Den of Lions Read online

  Table of Contents

  About Den of Lions

  Praise for Mark Posey’s Thrillers

  Title Page

  DEN OF LIONS

  Did you enjoy this book? How to make a big difference!

  About the Author

  Other books by Mark Posey

  Copyright Information

  About Den of Lions

  Backed into a corner, help comes to Alice from the most unlikely of allies...

  The Federal Bureau of Investigation has reopened the murder of Bishop McGinty and has Alice square in its sights. They have the video, they have her fingerprints, and they have proof that the Pope himself ordered McGinty’s death.

  Alice is stuck in an FBI interrogation room, while the Vatican is split between defending her and selling her out. Can Alice talk her way out of this predicament?

  A Nun With A Gun is a series of short stories and novelettes about Sister Jacobine, the Pope’s hitwoman. They are best read in order.

  1.0 Feet of Clay

  2.0 A Port in the Storm

  3.0 Excommunication

  4.0 Requiem Mass

  5.0 Den of Lions

  6.0 The Narrow Gate

  Thriller Short Story

  Praise for Mark Posey’s Thrillers

  Well-fleshed out characters to really care about, and a deep state plot that is very timely given current world affairs.

  All in all, an enjoyable page-turner!

  DEN OF LIONS

  Alice sat in her usual chair at the Rafferty’s kitchen table and stared through the sliding door which gave access to the back deck.

  The kitchen smelled heavenly. Frying bacon, brewing coffee, scrambled eggs, hash browns. The aromas wafting through the kitchen were enough to set anyone’s salivary glands into overdrive.

  Alice barely noticed.

  Even the back yard, with the light breeze stirring up leaves and grass, hardly captured her attention. It was all a blur overlaid with the mental image of Michael lying on his living room carpet, a bullet hole in his forehead, a bloody cross wiped over the wound.

  “You want toast?” Rafferty said.

  Alice felt certain it was not the first time he had asked. She forced her gaze away from the yard to Rafferty, where he stood by the toaster.

  “No, thank you, Constable. I’m not hungry.”

  “You still have to eat,” Geraldine said.

  Rafferty stepped over to the portable radio on the corner of the kitchen counter and flicked it on. “It’s seven o’clock. Let’s see what’s going on in the world.”

  As the pre-recorded news hour music faded out, the announcer’s strong voice began. “Breaking news at the top of the hour. The investigation into the murder of Bishop James McGinty has been re-opened this morning by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A city-wide hunt for the murderer will begin today in the greater Philadelphia area. The murderer is reputed to be a nun with ties to the Vatican.”

  Rafferty’s gaze flickered to Alice. “Oh shit.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It was revealed earlier this morning that Pope Benedict the Seventeenth ordered the execution after Bishop McGinty was accused of improper conduct with altar boys within the Philadelphia archdiocese.”

  Alice was aghast. “Oh, no. Roberto will be inconsolable.”

  “It was further revealed that Philadelphia police detectives had a suspect in custody but were forced to release her when diplomatic immunity was asserted. Evidence against the woman included a video recording of the crime, obtained via police surveillance. The Secretary of State has suspended diplomatic relations with the Vatican, pending the outcome of the investigation.”

  Rafferty snapped off the radio when the newscaster moved onto the next item.

  The sizzling of the bacon and eggs seemed unusually loud in the still kitchen. None of them moved.

  “I believe someone has been telling tales out of school,” Alice said.

  Rafferty shook his head. “So much for having a quiet, easy first day back.”

  *

  The headstone looked lonely.

  Alice stood in front of it, the Philadelphia drizzle splattering around her. Even with all the gravestones nearby, she couldn’t shake the feeling. This headstone was alone. Like a new novitiate in the priory during their first week in the order.

  She had read “Michael Fredericks” and his date of birth and death more than a dozen times since she’d arrived, and she still couldn’t get the lump out of her throat. It grew larger with each reading.

  She had not known Michael’s birthday was October twenty-first. In retrospect, what she did not know about Michael far outweighed what she did know. Yet she treasured even her limited knowledge of the man.

  She knew he had a wicked sense of humor, that despite the gruff exterior he showed the world, he could be tender and caring and comforting. And his smile could make worries fade into dust.

  A single tear rolled down her cheek, mingled with the Philadelphia drizzle and tumbled to the ground.

  She also wished she had never met him. Then she would not be standing here mourning him. For that matter, he would not be here to be mourned.

  This would be the last time she saw his memorial. After the news this morning, she had to leave the city. It would be quite some time before she would return, if she returned at all. By then, Michael Fredericks would be just someone she once spent time with.

  Now, having said her goodbyes, here she stood in front of the forlorn tombstone of a man she barely knew. “How in the name of all that is holy can he have had such an effect on me in such a short time?” she muttered.

  The only answer forthcoming was a bright flash of lightning. followed by the crack and rolling boom of thunder.

  She tilted her head back and glared at the dark clouds. “Oh, shut up.”

