And by the time he did, the weapons fell silent, and that could mean only one thing. He stepped inside, and his eyes traveled the room. And he dropped to his knees, his shoulders slumping as sobs racked his body.
What have I done?
Schmidt hauled him to his feet. “Cut that shit out. There’ll be plenty of time for you to mourn later. Now, where is this cross?”
Pierre pulled in a deep breath and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. He headed for the pedestal with the bust of Grand Master Jacques de Molay, and tilted it toward the wall, the bookcase to his right clicking. He returned the pedestal to its former position, then pushed on the bookcase, revealing the hidden treasure room. Schmidt motioned for two of his men to proceed. A flash-bang was tossed inside, Pierre opening his mouth to protest, but it was too late. He covered his ears in time, squeezing his eyes shut, then when the ruckus was over, followed the team in, thankful this time there was no gunfire.
As he rounded the corner, he waved his hand in front of him in a futile attempt to clear away the smoke. He stepped over to the wall and cranked up the ventilation system, the room quickly clearing before he returned it to its normal setting. He turned back and cursed, the True Cross gone, the rest of the family’s treasures accumulated over eight centuries, left untouched.
With Schmidt and his team eyeing them.
He spotted his father’s wheelchair sitting near the stand where the cross had been mounted, an envelope on the cushion. He stepped forward and picked it up, his name written on the front. He opened it, removing a single folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it, and his chest ached.
I forgive you.
Love, Dad
He dropped into the chair, battling the tears as Schmidt’s men split their attentions between the blubbering boy and his family’s loot.
Schmidt turned to him. “I think we’ve found our payment.”
Pierre’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me! This is a hundred times more than we agreed to! A thousand!”
Schmidt shrugged then slapped the machine gun hanging from his neck. “He with the gun negotiates the price.”
Pierre jumped from the chair, advancing on Schmidt. “You double-crossing sonofabitch!”
Schmidt turned slightly, the barrel of the gun now pointing at Pierre. He stopped. “I suggest you calm down.”
Pierre glared at him, then walked over to the wall, slamming his hand against a large red button by the door. An alarm sounded, and a red light in the ceiling flashed. He stepped through the door. “You’ve got ten seconds. I suggest you follow me.”
Schmidt eyeballed him. “What did you just do?”
“I activated a safety measure. Five seconds.”
Schmidt marched for the door, waving at his men. “Let’s go, now!” His men scrambled after him, looking confused, one still filling his pockets with gold. “Hans! Now!” Hans glanced at him for a moment, the greed evident in his wide eyes, then returned to stuffing his pockets.
Pierre pulled Schmidt through the door, the mercenary’s foot clearing the threshold just as dozens of sharp metal spikes shot up from the floor, spaced less than a foot apart. Hans cried out as he was impaled, a heavy door dropping from the ceiling and cutting them off from the room.
“Hans!” Schmidt slammed a fist against the stone now blocking their path, two of his men rushing forward, grunting as they futilely pushed against it. Schmidt turned on Pierre, charging toward him. “Open that door, now!”
Pierre stumbled backward, shaking his head. “I can’t. It won’t open for hours.”
Schmidt grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him from the floor. “But my man is in there! Open it now!”
“It’s impossible! And-and don’t bother with explosives, the entire room will collapse. He-he’s already dead. You saw him.”
“You killed him.”
Pierre shook his head. “No, you did.”
Schmidt’s eyes flared, Pierre’s choice of words clearly unwise.
“I mean, it was his fault. He disobeyed your orders and got greedy. If he had of listened to you, he’d be alive now. It’s nobody’s fault but his own.”
Schmidt tossed him into a chair, eying the massive stone where the opening to the treasure room had been. “What is this place?”
Pierre stood. “It’s the home of the last of the Templars, with booby-traps and secret passageways built over eight hundred years. You were never getting that gold.”
Schmidt glared at him. “The price just doubled again.”
Pierre decided it wouldn’t be worth the shortened life expectancy to argue the point, instead walking over to another shelf and revealing yet another hidden gem. An elevator. “Let’s go. If they took the cross anywhere, they took it to the docks under the chateau.”
Schmidt signaled for two of his men to follow, and they all boarded the freight elevator, Pierre reaching through the bodies to press the button to take them to the bottom. The elevator shuddered then began the descent, this secret exit installed in the seventies by his grandfather. It was slow and loud, but would deliver them to the hidden dock within minutes.
He just prayed his father and the True Cross would still be there when they arrived.
“Did you hear that?”
Laura nodded at Acton as they cleared the opening, several explosions heard overhead followed by a burst of gunfire, then silence. “I think someone just lost.”
“Yeah, but who?”
Acton was about to continue swimming when the PA system in the cave behind them crackled to life with the voice of Jacques Ridefort.
“Professors, if you are still there, we have lost. Please take the cross, I beg of you. If you don’t, it could be lost forever. Please, professors, if you can hear me—”
There was a loud sound that overwhelmed the system, then what sounded like gunshots.
