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

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  “How quickly can you insert us?” asked Sherrie.

  “Within the hour.”

  Dawson nodded, pleased with the speed. We just might catch up to them. “How?”

  “I’ll deliver you myself,” said David with a smile, turning and pointing to a white cube van with UN markings.

  “Ahh, a diplomatic vehicle,” said Dawson with a smile.

  “How will you get us through their checkpoint?” asked Sherrie. “Won’t they want to search it?”

  “Good question,” said David as they walked toward the vehicle, “if we were using a border crossing. We will use one of our—shall we say ‘express?—methods of entry.”

  Dawson and Sherrie exchanged glances.

  “Can’t wait,” said Sherrie as she climbed into the back of the already opened van. The eight man Delta team, including Dawson, joined her, David closing then locking the back. Dawson frowned, not liking that part. He turned to his men.

  “Anyone have C4?”

  Several nods and the patting of a pocket or two was the response.

  “Good. Let’s keep in mind we have keys just in case our friend decides not to let us out.”

  There were several chuckles as the van started to roll.

  Toward what he wasn’t sure. Were they about to simply escort the professors and their INTERPOL friend out of the West Bank? Were they going to have to fight those who had brought them in—most likely terrorists? Would Jackson’s kidnappers be there? Would Jackson himself be there? And whose side would he be on? And would the Triarii be there, manipulating things in the background as they always did?

  I hate cults. Give me a good terror cell any day.

  South East of Jericho, West Bank, Israel

  Present day, three days after the kidnapping

  “You can take your hoods off,” said a voice that sounded much like Alamar. Acton yanked his off immediately, breathing a sigh of relief as he was finally able to take a full breath without sucking in the cloth or feeling the humidity from his lungs fill the bag. He looked about, giving Laura a squeeze on the leg and a nod to Reading who looked equally relieved. His eyes rested on Alamar.

  “When did you get here?”

  Alamar turned in his seat. “I came through a few minutes after you, just in case there was a problem.”

  “I see,” said Acton. “Why stick your own neck out when you can stick someone elses?”

  Alamar threw his head back and laughed. “Exactly!”

  “Where are we?” asked Acton, noticing they weren’t on a road but instead some type of trail.

  “We’re almost there. We’re taking back roads to avoid the checkpoints.”

  “I thought this was Palestinian territory?” asked Laura, leaning forward and looking ahead.

  “Hah! That’s what you are meant to believe! The reality is less than twenty percent of the land is controlled by Palestinians. Another twenty percent the Israeli’s graciously let us administer while their soldiers watch over us. The rest, the vast majority, is under complete Israeli control, including the area where you want to go.”

  Laura looked at Acton then back at Alamar, her expression one of concern. “What will happen if we’re stopped?”

  Alamar slapped the AK-47 sitting in his lap. “We kill them, or they kill us.”

  Acton didn’t like the sound of that and hoped for everyone’s sake the rest of their journey was uneventful. He suddenly tweaked on what was said. “We’re almost there already?”

  Alamar nodded. “This isn’t Kansas, Professor. The West Bank is maybe forty kilometers wide. If we could take the highway we would have been there long ago.”

  A burst of Arabic from the driver and some pointing.

  “It looks like we fight!” yelled Alamar as a military jeep crested a ridge in front of them, four men jumping out, automatic weapons at the ready. The driver hammered on the brakes and they skidded to a halt on the dirt road. Alamar and the driver jumped out along with two other men who were in the back with Acton, Laura and Reading. Gunfire erupted from all around them and Acton could see one of the Israeli soldiers already on the ground, wounded. He was grabbed by a comrade and pulled to the other side of their jeep, the other two providing cover fire as they retreated to the other side.

  Acton looked out the back and saw no one. He climbed over the rear seats and stepped out. The two men from the back were on either side of the vehicle, near the opened front doors, firing at the Israeli patrol. The windshield took several hits, the bullets racing through and tearing up the cabin. Acton looked at Laura and Reading.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said in a harsh whisper. Laura jumped over the seats, Reading following and the three of them were soon running away from the vehicle, keeping it between them and the Israelis. They cleared a ridge and dropped to the ground. Acton scrambled back up and looked, the gun battle continuing, one of the terrorists now on the ground, the sides evenly matched at three apiece.

  Acton pulled out his phone and activated the GPS. He turned to the others. “Let’s follow this ridge and go around them. According to this”—he shook his phone—“we’re only two kilometers west of the monastery.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Reading. “The Israeli’s will be sending in reinforcements any minute now.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Laura, turning and running at a crouch along the bottom of the ridge. Acton grinned at Reading then followed, the gunfire quickly fading. They turned east, toward the monastery, and within about ten minutes Acton came to a halt.

  “The shooting stopped.”

  Laura and Reading paused and listened as well.

  “I wonder who won?” asked Laura, resuming their walk. “I hope it was the Israeli’s.”

  “Just remember, those bastards were our way out. Now we’re stuck in Palestinian territory, having illegally entered. Even if we get this blasted skull, we have no way out.”

  “You heard Alamar. This is Israeli controlled. We just need to turn ourselves in, claim we were kidnapped, and get things straightened out at the embassy,” said Acton.