  She glanced once more at the lonely headstone and read the name and dates one last time. She couldn’t bring herself to mutter, “Goodbye, Michael.” She instead kissed the first two fingers of her right hand and touched them briefly to the top of the slab.

  “Alice Fisher!” An authoritative voice came from behind her. “This is the FBI! Kneel down with your hands on your head!”

  Alice took a deep, cleansing breath. “The Watchmen have arrived,” she muttered.

  “Don’t make me ask again!” The voice sounded closer.

  She didn’t dare whirl. The last thing she wanted was to startle them. She lowered her Gucci bag to the ground and slowly raised her hands to her head. Then, her gaze focused on the name on the headstone, she knelt in front of it.

  Hands grasped her roughly from behind. She was cuffed and hauled to her feet.

  *

  The room was small. Perhaps eight feet on each side. There was no window. Just a door with no knob on the inside. The entire place was stark, bright white—the walls, the floor and the ceiling. Even the furniture, a table and two chairs, was the same white. The unrelenting ceiling light had the power of a thousand candles.

  This was not the sort of place in which one got comfortable. This was not the shabby room to where police brought suspects. This was a federal interrogation room designed to wear a person down. Make them pliable. Break them.

  Alice sat primly in the chair facing away from the door. She would not give her captors the satisfaction of behaving the way they expected. She would not watch the door for their arrival.

  She was sure that somewhere in the room cameras recorded her every movement and utterance. She would give them nothing to see or hear.

  With nothing to occupy her attention and no way to mark the passage of time, it was impossible to tell how long she had been here.

  She heard the door behind her open and shut. She had no desire to turn and see who it was. It did
not matter.

  “Alice Fisher.” It was the same voice from the cemetery.

  As he walked around the table, Alice sensed a second person in the room. Whoever it was stayed behind her, while the man from the cemetery sat in the chair before her.

  He was neat, clean and pressed. His tie was still knotted at the collar, his jacket was unwrinkled and there was not a hair out of place on his head. The moustache reminded her briefly of Rafferty’s, but the man lacked the constable’s paunch and working-class demeanor.

  He placed a file on the table between them. His gaze met hers. He said nothing, so Alice stared back.

  After several moments, he dropped his gaze to the file and flipped it open. “You’ve been busy, Miss Fisher.”

  Alice continued to watch.

  “I’ve seen the McGinty video. Nice shot.”

  Alice waited.

  “And that gun. The Tanfoglio is a reliable weapon.”

  Alice continued to stare.

  His gaze flickered over her shoulder to whomever stood behind her.

  “Despite the clear evidence of the video, we’ve sent the Tanfoglio to the ballistics lab to confirm it’s the weapon that killed the bishop. Once your fingerprints come back—”

  “Watchman,” Alice interrupted him.

  His brow furrowed.

  “If you have a point, I do wish you would make it.”

  His gaze shifted over her shoulder again. “A bottom-line girl.” He smiled, but the watchfulness did not leave his eyes. He crossed his arms. “Fine. You’re going down for McGinty’s murder. Murder for hire carries a life sentence in Pennsylvannia.”

  He let the implication hang in the air before leaning forward. “Do you really want to go down for this alone?”

  Alice smiled at him. “And who else could...go down with me?”

  “Whoever ordered the hit.”

  Alice was careful not to let the jump in her heartrate show on her face. She stared at him for a moment, then threw her head back and burst out laughing.

  When she met his gaze again, he was scowling.

  “I say something funny?”

  “I suspect, Watchman, the Lord High Constable standing behind me would say you’ve tourne the cat in the pan.”

  His eyebrows shot up, his eyes wide. “I’ve...what?”

  Alice looked amused. “Put the cart before the horse.”

  His expression remained unchanged.

  “Laid your cards on the table too soon.”

  “And how did I do that?”

  “You gave your objective away. An objective, I assure you, Watchman, you shan’t achieve.”

  He sat back, the false smile spreading across his face again. “Oh, you’d be surprised at what can be achieved with the proper motivation, Sister.”

  “I doubt that, Watchman.”

  He squinted at her. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  “Where I come from, men like you were appointed to watch the streets for scoundrels and ruffians, especially at night.”

  Color bloomed in his cheeks. He set himself in his chair. “Lady, I’m an agent with the FBI. I ain’t no night watchman.” His voice sounded strained.

  “Oh, I see.” Alice drew out the phrase.

  He shook his finger at her. “Listen, Sister...”

  The man behind Alice cleared his throat.

  The watchman pressed his lips together, slammed the file closed, snatched it off the table and stalked away. The door opened, then slammed shut.

  Confident she was being recorded, she spoke to the now-empty chair in front of her. “I mean, really…how rude! The man never even introduced himself.”

  *

  An hour later, hard rock music burst from speakers secreted about the room at such a volume as to be offensive. Alice listened to the lyrics, such as they were. They were difficult to make out but if she concentrated, they were discernable.

