30 Pieces of Silver: An Extremely Controversial Historical Thriller

by McCray, Carolyn

  “Back away!” he yelled, even before the full threat formed in his mind. “Disperse!”

  The charred air filled with gunfire. Screw counting, Brandt thought, shooting rapidly as two masked men emerged from the crackling flames.

  The fuckers had fire-resistant body armor.

  Which meant they had the protection the entire time. Which meant they had taken their sweet time luring all three of his team together, to more easily dispatch them.

  Lopez and Svengurd tried to hold their ground, but had to fall back. As Brandt’s firing pin hit metal, he had no other option but to run as well. Scrambling low, he pulled the twenty-two-caliber handgun from his boot holster.

  Twelve bullets.

  The sergeant cursed his initial orders. Carrying all those non-lethals had left them vulnerable to this attack. They were prepared to take on a bunch of spear throwing, dart-blowing natives, not a veritable cadre of Special Forces soldiers.

  Firing to keep his attacker at bay ate up another five bullets. If he wasted many more staying alive, he wouldn’t have enough to save his life. As the smoke stung his eyes and choked his throat, he realized his mistake. After the initial skirmish, he had tried to go at these guys head-to-head.

  Fuck that. He needed to go back to his low-tech roots.

  Using the last of his bullets to ensure his route, the sergeant threw the gun away as he dove into the burning husk of a biplane. Brandt found what he needed quickly, then rolled out the other side. Despite the blistering heat, he crouched under the plane. At least one of those bastards was tracking him. Brandt would not underestimate them or their equipment again.

  When his tracker revealed himself, Brandt pretended to be surprised and narrowly missed being shot as a consequence, but he needed the man to feel confident enough to close the distance. Without any return fire from Brandt, the attacker became bolder as he circled the plane.

  Listening only for the man’s footfalls, Brandt bundled his muscles until they shook in anticipation. Another step and the sergeant launched up and threw the small fire ax in his hand. The man’s face was barely able to register shock before the blade sank into his skull. Without a sound, his assailant pitched backward and hit the ground.

  Scrambling over, Brandt grabbed the man’s gun and went to check the gun’s clip, but it wouldn’t budge. The sergeant hit the release again, but nothing. Was it jammed? Could he have somehow taken down the only terrorist with a jammed gun? Then Brandt realized his mistake.

  Shit. It wasn’t jammed. It was locked.

  And it was heavier than it should have been.

  He chucked the thing into the plane before it exploded. Again he got knocked on his ass.

  What had he just said? He wouldn’t underestimate their enemy or their equipment. Yet what had he just done?

  Weaponless again, he turned to find the last gunman staring at him. The man removed his face mask as a smile spread across his face. Circular tattoos wrapped around the assailant’s already dark eyes, forming a knot of some sort.

  “And they said you might be difficult to take down,” the man sneered with a slight accent Brandt couldn’t place.

  Maybe, just maybe, if he could keep the guy talking long enough, Lopez or Svengurd would find them. Of course, with fire licking up to the rafters and the smoke burning his nose hair, that wasn’t very likely.

  Brandt gritted his teeth. “Do you have orders to take me alive?”

  The smile broadened considerably. “No.”

  To prove his point, the assailant raised his weapon as something appeared in front of Brandt. He blinked once. It had to be a subconscious wish brought to life. Somehow a sniper rifle was floating before him. He didn’t question his luck as he grabbed the gun and fired in a single motion. He hit the assailant in the shoulder. This close, Brandt could see the blood splatter. He fired again into the left knee. With a scream, the man dropped to the ground.

  Once certain that the man wasn’t getting up again, Brandt chanced to discover where his luck had come from. Tied to the rifle’s sight was a thick chain. A pulley chain. He followed the metal up to see a figure high in the murky rafters.

  “Davidson!”

  “I think he would have shot the guy himself!” It was a female voice. Monroe. “Meet you outside!” the doctor yelled as the chain snaked its way back up into the rafters.