“Pierre! How could—”
The PA cut off, and Acton closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer for the man and his compatriots. He opened them, then looked at Laura.
“What do you think?”
Her eyes were wide with fright, but he knew her too well to not know her answer. “We have no choice. If they can’t save it, then we have to.”
Acton grinned. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.” He turned, and they both swam rapidly back toward the entrance to the hidden dock. Laura climbed over the edge of the boat as Acton hauled himself up onto the dock, freeing the lines. The engine roared to life as the elevator chimed. Acton spun toward it, the doors opening, a young man and three others, heavily armed, visible.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Acton dove into the boat as Laura gunned the engine, landing painfully overtop the crate.
“Stop!” shouted someone from behind them, gunfire echoing, bullets tearing at the rock as they shot out of the cave and into the open sea. Laura banked hard to the right, killing the enemy’s line of sight, and raced them down the coast, toward the town.
Acton picked himself up and sat beside her, glancing back to make sure their precious cargo was still intact. It was, no damage from the bullets evident. “What the hell are we going to do with this thing?” he asked as the lights of the town became visible.
Laura shot him a quick look. “I have no bloody idea. We need to find someplace to hide while we figure it out.”
Acton frowned. “Then maybe heading toward the town isn’t such a good idea.”
Laura shook her head. “I’m not dying for this thing, and there’s safety in numbers. I doubt they’d do anything in public.”
The town rapidly approached, the boat equipped with a pair of impressive engines that were quickly reducing the amount of time they had to make a decision. But Laura was right. They needed to surround themselves with people. Even if they were discovered, it was more likely they’d survive any encounter if there were witnesses.
Something behind them caused him to turn and search the night sky for the source. A beam of light sliced through the dark, illuminating them, an
d Acton cursed as a chopper rapidly overtook them.
“We’ve gotta get off this boat, now!” He searched for anything they could use, his eyes coming to rest on a scuba tank. He grabbed it and shrugged it over his shoulders, testing the regulator, a burst of air filling his mouth. They were almost at the port now, dozens of pleasure craft visible, the public they needed for protection only a couple of miles away. Gunfire sprayed the water in front of them, then tore into the prow of the boat.
“Let’s go!” Acton pushed Laura over the side then dove in after her as the boat was torn apart by a heavy machine gun. He broke the surface, searching for Laura, finally spotting her to his left. He swam toward her, grabbed her hand and pulled her under. He handed her the buddy regulator, and she took several breaths as he flipped over on his back to see bullets streaking through the water.
Suddenly a massive explosion rumbled overhead, their boat ripped apart, flames throwing a bright glow over the waves above as the fuel ignited.
Laura pointed, a large rectangle to the right puzzling him for a moment, before he realized what it was. It was the crate holding the True Cross. On instinct, he kicked toward it, Laura following, and soon reached the crate as it slowly sank. He pointed toward the shore and Laura nodded. They both grabbed the crate, kicking hard as they tried to move it away from the wreckage now descending around them, flames still lighting the water overhead. They managed to float it about half a mile, if not a little farther, from where Acton hoped anyone might search for it, before it finally hit bottom.
He pointed to shore, and they quickly reached a deserted beach about a mile north of the port, both flopping on the sand, gasping for breath. Acton shrugged the tank off his back then rolled over, reaching out for Laura’s hand. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I think so.” She sat up on her elbows and watched as the chopper circled the area then banked away, the searchlight cutting out as it headed back toward the chateau. “Now what?” asked Laura, sitting cross-legged beside him.
“Let’s call Giasson. Maybe he can help.”
Laura reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Fried.”
Acton frowned, retrieving his own. He cursed. “Mine’s shot too.”
“Okay, we’re going to have to find a phone, and keep our heads down. Since we were targeted, I think we can be sure they know what we look like, and they’re going to have eyes in the town soon, if they don’t already.”
Acton climbed to his feet and gasped, grabbing for his side.
Laura jumped up beside him, concerned. “What?”
He felt for the pain, his fingers coming to rest on something sticking out his back, just below his right kidney.
“Oh my God, you’ve been wounded.” Laura knelt down. “It looks like a piece of shrapnel from the boat. We need to get you to a hospital.”
Acton grimaced as Laura carefully felt around the piece of metal. “That’s the first place they’ll be looking for us.”
Laura stared up at him. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
Schmidt guided the boat as Pierre and the others sat in the back. The sputtering flames from the wreckage that had carried the True Cross were visible just ahead, and other pleasure craft were already converging on the area. Schmidt cut the engine, leaving them in the dark, half a mile from the explosion site. He turned around.
“This is close enough.” He pointed to his two men, already geared up. “Go.”
They both flipped over backward into the water, then disappeared into the inky blackness. And they waited, Pierre’s knee hopping with nervous energy.
“What if they don’t find it?”
Schmidt glanced at him. “They will. There’s no way two professors, one a woman, were able to drag that thing to shore.”
“What if it floated?”
