— Damn it! What the hell did he do? — the journalist exclaimed, his voice sharp as his eyes scanned the message again, as though a single detail might leap from the screen and undo the panic. The air around the table suddenly felt thinner, and pressure mounted in his temples as if someone were tightening an invisible knot.
— What happened? — Meggie asked, leaning closer to look at his phone, curiosity quickly giving way to concern. Every syllable carried the urgency of the moment.
— We have to get out of here. Now! — Saul replied curtly, already pulling his wallet from his pocket in an automatic motion, as though moving alone could summon safety. His fingers calculated the bill with the same ease a detective pieces together clues. He dropped the cash onto the table with a gesture that tried to appear casual, though his hand trembled ever so slightly.
— But... — Meggie began, caught between surprise and confusion, as though expecting a far simpler explanation, some excuse that would still allow them to finish dessert.
— It's much worse than you think. I'll explain on the way — Saul justified, rising abruptly without looking back.
In that instant, there was the unmistakable resolve of command, the professional instinct that demanded movement over contemplation.
— But... — Meggie insisted, uncertainty wrapping itself around her voice.
— Let's go. — His answer was brief, insistently practical.
— You're not even going to wait for the change? — Meggie raised an eyebrow, a nervous laugh escaping in a futile attempt to disguise the fear surrounding them.
— The waiter will be thrilled with our sudden departure. That's the biggest tip he'll get all night. — Saul answered with an irony that failed to conceal the tightness in his chest.
As they walked away, his body had already shifted into survival mode: eyes constantly scanning, ears alert, every sense heightened.
— The message was from the priest, wasn't it? — Meggie asked immediately, turning suspicion into a mental debt that demanded payment. The question came quickly, almost like an accusation.
— Did you finish Diana's article? — Saul abruptly redirected the conversation with a journalist's instinct, trying to reclaim normalcy through work.
— Yes. It's done. — His assistant played along, calm and professional, though a slight tremor at the corner of her mouth betrayed her anxiety.
— Excellent. — Saul relaxed ever so slightly. Professional satisfaction remained one of the few comforts in the middle of the storm.
— Jessyca answered several questions by email and sent exclusive photographs. Diana loved everything. — Meggie listed their accomplishments like ammunition in a loaded magazine. Every detail mattered.
— Very good. I'll remember that when I get promoted. — Saul tried to lighten the mood with a joke, attempting to cushion the tension with shallow humor. The laugh was brief—a dry sound that never reached his eyes.
They passed the restroom entrance and found it closed.
Two security guards stood watch before the door, solid and expressionless, like sentinels guarding a freshly buried secret.
The journalist deliberately avoided looking directly at them. Their eyes seemed filled with unspoken questions.
— Something must have happened here — Meggie observed quietly, noticing the oppressive silence and the restrained activity surrounding the area.
— Nothing that concerns us right now — Saul replied, taking her gently but firmly by the arm and leading her away with a protective gesture. His tone left no room for argument; urgency had become authority.
THE PRIEST WAS WAITING outside the restaurant.
He stood there restlessly, rubbing his fingers against his palms in an obvious attempt to hide their trembling. His expression belonged to a man desperately trying to maintain a composure his soul could no longer sustain. He couldn't conceal his nervousness. His eyes wandered constantly, searching for a refuge that simply didn't exist.
— My dear friend, the race has been postponed. Technical difficulties. You know what? I think it'll take them quite a while to fix everything. We'd be better off enjoying ourselves somewhere else. How about a game of bridge? — Saul said lightly, placing a hand on Raphaniè's shoulder in what appeared to be a friendly gesture but carried the unmistakable weight of a command. His words attempted to normalize the abnormal.
— I'd rather play tranca — the priest replied, forcing a smile as he settled into the charade, playing along with the distraction to avoid revealing the true state of affairs.
— And I'd choose poker — Meggie added, contributing a joke that momentarily floated above the tension like a fragile bubble.
After that, silence reclaimed its dominion, heavy as a lead blanket, and remained with them until they reached the car.
Meggie settled into the passenger seat beside Saul with a quiet sigh.
Raphaniè chose the back seat, as though seeking both distance and protection.
They endured an uncomfortable silence as they drove through the exit gate, each privately processing the thin line separating fear from reason.
Outside, the streets seemed darker than before, as though the city itself had stopped breathing.
At the next block, six speeding vehicles raced toward the stadium—four police cars and, judging by their appearance, two belonging to the Secret Service.
The flashing lights reflected violently across the taxi's windows, and the group instinctively recognized the convoy as silent confirmation that something truly serious was unfolding.
— It's time you told us what the hell happened back there, Father — Saul demanded, watching him through the rearview mirror with eyes searching for the slightest contradiction.
There was urgency in his voice—the urgency of a man who desperately needed the missing pieces of a puzzle that could determine life or death.
THE TWO JOURNALISTS listened without interrupting as the priest recounted the sinister details of Baruch Hawkings' death.
His story unfolded slowly, filled with pauses as heavy as bones, vivid images moving from gestures to shadows, from the sudden impact to the muffled sounds that had echoed through the restroom.
When he finished, Raphaniè drew a long breath.
Despite the tragic outcome, a restrained sense of relief rested upon his shoulders. A mission had been accomplished, though forever stained.
The listeners' initial relief gradually transformed into apprehension as silence followed the story.
The words seemed to linger in the air like torn pieces of a shredded curtain.
— Aren't either of you going to say anything? — Raphaniè asked, his voice seeking acknowledgment... perhaps forgiveness... perhaps understanding.
— That's... terrifying — Meggie murmured.
Saul continued studying the priest through the mirror with the cold objectivity of a man weighing probabilities.
