James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (15 page)

Primo spotted Nardozzi and motioned him over.

“Tell the driver to retreat with us, just in case anyone else gets injured.”

Nardozzi nodded and turned to deliver the order when Primo grabbed him by the arm. Nardozzi turned back, his eyes wide in confusion. “And thank him for staying.” Nardozzi smiled and nodded. Primo let go of his arm, then slapped him on the back. “Now go!” Nardozzi rushed off and Primo returned his attention to the front line.

“Masks!” he yelled, warning his men of what he was about to do. Everyone grabbed their gas masks and began fitting them over their faces, those at the very front holding the shields assisted by their comrades.

“Tear gas!” Two of his men rushed up, loading the canisters in their riot guns. He raised his hand in the air, then dropped his arm. “Fire!” The distinctive pop of the canisters launching indicated the criticality of the situation. Two distinct puffs of smoke appeared as he fit his own mask over his face. He put himself into the middle of the pack holding the line. “Quick retreat, fifty meters, then reform the line on my command! Tell your partners.” He returned to the men with the teargas. “Retreat fifty meters, then when the line reforms, put as many canisters as you can between us and the mob.” The men nodded and sprinted to their new position. Primo waved his hand in the air, indicating the bus should retreat. The driver nodded and climbed in. Primo turned back to the front line.

“Now!” he yelled, then spun on his heel and ran, counting off the strides. Reaching fifty, he stopped and with both arms extended out, he indicated where the line should reform as those in the front regrouped, the heavy shields slamming into the metal and concrete of the viaduct, recreating the nearly impenetrable wall. The protesters were rushing to fill the gap, but not many, most caught off guard. He heard the pops from behind as two canisters of teargas were fired into the gap, then another two pops. They continued firing, the area quickly filling with a thick smoke, and the coughs and cries of the protesters unmistakable.

Primo turned and pointed to the bus. “Fill it with an many as can fit, then get the hell out of here!” he yelled. Those not forming the line sprinted to the bus, loading through the front and back doors, and within minutes, the bus was full, and pulling away.

“Now run!” he yelled, turning and jogging after the bus, the front line breaking with him, as they all beat a hasty retreat, the teargas continuing to keep the rioters at bay. As they put more distance between them and the cloud of teargas, he looked back and saw several of the crowd give chase but give up after a few feet, realizing they were now mostly alone, and the distance too great to catch up and do any real damage.

Instead, like the delusional individuals they were, they decided to turn the conclusion to a successful evacuation operation of an entire city into their own victory, cheering and screaming, “Allahu Akbar” at the top of their lungs.

Primo shook his head.

Yes, God is great, and tonight, he was clearly on our side.

Rue Myrha, Paris, France

“But I have to get down that street! It’s my job!”

The gendarme shook his head and pointed to a narrow road on the right. “You have to go around, that way.”

Philippe looked at the road—scratch that—laneway, then back at the police officer. “Monsieur, have you looked at the size of my vehicle? It’s a garbage truck! It can’t fit down that ‘road’ as you call it.”

The officer stepped back, looking at the vehicle, then at the laneway, apparently realizing his gaffe. “Then you’ll have to wait for the protesters to clear out, or back up and find another way.”

“Back up? Are you crazy?” He leaned out his window, looking back at the line of traffic. “And just how do you propose I do that?”

Again the cop took a look.

“I guess you’ll have to wait.” He pointed to the side of the road. “Please pull over there as far as you can.” The officer stepped back to hold the traffic while Philippe moved his truck, muttering curses under his breath. Once he had positioned himself at the curb, he leaned back out his window, waving at the officer.

“How long is this going to take? I need to finish my route and get home. My wife’s having a baby!”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “It’s been going all day and they haven’t moved.”

