Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (12 page)

“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.