The taller man sounded confident, except his eyes kept flickering to Tok. “Leave now, and we shall seek no retribution.”
“Little late for that, buddy.” He might have been more interested in the offer if he Davidson wasn’t his ace in the hole. “Lower your weapons.”
Tok hobbled forward as he locked Brandt’s gaze. Petir’s words followed. “You have sorely miscalculated, Sergeant. Leave or die.”
Okay, Brandt was officially sick of this fucker. “Fire!”
But nothing happened. Tok’s smile became savage as he signed rapidly. But who the hell was he signing to? Petir was behind him.
Glancing over his shoulder, the sergeant watched Davidson leave his sniper position and walk out into the open. “Damn it, fire.”
Then the private crossed the invisible line that separated friend from foe, embracing Tok. “Bro!”
“Samuel,” Petir said, as he too hugged the younger man.
“What the hell?”
Davidson shrugged. “Don’t be so judgmental. We’re adopted.”
But how could that be? Brandt had met the private’s family. Been to his grandfather’s log cabin on Lake Michigan. Obviously this ruse had been established well before they had ever met.
Rebecca stammered, “Davidson, how…? I saw you shoot that driver. You killed the Knot’s men in Istanbul.”
“Deep cover, babe. I did nothing to endanger my position until my man, Tok, gave the signal. Now it’s all about family.”
That pit in Brandt’s stomach sucked his heart in as well. Svengurd truly had been innocent. The farm-fresh Davidson had been the mole the entire time. His vision darkened, and not from blood loss. How could he have missed a deception this great?
“Kill them,” Petir ordered Davidson.
At this distance, they were dead. Hell, with the private at the trigger, a hundred yards out they’d still be dead, but Davidson’s face clouded over and his gun stayed down at his side.
Even though his meds were bleeding out his bullet wound, Brandt stepped in front of Rebecca. Maybe he could use Davidson’s reluctance to their favor. “You’re not that guy who can shoot an innocent woman, Davidson.”
“They know,” Petir intoned. “So they must die.”
Bracing himself, the private slung his rifle into position, wrapping his hand around the harness to secure his grip. There was no talking their way out of this one.
“Once I shoot, run,” Brandt whispered to Rebecca. She wouldn’t make it two feet, not with Tok and Petir armed, but at the least Brandt wouldn’t have to see her die.
But then all thoughts of Rebecca faded as he faced off against Davidson. At the least, Brandt would take out the traitor before he fell.
A life for a life.
Then the ceiling bloomed brightly as a dozen cappuccino-brown robed monks rappelled from the roof, wielding silver swords.
* * *
Rebecca ducked as the bullets flew. Brandt fell to one knee, but not from Davidson’s shot. The private had been bowled over backward by a Capuchin attack.
She couldn’t help but scream as a wild-eyed monk, his skin stretched taut over his face like his long-mummified brothers, ran at her, his sword glistening in the light. The sergeant shoved her to the ground as he spun and fired. Two shots. Two holes in the man’s head.
“Get somewhere safe!” Brandt yelled.
More than willing to comply, Rebecca just wasn’t sure if there was anywhere that matched his description. Tok, Petir, and Davidson had scattered, but the monks were everywhere. Turning, she found the entrance to the maze, but two monks brandished their weapons. There was no going back there. Then she saw it.
The open cave.
“Come on!” she said, tugging Brandt, but the sergeant didn’t budge. He was too focused on shooting at Davidson to the exclusion of all else. “Oh no, you don’t.”
Rebecca felt as betrayed by the conniving private as much as Brandt, but she wasn’t going to let that emotion kill them both. Adrenaline was hyping the sergeant up, but he had lost a lot of blood. Bracing herself, she jerked the sergeant backward. Unable to resist, he stumbled after her.
“Damn it!” Brandt shouted, but she ignored him as she guided them into the shelter of the cave.
He still tried to fire madly into the fray, but Rebecca pulled him behind the rock. “Stop. Just stop!”
