Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  She’s so much stronger than I am!

  “My employer has asked me to convey a message. You are being watched. Should Professor Acton actually succeed, you are to call this number immediately.” He leaned forward, a business card in his hand.

  Terrence couldn’t bring himself to reach for it.

  Jenny took it, holding up the card.

  It had nothing but a phone number.

  “Should Professor Acton lie to my employer, or try to deceive my employer, you are to contact us immediately. Should you fail to report any deception or failure on his part, you will both be killed.”

  Terrence’s head swam, everything blurring in front of him, the thought of his wife dying too much to handle, the thought of his unborn child never seeing his mother’s smile, never seeing even the light of day, unthinkable.

  An ember of burning rage ignited within him and his eyes immediately focused on the man, his world snapping back into focus. “If you harm my wife, I’ll kill you.”

  The man smiled, leaning forward with the gun not a foot from Terrence’s chest.

  “I would like to see you try.”

  Terrence’s hands darted out, one hand smacking the inside of the man’s wrist, the other slapping the top of his hand, immediately causing the gun to fall to the floor as the surprised man jumped back in shock, nursing a tender wrist.

  Jenny grabbed the gun, pointing it at him.

  Terrence just sat, stunned the training Professor Palmer’s ex-SAS security team had provided actually worked.

  And that he had had the balls to actually use it.

  If he was being honest with himself he knew that it had been rage driven instinct, not any sort of courageous act that had caused him to disarm the man, and their victory was most likely temporary, as was evidenced by the smile on the man’s face.

  “I underestimated you, Mr. Mitchell.” He leaned forward. “But make no mistake, this changes nothing. I am part of a team. Even if I am eliminated, my team will still kill you. And no tricks, taught to you by former SAS Lt. Colonel Cameron Leather, will help you—you will never see the man who fires the bullet through the belly of your wife.”

  Terrence wanted to reach out and grab the gun from Jenny and shoot the bastard. He glared at the man instead, raising his finger when suddenly the gun fired, shot after shot belching from the barrel, Terrence watching in horror as Jenny emptied the magazine into the man’s chest.

  The car screeched to a halt sending them tumbling forward, Terrence’s outstretched hand slipping on the bloody chest of their now dead kidnapper. Pushing himself to his knees, he turned to Jenny, his mouth agape.

  “Oh my God, what have you done?”

  Jenny said nothing, instead just staring at the dead man, the shocked expression on her face mirroring his own. That’s when Terrence noticed the gun still in her hand. He reached down and gently took the weapon away from her as the front door opened then slammed shut.

  Oh shit!

  He leapt forward, quickly searching the man for a spare magazine when a cellphone began to ring in the man’s pocket. He glanced over at Jenny, still sitting on the floor, shaking, her eyes staring into those of the man she had killed. Terrence pulled the phone out of the inner jacket pocket and answered it.

  He said nothing.

  “Mr. Mitchell?”

  Terrence felt his chest tighten, a lump forming in his throat as his mouth went dry. “Yes?”

  “I assume my colleague is dead. This changes nothing. You still have your assignment. The man you killed was part of a team. You and your wife will be executed should you fail to follow your instructions.”

  The call ended and Terrence collapsed on the floor, his arms at his side as his entire body began to shake. He dropped the gun and phone, both hitting the carpeting with a thud that seemed to jolt Jenny out of her trance. He felt her hand on his.

  “I need to get out of here.”

  Somebody rapped on the window, causing them both to jump, then the door was yanked open, the sunlight pouring in blinding them for a moment. Something was shouted in Italian as Terrence held up his hand to shade his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, do you speak English?”

  “Police. What is happening here—pistola!” The man jumped back and Terrence moved to shield his wife from whatever was about to come. “Get out of the car with your hands up!”

  Terrence looked back at Jenny. “I’ll go first and explain.”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “You were protecting the baby.”

  Her eyes closed. “By making his mother a murderer.”

  “There’s no way it was murder. We struggled for the gun, it fell on the floor, you grabbed it and shot him when he lunged at you. Understood?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide, then nodded.

  “Come out, now!”

  He flinched from the barked order, the sounds of sirens in the distance getting closer. He squeezed Jenny’s hand then crawled toward the open door. “I’m coming out! I’m unarmed!” Stumbling through the door he was suddenly grabbed by the back of his jacket and yanked forward, hitting the asphalt hard. “Take it easy! I’m the victim here!”

  “Don’t move.”

  He was quickly patted down then his hands were handcuffed behind his back before he was pulled to his feet, there now at least half a dozen police officers on the scene and hundreds of onlookers.

  “Come out of the car, now!” ordered one of the men.

  “That’s my wife,” said Terrence. “She’s pregnant so take it easy!”

  Jenny’s hands appeared then her foot and finally her entire body as she stepped out. Two officers rushed her, grabbing her arms but thankfully not throwing her to the ground as they had him. She was patted down and handcuffed.

  “Is there anyone else in the vehicle?” asked the officer who appeared to be in charge.

  “There’s one dead man who held us at gunpoint. The driver ran away. I don’t know if there was anyone else in the front with him.”

