30 Pieces of Silver: An Extremely Controversial Historical Thriller

by McCray, Carolyn

  30 Pieces of Silver

  by

  Carolyn McCray

  Praise for 30 Pieces of Silver…

  “Carolyn McCray’s 30 PIECES OF SILVER proves that Dan Brown’s crown is up for grabs. Part minefield and all roller-coaster ride, here is a story as controversial as it is thrilling. Hunker down for a long night, because once you start reading this book, you won’t be putting it down.”

  NYT Top Ten Best Seller

  James Rollins

  Devil Colony

  “Even as I write this, I find I can’t do justice to the scope and breadth of 30 PIECES OF SILVER... The last three pages of the story rank as one of the most shocking and unexpected conclusions I have ever experienced. I just didn’t see the ending coming. I was speechless—and I can’t think of any better praise to give than that.”

  Book Reviewer

  The Word Zombie

  “30 PIECES OF SILVER blends action, science, romance, history, and geography all into a fascinating thriller reminiscent of James Rollins, Steve Berry, or Dan Brown. It has everything any reader would want and, perhaps the best thing is, there is already a follow-up on the way continuing the exploits of Monroe, Brandt, Lopez, and the rest.”

  Book Reviewer

  MrNeil98

  Thrillers Rock Twitter

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Other Books Available

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright Information

  Contact Information

  Where It Began

  Jerusalem, dusk…

  Beneath the scant shade of a cypress tree, the man held silent vigil.

  He had forsaken all, even his name. But he knew that others would call out “Betrayer” or “Slayer of the Innocent.” How could they not? His heavy heart had nearly kept him from witnessing the crucifixion, but shame forced his feet to climb to this sheltered knoll.

  This was his doing. All his.

  Death, and not just any death, but the death of his closest friend bloodied his hands, but he was certain that as ages passed the story of this day would be kneaded like a soft dough. The events would be wrung and twisted over until not even the baker could discern the original ingredients. But the lambskin purse tied to his belt, heavy with silver coin, would not allow him to forget.

  Angered again, the man looked up at the clear skies—where heaven in all its glory lay. Why was the sky not gray and brooding? In His absolute fury, a recriminating thunder should shake the ground, trembling so greatly that it knocked down those who would persecute a true believer. Lightning should pierce the Roman dogs that led the prisoners up to Golgotha. Or, more fittingly, the bolts should strike the man to the marrow for his duplicity.

  Instead, only a light breeze played at the edge of his rough-spun robe, as goats lazily grazed along the hillsides past the Second Wall. The scent of jasmine and unleavened bread floated on the wind, as all those in Jerusalem prepared for the Sabbath. How could life drift along for all those inside the city walls? Why were there so few from the Temple City following the doomed procession? Where were the grieving throngs?

  But the man knew the answer. Any who would have revolted against the verdict were blissfully unaware of the fatal turn of events. Since the midnight arrest, the trial and judgment had unfolded too quickly for word to spread. Partly by design, and partly by misfortune. Prophecy and pragmatism had conspired to bring low one who should have been held in the highest regard.

  A sharp wail turned the man back to Golgotha. Squinting, as the distance was great, he knew it was Mary’s cry as the spikes were driven into the sufferer’s heels. Her pain equaled his. This was why he forced himself up this remote hillside. There were too few to witness his agony. Only Mary, Jude, and the Beloved Disciple were at the foot of the cross. The rest of the women were at the base of the hill, weeping in a great heap of scarves and tears. The other Twelve had scattered to the wind. Now outlawed.

  So it was that he, he who had brought all this tragedy to fruition, was to be the one to bear witness until the end.

  Prologue

  Paris, France

  “I told you the Louvre wasn’t open late on Tuesdays!”

  Corey ignored Kika’s outburst as the bus rattled along, following its route along the Seine. This was not how he imagined their great European adventure. Sex, scenery, and some more sex. That was the plan. When did the hysterical nagging figure in?