  Feeling pretty damned good, Brandt turned his attention back to his captive. He put a boot into the fucker’s splintered shoulder. To the guy’s credit, he locked his jaw against the pain.

  “Who sent you?” Brandt asked. His once-powerful opponent fought unsuccessfully against tears, but kept his lips taut. “Were you after Monroe or my team?”

  The way the man’s eyes flickered at the doctor’s name, Brandt already had his answer. Besides, who really would’ve spent this many resources to kill his team? Capture, torture, and interrogate. That was a reasonable course of action, but kill them out of hand? That made no sense.

  “Sarge?” Lopez’s soot-choked throat croaked out.

  “Here,” Brandt replied. “Svengurd?”

  The corporal appeared out of the smoke. “He’s already outside, securing the perimeter.”

  Brandt indicated their captive. “Help me get him up.”

  He made sure to take the bad shoulder as Lopez took the other. As they lifted him, the man’s painful grimace spread into a broad smile.

  That pit in Brandt’s stomach returned, and damn, but the guy was heavier than he should have been.

  * * *

  Rebecca stumbled on the Tarmac as an explosion rocked the hangar. The precarious metal roof crumpled inward. If they hadn’t just climbed down…

  But she didn’t have time to ponder such things as she helped Davidson over to the burnt-out shell of their SUV. She had intended to take him to the far side for some semblance of protection, but neither was going to make it that far. So as soon as they got within three feet of the vehicle, Rebecca let go, and they half-fell, half-sat down on the Tarmac.

  With her back to the Mercedes she had a perfect view of the furnace-like hangar. Licks of fire shot up through the roof as plumes of smoke rose high into the sky. One thing was for sure. Their presence in Belgium was no longer a secret.

  One thing not for sure was whether anyone else had survived. Given how long it had taken for her to make her way back to Davidson, climb up onto the roof herself, pull the private up, then descend to the ground, it had been more than enough time for the others to exit the hangar. She had expected them to greet her and maybe even help her with the kid. Instead, she and Davidson had found an empty Tarmac. Had one of the assailants survived? Had the explosion brought the roof down on Brandt’s head?

  “Do you think anybody survived?”

  “I don’t know, but why don’t you ask them?” Davidson answered.

  Rebecca looked to the north as three figures rounded the corner of the hangar. Relief spread until she realized they were coming at a dead run, and Brandt was yelling something she couldn’t make out. But she had learned from previous experience it never meant anything good.

  Ignoring the pain in her left rib cage and right knee, she rose.

  The sergeant’s voice could barely make it over the roaring flames. “Get Davidson up!”

  Before she could turn to the private, he was already on his feet. It was truly amazing what adrenaline could do for you.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked as Brandt drew to a halt.

  He ignored her but spoke to Davidson. “Can you fire?”

  “Are you crazy? Forget his shoulder, he’s taken two bullets to—”

  “I asked, ‘can you fire’?”

  Rebecca looked at the private. His eyes wanted to say yes, but the mere hesitation told them all that he was in no shape for combat.

  Brandt didn’t hesitate, though. Rather, he set up the sniper’s rifle on the hood of the SUV and aimed through the scope.

  Rebecca turned to Lopez. “I don’t understand.”

 
The corporal pointed into the distance. “Our ride is getting away.”

  She had to squint to see the vehicle speeding away along a dirt road, a small cloud of dust marking its trail.

  The sound of the rifle firing nearly deafened her.

  “Damn it!” Brandt said as he set up another shot.

  “I mean, how do we even know that’s them?” Rebecca asked, fearful that panic had gone to the sergeant’s head. “What if it’s just some family out for a ride in the country?”

  The sergeant didn’t look away from his scope as he answered. “Well, the RPG launcher sticking out the backseat window was my first clue.”

  He fired again and cursed again.

  Lopez added, “If we don’t obtain transportation, I’m not sure if we can hoof it out of here before they send in reinforcements by air.”

  Oh, God. She hadn’t even thought about that. The danger was over. Wasn’t it? How could it not be over?

  Another missed shot.

