Bones of Angels by Christopher Forrest Page B

seconds. Their bodies contorted and twisted as if they were controlled by a puppeteer who had gotten his strings tangled.
    Meanwhile, Shooter began squeezing off one shot after another, 6.8 mm Remington cartridges leaving the Barrett at a speed few other snipers in the world could manage — if any. Her arms levered the gun left and right, up and down with such a fluid motion that she fired fifteen rounds in less than thirty seconds. With her enhanced night vision, hers shots were deadly accurate.
    Screams of pain and death echoed from the cliffs above. Four gray-robed figures, plus two commandoes, tumbled over the fortifications and fell against the jagged, unforgiving rocks. Their bodies came to rest in awkward positions atop the ragged, uneven terrain.
    “Tell the amphibious landing craft to get the hell on shore,” Hawkeye told Caine over his COM. “We have a short window before reinforcements start the shooting gallery again.”  He looked at his team. “Tank and DJ, take cover and wait for the craft, then escort them up the mountain. Shooter and I will advance to clear out any of God’s holy soldiers up ahead.”
    Shooter frowned at the reference. “Give it a rest, Hawkeye.”
    Hawkeye ignored the criticism. “Do your thing, Touchdown. Shooter and I are moving in.”
    Ops Center
    Aboard the Alamiranta
     
    “Plotting access now,” said Touchdown in his best military voice, cool and professional. “Ascend twenty meters at a bearing of thirty degrees. You’ll find a cave opening that will lead you into the side of the cliff. The cave leads to stone stairs carved directly into the mountain. Lots of twists and turns, so be careful.”
    “Find the cave and wait for the rest of your group,” said Caine. “I don’t want you splitting up.”
    “Any commandos or gun-toting acolytes in this cave?” asked Hawkeye.
    “No. At least, not yet. I think we can count on that to change.”  

Chapter 19
     
    St Cyprian Abbey, 1410
    Gateshead, England
     
    His indiscretion having been discovered by a novice, Father Albertus had been banished from Baybridge Abbey. Thereafter, he had forsaken the Benedictine rule and become both itinerant preacher and mendicant, begging for food and lodging. But winters were cold and wet, and he stumbled into the monastery of St. Cyprian on a dark blue November evening. The monks at the abbey devoted themselves almost exclusively to copying manuscripts in their scriptorium.
    Albertus’ life was simple. He rose to recite office at four in the morning each day and then begin work on copying Bibles and religious treatises. It was in the scriptorium that someone handed Albertus several weathered parchments and told him to make a clean, illuminated copy of the Codex Angelorum, the Book of Angels.
    His eyes widened as he sat on his wooden stool before a high, narrow wooden desk with the top angled toward the copier and his quill pen.
    He thought he might have found a way to atone for his grievous sins.
    South Shoreline
    Mont St. Michel
     
    Tank and DJ waded into the rough surf as the landing craft’s forward ramp unhinged and folded forward towards the beach, allowing Quiz, Angela, and Archbishop Donovan to disembark. Each wore the same basic outfit Quiz had donned for his mission to Whittington Manor — camouflage uniforms, Kevlar vests, Glocks, and slim COM sets. The exception was Archbishop Donovan, who had an M16 slung over his shoulder.
    Angela lost her balance and toppled into the foaming water. DJ stared at her romantic rival, making no move to lift the young woman from the surf.
    “Careful,” Tank said with a grin, extending his hand. “The island is situated at the mouth of the Couesnon River. It flows right into the island and branches sideways. Makes for a swift current.”
    Tank helped Angela to her feet, and Titan Six and the new arrivals walked onto the pebble-and-sand shore.
    Touchdown had sent the coordinates of Hawkeye’s destination to Tank and DJ. Together, the Titan