The Shroud Key by Vincent Zandri

forehead, press it against the thigh on his healthy leg.
    “No!” he screams through gritting, grinding teeth. “Please.”
    “Tell me … Now.”
    He swallows his pain, tries to suck down a breath.
    “I am a holy man,” he whispers. “If you want to know who sent me, look no further than divine providence. I am a messenger of God.”
    Slowly, I stand, turn to Anya.
    “The Vatican,” I say. “He’s a soldier of the Vatican.”
    “What do we do with him?” begs Anya.
    She’s standing over him, looking panicked and pale in the face. Chalk white against her black clothing.
    “We leave him.”
    “He could die. Bleed out.”
    I grab hold of her arm, look her in the eyes.
    “Since you came through my door an hour ago, lady, I’ve been chased, been made to crawl through an air diffuser, tackled by a little old man, shot at and cursed to hell by some man who claims to be on God’s side. Now my dog is missing. You want me to find your husband, you do as I say.”
    Her eyes well up. I can tell she wants to say something, but she just can’t work up the words.
    I release her arm.
    “My apologies,” I say. “But you’re turning out to be a boat load of trouble, and if we are somehow able to survive these next few hours, the sooner we get out of town the better.”
    “Why don’t you just stop?” she cries. “Don’t work for me if I’m so much trouble.”
    She wipes a tear from her eyes.
    “Because I’m already in too deep. I know what you know and they’ll come after me, regardless of what I do.” But on the inside, what I’m telling myself is this: I’m not leaving for US soil without those holy bones.
    She smiles against the tears. But as if reading my mind she says, “Okay, the job is still yours for the taking. But I have to ask you, is it really my husband you want to find, or is it a fortune in Biblical treasure?”
    Releasing a breath, I find myself nodding. Maybe she’s right. Maybe what I’m after besides some much needed money is fortune, glory, and immortality. But not even fame holds a brightly lit candle to the possibility of once more being close to my daughter.
    I turn away from her, head into the bedroom. After a fruitless search for Lu in all the obvious places, including under the bed, I go to the safe which is built into the far wall. Opening the safe, I pull out three extra ammo clips which I stuff into the left-hand pocket of my bomber. Reaching into the safe again, I grab a plastic sandwich baggy containing several SIM cards. I also grab my passport, plus three wads of Euros. Each rubber-banded wad is worth 5,000 Euros a piece. I step out into the hall, and hand her one of the cash wads.
    “What’s this?” she says, her tears now dried up.
    “That’s a loan,” I say. “I can only assume you don’t have much on you.”
    “We’re not going back to my hotel room?”
    “We’re not going to Andre’s apartment either. It’s too late for that. They’ll be waiting for us there too. That’s what I would do anyway if I were them.”
    “Who’s they ?”
    “The Vatican soldiers, and who the hell knows who else.”
    “Where will we go?”
    “Let’s hope you have your passport on you at all times like a responsible traveler should.”
    Reaching into the interior pocket on her leather jacket, she produces her passport and her wallet.
    “Plenty of credit cards,” she smiles, like this is her way of contributing to the cause.
    “Can’t use ‘em,” I say. “They’ll track us if we use credit cards.” Then, “Where’s your cell phone?”
    She digs into another pocket, pulls out an I-Phone.
    “Shit,” I say, taking the phone in hand. “Was hoping you had a Droid. You could use one of my SIM cards.”
    Dropping the phone I stamp on it, and crush it with my boot heel.
    “Hey!” she barks. “That phone cost me a grand back in the states.”
    “Sorry,” I say. “It might be a fancy phone but it’s also a tracking device. How do you think they been tailing you