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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “There’s a secret room. I’m sure they don’t know about it.”

  “And you do?”

  She rounded a corner with confidence. “We were shown it last night. There’s an escape tunnel in it.”

  Reading followed her around the corner, urging Spencer to keep up. “Let’s hope they don’t know where the other end of it is.”

  Laura glanced over her shoulder, frowning. “Hugh, really? Must we always be the pessimist?”

  He scowled. “It’s in my nature.”

  Durand climbed up the ladder, the three officers gathered below, their weapons aimed at the opening overhead. He poked his head above ground level, taking a quick look, then dropped back down. He could see the bodies of several of his men lying in the courtyard, and spotted at least two hostiles heading toward their position.

  They must have seen us coming in here.

  He readied his weapon, then took two steps up, clearing the lip of the floor. He took aim and squeezed the trigger, a short burst erupting from the machine gun, hammering at his shoulder, the sensation something he hadn’t felt since training.

  This was not his area of expertise.

  Proven by the fact he missed, the wall to the right of his target torn apart as the weapon jerked up and to the right. And, unfortunately, he had revealed his position, gunfire spraying the wall behind him. He ducked as a second ladder slapped against the rim beside him, another officer rushing up, opening fire as he cleared the edge. The bravado delivered a boost of confidence to Durand’s system, and he rose, spraying gunfire left to right, unconcerned with his aim, instead providing what he thought the movies called suppression fire. Two hostiles dropped, but one got up moments later, their body armor apparently effective.

  “You go, I’ll cover you,” said the officer.

  Durand nodded and the young officer opened fire again. Durand cleared the final few rungs then rolled to the side, putting the thick stone wall of the stable between him and the hostiles. Immediately his position on the ladder was taken by another, and between the two of them, they delivered a sustained barrage, allowing everyone to get clear.

  We might just win this thing!

  He poked his head out to see another half-dozen hostiles dropping from the second chopper.

  Merde.

  Giasson pointed at a string of police cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing. “Follow them!”

  “But, sir!”

  “Follow them, that’s an order!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Giasson motioned to Alfredo Ianuzzi. “Give me your weapon.”

  Ianuzzi frowned but complied, handing him his handgun and three magazines.

  “When we get there, I’ll go in. You guys stay outside.”

  “Sir, we’re here to protect you. Where you go, we go.”

  Giasson shook his head then grabbed the handhold as the driver took a hard left onto a winding road that appeared to lead up the hillside and toward the danger. “No, if something goes wrong, I’ll be the one to blame, not you guys. I can’t ask you to go in there. These are my friends, not yours.”

  Ianuzzi looked at him. “Sir, I know them too, and God knows they’ve gone above and beyond for us before. It’s my duty, as a man of God, to help those in need.” He drew a second weapon from an ankle holster. “I’m coming with you.”

  Giasson shook his head, smiling. “You’re an insubordinate bastard. Remind me to fire you when we get back home.”

  Ianuzzi grinned. “I make no promises.”

  Schmidt dropped to the ground as part of the second wave, and headed for the main entrance. His targets had disappeared through the doors only moments before, and he had a feeling he knew exactly where they were going. The room with the hidden chamber.

  Little do they know, I know exactly where it is.

  He raced toward the closed doors, pouring a steady stream of lead at the center of them, shattering any lock that might have been holding them back. He slammed into it hard, the wood splintering but holding. He stepped back and fired some more, two of his men joining in, the other three covering their position. He shoved again, and this time it gave.

  Gunfire continued from the stable, the police making an effective stand, his men keeping them pinned down where they were essentially harmless to the mission. He frowned as he spotted another go down. He pointed at the three covering their position. “Go give them a hand. When I give the signal, fall back to this position. We’ll egress as planned through their own escape tunnel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three men broke off, hugging the wall as they headed toward the only resistance left in the courtyard, both choppers now hammering the stable with heavy fire.

  Just a little bit longer.

  Acton gripped the sides of the gurney for dear life, as Laura navigated the corridors from memory, finally reaching the outer room leading to the secret treasure room.

  “Hugh!”

  Reading jumped ahead, opening the doors, and Laura shoved the gurney through. He slammed the doors shut behind them as Laura rushed over to the pedestal they had seen Jacques Ridefort’s attendant push the night before. She shoved it toward the window.

  And it didn’t budge.

  Acton pushed up on his elbows. “What the hell?”

  Laura tried again, harder this time, and still nothing. She turned to Acton. “This was it, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  She pushed again, gentler this time, and again nothing. “What the bloody hell is wrong with this thing!”

  Reading rushed over and leaned into it to no avail.

  “He must have done something else before he pushed it. Try turning the bust or something,” suggested Acton.

  Laura grabbed the head of Jacques de Molay, and gave it a twist. Nothing. She turned toward Acton. “What are we going to do?”

  Acton struggled to his feet. “We fight.”

  Reading spun, his eyes scanning the room. “Where’s Spencer?”