  “Riiight, with a bloody crystal skull slung over your shoulder.” Reading shook his head. “They’ll confiscate it—defeating the entire purpose of this trip—and toss us in jail for antiquities theft. You two will probably just get more street cred or whatever the hell it is you Americans call it, and I’ll lose my job.”

  “That’s the spirit!” laughed Acton as they crested a ridge. He pointed. “That must be it.”

  Below, a well maintained road crossed from north to south, and beyond that was a cluster of buildings, many looking quite old.

  “It must be,” agreed Laura as they crossed toward the road. A quick scan up and down showed it empty.

  “We still need a plan to get out of here,” reminded Reading as they walked up the small drive toward a large parking area before the walled compound.

  “One thing at a time,” replied Acton. “Maybe we call the tourist bureau for help getting out.”

  “Tourist bureau?” asked Reading.

  Acton realized he hadn’t given that detail of his conversation with the airport customs officer who was Triarii. He decided not to get into it now as the entrance of the monastery neared. “Look on the bright side,” he said, turning to Reading. “Maybe the skull isn’t even here, and we can just get arrested for trespassing instead of trespassing and theft!” He grinned.

  Reading frowned. “Bloody Yanks and their sense of humor.” He turned to Laura. “And you better watch yourself. You’re becoming just like him!”

  Laura laughed and wrapped an arm around Acton’s waist. “I wouldn’t have it any other way!”

  Reading threw his head in the air in frustration as they passed through the gates. The monastery appeared to be a tourist attraction now, but apparently not a very popular one since the parking area was empty save a truck that appeared to belong to the monks.

  “We’re not open yet,” called a voice. Acton turned to see
a middle-aged woman approaching along the south wall. “You’re welcome to wait, of course, but we don’t open for a few more hours.” The woman came to a halt, her jaw dropping. “Are you Professor Acton?”

  Acton flushed slightly, and nodded. “Yes I am. Do we know each other?”

  The woman’s hand flew to her chest. “You know me? Heaven’s no. But I of course know about you. And you must be Professor Palmer! I feel like I’m meeting celebrities!”

  Acton wasn’t sure what to say, but decided to play on the woman’s apparent celebrity worship. “We were hoping to see the burial sites. Specifically those from around the late thirteenth century?”

  “Of course! Of course! The Abbot will be thrilled to meet you. He’s an archeology buff as am I. We’ve both followed your career with great interest. I have all of the National Geographic articles on you, newspaper articles—oh, just everything!” She suddenly turned to Reading. “Are you anybody?”

  Reading shook his head. “Apparently not.”

  The woman eyed him for a few more seconds, then waved for them to follow her inside. Acton grinned at Reading and whispered.

  “You’re somebody to me, Hugh.”

  Reading slugged him in the shoulder.

  Unknown Location, Israel

  Present day, three days after the kidnapping

  Dawson instinctively ran his finger over his Glock as someone unlocked the rear door of their delivery vehicle. The door was thrown open and a smiling “David” stood there, Dawson positive that wasn’t their Mossad contact’s name any more than Mr. White was his.

  “Delivered, as promised. And in less than thirty minutes, I might add,” he said with a wag of the finger and a grin. “Israel expects a big tip for helping you retrieve President Jackson’s son.”

  Dawson climbed out and looked about before turning to David. “Well, the White House is currently Democratic, and Jackson was Republican, so you might have to wait awhile for that favor.”

  David roared in laughter, clearly more comfortable where they now were. From what he could tell they were still at a military installation, just a different one, this not an airport, however at least half a dozen black, heavily armed helicopters were within sight along with mock-up training areas. If he had to guess, they were now at a Mossad base.

  Agent White joined them, helped down by Niner. She looked about and turned to David.

  “Where are we?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, and I haven’t had lunch yet.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that’s all that’s holding you back,” said Sherrie.

  David tossed his head back, laughing. “You are the first female CIA agent I have met. In Israel we have let our women participate in all areas of the military for a long time—after all, there weren’t many of us to defend against a sea of Arabs who wanted to kill us just because of our religion. Telling our women to stay at home and tie a yellow ribbon on the old oak tree wasn’t an option.” He extended his hand, apparently now thinking she was worthy of hearing his alias. “David.”

  “Agent Black.”

  “Of course it is!”

  She grinned then stopped as a man approached.

  “Your chopper is ready,” said the man to David who nodded then turned to Dawson. “It’s time. We will insert you near the monastery and out of sight of any patrols or locals. Two vehicles have been pre-positioned for you. The monastery is north of your position on the right—you can’t miss it.”

  Dawson looked over the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter that was starting to power up. “Extraction?”

  David handed him a radio. “It’s already tuned to the frequency. You are Sheep Dog, we are Goliath. Extraction code is Lightning and should you need assistance as in some firepower, the code is Thunder. Got it?”

  Dawson raised his eyebrows. “Sheep Dog?”

  David shrugged his shoulders. “My choice. I kind of like it.”

  “Sure you do,” replied Dawson as he climbed aboard the now roaring Black Hawk. David stayed outside. “Not coming with us?”