  Without thinking, Rebecca turned to Davidson. She almost felt guilty for not objecting as he hobbled forward and patted Brandt on the back.

  “I can fire, but I’m going to need some bracing.”

  The sergeant backed away from the gun. “Lopez, stabilize the gun. I’ll get his shoulder.”

  Rebecca couldn’t stomach the pain on the private’s face, so she watched the retreating car. After what seemed like forever, Davidson finally fired. The car swerved, then rolled to a stop as the horn blared. Rebecca couldn’t even make out the driver, yet the private had hit him. He was that damn good.

  “Those are some mad skills!” Lopez announced as he helped Davidson back away from the rifle.

  “Yeah, and I think it knocked my shoulder back in place.” To prove it, the private rotated his arm smoothly in a circle. “I need to write that down for future reference.”

  Looking at the young man shrug off an hour of horror, Rebecca knew where she was getting her next batch of grad students.

  “All right, Svengurd, go retrieve the vehicle,” Brandt barked. “Lopez, tend to their wounds while I pack for the road.”

  As the corporal knelt down to look at Davidson’s calf, Rebecca turned to Brandt. “Where are we going?”

  “Panthéon-Sorbonne.”

  Lochum. She had almost forgotten what had brought her to Europe in the first place. “Aren’t we worried they will ambush him as well?”

  “Of course they will.”

  Rebecca waited for an elaboration, which never came. “Then why aren’t they moving him?”

  “Your professor refuses to evac until his precious tests are completed.” Brandt didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his voice.

  Their discussion was interrupted as Davidson let out a yip. Lopez was pulling the uniform away from the private’s abdominal wound.

  Lopez snorted. “Wimp. Your vest took the brunt of the shot.”

  “Can you get the bullet out?” Brandt asked.

  Another yelp and Lopez held the bloody metal with his forceps. “Dude, you need to learn how to dodge.”

  Face screwed up in pain, Davidson still couldn’t let that barb go. “This from the guy who nearly decapitated himself on a tree branch last night?”

  Realizing the private was probably in better shape than she was, Rebecca turned back to Brandt. “Does Lochum know what happened here?”

  “Yes and he passed on a message. Something about how he’s picked up the trail on ‘some seasonal worker.’ ” Brandt turned toward her. “He said you’d know what that meant and agree it was worth the risk.”

  Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face and pool in her feet. The world tipped off its axis. Lochum had to be wrong.

  “Monroe, you okay?” The doctor vaguely heard Brandt’s concerned words as she swayed. Rebecca saw her arm fly out to avoid falling, but didn’t remember directing it to do so.

  Brandt lowered her to the ground. “Lopez!”

  She didn’t even register that the men’s hands were all over her, checking for wounds. Lochum could be many things, but an exaggerator he was not. He had dedicated his entire life to this pursuit. After surviving numerous attempts on his life, he had gone into hiding so that he could continue his work underground. The professor would never resurface unless the scent was fresh in his nostrils.

  “Is your vision blurry?” Lopez asked. She mustered a head shake. “Are you dizzy?” Another shake and Lopez turned to Brandt. “I don’t think its head trauma. The day’s just been a little too much for her, ya know?”

  Rebecca didn’t even get angry that Lopez assumed she was a lightweight. People learning this news would find themselves on the ground very quickly.

  “Dr. Monroe, I need you to tune back in. I don’t know how long we have until they come back.” Brandt tried to smile, but the motion only creased his grime-covered face. “We’ve got to get moving.”

  She could hear the Saab approaching, but still couldn’t stand. How could she if Lochum was right? This find would be the Holy Grail of the archaeological world. Better than the Holy Grail. The grail only caught Christ’s blood.

  Lochum sought Christ himself. More specifically, his remains. The corporeal, physical proof of Jesus’ earthly presence.