  Giasson threw open the door as the car came to a halt behind one of the police vehicles. Gunfire filled the air, the smell of gunpowder distinct and strong. Helicopter rotors pounded the area, and one of them banked toward their position, firing at the new arrivals from a side-mounted machine gun.

  Giasson took cover with the others. A hail of gunfire responded from the ground, raining bullets on the helicopter. It banked away to protect those exposed by the open side door, giving Giasson the opportunity to capitalize on the confusion, rushing past the dozens of armed officers and toward the open gates, Ianuzzi on his heels along with the rest of his detail.

  He rounded the corner, peering into a large courtyard as other officers rushed past them, their mere presence apparently enough to make the officers think Giasson and his team belonged there.

  This is idiotic!

  Almost a dozen hostiles were firing at the far end. Bodies riddled the courtyard, mostly police, some alive, most still. Giasson scanned the area for any sign of his friends, but saw nothing, the only thing of interest a set of large doors, shredded by weapons fire.

  Somebody wanted in there.

  He pointed. “We need to get to those doors.” He stepped into the courtyard, then someone grabbed him from behind, hauling him backward.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Weapons were aimed at them, and Giasson raised his hands. “Would you believe I’m Inspector General Mario Giasson from the Vatican?”

  The officer motioned toward them, and he was grabbed by both arms, along with his detail, and led away from the fight. He glanced over his shoulder at the man. “You need to get through those doors. Something’s going on inside!”

  The man dismissed his words with the bat of a hand, and Giasson cursed.

  God, please take care of them.

  Captain Durand hugged the wall, as did the others. The firepower directed at them was overwhelming, and there was no way they would defeat their enemy, not alone. He could hear the sirens outside, reinforcemen
ts arriving, but the helicopters pounding the stables had redirected their attention to his comrades outside the gates.

  Another horse cried out and collapsed as it was hit by a stray bullet, three of the creatures now dead or dying, each one enraging him even more. He hoped these bastards they were fighting weren’t intentionally targeting the animals, because if he thought they were, when his people finally did win the day, he might just walk out of here and place a bullet in each of the bastards’ heads.

  He stole a quick glance, then stuck his weapon around the corner, firing blindly, a few of the hostiles having closed the distance.

  “Why haven’t they just used grenades?” asked one of his men.

  Durand shook his head. “They’re after someone. They must not know where they are.”

  He frowned.

  Once they do know, we’re dead.

  Schmidt reached the door Pierre Ridefort had led him to last night, and tried the handle. Locked. He motioned toward the lock and one of his men placed a small charge. Schmidt turned away and the device detonated, blasting the door open. He tossed a flash-bang inside as a flurry of rounds slammed into the wall behind him. The grenade detonated and several people cried out.

  One of his men surged forward and three shots rang out, all nailing him square in the chest. He fell backward, collapsing on the floor, gasping for breath, several ribs probably broken. Schmidt cursed and grabbed him by the vest, hauling him out of the line of fire.

  “Professors, I know you’re in there. All I want is the cross.”

  “Go to hell!”

  He smiled. It was Acton. He activated his comm. “We have them.” He returned his attention to his targets. “Just tell me where it is, and this is all over.”

  “Forget it. You’ll kill us anyway.”

  Schmidt’s mind was racing. Why were they still there? If he were in their situation, he would have used the secret exit from last night. Why would they have stayed in there? He knew that a simple push of the pedestal opened the secret chamber, and from there, an escape tunnel led to the water below. Why sit and wait for him to arrive with far more firepower than they had?

  His eyes narrowed. “Professor, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, I’ve got time.”

  Schmidt smiled. “Is your escape not going to plan?”

  There was no reply, which confirmed his suspicions. These Templars had sealed off the escape route, which meant he and his men were trapped inside as well.

  Not good.

  Though he knew there was a secret chamber on the other side of the wall, and he had explosives. Blow the wall, get to the other side and through the tunnel.

  Problem solved.

  But he had to get through this door first.

  “I’m assuming your silence means the escape route through the secret room isn’t working. That means you’re trapped in that room, Professor. Tell me what I want to know, and I promise I’ll let you go.”

  “And why should I believe you?”

  “Because I’m not some nutbar, Professor. I’m a contractor. I have a job to do, and that’s to recover the True Cross for my client.”

  “That didn’t stop you from trying to kill us yesterday.”

  Schmidt closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool stone wall. “That’s because we were trying to prevent the meeting. Once the meeting happened, and we knew you had the cross, our mission changed. Now all our client wants is for you to give up its location, and then you’re free to go.”

  There was a laugh. “Right, and leave us as witnesses. Your client, Pierre, knows we know he’s behind this.”

  Schmidt pulled a grenade from his belt. “Professor, I’m not sure if you’re aware of what’s going on outside, but half the damned French police force is here. They already know Pierre Ridefort is behind this.”

