ACCLAIM FOR
THE 13TH TRIBE
“The author of Comes a Horseman ushers in an exciting new series with this action-packed and intricately plotted spiritual thriller that should appeal to fans of Frank Peretti and Oliver North.”
— Library Journal
“Liparulo opens the Immortal Files series with a bang . . . A fast-moving, imaginative narrative that examines moral questions . . . Every reader is in for roller-coaster action . . .”
— Publishers Weekly
“Drawn from scripture and history, these characters are walking mysteries thrust into situations where trouble is bound to happen. A great read!”
— Frank Peretti, best-selling author of
This Present Darkness
“In The 13th Tribe, Robert Liparulo plunges deep into the pages of scripture to find intriguing what-if’s and stunning revelations—all woven into a tale that is both skin-tinglingly supernatural and thought-provokingly real. And with all the high-tech, action, and heart that has always made his books a blast to read. Liparulo is a phenomenal storyteller, and The 13th Tribe is a phenomenal story. Read this novel! Seriously!”
— Ted Dekker, New York Times best-
selling author of Forbidden and the
Circle series
“The 13th Tribe is a work of sweeping imagination and high-octane action that grabbed me, intrigued me, and wouldn’t let me go. The best Liparulo novel I’ve read yet.”
— Steven James, best-selling author of
The Queen
“One of those rare books where cliché descriptions like ‘riveting, page-turner, couldn’t put it down’ must be used, because they’re all absolutely true. With The 13th Tribe, Robert Liparulo has crafted the start of what is sure to be an epic series.”
— James L. Rubart, best-selling
author of Rooms
“A rousing, imaginative thriller. I was mesmerized from the opening page. Robert Liparulo does it again!”
— James Scott Bell, best-selling
author of Deceived and Die Trying
“Cutting-edge technology and ancient vendetta come together in an adrenaline-laced cocktail of intrigue, action, and the hope for redemption. Thrill-master Liparulo’s most riveting story yet. An electrifying supernatural ride that will leave you tearing through the pages and thinking long after you’ve closed the cover.”
— Tosca Lee, New York Times best-
selling author of Demon and the
Books of Mortals series
“No one mixes fascinating characters, cutting-edge technology, biblically based speculative fiction, and can’t-put-it-down suspense better than Robert Liparulo. The premise of The 13th Tribe is such a great idea that I wish I’d thought of it first! I was riveted, turning the pages as fast as I could, racing toward the nail-biting climax (which is set in an inspired location that’s way too good to spoil). With one mind-blowing twist after another, The 13th Tribe is Liparulo at his very best.”
— Robin Parrish, author of Corridor
and Vigilante
“In The 13th Tribe, Robert Liparulo dives into Biblical history, raises tough questions about the nature and goodness of God, adds in his trademark dash of futuristic technology, and does it all in the context of a pulse-pounding, page-turning story.”
— LifeIsStory.com
THE
JUDGMENT
STONE
ALSO BY
ROBERT LIPARULO
The 13th Tribe
Comes a Horseman
Germ
Deadfall
Deadlock
THE DREAMHOUSE KINGS SERIES
FOR YOUNG ADULTS
House of Dark Shadows
Watcher in the Woods
Gatekeepers
Timescape
Whirlwind
Frenzy
© 2013 by Robert Liparulo
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are taken from the following: THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV ®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2010 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
THE NEW KING JAMES VERSION © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
The Message by Eugene H. Peterson. © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Liparulo, Robert.
The judgment stone / by Robert Liparulo.
pages cm.—(An Immortal Files Novel ; 2)
ISBN 978-1-59554-172-7 (trade paper)
1. Immortalism—Fiction. 2. Christian fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.I63J83 2013
813'.6—dc23
2012051411
Printed in the United States of America
13 14 15 16 17 RRD 5 4 3 2 1
TO AMANDA BOSTIC—
THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR STORY
BRILLIANCE AND YOUR FRIENDSHIP WITH ME.
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99<
br />
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
READING GROUP GUIDE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST
And I heard a man’s voice from the Ulai calling,
“Gabriel, tell this man the meaning of the vision.”
—DANIEL 8:16 (NIV)
“Your eye is a lamp, lighting up your whole body.
If you live wide-eyed in wonder and belief, your
body fills up with light. If you live squinty-eyed in
greed and distrust, your body is a dank cellar.”
