The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  His son growled in frustration. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

  Jacques pointed at the screen, footage playing from earlier of a hasty helicopter evacuation from the university where the bodies had been taken, showing a man and a woman escaping just in time, a man and woman he recognized from the inquiry after the events in London a year ago.

  Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer.

  “Perhaps they can help us.”

  Pierre peered at the screen. “Who are they?”

  “Two professors brought in by the Vatican, if we are to believe the news.” Jacques sighed. “But I think we will have to wait for things to calm down.”

  4

  Damascus, Ayyubid Sultanate

  August 1, 1187 AD

  Raymond stood at the rear of the gathered crowd, his fist pumping the air in sync with those around him, though his lips were sealed with a frown, his face stained with tears.

  For it was a gut-wrenching sight.

  The True Cross, a spear lancing its top, was paraded upside down through the crowd, while the filth spat at it and threw their sandals, with Saladin, standing on a platform at the head of the Citadel, grinning as the holiest of relics was desecrated. His religious leaders and advisors flanked him, praising their cursed Allah, giddy with their recent success, and Saladin’s own audacious display, dragging the True Cross behind his horse as he entered the city.

  Saladin silenced the crowd with a raised hand, and spoke to the masses, his words repeated by others so those in the back could hear.

  And what Raymond heard enraged him.

  He reached for his sword, hidden under the traditional robes of the Bedouin they had disguised themselves as, but felt a steadying hand on his wrist. He glanced over at Sir Guy, who gently shook his head, his eyes imploring him for calm. Raymond sighed, returning his attention to the speech that had those surrounding them in near rapture.

  These infidels worshiped this man as if he were a messiah, and it was clear to Raymond that Saladin relished in their adoration. And as he droned on about their great victory, and those yet to come, Raymond tuned him out, instead focusing on the True Cross as it continued to be disrespected, before Saladin’s guards finally seized it and carried it inside the building, perhaps the last time mortals would ever see it.

  For if his understanding of Arabic was accurate, and it was, tomorrow, it was to be burned.

  5

  St. Paul’s University

  St. Paul, Maryland

  Present Day

  “With this memorial, we honor their memories, and the contributions they made to the world in which they thrived for too short a time. I know I, for one, shall never forget any of them, for they touched my life in ways they could never know. I know those of you who were here at the time will remember Robbie Andrews. He was a brilliant student, but also a funny guy.”

  Professor James Acton smiled at the thought of his protégé, desperately clinging to the happy memories of those days, rather than giving into the horror. “You could never get those darned earphones off his head, always listening to his iPod wherever he went.”

  “I can’t live without my tunes!” shouted someone from the gathered crowd of friends and family, of students and faculty current and old, eliciting urgently needed laughs.

  Acton tossed his head back, jabbing a finger in the direction of the comment. “That’s exactly what he would always say. In fact, he said that very thing to me moments before he died.” Acton’s voice grew subdued, and his chest ached as he sucked in a deep breath and held it, his wife, Professor Laura Palmer, stepping forward and squeezing his hand. He nodded at her with a slight smile, tears filling his eyes.

  “Robbie was the bravest boy I ever met. He sacrificed—” Acton gripped the podium, and his best friend and boss, Dean Gregory Milton, stepped up beside him, gripping Acton’s shoulder. “He sacrificed himself to try and save me. And he succeeded. Thanks to his heroic actions, I was able to survive.” A tear rolled down his cheek, and his chin dropped to his chest as he battled his survivor’s guilt, something he thought he had put long behind him.

  He looked at Robbie’s parents, sitting in the front row, both with tears running down their cheeks. He stared out at the crowd, surprised to see he wasn’t alone in his grief as he saw face after face in anguish, some he recognized, many he didn’t.

  St. Paul’s was a small university, a tight-knit university, and the massacre that had taken his entire archaeological team had affected it deeply. Though few of the students that attended the school today were here at the time, all had heard the stories, and some now worked the very dig site in Peru where his students had perished—massacred by men he now considered friends, all members of America’s elite Delta Force.

  They had been manipulated by a corrupt President, fed false intel naming him and his students as terrorists, then sent in to execute them, all in an attempt to recover an archaeological artifact they had found. A crystal skull. He shivered at the thought, then smiled as he remembered young Robbie had done the same when holding it. He drew in a quick breath then sighed.

  “Sometimes I miss the old days when men weren’t supposed to cry.” He wiped his cheeks clean as some in the audience chuckled. Laura handed him a bright pink handkerchief. Acton held it up for the audience to see. “A manly choice.” He dried his cheeks and handed it back as the chuckles turned into outright laughter, the crowd desperate for relief.

  “So, that’s enough of my reminiscing. We’re not here to dwell on the events of that day, but to celebrate their lives, and the legacy they left behind. That’s why I was so thrilled to find out about this memorial in their honor, and I am touched that so many turned out today to remember them. Thank you, and God bless.”