“Davidson… He… Svengurd…”
“He is the least of our problems right now.” Off his look, she conceded, “Okay, maybe he’s a big part of it, but you have got to think. Use this chaos to our advantage. Figure out how we can get the hell out of here.”
Still his eyes remained unfocused, and his mind distracted. So she did the only thing she could think of.
Rebecca kissed him. Hard and demanding. Now was not the time for romance. It was time for a wake-up call. When he finally responded, she pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “I need you.”
* * *
Brandt would have loved to respond, but a monk came at her with his sword high over his head, both hands on the pommel, ready to strike.
Three bullets and the guy was dead, along with his friend trying to sneak up from the side. He urged Rebecca deeper into the cave. “Go. Take a look while I figure it out.”
Another five bullets, and Petir was flushed from his hiding spot. Maybe Rebecca was right. This was doable. They could make it out alive, but then he felt his wet bandage. He might not make it out, but he sure as hell was going to guarantee she did.
“I can help,” Rebecca said as gunfire brought them to the ground.
“Doing exactly what?” he asked, then regretted his harsh tone. “When we rabbit, it’ll be fast. Make the best of it now.”
“Are you sure?”
With his one good arm, Brandt pulled her in and kissed her full on the lips. “I’m sure. Now go.”
* * *
As she crept farther and farther into the darkened cave, all Rebecca could hear was the chaos echoing from the entrance. Strangely, what calmed her panic was figuring out who was firing at whom. It sounded like Davidson had found himself a vantage point due to the clean, crisp, precise shots that rang off the cavern walls. Each was always followed by a scream.
Before, she would have been grateful. But now she knew the private’s accuracy would soon be aimed at them. But the deeper she went into the cave the more the battle seemed far away and irrelevant. A smell somewhere between sweet and stale lingered in the air. Then she realized it was the scent of myrrh and burial spices. With all the commotion, Rebecca had forgotten whose tomb she had entered.
Christ’s.
Slowing her step, she approached the only object in the chamber. It was a low, flat rock with a single skeleton gracing its surface. Rebecca reminded herself how many tombs she and Lochum had found and how many skeletons had been exhumed, and none of them had been Christ, but that didn’t quiet the butterflies in her stomach.
Without approaching too closely, she circled the body. He wore a crown of thorns. The markings of the iron spikes clear on his wrists and ankles. The remains were no doubt a male, between thirty and forty-five years old. Rebecca could also make out tiny inscriptions in the bone, but could not read them from this distance.
A part of her didn’t want to get any closer. Finding Christ in theory sounded intriguing and just a little heroic. Finding Jesus in reality was intimidating and more than a little scary.
Where the hell was Lochum? The professor would have already shoved past her, inspected the entire body, and already be reading scripture from the bones. But here she stood too timid to come within an arm’s length of the skeleton. Rebecca didn’t think she could do this alone.
Glancing toward the cave opening, the bright muzzle flashes told her that the sergeant was otherwise occupied. Besides, Rebecca knew that this would be one discovery Brandt would not be happy to find. She would leave him to his battle while she began hers.
Gulping, Rebecca took another step forward. Trying to summon up s
ome semblance of professional detachment, Rebecca leaned over to study the skull. These letters were far tinier than any of the other bones. It was as if someone had tried to cram double the information onto these remains. Having to squint, Rebecca concentrated on the area just above the thorny crown. Without a magnifying glass she could only make out three words.
Cross.
Golgotha.
Christos.
Stumbling back, Rebecca read the next line.
Here lies a Son of God.
* * *
Brandt had to keep himself from constantly checking over his shoulder. Rebecca would let him know if she found… Well, what they were looking for.
But these fucking monks were maniacs, trying to kill anyone who wasn’t wearing a brown robe. Add that to Davidson taking potshots at his head as frequently as he could, and Brandt was a little busy.
