Niner turned, parking beside the bus as the doors all opened, everyone jumping out, weapons at the ready. Dawson activated his comm, stuffing the Israeli radio in his belt. “Bravo Two, Bravo One. Status, over?”
Red’s voice came back immediately. “Team two in position, over.”
Dawson looked past the bus and saw the group approaching their vehicles. We have to take them before they gain that cover! He motioned for Atlas and Spock to go to the other end of the bus and once in position, he held in his comm button. “Execute in three—two—one—Execute!”
He burst from around the back of the bus, Niner and Sherrie flanking him, weapons extended in front of them as he saw Red and his team explode from either end of their bus.
“US Army!” shouted Dawson as he rushed forward. “If you move, you die!”
Several of the men reached for their weapons but with nine armed operatives rushing them, they immediately stopped, hands shooting up into the air, some eagerly like Grant Jackson’s, others much more leisurely. Stepping away from the group were the two professors and Special Agent Reading, who had his hand on the back of an old monk.
Acton approached him as Dawson’s team quickly disarmed the men, lining them up against the side of the bus. “Man, am I glad to see you!” exclaimed the professor, his hand extended.
Dawson shook the man’s hand with a smile. “A little birdie told me you might need help.”
Acton shook his head, still smiling. “I only asked for a ride, not an armed escort.”
Dawson nodded toward the group of men by the bus. “Looks like you needed one.”
“Agreed,” said Acton as Laura Palmer approached and shook Dawson’s hand.
“Thank you so much, Sergeant Major. You have a knack for showing up just in time.”
Dawson nodded. “Just like the movies.”
Suddenly gunfire erupted from behind them, the windows of the bus shattering. Dawson shoved Laura to the ground as he whipped around, using his right leg to sweep Acton off his feet. As Dawson hit the ground, his weapon extending in front of him, he counted at least half a dozen vehicles racing toward them, men hanging out of the windows and doors, a mix of weapons firing wildly as their vehicles bounced on the uneven road.
“Take cover!” yelled Dawson as tourists screamed, running toward the walls of the monastery. Dawson immediately emptied a mag into the engine of the lead vehicle, bringing it to a steaming halt, the next vehicle ramming the back of it causing the entire convoy to jerk to a stop. “Get inside!” he yelled, pointing at the Triarii weapons. “And take their weapons!”
Dawson and Acton grabbed Laura, Reading already with a weapon as the four of them raced toward the entrance that stood about sixty feet away. Dawson reloaded and looked over his shoulder, firing several rounds, two of them true. To his left he spotted two elderly tourists trying to escape the gunfire, their legs just too slow to save them. He broke off from the professors and raced toward the old couple, the elderly man, his arm around his wife, trying to help her as best he could.
As Dawson approached, the dirt began to explode in front of him in small bursts as an automatic weapon missed him but raced toward the couple. The old man turned and Dawson recognized the look of someone who knew he was going to die. Two bullets tore into his side, sending him to the ground, his wife screaming in horror as she tried to bend over and help her fallen partner.
Dawson scooped her up and carried her protesting form toward the entrance of the compound, and glancing over his shoulder he saw that Acton and Reading had picked up the body of the old man and were close behind, once again renewing his respect for these men.
As he cleared the entrance he broke to the left, putting down the old woman then taking up position at the gate as his men poured through along with the Triarii prisoners. Several tourists were trapped in the parking area, some huddling behind vehicles, others running toward the entrance, still others either writhing on the ground in pain, or unmoving, their nightmare over.
The attacking vehicles had emptied themselves of their occupants, the militants spreading out, pouring fire on the monastery. “Is everyone okay?” he yelled, looking about and doing a quick headcount.
“We’re all good,” yelled Red.
“Conserve your ammo! Make every shot count!” ordered Dawson, now regretting the decision to travel light.
“How can we help?” came a voice to Dawson’s right. He spun and saw three men, Stars and Stripes worn proudly on their person through patches, ball caps and pins, all looking to be about seventy. Dawson recognized the look immediately.
These guys are vets.
Dawson pointed to Atlas. “Arm them.” He pointed at the Triarii group. “Guard them.” He pointed to the old man who had been wounded outside. “Any of you a medic?”
One man stepped forward. “Sergeant Webber, retired! I was a corpsman in ’Nam.”
“Good. Niner!”
Niner tossed a med kit to the man who immediately went to work, the other two taking up position and covering the nine prisoners, lining them up against the very wall now being peppered by a near constant barrage of weapons fire.
He heard something behind him and turned to see another group of older men approaching and he felt his heart swell with pride in his country, and his chosen profession. Atlas tossed them weapons and Dawson pointed to Red. “Take them and two of ours and cover our six!”
He turned back to the entrance and took a look. Several more bodies lay on the ground thanks to the precision shooting of his men, but they were facing at least two dozen hostiles.
He pulled the Israeli radio from his belt.
“Goliath, this is Sheep Dog. Code word Thunder, I say again, Code word Thunder, acknowledge.”
There was a pause and Dawson was about to retransmit when the radio squawked.
