Demonic Double Cross

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  While the gangbangers either fled or got themselves killed, the cultists seemed lost on what course of action to follow. Their deep, fanatical loyalty drove them to confront the Twins but they were clearly no match for the devastating duo.

  In short, it was all going according to plan as Fiona, Father O’Brawley and myself carried out our own tasks completely unnoticed.

  Father O’Brawley crept along silently, intently searching for what I had instructed him to find. According to the fire escape panel, the backroom and storage areas of the Ocean Grocer were pretty much a trio of giant cement hallways zigzagging together to make a Z-shaped area. These back areas were separated from the rest of the store by large, metal doors marked “Employees Only.” Presumably these doors were locked, increasing the chances that our skulking about would go undetected.

  Being cut off from the sales floor where the gangbangers had gathered made the old priest’s hunt much easier. He wandered past storage racks and giant metal shelves that held pallets of bulk items, passing the occasional office or loading dock. Though he hurried as quickly as stealth would allow, Father O’Brawley took care to make sure nothing was overlooked.

  He knew just how important his mission was.

  Only once did Father O’Brawley stop his search. Coming to the end of a back hallway, he needed to push through a swinging door to continue down the next corridor. Passing through the door, Father O’Brawley found himself face to face with a startled young man in flamboyant gang colors. Apparently the thug was so surprised to see an unexpected guest (a priest of all things!) that he didn’t go for the pistol tucked in the front of his pants.

  Recovering quicker than the thug, Father O’Brawley clenched his boney, joint-enflamed hand into a fist. The uppercut came so fast and so sudden when it connected to the thug’s chin, the gangbanger was sent stumbling backwards.

  The old priest didn’t give the gangbanger time to recover. Lunging forward, Father O’Brawley grasped the thug just under the chin and half-shoved, half-tackled the dazed hoodlum. Entwined, the two staggered backwards, reaching a steel support beam in four or five steps.

  Still holding onto the gangbanger’s throat, the old priest slammed the thug’s skull against the girder. The sound of bone against steel rung out but thankfully there wasn’t any blood. The thug’s body went rigid before slumping down into a sitting position as his eyes dilated with a fresh concussion.

  “God bless.” Father O’Brawley murmured.

  Not even bothering with a proper prayer, Father O’Brawley continued down this hallway at a hastier, yet more cautious pace, unsure if any more sentries would stand between him and his desperately crucial goal.