Philippe slammed his fists into the dash.
What the hell am I going to do?
He looked up at the chanting protesters, sitting on the road.
Those fucking Muslims. They come to France and they think they own the place. Praying in the streets, wearing their potato sacks, spreading their hatred of our way of life.
His thoughts flashed to last night’s news. There were over 4.7 million Muslims in France, with a birthrate double the traditional French. And one in every eight in Paris were Muslim.
This is fucking ridiculous!
His chest tightened and his heart began to slam against his ribcage.
I need to get out of here.

His phone rang. He grabbed it off his hip and looked at the call display.
Giselle!
He flipped it open. “Is it time?”

“Oui!”

“But I’m stuck in traffic! These fucking Mus—”

“I don’t give a goddamned about any traffic. I’m about to have this baby, and if I have to call my mother to take me to the midwife, it will prove to her once and for all that you’re an unreliable pathetic excuse for a man and this time she just might convince me to divorce you.”

Philippe felt his heart break a little as tears filled his eyes. He wasn’t the success he had hoped to be. The little shop they had opened with such expectations had failed with the recession, and he had been damned lucky to get this job as a garbage man for a private company, servicing several hotels. In fact, it had been his mother-in-law who had managed to get him the job, pulling in several favors.

I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for my daughter.

His stomach churned at the humiliation of the memory.

“But baby, what am I going to do? There’s a protest blocking the street!”

“Go through the bastards for all I care! If you’re not here within the hour, I’m calling Mama.”

And she hung up.

The phone rang again and he flipped it open.

“Baby, you know I hate it when you do that!”

“Do what?”

Merde.
It was his boss.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“L’hotel Julie just called. You missed their pickup.”

“No, I haven’t reached them yet, I didn’t miss them.”

“What?”

“I’m stuck in traffic. Those Muslims protesting.”

“I don’t give a shit why you’re late. It’s your job to know what’s in your way, and go around it if necessary. Finish your route, on time, or forget coming in tomorrow. I don’t care if your mother-in-law is my cousin. She’s a bitch of a woman, and I can’t believe I let her talk me into hiring someone in a recession.”

And he hung up.

Philippe whipped the phone at the windshield. He hated being hung up on.
What am I going to do?
If he didn’t finish his route, which was only one more stop at L’hotel Julie, he’d be fired. And he had a new baby coming any minute, and he couldn’t afford to be unemployed. He’d take any job he could get—hell, he was driving a garbage truck—pride no longer entered the equation. He’d sweep streets for cash.

He looked through his windshield at the mob sitting across the street, hundreds of them, more likely thousands, stretched as far as he could see before the street bent out of sight.
It’s those fuckers who’ve taken all the jobs.
His ears filled with the pounding of rage. He closed his eyes and gripped the steering wheel.

I need to get through.

I need to finish my route.

I need to get my wife to the midwife.

I need this job.

He growled, opening his eyes.

Fuck it.

He turned the key, starting the truck. He leaned over, locking the passenger side door and rolling up the window, then did the same for his side. He turned the radio up, the broadcast having turned to live coverage of what these fuckers were doing to the Vatican.

God will forgive me.

He put the truck in gear, pumped the horn several times, drawing the attention of the police manning the line of the, for the moment, peaceful protest.

He popped the clutch.

The truck lurched forward, and he saw eyes bulge, as police turned to face him, still uncertain of what he was about to do. He shifted into second, and the truck surged forward again.

And little doubt remained as to what his plan was.

The police began to scatter, the barricade they had erected quickly abandoned as they surrendered their position to the oncoming truck. Philippe pushed it into third, now gaining speed, the massive truck, with a nearly full load of garbage, plowing straight for the metal rails separating the protesters from civilization.

Fourth.

He had the speed now. There was no stopping him. He heard the shouts of the police, waving their hands at him, one even had the nerve to jump in front of the truck, waving his arms, before diving aside at the last second.

He flipped the range button to high and shifted again.

Fifth.

He hit the barricade. The front of the truck jumped a good six to twelve inches as it rolled through and over the barricade, and into the crowd of now panicking protesters. They began to jump to their feet, scurrying in every direction.