  David shook his head. “No need. I’ll see you when you get back. Good luck, Mr. White.”

  Dawson gave him a casual salute then held out a hand, pulling Sherrie into the chopper. As the rest boarded, he wondered how far off mission they really were. Their job was to retrieve Grant Jackson, not save Professor Acton from another one of his “situations”. Then again he usually didn’t intentionally get himself into trouble, trouble just seemed to follow him. But from all outward appearances he and the good doctor Palmer, along with their friend Reading, had willingly entered the West Bank. Mossad thought they were kidnapped, but he knew that was just a ploy set up by Kane. This very helicopter they were on was Israeli cooperation in retrieving a citizen of an ally, and if they knew what was really going on, they’d probably toss them all out of the country.

  But Dawson had a hunch that everything was somehow connected. There was no way that Acton would be in Munich then Israel, with the Triarii only hours behind them, if that. It appeared that Jackson’s kidnappers were following Acton for some reason, and he could think of only one, a crystal skull, which meant once again his men’s lives were at risk over a chunk of rock.

  It pissed him off, especially after what had happened in Peru and London. Manipulated by a madman, and now, once again, they were being manipulated. Not by one man, but by events beyond their control.

  But if we can get there first, we might be able to put an end to it.

  The Black Hawk rose off the ground, its nose dipping forward as it picked up speed.

  “ETA five minutes,” said the pilot over the comm.

  “Equipment check!” ordered Dawson, his men immediately pulling out their body armor and weapons from their bags. They were travelling light so if they ended up in a heavy firefight, he just might need that Thunder code. And if they were only five minutes away, it just might arrive fast enough to save their skins.

  Fatah. Hamas. Israeli patrols. Good Triarii. Bad Triarii.

  Dawson shook his head.

  Hopefully the monks are friendly.

  Unknown Location, West Bank, Israel

  Present day, three days after the kidnapping

  Grant Jackson crept forward in the dark, longing for the dangling bulbs far behind them. He could hear Mitch’s footsteps ahead of him, as well as the rest of their group behind him, the occasional grumble erupting when someone would step on someone else’s heel. When he had given his speech a few nights ago he would never have expected three days later to be in a terrorist tunnel entering the West Bank with a cult of what he was afraid were nuts after a piece of carved crystal, apparently willingly.

  He could guarantee to everyone including his God that there was no place he rather wouldn’t be than here. If he could drill a hole through the planet and push up somewhere near home, he’d do it. If he could pinch himself out of this nightmare, he’d do it.

  God I wish I could turn back time and not get on that helicopter.

  He should have stayed with Louisa, should have made sure she was safe, and ended his involvement with these people when he had the chance. His obsession with that moment in time was becoming all-consuming and he could think of little else. Brief bouts of hating his father for being involved with these people provided little relief from the moment in time he seemed now trapped in.

  “We’re here,” said Mitch in front of him and Grant stopped. “Give me a minute.”

  Grant heard Mitch begin to climb the stupidly steep stairs—why not just make it a ladder?—and a few minutes later the coded knock at the top. There was an answering knock and a light appeared above as the opening was revealed. Grant began to climb the steps and when he reached the top he felt two strong arms on him, yanking him the rest of the way. He looked about, blinking in the bright light and was shocked to find at least half a dozen weapons pointed at him, ushering him to the far wall where Mitch stood with his arms held up. Grant stood beside him, turning to face the room
, his own arms high.

  “What’s going on?” he whispered.

  “Don’t know, but they’re pissed about something.”

  The rest of the surprised group were hauled out one by one, each stripped of their weapons, nobody bothering to warn the others. If they were pissed at this end of the tunnel, they were sure to be pissed at the other end, so retreat wasn’t possible. In fact retreat would probably get them all killed.

  As the final member of their team was pulled out, the hole was quickly covered and one of the terrorists, his face covered with a balaclava, stepped forward. “Who is in charge here?”

  Mitch stepped forward slightly. “Clearly you, sir, are in charge here. I am in charge of my men only.”

  The man paused as he probably replayed the words in his head, trying to determine if he had just been insulted. There was a grunt that seemed to suggest he was satisfied with Mitch’s reply.

  “There has been a problem. You will come with us.”

  Mitch nodded. “Of course we will, but first, we must have our weapons back.”

  The man looked at the pile of weaponry far nicer than anything they were sporting. He nodded, barking something in Arabic. Mitch and his crew rearmed as Grant continued to stand against the wall, hands up.

  Mitch walked over and handed Grant a Glock 22. “Do you know how to use this?”

  Grant nodded. “My Dad taught me.”

  “Good. Try not to shoot any of us,” said Mitch with a grin, handing him two extra magazines. “You’re one of us now.”

  Grant’s chest tightened to the point where he was certain a panic attack or a heart attack was setting in. He secretly prayed for a heart attack to strike him down dead, right then and there, so this nightmare would be over.

  But instead he felt Mitch’s hand on his back, urging him forward. As they stepped from the room, they were each handed a black sack to put over their heads once again.

  Lovely.

  “Get in the truck then cover your heads,” ordered the man in charge. “We will leave immediately.”