The Cult (13 page)

The man smiled and winked at Neil. “I sometimes forfeit my tips for the meal of the day.” He gave a curt bow and excused himself.
 

Neil checked the menu. There were three of everything, three starters, three mains and three deserts, of which one of each was a vegetarian choice. “Where’s the steak?” Neil asked.

Alexa grinned and pointed to an item on the menu. “You probably mean the Beef Tenderloin with Porcini Mushroom-Madeira Jus & Sage Roasted Fingerling Potatoes?”

Neil snorted. “As long as it’s beef.”

The meal didn’t disappoint, and the home-brewed beers were even better. They left the eatery feeling satisfied, mellow and slightly tipsy.

As they made their way toward their rental, a siren sounded and a police patroller pulled into the parking area. Two burly men wearing police uniforms heaved their bulky frames from the car and the vehicle visibly lifted up as their combined weight was removed from the suspension. They sauntered over to Alexa and Neil and one guy removed a photo from his pocket, then looked up at them.

Alexa cast Neil a furtive glance.

One of the officers nodded and the two cops stepped in front of Neil and Alexa, their broad shoulders side-to-side, thumbs hooked into their belts.

“Are you Alexa Guerra and Neil Allen?” the guy on the right asked. He was tall and had red hair barbered into a crew cut.

Neil nodded. “Yes, how may we help?”

The guy unhooked his thumbs and reached back, revealing a pair of handcuffs. “We have orders to take you in.”

Neil chuckled, casting Alexa an incredulous look. “You want to arrest us?”

The other cop pulled out a pair of cuffs and slapped them onto Alexa’s wrists. “Affirmative.”

“What for?”

“Murder.”

Latorre opened his eyes with a groan. He licked his dry lips, they felt like a piece of sandpaper. “You got to be kidding me,” he said, glancing around the cavernous room.

“Welcome to Hell, buddy,” someone wheezed beside him.

He was in a dark room which smelled damp and mildewy, like the Lascaux caves in France he had visited as a kid.

Hanging lanterns cast a dim light against the walls. Between the lanterns, two bony men hung shackled by their wrists, suspended to the wall. He looked up, rattled the manacles around his own wrists. He lifted his foot as something small scurried across the floor. He was in a damned medieval dungeon.

“Where are we?” he asked to no-one in particular.

He glimpsed a movement in the shadow, blinked a couple of times as he willed his sight to adapt to the dark. The faint glint of the lanterns reflected in a serpentine eye. The figure emerged from the shadows.
 

It was Father Casanellas.

“You’re in a prison for religious exiles, deep beneath Vatican City.”

“Why?”

Casanellas unbuttoned his black shirt and pulled it off. He folded it neatly, placed it on a chair and then put his clerical collar on top. “Because there was no just cause to kill you.”

The man was ripped, like the gymnasts at the Olympics. His muscles weren’t as large though, more sinewy, indicating massive endurance. He turned around and Latorre could hear a clang as he picked up something in the shadows. He had a Hasta in his hand, the type that the soldiers used in ancient Roman armies.
 

For a moment, Latorre thought that the man was going to stab him, but then Casanellas started with a training routine, thrusting the spear forward, swinging it above his head and slamming it into the ground with a loud crack.

“You’re a murderer, Casanellas.”
 

The priest cast him a sidelong glance bit simply continued with his routine.

“Why haven’t you killed me?” Latorre asked, trying to pull loose from the shackles.

“You’re Roman Catholic, right?” Casanellas said between his strikes, breathing heavier now.

“Yes, so what?”

Casanellas glanced at Latorre, grinned. “That’s why.”

“Who are these two?” Latorre asked, indicating with his chin the two frail men hanging against the wall.

“Same as you,” Casanellas said, not stopping his impressive routine. “People who got in my way.”

“I don’t understand.”

Casanellas cast Latorre a brief glance between thrusts. He had started to sweat now, his skin gleaming in the dull lamp light. “I don’t just kill indiscriminately, Lieutenant.” He thrust the spear at an imaginary enemy and cartwheeled, using the back of the spear for support. “God would never forgive me.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

The man shuffled towards him, thrust the lance in front of him before parrying some make-believe blows and thrust the spear at Latorre’s face. Latorre pulled his head to the side and the tip of the spear smacked into the wall beside his ear.

The man stood back and slammed the spear into the ground and straightened, his chin held high. “My name is Alessandro Raphael Timotheus Casanellas. I am one of twelve members of Illius Mortiferis, or the Angels of Death.”

The priest smiled, turned around. Latorre could now clearly see an intricate black cross tattooed on his back. In the centre of the cross was a flower with petals, each petal numbered from one to twenty-two. The man disappeared into the shadows, and Latorre could hear splashing, he was probably washing his face.

The man appeared again, naked this time. He was rubbing his short hair with a towel, started toweling his entire body dry. He had no hair in his groin area. As a matter of fact, he had no hair on his entire body at all.

“Like what you see?” Casanellas asked with a chuckle.

Latorre averted his eyes. “Who are these
Angels of Death
?”

Casanellas’ eyebrows shot up. “Now that is an interesting question. As a matter of fact, it is a question which has eluded many religious scholars for centuries.”

He started dressing. “The Angels of Death were first appointed by the Pope in the early twelfth century to hunt down and eradicate the Knights Templar.” He glanced at Latorre. “The Knights had committed acts of blasphemy and heresy against Christ and his Cross, and we assassinated more than ninety-percent of them.”

Latorre snorted. “The story I heard was that they had become too powerful, that the Pope had become afraid of them.”

