He didn’t want to lose his dad.
He looked over his shoulder at his men. “Get rid of the vehicles as per protocol and prep for the next mission.” He shoved open the doors, crossing the threshold to the huge home. “And find out who the hell that woman is!”
Racing up the stairs to the second floor, he sprinted down the hallway, skidding to a halt before the French doors that led to his father’s chambers, his mother having moved to a different room across the hall a few years ago to let him have his rest when the pain had become too great.
It had been an uncomfortable day for him, the very idea of his parents sleeping in separate rooms forcing thoughts of divorce and heartbreak to the fore. Even when he had looked it up on the Internet and found almost forty percent of couples sleep separately, it provided little comfort.
It was the continued affection they showed each other during the waking hours that had finally reassured him.
He tapped on the door and heard his mother’s voice respond. “Come in.”
Opening the door slowly, he poked his head inside to find his mother sitting on the side of the bed, holding his father’s hand in both of hers, her eyes red and swollen. A nurse was checking numbers on a monitor, his father smiling gently as he looked over at him.
“Come inside, son, I won’t bite.”
He looks so weak!
A lump formed in his throat as he entered the room, the trepidation he felt at what was to come almost overwhelming. He approached his father, his mother reaching out a hand for his. He took it.
“How are you feeling?”
“Peachy. You?”
Dietrich shrugged, a slight smile breaking out for a moment. “Better than you apparently.”
“I took a bit of a turn, but I’m feeling better now.”
“Don’t lie,” admonished his mother.
His father patted her hand. “Alright dear, I’m feeling better than a little while ago, but not as good as yesterday.” He looked at the nurse as she took his pulse manually. “But that’s progress, right?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Herr Kruger. Absolutely.”
His arm returned to him, his father grinned. “See, and that’s a professional telling you.”
Dietrich grunted. “Uh huh.”
“Enough dwelling on the inevitable. Whether it happens today or ten years from now, it is no matter.”
Dietrich was about to protest when his father raised a finger, just a finger, the hand remaining on his chest, cutting him off.
“So what happened in Paris?”
“We retrieved the artifacts, they’re being tested now.”
“Excellent. Any problems?”
Dietrich desperately wanted to confess to his father what he had done, the sins he had committed, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t place any more stress on the man. “No problems.”
“Excellent.” His father frowned. “Unfortunately the tests on the Vienna relic were negative.”
Dietrich wasn’t surprised, it was after all a disputed artifact, previous carbon dating suggesting it was a thousand years younger than it should be if legitimate. But they were desperate and testing could be wrong.
“I think we expected that,” he finally said, his father nodding. “I received word this morning that the Vatican is moving a collection of artifacts from various churches to their secure archives late tonight. Artifacts are being sent from around Europe.”
“That could be a problem.”
“Or an opportunity.”
His mother looked at him. “How?”
“Everything will be in one place at the same time.”
His father shook his head. “You’ll never be able to breach the Vatican again.”
Dietrich smiled.
“I have no intention of doing any such thing.”
Laucala Island Private Resort, Fiji
CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane flushed the toilet for the umpteenth time this morning. It had been three days of nonstop drinking, eating, dancing and sex, but something had set his entire system off, leaving his gut in agony and his body protesting in ways he didn’t care to think of.
It was nasty.
He looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head.
His face was a gray that belonged on the side of a naval vessel, not a CIA operator.
There was no way he was going to be able to go on duty tomorrow. He had wrapped up an op in Pakistan a week ago and after his debrief by his CIA handler in the region, had come here to be properly debriefed by several lovely ladies he had come to know over the years.
It had been an epic bender.
He stumbled into the hotel bedroom, several bodies strewn about—mostly naked—copious amounts of liquor bottles and glasses filling almost every horizontal surface.
He eyed his bed, two incredible looking women lying in it. He had no choice, he had to lie down, but the last thing he was up for now was anything that needed him ‘up’.
He froze.
Please don’t tell me…
He scanned the bottles, looking for the distinctive label of his favorite scotch, Glen Breton Ice, praying he hadn’t been stupid enough to break that out of the private reserve he had in the basement of the hotel.
He sighed in relief. While he enjoyed partying with these people, some of whom he even casually knew, he wasn’t about to waste something as fine as Glen Breton Ice on them or himself in such an inebriated state.
It was meant to be enjoyed in civilized company, or alone at the beginning of an evening when it could be appreciated.
He crawled into the bed and was greeted with two moaning women who draped themselves over him but thankfully fell back to sleep quickly when he didn’t respond.
He closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep, the fog of alcohol clearing enough for his usual nightmare to return, a nightmare he had been living with for years.
Raptor One, Sierra Four! Abort! Abort! Abort!
He woke up, drenched in sweat, wondering what had startled him.
His phone vibrated on the nightstand.
