Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (8 page)

Life was
worth living again.

He stepped
toward the cross, raising a hand and touching the foot of the man he had
listened to for almost six hours, a man who was clearly everything he had said
he was.

He
turned as the mourners approached and smiled.

“He
truly is the son of God.”

“He’s my
son.”

The
broken lady collapsed to her knees, several of the women, and the man who he
assumed was the one Jesus had spoken of as her son earlier, rushed to her side.

“I was
blind and now can see.”

“Even in
death he saves,” said a younger woman, taking his hand and squeezing. “Now you
see don’t you? Now you see he was an innocent man, a man who hurt no one, and
in his final moments granted comfort to those around him, and sight to one who
would see him dead.”

Longinus
felt a vicelike grip take hold of his chest, the excuse of only following
orders seeming a weak one, but it was all he had.

He
decided to leave it unspoken, the woman not appearing to hold him any ill will.

“Is it
true?” Longinus turned to see the other soldiers he had been waiting with
surrounding him. “You can see us?”

He
nodded, smiling. “As good as the day I was born.”

“Unbelievable!”

“It
is
unbelievable. Either you were lying before, or you’re lying now.”

Longinus
frowned at Severus, a hateful man if there ever was one. He had known him for
over a decade and he was liked by few, hated by many.

“You
sneer at me while accusing me of being a liar?”

Severus’
eyes flared for a moment, as if shocked his facial expression had been seen.

“I can
see now, plainly.” He looked at the four men, Albus standing at his side, ready
to remove Severus’ head for having falsely accusing his friend. “You, Severus, have
a patch over your eye, Tiberius a cut on your knee and Marcus, you remain as
ugly as I remember you. No, uglier.”

Marcus roared
with laughter, grabbing him and hugging him, his hands thumping on Longinus’
back. “You
can
see! It’s amazing!” He felt the hands of the others
slapping him with joy as he let go of Marcus, looking at Severus.

Severus’
head was slowly shaking. “I don’t believe, but I must. You’ve been blind for
years. No one would fake that for so long and stay in the army. You’d slip up
at least once, someone would catch you, but…”

Longinus
put a hand on Severus’ shoulder. “It
is
a miracle.” He turned and
pointed at Jesus. “Performed by him.”

Severus
dropped to his knees, clasping his hands against his chest. “What have we
done?” he cried. “If he can do this, if he can give a man back his sight, then
he must be what they say he is! His god will surely destroy us now! We’re
condemned to burn in Hades for eternity!”

“No, you
are mistaken.”

It was
the mother who spoke, putting a comforting hand on Severus. “Our God is a god
of love and compassion, my son taught us that.”

“Join
us, let us teach you his ways,” said the younger woman.

Longinus’
head bobbed slowly as he realized his life had new meaning and a new purpose.
He had been given a second chance, a chance to live again a whole man,
unencumbered by an illness beyond his control, with all his faculties and
abilities restored.

And they
would be needed.

For he
was now determined to spread the word that this man truly had been what he had
said he was.

The son
of God.

And no
one could sway him from that opinion.

“We must
remove the bodies,” said Severus. “Our orders are to have this cleared away before
Passover begins which is soon.” He pointed at the two criminals, none of whom
had family or friends present. “They’ll be dead soon.” He nodded toward Jesus.
“Let’s get him down first.”

“I’ll do
it,” said the man identified as the son.

Longinus
took him by the arm. “What is your name?”

“John.”

“You
knew this man well?”

“He was
my teacher. My rabbi. My friend.”

Longinus
looked up at this teacher, seeing the crown of thorns for the first time,
rivulets of blood now dried on the poor soul’s face from where the skin had
been torn by the barbarians that had committed this tragic joke. He wanted to
be enraged by this, to lash out at those responsible, his own fellow soldiers,
but he couldn’t, he couldn’t summon the anger.

Instead
he felt an overwhelming sense of contentment that seemed determined to compete
with the sorrow he was feeling.

He
dropped to his knees, beating his chest as he stared up at the body of this
great man.

“I
pledge my life to your good name.”

And as
he prayed to this new god, Albus and the others joined him, their swords and
spears discarded as they united with him in prayer, it evident they were as
affected as him by these turn of events. The shaking of the earth and skies had
made it clear that this man was indeed powerful, but the miracle performed just
with the touch of his blood was undeniable.

He was a
force for good.

The
blood!

He
looked down at the large pool of blood at the base of the cross, it captured in
a natural indentation of the stone, and wondered if it should be collected.

How
many could be cured by this?

As if
reading his mind, the loved ones of Jesus began to collect this precious fluid,
transferring it into several jars, mopping up what remained with cloths.

Imagine
the good that could come of this!

Imperial Treasury, Hofburg Palace, Vienna, Austria
Present Day, One day before the Paris assault

Dietrich Kruger strode toward the front entrance of the massive
Hofburg Palace, its stark white façade now a gentle gold, the strategically
placed lighting emphasizing its spectacular architectural elements. A steady
flow of tourists walked past him, their visit finished, only a few late
arrivals climbing the stairs to the entrance with him.

He
winced, a stabbing pain shooting up his leg forcing him to stop in his tracks.
He massaged the pain out with a few quick squeezes, forcing himself forward.