“Sheep Dog, Goliath. Code word is Thunder, repeat, Code word is Thunder, out.”
Now we just need to hold out.
Monastery of St. Gerasimos, West Bank, Israel
Present day, three days after the kidnapping
Grant Jackson stood with his back pressed against the wall, his hands, once raised over his head, now covered his ears as he tried to crouch, terrified of what was happening on the other side of the wall, and even more so of the grim looking vets now pointing weapons at him and the Triarii.
This is a nightmare!
As his breathing continued to increase its pace, once deep breaths turning into shallow gasps, he began to lose focus of what was happening around him. It was clear they were going to die, and deservedly so. If he had just left them at the storage unit he’d be at home right now and these American troops wouldn’t have been here looking for him, most likely here to save his life, with no idea he was here voluntarily.
And the terrorists that had brought them here, that were now attacking him, no doubt knew exactly who he was from the beginning, and wanted him as a hostage to parade around and humiliate America on the world stage, then either demand the release of prisoners—men who would absolutely go on to kill other innocents—or money, again undoubtedly to fund further attacks on civilians.
Either way, if he weren’t here, the soldiers wouldn’t be here and the terrorists wouldn’t be here. The dead innocent tourists would be alive, and today would be another peaceful day at the St. Gerasimos Monastery.
It’s my fault.
The world suddenly came into focus.
“It’s my fault!” he screamed, bolting to the right before any of the vets guarding him could take action. He ran in front of the entrance and stopped, spreading his legs and arms, trying to make himself the biggest target he possibly could. “Kill me! End this now!”
The two soldiers on either side of the gate spun to see what was happening when Grant felt himself tackled, his right side screaming out in pain as someone hit him square in the ribs, sending him sailing to the other side, away from the gate opening. He hit the ground and turned to see who had hit him.
It wa
s the professor they had been talking about, Acton. Acton had successfully saved his life but now found himself on his knees in the middle of the entrance. He pushed himself to his feet, beginning to scramble for cover, when he suddenly spun, a burst of blood misting the air as he collapsed on his back.
Unmoving.
A woman’s anguished scream cut through the mayhem, bringing a human moment to something so inhuman.
“James!” screamed Laura as she jumped to her feet, racing for his unmoving body. She felt hands grab her from behind, yanking her back to the cover of the ancient walls. She struggled against the grip, jerking back and forth and kicking her legs as she continued to scream, tears pouring down her face.
“Don’t get yourself killed too!” cried Reading, trying to drag her to safety. Her entire view of what was going on was now tunnel vision, everything black except the body of her beloved James lying completely still in the open entrance to the outside, the bullets still pouring in, the stone he now lay on bursting apart as fresh bullets ricocheted.
“Covering fire!” yelled Niner as he and Spock rushed from their positions, grabbing the body of her poor James and began dragging him toward safety, the large trail of blood on the stone sickening.
He’s dead! My James is dead!
She collapsed to the ground, Reading’s arms making the fall gentle. He dropped to his knees beside her and she threw her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably, even more than the day her brother had died in the cave collapse. The thought that she would hurt more for James than her brother had her feeling even more guilty.
I should have never let him agree to this.
A momentary flash of hatred for Martin was pushed aside by even more guilt as she focused her hatred on the Triarii. She looked up again as the two brave soldiers risked their lives for her James, when suddenly Niner spun several times, collapsing on the ground several feet away, he too unmoving.
Spock dragged the body of her fiancé toward Niner then grabbed his comrade by the collar, pulling them both to safety, his straining face red from the effort as nearly every vein was screaming for relief.
Another dead because of them!
All of this was the Trairii’s fault, and she swore at that moment she would have her revenge if she lived to see another day.
Dawson picked off another of the terrorists then glanced over his shoulder to see Niner suddenly gasp and rise up halfway, grabbing at his chest, double-checking that he was still alive. Dawson said a silent prayer to the inventor of body armor and resumed looking for another target of opportunity. He could still hear the sobs of Professor Palmer to his right and his heart went out to her, and when time permitted he would grieve her loss with her, but now wasn’t the time.
Over the gunfire he heard thumping in the distance and knew the Israeli’s were arriving. He poked his head out and quickly scanned the area. He could find no civilians anymore, all either dead or having successfully fled the scene.
The Israeli radio squelched and he held it to his ear.
“Sheep Dog, Goliath. Code is Thunder. Where do you want us, over?”
“Goliath, Sheep Dog, parking lot north side of complex. Your targets are six technicals, lead vehicle smoking, then anything with a gun, over.”
“Roger that, Sheep Dog. Keep your heads down, out.”
Dawson looked up and gave a wave as two AH-64 Apache gunships raced over head, missiles streaking from their weapons pods, lead belching from their chain guns. He watched as the six vehicles the terrorists had arrived in were blown to pieces, the shrapnel from the shredded metal tearing apart the Hamas militants who were using them as cover.
This turn of events had the remaining dozen or so hostiles scrambling away from the other vehicles and into the open as they sought alternate cover.
“Take them out!” yelled Dawson as his team rushed forward, taking up positions across the gate, eliminating the enemy as they concentrated their fire on the choppers. A final burst from one of the gunships was followed by silence, nothing at all in the parking area moving.
