Chapter 59 - The Sovereign Ambush
The cold water in the stone baptismal font splashed over Evelyn's manicured face as I held her pinned against the marble rim.
"Touch me and you burn in hell, Riley!" she hissed through clenched teeth, her designer dress soaking up the consecrated water.
"Hell is empty, Evelyn," I whispered directly into her ear, my grip tightening on the pressure point behind her collarbone.
"All the demons you worshiped in Geneva are already on their way here to collect their debts."
Before she could scream again, the stained-glass windows along the eastern wall exploded inward in a shower of colored glass and lead.
Gunfire erupted—not the erratic shooting of local deputies, but the suppressed, rhythmic triple-taps of professional contract killers.
The congregants screamed in absolute terror, diving beneath the wooden pews as splintered mahogany showered down like deadly confetti.
Clara’s cleanup crew had arrived; they weren't here to rescue Evelyn, they were here to eliminate every single witness to the paper trail.
I shoved Evelyn hard beneath the heavy altar table and drew my Glock in a single, fluid motion before dropping to one knee.
Two operatives dressed in sterile black urban tactical gear breached through the shattered window frames, their submachine guns raised.
They didn't identify themselves, they didn't shout commands; their weapon barrels swept directly toward the trembling pastor.
Pastor Dan never had a chance to pray; two rounds tore through his chest, dropping him instantly across the spilled communion wine.
I leveled my sights on the lead shooter’s chest plate and fired three rounds in rapid succession, catching him in the soft collar junction.
The operative collapsed backward over the shattered pew, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the stone flooring.
The second shooter pivoted toward my muzzle flash, but Blackwood Church was built by my grandfather’s masonry crew seventy years ago.
I kicked the heavy oak modesty rail, flipping the solid timber barricade onto its side to absorb the shooter’s incoming burst of 9mm slugs.
Splinters bit into the cheek of my jacket, but I leaned around the lower hinge and fired two rounds straight through the shooter's kneecap.
He screamed in agony, collapsing into the aisle, his weapon sliding out of reach across the carpet soaked with blood and holy water.
I moved forward without hesitation, kicking the fallen submachine gun into the baptismal font and securing the wounded mercenary.
I pressed the warm barrel of my Glock against the base of his tactical helmet, my breathing perfectly steady amid the screams of the church.
"Who sent you from Zurich?" I demanded, my voice cold enough to freeze the blood dripping down his shattered leg.
"The old woman... she's already in the state," the operative gasped through gritted teeth, spitting blood onto the altar steps.
"Clara landed her private jet at the regional airstrip forty minutes ago... she's taking the vault assets herself."
I looked back beneath the altar table where Evelyn was shivering uncontrollably, her eyes wide with animalistic horror.
She had spent her whole life thinking she was Clara’s trusted partner, an untouchable queen ruling over her small-town empire of lies.
Now she saw the truth: to the global predators she invited into our home, she was nothing more than disposable bait.
"Get up, Evelyn," I ordered, grabbing her by the collar of her soaked coat and dragging her out from under the wooden table.
"No! Riley, please, I'm your mother! Protect me!" she sobbed, clutching my muddy boots with both hands in pathetic desperation.
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"The law will protect you in a federal holding cell," I said, shoving her toward the front entrance where sirens were finally wailing.
"Because if Clara gets to you before the Marshals do, they won't even find enough of you to bury in the churchyard."
