She reached for her stomach. “A dull ache, but that’s about it. Where am I?”
“You’re safe, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
She looked around, it clear she wasn’t in any type of formal medical care facility. “I doubt that.”
The man laughed gently. “Yes, I suppose so. What I mean is that for the moment, you’re not going to die, but you will need to be careful. I removed the bullet and stitched you up, but it made quite the hole and you lost a lot of blood. Fortunately we’re equipped for that sort of event here.”
“And where is here?”
“Let’s just say ‘the French countryside’.”
“Uh huh. And I assume I’m a prisoner?”
“A horrible term, but for lack of a better one, yes. Once this entire exercise is over you will of course be free to go, but until it is, we can’t risk you letting the authorities know where we are.”
“Considering I have no clue, that’s hardly a problem.”
He smiled, patting her shoulder. Lifting a control pad attached to a wire, he placed it in her hand. “Bed controls. You can raise or lower yourself, whatever makes you comfortable.”
She took the controls and looked at them. Pressing the button with an up arrow she felt herself start to rise and was soon in a reasonable sitting position, her wound a little tender but tolerable.
“Can I get you anything else? I need to get back to work. Feel free to chit-chat, I could use the company.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Her stomach rumbled, loud enough for both of them to hear it.
“I’ll have a light meal brought for you. You don’t want to stretch anything down there by overindulging.”
He stepped away, placing a call for food, then returned to his workbench, lifting what she recognized as the Crown of Thorns. He swabbed several parts of it before gently returning it to the countertop.
“What are you doing?”
“Swabbing for DNA.”
“Christ’s DNA?”
“Ahh, so you’re onto us.”
“Multiple thefts, all taking only the Blood Relics? Not much of a stretch. Who’s sick?”
“You’re a bright woman, Dr. Palmer.”
Her chest tightened. “You know who I am?”
“Your ID was in your fanny pack. I looked you up. Very impressive career. Oh! Congratulations on your recent marriage.”
Her stomach leapt. James! “Where’s my husband, is he okay?”
The man shrugged. “No idea where he is, but from my understanding only police officers were hurt during the retrieval, besides yourself of course.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, watching as several vials were prepared and loaded into a machine that began to spin them. “Do you really think you can retrieve the blood of Christ?”
“Absolutely,” replied the man, turning to face her while the machine did its work. “The only problem is finding an actual relic with DNA on it, then of course hoping that the DNA we do find is His.”
“You sound confident yet not.”
He laughed. “You’re a very perceptive woman. I am confident in the science, just not the premise. First, finding an actual artifact with His blood on it I personally think is next to impossible. Second, should we actually find that blood, the only way we would know it was His is if it actually heals my employer. And third, if it weren’t to heal him, he would insist we continue the search, because his assumption would be that it wasn’t the blood of Christ.” The man threw up his hands in exasperation. “I have no choice but to simply keep testing whatever they bring me.”
“There’s not a lot of relics left.”
He frowned. “I know. It’s unfortunate. He’s a good man, he deserves to be saved if he can be.”
Laura felt a slight rage build inside her. “A good man? I was shot, a priest was murdered, police officers are dead. A good man?”
“That, my dear, was not him. That was his son.”
Laura bit her lip, silencing the retort she wanted to deliver. Sins of the son? “Was he responsible for all the thefts?”
The man nodded. “Yes, under orders from his father.”
“He seems to have escalated.”
“There’s been a recent development.”
Laura’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“My employer, the boy’s father, took a turn for the worse today. I fear he’ll die soon.” The machine beeped. “Which makes my work all the more important.”
“Don’t you think you’re on a fool’s errand?”
The man chuckled as he removed the vials. “I may be, but if that man dies, I fear what his son might do.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a fine young man, but you’ve seen what he’s capable of. If his father dies, he just might blame me.” He paused, turning toward Laura. “Or you.”
1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
A.k.a. "The Unit"
Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson had taken a chance that the Colonel might be in and he had been right, his call answered directly since Colonel Thomas Clancy’s secretary—or receptionist, assistant, whatever she was called—was now sulking on her couch back at her apartment.
She’ll get over it.
In fact she already had, or at least partly. She understood the job and the fact he could be called away at a moment’s notice. She understood that more than most since she worked with the Colonel five days a week. She was a little miffed at first that it was a favor for a friend, though when she had heard of Professor Palmer being shot and kidnapped, she had quickly whipped him together a quick bite to eat though he knew she was disappointed.
So was he.
But Professor Palmer had been instrumental in helping them with the Circle of Eight, and both professors had proven themselves to be good people, people who could be relied upon to always do the right thing, even if it meant risking their own lives for strangers.
And he owed them.
They all owed them.
Their first encounter had been ignominious at best. They had been given falsified intel, told Professor Acton was the head of a domestic terror cell and that he and his students were all on the President’s Termination List.
