Pulling him back to his duties, the confessional door opened. He heard the creak of wood as the member of his flock genuflected. After putting the rosary beads in the pocket of his vestments, he slid the screen open, allowing him to see only a man's faint silhouette kneeling in the booth next to him.
The man didn't speak. His face was a blur, covered in shadow. He waited, permitting the man time to gather his thoughts.
Still, nothing.
"Can I help you? Is there something you'd like to confess?" He turned his head and focused on the blackened image.
In the pale light, he made out the side of the man's face. To his surprise, he was grinning. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he made an assumption about the man's reaction.
"There is no need to be ashamed. In the eyes of God, you are his child. Don't be afraid to ask his forgiveness."
"God would never claim me as his own, trust me." The voice was a raspy whisper. A low, guttural sound. "And I don't need or want his forgiveness, Father Antonio."
"Then why are you here?" The priest stiffened his back and pulled away. Something wasn't right. "And how do you know my name?"
"I came here looking for you, Father. You see, I'm in need of a little divine intervention. And only you can help. So I made it a point to find out who you are from one of your parishioners."
The man's voice was chilling. How had he missed it before?
"If you aren't here to confess, then I'm afraid my time here is done." He stood and reached for the door.
It wouldn't budge. He turned the knob, but it wouldn't open. He shoved, putting his shoulder into it this time. It jarred open an inch, then shut again with a slam. Someone rammed it back, pinning him inside. What was going on?
"Please. I don't understand," he begged.
"You're right, Father. I'm not here to confess. And your time here is done." The man laughed softly. "Come with us quietly or we'll start shooting. I don't think God would care for more dead bodies in his house of worship. Do you?"
"No, please. Don't. I'll come with you." He swallowed hard. His words caught in his throat. "Just don't hurt anyone else."
"Now that's the spirit."
His confessional door finally opened. Pale gray eyes stared back. Cruel eyes. The large man dressed in dark clothing and a long coat yanked him from the booth. The stranger's hand dug fingers into his neck. Two other men stood at his shoulder. Their footsteps resounded on the tile floor as they headed down the aisle toward the entrance.
His eyes darted across the small chapel, desperately trying to make eye contact. Several parishioners had their backs turned, heads lowered in prayer. No one would notice him leave. He considered running or fighting his way free, but these men meant business. Someone would die.
Then his eyes found those of a small Asian woman covered in a dark shawl. He'd never seen her before. Her dark eyes followed his gaze, but he couldn't read her expression. She did nothing to help, or give any indication she was aware of the danger he was in. In an instant, he'd been pulled past her. His last hope gone.
His captors shoved open the front door to the church and hauled him outside. Cold night air shocked his system. The harsh reality of his predicament hit home. He looked over his shoulder one last time. Father Antonio feared he would never see St. Sebastian's again.
She stood and sidestepped toward the aisle of the church, genuflecting as she exited the pew. Jasmine waved a hand in the sign of the cross, having seen the gesture before. She didn't wish to stand out. As she neared the back of the chapel, she lowered the shawl from her head, then gripped the butt of the gun in her coat pocket. With caution, she peered out the heavy wooden door at the side entrance, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Logan and two of his men escorted the holy man to a car they had parked along the street. The little priest did not look pleased by their intrusion. After they drove away, she reached for her cell phone.
"You were right, Nicky. Things just got more interesting."
"How so, my dear?" His seductive voice teased her ear and brought a smile to her lips.
"Logan has called upon a higher power in his search." Before he asked any more questions, she added, "And it doesn't matter where the Raven has flown. Soon I will know where she will be. The hyena offers bait she won't be able to refuse."
"I trust you implicitly, Mantis. You know my wishes."
"Yes, I do." She smiled, picturing his handsome face. "And I will not fail you."
Jasmine ended the call and walked to her car parked on a nearby side street. No need to hurry. The tracking beacon would make her job easy. And she had a suspicion where Logan might be headed.
Her mind went over the inventory of the equipment in the trunk of her car as a plan took shape. Nicky always made sure she had the best of everything. The trick would be in not calling attention to her employer. But one thing was absolute.
She would not deprive Nicky of his victory.
Raven stood beside the sofa, hands on her hips. Anxiety and frustration colored her words.
"Talk to me, Christian. I helped you lug that thing across the grounds and into your living room. What did you see? We're a team. Remember?"
Brooding silence.
Sitting on the area rug, his back against the sofa, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared intently at the old trunk. With jaw clenched, he glared at it as if it were a living, breathing thing, ready to lash out at him. His dark green eyes swirled with anger and . . . confusion. She'd never seen him so lost. Clearly, he felt disturbed by the contents he'd discovered hidden away in Fiona's attic. But he hadn't spoken a word since he pried open the lid.
"Please, Christian." She lowered her voice and knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "Say something."
After a long silence, his expression softened. "Raven, you have to trust me. I know I haven't given you much reason to do that, but I need some time to myself."
He reached for her hand, holding it in his. Then he took a deep breath, fixing his eyes on her.
"In that locker are . . ." He paused and shut his eyes, letting the emotion wash over him. She watched him struggle to find his way. "My past is there. But I gotta do this alone. Do you understand?"
She swallowed the lump in her throat, moved by compassion for his personal journey. Whatever he'd found had stirred up a past already embroiled in mystery. She couldn't imagine the demons lying in wait for him now. Raven understood his need for privacy, but it broke her heart that he wanted to do it alone.
"I can be a good listener if you want to talk." She squeezed his hand. "I wish you'd let me help."
"I just can't. Not with this." Letting go of her hand, he kissed her cheek, then whispered, "Good night."
"If you need me, for anything . . ." She returned his affection, then slowly stood.
"I will," he assured her. But as she neared the bedroom doors, he called out to her. "And Raven? Thanks."
It pained her to leave him sitting on the floor under the pale light of a lamp—all his attention focused on the locker across from him. She left the bedroom doors open a crack. If he called out to her in the middle of the night, she wanted to hear it.
Even when the morning came, would he share what he'd found? Share his pain? It would be a very long night.
A muffled groan woke her. The room was pitch-black. It took a moment to orient herself. Then a cry jarred her and raised the hair at the nape of her neck. Sitting upright, she listened for the sound, unsure what had happened.