Why? Because one group was so insecure in their beliefs that they couldn’t accept them being challenged?
How many died because of Piss Christ?
He felt his chest tighten in anger with the memories and pushed them aside as they headed to the right, toward the Treasury.
Behind them somebody screamed.
Dietrich Kruger answered his phone against his better judgment, the unmarked black van they were travelling in just about to pull up in front of the Notre-Dame Cathedral. But the call display showed his mother’s number.
And she knows what I’m doing.
“Hello?”
Before she even spoke he knew what she was going to say.
“It’s your father, he’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” He could hear the worry in his mother’s voice and it tore at his heart. “The doctor says he doesn’t have much time.”
“But it’s too soon!” Tears flooded his eyes and the men in the truck turned their attention to readying their equipment, it the only form of privacy they could offer.
“I know, I know, I don’t know why. You should come home now to see him before it’s too late.”
He gripped the bench seat he was on, the metal edge biting at his hand. “I can’t help him there, but perhaps something here can.” He released his hold. “I’ll be home soon.”
He ended the call, turning off the phone as the van came to a halt. The rear doors were opened and he stepped outside, raising his weapon and shooting the startled police officer standing at the entrance.
Nobody stops us today.
“Let’s go!” shouted Acton as he grabbed Laura by the waist, propelling her toward the Treasury, Reading acting as a human shield behind them. They burst through the doors, surprising those inside including four police officers who spun toward them.
Reading held up his ID. “Interpol! We’ve got armed hostiles behind us!”
Acton continued hustling Laura deeper into the Treasury, past the display cases and toward the still frozen in place police. Finally they reacted as the screams of panicking tourists and worshippers outside the now open Treasury doors reached their ears.
But it was too late.
Gunfire erupted from behind them. He felt Reading shove his shoulder, sending him to the right but he lost his grip on Laura as her momentum carried her forward. He watched in horror as he slammed into the marble floor, Reading jumping toward a pillar, Laura completely exposed. She turned, on her knees, facing their assailants, then rose as their eyes met, jumping toward his position as he reached out with his hands.
A burst of gunfire tore into the floor, shards of ancient marble ripping through the air like tiny daggers, slicing through anything in its path, including his outstretched arms. Laura winced, collapsing to the floor, grabbing at her stomach, her face one of confused shock as her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. She looked at him, holding up her bloodstained hands.
“No!” he cried, scrambling toward her as she fell to her side, a rapidly expanding stain on her white blouse confirming this was no wound from a shard of marble.
His beloved wife had been shot.
Dietrich didn’t care anymore, didn’t care who died, didn’t care about the sins he might be committing. His father was dying and there was no hope of saving him medically.
All he had left was his faith.
His father was convinced that the blood of Christ could heal, and with today’s technology the scientists under their employ were certain they could create the needed blood—all they needed was a sample, something with the DNA.
Which meant a genuine Blood Relic.
The problem was finding one. There were so many conflicting claims, so many disproven claims, that he had growing doubts they could find anything that might actually have the needed DNA. He found it unlikely that the genuine thorns and cloths and crosses and nails would survive to this day, but they were desperate.
Which meant he had to get his hands on everything, no matter how dubious the claims.
A woman dropped in front of him, crying out in agony as she reached for her stomach, and he felt a momentary pang of guilt as someone clearly close to her shrieked in heartbreaking shock.
Yet he continued squeezing the trigger of his Beretta as they advanced, the surprised French police barely getting any aimed shots off, his men, all experts, eliminating them in less than a minute, the last one running out of ammo, dropping his weapon.
They stopped firing, an uneasy stillness falling over the room as his men rushed toward the police position. A man dove from the sidelines, grabbing the woman and cradling her in his arms, comforting her as he inspected her wounds. He suddenly jumped to his feet, grabbing a relic from one of the shattered displays, an ancient jar long gilded in gold by misguided worshipers centuries before.
A Blood Relic.
The man reached inside, grasping what was supposed to be the remnants of the sponge used to quench Christ’s thirst in his final moments.
He placed his gun against the back of the man’s head. “I’ll kindly ask that you not do that.”
The man carefully removed his hand from the jar, raising his arms over his head. “You have to let me save my wife.”
One of his men rushed to his side. “All clear, sir.”
“Secure these two.” He motioned for one of his men, a trained medic, to examine the woman. “Status?”
“She’ll die without immediate help.”
He frowned. He had taken this too far in his rage and fear. It wasn’t fair that his father, such a good man, was dying from something he had no power over. He had never done anything wrong, never contracted the disease through some error in judgment, never eaten poorly, smoked or drank to excess.
His only sin was being born.
And so was his. Dietrich looked at the woman at his feet, clearly dying. It was one thing to kill police, at least it was their job, and now that it was said and done, his stomach was threatening to empty its contents at his feet, the guilt over what he had done almost overwhelming.
And he came to a decision.
He flicked his wrist toward the door. “Take her with us.” Two of his men picked her up, carrying her from the room as her two companions, now bound to nearby pillars, protested. “Status on the relics?”