—LUKE 11:34 (THE MESSAGE)
[ 1 ]
The surface-to-air missile blasted out of a rocket launcher resting on the monk’s shoulder and streaked toward the hovering helicopter. Fire plumed from the rear of the bazooka-like weapon, bright in the nighttime gloominess of St. Catherine’s courtyard, momentarily blinding Jagger Baird, who stood behind it and off to one side. Through the haze of bleached retinas he saw the ’copter rise and whirl around with the aerial agility of a hawk and the rocket sail past it. Seeming confused, the projectile corkscrewed toward the moon and exploded. The helicopter moved beyond the compound’s west wall, over the monastery’s gardens, and vanished.
Jagger watched for a few more seconds. When it didn’t reappear, he stepped closer to Father Leo. The youthful monk’s splotchy beard, flowing black cassock, and—mostly—the smoking weapon still perched on his shoulder made him look more like a Taliban fighter than a man of God.
Jagger said, “Where’d you get that?”
Leo turned a big grin on him. “If only the rocket had been heat-seeking.”
“Any more?”
Leo let the launcher slide off his shoulder and fall to the stone ground. “I wish.” He reached inside his cassock and pulled out a black shotgun. He pumped the forestock, chambering a shell.
“I need a gun,” Jagger told him.
Leo’s forehead creased. “Where’s yours?”
As head of security for the archeological dig outside the east wall of the monastery, Jagger should have been armed to the teeth—at least better equipped than the monks—but Egypt enforced strict gun restrictions, especially among foreigners. Still, he had petitioned Gheronda, the monastery’s abbot, for a firearm, and the old man had reluctantly given him a Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan, a short-barreled .44 magnum revolver with a wicked recoil. “All the brothers are afraid of it,” Gheronda had explained with a slight smile. It was Jagger’s under one condition: he had to keep it locked in a pistol safe in his apartment. Far from ideal—how many bad guys waited around while you ran for your gun?—but it was better than nothing. Or maybe not. Not when you were making your rounds when the action started, as he had been just as someone tried to blow open the compound’s main gate.
Jagger looked up to his third-floor apartment, where he hoped his wife and son were holed up in a makeshift panic room: a small closet with a bolted metal door, which Jagger had installed after the last attack on the monastery. “Beth has it,” he told Father Leo, picturing his wife pointing the weapon at the door in a two-handed grip. Don’t mess with Beth.
Leo reached into his cassock again and produced a semiautomatic Glock, a model 17 9mm. He handed it to Jagger, who ejected the magazine, checked it for bullets, shoved it back into the grip, and chambered a round. That done, the two of them turned toward the gate. The inner iron door—one of three that blocked the entrance—bulged inward. Smoke seeped through the edges and streamed up the wall like a waterfall in reverse. Five other monks—Fathers Bardas, Luca, Antoine, Mattieu, and Corban—stood or crouched in a thirty-foot semicircle around it. Three of them wore black cassocks and caps. Luca, obviously rousted from bed, had on a gray flannel nightshirt that fell to his knees; all he needed was a cloth nightcap—and thirty more years—to be Ebenezer Scrooge awakened by a ghost. Corban wore a brown bathrobe cinched tight around his waist; a silver pectoral cross hung over his chest. Each of them was pointing either a rifle or a handgun at the gate. They looked as incongruous and awkward as Clint Eastwood competing in the Miss USA pageant.
“Back away!” Jagger yelled. He gestured with RoboHand, his prosthetic forearm and clamping hook. “Hurry! Move!” The only way anyone was coming through would be if they detonated another explosive, which would most likely send the doors and surrounding stone walls hurling toward the monks.
Apparently, when the first explosion failed to breach the gate, the attackers had decided to use the helicopter to get in. Having encountered Leo’s rocket, and with no way of knowing the one shot had exhausted his supply, their next move was anyone’s guess.
“Only six of you?” Jagger said to Leo. “Where’re the rest?”
“Not all of us are fighters. Not the kind you’re used to.”
“What kind are they?”
“Prayer warriors,” Leo said. “You can bet they’re engaging the enemy at this very moment.”