Gently extricating himself from the two beauties resting on his chest, he returned to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He sat back on the toilet, his insides demanding a rerun, killing two birds with one stone, and pressed his thumb against the sensor, unlocking his phone.
He frowned.
It was an emergency relay message from his old archeology professor, James Acton. Acton had helped counsel him after 9/11 when he was debating whether or not to leave university and join the army. Acton, ex-National Guard, had encouraged him to follow his heart.
He had.
He had joined the army, made it into the Rangers then set his sights on Delta. It was after making The Unit that he was recruited into the CIA, a decision he had never regretted.
Unlike the raw oysters he had ordered last night.
That’s it! The oysters!
He breathed a bit of a sigh of relief knowing he hadn’t been poisoned, but his brain having reconciled things didn’t help his digestive system.
He had given Professor Acton an emergency contact number after they had been reunited, Acton and his new lady friend seeming to be constantly getting into trouble. He had helped him when possible, or sent help when not. It was something he was happy to do, he having few friends, and fewer still who knew what he truly did for a living.
Besides the professor and Chris, there’s really no one.
Chris Leroux was a high school buddy who had tutored him, getting him the grades he had needed to get into St. Paul’s University. They had lost touch then bumped into each other years later in the CIA cafeteria, Kane now an operator, Leroux an analyst.
Leroux was one of the few people in the world he truly trusted.
As was Acton.
He dialed the phone number left in the message. A groggy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Doc, it’s Dylan.”
The professor had clearly been asleep and
Kane could hear the sounds of someone struggling out of bed followed by the click of a light switch. “Dylan, thanks for getting back to me.”
“What’s the problem, Doc?”
“It’s Laura. She’s been shot—”
Kane felt a pit form in his stomach, which was rather remarkable considering what his rebelling organ was doing to him at the moment. He had met Laura several times. She was a fantastic lady and it was clear the two professors loved each other deeply.
He counted her among the few he trusted.
“Is she okay?”
“I-I don’t know. They took her, Dylan, they took her!”
Acton’s voice cracked, his heartache clear, the fear in his voice palpable. “Who took her?”
“We don’t know. Hugh’s here with me, Hugh Reading, I’m not sure if you remember him—”
“Interpol. Yes, I remember him.”
“The Vatican asked for our help, some Blood Relics had been stolen. We were in Paris trying to secure the artifacts at the Notre-Dame Cathedral when it was hit. Several police officers were killed and Laura was shot in the stomach. They took her with them and there’s been no sign of her since.”
Kane didn’t dare say the obvious. Stomach wounds could be brutal, deadly, and the likelihood of her surviving was slim. But until a body was found, he knew the man would never be at peace.
Which meant he had to help find her, dead or alive.
“Keep your phone charged, Doc, someone will be in touch.”
“Thanks, Dylan, it’s appreciated.”
Kane killed the call then doubled over, vomiting in the waste basket.
There’s no way I’m going to be able to help.
Maggie Harris Residence
Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina
Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson rolled off his girlfriend, Maggie, both of them gasping for breath.
“My God, BD, it’s like you were on a mission,” she gasped, rolling half her body onto his, nuzzling his neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that.”
Dawson grunted, his eyes closing as he battled to stay awake, but it was a losing op. He was completely relaxed, every muscle in his body having been spent, and this was their reward.
Rest.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me!”
He grunted again, forcing his eyes open. “Got toothpicks?”
“For what?”
“My eyelids.”
She slapped his chest playfully. “What do you want to do now?”
“Sleep.”
“You can do that anytime. I’ve missed you. You were gone for two weeks this time.”
She was right, it had been a bit longer op, but nothing out of the ordinary. He and the boys from the Delta Force’s Bravo Team had returned late last night and after a few hours of rest on post in his own bed, he had paid a visit to Maggie’s as soon as she had got off work.
She was right. He could sleep later.
Like right now, after sex.
He never understood why men were sleepy and women seemed energized. After such complete release, it just seemed natural to want to rest, let the body go and drift into nothingness with your lover in your arms.
Maybe because they want more?
They had done it three times, which to him seemed enough. His record had been far more, but that was because it was his nineteenth birthday and his girlfriend had wanted to set some sort of record.
It had stood since then.
At least with him.
He wasn’t sure about her.
But at his age three seemed pretty damned good, and he was spent.
Maybe she didn’t…
Self-doubt began to creep in and he pushed himself up on an elbow, turning toward her. “Was it, you know…”
“Was it what?”
“You know…”
“What? Good for me?”
“Yeah.”
She laughed, slapping his chest again. “Babe, if you’re not sure, ask the neighbors.”
He grinned, dropping back onto his pillow, closing his eyes.
“But I still want to do something.”
He felt her jump out of bed, eliciting a groan from him. “Oh come on, Babe, I’ve been gone for two weeks, had almost no sleep, can’t this wait a few hours?”
