The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  “So long, so close, and yet so far.”

  “What do you mean?” Bartholomew could feel a knot in his stomach begin to form as he sensed bad news was about to be delivered. Could Marco be dead?

  “Marco Polo, his father and his uncle, left several months ago to escort a princess to her wedding in Persia, then they are to return home to Venice.”

  Bartholomew collapsed into his pillows, all strength leaving him. Ten years of hardship. Ten years of pain. And if he had just travelled with Angelo, stopped in Venice and waited, he would have had more success.

  Ten years wasted!

  Tears welled in his eyes as self-pity swept over him, his mind cursing Giuseppe for this promise, Angelo for getting the easier part of the journey, and Marco Polo for having forced his slave to deliver the crystal idol to the Pope in the first place.

  The thought of the Pope had him awash in shame just as quickly as he realized his self-pity had twisted everything. Giuseppe loved his master, and his master apparently loved him, even having given him papers granting his freedom. Giuseppe had become too ill to fulfill his final mission and had entrusted that responsibility to his two best friends.

  I’m sorry Giuseppe!

  Tears rolled down his cheeks as he realized he had failed. He turned his head in shame, burying the side of his face in his pillow as his chest and shoulders heaved in sobs.

  “What is it that troubles you?”

  Bartholomew sucked in a breath and held it, fighting off the sobs through sheer willpower, finally exhaling then wiping his cheeks dry with the sheet covering him. He turned back to the doctor, his eyes burning from the tears.

  “I have failed.”

  “Failed? How?”

  “I have a message for Marco Polo from his former slave. It was essential that he receive it.”

  “You mean that?” asked the man, pointing at a nearby table. Bartholomew looked and saw his carefully preserved scroll sitting on it. It was everything he could do to not leap from the bed and take it.

  “Yes.”

  “And it was from Giuseppe?”

  “You know of him!”

  “Of course. Marco and I became very close friends over the seventeen years he spent with us. He spoke very often of Giuseppe with great fondness. He was deeply saddened when he never heard back from him, and eventually he came to accept that Giuseppe must have failed in his mission and died. He held a memorial for the man he called his brother and wept in his honor.” The man wiped a tear from his own eye. “It was very moving.”

  Bartholomew motioned for some water and it was immediately brought to him. He quickly gulped it down as both men composed themselves. Before he could speak, the doctor continued.

  “It occurs to me that you have not failed in your mission.”

  “I fail to see how.”

  “Your mission is to deliver the message to Marco. Just because Marco is no longer here does not mean you have failed.”

  Bartholomew sank back in his pillows slowly as he realized what the man said was true. Even if he had to travel all the way back to Venice to deliver the message, as long as it was eventually delivered, he would have succeeded. A smile spread across his face.

  “Do you have any suggestions as to how I might accomplish this feat?”

  The man nodded, his own smile stretching across his face.

  “Kublai Khan himself has asked to meet with you. I am certain if we asked him, he would fund an expedition to return you safely to Venice.”

  “We?”

  The smile broadened even further. “Yes, we. I have every intention of coming with you so I can see my friend once again.”

  Horseshoe Lane, Potomac, Maryland

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  “This must be it,” said Niner as the car they had been following for the past fifteen minutes pulled off the road and into the drive of what appeared to be an old farmhouse. Dawson continued to drive without slowing down as Niner punched a button on his phone, marking the GPS location.

  A large stand of trees at the corner of the next neighbor’s property provided good cover and Dawson stopped. Niner already had his binoculars trained on the house when Dawson retrieved his from the backseat.

  “She’s getting out now,” said Niner.

  Dawson followed the driveway to the house and saw the Hispanic woman standing uncertainly, her purse clutched tight to her chest. A door opened and a man stepped out.

  “Gun.”

  Dawson nodded. “This is it. Call it in.”

  Niner tapped his comm. “Control, Bravo Eleven. Possible location on target at GPS coordinates I am transmitting now.” He pressed a button on his phone. “Requesting immediate backup—”

  “And eyes in the sky,” said Dawson.

