Watcher of the Dark: A Jeremiah Hunt Supernatual Thriller (The Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) by Joseph Nassise
Authors: Joseph Nassise
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surprised by the fact that we were already leaving before the meeting had even officially begun. No one except me, that is.
We quickly moved through the house, passing other groups of people engaged in other tasks, each of which gave us a wide berth the moment they caught sight of either Ilyana or Rivera. By the time we reached the ground floor there was a medium-sized cargo van waiting for us in front of the building.
It was only then that I realized the day had literally disappeared; the sun seemed to have set over an hour ago. I had either been unconscious for longer than I thought or I spent more time in that room alone than I realized.
Rivera climbed behind the wheel, Ilyana took shotgun and the rest of us climbed into the back. Within minutes we were driving away from the complex and headed into the heart of Los Angeles.
8
Of all the places I might have considered as a possible destination for our little outing, a church was not one of them.
Nor was it just any old church, for that matter. No, the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels was the largest Roman Catholic church in the entire city, as well as the official seat of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. It had been designed to serve as both an emotional and physical representation of the might and power of the Vatican.
And we were here to break in.
At least, that was my guess. I couldn’t imagine any other reason that a group like this would be visiting a church in the dead of night.
Rivera pulled to the curb while we were still a few hundred yards away, but even I could see the outline of the twelve-story structure looming out of the night in the distance.
“Talk to me, Max,” Rivera said.
The red-haired man leaned forward between the seats, gazing out at the building ahead of us. I could no longer see his face from where I sat, but I could imagine him licking his lips in anticipation of the challenge ahead of us.
“The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels,” he said, with just the slightest hint of admiration in his tone. “Built in the late nineties. Meant to replace the Cathedral of Saint Vibiana as the older church had suffered extensive damage in the Northridge earthquake. The cathedral itself can hold three thousand people in a single seating. It is three hundred and thirty-three feet long, which is exactly one foot longer than St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, and cost roughly $190 million by the time construction was finished in 2002.”
I noticed Rivera shifting impatiently in the front seat. Max must have noticed as well, for he suddenly dropped the tour guide presentation and got right to the point.
“The relics of St. Vibiana were moved from the glass case above the altar in the old cathedral and reinterred in a marble casket in the mausoleum beneath the new building.”
Rivera glanced back at him. “And you’re certain what we are looking for is in there?”
Max nodded. “As best I can be, from this distance. Get me closer and I’ll be able to take a better reading.”
It wasn’t the definitive response Rivera had been looking for, and he glared at the older man for a long moment as if that might change the answer. Max, however, stood his ground and gazed right back at him, seemingly unruffled by Rivera’s unspoken threats. My respect for him went up a notch; Rivera was one scary dude and probably wouldn’t take kindly to being led in the wrong direction, but what was Max going to do? Lie to him?
Not bloody likely. Not if he wanted to live afterward.
In the end, though, it was Rivera who looked away first.
After watching the building again for a few more minutes in silence, he asked, “Security?”
“Private firm paid for by the Vatican. Most nights it’s just six men on a rotating foot patrol, ex-cops and former military personnel for the most part, but occasionally they’re bolstered by a squad of Templars out of the local commandery.”
Templars? As in Knights Templar?
I glanced over at Ilyana and mouthed
We quickly moved through the house, passing other groups of people engaged in other tasks, each of which gave us a wide berth the moment they caught sight of either Ilyana or Rivera. By the time we reached the ground floor there was a medium-sized cargo van waiting for us in front of the building.
It was only then that I realized the day had literally disappeared; the sun seemed to have set over an hour ago. I had either been unconscious for longer than I thought or I spent more time in that room alone than I realized.
Rivera climbed behind the wheel, Ilyana took shotgun and the rest of us climbed into the back. Within minutes we were driving away from the complex and headed into the heart of Los Angeles.
8
Of all the places I might have considered as a possible destination for our little outing, a church was not one of them.
Nor was it just any old church, for that matter. No, the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels was the largest Roman Catholic church in the entire city, as well as the official seat of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. It had been designed to serve as both an emotional and physical representation of the might and power of the Vatican.
And we were here to break in.
At least, that was my guess. I couldn’t imagine any other reason that a group like this would be visiting a church in the dead of night.
Rivera pulled to the curb while we were still a few hundred yards away, but even I could see the outline of the twelve-story structure looming out of the night in the distance.
“Talk to me, Max,” Rivera said.
The red-haired man leaned forward between the seats, gazing out at the building ahead of us. I could no longer see his face from where I sat, but I could imagine him licking his lips in anticipation of the challenge ahead of us.
“The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels,” he said, with just the slightest hint of admiration in his tone. “Built in the late nineties. Meant to replace the Cathedral of Saint Vibiana as the older church had suffered extensive damage in the Northridge earthquake. The cathedral itself can hold three thousand people in a single seating. It is three hundred and thirty-three feet long, which is exactly one foot longer than St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, and cost roughly $190 million by the time construction was finished in 2002.”
I noticed Rivera shifting impatiently in the front seat. Max must have noticed as well, for he suddenly dropped the tour guide presentation and got right to the point.
“The relics of St. Vibiana were moved from the glass case above the altar in the old cathedral and reinterred in a marble casket in the mausoleum beneath the new building.”
Rivera glanced back at him. “And you’re certain what we are looking for is in there?”
Max nodded. “As best I can be, from this distance. Get me closer and I’ll be able to take a better reading.”
It wasn’t the definitive response Rivera had been looking for, and he glared at the older man for a long moment as if that might change the answer. Max, however, stood his ground and gazed right back at him, seemingly unruffled by Rivera’s unspoken threats. My respect for him went up a notch; Rivera was one scary dude and probably wouldn’t take kindly to being led in the wrong direction, but what was Max going to do? Lie to him?
Not bloody likely. Not if he wanted to live afterward.
In the end, though, it was Rivera who looked away first.
After watching the building again for a few more minutes in silence, he asked, “Security?”
“Private firm paid for by the Vatican. Most nights it’s just six men on a rotating foot patrol, ex-cops and former military personnel for the most part, but occasionally they’re bolstered by a squad of Templars out of the local commandery.”
Templars? As in Knights Templar?
I glanced over at Ilyana and mouthed
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