James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (27 page)

Acton fell to the side, his foot finding another rut in the rock. His arm darted out and he was able to maintain his footing by pushing on a nearby boulder. He stopped.

“We have to stop for the night, otherwise one of us is going to break an ankle.”

“Your ankles are no concern of mine,” said Nazario.

“No, but your own might be.” Nazario said nothing, his eyes taking a distant look as if debating what Acton had just said.
Time to press.
“If you break an ankle out here, you won’t be moving anywhere. You might as well start walking straight back to the Iranians.”

Nazario nodded. “Very well. We will rest for the night.” He looked about, and pointed to a collection of several massive boulders nearby, their peaks touching as if God had been building a house of cards with them eons ago. “We can rest in there, and light a fire without being seen.”

Acton looked at the hollow and nodded, stepping back and helping Chaney with the Pontiff. Once inside, Acton cleared a small area of rocks, and helped lower the old man. He gave a weak smile to both of them, then closed his eyes. Acton knelt and looked at his feet. He was wearing a simple pair of slip on shoes. Shoes not designed for this terrain. Acton reached forward and cupped the old man’s heel, and gently slipped the first shoe off.

The Pontiff winced with a gasp, his eyes squeezing shut tighter, his head turning to the side. His feet were cut, bloody, the bottom of the shoes sliced in several places from the terrain, the socks he wore soaked in blood. Acton removed the other shoe and found the same.

“We’re going to have to do something about this.”

Chaney nodded as he knelt beside Acton, examining the feet.

“Weren’t you a doctor in a previous life?”

Chaney chuckled. “Almost. I quit med school to become a cop.”

“Any regrets?”

“None.” Chaney gently removed both socks, placing them to the side. “These will need to be washed if possible, his feet absolutely.”

Acton reached into the bag he had been carrying and pulled out a water bottle.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Nazario.

“We have to clean his feet before they become infected,” said Chaney, pointing to the bloody stubs in front of him.

“You’re not wasting our water on him.”

“He can have mine,” replied Acton.

“And mine,” said Chaney.

Nazario shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourselves. But”—he pointed a finger at them both—“one bottle each, and that’s it.”

Acton bit his tongue, uncapping the bottle and handing it to Chaney. “First let’s clear some of this away.” He poured some of the now warm water over both feet, the old man gasping again as he gripped a cross hanging around his neck. Chaney frowned, lowering his voice and leaning toward Acton. “It’s worse than I thought. There’s no way he can walk tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing you can do?” asked Acton, his voice barely a whisper.

Chaney shook his head. “I can clean the wounds, bind them with whatever we find in the med kit, and make him comfortable. Other than that, he needs rest and time to heal.”

Acton turned his head slightly to see their three captors talking amongst themselves, one of them pointing at Nazario’s satellite phone.

“Looks like there may be a little dissension in the ranks.”

Chaney glanced over at the three.

“That could be good, it could be dangerous.”

“I lean toward dangerous. They’re just as likely to decide to shoot us here, and save themselves. There’s no way they’ll agree to staying long enough for his feet to heal up.”

“I fear what they might do in that case.”

“Either we’re going to have to carry him, or they’re going to shoot him.”

“Hand me the med kit.”

Acton pulled the med kit from the nearby sack. Nazario glared but Acton ignored him. Nazario returned to his increasingly animated discussion, their hands raising the volume their lips did not.

“Better hurry, I don’t know how long they’ll let us use this.”

Chaney took the kit and unzipped it. He removed a pair of tweezers and cleaned the wounds of any bits of sock and rock that were embedded, then, rejoicing with a big smile aimed at Acton, removed a bottle of iodine, which he poured generously over the wounds. The Pontiff gasped again, writhing in pain for a moment, then passed out.

“That’s probably for the best.”

Acton agreed, glancing from the corner of his eye at their captors. It looked like the conversation might be winding down.

“Hurry.”

Chaney nodded, and taking some gauze, dried the wounds as best he could. Leaning in he inspected them. “Doesn’t need stitches, they’re just surface wounds, but they’ll hurt like bloody hell for days.” He removed a roll of gauze and wrapped first one foot, then the other, taping them off. He sat back on his haunches. “That’s the best I can do for now.”

“Best we don’t tell them how bad he is. That should buy us until morning.”

“Planning something?”

“I’ve got to get that phone. If we aren’t rescued, or the roles in this play aren’t reversed by morning, one or more of us is going to die.”

Chaney frowned. “You’re most likely right. Let me know how I can help.”

“Just take care of him,” said Acton, motioning to the old man who was now sleeping restlessly. He stood up and turned to their captors. “I need to go to the bathroom.” The conversation stopped, hands in midair, as they all turned to Acton. “Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to go.”

Nazario turned back to his companions, said something, then stepped forward, waving Acton from the hollow. Acton stepped outside. The sun was very low in the horizon, and the heat radiating from the rocks would soon dissipate, leaving their refuge cold if they didn’t do something soon. He was content to let their captors freeze, but the Pontiff needed the heat.

“We should start a fire as soon as possible. This heat will be gone within an hour.”

“You and your friend can collect firewood when we get back.”

Acton scanned the area. The pickings were slim, but they should be able to gather enough brush to keep a good fire through the night.

“This is far enough.”

Acton looked at Nazario. “It’s a number two.”

“So.”

“So, never shit in your own campground?” Acton looked about. A large boulder the size of a small house was a couple of hundred feet away. He pointed. “There. I’ll go behind there.”

Nazario nodded and they continued, picking their way around the stones.

“You said earlier that your group, Keepers of the One Truth, killed another Pope.”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Joan.”

