St. Jude's Cathedral smelled of damp wool, and the metallic tang of gun oil that no amount of holy water could wash away.
It was raining again. A heavy, relentless Chicago downpour that battered the stained-glass windows, turning the saints into weeping blurs of red and blue.
I stood at the altar, next to the massive casket. It was closed and the invitation had promised an open viewing, but that was just the bait. There was no body to view just ash and bone fragments collected by the Janitors and sealed in a lead-lined box. But the lie had worked. They were here to see the proof of the King's death.
I looked out at the nave. It was a cavern of stone and shadow, capable of holding five hundred souls and Today, it would hold less than fifty but those fifty men owned half the underworld.
"Shoulders down," a voice whispered in my ear.
It was General Silas. He stood beside me, wearing his dress blues, looking every inch the grieving brother but his eyes were scanning the upper balconies, checking the angles.
"Look broken, David," he murmured, patting my shoulder with a hand that felt like a steel claw "They need to smell the fear."
"I don't have to act," I whispered back, looking at the floor.
It wasn't a lie. My heart was beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Under my tailored suit, the Kevlar vest was hot and itching in my pocket, the tablet was silent, set to PASSIVE MODE to avoid triggering the electronic sweepers the Syndicate brought with them.
The doors at the back of the cathedral groaned open.
"Here they come," Silas said softly "The Five Families."
They entered like royalty.
First was Nikolai Petrov, head of the Russian Bratva. He was a bear of a man in a camel-hair coat, flanked by four bodyguards who looked like they had been carved out of concrete. Petrov didn't look at the altar he looked at the exits. He was a tactician and checked the surroundings.
He didn't see the Phalanx drones. Kovac was an artist the automated turrets were nested inside the stone gargoyles on the pillars, painted gray, blending in the architecture until the moment they opened fire.
Next came Kenji Tanaka and his entourage. The Yakuza delegation moved in silence, a sea of black suits Tanaka was older, frail-looking, leaning on a cane but I knew the cane concealed a blade, and the men around him were the deadliest swordsmen in the hemisphere.
Then came the others the cartel lieutenants, the triad bosses, the fixers. A parade of predators walking into a cage.
And finally, Don Varga.
The Sicilian walked alone down the center aisle his security stayed at the door, a show of supreme arrogance. Varga was eighty years old, the last of the old guard He had known my grandfather. He had tried to kill my father three times.
He stopped in front of the altar and didn't kneel. He looked at the casket, then at me.
His eyes were milky with cataracts, but they saw everything.
"David," he rasped. His voice sounded like dry leaves skittering on pavement "You look like your mother. Soft."
I looked down, gripping the edge of the lectern until my knuckles turned white.
"Thank you for coming, Don Varga," I stammered.
"I didn't come for you," Varga said, spitting on the marble floor "I came to make sure he was really dead. Marcus was a trickster you know, A devil."
He stepped closer, invading my personal space, smelled of cigars and rot.
"Open it," Varga commanded. He pointed a crooked finger at the casket "I said open casket, I want to see the headless king."
The room went silent. Petrov and Tanaka stopped talking and every eye in the cathedral fixed on us. This was the test. If I refused, I looked weak. If I opened it, I exposed the lie.
"I... I can't," I whispered, my voice trembling "The fire... there wasn't much left. Please. Show some respect."
Varga laughed and reached out to slapped my face.
It wasn't a hard blow like a master disciplining a servant.
"Respect is earned," Varga hissed "Your father earned my hate and You? You have earned nothing. You are a steward, holding a seat for better men."
He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear.
"Tomorrow morning, you will sign over the logistics division to me. Petrov takes the tech and Tanaka takes the shipping. You will keep the trust fund and the house in the Hamptons then you will disappear."
He pulled back, smiling "Or you will join him in that box."
I held my cheek where he had struck me. I let tears well up in my eyes and let my lip quiver.
"Okay," I whispered "Okay. Just... no more violence. Please."
Varga patted my cheek "Good boy."
He turned and walked to the front pew, sitting down with a heavy sigh, He waved his hand, and the rest of the Syndicate leadership took their seats. They were relaxed now as they had seen the heir. They had seen the fear and found the prey defenseless.
The priest a man Kovac had hired, an actor, began the service.
"We are gathered here to commit the soul of Marcus Thorne to the earth..."
I stepped back from the podium, retreating into the shadows of the apse. Silas was waiting there.
"He slapped you," Silas noted, his face unreadable.
"He bought it," I said, wiping the fake tears from my eyes. My face burned, but the rage in my chest was cold, focused.
"They're all seated," Silas said "Security are by the doors and Leadership is in the Kill Box."
I looked over and The most dangerous men in the world were sitting in rows, backs to me, listening to a fake priest read a fake eulogy for a man who had orchestrated his own murder.
It was almost funny.
I reached into my pocket and touched the tablet. I tapped the screen once.
SYSTEM: PHALANX.
STATUS: ARMED.
TARGETS ACQUIRED: 42.
WAITING FOR SIGNAL.
I looked at the heavy oak doors at the back of the nave. Kovac was in the control booth in the choir loft.
The priest raised his hands "Let us pray."
That was the cue.
CLANG.
The sound was deafening. The massive iron bolts of the cathedral doors slammed home, driven by magnetic pistons.
The Syndicate heads turned around, confused.
"What was that?" Petrov stood up, reaching inside his coat.
"The service has concluded," I said.
My voice was amplified by the microphone. It wasn't the stammering whisper of the boy who had been slapped. It was the voice of the Chairman.
I walked back to the podium and I looked down at Varga, who was staring at me with sudden, dawning horror.
"You wanted to see the King," I said, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
I tapped the tablet.
The "stone" gargoyles on the pillars shifted. Ceramics cracked and fell away, revealing the sleek, black barrels of the automated turrets. The red laser sights flickered to life, painting the pews in a grid of crimson dots.
Don Varga stood up, his cane clattering to the floor "You traitorous little...."
"I'm not soft, Varga," I said.
I looked him in the eye.
"I'm just new management."
I pressed EXECUTE.