— People don't just die for no reason, Father — the journalist replied ironically, attempting to reduce the impossible to something logic could explain, as though reason alone might tame horror.
— In the Old Testament... — Raphaniè began, searching ancient Scripture for answers to modern violence.
— We're not living in the bloody Old Testament, where people believed they were God's avenging angels. Accept reality, Raphaniè — Saul interrupted sharply.
Journalism demanded evidence.
The real world punished myths with handcuffs.
— I'm a priest... — Raphaniè tried, appealing to the sacred.
— You still don't understand how serious this is, Marin — Saul interrupted again. — Within the next few hours, you may become the prime suspect in the murder of a member of the House of Lords.
The sentence landed like a verdict delivered before the trial had even begun.
— I wasn't in the restroom when he was killed.
The priest spoke firmly, yet the guilt lingering in his voice betrayed the uncomfortable truth that absence alone proved nothing.
— Does that matter if you can't prove it? — Meggie intervened with surgical precision.
Her mind was already racing through witnesses, timelines, and evidence.
Everything could be turned against someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
— You visited the College of Arms to investigate Hawkings' family tree with Clarence Mitchell's help, who is now an important witness. Shortly afterward, you checked into L'oscar London under a false identity—which already makes you a criminal. — Meggie laid out the facts like stepping stones forming an unmistakable trail.
— Any mediocre detective could trace that path straight to you and connect you to the murder.
— Nobody's going to believe stories about demonic riddles and the Dark Apocalypse. Your religious beliefs won't clear your name — Saul argued, raising his voice slightly—not from anger, but from desperation to save the priest from his own naivety.
His tone blended genuine concern with brutal realism.
— Do you think I killed him, Saul? — Raphaniè asked, leaning forward from the back seat, perhaps seeking eye contact... perhaps searching for compassion.
— I think you'd be capable of doing it to defend your beliefs. But honestly? I don't think you did. — Saul paused before continuing. It was both suspicion and defense.
— I think someone manipulated everything to make you look guilty — Meggie said with conviction, offering the logical alternative.
— Gregory Evans? — Raphaniè suggested, the name leaving his lips with equal parts reluctance and hope.
— When he came to me to explain his situation, he insisted our objectives were the same. He even suggested we exchange information. At first, I believed he was an American intelligence operative trying to dismantle an international network involved in drug trafficking, child prostitution, and terrorism run by Satanists. But I have an uncanny instinct for detecting lies, and I'm almost certain he works for the American branch of the satanic brotherhood.
Every word seemed tested in the fire of skepticism.
— That's impossible. He saved my life — the priest protested.
— Do you think he did it out of Christian charity? Or did he play the hero simply to earn your trust? — Saul shot back.
The doubt pierced their fragile bond like a spear.
— As you Christians say... a wolf in sheep's clothing — Raphaniè murmured, suddenly trying to recognize traces of the enemy where he had once seen only light.
— If Gregory Evans belongs to the satanic brotherhood, he should have protected the Ipsissimus—not participated in his murder and then tried to frame me. That makes absolutely no sense.
— It does make sense — Saul countered. — Maybe we're witnessing a power struggle between two rival factions. With Hawkings dead, the Americans seize control of the game. They pin the murder on you, keep their own hands clean, and eliminate a powerful enemy all at once.
The theory sounded dangerous...
...but internally consistent.
It was power operating through its coldest mechanics.
— The Catholic Church... — Raphaniè murmured quietly, beginning to grasp the scale of the possible scandal.
— The Catholic Church? Have you forgotten that Gregory's brother is one of the world's most respected cardinals?
— But their feud is public knowledge...
— For God's sake! What brother doesn't envy a successful sibling? Greg was practically raised by his impoverished grandparents while Stuart Evans enjoyed every privilege of a wealthy upbringing with rich relatives.
The priest slowly nodded.
— A masterstroke — Meggie observed, her voice blending admiration with horror as she recognized the strategic precision behind such barbarity.
— Gregory Evans knew the lord would be murdered today — Raphaniè revealed.
The statement shifted the weight of the conversation, as though a hidden veil had briefly been lifted.
— What exactly did he tell you? — Saul asked eagerly, desperate for any thread connecting the scattered pieces.
— He said the Catholic Church has a death squad that handles its dirty work... and that I gave the order to kill him.
The priest's words were calm, yet saturated with disbelief.
The very institution he had devoted his life to was being portrayed as a clandestine executioner.
— I've never heard of anything like that — Saul muttered automatically.
— Neither have I... but... — the priest hesitated, overwhelmed by the enormity of the accusation.
— Knowing history... it's possible.
Raphaniè slowly nodded before asking in a somber voice:
— What am I going to do, Saul?
The question sounded painfully small beneath the thunder of endless possibilities.
— First, we're dropping Meggie off at home.
Saul answered with the practical calm of someone who organizes priorities during a crisis.
— I'm your assistant. I want to stay with you — the American protested, loyalty proving stronger than fear.
— Have you forgotten Jessyca Volpi arrives tomorrow? I need you focused exclusively on her. I'll keep you informed about everything we do.
Saul gave her a concrete mission—a lifeline amid the chaos.
Protect the source.
Protect the exclusive story.
— And what exactly are we going to do? — the priest insisted, his trembling voice caught somewhere between fear and determination.
— Your suite at L'oscar London is probably bugged. We're going somewhere safe. Now, more than ever, we've got a great deal of work ahead of us.
Saul's final words sounded like an order only lightly disguised as a plan.
All three shared the unmistakable feeling that every step from that moment forward would have to be deliberate, calculated...
...and fast.
Before the tide of the conspiracy swallowed them whole.