He wasn’t proud of what had happened and it still tormented him to this day, and when the dust had settled, he had tried to make up for all the innocent deaths by being a better person, and whenever possible, helping James Acton and Laura Palmer.
It had been tough at first. In fact, the first time Acton had seen him after those events he had swung a baseball bat at his head. He smiled. He liked to think that there was at least mutual respect there, and perhaps they might even be friends of a sort. The professors had even sent Bravo Team an invite to the wedding. They hadn’t been able to attend, prepping for a mission to Afghanistan—and it probably wouldn’t have been appropriate regardless—but Niner had sent a photo with them all standing against an unmarked wall.
With their faces all pixelated.
And a caption underneath.
Congratulations on your nuptials.
We’re really happy we failed.
(To kill you that is.)
He shook his head. Niner was hilarious. Red was his best friend but Niner was definitely among his closest. All the guys were to varying degrees. He would die for any one of them, even the newer guys.
They were his brothers in arms.
His family.
And the head of that family was Colonel Thomas Clancy, a man he trusted implicitly, a man he knew always had their backs even if things were a total Charlie-Foxtrot and they were being disowned by their government.
Clancy would never give up on them.
He believed in loyalty, deeply, which was why Dawson was confident Clancy would give him the greenlight to head to Europe.
As long as the Colonel didn’t already have plans for him.
He knocked on the closed inner office door
.
“Enter!”
Dawson opened the door, stepping inside. “Good afternoon, Colonel.”
Clancy grunted, jabbing toward a chair with an unlit cigar, his battle to give up his habit still ongoing.
It’s going to get even tougher now that relations with Cuba are normalizing.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant Major?”
“I need a favor,” replied Dawson, sitting in his chair. “Or rather, I need a green light to do a favor.”
Clancy tore his eyes away from his computer screen. “Explain.”
“I received a message that Professor Laura Palmer was shot and kidnapped in Paris just a few hours ago. I’d like to head over there, on my own time and dime, to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Clancy jammed the cigar in his mouth. “Those two are in trouble again?”
Dawson shrugged. “Their files make for entertaining reading.”
“True. Someone should make a movie. We’ve got nothing in play at the moment for your team, but be prepared for recall just in case.”
“Of course.” Dawson started to stand then paused. “I hate to go on vacation alone.”
Clancy shook his head. “Niner’s newly single, isn’t he? Take him, it’ll keep him out of trouble.”
“Thanks, Colonel.” Dawson quickly rose, heading for the door. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Colonel.”
Another grunt. “Cheryl’s sister is in town visiting. If I could find a reason I’d be here ’til Monday.”
Dawson chuckled. “Good luck, sir.”
He closed the office door behind him and fished out his phone, putting an end to Niner’s weekend.
Rome, Italy
Vatican Inspector General Mario Giasson watched as the last reinforced metal case was loaded into the back of the armored car. Half a dozen priceless relics had been flown under tight security to Rome, held under heavy police guard at the airport until they had all arrived. It would be a single transport to the Holy See, with an armed police escort.
Nobody would be stealing this shipment.
Not tonight.
He had been devastated to hear from his friend Hugh Reading that Laura Palmer had been shot and kidnapped. His heart went out to her poor husband and he had taken a moment to say a silent prayer. They were good people and unfortunately God seemed intent on testing them repeatedly.
But they were strong people, and he knew they would persevere, though his optimism relied heavily upon the hope Professor Palmer was still alive.
Unfortunately he had seen too many good people taken before their time, and though it hurt those who remained behind, he felt confident that it was the Lord’s will every time.
“Let’s go!” he shouted, the truck secure. He climbed into the passenger seat of his escort vehicle, young Francesco Greco driving. Two police vehicles pulled out first, lights flashing, the armored car next followed by their car and two trailing police escorts. The six vehicle procession was soon leaving the airport and moving through the streets of Rome.
He squeezed his phone in his hand as his fingers tapped on his knee.
“Relax, boss, there’s no way they’d dare hit us. There’s too many police.”
“That didn’t stop them in Paris.”
“They weren’t expecting them. That was an ambush.”
Giasson grunted. “Until we’re through the gates and back home…”
Traffic was light, it almost three in the morning, but he couldn’t help but eyeball every vehicle they passed, or that passed them. The tension was killing him, his chest tight, his muscles contracted, his stomach protesting with a bit of acid reflux.
He reached for his antacids.
A light ahead changed and the procession slowed, Greco stopping just shy of the bumper. A horn honked ahead and Giasson leaned against his window to see what was happening.
And cursed.
“What the hell is that?”
He could see a man walking down the middle of the road, some sort of wide spray emitting from a nozzle he had aimed at the lead police car. He spun around, his side view mirror having revealed another man coming up from behind them, doing the same thing to the rear police cars.
