The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 3

  “Hey Buddy, how the hell are you?” asked Acton as he rounded the bed, hand out.

  Chaney extended a hand and shook Acton’s—rather weakly Acton felt—then exchanged cheek to cheek kisses with Laura.

  “Yes, Martin, how are you?”

  Chaney pushed the food tray away.

  “Apparently much better than I was last time I saw you both, though this food they’re trying to force upon me is bloody awful and I’m convinced is designed to put me back into a coma.”

  Reading roared with laughter, clearly delighted his friend was almost his old self.

  “Tell me about the memory loss,” said Acton, perching on the side of the bed. “What do you remember?”

  Chaney frowned. “It’s strange. I remember all of you, but not how we met. I don’t remember the dig in Egypt, or even deciding to go there which apparently was at least a couple of months before we actually went.”

  “Are you remembering any bits of it, or is it a complete blank?” asked Laura who had sat in the lone chair.

  “I’m dreaming about some stuff that just doesn’t make sense that I’m thinking might be memories, but who knows? They could be movies for all I know. Certainly some weird things about glass skulls have to be from a movie.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hopefully it will all come back otherwise they won’t let me back to work!”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” said Reading. “If Scotland Yard won’t take you back, I’ll get you into INTERPOL with me. Much cushier job.”

  Acton rubbed his chin, debating on whether or not he should ask the question he had been dying to ask. On the dig in Egypt, after Chaney had been wounded, he had said he had something important to talk to him about, and with Chaney being a member of the Triarii, he had assumed it was about that, but he had never found out what the message was, and much to his surprise, no one else from the Triarii had tried to contact him.

  And if Chaney had no idea why he was dreaming about “glass” skulls, then he most likely had no idea he was a prominent member of a two thousand year old organization dedicated to protecting and preserving twelve crystal skulls they thought had special powers.

  Acton’s eyes flitted to Chaney’s left inside wrist and noted the tiny tattoo that identified members of the organization to each other. The first time he had encountered these people he had been running for his life, and in a leap of faith, he put himself into their hands. Dozens died, but he and his newly found love, Laura, survived, along with Reading, Chaney’s partner at the time at Scotland Yard. Reading had no clue of Chaney’s secret life, and at first felt betrayed, but eventually came to accept his partner’s alternate existence, if not necessarily agreeing with it.

  Acton had been thrust into the secret world of the Triarii when he and his students had discovered a crystal skull at an Incan dig site in Peru. His students were massacred by a Delta Force unit operating under the belief they were terrorists, and he was pursued across the globe before the Delta Force unit disobeyed orders and halted their pursuit. Over the years this group of men that had tried to kill him had helped him on numerous occasions, and he had even stepped in to help them. A bond had been forged between them once Acton realized they had been manipulated, their families threatened every time they questioned their orders by a former member of the Triarii obsessed with possessing the skulls.

  He had even found himself thinking of some of them as friends, and he knew they were all eager to make up for their actions. They were good, honorable men, who had been used, and if they had been there the night Chaney was wounded, perhaps they all would have made it out uninjured.

  Unfortunately they were too late, and now their friend barely knew who he was. Acton didn’t want to say anything about the Triarii because if Chaney had forgotten something so fundamental about his life, his memory loss must be far worse than anyone either knew, or was acknowledging.

  Acton instead turned to Chaney’s recovery. “How do you feel physically?”

  “Weak. Ridiculously weak. But each day is a little better. They’ve got me doing physio several times a day, stretching out the muscles and starting to use them again. I was actually able to walk a few paces this morning. Yesterday I couldn’t even stand. Hopefully in a few days I’ll have the run of the place. I’m climbing the walls here and can’t wait to get back to my flat.”

  Acton smiled, his head bobbing. “I hear ya. I have no doubt you’ll make a full recovery in no time.”

  “Bloody right!” agreed Reading. “He’ll be back to his old self and then I can start getting some sleep in my own bed for a change.”

  The door opened and two nurses entered, both of whom looked like they meant business.

  “Time for Mr. Chaney’s therapy. I’ll have to ask everyone to leave.”

  Goodbyes were quickly made and Acton, Laura and Reading found themselves in the hallway, walking toward the elevators. Acton turned to Reading.

  “What do you think?”

  Reading shook his head, his face grim.

  “If he can’t remember that he’s Triarii, he’s forgotten far more than he realizes.”

  “Have you mentioned it to him?”

  “No, that was the first hint I had at it. I nearly shat my pants when he called them glass skulls.” Reading shook his head again as he pressed the button for the elevator. “Only time will tell I guess.” The doors opened and he held them for Laura then Acton. “How ’bout some food?”

  Acton’s stomach grumbled in agreement and plans were quickly made. As they exited the elevator Acton noticed a television flashing to a breaking news report.

  Assassinated President’s Son Kidnapped.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered and they all turned to see what he was looking at. On the screen footage showed two bodies lying on the ground, covered by sheets, one with the victim’s left hand still visible.

