The sound wasn't a bang. It was a tear.
When the Phalanx drones opened fire, the air in the cathedral didn't just vibrate it ripped apart. The acoustics of St. Jude's, designed to carry the whisper of a prayer to the back pews, now amplified the mechanical thwup-thwup-thwup of suppressed high-velocity rounds into a deafening, continuous roar.
I dropped behind the heavy marble altar just as the first wave of return fire shattered the lectern where I had been standing a second ago.
"Stay down!" Silas roared, pressing himself against the base of a stone saint.
I didn't need the advice. I curled into a ball, clutching the tablet to my chest, listening to the slaughter.
It was clinical. The drones, mounted high in the stone gargoyles, had the high ground and they fired downward in a cross pattern, creating a "kill box" in the center aisle.
I heard screams not of anger, but of shock. The Syndicate leaders men who had survived gang wars, bombings, and FBI raids were being dismantled by architecture.
"The shutters!" I shouted into my comms earpiece "Kovac, drop the shutters!"
The security details at the back of the church were trying to push forward to save their bosses. They were firing blindly at the ceiling, their muzzle flashes illuminating the smoke like strobe lights.
CRUNCH.
Giant steel blast shields disguised as decorative archways slammed down between the nave and the narthex, sealing the leadership in the main hall and cutting off their support.
Now, it was just the five Dons, the drones, and me.
I peeked around the edge of the altar.
The nave was a ruin. The pews were chewed to splinters smoke hung thick and heavy, smelling of sulfur and pulverized limestone.
Nikolai Petrov was down, his camel-hair coat soaked red. Tanaka was crawling toward the side aisle, dragging a shattered leg, his cane abandoned.
But the drones had stopped firing.
Bzzt.
I looked at the tablet.
AMMO DEPLETED.
PHALANX SYSTEMS: OFFLINE.
CONFIRMED KILLS: 38.
SURVIVORS: 3.
"They're out," I said "Silas, the drones are dry."
"We finish it," Silas said. He drew a sidearm from his dress blues a heavy .45 that looked ancient and lethal.
A shot rang out from the smoke.
CRACK.
Pain exploded in my left shoulder. It felt like someone had hit me with a sledgehammer and the impact spun me around, slamming my back against the altar steps.
"David!" Silas shouted, firing two rounds into the haze.
I gasped, looking at my arm. The Kevlar suit had stopped the bullet from entering my chest, but the round had grazed, tearing through the expensive fabric and the flesh beneath. Blood hot and bright welled up, soaking the grey wool.
My arm went numb and my vision swam.
"I'm hit," I gritted out.
"Focus!" Silas grabbed my collar, dragging me further into cover "They're still active. Varga. He's behind the third pew."
Varga. The old man who had slapped me.
I grabbed the tablet with my good hand my blood smeared across the screen.
ENVIRONMENTAL CONTROL: ACTIVE.
FIRE SUPPRESSION: READY.
"I can't see them," Silas hissed, peering into the gloom.
"You don't need to see them," I said through clench teeth.
I tapped ACTIVATE HALON.
A warning siren blared a low, rhythmic whoop-whoop. The vents in the floor hissed.
Halon gas is used to protect archives. It sucks the oxygen out of the air to starve a fire. It also creates a thick, white fog and makes it incredibly hard to breathe.
The gas flooded the nave, turning the cathedral into a cloud bank.
"Masks!" Silas commanded, pulling a compact rebreather from his pocket. He didn't offer me one as He assumed I had my own but I didn't.
I pulled my jacket collar up over my nose, coughing. The air turned thin and metallic.
"Kovac," I choked into the comms. "Open the skylights and Vent the smoke. I want them to see me."
"Copy," Kovac's voice crackled.
Above us, the massive stained-glass dome groaned. Motors whirred and The panels slid open, the storm outside poured in. Rain fell into the cathedral, mixing with the smoke and the gas, clearing the air in seconds.
The nave was revealed.
It was a graveyard. Bodies lay draped over the ruined pews.
Only one man was standing.
Don Varga.
He was bleeding from a scalp wound, his white hair plastered to his skull by the rain. He held a gold-plated pistol in a shaking hand. He looked around wildly, trying to find a target in the chaos.
He saw me.
I pulled myself up using the altar. My left arm hung uselessly at my side, blood dripping onto the white marble floor.I looked like a victim.
"You..." Varga wheezed "You didn't..."
"I told you," I shouted over the sound of the rain hitting the stone floor "I'm new management."
Varga raised the gun "I'll kill you! I'll...."
Silas stepped out from the shadows, his .45 raised "Drop it, Varga."
"No," I said. I put a hand on Silas's arm, pushing the gun down.
Silas looked at me, surprised "He has a clear shot, David."
"He won't take it," I said.
I stepped out from behind the altar. I walked down the steps, into the rain that was falling inside the church and walked toward the man who wanted to kill me.
"Shoot me," I said. I spread my arms the movement tore at my wound, sending a fresh spike of agony up my neck, but I didn't flinch. "Go ahead. Add 'murder of a grieving son' to the list. You think you're walking out of here?"
Varga hesitated. The gun wavered and he looked at the carnage around him. He looked at the blast doors sealing his men out and realized, finally, that he had been outplayed.
"You're a demon," Varga whispered.
"No," I said, stopping three feet from the barrel of his gun "I'm the one who survived."
I looked at the tablet in my bloody hand.
PROTOCOL: SELF-DEFENSE.
RECORDING: ON.
"Drop the gun, Don Varga," I said loudly, for the benefit of the recording "Surrender, and you live."
Varga sneered "I don't surrender to children."
He tightened his grip on the trigger.
That was all the machine needed.
THREAT CONFIRMED.
EXECUTE COUNTERMEASURE.
I didn't shoot him because I didn't have to.
From the shadows of the choir loft, a single shot rang out. It wasn't a drone, It was Kovac.
A sniper round took Varga in the chest. It lifted the old man off his feet and threw him backward into the first pew.
He hit the wood with a wet thud. The gold gun clattered across the floor, spinning to a stop at my feet.
Silence returned to the cathedral, broken only by the rain and the distant wail of sirens growing louder.
I stood over Varga. He was gasping, pink froth bubbling on his lips and his eyes found mine.
"Your father..." he choked out "Your father... hated... the game."
Then his eyes glazed over and the chest rose once, hitched, and fell.
Don Varga was dead Now, The Syndicate was headless.
I looked down at myself. My suit was ruined and my blood was mixing with the rainwater on the floor.
Silas walked up beside me. He looked at the bodies, then at me.
"You're hurt," he said.
"Good," I said, clutching my bleeding arm "It plays better for the cameras."
I turned to the entrance as the police finally breached the outer doors. Blue lights flooded the sanctuary, washing over the massacre.
"Hide the tablet," Silas whispered "And get ready to cry."
I slipped the device into my pocket. I fell to my knees, not because I was weak, but because I needed the world to see a boy brought to his breaking point.
I let out a ragged breath.
Mission was complete as enemies were dead.
Now came the hard part.
Convincing the world that I was the hero.