James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (23 page)

“Fuck justice—”

Her phone beeped with a message, interrupting what was about to be a tirade she knew she would later regret. She reached into the satchel and held the phone up to her face, the facial recognition software unlocking it for her. She pressed the screen to view the message, and fainted.

Rome

8 Hours Earlier

Acton’s head throbbed. His entire body ached. He felt himself tossed to the side, impacting something soft with a grunt. Not his grunt, but theirs. Another jerk and he was tossed to the other side, this time hitting something harder. His senses regaining function, he quickly realized he was in a car. And judging from the rapid up and down shifting, constant hard turns, and panicked Italian chatter from the front, they were being pursued.

He had been hit over the head, he remembered that. Or at least the pain from it. Nothing else from then until now.

Laura!

He risked opening his eyes slightly to see if the body he had hit a moment ago was her.
Definitely not.
A man, dressed in black from head to toe, stared out the back window. Acton snapped his eyes shut as the man’s head swiveled back toward the front.

“Rapido!” he yelled.

They careened around another corner, another surge of acceleration, then the car screeched to a halt. Doors opened, all four it sounded like, then he felt rough hands on him, grabbing him under his arm pits. He decided to play possum, and let them drag him. His feet bounced on pavement, smacked against something, probably a curb, then he was dropped unceremoniously. He gasped for a moment until he felt his backside hit something soft, and not at ground level. He was tilted back, and then had the sensation of movement.

A wheelchair?

He heard tires squeal, gunshots, and a crash, followed by yelling.

Hugh?

He was tempted to yell out, but if it was Hugh he was hearing, then no doubt it was Hugh who had been chasing them, so little benefit could be gained. He could tell he was still wearing his body armor, but was most likely disarmed.
Did they get the radio?
He took a deep steady breath to calm his nerves, and opened his eyes slightly. And discovered what his nose had already told him.

He was in an airport.

The distinct smell of jet fuel was unmistakable. The line of check-in counters and seats only confirmed it. But there was no one around. They breezed through a security checkpoint, unchallenged.
This makes no sense.
They burst through a set of automatic doors, and into the night, the black tarmac lit by the surrounding yellow lights filling in the last piece of the puzzle.
This was a private terminal.

He could hear engines powering up and, catching a glimpse on a bounce saw what looked like a Gulfstream V, its stairs down, less than one hundred feet away. He jerked to a stop near the ramp, then again was grabbed under the arms, and this time by the feet as well, and carried, feet first, into the plane, the experience rather unsettling.

He heard the door seal shut and the plane start to roll, followed by half a dozen cracking sounds that if he didn’t know better might have been gunfire. He was tossed in a seat, his head hitting the hard wall of the cabin. He opened the eye that was nearest the wall and looked down. His radio was still clipped to his vest. Slowly reaching up, he grasped it and clicked three times.

Something grabbed him by the collar and whipped him around. “Awake, are we?” He opened his eyes to see a large hand reach down and rip the radio from his collar, the clip making a loud snapping sound as it broke off. The man turned off the radio and tossed it aside. “Let’s see what else you have here.”

Acton took the opportunity to look around as he was patted down. Across the aisle from him sat an old man, praying, who Acton recognized immediately as the Pope. A slight turn of the head revealed Chaney, staring directly at him, then behind him were six others, all in black.
Scratch that.
A seventh man exited the bathroom in the back, and his searcher made eight, plus the pilot, and copilot if there was one.

We’re not getting out of this.

He looked again at the bathroom.
This cabin is smaller than it should be.

The man stood up. “He’s clean. Wait a minute.” He leaned forward and Acton felt the man’s fingers reach under his collar then pull out his Saint Helen medallion. “Take it off.”

“Please, let me keep this, my girlfriend gave it to me.”

The man stared down at him, visibly angry, his nostrils flared, his ears red. “You dare ask to keep a medallion of a holy saint, around the neck of an infidel?”

“Infidel?”
Are they Muslim?