Tok had holed up somewhere to his left, taking shelter in one of the caves. Petir had tried to get back into the maze a while ago, but even armed, the older man had to retreat in the face of the monk’s ferocious attacks.
Tightening the wrap, Brandt realized he had soaked through completely. The sergeant wasn’t sure how much blood he had left.
Rebecca had tasked him with formulating a plan to get out of here, but she wasn’t going to like it. Looking at the kill zone, there was no way they were both getting out of here alive. Even if you assumed the monks would be severely thinned, that still left three guns, one of them an expert sniper.
Which left him the only option, to lie to her. He would tell Rebecca that he would stay behind only long enough to provide cover fire, then join her, but Brandt doubted if he could even crawl halfway across the open space, let alone run across it and up the steep stairs toward freedom.
No, in reality, he would lay down cover fire, but once Davidson rose to take the kill shot, Brandt would nail the little fucker between the eyes. Rebecca should be able to rush up the stairs past the private’s bloody body and get the hell out of there before Brandt was either sliced to ribbons by the monks or gunned down between Petir and Tok’s positions.
While he solidified the plan, an arrow narrowly missed his shoulder and bounced off the rock. Turning, Brandt fired and didn’t miss his quarry. But another three arrows rained down upon him. Scrambling deeper behind the rock, the sergeant cursed.
He was going to have to update his fucking plan.
* * *
Mesmerized by the tiny scrawled writings, Rebecca let the names and words flow past her eyes. The Twelve were well represented. Especially James, Paul, and, of course, Judas. But the Thirty were also in abundance. Magdalene, Ruth, and Ameil. In addition, there were others she had not seen before. Deliah, Sevat, and Turvas.
Give her a year and a dozen grad students, and Rebecca could rewrite the Bible. There was so much she had found, yet so much she still didn’t understand. Unlike the other remains, much of the writing seemed to be hurried, as if the inscriber had been rushed. Some sentences left off without finishing while others were repeated, oftentimes right next to one another, like the carver had forgotten what he had just written.
But for now, Rebecca had not moved beyond the skull. It was almost easier to gather information rather than stop and really soak in the ramifications of truly finding Christ’s body. However, as the gunfire from the cave entrance intensified, Rebecca knew she had to finish her survey.
It would take an entire accredited laboratory weeks or months of radio-isotope dating to prove the skeletons age and another league of scholars to confirm the body’s identity, but Rebecca had not doubt that who lay before her had died on the cross that day in Jerusalem.
No other might ever see these remains, so it was her duty to document as much as possible in the time she had left.
Freeing her mind, Rebecca began another circle of the body, this time trying to rectify her own doubts against the proof under her fingertips. As she walked, Rebecca dragged a finger along the skeleton just as she had done with John’s bone back at the hotel room, feeling the contours of the bone, reading it like a gypsy.
His arms were long compared to most. His embrace must have been bountiful. The radius and ulna had grooves where the nails had attached him to the wooden cross. His rib cage had a tiny knick. Exactly where legend said the Roman spear had pierced his chest. His pelvis was sturdy and much more narrow than Magdalene’s. His femur was straight, but thinner than John’s had been. The tibia was slightly irregular. The tarsus, of course, showed similar damage at the wrist, confirming crucifixion.
Backing up, Rebecca’s fingers found the tibia again. It was more than slightly irregular. Had there been an old fracture there that had healed poorly? Not only was there a substantial callus around the bone, but arthritis had set into the knee joint. She didn’t remember any mention of Jesus having a leg injury.
But weren’t there multiple mentions of a lame man amongst the Twelve?
Hadn’t Judas complained of a poorly healed leg?
Sucking in a breath, Rebecca leaned over the tibia. The damaged leg was the right leg. The leg that caused Judas so much trouble.
She stumbled back as she realized that body lying before her was not Christ… but Judas.