  “What happened?

  “We were kidnapped. We thought we were being picked up by the Vatican, but instead it turned out to be the same people who shot and kidnapped my professor in Paris.”

  “Paris?” The man’s eyes narrowed and words were exchanged in Italian, one of the officers getting on his radio.

  “Who were you supposed to meet?”

  “The name is on my phone. Mario something.”

  “Giasson,” said Jenny. “He’s the head of Vatican security.”

  “Inspector General Giasson?” It didn’t sound like he believed them. “Why would you be meeting with him?”

  Terrence pulled at his handcuffs. “We’re here to help with the recovery of a Blood Relic.”

  “Blood Relic?”

  “You know, like the artifacts that have been stolen over the past few days that have the blood of Christ on them.”

  Excited utterances erupted from the crowd, it clear this was a hot topic at the water cooler in Rome.

  An officer approached with a phone, giving it to the man in charge. Words were quickly exchanged then he motioned toward Terrence, an order given. The handcuffs were removed and the phone put in his hand.

  “For you.”

  “Hello?”

  “Terrence Mitchell?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Inspector General Giasson. I have someone here who will confirm your identity. One moment.”

  Muffled noises then a familiar voice answered.

  “Terrence? This is Professor Acton.”

  Tears of relief filled his eyes as his face lit up at the sound of Acton’s voice.

  It’s almost over.

  “Hello Professor. We seem to be in a spot of trouble.”

  “So I’ve heard. Are you two okay?”

  “A little rattled, but we’re uninjured.” He lowered his voice. “Jenny shot one of them.”

  “I know. Listen, sit tight, we’re coming to get you. We s
hould be there within twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “You’re welcome. Now hand the phone back to the police officer.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  He handed the phone to the cop and more words were exchanged in Italian, Terrence assumed with Giasson. A few minutes later the call was ended and the handcuffs were removed from Jenny’s wrists.

  A phone rang, the distinctive ringtone immediately drawing Terrence’s eyes as he recognized his own phone ringing. His eyes focused on a pile of personal effects sitting on the sidewalk.

  “May I?” he asked, and one of the officers picked up the phone, handing it to him. He looked to see the blocked number message then swiped his thumb. “Hello?”

  “If you tell them anything about your instructions, your wife dies.”

  “Listen—”

  “Look at your wife’s stomach.”

  Terrence turned and nearly vomited, a red dot bouncing on Jenny’s stomach for a moment, then disappearing. He could feel all the blood drain from his face.

  “Do we understand one another?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Then say, ‘I can’t talk now, mom, I’ll call you later’.”

  “I-I can’t talk now, mum, I’ll call you later.”

  The call ended and Terrence put the phone in his pocket, turning to Jenny.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked as he reached out and gripped the side of the police car she was resting against.

  “It was them,” he whispered. “They said not to tell anyone about the instructions they gave us.”

  “I hardly think they’re in any posi—”

  The red dot reappeared and he held up a finger, motioning with his eyes toward her stomach. Jenny stopped and looked down. She gasped as her hands covered her stomach protectively, the light dancing across her hands then disappearing.

  How could they have possibly known what we were saying?

  Renner Security, Stuttgart, Germany

  “Is all this really necessary?”

  Dawson held his arms out as a man in a crisp gray uniform wanded him. They had already had to sign in, get their photos taken and have their ID’s scanned. Mr. White and Mr. Green, both FBI agents stationed at the American Embassy in Paris, were being thoroughly documented.

  It’s an intimidation tactic.

  “Standard procedure,” said a man observing the proceedings that had introduced himself upon their arrival as Michael Kellner. His English was perfect and Dawson had no doubt he was ex-military, probably KSK.

  The wand whistled at Dawson’s crotch.

  “Ooh, man of steel,” grinned Niner.

  “Ha ha.” Dawson tapped his belt buckle. “Buckle.”

  The man continued on and waved him through, repeating the procedure with Niner who cleared with the same whistle at the belt buckle.

  “Very good, gentlemen, I’ll show you to Herr Renner’s office. If you’ll follow me?”

  Kellner swiped his pass and a glass door leading deeper into the building slid open. Dawson stepped through, noting that it appeared to be some sort of ballistic glass at least three inches thick. The door immediately slid closed behind them. They walked along a hallway with an impressive view of the city from a bank of windows, all the offices wisely on the interior of the building so prying eyes couldn’t see any computer screens or read any lips.

  It was suggestive of a company keen to keep its secrets.

  And a tad bit paranoid.

  “Master race?” whispered Niner as yet another gorgeous well-built blonde passed them with a smile. Everyone they had seen so far was a physical specimen worthy of the cover of any romance novel, even Kellner’s v-shaped physique was obvious despite his Hugo Boss suit.

  I wonder how many people know of Hugo Boss’ ties to the Nazi party.

  He didn’t for a second think that these people were Nazi’s, not in the slightest. Intelligence files suggested many of them were former German Special Forces which would have thoroughly screened these men before ever admitting them to their ranks, and with many being ex-military, they being in terrific shape was to be expected.