Or even twitching.
Israeli efficiency. Hooyah!
Footsteps sprinting behind him had Dawson spinning but he stopped, Professor Palmer rushing to Acton’s side, grabbing him and holding his lifeless body in her arms. He activated his comm as two of the choppers landed in a clearing nearby.
“Bravo Two, Bravo One, report, over!”
Red’s voice came in loud and clear. “Bravo One, Bravo Two. All clear on this side, over.”
“Roger that, report back to the front gate and thank our vets, out.”
A platoon of Israeli soldiers rushed from a Black Hawk that had just set down, quickly securing the area as Dawson waved at them. A gasp behind him and a cry of joy from Palmer had him turn to see the bravest civie he knew suddenly moving.
“Medic!” yelled Dawson to the arriving Israeli’s, one of them breaking off from the group and rushing toward the entrance. Dawson directed him to Acton and the man immediately went to work as Reading dragged Palmer away from her fiancé so the medic and Niner could work.
One of the Israeli’s ran up to him and Dawson smiled as he recognized David.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” said Dawson.
“I heard there was a little excitement, so decided to take a peek.” The Mossad agent looked around at the carnage. Dozens of terrorist bodies littered the parking area, too many tourists lay dead, the façade of the old monastery had been torn apart, and inside remained eight Triarii prisoners, one suicidal ex-President’s son, sobbing in a corner, a handful of senior vets guarding them, and a former corpsman still working on an elderly tourist.
And Professor James Acton, ten paces away, fighting for his life.
Grant Jackson sat huddled in a corner of the wall, hugging his knees for several minutes before he realized the gunfire had stopped. He slowly lifted his head, looking around. Mitch and the Triarii were on the other side of the entrance, still lining the wall, several old tourists guarding them. To his right, twenty feet away lay the man who had saved his life. A man he had never met before, and whose name he had never spoken.
Professor James Acton.
Uniformed soldiers were now here, the previous group of Americans wearing casual clothes under their body armor and weaponry. He assumed the new arrivals were Israeli, two of them now working with one of the Americans on the wounded professor. As he watched, the professor was placed on a stretcher, a woman who clearly cared about him and another man who looked almost as worried followed the medics as they carried him out of the monastery and out of sight.
Grant pushed himself to his feet and slowly walked toward the Triarii men lined against the wall. He nodded to the men guarding them, they obviously having been informed as to who he was. Stepping over to Mitch, he had a hard time keeping eye contact.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said, not really sure why.
“Don’t worry about it, kid, we’ve been in worse situations.”
Grant’s eyebrows jumped, wondering how much worse it could get. Dozens were dead, innocent blood spilled, all over a stupid piece of rock. “Listen, I need to say something.”
“Anything.”
“I-I made a mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
Grant sucked in a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed with Louisa. This is all my fault. If it weren’t for me these soldiers wouldn’t have come looking for me, these people wouldn’t be dead.” His voice cracked. “Today would have been a peaceful day,” he whispered, his bottom lip trembling.
Mitch stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me tell you why you’re wrong about everything you just said.” Grant looked up at him then back at his feet. “These soldiers that are here now, the Americans, they’re the same ones that killed those students and attacked the Triarii headquarters. Whether you were here or not, they would have been, because a skull was involved.”
Grant’s chest tightened
as his jaw dropped slightly. He looked at Grant then around at the soldiers nearby. “You mean—”
“They’re not here for you, they’re here for the skull.”
“But it isn’t here.”
“Nobody knew that until a few minutes ago. Mark my words, they were here to steal it, not save you. The fact you were here is just a coincidence. A fantastic one for them since now they have an excuse for being here, but a coincidence nonetheless.”
Grant’s mind was reeling with this new piece of information, but as the turmoil settled, he asked himself the important question—does it matter? Why these soldiers were here made no difference to the ultimate reason he had come to talk to Mitch. The real reason the soldiers were here was just further evidence that he needed out of this life, out of this world.
He clenched his teeth and straightened himself, looking Mitch in the eye.
“I want out of the Triarii.”
Mitch laughed. “Is that what this is about?”
Grant nodded.
“Son, you were never in the Triarii. You can’t just join up after a conversation in a farmhouse. There’s indoctrination, training, oaths. It takes years.”
“So I can leave and nobody will come after me?”
“Of course,” laughed Mitch. “Like I said, we’re friends of your father. I could never do anything to harm you.”
Grant sighed and he could feel the color coming back to his cheeks as his entire body, nearly on the verge of fainting, relaxed. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.”
Mitch patted Grant’s shoulder, still smiling. He reached into an upper pocket and removed a business card. On one side it had the Triarii symbol, the other side a phone number and a series of numbers.
“If you ever need anything, just call me,” he said, handing the card to Grant.
Grant nodded, placing the card in his wallet. “Thank you for telling me about my father.”
“Don’t judge him on your beliefs,” said Grant. “Remember what he believed, and use those beliefs to judge his actions. I hope in the end you will find them justified.”
The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 23
