Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) Read Free

with Nazi Germany.
    He’ll
know what to do.
    He
emerged from the alley, crossing the road and cutting through another gap
between the houses, thanking God for giving man the intellect to design the
moped now saving his life.
    In the distance,
he heard the whistle of the morning train and chuckled.
    It’s
on time today.
    He
slowed as he emerged from the alley, turning right and continuing down the hill
that the town was built upon, heading toward the valley where his cousin’s farm
lay. The streets were filling now, the day underway, and his hammering heart
was finally settling down. He ventured a wave at the butcher’s daughter, Maria.
She waved back with a smile, his hand easing off the throttle for a moment as
he forgot what he was doing.
    Tires
screeching behind him smacked his libido back down and he gunned the engine,
not bothering to look back as the gunfire confirmed who it was. He heard a girl
scream and his heart leapt into his throat. He stole a glance and felt bile
fill his mouth as he spotted Maria lying on the ground, her father rushing from
the shop, crying out in horror.
    You
killed her.
    His eyes
filled with tears, the street ahead suddenly a blur. He wiped them clear with
the back of his hands, the train whistle louder now. He could see the tracks
ahead where they crossed the road he was on, heading toward the station in the
center of town. Looking to his right as he rapidly approached them, he spotted
the trail of steam puffing from the engine and made a decision.
    A
decision that would save him, or doom him.
    He hit
his brakes, skidding to a near halt then turned, gunning it down the railroad
tracks, this part filled with cobblestones, keeping the ride relatively smooth,
as he raced toward the bridge. He heard the Germans’ brakes behind him as he
cleared the edge of the town, his tires bouncing on the railroad ties, every
bone in his body nearly jarred loose from the pounding. He could see the train
coming around the bend, the whistle announcing its arrival, loud.
    He
leaned forward, urging his moped ahead as the engine raced toward him. Brakes
squealed, the engineer apparently spotting him. Gunfire from behind him was
barely heard over the screeching metal on metal, but something bit him hard in
the arm and he cried out, nearly losing control of the bike as he grabbed for his
shoulder. Both hands back on the bars, he twisted the throttle, the bike
leaping forward, a game of chicken underway he had to win, his opponent having
no way to turn. He was almost across, the massive black of the engine looming
large in front of him, though not yet at the bridge.
    I’m
not going to make it!
    He said
a silent prayer as he glanced back, the Germans now stopped at the other end of
the bridge, apparently content to let him die at the hands of Mussolini’s
efficient rail system, there now nowhere for him to go.
    He was
almost there, only feet left, the train just coming onto the bridge. He steered
to the right slightly, pulling up on the handlebars to lift his front wheel off
the ties and cleared the rail, racing on the edge of the ties, the river below appearing
more vicious than he remembered.
    The
train was upon him.
    And he
steered hard to the side.
    Sailing
through the air, he hit the ground beside the track, the wind from the train whipping
around him, its brakes still screaming in protest, nearly knocking him off the
bike. He locked up his brakes, coming to a halt as he looked back and smiled.
    At the
Germans trapped on the other side as the train slowly came to a halt, blocking
them from crossing.
    He gave
them a wave that was returned by a shaking first, then accelerated down the
hill toward the road that would carry him to his cousin’s farm.
    Thanking
God for answering his prayer.
     
     

 
     

    Entrance to St. Peter’s Square, Rome, Italy
Present Day
One day before the theft
     
    Diego resisted the urge to check his watch. It would merely show it
was one minute later than the last time he had