Whenever they hovered to decompress he surveyed the area and avoided Bella’s eyes. Behind her mask, anger radiated outward like a pulse wave. He knew she would rage at him the minute they reached the Caymans and displayed their find to Jim and Kev. They’d known there might be some unusual cargo in this wreck, but both realized the find was far outside the norm for figurines smelted by South American civilizations destroyed by the Spanish.
This one displays some unbelievable hatred.
He shivered, and it wasn’t cold.
He forced himself to breathe regularly, looking at his dive watch. When he nodded they swam upward to the next stop. He’d dropped two of his weights to compensate for the golden treasure he cradled, but still he had to force his way upward, wishing he’d dropped three.
How much could this thing be worth? The gold alone, five or six pounds, would be worth a good sum. But the artistry was amazingly advanced—and the subject, that would make it worth millions. He was sure of it. No way was Bella going to convince him to return it to the deep.
Fuck that. Jim and Kev would see it his way. They’d been working too hard, too long, and this one artifact alone could finance their entire salvage operation for a decade.
They stopped twice more, glaring at each other, though Straker smiled at her in advance of the expected blow-up. Maybe the make-up sex would be great, and maybe the extra zeroes on the bank statement would also help.
Twenty feet from the surface he took a moment away from his shark-watch to glance up at the rippled surface, and that was when he noticed the bullet-shaped hull of another vessel bobbing alongside Caymans.
Visitors were not welcome, not by treasure divers.
But who would have known the divers were working a newly found wreck? Treasure hunters dotted the offshore areas of many Florida beaches. His sixth sense was tingly, but there was no reason to think it was anything more than curiosity seekers checking in after seeing the dive flags.
Still, he decided to underplay their day’s find. He considered letting the figurine drop back down to the bottom, which would probably please Bella, but it would be difficult as hell to find a second time.
Instead he balanced the weight of the artifact with one cradling arm, and pulled a coil of nylon line from a utility pouch with the other. Bella made a “what the hell?” face and he pointed up at the visitor vessel.
Her eyes widened. He shrugged. Just a precaution.
He gestured for her to wait there, finned over to the underside of Caymans’ hull, and lashed the figurine to the lower rungs of the diver’s ladder.
He returned to where Bella waited, then they broke the surface a few feet away from the ladder. They climbed up and sat on the wooden platform to remove their equipment.
Jim and Kev weren’t anywhere to be seen, and neither were any of the visitors from the thirty-five foot Scarab tied alongside.
“What’s going on?” Bella whispered. She’d caught the vibe.
“Not sure,” Straker muttered. “But I’m not taking any chances.”
“They’re probably partying with some dudes and chicks from the resort,” she said.
She unzipped and squirmed out of her neoprene wetsuit. The one-piece swimsuit underneath showed off her muscular curves, but he didn’t take the usual admiring glance. He wondered where his brother and partner were hiding, and why no one had come to the railing to greet them.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t think so. Wait here.”
He finished stripping off his wetsuit, then climbed to the afterdeck.
His breath caught in his throat.
Blood, seemed like gallons of it, was splattered on the wooden deck boards across the entire open space. Blood ran down the glass doors to the lower bridge, and he could see a naked foot just inside the upper saloon.
Fuck, he muttered. By then he knew they should never have come aboard.
Chapter 17
Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
Simon sat in the rear of the black Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio sedan that had picked him up on the tarmac at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci—Fiumicino Airport, watching the city’s ancient and modern quarters roll past. He yawned, exhausted. The attack on the jet had taken more out of him than he thought, and he imagined Cat’s counterattack had claimed even more of her strength.
He checked his large silver Invicta Pro Diver, and mentally adjusted the time.
Yeah, he needed to sleep. Near immortality does not grant immunity from exhaustion. He had learned that lesson during the French Revolution.
He stared at the back of the driver’s head. “Mi scusi,” he said.
The driver’s eyes found his in the rearview mirror. He was bald on top, but dark hair reached his blue uniform collar like a monk’s fringe. Perhaps he was a monk, after all. “Signore?” he said.
“Quanto ci vuole? Abbiamo tempo per una fermata?”
The driver shook his head. “Dispiace, ma no.” He checked his watch too. “Ancora trenta minuti con questo cazzo di traffico!”
Thirty minutes, and not enough time for a side stop. Fucking traffic, indeed. Apparently monks swore like sailors these days, or he was not a monk.
Simon mumbled a curse. He’d have to hire a car and get himself to his favorite forneria on his own. The bread and pastries were sublime at Pasticceria Ornelli, but it was in the quarter named Rione I Monti and too far out of their way. He settled back in the leather seat and tried to keep his head in the current century.
Despite the near-fatal flight, he looked forward to seeing Father Martin, whom he affectionately called M. Yes, it was a tired old joke, but he’d managed to nurture it for decades, and would likely continue to do so until Martin ceded the reins of the VSS to a younger version of himself, or died at his desk, clutching his chest as Taglieri had done when Martin was in training.