  “—and aerial surveillance, over.”

  “Bravo Eleven, Control. Request confirmed, standby, over.”

  “There he is,” said Dawson as he saw Grant Jackson step out onto the porch, urging a reluctant servant inside. As soon as the woman saw him she ran to him, hugging him hard as they were ushered inside by the armed man.

  “He’s alive,” said Niner, activating his comm again. “Control, Bravo Eleven. Confirmed sighting of target and at least one armed hostile, over.”

  “Bravo Eleven, Control. Units are rolling your way now, ETA fifteen minutes. Drone has been retasked, will be on your location in five, over.”

  “Roger that, Control, out.”

  Niner swung their tactical computer, mounted to the dash and punched up the feed from the UAV. Within moments they had an overhead shot rapidly speeding by as the UAV acquired the target.

  “Fifteen minutes,” repeated Niner. “This could be all over by then.”

  “Agreed,” said Dawson. “But that place could be crawling with HT’s and there’s only two of us.”

  Niner nodded. “If only there was two of me, then we could go in.”

  Dawson laughed then stopped as he saw a curtain move and a set of eyes looking directly at them.

  “We’ve been made.”

  Horseshoe Lane, Potomac, Maryland

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  “We’ve got company!” called Chuck Holder as he stepped back from the window. Grant’s heart leapt, not sure of how he felt. He was after all a hostage to these men and was quite certain, though he had decided to cooperate for the moment, they had no intention of letting him go, even if he asked. He eyed the front door. All he had to do was cross the room, open it, then run outside. He knew they wouldn’t shoot him, that much was already obvious to him. And if Louisa had brought the letter, they wouldn’t need him regardless.

  You’d be free!

  “Are you sure?” asked Mitch, immediately stepping to the window and peeking outside. “Where?”

  “Stand of trees, just down the road.”

  “Shit! I see them.” He turned to the room. “Let’s go, now!”

  Grant’s grand plans of escape had one flaw. Louisa. She was still hugging him hard, gripping him like a vice, as if he were the one piece of dry land in a sea of insanity, and if she were to let go she’d drown.

  Grant could barely move.

  Mitch grabbed him by the shoulder. “Let’s go, now!”

  Grant removed his arms from Louisa. “We have to go,” he whispered. She released her grip from around his waist and instead grabbed his arm as he followed his captors, or partners—he wasn’t sure which—to the basement, which to him seemed an odd choice.

  Once down the narrow stairs, Mitch stepped over to a wall and pushed against a shelf that to Grant’s surprise swung inward. Mitch motioned everyone to hurry and as Grant entered this hidden room, he gasped. Inside were two full-size SUVs at the head of what looked like a fairly long tunnel. Mitch opened the rear door of one of the vehicles, motioning Grant and Louisa inside.

  “You’ve got the letter, right?” he asked Louisa.

  Louisa nodded, pulling it out of her purse and handing it to Grant. H
e knew exactly why Mitch had asked again—Louisa was in such a panic, she might have left it in her car, or worse, back at the house. Grant looked at the envelope, confirming it was indeed the one he had received from the lawyer when the will was read.

  “This is it,” he said. Mitch slammed the door shut in acknowledgement, then jumped in the passenger seat, Chuck already at the wheel. The SUV surged forward and into the tunnel. Grant glanced back and saw the headlights of the second SUV bouncing behind them.

  He wasn’t sure how long it was before they suddenly angled up then skid to a halt, but it felt like a significant distance to him, easily hundreds of yards. Chuck reached up and pressed a button and a garage door opener kicked in, opening the doors blocking them. As soon as the doors stopped Chuck hammered on the gas, sending them hurtling toward the entrance.

  “Easy,” soothed Mitch. “Remember, we want to look like we’re out for a Sunday drive.”

  Chuck eased off on the gas as they emerged from the tunnel. Grant looked back to see the other SUV right behind them, the garage door of a small farmhouse closing behind it. He turned back to face the front as they pulled onto a road, their escape made.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked, having to admit he was impressed.