“I’ve been pent up in this apartment for two weeks, waiting for my man to come back and satisfy me.”
“Which I apparently did.”
“Yes, stud, you did.”
“Three times.”
“More, actually.”
Ooh, I am a stud!
“Don’t look so self-satisfied.”
He grinned, swinging his legs out of the bed, stretching. “I guess I can take my totally satisfied woman out for dinner.”
“That’s more like it. Now let’s take a shower.”
“Isn’t that how round three started?”
Maggie paused. “You’re right. I’ll take a shower, then you.” He watched her fantastic body step into the bathroom, the door closing halfway.
I’m a lucky man.
He hadn’t told her yet that he loved her, but he was pretty sure he did. It was a big deal for him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had told a woman he loved her. When he was a teenager and in his early twenties he had said whatever he felt would get him across the goal line, but after breaking a girl’s heart in his late twenties he had sworn he’d never say it again unless he meant it.
But you said you loved me!
Her cries still haunted him.
His phone vibrated. Somewhere.
He stood, eyeing the room, trying to narrow down the sound, finally finding his pants hanging over the dresser mirror, Maggie having pulled them off him and tossed them over her head when he had first arrived.
He was loving having a girlfriend, a serious girlfriend. There was some sort of stability there that he hadn’t realized he had been craving all these years, The Unit providing him all the stability he had thought he needed.
He had been wrong.
He was finally beginning to understand why so many Special Forces operators were married, and why the brass preferred married men. It gave them something to fight for, something to come back to, an anchor in their uncertain worlds.
Maggie was quickly becoming his anchor, something he looked forward to coming home to, something he missed when away.
The boys had been ribbing him on the last trip about wedding bells in his future, but he had dismissed them. Waay too early for that. But he had to admit, he could see it someday.
He fished the phone out of its pocket.
“Go.”
“Is that anyway to answer the phone?”
He smiled as he recognized the voice of an old comrade turned CIA Operator, Dylan Kane. A voice that didn’t sound right. “You sound like shit.”
“Funny you should say that, that’s all I’ve been doing for the past six hours. That and the Technicolor yawn.”
“Pleasant. You know I’m heading out for dinner in a few minutes.”
“Don’t get the pea soup. Or raw oysters.”
“Ahh, trying to enhance the old sex drive.”
“You should try it sometime.”
“Apparently I don’t need any help in that department.”
“Good man!” Kane became serious. “I got a message from our old friend.”
Dawson sat on the edge of the bed, pretty certain who Kane was referring to. “What’s the professor gotten himself into this time?” he asked with a laugh.
“His wife’s been shot”—Dawson immediately regretted his levity—“and to top it off, kidnapped. The Doc doesn’t even know if she’s alive.”
“Christ, he must be going bat shit crazy.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Dawson looked toward the bathroom, steam and happy humming rolling out the door. “What can I do?”
“I’m completely offline, I can barely walk. I’ll contact m
y guy at Langley and get him working the data. Any chance you can get yourself over there to help?”
“Where’s there?”
“Paris for the moment.”
“Maggie will kill me. We’ve been talking about vacationing there.”
“Take her.”
“Riiight, I can picture it now. Honey, you go visit the Louvre, I’m going to go kill some people. Dinner at six?”
Kane laughed. “Up to you. Find Laura, take care of business, then fly her over for a romantic getaway.”
Huh. Not a bad idea.
“I’ll clear it with the Colonel. I’m assuming your Langley guy is Leroux?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, I’ll touch base with him and keep you in the loop.”
“Thanks, BD, it’s appreciated.” He heard a grunt. “Oh shit, gotta go!”
Heaves erupted before the call ended.
Poor bastard.
He stepped into the bathroom, pulling aside the curtain.
“Hey, you were supposed to wait!”
He climbed into the shower, pulling her close.
“There’s been a change of plans.”
Kruger Residence, Outside Paris, France
Laura opened her eyes, immediately shutting them, the glare of overhead lights almost painful. With some effort she lifted her hand, shielding her eyes as she opened them again, blinking several times, her eyes dry. A monitor beeped to her left showing her vitals, weak but steady. Something moved to her right. She looked and saw a man in a lab coat swirling a large beaker, holding it up to the light.
It looked nothing like a hospital.
And everything like a laboratory.
“Wh-where am I?”
Her voice was raspy, her mouth and throat dry.
The man looked over at her, putting the beaker down. “So you’re awake.” He walked over, checking the monitors. “How are you feeling?”
“Water.”
He reached for a glass on a side table, helping position the straw to her mouth. She took several sips then swished some of the water around, relieving her cotton-mouth.
“Enough?”
She nodded.
“Good. Now, how are you feeling?”
“Weak.”
“Any pain?”
Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Page 10