“Wonderful,” Jagger said. He scanned the grounds. The courtyard was wedge-shaped, about thirty feet at its widest point. It was formed by the front wall; the long basilica, which angled diagonally from the back of the courtyard toward the wall; and a structure built around the Well of Moses. No Disney-cute names here: supposedly it was the very well at which Moses met his future wife, Zipporah. Radiating out from the courtyard was a crazy jumble of buildings—constructed at odd angles, in various shapes and sizes and materials over the course of seventeen centuries—honeycombed by alleys, stairs, walkways, terraces, and tunnels. All of it was crammed into an area the size of a city block, hemmed in by ancient walls sixty feet high and nine feet thick.
Over the multileveled rooftops and terraces he could see the top floor of the Southwest Range Building at the far back of the compound. It stretched the entire length of the rear wall and, situated on high ground—the entire monastery was built on the sloping base of Mount Sinai—it appeared even larger than it was. In addition to a hospice, chapel, and monk cells, it housed a library and icon gallery, second only to the Vatican’s in historic importance and monetary value. Whatever the attackers wanted, chances were it was there.
Behind the Southwest Range Building, the mountain on which Moses had received the Ten Commandments rose like a watchful presence, a charcoal silhouette against a slate sky. Jagger was thankful for the moon, which here in the Sinai always seemed closer to Earth than it did back in Virginia. Even in its current half-lit state, its radiance washed away many of the compound’s shadows and gave the surfaces a silvery luminosity.
He turned in a circle and stopped when he was facing Father Leo. The monk held the shotgun in one hand, its muzzle pointed up. Feet apart, spine straight, eyes slowly scanning the top of the front wall, he looked ready for anything. No fear, just vigilance. Jagger wondered how many times the man had defended the monastery and if he’d known what he was getting into when he joined the order.
Jagger asked, “What are they after?”
Continuing his visual sweep across the wall’s ramparts, Leo shook his head. “I don’t know.”
In the still air Jagger could hear the blades of the helicopter slowing, its engine dropping to a purr, then cutting off. It had landed in front of the gardens, on the opposite side of the monastery from the archaeological dig. He ran toward the compound’s northwest corner, bounded up a long flight of stone stairs, and came to a patio in front of a row of unused monk cells. He climbed onto a railing and hoisted himself onto the porch’s steeply sloping roof. After twice almost losing his footing, he reached the flat roof of the monk cells. It was only about eight feet from the porch roof to the exterior wall; “small” didn’t even begin to describe the private living space the monks allowed themselves. Crossing it, he reached the compound’s outer wall, the top of which came to his chest. He climbed up and crawled to the outside edge.
The helicopter sat in the faded edge of the light from lamps mounted on the outside wall. It was canted on the slope
leading to the mountain opposite Mount Sinai, its blades turning as slowly as a rotisserie. The things scrambling out of its wide side door and running toward the monastery made Jagger’s breath stop in his lungs.
A single word gripped his mind, momentarily paralyzing him: monsters.
[ 2 ]
Beth sat on the floor of the bedroom-closet-turned-panic-room, knees bent up in front of her, back to a side wall. By the light of a battery-powered, pull-chain light, she smiled assurances at Tyler, sitting against the opposite wall, frightened eyes, brave smile.
She said, “Everything’s all right.”
“How do you know?”
“Your father’s out there. That’s good enough for me.” But she didn’t blame him for being scared. The last time there was trouble at the monastery, the boy had been shot. That time the attackers had been the Tribe, a small remnant of the original forty who’d been cursed with immortality for their transgressions with the golden calf. They sought redemption by killing sinners, but through millennia of secrecy and violence, their motives and methods had twisted into behavior Beth believed God could never condone. Together the family had discovered that Jagger was like them, an Immortal—a revelation even he had found as startling as the existence of Immortals in the first place. A car crash nearly two years earlier had fragmented his memories, making them neither complete nor reliable. It had also killed a family beloved by the Bairds and taken Jagger’s left arm.
Hearing the blasts outside, Beth wondered if the Tribe had returned.
Tyler was now fully recovered from the gunshot wound, largely thanks to possessing a bit of Jagger’s incredible healing ability, but he’d almost died and the whole ordeal had been traumatic for everyone. On the bright side, Tyler had snapped out of his need to regress to an age when things were less complicated and scary, when he found comfort in a blankie and his thumb. It amazed her that an event that should have thrown him further into fearfulness and insecurity had instead made him one amazingly courageous and independent ten-year-old. He even wore around his neck the bullet they took out of him. She was proud of him for using it as a reminder of his victory over forces that had tried to kill him. She looked for it now, but his pajama top covered it.
Judgment Stone (9781401687359) Page 1