Reaching for the door handle, he stopped as somebody jumped on the hood of their car, then hopped off.
“Get down!” shouted Greco, grabbing Giasson by the jacket and yanking him forward. Giasson caught a glimpse of something on the rear doors of the armored car just as his head dipped below the dash, a terrific explosion rocking the car. He sat up, taking stock of himself for a brief moment, then turned to Greco.
“Are you okay?”
The young man nodded then reached for his door just as two men passed them, spraying both sides of their car with some sort of foam. Giasson yanked on the handle and pushed the door open.
It barely gave.
He pushed harder, the door only opening about an inch.
“Try yours.”
Greco pushed on his door, hard, to no avail.
Somebody jumped on the hood again then dove into the back of the armored car, the two officers inside tossed unceremoniously onto the hood of their car, the blast strong enough to have knocked them out cold. Giasson shoved on his door repeatedly, getting more and more frustrated with each futile push.
He roared in rage as the cases containing the priceless relics were handed out and loaded into the back of a van that had just pulled up.
“Goddammit!” he shouted, pulling his weapon, immediately beginning to recite a Hail Mary for taking his Lord’s name in vain.
“Sir, no!” shouted Greco, grabbing for the weapon. “Bulletproof glass!”
Giasson bit his tongue, cutting off another curse, then slammed the butt of the gun into the dash repeatedly as the last case was offloaded.
And to add insult to injury, the final man out of the truck grinned and waved at them before jumping to the ground and climbing into the waiting van.
It was over in minutes, seconds even, the operation carried out with textbook efficiency, as if those involved were military trained. But it didn’t matter anymore.
The relics were gone.
And with this theft, almost all physical traces of the Lord our Christ were missing, almost everything thought to trace back to those hours spent dying for our sins were gone, perhaps forever, for some unknown purpose.
And for the first time in years, he felt the burning desire to kill.
Hotel Astor Saint Honore, Paris, France
Reading groaned, stretching as he looked about the room. It was pitch dark, the blackout curtains doing their job, keeping the nighttime city lights from disturbing him. He looked at the clock, cursing.
His phone vibrated again.
Yanking off his CPAP mask—his doctor having told him to never leave home without it—he grabbed his phone and swiped his thumb.
“Hello?”
“Hi Hugh, it’s Mario.”
Reading grunted. “Waking me seems to be a habit with you.”
“Sorry, mon ami, but there’s been another theft.”
Reading closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “Where?”
“Two meters from my own nose. They hit the convoy transporting the bulk of the remaining Blood Relics.”
Reading’s eyes shot open. “You’re kidding me! Any casualties?”
“None. Not a single shot fired.”
“How the bloody hell did they manage that?”
“They used some sort of spray adhesive on the doors of the escort vehicles, trapping us inside, then blew the doors off the back of the armored car. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it myself.”
Reading shook his head. These guys were good. Too good. They had changed their MO again, back to non-lethal methods, which made him think what happened in Paris was an anomaly, there no reason for them to come in shooting like they had.
“These guys are too good to be just common thieves.”
“They’re n
ot,” replied Giasson. “We’ve had our first break. Three of the men caught on camera in Vienna have just been identified.”
“Why the hell wasn’t I notified?”
“Probably in your email,” replied Giasson. “I guess they figured you needed your beauty sleep.”
Reading grunted. “Details?”
“They’re all known mercenaries, former KSK Special Forces.”
“KSK?”
“German.”
“German?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. One of them here sounded German. I think he was the same guy from the video in Vienna. Was he identified?”
“No, he’s still a mystery. He didn’t show up in any database.”
Reading cursed. “So we’ve identified the hired help. I’ll make sure my people are running down known associates, see if we can figure out how they’re usually paid.”
“Follow the money.”
“Exactly. And these guys are clearly well-funded.”
Giasson paused. “How’s Jim doing?”
“Not good. He finally got to sleep a few hours ago, but until we find out what happened to Laura, one way or the other, I’m afraid he’s going to be a wreck.”
“Completely understandable. Listen, with pretty much the entire known collection of Blood Relics now in their hands, there’s not much more that he can do to help us. This has turned into a criminal investigation. Tell him that we thank him for his help, and relieve him of any obligation to continue. He should be concentrating on himself now.”
Reading laughed. “You don’t know Jim very well. He’ll never rest until he finds her.”
He could hear Giasson breathe deeply. “If it were my wife, I would do the same.”
“If it were mine, I’d go for a pint.”
Giasson chuckled. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m divorced.”
“I know, and you’re still terrible.”
Reading smiled. “I’m going to contact London and get an update. Then some sleep. Be safe, my friend.”
“You too. Goodnight.”
Reading opened his laptop, flipping through his emails then noticed one from Acton.
Kraft Dinner called. Help on way.
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 11