  He stepped back, and the crowd rose from their seats, a roaring ovation ensuing as those gathered fed off of each other’s energy, desperate to dispel the negative emotions so many were feeling. Acton exchanged handshakes with those gathered on stage, then stepped down to pay his respects to the relatives in the front row. It was a whirlwind of tears and laughter, each parent and loved one with a story to tell, a memory to share, all of which Acton at once rejoiced and mourned in. It was painful yet cathartic, emotions he had suppressed for years returning to the surface, though with the benefit of time to temper them.

  He exchanged a final hug with Robbie’s mother when he spotted four men in suits walking away from him. Four men that appeared very familiar, all well-built, one large and black, one short and Asian, one with a shaved head, the last with civilian hair and a dangerous, confident bearing.

  Atlas, Niner, Red, and Dawson.

  All members of the Delta Force unit he now considered his friends.

  And responsible for the massacre now commemorated.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” He gently pushed through the crowd, Laura noticing.

  “What is it?”

  He said nothing, but raised his hand, pointing over the crowd toward the four men who were approaching a black SUV. Acton finally freed himself of the crowd, breaking out into a jog as a key fob was held out and pressed, the lights on the SUV flashing, the alarm chirping.

  “Hey, guys!”

  All four turned, smiles spreading on their faces as Acton came to a halt in front of them. “Leaving without saying hello?”

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson extended a hand and Acton shook it, the others doing the same, Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung pushing Acton aside as he rushed toward Laura and picked her up in a bear hug.

  “How’s my favorite British archaeology professor?”

  She laughed, pushing him away as regular hugs were exchanged with the others. “That’s rather specific, isn’t it?”

  “Hey, I know a lot of professors, and I love them all.”

  Laura turned to Dawson. “I’m surprised to see you guys here.”

  Dawson nodded, his face becoming grim. “You weren’t supposed to see us.”

  Acton gestured
toward the massive Atlas. “He’s kind of hard to miss.”

  Niner smacked Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James’ shoulder. “I told you we should have left Hulk back at the hotel.”

  Atlas dropped his chin, smacking his fists together at the knuckles. “Atlas sad.”

  Acton chuckled at the Hulk imitation. “Well, we saw you. I assume you’re here for the memorial and not to see us?”

  Dawson smiled slightly. “Professor, at least one of us has been here every year to pay our respects. We all lost that day, and in the days that followed, but none more than your students.” He stared over Acton’s shoulder at the newly erected monument. “I intend to be here every year that I’m able.”

  Acton’s head bobbed slowly. “I understand.” He paused, staring at each of them. “You guys know I don’t blame you.”

  Laura took Acton’s arm, her eyes filled with tears. “None of us do. You were lied to. We know that.”

  Dawson grunted. “True, and that does make it easier, but I killed those students, and I’ll have to live with that.”

  Niner shook his head. “We killed those students, and I shot the guards. It doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger, we were all there.”

  Atlas’ impossibly deep voice rumbled in agreement. “The tiny man is right. We’re a team, but I know BD’ll never let us share in the blame.”

  Dawson gave Atlas an appreciative look when his phone rang. He answered it. “On our way.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket. “We’ve gotta go.” He quickly shook Acton’s hand then gave Laura a hug.

  “Say hi to Maggie for me.”

  Dawson smiled. “Will do.”

  Goodbyes were exchanged with the others, then they piled into their SUV. Dawson put the window down. “Try to stay out of trouble, Professors. We won’t be able to help you this time.”

  Acton laughed, placing a hand on his chest. “What, us get into trouble?”

  Niner laughed. “Doc, that golden horseshoe up your ass is tipped the wrong way.” He pulled from the curb and Acton waved at their friends as they drove away. Milton walked up to them.

  “Is that who I think it was?”

  Acton nodded. “You should have said hi.”

  Milton frowned, absentmindedly rubbing his back. “I’m not sure I’d be as forgiving as you two have been.”

  Acton smiled slightly. He understood his friend’s reluctance. One of the men from Bravo Team, who Dawson led, had shot Milton twice, leaving him for dead. He had survived, but had been wheelchair bound for over a year. He could now walk again, though still had problems with endurance.

  But he was walking.

  “Back to my place for some drinks?”

  Acton exchanged a glance with Laura who grinned. “Absolutely! But don’t forget, we’ve got an early flight in the morning.”

  Milton paused for a moment. “Wait, I remember, just give me a second.”

  Acton winked at Laura. “It must suck getting old.”

  Milton faux glared at him. “I’m what, four years older than you?”

  “Yeah, but most of those years have been behind a desk.” Acton reached out and rubbed Milton’s protruding stomach then poked it. Milton tried a poor imitation of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Acton gave him a look. “Never do that again.”

  Milton laughed. “Trust me, that sounded far better in my head.” He snapped his fingers. “South of France. Someone claims to know who your four Templars are that were found under the Vatican.”

  Laura patted him on the cheek, delivering her congratulations as though Milton were a baby. “There’s the good boy! I knew you’d remember!”

  Milton frowned. “Did I mention it was BYOB?”

  Acton shrugged. “No problem.” He tilted his head lazily toward Laura. “Don’t worry. He’ll have forgotten by the time we get there.”