Arriving at the Vatican, the car’s plates granted easy passage through every secure checkpoint, and they entered the underground garage below VSS headquarters. Simon was keenly aware that the garage also accessed tunnels that led to catacombs, where legions of Christians were buried in plain sight. Some tunnels led to other places, and he sensed those, too. He shivered in the slightly chill air. Memories of previous assignments and missions crowded in, but he shook them off as the driver opened his door. He headed for the disguised elevator shaft, ignoring the public and decoy elevators. Once up on the secret floor, he entered the outer office and saw Caterina at her high-tech desk.
“Hello there, Mish Moneypenny,” he called out, employing his bad Connery brogue impression. His specialty, done just for her.
Cat turned and he saw her eyes brighten, but the exhaustion was evident. Her efforts at countering the Gulfstream’s forced descent had cost her more than he could imagine.
“Simon!” She stood and gave him a quick hug.
He held her shoulders and stepped back to look at her. Chestnut hair with strong red highlights, brilliant blue eyes, cheekbones betraying northern roots. Ageless beauty, still there and radiant, but today’s expenditure of magical power seemed to have aged her. There were wrinkles around her cat-like eyes. He knew they would smooth out in a day or two, but she would lose the equivalent time from her life.
“Thank you, Caterina,” he whispered in her ear.
She let her weight sag on him. “I was worried they’d go for the car.”
“I think Martin sent a decoy around to the airport,” he said. “My warning light didn’t go off, in any case.” He showed her his wrist.
“Oh my God, Simon!” Her pretty blue eyes widened. The corners of the perfect lips turned down in concern as she saw his scorched skin. Essentially he had suffered from both the attack and her counterattack, but of course the burn was already beginning to fade. He’d feel it for a few days, but soon it would disappear.
He winked. “So is he available?”
“He’s in a meeting, but he should be done soon.”
“The coven?�
� he said, chuckling.
She play-slapped his wrist—his unhurt wrist—and gave him a scolding look. “He wouldn’t like to hear that!”
“He’s so humorless.” He took Cat’s hand and led her to the leather sofa at one end of the large office. Although the walls reminded one of the building’s rather mundane origins and lack of architectural novelty, she had furnished both it and Father Martin’s with excellent taste.
He sat beside her. “Did you get into trouble?”
“He had to write up a report and reprimand me, officially, for the Big Man’s eyes only, but he said we had little choice. He was glad the attack failed.”
“I sensed it took so much effort, whoever was doing it just wasn’t strong enough. I figured you probably were, so it was a good thing we were briefing when it happened.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling crookedly. “We never did finish that briefing, did we?”
“Nope.”
“You, ah, were busy afterwards.”
“Sometimes one has to sacrifice one’s time to comfort the scared. She was terrified, really. Took all my skills to calm her down.”
“I’m sure.” Cat chuckled. “I believe you calmed her right up to the end of the flight.”
“More than once…”
Cat grimaced. “I noticed. You didn’t bother to log off quite soon enough.”
“Oh, didn’t I?” Simon played innocent. Very few people allowed him to indulge in that particular vice. His name was synonymous with guilt, after all. And a few other things.
Is she jealous? Maybe a little?
It was hard to tell, with her. She did seem happy to see him alive, in any case.
The other door opened.
“Ah, Simon, you made it.” Father Martin stood in the doorway, grimly smiling.
Typical understatement by the head of the VSS, Simon thought. “Yes, M,” he said.
Martin made a face, never having been comfortable with Simon’s joking manner, especially when serious matters awaited. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Simon chuckled. “There was a brief delay. That TSA is just a pain, you know? Someone had an extra ounce of shampoo in her bag.”
The grizzled priest frowned and waved him in. He turned to Cat and softly asked her how she felt.
“Better, thanks.” She headed back to her pod and its screens.
“Full privacy, no messages, texts, or calls. No visitors. Nothing unless an asteroid’s about to smash into St. Peter’s.”
“Yes, M. Sir.” She winked.
They entered and Simon heard the special locks engaging. The room was not only invisible, it was also a secure safe room that could be converted to a command center.
Martin waved him into a seat next to his and facing the other members of the inner council, who seemed bored with waiting. Simon nodded at each. He knew them, they knew him, and there was not much love lost.
After all, I betrayed Christ. Can’t really expect them to like me.
There were extenuating circumstances, sure, but just try to explain them this long after the fact.
“So it’s the great Betrayer,” muttered Bellucci, feisty as ever. “Should have let you hang, eh?”
“Nice to see you too, old man. Too bad they haven’t put you out to pasture, you old goat. Oh, better for the livestock, no?”
Someone gasped. Someone chuckled. There was a sense of a response building somewhere in the council room.
“All right, stop it,” Father Martin interjected before the response could be formulated and fired off. “We have a crisis here and we don’t need discord. We’re on the same side. Understand?”
“It’s all out of love.” Simon grinned.
Bellucci was about to object, as usual, but Martin turned to Monica Valessio: “Simon is grooming a contact on the NYPD. He can brief us on the crime scene where the phallus Christ was found.”
Simon said, “Detective Vandenberg has already followed up. Seems as though a suicide bomber took out the rest of the witnesses and several canvassing police officers shortly after the original find.”
“What?” Martin stared at him.