Casanellas sat on the chair and pulled on his socks, glimpsed up at Latorre. “That is true as well.” He slipped on his shoes and tied the laces. “Nevertheless, our mission has not altered. We are sworn to eliminate any clergymen who act contrary to the will of God Almighty.”

“You kill priests?”

Casanellas lifted a finger. “Who sin. An important distinction”

“Then why don’t you kill each other? You’re all a bunch of murderers!”

Casanellas bowed his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. He looked up, smiled. “This is different. We have been ordained to commit these foul acts. We have been born into the monkhood and have been trained since childhood in the various forms of martial arts and assassination techniques to get rid of these…,” his face distorted in a grimace, “vile serpents in a quiet and orderly manner.”

He loped to Latorre, pulling his collar straight. “It is our sworn duty.”

Latorre smiled, then chuckled. “You’re a goddamn fanatic.”

Casanellas frowned, his eyes hardening. He pursed his lips then turned on his heel. A metal door slammed as Casanellas shouted, “Enjoy your stay, Lieutenant.”

Alexa took the cell phone from Sergeant Ian Roy, one of the big cops who had arrested her. “One call, one minute, make it quick.”
 

She punched a number into the phone and glanced around. She was in one of the offices of Vegas P.D’s finest. It was small and cramped and Roy’s table was piled high with case files. She could see a commotion through the policeman’s louvered windows. Two cops were struggling to keep a big guy wearing leathers and a punk hairstyle under control.
 

“Good day?” General Alain Laiveaux answered groggily. Only a handful of his closest acquaintances had his personal cell number. Alexa was glad that she had a direct line to one of the most influential law enforcers in the world.

“General, this is Alexa.”

“Alexa, my dear. How are you? Do you know what time it is?”

She spoke French. “General, I’m sitting in the office of a Sergeant Ian Roy in the Las Vegas Police Department.”

“
Bien
,” he said uncertainly.

“I was arrested earlier this evening.”

“Why?”

“They said I murdered ten people during our raid of Danny Gonzales’ facilities. They say they have eye witnesses.”

“But you were attacked during the course of performing your duties.”

Alexa sighed. “I tried to tell them that.”

She heard him fumble. “What is his name?” he asked, alert now.

She repeated the Sergeant’s name.
 

“Give me five minutes.”

Alexa disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Roy. “You’ll receive a call on this phone within five minutes.”

He nodded disinterestedly, observing the ruckus outside. “Damned punk red-necks,” he muttered. He turned around to face her, his hands in his pockets. “So you’re from Interpol?”

She nodded.

“Interpol always go around killing people in other countries?”

She shrugged but said nothing.

He strode towards her. “Okay, let’s get you locked up.”

She held up a hand. “Three more minutes.”

He shrugged and slouched onto the side of his metal desk, examining her face, chewing his gum.

Alexa sat impassively.

Two minutes later the man’s phone rang and he slipped it from his pocket, gave her a wink. “Hello?”

He stopped his chewing and jumped up. “Mr. Hoffman, sir. How are you?” He nodded. “Yes, we do, sir, she’s sitting in my office as we speak.”

Alexa leaned back in her chair.

He nodded ferociously a couple more times. “No, she’s fine, sir. No, I haven’t seen the case file, sir.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed a temple. “The order was issued by Lead Investigator Bradley Ortell, Vegas PD.” He nodded, then checked his watch. “Yes, sir, we can both be in your office in fifteen minutes, Mr. Hoffman, sir.”

He cursed as he disconnected the call, spat his gum in his hand and tossed it in the trash. He looked up at her. “That was the Mayor.”

Alexa nodded.

“You know the Mayor?”

“No, but I know people who do.”

“He says I could be fired.”

Alexa said nothing.

He pointed to the door. “Get the hell out of my office.”

Neil wasn’t answering his phone. Alexa strode to the reception desk of the Vegas PD and waited impatiently in the queue. The cops had managed to subdue the punk, he sat, leaning uncomfortably on his side in his chair, his hands cuffed behind his back, muttering expletives.

“Next,” a bored looking female cop called.

Alexa approached her and showed the woman her badge. “Captain Guerra, Interpol.”

The woman nodded, scanning the badge, then looked up, arms crossed. “How may I help you, Captain?”

“One of my colleagues, Senior Superintendent Neil Allen, was wrongfully arrested and brought here. I need to speak to him.”

The woman tapped a couple of keys on her PC before looking up. “We have no record of a Neil Allen in our facility.”

Alexa studied the woman’s badge. “Ask Sergeant Roy, officer Hocking.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, but picked up the phone and dialed a short code. A disinterested conversation followed, and she firmly put the receiver back down. “He was released shortly after his arrival.”

Alexa frowned. “Released?”

The woman nodded and looked over Alexa’s shoulder. “Next.”

Alexa punched a number into her phone. “General, Neil’s not here, and he isn’t answering his phone.”

“Let me check his location.”

All Interpol agents were mandated to wear a tracking device, commonly referred to as a GLD, or Geolocation Device, and Neil followed the terms of his appointment to the letter of the law. Alexa not so much, she hated Big Brother keeping a watch on her.

Her phone beeped a couple of seconds later. “He’s somewhere out in the desert. I sent you the coordinates.”

She thanked the General and hung up, checked the message.
 

Neil was at the Illumenex Temple.

PART FIVE

Bishop Daniel McGill caught the football that Jeremy tossed at him, then waved a hand, indicating that he should back up. He pulled back and flung the ball high over the boy’s head, but Jeremy caught it comfortably and jogged back to the Bishop.

Jeremy stood beside McGill for a second and panted before flopping down on the grass. “I’m bushed, you’re fit for an old man.”