  6

  Damascus, Ayyubid Sultanate

  August 1, 1187 AD

  Raymond inched forward, his torch bright but still, little air moving in the tunnels underneath Damascus. Built for the most part centuries ago by the Romans, these tunnels moved water from the Barada River throughout the city and beyond, irrigating the fertile lands surrounding the burgeoning population.

  And it stank.

  Though the water flowed, centuries of creatures great and small had made their way inside, living and dying within the confined walls. It was overwhelming, and on any other day, Raymond may have complained, though not today. Not tonight. Tonight, he and his master, Sir Guy, led a small force on a mission perhaps more critical than any of them had undertaken before.

  A mission to rescue the True Cross.

  Saladin had promised to burn it publicly tomorrow, leaving tonight their only chance. After witnessing the desecration by the gathered hordes celebrating Saladin’s victory, they had retreated to the safety of a secret Templar residence, finding only eight men able to fight, another half a dozen who had escaped the slaughter, too sick to help, despite their willingness. They chose five, leaving the others to execute the rest of Sir Guy’s plan, a plan at once foolhardy and brilliant in its simplicity.

  The problem with it, was that it required everything—everything—to go right.

  But this was the True Cross, and surely, with God on their side, they would prevail.

  And so far, they had.

  The tunnels were a forgotten feature of the ancient city, something that just was, like the streets under one’s feet. They had always been there, and always would be, and few paid them any mind.

  Which meant they were unguarded.

  Gaining entry had been easy, and one of their guides knew them like the back of his hand, this the easiest way to move about as a Christian in a Muslim-controlled city. Yet these tunnels would only get them so far. Once inside the Citadel, they had no idea what to expect.

  Their guide, Gerard, raised a hand, bringing them to a halt. Raymond’s heart pounded from the excitement of what was to come, and the stifling stench and oppressive humidity that made breathing difficult in their heavy armor. Gerard pointed up, and Raymond stepped forward carefully, peering at an access point above them. Sir Guy hooked a rope ladder to the bars that covered the hole, then pulled himself up. Raymond positioned himself underneath, gripping his master’s boots as Sir Guy stood on his shoulders, balancing himself.

  Gerard handed up a heavy hammer wrapped in thick cloth, and a metal chisel, as the others tied off the long, narrow boat they had brought with them. Raymond stared up, his view mostly blocked, little if any light overhead, and nothing but the sounds of their own heavy breathing. Sir Guy quickly went to work, carefully and deliberately hammering at the ancient stone holding the bars in place. It sounded impossibly loud in their confined space, but the cloth produced a dull thud, and if Sir Guy’s placement of the chisel were judicious yet efficient, they might gain entry undetected.

  Though only if the room over their heads were unoccupied.

  And they wouldn’t know that until they were either discovered, or they gained entry. Another thud, a sharp retort from the chisel hitting the rock responding. And still no shouts of discovery. Sir Guy pulled on one of the bars, crumbled stone splashing at Raymond’s feet, then a gasp of victory as it came loose. He handed it down and Gerard took it, carefully placing it in the water at their feet so it wouldn’t make a sound.

  Sir Guy pushed up on his toes, poking his head through the opening, glancing around. He reached down, his hand opening and closing.

  “Torch,” hissed Raymond.

  Gerard placed one in Sir Guy’s hand, and it was quickly shoved through the hole, Raymond slowly spinning in place, giving his master a full view of what awaited them. The torch was handed down.

  “It’s clear. Let’s make quick work of this.” Several quick, heavier raps, and another bar was passed down, followed by another. By the fourth, the tools were returned, and the pressure on Raymond’s shoulders eased. He shoved his palms under Sir Guy’s heels and pushed, grunting from the effort as he heaved his master thro
ugh the hole above. He quickly followed, using the rope ladder hooked to the last remaining bar, Sir Guy pulling him through.

  Raymond rolled to his feet then helped the others as Sir Guy stepped away. They spread out, daggers drawn, for if it came to swords, it would mean they were discovered. And dead. Raymond advanced to Sir Guy’s position, and with his eyes adjusted, could see they were inside the outer wall of the Citadel.

  Sir Guy pointed to the far end, a guard tower with torches revealing two men. He glanced over his shoulder to see the same not two hundred paces from where they crouched. A boisterous celebration had masked the sounds of their entry, Sir Guy’s suggestion that they come before most fell asleep, so far proving wise.

  The Muslims’ overconfident merriment would prove their downfall.

  Sir Guy moved forward, hugging the building lining the entire rear of the walled Citadel, then stopped under a window. He rose to his full height and peered through the bars, then crouched down again as the others gathered. “Those godless bastards! The cross is inside, on the floor of the room, surrounded by their shoes and covered in garbage.”

  Raymond’s belly filled with rage as he rose to take a look. Two of Saladin’s men were marching around the True Cross, wearing Templar tunics. The room roared with laughter as the men grabbed at their necks, then collapsed to the floor as if their throats had been slit.

  And it gave him an idea.

  He lowered himself and turned to Sir Guy. “Sir, I had a thought.”

  “Yes?”

  “We have no hope of remaining out here undiscovered, and we cannot go inside and fight that many.”