The Sacrifice
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Jerusalem
AD 42
Judas paused at the entrance to the small garden they had been calling home while in Jerusalem. How could he face his friend? From his vantage point, he watched Jesus pace in an antechamber lined with great palms. His mother clearly tried to comfort him, but there was no solace for the Savior.
“Judas? You’ve come!” Jesus asked as he squinted toward the door. “Where are the guards?”
Entering alone, Judas opened his arms wide. “I am alone.”
“But…”
Tears sprang to his eyes. “I could not do it, Jesus. I could not turn my one friend in all the world over to the Romans. My heart would not bear such a burden and still beat after.”
“Oh, Judas. What have you wrought?” Jesus asked, not accepting his embrace, but Mary seemed most pleased.
“Perhaps this is God’s will after all. For you to live.”
Judas nodded. “If you wish to rush to your fate, you must do so of your own accord.”
He was firm in his conviction, but seeing his friend’s disappointment nearly crushed his will. On the long walk to the temple, Judas had come to his senses. No matter Jesus’ wish, it was Judas’ soul at stake. He had convinced himself this was a test. A test to see if Judas was capable of such treachery, but seeing Jesus’ eyes moist with bitter tears, he feared it was no such trial. The Savior truly had wanted him to complete the betrayal.
“But I cannot, Judas,” Jesus wept. He hid his face in his hands. “God forgive me, but I cannot.”
Mary put an arm around her son. “God has already asked so much of you. He could not expect this as well.”
Judas took Jesus’ hand. “If only I could take this burden from you.”
Head still bent, Jesus murmured, “But you cannot, dear friend.”
However, Mary’s eyes brightened, and she turned her gaze to him. “Do you mean that, Judas? Would you put yourself upon that cross?”
“Yes,” he answered, wishing if only he could. For once, it might be he to do God’s work. “Anything to ease Jesus’ suffering.”
“Then make it so,” Mary said as her son’s head snapped up.
“What heresy do you speak, Mother?”
But his mother stood firm before her most holy son. “Before you decline, think on it, Jesus. What have you said time and again? That you must rise three days hence. Is that not true?”
“Do not twist my words.”
Judas, however, could follow the Virgin’s intent. She was far more direct than her son. “She is right, Jesus. You cannot go up onto the cross. It is too great a risk. There are a hundred ways you might die.”
Mary nodded vigorously. “Let Judas go i
n your stead. He—”
“I will hear no more!” Jesus’ words sounded forceful, but Judas could see his friend’s hands still shake.
“This is but a culmination of your design, Jesus. As you said, ‘God must wish us to use our heads as well as our hearts.’ “ Judas’ words came quicker and quicker as the plan solidified. “The guards know not your face, nor mine. You can go to the temple and bring them to my door.”
Jesus backed away from them both. “You are both mad.”
Mary went to intercede, but Judas turned to her. “Leave us and prepare for the arrest.”
“But—”
“I will not fail him,” he said. The Virgin’s eyes searched his face, then she finally turned and left.
Judas cupped Jesus’ face in his hands as his friend had done to him outside the Seder. “Please, go to the guards. I beg you.”
CHAPTER 37
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Deep beneath Carpuchin Church
Tok could barely hold his gun any longer, let alone bear the recoil after he fired. The monks must have sensed his handicap as they encroached closer. He had little time left to make peace with his God.
In some ways, he was elated. He had found Judas. He had touched the man who had given his life for all mankind. He should have been able to die happily, ready to meet his end, but he had failed to keep Judas safe. For that Tok would be condemned.
Turning his attention outward, he realized the monks moved more boldly, three moving as a wall toward him. Even if Tok could brace himself for the pain and fire once more, it would be useless, as the other two would surely strike before he could change clips.
Besides, the monks’ fury was well justified. Perhaps a death by the blade might mitigate his sins.
Closing his eyes, Tok lowered his weapon, letting it drop from his grasp. He needed it no longer. Feeling the rush of air as the monks charged, Tok prayed for forgiveness, but the killing blow never came.
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