  63

  Off the coast of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Pierre sat in the boat, watching the assault unfold through binoculars. It was exhilarating and heartbreaking at the same time. He had just heard the radio transmission that Schmidt had captured the professors, so they would soon know the location of the True Cross, and all of this would be over.

  Yet he had to stifle tears at seeing his home attacked so violently. The only comfort he took was that an overheard police report suggested those he had grown up with had escaped before the assault began.

  He didn’t want them dead, none of them.

  When his father finally died, and he had the True Cross in his possession, he would welcome every one of them back into the fold, should they pledge their allegiance to him. He would need them all to carry on the duty handed down for so long.

  He sighed, wiping away a stray tear. “Should we head to the rendezvous point?”

  Schmidt’s man nodded and fired up the engines, turning the boat back toward the hidden dock under the hill the chateau sat atop. Schmidt and his men were supposed to use the escape tunnel, though from the sounds of the battle overhead, he wasn’t sure how many they would be actually meeting, the police apparently putting up a good fight.

  We may reunite as a family, but we’ll definitely need a new home.

  64

  Ridefort Residence

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Acton looked at the others. “If the police are here, then we just need to hold out a little longer until they reach us.”

  Reading shook his head. “There were two choppers out there providing cover. Until the police take them out of the equation, they’re not getting in here. And that assumes they know we’re in here. We might not be found until they mop up.”

  Laura pushed on the pedestal again, Acton smiling at her wishful thinking. She looked at him. “We can’t fight them off. I’ve got three bullets left.”

  Acton nodded. “I’ve got four, I think. They’re coming in here one way or the other.” He glanced at Reading. “I don’t think we’ve got a choice.” Something bounced on the floor and Acton gasped as a small black orb rolled toward them. “Grenade!”

  He grabbed for Laura but she was already surging forward. She kicked the grenade like Beckham, sending it back through the door as Reading clotheslined Acton to the ground, his free arm reaching for Laura. He caught the back of her shirt as he dropped to the floor, dragging her with him.

  The explosion was deafening, cries of agony filling the hall as shrapnel spread in all directions. Laura cried out just as she hit the ground, Acton gasping for breath as he slammed onto the stone, his wound tearing open even more. The pain was overwhelming, but he pushed through it, scrambling around to check on Laura. She was lying on her back, across Reading’s, and he breathed a sigh of relief as she looked at him, alive.

  Then he saw the blood.

  And the jagged piece of stone lodged in her neck.

  Durand’s eyes widened as a grenade rolled into the room then dropped into the pit, the explosion tearing apart the Maybach below. Something had changed, their lives now forfeit.

  They must have found the professors.

  Their only hope was the tunnels below. He pointed into the pit. “Everybody down below, now!” He leaned out slightly from the wall, spraying bullets in all directions as his men leaped to safety, one at a time. He saw a grenade sailing through the air and turned his weapon on it, there no time to jump, and no point—it was going where he wanted to go.

  He got lucky.

  The grenade erupted into a fireball in midair, blasting shrapnel back at his attackers, and toward him. He was blown off his feet, and something tore at his shoulder, but it was something else that held his attention. A massive explosion ripped through the sky, just visible through the doorway, one of the choppers now a ball of flame that seemed to slowly collapse to the ground. A jet engine shook the area as he dragged himself back to the wall he had been hiding behind, risking a look outside and smiling at the sight of the French Air Force arriving on the scene.

  We might just get out of this after all.

  He glanced
at his shoulder then gasped. He was riddled with wounds, the blood rapidly spreading through his clothes.

  Maybe not all of us.

  Spencer pressed his back against the wall, burying himself in the shadows as two men, all in black, surged past him, machine guns held high as they headed hopefully toward wherever his father and the professors had ended up.

  He had been a bloody fool. When he had heard the sounds of the door being shot apart, he had turned back to take a look, hoping to see how many hostiles they were facing so that he could give his dad better information to work with. Part of him had even thought he might play the hero and shoot them before they could get inside, but the heavy, sustained gunfire, and the sight of weapons far bigger than his, had put those thoughts to bed almost immediately.

  Though he did get his intel.

  There were three.

  Yet when he had tried to find his father, he couldn’t. But their attackers had no doubt as to where they were heading, running toward him without hesitation. He had spotted an alcove behind a suit of armor, and squeezed inside as they rushed past, his eyes shut as his heart slammed against his ribcage.

  And now it was happening all over again. And this time he had to bollocks up and get into the action. He slipped out from behind the statue and followed, praying they didn’t hear him, and wondering just what the bloody hell he’d do when he found them.

  Schmidt pushed himself with his elbows away from the doorway. His leg was severely wounded, though luckily one of his men had caught the brunt of the blast. He was dead, the other gasping for breath, a football-sized hole in his chest that had him rapidly bleeding out. He’d be done in seconds.

  What the hell had just happened, he had no idea, but his grenade had bounced back, which should have been impossible. It was why you didn’t whip a grenade inside a room like this—it could hit something and come back at you. A gentle toss was all that was needed.