“You deny that you assist this man”—his arm swept toward the Pope—“a pretender to the crown?”

Acton decided not answering was best.

“Your lack of protest proves your guilt.”

Acton remained silent.

“You deny that you live in sin with the woman who gave you this?” He grabbed Acton by the hair, pulling his head forward. Acton could feel the chain lift from his skin, then pull through his hair. The man tossed Acton’s head back into the padded leather seat. He held the chain in front of Acton, triumphantly, the cabin lighting glittering off the gold figure. “You are not worthy of wearing this.” He put it around his neck and tucked it into his black tunic. “I, however,
am
worthy.”

Acton glared at the man as the medallion given to him by Laura on their first anniversary disappeared from view. “And just who the hell are you?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and the back of his hand swiftly smacked Acton across the cheek. “Blasphemer!”

The sting filled Acton’s senses, but he held on enough to make sure his eyes never broke from his captor’s, and as he regained control, he decided to take a different tact. “Obviously you’re a very religious man.” His captor nodded. “Then I apologize for my poor choice in words.” The man again nodded, some of the tension in his eyes relaxing. “May I ask, then, who you are, and why we have been taken?”

The man stepped back. “I am Sir Battista, second in the Keepers of the One Truth, established by Saint Peter himself. Have you heard of us, Professor Acton?”

“You know my name?”

“Of course we do. We know of you, we know of the Triarii”—his hand indicated Chaney and the Pope—“and we know of how you assisted them in the past.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say I assisted them.”

“You gave them the false idol, did you not?”

Acton glanced at Chaney, who slightly shook his head. Acton looked back at Battista. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man chuckled, his long, shoulder length hair dangling in midair as he tossed his head back. He pointed at Chaney. “Don’t think I didn’t catch that.” He turned to Acton. “I know the Triarii are naïve enough to think they are invulnerable to infiltration, but do
you
?”

Acton shrugged his shoulders. “I hadn’t really given it any thought.” He leaned forward. “To be honest, I’d kind of like to not have any involvement with them, after what happened last time.”

The man leaned on the back of the seat in the next row. “I don’t blame you. Do not worry, Professor, if it were our intention to kill you, you would be dead. There is only one person here today who may die, and I think you know who it is.”

“I am prepared to die, my son.”

Everyone turned toward the Pope, still sitting, hands clasped in front of him, eyes closed, head bowed. Acton noticed his fingers were bare, the Ring of the Fisherman missing.

“So it speaks.”

“Indeed
I
do.” The old man opened his eyes, and looked at Battista. “Why do you say I am a pretender?”

“You are Triarii.”

The man nodded. “Indeed I am. But what of it?”

Battista’s jaw dropped as his shoulders raised and his palms turned upward. “What of it?” He looked at his companions. “What of it? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Apparently not.”

Battista rose to his full height, his head nearly grazing the ceiling. “You cannot have two masters, not in your position.”

“I have but one, and that is Lord our God.”

“Yet you worship the skulls.”

“I do no such thing.”

“You are Triarii.”

“Again, what of it?”

“Triarii worship the crystal skulls. This is known by everyone who knows of them.”

“That may be what is known by those who know of them from without, but not those who know of them from within.”

Battista’s eyes scrunched. “What?”

Even Acton had to admit he needed to repeat that a few times in his head to get it. But the old pontiff was right. Even within the Triarii, there was debate on what the skulls meant, and only some, albeit a large portion, apparently worshipped the skulls. But many were Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and Atheists. The Pope was obviously one of those who was a Catholic.

“Your Holiness, perhaps if you were to explain what you believe?” offered Acton.

The man nodded. “With pleasure, Professor.” He turned to Battista. “I’m a Catholic. I was born to two Catholic parents, and was raised a Catholic. I was an altar boy, and joined the seminary after college. I have been a faithful servant of God my entire life. My father, upon my graduation from the seminary, revealed to me the truth of the Triarii, something he had been a member of since he was a young man through his own father. I agreed to listen, and eventually I joined after reading the history. Not because I felt the skulls were something to be worshipped, but because I believed they were dangerous, something evil that had been placed upon this earth to destroy it.”