  Providence

  Jordan River

  AD 41

  Judas felt his right leg twinge as he picked up the half-finished saddle and placed it across the wooden plank. The seat itself was completed, but now for the tedious work of braiding the garnish. This great saddle had been commissioned by the commanding Tribunus of the legion posted at Bethany. A spool of fine gold filament to be stitched into the pommel was hidden deeply in Judas’ pocket. He would add that adornment last. Not that Judas did not trust his fellow villagers, but wheat was scarce and gold the scarcer.

  “Judas, Judas, Judas!” his nephew, Ameil, called as he darted through the throng as only a child of six could dart. “Come, come, come.”

  Ever since Ameil’s mother, Judas’ youngest sister, had died in childbirth with a stillborn, the boy had been speaking in threes. It was odd, surely, but Judas could not bring himself to scold the child. His father, Kyle, worked all the hours the sun was up. His grandmother, Judas’ mother, had taken ill again to bed, and his two aunts were great with child themselves. Therefore it had fallen to Judas to care for Ameil.

  He had grumbled at the nuisance, such as now when the boy jumped up and down with joy, stalling his work, but in truth Judas was amazed by Ameil’s sheer delight in life. Had he ever been so young? Running down the street, yelling at the top of his lungs?

  For too many years he had been working to save for dowries, but with his sisters married off, his shoulders became stooped with caring for his ailing mother. This young boy had become his prism into the past.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

  The child tugged on Judas’ rough-spun sleeve. The trouble was that Ameil could become this excited over a Roman legion bent on destruction, or a sparrow’s nest. But Judas’ palms burnt from weaving the tanned leather all morning. Perhaps a walk would not be misspent.

  Once Judas rose from his stool, the boy was off again, darting between a donkey and his owner. Chuckling, he trailed much more slowly, his knee reminding him just how old he had become.

  The day had been long even though the sun was halfway across the sky. But he could not complain, for at least he had his craft. Work had grown sparse as the tensions mounted between the Romans and his fellow citizens. The Zealots seemed to be on the verge of declaring war against the vast Empire.

  Judas hated the arrogant Roman presence as much as his brethren, but what would open fighting gain? Could they ever topple the burgundy-crested legions of Rome? Better to keep his head down and craft his saddle.

  Perhaps if the Tribunus were satisfied with Judas’ work, he would recommend him to the Praefectus. A few more such commissions and he might be able to afford his family’s travel to Jerusalem for Passover.

  As he moved through the packed streets, Jud
as realized he had not so much risen from his stool for Ameil’s excitement, but for his own curiosity. The village had been bustling for days now.

  Tension had been thick over the winter as a dreaded confrontation with Rome had seemed near, but yesterday and the day before Judas had sensed a subtle shift. Not quite excitement, but something dearer. Hope. A feeling the Chosen People had been without for too long.

  So Judas followed a small pilgrimage down to the riverbank. He had heard rumors of a great man come to grace them with his presence. Whispers of Elijah reborn floated through the Temple. But prophets came and went like the tide, so Judas had paid little heed. These charlatans would stir a most devoted following, then vanish with equal ease.

  This one’s name had been coined John the Baptist.

  “Here, here, here!” Ameil cried from a knoll overlooking the river.

  With only the smallest glimmer of optimism that someone truly great was in attendance, Judas stepped beside his nephew.

  This supposed prophet, praying in water up to his thighs, looked not unlike so many others, with a wild beard and thick curly hair, cut abruptly at the shoulders. He prayed with enormous passion as he held his hand upon the supplicant’s head.

  But unlike the others who had come before, this John the Baptist cared nothing for the growing crowds. His full attention focused on the man kneeling before him. The charlatans who preceded John had expended their full energies to rile the villagers. They would espouse their superiority and inevitably call for Rome’s downfall. That this, the world they lived in, was the end of days. How every man within shouting distance must bow to their authority or be doomed for all eternity.

  Yet this John just stood calmly in the water, reciting a prayer so full of promise that Judas found himself not only murmuring the blessing, but feeling the words in his heart. The man seemed to breathe life into God’s message. Even little Ameil stood perfectly still, watching John with huge eyes. Judas took the boy’s hand. This was a moment they would remember. A true servant of God stood before them.