Boran nudged his cousins aside as the killer stood over them, and he saw beneath the man’s hat for the first time. His nose was straight as an arrow, and his lips were a thin, angry line. His jaw jutted out in a determined square, and his eyes were like blue, burning flames.

“What do you want?” Boran asked in an earnest, frightened voice.

“I want your souls,” the killer said, his voice gravelly and strong.

“We haven’t done anything to you,” Boran said. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

The man in black threw his head back and laughed. Then he aimed the shotgun at Boran’s face as his cousins cowered in fear.

Boran tried to grab the gun, and the man in black shot him in the chest. When Boran fell, the killer fired two more shots that stilled the screaming women. Then he reached into his pocket and dropped a note on the dead man’s chest. He was about to leave when something caught his eye. He turned around and saw the priest looking at him from a door beside the pulpit.

The killer held the gun at his side and took a few steps toward the priest. The priest, in turn, took a deep, trembling breath and stood his ground in the doorway.

“I’m the angel of death and this is a war,” the killer said, his gravelly voice filling the church. “The note is for Prince Michael. Tell him I’ll be waiting.”

The killer turned and walked quickly down the aisle as the Sengs’ blood soaked into the sanctuary floor. The priest watched him go and knew that the church was no longer pure. It was stained with the same blood that ran in the streets.

The killing fields had come to Philadelphia.

Chapter 6

Coletti and Smithson stood at the front desk at Graterford, making small talk with the guards while reading through the daunting list of rules: Vehicles must be registered, personal items must be placed in lockers, embracing is permitted only at the beginning and end of each visit, refusal to be searched may result in detention.

Though they weren’t subject to those regulations, Coletti and Smithson were bound by the vagaries of prison procedure. The guards at the desk couldn’t approve an after-hours visit to death row, and apparently, no one else could either.

After a few minutes, a captain from C Block came down to handle the problem, and the tall, rugged man was none too pleased that a cop from Philadelphia had arrived unannounced for such a visit. Like many Pennsylvanians from other parts of the state, he didn’t like Philadelphia, and it showed in his demeanor.

“Can I help you?” he asked with a pasted-on grin.

“We’re here to see Thomas O’Reilly,” Coletti answered.

“So I heard, Detective, uh…”

“Coletti. Mike Coletti.”