  “And all for a bunch of old cars! We missed the Mona Lisa for a fucking Peugeot!”

  He didn’t bother to correct her. First of all, there was nothing “fucking” about a classic 1950s Peugeot. Secondly, the Centre International de L’Automobile was a world-renowned car museum that was a must-see on any autophile’s trip. Thirdly, was the Mona Lisa any less boring in person?

  Kika struggled to control her tears, or at least wanted to leave the impression that she was struggling, as she slumped deeper into her bus seat. “I can’t believe this is happening!”

  Corey couldn’t believe that this was only the second stop on their supposed five-country tour. Three more countries of arguing, bitching, and the cold shoulder? He didn’t think so. Backpacks and visas got stolen all the time, right? It wasn’t like he’d leave her stranded. He’d make sure she had enough cash to get to the consulate and let her ATM of parents figure out the rest.

  That didn’t make him a complete asshole, did it?

  Brakes squealed as they neared Le Champ De Mars. As the engine rumbled to idle, everyone was thrown forward. Kika’s breast brushed past his elbow as she settled back.

  Maybe there was another way. Grabbing her wrist, Corey leapt from his seat, tugging her down the bus’ narrow steps. “Come on.”

  “Are you crazy?” She cried as the bus pulled away from the curb. “It’s going to be another hour before we can catch another bus to the hostel.”

  “Jesus, Kika, mellow out.”

  That was clearly the wrong thing to say, as her face turned crimson. “I would mellow the fuck out if I were the one getting my way all the time. It was the Louvre, Corey. The Louvre! The entire reason I came on this crappy trip.”

  Anger melted into tears. Real tears. They brimmed at the edge of her expertly applied eyeliner. Damn, but she was pretty. Unthinking, he reached to wipe the tears away but she pulled away, angered again.

  “Not this time.” Kika turned her back on him.

  Throwing his head back in frustration, he breathed out through his teeth. Chicks. You can’t live with them and you sure as hell got a thick callus on your palm without them. But when he opened his eyes he saw the most amazing sight. The Eiffel Tower’s lights bloomed to life. The entire height of the tower was a glittering glow of gold.

  Screw the pamphlets. This was the real thing.

  “Kika,” he said quietly, but she was busy blowing her nose. “Look up.”

  Predictably she scoffed, rolling her eyes, but, equally predictably, curiosity got the best of her. A slight gasp escaped her whatever-was-the-most-fashionable-shade-this-season lips. That was the response he wanted. Tenderly he turned her toward him.

  “Kika, we’re in France. Hell, we’re in Paris, standing under the most romantic landmark in the world.” He pointed to the Tower. “I’m sorry. I really thought tonight was the Louvre’s evening hours. I totally would have skipped the car museum if I’d known.”

  Her dark eyes rose to meet his. “Really?”

  Corey was surprised to find that his next words weren’t a lie. “Really.”

  Kika’s eyelashes
fluttered in that way only she could pull off. Taken by the moment, Corey kissed her. Not hard, like the-smelly-Austrians-have-finally-left-so-we-can-have-a-quickie kind of kiss. Instead, it was a soft kiss. Just like the one he gave her when they decided to screw saving for grad school and use the money for two weeks in Europe.

  He held her cheeks between his hands. “Is there anything we can do—do tonight—to make up for the Louvre?”

  “Well…” She blushed and batted her eyes toward the bejeweled Tower. “The Le Jules Verne is supposed to be the most romantic restaurant in the whole world.”

  Okay, he was hoping she might suggest a threesome, but if an expensive dinner inside the Eiffel Tower was what it took to have an unforgettable lay, then that’s what he would do.

  Corey took her hand in his. “All right, let’s get some directions.”

  “It’s on the second floor,” she stated promptly.

  “I wonder if we have to take the stairs up, or—”

  “It’s got its own elevator in the south pillar.”