“I learned of it as we left New York. I would say these Golden Dawn idiots are going to great lengths to cover their tracks and keep anyone from knowing or understanding what they’re collecting. And why, presumably.”
“Yet they’ve already made attempts on your life.” It was Annunzio, ending his long silence.
Martin nodded. “I believe they know Simon has a history with earlier incarnations, if you will, of this fanatic group. Plus somehow they know one of our sleepers managed to get the information out to us. And they must know Simon can stop them in their tracks if he takes out the leadership, whoever they may be, so they’ll do whatever they can to take him out first.”
“Do they know his, er, nature?” Moltisanti said.
Martin said, “Unclear, but I think so. Simon?”
“I’m almost certain, yes.” Or they wouldn’t have used some lower-level warlock to try bringing down the plane. “Or someone knows, perhaps not the peons.”
“The plane—the response team saved the day?”
Simon stared at Monica Valessio. Of course she would want to know who had carried out the action. The Israelis were all about retribution and counterattack. He let Father Martin take it.
The VSS head caught the ball easily. “The response team was perfect and there were no casualties. The plane and crew are both safe. Simon, describe what you found at the construction site.”
He told them about the drill-bit torture and decapitation. They were tough, they’d seen it all, so there were no gasps of horror. But the savagery of the crime was clear to all. Then Martin stood and waved them to the elevator.
“Time for a brief field trip. If you please, follow me.”
Chapter 18
Atlantic Ocean
Ten Miles off Vero Beach, Florida
Straker snatched up the shark-tipped powerhead spear gun and stuck his nose inside the small saloon.
No no no no...
He motioned for Bella to stay out of sight, then stepped inside. The blood was bright red still, hadn’t quite started coagulating. The splatters were probably arterial. Whose foot is it?
There was a tiger shark tattoo around the ankle. He felt some relief. It wasn’t his brother Jim. But he knew the tattoo well—it was their partner, Kevin, and there was no doubt he was dead. Throat cut, sliced open from ear to ear, laying bare the layers of skin and flesh like lard. Straker had seen plenty of death.
Christ, who would do this? And why?
Hell, he knew why. He and his crew were treasure hunters. The Scarab crew were probably looking for easy-found treasure. But how would they have known the Straker outfit had stumbled on the cache down below just today? What were the chances the attack had been timed right when that abomination had landed in their hands?
He kept weapons stashed on the boat, but none were nearby. All he had now was the single-shot spear gun. But he’d killed men with his bare hands or a knife, so a shark-tipped spear was already a step up. He tiptoed past Kevin’s body, keeping an eye on his objective—the open companionway to the main saloon and the lower deck cabins.
Halfway there, a shadow appeared and then a head of messy blond hair, someone climbing up toward where Straker waited with no cover. Nowhere else to go.
The man’s body came into view—a muscular wrestler-type in a loose white shirt—and Straker aimed the spear gun. Their eyes met just as the man reached the deck. He went for a holstered pistol and Straker fired and the spear flashed across the space between them, striking the stranger in the center of his chest. He yelped as the spear pierced him, but then the .357 Magnum cartridge fired and blew his chest apart. His ruined body flopped back down the companionway steps.
Shouts came from below, and someone emptied half a magazine of 9mm rounds blindly into the bridge, but by then Straker had flattened. He reached under the chart table and grabbed a .40-caliber SIG
clipped there.
He faced the companionway right as a couple more pirates darkened the opening, slipping on their friend’s blood and guts.
And then he was trading fire with them, hoping like hell Bella was keeping low back there.
He put a double-tap right into the chest of the first guy, whose Uzi went flying.
Fuck, it’s like goddamn Iraq again.
Straker was screaming, but wasn’t aware of it as the bullets flew.
Whoever they were, they were well-armed with submachine guns and a shotgun. The shotgun-wielder jockeyed for position on the companionway and Straker dispatched him with two rounds, head and torso. Maybe two more shooters belowdecks… Part of him realized his brother Jim was dead. If they’d wanted to use Jim as a hostage, they’d be doing so by now.
There was a blast from behind Straker and he ducked belatedly, but it was Bella, a snarl on her face, with another of his hidden pistols in her hand. She began emptying the magazine into the companionway at a different angle. Her withering fusillade took out another gunman and wounded the other.
Then Straker ran toward the companionway at a crouch, screaming and firing his pistol. What he hoped was the last gunman went down.
Bella was also screaming with every shot. She’d seen Kevin’s body and the fury had taken over, just like his. She wasn’t a former Ranger like him, but she knew her way around guns. He’d made sure of that, given their business.
And now their business had brought ruin to his enterprise—indeed, to his family.
The last shot died out and a strange silence seemed to echo. Straker straightened slowly and approached the companionway. He gestured at Bella: Stay back and cover! She nodded. She was magnificent in that swimsuit, handgun steady in her hand. But she started to follow him.
“Jesus, there may be more of them,” he whispered. “Stay back!”
She nodded, but kept on coming.
He shrugged, covering the last few feet quickly, keeping his body at a difficult angle for a shooter to match.
But there was only silence. The sweet-smelling gunpowder haze lingered all around, and the tang of fresh blood lay heavy on his palate and in his nostrils.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 5
