The Venice Code (28 page)

He knew the Bible had many references that if interpreted strictly were unsavory now, but most Christians had adapted, realizing the Bible was a product of its time, and quite often what seemed literal was actually metaphorical. Christians had had their Crusades, their Inquisitions but also their Reformation and Enlightenment. Until monsters like their escort moved beyond the hate, the world had little hope of ever being at peace.

Their driver yelled something, pointing ahead, ending the political stump speech. The vehicle skid to a halt as they came alongside two men, exhausted and disheveled. Rapid Arabic began to be fired back and forth, and nobody looked happy, angrier and angrier glances being aimed at the passengers.

Mitch turned back to look at the others, pulling his weapon out and readying it, making certain to hide it from the two Hamas men in front.

“What’s going on?” asked Chip.

“The two guys outside are saying they were betrayed by the professors. They were intercepted by an Israeli patrol. When the gunfight was over their vehicle was useless and the professors were gone. They decided to walk back before another patrol arrived. The guy talking outside says we can’t be trusted.”

Mitch spun around, placing his gun against the back of the driver’s head. Chip jumped forward, pointing his own gun out the window at the other two men as Mitch turned to Grant. “Cover the passenger!” he yelled and Grant fumbled with his gun, finally retrieving it from his belt and pointing it at the stunned man.

Arms shot up in the air as Mitch opened the door, stepping outside. Almost immediately the two vehicles filled with Hamas emptied, their weapons aimed in the direction of the first vehicle. Mitch positioned himself behind the talker outside, holding the gun to his head, motioning for the other man to drop his weapons. He did, then Mitch said something in Arabic and the man ran toward the rear two vehicles. More orders barked and the driver and passenger dumped their weapons out their windows and stepped outside, joining the others in the rear.

Grant, freed of having to cover anyone, turned around in his seat and saw the second vehicle was in a similar situation, the Triarii men all with their weapons out, pointed at their escort in the front seat. More shouting in Arabic from Mitch, then rapid head bobbing from his prisoner and more shouting from him—which sounded more like pleading—had the two rear vehicles loading up then departing, leaving only the one Hamas member behind.

Mitch shoved the man between Grant and Chip. “Shoot him if he moves.” Grant hoped the order was for Chip to follow. Mitch climbed in the driver’s seat and soon the two vehicles were moving forward, at a more reasonable pace, but still quicker than Grant’s liking. He glanced back and there was no sign of the other two terrorist laden vehicles.

“What did you tell them?” he asked.

“That I’d kill their friend if we saw them again.”

“He must be important to them,” replied Chip. “I was half expecting them to shoot the shit out of all of us including him.”

“You think you’ve gotten away from my men but you haven’t. You’re merely delaying the inevitable,” sneered the man.

“Oh, you speak English?” Mitch glanced over his shoulder at the man. “If I see even one Hamas flag, in fact if I even see any green on someone, you’re a dead man.”

“If Allah wills it, then so be it.”

“Bettin’ on those seventy-two virgins, are we?” asked Chip, poking the man’s ribs with his gun.

“You are so ignorant of our beliefs it is pitiable.”

“Why should I give a shit about your ways?
I
don’t want to kill
you
, but
you
want to kill
me
.
I
have nothing against Muslims, but
you
want to kill Christians and Jews and Hindus and Buddhists and just about everyone else.
You
want to create the grand Caliphate and rule the world under the flag of Islam.
You
want to blow up our buildings and our civilians.” Chip shook his head. “You’re not my enemy, but somehow I am yours. Why is that? Is it that you hate everything so much peace just never occurs to you as an option? Look at the West. We have democracy, freedom, equality. Why wouldn’t you want that?”

“Because it goes against the Koran and Sharia. These things are blasphemous according to God himself!”

“You’re an effin’ idiot,” spat Chip, turning away from the man and looking at Mitch. “How long do we have to put up with this asshole?”

“Until we’re free and clear of the West Bank.”

“You and your professor friends will be dead before the day is out,” said their captive. “All of you.”

Mitch looked in the rearview mirror at the man.