  He glanced at her, but she just swung their hands up and down in a playful, girlish way. She certainly seemed to know a lot about this restaurant. Which made him wonder exactly how long she had been angling for this dinner. Could the plot have reached all the way back to the car museum? She had complained, but she certainly hadn’t put up a Kika-level fuss about staying late to look at the Lamborghini collection.

  Corey smiled. That devious bitch! She knew he would never spring for more than ten bucks a plate. She had set this whole thing up.

  Maybe he could fall in love with her.

  As they strolled toward the base of the Tower, Corey couldn’t help but notice the one woman on the entire causeway who strode alone. Who in the hell hung out at the Eiffel Tower, at night no less, without a date?

  “Look at that loser,” Corey said as he nodded to the solo pedestrian. “And what kind of fashion sense to wear a scarf on a warm night like this?”

  Kika tsk-tsked as only Kika could. “That’s not a scarf. It’s a hijab.”

  “Whatever. She isn’t going to catch a man in that thing.”

  “I think that’s the point. Now hush.”

  They arrived at the elevator door right before the lone woman. There were several other couples already waiting. Kika reached out and hit the antique button, but it didn’t light up.

  “Already tried that,” one of the men said.

  A woman with a thick French accent explained. “A water main broke yesterday. There’s flooding under the foundation. It’s affecting the electrical.”

  “They’re still serving dinner, though, right?” his girlfriend asked anxiously, like a child whose ice cream cone might be melting.

  The woman just shrugged and went back to her cigarette. Kika frowned so deeply that her face and mouth risked forming wrinkles. “No dinner, no dessert.” And by the glare, she was definitely not referring to pie.

  “I’ll go ask at the main entrance what the scoop is,” Corey conceded.

  Kika nodded vigorously. One hand shoved him on his quest while the other punched the button in case her urgency could fix waterlogged wiring.

  Chuckling at her determination, Corey heading toward the east pillar as he spotted the overly modest woman, only now she was kneeling near a girder, having trouble with her purse.

  Feeling vaguely guilty for judging her so harshly, he went outside of his comfort zone to sound chivalrous. “Can I help you?” Corey asked. When she didn’t respond, he gave it a stab in French. “Est-ce que je peux vous aider?”

  Still, she seemed intent on her baggage. He tapped her shoulder. “Est-ce que—” She turned, and Corey realized her sleeve was caught in her backpack.

  “Here, let me—” He stopped short as the contents of the pack became visible. It was chock-full of gray bricks with red and black wires sticking out at odd angles. Okay, he’d seen enough Alias episodes to know that it was C-4.

  “Bomb!” Corey spun on his heel toward the elevator. “Bomb!”

  In this day and age, it didn’t matter what language you spoke. Everyone knew “bomb” when they heard it. Tourists scattered as he turned the corner.

  “Run!” he yelled, but Kika was still pushing the button. “Get down!”

  He felt the blast more than heard the explosion. The force was like wiping out on your surfboard inside a twenty-foot pipe, only worse. This blast knocked the wind from his lungs and threatened to break his back. He somehow found Kika in his arms. When had he grabbed her?

  In an enormous gust of C-4 fueled air, they were thrown past the girders, and then smashed onto the unforgiving ground. His ears rang a thousand notes, but he kept Kika’s head tucked under his shoulder as dust rained down.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, but her words sounded far off.

  Corey didn’t answer as terror transformed into anger. Who the fuck bombed the Eiffel Tower? Of all the fucking landmarks, why here? Why tonight?

  It wasn’t until he was certain that the danger of a second bombing was well past that he cautiously allowed them to rise.

  A strange silence greeted them, as if this moment was suspended outside of time and space. No shouts, no panic, and even Kika stopped crying. They, and the Tower itself, were in shock after such a brutal attempt on its life. The other patrons hadn’t run off, either. Instead, strangely enough, they were gathered around the bombing site.

  “Everybody okay?” he asked, but couldn’t really hear his own words.