It’s
only going to get worse.

When he
had felt the pain the first time it had terrified him, his father and
grandfather before him suffering from the same affliction he now faced. In
fact, if his grandfather were to be believed, his family had been suffering
this affliction for at least six generations, it killing them all before their
time, and striking them down in the prime of their lives, relegated to the
sidelines of life as their bodies slowly withered.

It was
the Kruger family curse.

He had
known his fate his entire life, his family never hiding the truth from him. It
had allowed him to live life to the fullest in his first thirty years on this
Earth with the knowledge the last thirty, or much less, would most likely be
lived in unproductive misery.

But six
generations of hopelessness had changed as technology rapidly advanced. His
father was convinced that eventually a cure might be found, though too late for
him. But it wasn’t a scientific cure he had become hell bent on acquiring.

It was
the miraculous.

His
family had long known of the Blood Relics, but there was nothing they could do
about them, there no way to get their hands on them, nor to conceivably get any
blood from them.

But
modern technology had changed all that.

It was
now possible to retrieve DNA from samples many thousands of years old, and his
father was now convinced that if they could acquire the true blood of Christ,
they’d be able to replicate it in a lab, enough that it might be used as a cure
for their affliction.

He had
to admit he had been skeptical at first, and still was to a point, but the
fervent ardor exhibited by his father whenever they discussed it was
infectious, and when his father had taken a turn for the worse, he had rushed
into action, using some of the many millions built up over generations to put
together a team of mercenaries that would acquire every last Blood Relic known
to man should it become necessary.

No
matter who stood in their way.

As he
cleared through security, his father’s words echoed in his mind.

We
mustn’t become sinners in our quest for salvation.

Dietrich
had never been much of a religious man though he did believe in God and an
afterlife—he had to, living his entire life knowing he was going to die lonely
and in pain. It gave him hope that the miserable existence he had during life
was but a mere fraction of his overall existence, that there was some reward
for all his suffering, his family’s suffering, when it was all finally over.

Another
shooting pain caused him to gasp.

“Are you
okay?”

He
looked at the young ticket agent as he handed over his 11.50 in euros. “Fine,
just an old football injury.”

She
smiled, looking at his chiseled features then down at his left hand as he accepted
the ticket. He swore he saw a note of disappointment at the sight of his
wedding ring. He smiled at her then turned left, walking with purpose toward
the reason he was here. Silently praying, he used his peripheral vision to take
in the guards patrolling as unobtrusively as they could, most of the tourists
probably paying them little mind, but to him, they were of primary concern.

He
didn’t want a repeat of what happened in Spain.

His
father had been outraged, and he himself devastated. He had never thought he’d
kill someone, but the priest had charged at him and he had panicked. The
Vatican operation had gone quite smoothly and according to plan, nobody killed,
nobody even injured.

But
you weren’t there.

Tonight
he hoped would be uneventful. His father had given orders that if it looked
like someone might get hurt, they should abort, but with his father’s rapid
degeneration over the past twenty-four hours he had decided those orders might
very well need to be ignored.

He
wasn’t going to let his father die just to protect strangers who by the very
nature of their work knew they might be hurt or killed in the line of duty.

Though
he had no plans to go out of his way to kill them.

He
spotted one of his men out of the corner of his eye, three of them already
inside to assist in the mission, several outside to provide cover should things
go awry. The man walked past, bumping into him.

“Excuse
me,” the man muttered, continuing on, leaving behind the distinctly heavy
weight of something in his pocket. He slipped his hand inside and felt the cool
metal of a handgun, a handgun smuggled in a week ago by his men under the guise
of a maintenance crew.

He
suddenly felt much more confident.

He
rounded the corner and entered a smaller room, hardwood floors contrasting with
burgundy walls, half a dozen lit display cases ringing the room. Even the
bejeweled crown to his left, priceless by any measure, couldn’t distract him,
his eyes immediately drawn to the display case one of his men had surveilled a
week ago in preparation for the mission.

His
pulse quickened.

The
center of the case contained a large gold and jewel encrusted cross, standing
erect, to its right a smaller less ornate cross lying flat on red velvet. He
ignored them. To the left was what he was after, the metal tip of a Roman
spear, about a third of it wrapped in gold at the center by someone lost to
history, the simple Roman soldier purported to have wielded it far too poor for
such ornate trappings.

But this
was the second such spear he had been tasked to retrieve. And it wouldn’t be
the last. His mission was to retrieve
anything
that might have the blood
of Christ on it, even if its pedigree was suspect.

They
could take no chances.

“Excuse
me, can you show me where the bathrooms are?”

He
looked slightly to his right and saw one of his men talking to the only museum
staff member in the room. The woman nodded, following him out the door, the
room now empty, the tourists gone.

He
pulled a diamond tipped glass cutter from his pocket, pushing the suction cup
in place, quickly circling the arm containing the incredibly sharp tip several
times, the glass quickly cut through.

He
pulled the glass free then reached inside, picking up the artifact almost
reverently.

An alarm
sounded immediately as a pressure sensor was tripped, ending his momentary
lapse. He yanked his hand and the relic free of the glass, walking swiftly
toward the door, one of his men walking by just as he arrived. He dropped the spearhead
inside a bag the man held open just as a security guard arrived.