  And as to the women, eye-candy was quite often employed by macho-companies like this to titillate the mostly male clientele.

  And if we were in any other country, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed your mind.

  He always found it fascinating how preconceptions would sometimes enter the subconscious simply by knowing someone’s cultural background or nationality, especially how one’s opinion of someone could immediately change the moment you found out that little tidbit that your subconscious told you was important not because of anything the person in front of you had done, but because of what people like them had done, sometimes decades or centuries in the past.

  Will whites always feel nervous when a young black man approaches them on a lonely street? Will black men always feel fear when a police car pulls in behind them?

  He never felt much sympathy when a criminal died, and even less when that criminal was held up as a poster boy to justify rioting and looting. But when somebody innocent was killed because of preconceived notions, his heart went out to the victims and his heart grew a little colder toward the perpetrators.

  In his business unfortunately he dealt with preconceived notions daily. He naturally didn’t trust Russians, even though he knew many that were perfectly fine people that he did trust, and he always kept a wary eye on anyone who ‘looked’ Muslim merely because people of the same faith had tried to kill him on too many occasions to count. He had Muslim friends, though he had to admit they were few and all what he would consider moderates, most privately admitting Islam needed its own Reformation before peace could truly be had.

  Only they were too terrified to say it publicly.

  I wonder if Luther felt the same way when he went up against the Catholic church.

  Kellner rapped on a door and Dawson slipped the transmitter from his belt, palming it. A muffled shout from the other side and Kellner opened the door. They entered and another perfect specimen, this one with salt and pepper hair, rose from behind a glass and chrome desk, a broad smile on his face.

  “Herr Renner, may I present Special Agent White and Agent Green of the FBI.”

  Dawson extended his hand, Renner’s handshake firm and dry. “Sir.” They were shown to two sleek chairs in front of Renner’s desk, Dawson noting there wasn’t a hint of wood in the entire room.

  Or an earth tone.

  Grays, blacks and stark whites dominated along with brushed chrome and graphite.

  Ultra-modern.

  The only personal touches were a series of frames on one wall with medals and photographs, several showing Renner with various dignitaries he vaguely recognized and others with him in fatigues, arms around other soldiers.

  Rather than sit, Dawson stepped over to the wall as Kellner left the room. “Kosovo?”

  Renner stood to his right, Niner to the left. He opened his left hand, palm up and felt Niner’s fingers take the transmitter. “Bosnia, actually.”

  “Nasty business from what I’ve been told.”

  “It was. Nothing like Iraq or Afghanistan, though.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Dawson decided to use the psych profile he had read on Renner. “Funny how we don’t get any credit for trying to save Muslims from the Serbs.”

  Renner grunted. “No, we’re apparently all anti-Muslim at war with their religion.” He sighed, pointing at two of the men in a photograph with him, all smiles, all young. “These two died in Kabul. Suicide bomber.”

  “So killed by the same people he was trying to save.”

  Renner turned and looked at him. “Exactly. For an FBI agent, you have a curiously refreshing way of looking at things.”

  Dawson smiled slightly. “We’re a long way from Washington.”

  “Indeed you are.” He motioned to the chairs and Dawson went to take his seat, but before he did he paused, turning back to the wall as Niner sa
t.

  “Is that an Iron Cross?”

  He immediately stepped over to the wall, admiring the rare medal, noting the Swastika in the center.

  “My grandfather’s. Awarded to him personally by Rommel.”

  “So serving the military runs in the family.”

  “It skipped a generation, my father instead focusing on business.” Renner waved his hand as he started to turn, Dawson spotting Niner sitting back down in his chair, adjusting himself to disguise the fact he had been standing. “In fact, he helped me start this company when I left the army.”

  “I read the profile before coming here. Quite impressive.”

  “Thank you.” Renner sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him as Dawson sat. “Now, how can I help you?”

  Dawson pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and slid it toward Renner. “The men on this list are all wanted in connection to recent thefts of archeological artifacts in Spain, Italy, Austria and France.”

  Renner took the envelope and pulled out the papers. “And what does that have to do with us?” he asked as he unfolded the pages. “Ahh, I see.” He flipped through them. “I recognize the names. We terminated them recently.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Renner folded the pages back up, returning them to the envelope. “I’m afraid that’s an internal matter.” He slid the envelope back toward Dawson with a single finger. “I can assure you however it was nothing serious, mostly salary disputes.”

  Dawson took the envelope, returning it to his pocket. “Salary disputes. None showed a desire to go private, perhaps take contracts outside of Renner Security?”

  Renner shrugged. “Not while here, though I’m sure they’re in need of an income, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they took a contract.”

  “True. Do you know where we can find them?”

  Renner smiled. “About the only thing I can tell you is that they are not at the addresses we have on file for them, otherwise you would have already found them.”

  Dawson smiled. “True.”

  Renner pressed a button on his desk then stood, ending the meeting, the song and dance merely a pretense for them to plant their transmitter, and for Renner to officially push the company line that these were former employees.