  No one answered, only nodded as they dusted themselves off. Everyone seemed shocked to have survived with only minor cuts and scrapes. The Tower’s structure was also in remarkably good shape. Its girders were only a little singed.

  A sob escaped the girl in his arms. Not even her Madison Avenue blush could bring color to poor Kika’s cheeks. Her mascara was smeared across her face, which pretty much epitomized the effects of the bomb.

  Cosmetic damage only.

  Corey kissed the top of her head. They were going to be fine, but if the effectiveness of a terrorist attack was based on civilian casualties and destroying an international monument, this baby was going to go down as the lamest suicide bombing ever.

  But he knew this was only the calm before the storm as the Eiffel Tower suddenly had competition in the lights department. Red, blue, and yellow lights flashed as the police and fire trucks bore down on their location. Very soon, all hell was going to break loose.

  With his ears still ringing, Corey thought he heard someone say “bodies.”

  “I thought everyone was okay?” Releasing Kika from his embrace, he joined the man who he knew spoke English.

  “We’re fine, but…” the German said as he pointed to the hole.

  Corey carefully stepped toward the edge. Now it made sense why there was so little damage to the Tower itself. When the chick was screwing around with the pack she must have accidentally refocused the blast downward, creating a ragged opening in the stone.

  But why, after barely surviving a bombing, were these people making such a fuss about a stupid hole in the ground?

  Then as the dust settled, Corey felt even himself gasp. Buried beneath the most romantic landmark in the world was a crypt full of bodies. No, not bodies, but skeletons. Lots and lots of skeletons, but after the explosion, they were just a tangle of rib cages and shattered leg bones. It was as though the crypt keeper had put them into a blender and then thrown them into the trash.

  “What the fuck?” It didn’t make any sense. What terrorist wanted to blow up dead people? Way dead people?

  “Corey, help me.” It was Kika who spoke, but it sounded as if she were calling from another dimension.

  His head still rang, but past it, Corey heard sirens bearing down on them. It took a few seconds to locate his girlfriend next to the only piece of mangled metal around. Why the hell did she pick the one unstable area of the Tower to set up shop? “Kika, keep back.”

  “I think someone’s injured!”

  Oh, s
hit! Corey rushed forward. The bomber. “Don’t!”

  But Kika decided this day, of all days, to be a Good Samaritan. She had already pulled the woman out from under the twisted girder.

  “It’s the chick with the bomb,” Corey explained as he tried to tug her away, but she had her heels dug in.

  “It couldn’t be.” His girlfriend looked up, confused. “She’s not even Muslim…” Kika pointed to the dead woman’s chest. “Look…”

  Hanging around the suicide bomber’s neck, gleaming under the Tower’s twinkling lights, was a large silver cross.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ecuadorian Rain Forest

  Dr. Rebecca Monroe gasped in the moist rain forest air. It took the effort of breathing underwater. Of course, the vine wrapped around her neck wasn’t helping matters, either.

  Genus: Chondrodendron. Species: tomentosum.

  No matter her scientific accuracy, each time the frenzied villagers circled her, they tightened another loop around her windpipe. Rebecca concentrated on breathing, but she was so very alone. Her research students had deserted days ago. Then the loss of her guide during her capture…

  There had not even been time to cry.

  The communal drums resonated at such a primitive level that the jungle jarred with each beat, whipping the warriors into a rage. Their native tongue clicking was punctuated by loud, guttural incantations. It did not take her triple PhDs to know they were in a state of religious fervor.

  Vision blurred from the blow to her head, Rebecca focused on the torches. They flickered brightly under the heavy canopy of the Ecuadorian rain forest. So dense that not even a single star peeked through.

  Maniacal warriors writhed in the firelight, skin glowing, illuminating ruby tattoos and ritual scars. The body art flowed across their flesh, brought to life by flames and screams. Given enough time and oxygen, Rebecca could have told their life stories by the swirling patterns on their skin. As it was, she could barely remember her last name.