Sixth.

He didn’t care.

He had to get through. He had to finish his route. He had to get his wife to the midwife. He had to keep his mother-in-law off his back. He had to keep this job.

He had to just make it through this day.

He could feel the occasional bump as he rolled over the parasites too slow to get out of the way, and those who were stupid enough to run directly away from him, instead of to the sides, plowed by his bumper.

But he didn’t care.

He had to get through.

His passenger side window shattered. His head swung over to see a rock sitting on the seat, and someone reaching in, trying to unlock the door. Philippe picked up the rock and swung it at the man’s head. The impact was jarring, and the cry as the man fell away disconcerting. He pushed harder on the accelerator and ducked as a rock slammed into the windshield, the safety glass shattering into a million tiny fragments, but still held together. Somebody else jumped onto the running boards, reached inside and pulled the door handle, unlocking it before Philippe could stop him. He reached over to press the button again but the door was already opening. Grabbing at the handle, he pulled back, but the door was torn open and he found himself staring into the eyes of the man who had finally succeeded, his eyes filled with rage, a look of blind insanity and hatred Philippe had only seen before on television.

It terrified him.

The man lunged at him. Philippe grabbed the rock sitting on the seat and jerked his hand up on mere instinct, nailing the man square in the jaw. He winced in pain, but didn’t stop, and within seconds had his fingers around Philippe’s throat. Philippe jerked away, breaking the hold, but the man’s hands gripped Philippe’s shirt, and began to pull him toward the passenger seat.

His foot slipped off the gas, and the truck began to slow. Someone else reached in to help the first man, and within seconds Philippe felt himself being pulled out of the cab of his truck. He reached up and grabbed the steering wheel, gripping it with all his strength as he was yanked and clawed at. A set of fingers blindly grasped at his face, and entered his mouth, pulling hard. The pain was horrendous, as if his entire head were about to be ripped off.

He bit down hard.

He heard a yelp, and the fingers were withdrawn, and only one set of hands were on him. He shook his shoulders side to side, rolling his body violently, breaking the grip, and pulled himself toward the safety of the driver’s side of the cabin, when the window on that side smashed. A dozen hands reached inside, grasping for the door handle, and to his horror, he saw one find it.

The door opened.

The set of hands, freed from only moments before, grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled, then new hands from the other side grabbed at his feet as the driver side door opened.

The truck was still moving forward, but he was no longer in control of it. He felt the wheel jerk to the left as someone else grabbed it, and broke his grip. The truck lurched in the new direction, and to his horror, he felt himself slide quickly out the passenger side and into the sunlight.

He hit the ground hard, and was immediately set upon by dozens. He couldn’t make out any individuals, only nightmarish flashes of faces, eyes glaring, teeth barred, hundreds of voices screaming in anger, in pain, hundreds of hands desperate to get a grip on the source of their anguish.

He kicked out, swung his arms, tried to keep moving, so they couldn’t get a grip on him, but it was no use. Someone had a hold of his left leg first, then an iron grip had his right arm. Both pulled and he felt himself pop up off the ground, suspended in the air by the two pulling at him from opposite directions. He kicked out with his free leg, but someone grabbed that. Reaching over with his last free limb, he clawed at the hand holding his arm, but someone else grabbed him and pulled directly backward. Hard.

He felt a jarring pain that nearly caused him to pass out, and the fog in his brain told him his shoulder had just been dislocated. More hands got a grip on him, all pulling in opposite directions. He felt more pain on his left shoulder as another set of hands gripped his arm, at least four now, and pulled.

He felt it tear. His eyes, blinded with tears, could see nothing anymore. The white light of pain filled them, then his eyes squeezed shut instinctively as someone grabbed his face, their fingers clawing at his eyes. He screamed, a long, agonizing scream, one at first he didn’t even register as his own, one he never knew he was capable of making. And he knew it was gone. He could feel it, he could sense it, he knew it was no longer there.