“I don’t think you’ll be killing the good doctors today,” said Mitch as he slowed, smoke rising ahead of them in the distance. “In fact,” he continued as he turned the vehicle to the right, apparently intending to go around the possible danger, “I think your killing days are over.”

“Amen,” grinned Chip, poking the man in the ribs again. “We should hand him over to the Israelis.”

The man spat on Chip whose face turned a burning red. He wiped the insult off his face with his sleeve then leaned forward, suddenly jerking his left elbow back and into the man’s nose three times. Grant swore he heard the crack.

Blood poured from the man’s nose as he cried out in pain. Mitch slammed on the brakes, bringing their vehicle to a stop, the second one coming up beside them.

“Get him out. Make sure he doesn’t have a phone on him.”

Chip smiled, stepping out of the vehicle and pulling the man along with him. A quick pat down was followed by a kick in the ass.

“Get the hell out of here!” yelled Chip as the man stumbled away. Chip climbed back in the vehicle and they were on their way again, this time a little faster than before.

“We need to get to that monastery and get the hell out of here before that guy’s friends come back.”

Grant looked behind them, wondering just how long it would be before the terrorists came after them. Dust on the far horizon behind them had him thinking it wouldn’t be too long.

Ten miles south of the Monastery of St. Gerasimos, West Bank, Israel

Present day, three days after the kidnapping

Dawson jumped from the helicopter, the rest of his men following as the bird touched down for only seconds, it immediately rising as the last boot cleared. He squinted behind his shades, shielding his face as best he could as he scanned the area. They were in the middle of nowhere by all outward appearances, two tan colored SUVs sitting nearby as promised with no roads or civilization in sight.

Perfect.

He climbed in the passenger seat of the nearest SUV, Red taking the second team. Niner took the wheel, Spock and Atlas, along with Agent Sherrie White occupying the rear.

“Aw, shit BD, does he have to drive?” whined the massive Atlas from the rear seat. “You know how he is!”

“Hey, no backseat bitching or driving,” shouted Niner as he started the vehicle. “If you wanted to drive you should have been quicker.”

“I would have been if you hadn’t got in my way.”

Niner looked at Atlas through the rearview mirror. “Are you kidding me? You’re built like a tank! How the hell do
I
get in
your
way?”

Dawson pointed to the left, a map on his phone showing the way, and Niner put it in gear, pulling out like a grandmother. “Is that more to your liking?” he asked.

“Much better,” replied Atlas. “I have a sensitive bottom, you know.”

Dawson chuckled as Sherrie bit her finger, snorting. “Is it always like this?” she asked.

Spock shook his head. “No, it’s usually worse.”

“He’s right,” agreed Niner. “You should hear some of the stuff that comes out of their mouths. I must admit sometimes I blush. Other times they’re so insensitive, I get all verklempt”—he bit his finger, faking a cry—“and just can’t go on.” He suddenly spun in his seat, reaching for Dawson. “Hold me!”

“Watch the goddamned road!” laughed Dawson as he shoved Niner back in his seat, the rest of the team roaring with laughter.

Niner looked back at Sherrie.

“See? So insensitive. Sometimes a man just wants a hug.”

“When we get out of here I’ll give you a hug so hard it’ll break your back,” said Atlas.

“With your arms? That’s like getting hugged by two tree trunks. I’ll pass, thanks.”

“I’ll give you a hug, Niner,” said Sherrie, delivering her line with a syrupy tone.

“Sold!” yelled Niner, then with a sly voice, “Sympathy card. Works every time.”

Atlas turned to Sherrie. “You know, sometimes my feelings get hurt too.”

Dawson decided to save Sherrie. “ETA five minutes.”

Everyone became all business as they checked their equipment, Dawson turning slightly to make eye contact with Sherrie, giving her a slight wink. She grinned and pulled her Glock, inspecting it, giving Dawson the distinct impression he was dealing with “one of the boys”.

Now let’s just hope Acton et al are still there.

He frowned as he wondered how he would justify this leg of the operation. Acton wasn’t their target, and though they had intel that Grant Jackson might be in the area, they couldn’t be sure.

Wouldn’t it be nice if they were all there, waiting for us?