“All have been retrieved.”
“Then we’re done here.”
Acton sagged against his bindings as the last of the attackers left the Treasury. Several gunshots sounded outside then the distinctive sound of a helicopter landing then taking off signaled their successful escape as sirens wailed in the distance. Tears flowed down his face, his eyes burning with the image of his dying wife cradled in his arms, the fear in her eyes the horrible, final memory he was doomed to live with for the rest of his life.
A life not worth living without her.
A life without a purpose.
He looked across at Reading, still struggling against the tape binding him to the pillar, the rage in his friend’s eyes inspiring, igniting a spark in his own self, a warm, comforting hatred building inside as the tears, still staining his cheeks, stopped, his eyes glaring in the direction Laura’s murderers had fled.
And he swore he’d kill them all.
He pushed back at the waist and forward at the shoulders as hard as he could. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he growled against his gag. The tape stretched but continued to hold him. He shook from left to right, taking advantage of the bit of give he’d managed to stretch out of the strong cloth-backed adhesive.
Suddenly he heard a tear to his right.
He continued his struggle back and forth, throwing everything he had into his jerks to the left, and the ripping sound continued. A final jerk and he felt his shoulders loosen noticeably. A megaphone outside sounded, the police finally having arrived but clearly having no clue what was going on inside, instead surrounding the cathedral until they could determine what
was happening.
Which meant delays they couldn’t afford.
As he writhed in his bindings, slowly loosening himself, he felt a sense of hope begin to return with each bit of progress. Laura had been shot in the stomach, a horrific wound, but it was an assumption. She was shot in what he called the stomach, but he wasn’t a doctor. It might have grazed her, slicing her open without actually penetrating, or something else not so benign, but treatable should she receive medical attention.
And that was what was confusing to him now that he had time to think about it.
Why would they take her?
They had just killed half a dozen police officers. Why take her unless they were going to give her the medical attention she needed?
But what made them think they could get her that attention any sooner than the authorities?
They knew that the police would surround the building first, wasting precious time!
His heart leapt at the thought.
They must have left her at the entrance so the police would see her right away!
There was still hope.
A final jerk and his entire upper body was suddenly free. He twisted to his side, his hands grabbing at the tape still binding his waist, tearing at it with his zip-tied hands, and in moments was completely free. Hitching his hands behind his buttocks, he dropped hard against them, snapping the bindings as Laura’s private former SAS security team had taught him, then ripped off the piece of tape covering his mouth.
He winced as he spat the gag out, rushing toward Reading who had managed to only free himself slightly. Acton picked up a shard of glass from the floor then sliced through Reading’s bindings, pulling his friend loose before snapping his hands free.
He didn’t wait, instead tearing toward the entrance, images of Laura lying on the cold steps outside while police did nothing in fear it might be a trap, propelling him toward her.
“Slow down!” shouted Reading behind him, but he ignored the pleas. “You’ll get yourself shot!” He didn’t care. If his beloved wife was dead, he wanted to be dead too. But if there was any chance she was alive, lying on the steps waiting for help to arrive, seconds would count.
He reached the massive doors and skidded to a halt, pulling at the handle, a shaft of sunlight bursting through when a hand on his shoulder whipped him back.
“Listen you daft bastard, you’ll get both of us killed.”
Reading stepped past him, opening the door slowly, holding his ID out. “I’m Agent Hugh Reading of Interpol! We’re unarmed! Do you understand!”
Someone on the megaphone began to speak English and the two of them slowly emerged to find dozens of police, weapons aimed at them as more continued to arrive. Acton quickly scanned the area for any signs of Laura but saw none, breathing a sigh of relief at the realization the authorities must have already taken her to a hospital.
He and Reading removed their jackets, turning around so the police could see they were unarmed, then dropped to their knees, clasping their hands behind their heads as a dozen officers descended upon them.
“My wife, where did you take my wife?”
His question was ignored as he was patted down and handcuffed.
“The attackers are gone,” Reading was saying, explaining the situation to the understandably cautious police. “Your men are inside. At least one is still alive, but I think the others are dead.”
“My wife! I need to know what happened to my wife!”
A man stepped toward them, apparently in charge, Reading’s ID in his hand. He motioned for the handcuffs to be removed. “I’m sorry for this, Agent Reading, but we can no longer just take people’s word that they are not involved.”
Reading took his wallet and returned it to his pocket as Acton rubbed his wrists. “Completely understood. Listen—”
Acton cut his friend off. “I need to know what happened to my wife. They took her with them. Did you find her?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Acton felt his chest tighten. “You mean there wasn’t a woman here, outside, shot in the stomach?”
The police officer shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but there was no woman here, injured or otherwise, when we arrived. Only our officer, already dead.”
Acton felt his world begin to spin as he reached out for Reading. Strong hands helped him to the ground as blood pounded in his ears. “She’s dead,” he mumbled as Reading took a knee beside him. “She’s dead.”
“We don’t know that,” replied Reading’s reassuring voice.
Acton looked at his friend, his eyes blurred with tears.