  Alice was inwardly amused as she listened, although she made sure to give no outward sign. If the Watchmen thought lyrics paying homage to the devil would weaken her resolve, they were in for a surprise.

  After the same song played for the forty-seventh time, the cacophony stopped. The silence in the room was inordinately encompassing. Alice was sure her heartbeat echoed in the small, stark, white room.

  As she expected, the door behind her opened and after a moment of shuffling, clacked closed.

  Sitting demurely on the chair, as she had been the entire time, Alice watched from the corner of her eye as a woman strode to the table. Alice sensed a second person behind her but focused on the woman lowering herself into the chair opposite her.

  The taut bun on the top of the woman’s head was streaked with gray. A few stray hairs had come loose, but it was nothing that could be perceived as messy. She wore no jacket and her shirt was open at the collar and the sleeves rolled up. A delicate gold cross dangled at her throat.

  “Sister, I’m Special Agent Sofia Markson of the FBI. Can I call you ‘Alice’?” The woman looked up from the file she had laid on the table and smiled warmly, meeting Alice’s gaze.

  “That is my name, after all,” Alice said.

  “Great.” Special Agent Markson leaned forward and rested her forearms on top of the open file and clasped her hands together, her friendly gaze firmly locked with Alice’s. “This is quite a situation we’ve got here, Alice.”

  “Is it?”

  Markson nodded. “Absolutely. How about you and I put our heads together and see what we can do about sorting it out?”

  Alice watched Markson for a moment. The woman’s gaze never wavered. “Sorting it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is there in this situation that can be sorted out?”

  Markson smiled at her again. “Well, for starters, if you can help me understand why you killed the Bishop, I can help you obtain a more favorable standing with the authorities.”

  “Aren’t you the authorities?”

  Markson shook her head ruefully. “No, I’m just the grunt that has to cajole you into acting in your best interests.”

  “I see,” Alice said. “And what are my best interests?”

  Markson looked confused and shrugged. “To reduce your sentence as much as possible? To mitigate the effect of your actions on your life?”

  “By doing what?” Alice would have crossed her arms, but she knew Markson watched for any sign she was getting to her. Instead, she kept her hands clasped in her lap.

  The woman shrugged again. “Spreading the joy around?”

  “Spreading the joy?”

  “Not taking the fall all by yourself.” She sat back. “Help me help you, Alice.”

  Alice let her shoulders sag. “Oh child, you were doing so well.”

  Markson furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand.”

  Alice let her amusement show. “Help you help me?”

  Markson smiled as she sat forward again. “Well, yes. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

  “We are all alone, child.”

  “I mean, you don’t have to be the only one who suffers for your crime. I can help you—”

  Alice cut her off. It was time to end this charade. “Do you think me daft?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you think me daft? It is a simple question, child.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Do you think I do not understand that your goal is not to help me?”

  Markson pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “What’s my goal?”

  “Come now, let us not be coy. We both know what your goal is.”

  “Do we?”

  “We do.”

  Alice and Markson stared each other down across the table. Markson eventually dropped her eyes to the file and shuffled a couple of the papers around.

  Alice watched her. When she looked up again and met Alice’s gaze, all the friendliness was gone.

  “Fine. If that’s the way you want to play things, you got it. Who ordered—”


  The person behind Alice cleared their throat. A man.

  Markson looked over Alice’s shoulder and nodded. She closed the file and picked at the corner of it, just for a second. She raised her gaze from the file and took a deep breath like she was about to speak.

  Alice met her gaze evenly. “So nice to speak with you, today, Special Agent Markson.”

  *

  Barely fifteen minutes later, the door opened again.

  “Finally come to do the deed, yourself?” Her grin tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  The man strode around the table and sat down. “You flustered two of my best agents. I could hardly take that lying down.”

  “Or standing in the corner, as it were,” Alice added.

  They studied each other.

  Alice was surprised. He seemed very young.

  “I’m Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Craig Talbot.”

  Alice lifted her chin. “The Lord High Constable himself.”

  Talbot smiled. “You have some staunch allies, Sister.”

  “Do I?”

  He nodded. “The Vatican has been inundating the President and the rest of the United States government with demands on your behalf. My phone has barely stopped ringing since you got here. That’s the main reason I’ve been standing in the corner. It got me away from the phone.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that, Constable Talbot.”

  “It also seems you have some detractors within the church. Those who believe you are a smear on the Vatican’s reputation.”

  Alice raised her eyebrows. “It has been ever thus.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “It is a cross we all must bear, Lord High Constable.”

  “Well, I’d watch my back if I were you.”

  “I shall keep that in mind after my release.”

  “Both camps within the Vatican have kept us pretty busy with their demands. But I’m of a mind to ignore them and look at the evidence.”

  “I see.”

  “In that vein, there have been some...developments.”

  “What sort of developments?”

  Talbot squirmed on his chair. “Seems that no one can find that video.”

  “Oh dear.” Alice shrugged.