Schmidt shook his head. “My men in the chopper reported seeing it sink with the wreckage. It’s down there. When they find it, they’ll tag it with a locator, and we’ll come in with the right equipment to retrieve it.”
“But what if the authorities find it first?”
“My men are already acquiring what we need. The authorities will be searching for bodies first, then worrying about what’s on the bottom. We’ve got time.”
Pierre stared at the wreckage as the first emergency craft arrived, its blue lights flashing, a loudspeaker ordering the civilians out of the area. Pierre closed his eyes, not as convinced as Schmidt was that this would end well. His eyes shot open.
“They were the only two on the boat!”
Schmidt eyed him. “Yeah. So?”
“Well, where’s my father?”
Jacques Ridefort sat on the deck of his yacht, watching through binoculars as the authorities began their search. Things hadn’t gone according to plan, and unfortunately, there was little he could do about it. And while he had no emotional connection to these two professors, he did feel they were good people, and he hated to see good people die. It was unfortunate, but what was more unfortunate, was that the crate now lay on the bottom of the sea, soon to be discovered either by the authorities, or, more likely, the forces hired by his son to steal the True Cross from him.
He did feel bad about tricking the professors into taking the boat. His attendant had already safely moved him through another tunnel, where he had given his emotional plea to the two, cameras showing them still within earshot. He had then faked an explosion and gunfire simply by batting his fingertips against the microphone, then delivered a panicked line, before cutting off the mike.
They had bought it.
And paid the ultimate price.
He sighed as he lowered the binoculars, making the sign of the cross. He turned to Vincent. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s proceed. There’s little time to waste.”
Laura flagged down an ambulance, its lights flashing and sirens blaring as it raced toward the port. The driver slowed, rolling down his window.
“What’s wrong?”
Laura responded in flawless French. “My husband was injured when a boat exploded. We were swimming, and he was hit with something.” She pointed at the bloody wound, and the man’s eyes bulged, bringing the ambulance to a complete stop.
He climbed out, his partner rushing around from the other side. Within moments, James was in the back of the ambulance receiving treatment. “We need to take him to a hospital, Madame.”
Laura glanced at her husband who shook his head slightly. “Can’t you just patch him up here? We’re leaving on an early flight, and we can’t afford to miss it.”
The paramedic shook his head. “No, I don’t dare risk removing this.”
James reached over and yanked it out, gasping in pain as blood oozed from the wound.
“James!” cried Laura, her eyes wide as she stared at him. He gave her a look, the paramedics delivering a string of curses as they quickly dealt with the new situation. Within minutes, they had calmed, and James had a smile from some good drugs. Laura’s heart hammered, and she wished she could have an injection too. “So? Is he going to be okay?”
“Yes, Madame. The wound is clean, and no arteries were hit. That was a very stupid thing your husband did, but the bleeding has stopped. We still need to take him to the hospital, however, just to be safe.”
James sat up, wincing slightly. “No. I don’t have travel insurance. I’ll get it looked at when I get back stateside.”
The paramedics protested, but he climbed out regardless, gingerly holding his side. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, his words slightly slurred. “I’ll be okay.”
Laura held her hands against his shoulders. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Let’s go to the hospital like they say.”
He shook his head, leaning in. “If they’re looking for us, that’s where they’ll start, then I’m dead anyway.”
“What did he say?”
Laura waved off the curious men, James’ voice not as quiet as he thought it was. “It’s just the
drugs.”
The driver shook his head. “Crazy Americans.”
Laura smiled. “I’m British.”
The man frowned, jabbing a finger at James. “He isn’t. He’s going to kill himself.” He threw his hands up, another string of curses erupting. “I don’t care. Let him kill himself. What do I know, a highly trained professional? Apparently, he knows better.”
They shut the doors and climbed into the ambulance, moments later its siren back on as it continued to the port, leaving them on the side of the road.
“You’re beautiful when you’re worried.”
Laura glanced at him. “You’re stoned.”
“Yes, yes I am. Call me Cheech.”
She slung his arm over her shoulder, and they continued into town, a hotel visible just ahead. “If you die on me, I’ll kill you.”
32
Approaching the Ridefort Residence
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Captain Durand rode in silence up the winding road toward the chateau he had stared at for years as a boy, imagining what great battles had taken place at its gates—then as an adult, learned to ignore, the massive structure simply one of thousands dotting the landscapes of Europe. Fascinating to the tourists, just another trivial thing to the locals.
When word had come of gunfire and explosions at the chateau, he had volunteered to take the call. He had always wanted to get through the gates of the private structure, to see what was inside, and to likely have his boyhood fantasies crushed.
And this might be his only chance.
He couldn’t recall hearing of anyone being let inside, the four walls with surrounding fencing a mystery to all that lived here for time immemorial.
They pulled up to the gates, the entire structure bathed in moonlight and little else. He stepped out and could see no evidence of anything untoward, an eerie silence surrounding him. He walked up to the gates, searching for a buzzer, when a door built into the side opened, and a man stepped out, one he recognized from around town, though never realized resided here.
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 12
