Chapter 67 - THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS OF TRINITY CHURCH
*SCREEECH.*
The guardrail screamed as metal sheared against metal, the cruiser teetering on the edge of the abyss before Arthur slammed the emergency brake and threw the car into reverse. The maneuver caught the second truck off-guard; Julian leaned out the window and emptied the rest of his magazine directly through the driver's side windshield.
The black truck veered violently to the left, smashed through the concrete barrier, and plummeted into the freezing darkness below, disappearing into the Hudson with a muffled, distant splash.
Arthur gasped for breath, his forehead bleeding where it had struck the steering column. "That wasn't Charles's cleanup crew, Julian... look at the registration tag on the burning bumper."
Julian scrambled out of the car, stepping over the burning wreckage. Lying near the burning engine block was a charred tactical helmet bearing a silver embossed crest: *Trinity Parish Security Division.*
"Trinity Church?" Julian muttered, his blood running cold. "The historic church in Lower Manhattan? Why would an Episcopal parish run armored hit teams?"
Arthur pulled out his phone, his screen displaying a newly received encrypted alert from federal intelligence. "Because Charles never went to the foundry. The foundry power spike was a decoy to draw us north. Maria’s GPS tracker just pinged from the subterranean catacombs beneath Trinity Church on Wall Street."
Two hours later, Manhattan was a ghost town buried under eighteen inches of blizzard snow. The towering spires of Trinity Church rose into the black sky like jagged daggers, surrounded by century-old gravestones dusted in pristine white.
Julian kicked open the heavy oak side doors of the cathedral, stepping into the cavernous darkness. The air smelled of beeswax, ancient stone, and frankincense. The only illumination came from hundreds of votive candles flickering on the grand altar beneath the stained-glass crucifix.
Sitting alone in the center pew of the empty cathedral, his back turned to the entrance, was an older man wearing a tailored charcoal cashmere coat. His silver hair was neatly trimmed, and in his right hand, he held a crystal glass of amber scotch.
"You always had terrible trigger discipline, Julian," the man said, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceilings with chilling familiarity. "You wasted twelve rounds on the highway when two would have done the job."
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Julian raised his sidearm, the barrel pointed directly at the back of the man's head. "Stand up, Charles. Stand up and look at the son you tried to murder."
***