Monastery of St. Gerasimos Lavra, West Bank, Israel

Present day, three days after the kidnapping

“So you really think they may have taken him to Bethlehem?” asked Acton as he followed the Abbot down the passageway toward the outside. Several tourists were passing them by, smiling nods in greeting from most as they continued on their spiritual journey. It made him wonder, since the tour seemed unguided, whether or not anyone else had found the entrance to the secret chamber they were just in. He doubted it, since everyone seemed to be sticking to the front of the caves, light pouring in from the outside and through slits cut in the roof previously used as natural chimneys. Where they had emerged from was dark and foreboding, probably enough to stop anyone from venturing too far.

He glanced over his shoulder as a woman asked, “What do you think is down here?”

“Nothing you want to see,” replied what appeared to be her husband. “Read the sign.”

Acton saw the no admittance sign standing beside the passage they had just come out of, not noticing it in his excitement the first time.

“But
they
were there,” replied the whine.

“And they’re with a monk,” came the exasperated reply.

“But how can we go there? I want you to ask someone, Leroy. When we get back down there you ask them.”

“Yes, dear,” groaned the man, his voice subtly suggesting to the world around him that this was his daily life and if God took him now he would be a content man.

Acton glanced at Laura and she smiled, leaning toward him. “That will never be us!”

He laughed as they emerged from the cave entrance, the sunlight almost blinding him. Shielding his eyes, he nearly bumped into the Abbot.

“Oh my!” exclaimed the elderly man as Acton stepped around him to see what was wrong. His chest tightened at what was waiting to greet them.

Eight men, all armed, along with a young man Acton instantly recognized.

Grant Jackson.

Armed and unharmed.

Acton raised his hands, as did Laura and a smoldering Reading.

“Please, Dr. Acton, lower your hands. We don’t want to make a scene now, do we?” Acton lowered his arms as he put himself between Laura and the armed men. “Now, Dr. Acton, I believe you have something that belongs to us.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Acton knew it was playing dumb, but at the moment he was playing for time. What he hoped to gain he had no idea, it just seemed the natural thing to do. Delaying them would just delay the inevitable, since nobody except Hamas terrorists knew they were here, and counting on their help was ludicrous.

“Tsk, tsk,” said the man, waving a finger, then running it over the handgun tucked in the front of his belt. “We’re all friends here,” he said, showing them his Triarii tattoo. “We’re Triarii, and you have something we want.”

“You’re not Triarii, you’re the Deniers.”

“True Believers, actually. But still Triarii.” The man’s face lost all pleasantries. “I must insist, Dr. Acton.”

Acton shrugged his shoulders. “Search us, we don’t have it.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It was supposed to be here, but it wasn’t.”

“Then where is it?” asked the increasingly frustrated man.

“I have no idea. We were just about to contact London to tell them we failed.”

The man frowned.

“Dr. Acton? Why do I get the impression that you are lying to me?” The man drew his weapon, flicking it to his right. “How about we go discuss this somewhere less public, shall we?”

Acton noticed Grant Jackson place a hand on his own weapon, but when he made eye contact with him, the eyes immediately darted away, confidence completely lacking in the young man’s expression.

Are you my enemy, Mr. Jackson?

Approaching the Monastery of St. Gerasimos, West Bank, Israel

Present day, three days after the kidnapping

“This is it!” announced Dawson as they turned off the road and onto a narrower paved road, the monastery now in front of them. It seemed to be a cluster of old and very old, several structures that appeared to have been built in the past fifty years scattered around the main complex, then the monastery itself surrounded by massive, thick walls. Signs of damage over the millennia were evident, much of it appearing to have been built or rebuilt over the centuries. Dawson would love to know the history of the place, but right now, what he saw in the large parking lot had him frowning.

To their right, ahead about fifty feet, were the two professors, their INTERPOL friend and an old monk, being herded by a group of nine men.

Things are never easy.

He activated his comm. “Four friendlies at our three o’clock surrounded by hostiles. Remember one of those might be Grant Jackson. Team two, take position past the second bus, we’ll take the first. Let’s use the element of surprise here, hopefully no gunfire will be needed. Copy?”