“But why would they take her?”
Gabala, Cappadocia, North of Judea
45 AD, 15 years later
“Soldiers are coming!”
When the children had shouted the warning yesterday, it hadn’t been the first time Longinus had heard those words, but he now knew it would be the last. Since their arrival years ago many had listened to their accounts and been swayed to their opinion that Jesus was indeed the Son of God and that His teachings should be followed. Many had been baptized and some had even left to spread the word or to seek out the Apostles that were now ministering the church the Messiah had died to establish.
And unfortunately for him and his friends, their success had become known. According to these men now sitting at his own table, oblivious to who he was, the rabbis in Jerusalem had heard of their location and demanded Pilate send soldiers to arrest them.
Pilate had ordered their beheading, clearly fed up with having to deal with the annoyance.
“He said if we were to return without Longinus we would be beheaded,” said Gaius, the centurion leading them. He seemed like a good man, a dedicated soldier who treated his men with respect and seemed to lack much of the arrogance displayed far too often by Roman soldiers in their subjugated territories. And that example was reflected in his men.
When the soldiers had arrived in the city the warning had reached them quickly, the children spreading the word faster than any man even on horseback could.
So they had been ready.
Longinus had immediately sent Tiberius into hiding, he the youngest of them all with much life left to live—he shouldn’t die for the transgressions of the elders. Though the younger man’s commitment to their new beliefs, their new religion, was as strong as theirs, Longinus had argued, convincingly, that should they all die, the word they were trying to spread may die with them, but should at least one survive, there was still hope.
Tiberius had argued bitterly, but acquiesced in the end, now hiding in a nearby village, awaiting word.
It would be delivered by someone else.
Longinus looked at Gaius. “What will you do if you can’t find them?”
Gaius shrugged, glancing at his men. “Keep searching, otherwise we lose our heads.” He sighed. “I fear though we may never find them and soon our own comrades will be sent to find us with orders to return with our heads.”
“That would be unfortunate.”
“No kidding.”
Longinus laughed as did the others, though the mood had clearly changed. Yesterday had been a celebration, a group of retired soldiers hosting these new arrivals in a bid to discover their purpose. They had treated them well, offered them food and drink and a warm, dry place to sleep, even the breakfast they were now just finishing.
But Longinus had one last thing to offer them, though it wasn’t his alone to offer. He looked at Albus first, who nodded slightly, then Severus, who closed his good eye for a moment then opened it, agreeing to the unspoken question.
“Perhaps you will keep your heads after all.”
Gaius’ eyebrows furled. “What do you mean?”
Longinus smiled gently. “I am Longinus, the man you seek. This is Albus, and this Severus. The fourth man you seek, Tiberius, died several weeks ago in a rock slide.”
The jaws of the men seated at their tab
le dropped, and as if to further revive his faith in the basic goodness of these men, they looked horrified. Gaius broke the silence.
“You cannot be serious! Please tell us you jest, that this is just a bad joke at our expense!”
Longinus motioned toward his blessed weapon in the corner and Albus rose to retrieve it. Longinus took the spear and laid it on the table. “This is the spear I lanced the Messiah’s side with, the spear that brought forth the blood and water from within that cured my blindness.” He ran his hand against its rough surface, his eyes filled with tears. “It is the spear I wish to be buried with.” He looked up at Gaius. “I am ready to die, so that you may live.”
Albus returned to his seat, placing a hand on Longinus’ shoulder. “As am I.”
“And I,” said Severus.
Longinus smiled at his friends. “We have all been preparing for this day and now that it is here, it does sadden our hearts, of that I can assure you. However there is no fear to be found in our impending deaths, for we know we have been blessed and will spend eternity in paradise with our Lord, our God.” He reached out and squeezed the top of Gaius’ hand. “And fear not, for there is no sin in what you do. You are following the orders of a soldier, and we give our lives willingly to you.”
Gaius stared at the hand resting on his, his head slowly shaking back and forth. He looked at his men, then at the three condemned men seated across from them. “I can’t,” he finally managed to say. “I can’t do it. You are such good people, righteous people. You took us into your home and gave us food and drink, entertained us and provided us shelter. To repay your kindness with your deaths is unthinkable!” He shook his head, firmly this time. “I may not believe in your god, but I do believe in mine, and my gods would frown upon me should I ever commit such an atrocity.”
Longinus took in a deep breath, patting the man’s hand then leaning back. “I will tell your gods this: we die willingly, and though these men may wield the blade that removes our heads, they are merely instruments of the evil of this act, extensions of the blade itself. Think of them as the hilt the blade flows from, with no more guilt to be associated with them than the blacksmith himself who forged the blade so long ago. They are merely the arrow, loosed from Jerusalem by those who would have us dead, finding its mark here, on this day. We willingly give our lives to these men, so that their own lives may be saved.” He looked at Gaius, leaning forward slightly. “All we ask is that our bodies be treated with respect, left here for those who know us to bury, and should it become possible, to return our severed heads so that we may enjoy our final resting place as whole men.”
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 8