Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (23 page)

Rita
disappeared to get one of their maintenance workers while he tried to relax
every muscle in his body, battling the temptation to give in to self-pity. He
had spent too many hours, too many days, crying about what had happened to him,
usually when the house was empty, his wife at work and his daughter at school,
unwilling to let them see what he had become.

A
paraplegic wreck.

But in
time he had overcome the emotional aspects, at least enough to move on with his
life, and once he realized he could actually be fairly independent even if in a
wheelchair, he began to appreciate he could still live a full life.

But when
the one toe had been spotted by his daughter, tapping to music, it had changed
everything.

But not
completely.

His
doctors would say the fact he was feeling this pain was a good thing, it
something he couldn’t have felt after the shooting, but right now part of him,
a tiny, infinitesimal part, wished for momentary paralysis to kick back in and
take the pain away.

Stop
feeling sorry for yourself.

He
thought of his best friend and the agony he must be going through with his wife
being held for what was, for all intents and purposes, ransom.

At
least she’s alive.

Which
was something his newly pessimistic nature had convinced him she wasn’t.

He
frowned.

Maybe
I should see that shrink they keep offering me.

He had
always thought seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist—he’d have to look up the
difference—meant you had failed as a man. He wasn’t sure where the thinking
came from, probably his father, maybe even his grandfather. Both were vets, his
grandfather a former Marine who had fought in the Pacific during World War Two,
his father a draftee in the Vietnam War. Both had done their duty and survived,
and never spoke about what they had seen or done.

PTSD
wasn’t something acknowledged back then. Back then they called it
shell-shocked, and it was frowned upon.

Neither
had ever sought counselling—at least as far as he knew—and he thought they had
lived out full lives. But it was a new age, where men were more likely to
express their feelings rather than keep everything bottled up inside, even
soldiers encouraged to speak out if they were in trouble.

It was
something he had embraced as an educator, but never thought he’d be in the
position to actually need that help himself.

Perhaps
it’s time.

The door
opened and Oscar entered, the shocked expression on his face causing a wave of
shame to sweep through Milton’s body, almost overwhelming him as he felt
immediately emasculated.

I’m
making the appointment today.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Chris Leroux pushed back from his keyboard in frustration, kicking
his foot out to send him into a spin as he leaned back, staring at the ceiling
tiles. He had spent two hours trying to gain access to the Renner Security
network and had failed.

He
didn’t like failure.

But from
what he could tell, beyond a couple of computers connected to the outside world
that contained nothing but their external website and a contact form, there
seemed to be nothing else.

Which he
knew was BS.

What it
most likely meant was they had a completely segregated internal network which
was rare in the corporate world, most companies having their networks connected
behind firewalls to the outside world, relying on security hardware and
software to keep the bad guys and governments out.

Though
some would equate the two.

What he
had
found out was interesting. By hacking the German government’s public benefits system,
he found that the intel indicating the identified gunmen were former employees
wasn’t exactly correct. In fact, he had discovered something quite fascinating.
It appeared that Renner Security had a habit of firing and rehiring their German-born
employees, and that those employees, when fired, had sometimes been tied to
what might be described as questionable activities around the world.

Plausible
deniability.

He could
just imagine the conversation going to occur later today when Dawson named the
identified shooters.

“They
did what? It was just that type of thing that got them fired!”

By
firing their personnel before sending them out on a questionable op, the
company could deny involvement. Once the op was finished, and assuming
everything went smoothly with no blowback, they’d be rehired so they’d be
entitled to their generous government benefits upon retirement.

He
assumed that the same was being done with their contractors, though deniability
there was much easier.

Just pay
cash.

But this
was a German based company that specialized in giving former KSK personnel
jobs. They seemed to have an excellent reputation and had never made the
papers. It was the off-the-books ops that had garnered some attention, but only
from the intelligence community.

Until
now.

If this
current op was actually part of a Renner Security contract, then it marked the
first time they were involved in something clearly, blatantly untoward.

Which
made him think they had no idea what their “former” staff were doing.

Whether
they knew or not however was irrelevant in the end. It was who had hired them
or their former employees to carry out the job that was. And the best way of
finding that out was to follow the money.

He had
already found the rather modest bank accounts of the identified men, and there
was no unusual activity going back two years, which meant they most likely had
private accounts for the nefarious activities.

But he
had found a mistake.

One of
the men, who was an employee for the better part of the past two years, had no
salary deposits in his accounts for the entire time.

Which
meant his money was going somewhere else.

And only
the internal computer network at Renner Security would tell him where.

But
how the hell do I get access?

There
was a knock on his door, startling him out of his continued spin. He grabbed
the side of his desk.