“That makes no sense,” said Battista. “You think the skulls are evil, yet you protect them?”

The old man shook his head. “No, you misunderstand, my son. Do I believe the skulls are evil? Yes. Do I protect the skulls? Yes. But I protect
mankind
from the skulls, not the
skulls
from mankind. The Triarii are the only organization on Earth that I believe are purely motivated by a sense of duty in protecting mankind from the dangers of bringing the skulls together, which is when I, and others, believe the evil is released. By keeping them separate, scattered across the globe, we protect mankind from the evil that could be unleashed.”

Battista was silent for a moment, then leaned toward the elderly man, jabbing his finger at him. “You talk a good game, Your Holiness, but I don’t believe it. Do I believe you are a good Catholic? Yes, I do. But as I said before, you cannot serve two masters. Should the choice come toward serving our Savior, and serving your Triarii masters, where would your loyalties lie then?”

The old man nodded and looked at the man. “I don’t believe they could possibly conflict.”

Battista stood and flicked his hand at the Pope, as if ridding the air of their entire conversation. “And that is all I needed to hear. The fact you cannot give a direct answer tells me you are conflicted. And a conflicted man cannot serve the Lord in the capacity you have been granted the honor to do so. You will renounce your position, or die. This will not be over before white smoke again graces the roof of the Sistine Chapel.”

Acton decided to cool things off. “So who or what are the Keepers of the One Truth?”

Battista returned his attention to Acton. “We preserve the integrity of the Vault of Secrets.”

“The vault underneath the Vatican?”

Battista nodded.

“‘Preserve the integrity’. Does that mean you kill anyone who enters?”

Battista shook his head. “Of course not. It means we make sure the Pope”—he glanced over at the old man—“does his job, and nothing more. The Unos Veritas Chest is an agreement between the new Pope and Saint Peter. These secrets are to be preserved, forever, never to be looked at, never to be studied.” He paused, this time staring at the Pontiff then Chaney. “Or removed.”

“So you’re saying Saint Peter created your group?”

“Yes.”

What is it with me and two thousand year old cults?

“So for two thousand years you’ve been, what, just hanging around the Vault, making sure no one takes anything out, or looks at anything?”

Battista nodded. “Essentially. We are brothers, we hold vigil, we pray, we train, we recruit the next generation. We are eternal.”

Acton huffed. “It sounds to me like you’re judge, jury and executioner.”

There was a crackle overhead, then the voice of what Acton assumed to be the pilot interrupted.

“We’re at twenty thousand feet. Better get into position.”

Suddenly there was a loud noise over the speaker, and it went dead. Wind began to whistle, and anything loose tumbled toward the cabin door behind which the pilot sat. Oxygen masks dropped from the overhead compartments. As if one, they all reached forward and grabbed their masks. Acton placed it over his mouth and took a deep break.

Nothing.

He tried again, but came up empty, finding himself gasping for air. He threw it away and grabbed another.

“They won’t work!” yelled Battista, not to him, but to his companions. “The emergency oxygen is all routed through the containers!” He dropped to his knees and pulled at a latch, lifting part of the floor. “Help me!”

The others rushed forward and they removed a segment of the floor covering the aisle. Acton looked over and saw a small ladder descending into the hold below. Battista grabbed him then pointed into the hole. “Get in!”

Acton shook his head.

“Get in if you want to live!”

Acton took a breath of the now frigid, thin air. He knew he’d die if he stayed here, and apparently there was oxygen below. He nodded and rose, stepping over the hole, then descending, one rung at a time, until only his torso was above the floor.

“Move to the back!” yelled the man, already grabbing the Pope. Acton crouched, the hold only a few feet high, and crawled forward several feet. “He’s dead!”

“What?”

Acton turned around so he could hear the conversation more clearly.

“The pilot, he’s dead!”

Battista muttered something, probably blasphemous.