Site icon Alexander Hammil

There’s No Way to Get to Cape Flattery

It was only after the smoke had cleared and the echo of the shot died away that she noticed the turned back collar he was wearing. “Shit,” said Elsbeth. “A priest!” Her palms slick with sweat, she peeled back his sleeve, praying to a god she’d sworn to destroy. Sure enough, there it was, tattooed across the inside of his wrist: the Sacred Heart. Jesuit. And from the way the tattoo was faded, a high-ranking one, at that.

“Shit shit shit,” she said. She had twenty, maybe thirty minutes before the Followers of St. Ignatius pinpointed her location and came after her. She had to get rid of the gun, she had to get out of there, she had to move.

Leaving was easy — the car was hot and tuned and waiting, as it had been for the last three months. They’d come after sooner or later, she knew, but she’d wanted more time, more space… she wasn’t ready. She laid a streak of rubber on the street outside and blasted for the highway, slamming against the seatbelt at every corner, fighting to keep the car on the road. Behind her, sirens began to scream…

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