“Enter!”

He still
felt like Captain Picard every time he said that.

The door
opened and his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of his boss, Director
Leif Morrison, the National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA.

He
jumped out of his seat. “Sir, can I help you?”

“May I
come in?”

“Of
course!”

Morrison
stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Leroux motioned to one of the
chairs in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thanks.”
Morrison sat down, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. “What
are you working on?”

Leroux
stole a quick glance at his screen. “Umm…”

A slight
smile broke out on Morrison’s face. “Spill.”

How
does he always know?

“I got a
message from Dylan overnight asking me for some help. Actually, the help is for
Professor James Acton.”

“The man
whose wife was shot and kidnapped in Paris yesterday.”

It
wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact, which meant Morrison knew
full-well what was going on and was just here to confirm it.

“Yes.”
Leroux wasn’t sure what to say. “You see, he—the professor—got a phone call
from the kidnappers. Apparently she’s alive and they’re holding her until he
finds some ancient body, Longinus, I think.”

“Saint
Longinus, the Roman soldier who lanced Jesus at the crucifixion to make sure he
was dead, and had his blindness cured when the blood touched his eyes.”

Leroux’s
eyebrows popped. “Umm, yeah.”

“While I
do enjoy reading the Bible, I also enjoy reading the Apocryphal texts as well.
Quite enlightening.”

Leroux
made a mental note to download the Bible onto his eReader that night. He had
tried reading on his tablet but it made his eyes too tired. There was nothing
like a dedicated eReader. There was no backlight to strain the eyes, and it
read just like a book—if not better. He often wondered why “the jungle” had
released their tablet and called it the same thing as their eReader. The
devices were so completely different in function and purpose, that he felt it
actually dissuaded people from buying eBooks since they weren’t a pleasant
experience on a backlit tablet.

It was
like using the microwave over the oven. Sure it was faster, but it never tasted
as good.

“Chris?”

“Huh?”
He suddenly realized his mind had wandered like it so often did, as if trying
to convey some bit of critical information to whom, he didn’t know. “Oh, sorry,
sir. Well, I was asked to help try and find Professor Palmer.”

“As I
expected.”

Expected,
not suspected.

Leroux’s
cheeks flushed and he dropped his chin slightly. “I’m sorry, sir, I know I
should have cleared it with you first—”

Morrison
held up a finger, cutting him off. “Let me save you from having to come up with
some lame excuse on the fly. Are you using your team?”

“Of
course not, I’d never do that. And I’m not neglecting my duties. And I’ll make
up any time I do spend on this.”

Morrison
chuckled, rising from his chair. “Which is exactly why I trust you, Chris.” He
waved off Leroux’s exit from his own seat. “Tell me next time, you might just
be surprised what happens, like right now.” Morrison’s hand gripped the
doorknob. “This is now an official task. Use whatever resources you need.”

“Th-thank
you, sir!”

Morrison
nodded and left the room, leaving Leroux to kick off from the desk, sending his
chair into another spin.

All
the resources. Officially.

He
smiled.

Now
that this is official…

He
needed access to the internal network at Renner Security, and until a moment
ago, he had no way of actually doing it.

But now
he did.

He
picked up the phone and dialed.

Ciampino Airport, Rome, Italy

James Acton smiled as he descended the steps of the Gulf V charter,
his single carryon brought behind him by an insistent and gorgeous flight
attendant. The woman had paid an uncomfortable amount of attention to him, she
probably under the false assumption he was rich and unhappily married, the
flashing of his wedding band doing nothing to deter her.

He
hadn’t wanted to be rude so he had ended up feigning sleep, which had worked.

I
should have brought Niner, he’s single now.

“Professor
Acton, so good to see you again. I wish the circumstances were better.”

Acton
shook Mario Giasson’s hand as the head of Vatican security glanced over his
shoulder at the blonde bombshell descending the steps in six inch heels.

“Monsieur
Acton, ’ere ees your bag!” she cried, her thick French accent making her even
more gorgeous. She pressed a piece of paper into his hand. “And should you get
bored, ’ere ees my hotel.”

“Umm,
thanks.” Now he knew why she had insisted on bringing his bag down herself—it
gave her the excuse to give him her number.

She
rushed off, the wiggle causing even Giasson’s eyes to wander to and fro. “New
friend?”

Acton
chuckled. “Never fly a private jet alone. They think you’re rich and looking to
score.”

Giasson
laughed as they loaded his bag into the trunk. “To resist such a lady’s
advances proves just how much you love your wife.”

“I know,
and if I ever told her about how well I did, somehow I think I’d still lose.”