  “Tunnel. Most of our safe houses have at least one. Gets us out of a lot of jams.”

  “I guess so.”

  Mitch turned in his seat.

  “Now, how about we see what’s in that envelope.”

  Grant nodded, his chest tightening as he eyed the envelope for a moment, then tore open the end. Tipping it, a key fell out on his lap. He picked it up and looked at it.

  Mitch held out his hand. “How about I take that.”

  Grant refrained from frowning, knowing he had no choice but to comply. He handed over the key then pulled out the letter. He looked at Louisa and he knew she understood his pain. She squeezed his leg and nodded, her lips pressed firmly together to prevent them from trembling, her eyes glistening with tears ready to escape down her cheeks.

  He unfolded the letter and began to read. Almost immediately tears poured from his eyes and he had to wipe them dry to focus.

  My son,

  If you are reading this, then I am dead. But more importantly, an essential undertaking of mine is incomplete. I know this may seem heartless, but the fact I am entrusting this most important task to you should demonstrate how important you are to me, how proud I am of you, and how much I trust you.

  I am a member of a secret organization called the Triarii. I won’t explain it here to you now, and it is critical you mention it to no one. After following my instructions, those you will meet will explain it to you. I have, in my possession, an important artifact that must be delivered to my friends in the Triarii. Below is an address for a storage unit where I have left important documents, and most importantly, the artifact.

  You must, using a burner phone, or some other means that can’t be traced, call the number below and arrange to meet one of the members of the Triarii. If he’s lucky, my friend Mitch Reynolds will still be alive. Ask for him personally. When you meet him, you will note that he has a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist, exactly like the one I have, and a scar across the top of his right hand.

  Give him this letter, and follow his instructions. And ask him any questions you may have about me and the Triarii.

  I love you, son, and have every faith that you will carry out my final wishes as ably as I know you are capable of.

  Yours,

  Dad

  Grant dropped his hands to his lap, looking out the window as the farms whipped by. He held his breath, trying not to sob as he struggled for control of his emotions. He felt Louisa’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, infusing some level of comfort into him.

  Wiping his eyes, he turned back to the others. “Here,” he said, handing the letter to Mitch. “I was supposed to contact you. The address for a storage locker is at the bottom.”

  Mitch smiled, a genuine smile Grant felt, his eyes conveying sympathy for what Grant had just gone through. “I told you we were friends.” He turned to face the front, grabbing the GPS and punching in the address from the letter.

  “Good,” said Chuck. “We’ve been heading in the right direction. Should be there in ten.”

  Mitch turned back and looked at Grant then Louisa.

  “Don’t worry, it’s almost over.”

  Grant nodded, his feelings mixed. Simply handing over his father’s life work, no matter how insane it might sound to him right now, just didn’t feel right. He looked at Louisa, terror still written all over her face, and he knew he had to get her to safety, his decision made for him.

  Horseshoe Lane, Potomac, Maryland

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  “Here they come,” said Dawson, pointing ahead at two black SUV’s racing toward their position. He activated his comm as he started the engine and pulled a U-turn back onto the road. “Bravo Two, Bravo One. I want team one on the front of the house, team two to the rear, enter through the front on my mark. Unknown number of hostiles, two friendlies on site—one Grant Jackson, the other a Hispanic female, mid-fifties. Remember, we’re here to rescue hostages, shoot to kill is authorized, over.”

  Dawson brought the SUV to a halt and jumped out as Red acknowledged the instructions, his SUV rounding the house as the other, Sergeant First Class Will “Spock” Lightman at the wheel, quietly came to a halt behind them. The doors opened, Spock, Trip “Mickey” McDonald and the massive Leon “Atlas” James exiting, leaving their doors open so no one inside would hear them slamming shut.

  Using hand signals, Dawson directed Mickey and Atlas to the corners as he, Niner and Spock rushed the porch. Over the comm he heard Red’s voice. “Bravo One, Bravo Two. In position, over.”

