.”

“No Thanksgiving dinner for you that year, huh?”

“Something like that, yeah…” he laughed.

“OK, I feel a little better, thanks. I still feel weird about it, that’s all. You know, being in there with my gun drawn and all that.”

He helped her sit down on the rear bumper of the ambulance, as an EMT worked on her head wound.

“You wanna know what the punishment was for whoever broke the law of sanctuary in the 1500s?”

“What?” She smiled, wincing from the disinfectant applied to her cut temple.

“They had to pay 120 shillings. That’s about fifteen pound sterling, or twenty-three dollars. With inflation and all, maybe a couple hundred bucks would take care of it?”

“That much I can manage,” she replied, and they laughed together.