  Clearly showing a small tattoo on the inner wrist.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Reading.

  Acton nodded. The tattoo was clearly Triarii.

  “Why would they kidnap him?” asked Laura.

  “Until a few minutes ago, I would have said they wouldn’t,” replied Reading.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Acton. “Very wrong.”

  And he had a strange feeling that whatever secret message was locked in Chaney’s scrambled brain had everything to do with what had just happened back home.

  Fleet Street, London, England

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Proconsul Derrick Kennedy of the Triarii sat at the head of the long conference table, sucking back hard on his favorite vice, a Cuban La Corona cigar, its aromas intoxicating and apparently annoying to some of the younger generation of leaders lining the table. Which was why a special “smoke eater” had been installed during the rebuild after the Delta Force attack on their headquarters. He assumed it worked since he was no longer glared at by some of the more vocal complainers.

  On the wall at the far end were a series of large plasma displays, several showing various news feeds from around the world, the panel embedded in the table allowing him full control, the BBC feed of the world’s top story currently being listened to.

  Behind him, carved in the slate wall was the very symbol he had frozen on one of the screens, though many orders of magnitude bigger. It was the ancient symbol of their organization founded from the surviving members of the third and most experienced line, the Triarii, of the famous Roman Thirteenth Legion, dispatched from Rome by Emperor Nero himself with orders to take a crystal skull found in Judea and exile it to the farthest reaches of the empire, at that time Britannia.

  For two thousand years they had kept the crystal skull away from Rome, and when additional skulls had been discovered around the world, they had taken them under their protection. But after a devastating explosion nearly flattened London in 1212 AD when three skulls were placed together, they realized that the skulls could be dangerous and enacted protocols to prevent it from ever
happening again.

  But today they had been betrayed, as they were once before. There was a split within the Triarii over a decade ago, a small sect at one time agitating from within that the skulls should be brought together to unleash their full potential, the sect’s thinking that technology today would allow them to safely do so. The sect was led at one time by a very wealthy and well-connected American named Stewart Jackson. To further his plans of uniting three skulls, he stole the Smithsonian’s Mitchell-Hedges skull—the very skull he was assigned to protect—before leaving the Triarii, hiding it away in an unknown location, replacing the genuine article with a fake, unbeknownst to the museum. His power and influence eventually led him to the highest office in his homeland, President of the United States.

  Which made him untouchable.

  Until he went too far, ordering his elite Delta Force to capture a recently discovered skull under the guise of eliminating a terrorist cell.

  He had forced the Triarii’s hand and was eliminated by their own man on the inside, a longtime member of the Triarii who had pretended to agree with President Jackson’s actions, but in reality was still loyal to the Triarii, staying by his side in hopes of one day retrieving the Smithsonian skull.

  After Jackson’s theft and departure from the organization, the dissenters had receded into the background, nothing heard again, those who had agitated for unification of the skulls falling silent, denying involvement and disavowing their previous beliefs after such traitorous deeds.

  But with today’s kidnapping, and the fact Triarii members were clearly involved, it appeared the sect was active again, and there could be only one reason for their actions.

  “Clearly they’re after the Mitchell-Hedges skull,” said one of the twelve others around the table, one for each of the skulls under the protection of the Triarii.

  “Clearly,” agreed the Proconsul. “The question now is whether or not the son knows where it is, then what we do about it.”

  “Should we enact The Protocol?” asked the member responsible for the British Museum skull, Maria Thatcher, the very skull under the real-world care of Professor Laura Palmer, who due to Jackson’s actions had been drawn into the world of the Triarii, and now knew who and what they were.

  “No, I don’t think that’s necessary at this time,” replied the Proconsul. “Be on standby however, as we may need to. At this time there is only one skull I am concerned with.”

  “We must act on that immediately.”

  “I had hoped Mr. Chaney would be able to ask for their involvement, but it would appear his injuries are worse than we thought. Though he is out of his coma, his memory is suspect. It appears he has no clue he is a member of the Triarii.”

  “Then we must act now,” said Thatcher, heads around the table nodding in assent as they turned to the Proconsul.

  He puffed on his cigar for a moment, eyeing the frozen image of the Triarii tattoo on the wrist of one of the dead kidnappers.

  “Agreed. Reach out to the professors immediately. We need their help.”

  Outskirts of Karakorum, Mongol Empire

  March 28th, 1275 AD

  Giuseppe lay flat on his stomach, the hard ground cold, his fur coat only protecting him for the first few minutes. It had been over half an hour since they first crawled into position. The others had returned to make temporary camp until nightfall, but his master, Marco, had insisted on staying to observe the city below.

  And where Marco went, Giuseppe went.

  The city walls were massive, encircling the entire former capital with guard towers at regular intervals, manned each with two men and torches to light the area, some of them already lit and flickering in the winter wind, illuminating little, but the occasional guard could be seen warming his hands near the flame.

  “How will we enter, Master?”

  “I was thinking through the gates.”