  “Bravo Team, Bravo One. Execute in three-two-one-Execute!”

  Niner yanked the screen door open and Dawson booted open the front door. Spock rushed in followed by Niner then Dawson, Spock breaking left, Niner right, Dawson advancing straight forward.

  “Clear!” called Niner, quickly followed by Spock. Red and his team announced the all clear as well as Dawson advanced up the stairs to the second floor, Spock and Niner joining him. Within minutes the above ground floors were cleared. The team congregated at the entrance to the basement.

  “The element of surprise is no longer ours,” said Dawson. “Let’s try to negotiate their release.” He turned to Red. “Secure the perimeter. I don’t want somebody escaping out a storm cellar door.” Red nodded and immediately headed out the rear door with two of the team. Dawson opened the door and listened.

  Nothing.

  Something’s not right.

  “Federal Agent. You are completely surrounded. Drop your weapons and send up the hostages, and you won’t be harmed.”

  He listened and there was no response. He looked at Niner and motioned for him to follow as he took the first step, his weapon and flashlight extended in front of him, the light off for the moment, not wanting to present a perfect target as there seemed to be lights on in the basement. Each step creaked painfully loud and Dawson knew they were sitting ducks if this turned into a firefight.

  But he was going on instinct. He knew something wasn’t right, and he had a gut feeling that this was London all over again. As he reached the floor he found an empty basement, just as he suspected. A shelf to his left was at an odd angle and he rounded it and shook his head.

  “What is it?” asked Niner.

  Dawson stepped into the open area behind the fake wall and shone his flashlight down the long tunnel to the right as Niner stepped through.

  “Aww for Christ’s sake,” cried Niner. “How the hell do you dig a tunnel that big and that long without anyone noticing!”

  Dawson pointed at the aging timbers supporting it.

  “You do it a century or two ago.” He pointed down the tunnel. “You and Mickey see where it comes out. Radio when you get there. It can’t g
o too far. I’ll check to see if our eye in the sky spotted anything.”

  Niner and Mickey took off at a run down the dark tunnel, their flashlights bouncing off the walls as Dawson examined the basement for any clues. All he spotted out of the ordinary was a cot with a pair of handcuffs sitting on it. Returning upstairs he updated everyone over the comms to stand down, then contacted Control with an update. Colonel Clancy’s voice responded.

  “Bravo One, Control Actual. Review of the footage shows two black SUV’s exiting a garage about three hundred meters to your due east, turning north. We’re redeploying our bird to track them. FBI should be on your scene within three minutes. Redeploy to the north, we will feed you directions as we have them, over.”

  Dawson motioned for those within sight to rally the troops and join him outside. “Roger that, Control Actual. I have two men on recon down the tunnel. Will retrieve them and redeploy north, out.”

  Dawson’s comm squawked and Niner’s voice came in, slightly breathless. “Bravo One, Bravo Eleven. Nothing here. We’re at a farmhouse a few hundred meters to your east.” There was a pause. “Are you picking us up? Over?”

  Dawson grinned, as did the others as they climbed in their vehicles.

  “Bravo Eleven, Bravo One. You sound kind of winded. Extra PT for you when we get back to Bragg. In the meantime I’ll pick you up, out.”

  Dawson gunned his vehicle around the house and across the field behind it, Niner and Mickey in the distance waving. The first set of directions appeared on the tactical computer mounted to the dash. Dawson glanced at it, frowning.

  Wherever they were going, they’re probably there already.

  Eagle National Storage, Potomac, Maryland

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Mitch was the first to exit the vehicle leaving Chuck to open the rear doors, the child locks apparently engaged as Grant discovered when he tried to open the door himself. By the time he and Louisa were out, Mitch had already pulled open the door of the storage unit. Grant looked around before entering. They appeared to be alone, nobody at this time of the evening apparently interested in storing or retrieving anything, at least not down this long lane of units.