  Giuseppe hid his surprise, unsure of whether or not his master was once again joking with him, his humor one of his most endearing if not puzzling qualities. He searched his master’s face for a hint of the truth, but nothing was revealed to suggest he wasn’t serious.

  “Then why are we waiting?”

  “The guards will be cold and tired near the end of their shift. I would guess they will change near midnight. If we wait until about an hour before then, we shall find our guards eager to let us pass so they can return to their fires. We shall go through the East Gates; they are closest to the Church where our contact is.”

  “If we are going through the gates, Master, why are you observing the walls for so long?”

  Giuseppe shivered as if to emphasize his subtle point.

  “I said we’d enter by the gates. I didn’t say how we’d exit.”

  Giuseppe nodded, his interest suddenly renewed in the walls. The sun had set behind the mountains now, the entire valley bathed in darkness, the light from fires, lanterns and torches, as well as a quarter moon mostly hidden behind clouds stabbing feebly at the night.

  “And now we see their weakness,” said Marco, pointing to the guard towers. “What do we know about torches at night?”

  Giuseppe shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean? They provide light?”

  “Yes, but only to the immediate area,” said Marco. “If you hold a torch high and peer into the darkness, what do you see?”

  And then it dawned on Giuseppe, a smile spreading across his face. “You see nothing! All your eyes can see is the light of the torch!”

  “Exactly, my brother. You see better in the dark, when it is dark. Your eyes adjust. But these fools have bright torches on either side of their guard towers meaning they won’t be able to see more than ten or twenty paces in either direction. One would be able to scale the wall at the midpoint of two guard towers completely unseen.” His master stood, no longer concerned with being spotted. “Let us return to the camp and tell the others of our plan.”

  “Your plan, Master.”

  Marco put his arm across Giuseppe’s shoulders and squeezed. “You were there when the plan was crafted. We shall call it our plan.”

  Giuseppe was about to protest when a particularly harsh gust of wind had them both gasping for air, their Venetian blood not accustomed to these temperatures. Though Giuseppe was certain he wasn’t Venetian, he was certain he was of a warm clime, his reaction to the cold seeming to suggest it was completely unnatural to him.

  They walked in silence to the camp and dropped near a large fire, sheltered by several large stones and a rock face. Though definitely warmer, it was still ridiculously cold, though Giuseppe kept his complaints to himself.

  “We have a plan,” announced his master.

  “Out with it,” said his master’s father, Niccolo. “What have you two cooked up?”

  Giuseppe felt a surge of pride at the words, along with a few butterflies in the pit of his stomach at the suggestion he had indeed contributed.

  “Giuseppe and I will enter through the eastern gates in about two hours with one of our horses, posing as traders for tomorrow’s market. There’s no reason they should stop us, and we will then make our way to the church which is nearby.

  “Once we make contact with the priest, we’ll attempt to retrieve the idol, and if successful, we’ll escape over the southern wall and join you here.”

  “And what if you cannot accomplish this tonight?”

  “I will shoot an arrow with a message—I will show you the spot where it will land when we leave shortly—and it will tell you when I am expected to return. We should send our party with as many of our supplies as you can back, for I think we shall be pursued. Keep four swift horses and enough provisions for the journey back in case we need to abandon the supply horses.”

  Marco’s father Niccolo nodded, looking at his brother, Matteo. “What do you think?”

  “I think your son has thought of everything except what to do should he be captured.”

  “I did,” replied Marco.

  “And what is the plan in
such an eventuality?”

  “To not get captured.”

  Leroux Residence, Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia

  Present day, one day after the kidnapping

  Chris Leroux was pinned to the floor, his girlfriend Sherrie White on top of him. He struggled against her, but not very hard, this a fight he was more than willing to lose. And she knew it, grinding her hips in to his with every move he made.

  She was playing to win.

  And he was playing to lose.

  They both knew what was going on. It had begun as a tickle war on the couch in which he had almost made her sick from laughing, then in a last ditch effort to save herself, she had used one of her CIA Special Operator moves on him that immediately had him on the floor and at her mercy.

  He hated being tickled and had quickly stopped his own assault when she began hers, instead focusing on grabbing her hands to prevent any more of the torturous nerve games. He yanked her hands away from her body, pulling her torso toward his so that she now lay on top of him, her hips still straddling his.

  “Kiss me,” he said, still out of breath.

  “No.”

  He raised his head and tried to find her lips but she jerked back. His head moved to the side, seeking her soft full lips capable of giving so much pleasure, but she continued to resist. Twisting to the right he saw the television, tuned to CNN, display a breaking news graphic.

  Assassinated President’s Son Kidnapped.

  Suddenly he felt Sherrie biting his neck, her tongue flicking out as she starting to suck, the hickey she was about to leave going unnoticed by Leroux as he stopped resisting, his arms dropping to his side.

  Sherrie stopped, looking over at the screen.

  “What?”

  “President Jackson’s son was just kidnapped.”

  “Really? That’s too bad.”

  She turned back and began to kiss his cheek, her pecks travelling over to his ear then down his neck.