Acton stopped. “Really! That’s remarkable! Do you have proof of this? She’s little more than a rumor, doesn’t make any of the official lists of Popes of course, and the Catholic Church would have us believe she’s a myth.”

“She was real. She was a member of the Order of the Blessed Virgin. Very intelligent, very, how do you say, not looking like a man or woman?”

“Androgynous.”

“Exactly! She arrived in Greece from England, made her way to Rome, and manipulated her way up the ranks of the Church, taking her blasphemous position as Pope in 851 AD, all in the hopes of gaining access to the Vault. It took her two years, but she found what she was looking for, and managed to smuggle the text out. Unfortunately for her she was pregnant, and the pressure of the situation sent her into labor in front of a crowd, who once they discovered she was a woman, attacked her. She gave her baby to the Papal Physician who fled in her carriage, leaving her behind. The crowd stoned her, nearly to death, but she was rescued by a group of our people.”

“Why?”

“We needed to know where she had hidden the book, and under threat of destroying it if we had to find it ourselves, she told us. We released her and she was placed in prison, where she lived out her days until her son, the baby born that day, was old enough, and powerful enough, to convince the authorities to have her jailed in his facility, where she remained until her death.”

“Fascinating. And you have proof of this?”

“It is written in our archives. But all the proof you need is in the street name of where it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

Nazario motioned for Acton to continue walking. “There’s a street in Rome called the Via Sacra. Do you know what the locals call it?”

“Between the Coliseum and St. Clement’s Church? Isn’t it nicknamed the Shunned Street?”

“It was renamed after the Pope Joan incident. This street was part of the usual route taken by the Pontiffs when journeying through the city, but even to this day, they never travel on it. I doubt they even know why anymore.”

“That I’d believe. They’ve destroyed the history to avoid the embarrassment, and have probably been forbidden to speak of it for a thousand years.” Acton stopped, looking up at the rock. “Here we are.”

“Do your business, and”—Nazario raised his weapon—“no funny business.”

Acton nodded, rounded the rock slowly, all the while looking for some means of escape. His eyes examined every rock, every crevice, every—. He stopped. On the other side there was a hollow, carved by ancient waters. He grabbed a fist-sized stone from the ground, squeezing it in his palm, then stepped inside. It went deep, almost all the way through to the other side, and was so dark Acton had to grope his way forward. Near the end he felt a recess to the side, deep enough to conceal a man.

Perfect.

He squeezed himself in the alcove, and held his right hand, gripping the stone, over his shoulder.

And waited.

His heart pounded in his chest as adrenaline fueled him with courage. This had to work, it was their only chance. He had to get that phone. He had to let someone know they were alive, and where they were.

A sound, from the front of his little cave.

Or was it?

He strained to hear through the blood rushing in his ears. He knew what he needed to do, but was terrified of what would happen if he failed.
If I don’t come out on top, we’re all dead.
But the thought of killing someone with his bare hands filled his mouth with bile. He had been forced to kill before, but it was with a gun, at a distance. This time, he’d be close enough to smell them, to feel them as they died.

Maybe I can just tie him up?

That was a possibility, but only if he were able to knock him out first. He couldn’t approach this from that viewpoint. He needed to attack to kill. If the opportunity presented itself to not kill, then he’d take it, but he had to steel his resolve, and approach this the only way he was most likely to survive.

“Professor Acton. I said no games.”

Acton nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice sounded only feet away, inches perhaps.
How did he get so far in without me hearing?
The rush in his ears answered him. He peered into the darkness, but could see nothing. He was sure he had had enough time for his eyes to adjust, and as he stared, he thought he could make out the opposite wall.

Something stepped in front of him, between him and the other side of the hollow. There was no doubting it. Acton raised the stone and stepped forward. His boot scraped on a rock and he heard more than saw the figure in front of him whip toward him.

Acton dropped his fist hard, aiming at where he hoped the head would be. He felt an impact and heard a grunt, but it was lower than he had expected.
Shoulder?
He rushed forward, his left hand extended, and felt the fabric of Nazario’s tunic fill his hand as he raised his other for a second blow.

A raging pain flashed through him, originating in the ribcage as Nazario landed a blow. With the breath knocked out of him, the second blow with the rock only glanced Nazario, maybe in the arm. Acton let his hand gripping the tunic slide up, searching for his opponent’s throat, his right hand swinging out to the side and back. His left hand found Nazario’s neck in time for him to adjust his swing slightly. The impact was solid, hard, Nazario’s head jerking to the side, his jaw bone touching Acton’s hand that now gripped his throat. He felt Nazario slump slightly, but recover before Acton had a chance to take advantage of the situation.

Something clattered to the ground.

His gun!

There was no way to retrieve it, not in the dark, but at least now he wouldn’t need to worry about being shot. He pushed hard and shoved Nazario against the wall, his hand still gripping his opponent by the throat, squeezing off the oxygen. His right hand landed blow after blow on the man’s ribcage and arm. Acton knew he was winning, it was only a matter of time.

He heard a sound he had heard a thousand times before.

And it fueled him with panic.

A knife had just been unsheathed. A long knife.

In his excitement at having what he thought was the upper hand, he had neglected Nazario’s right arm. Nazario hadn’t. Now Acton was facing a knife, with no way to see it. He removed his hand from Nazario’s throat and dropped his arm, praying he would find his captor’s right arm before the blade found him.

Something shoved into Acton’s outstretched hand, and he closed his fingers around it. It felt like the lower part of an arm, which meant he now had control of the hand. It would be a battle of strength if he let it, but thoughts of his Krav Maga training kicked in. Strength wasn’t the key. Leverage was. He pulled down on the arm, then yanked it forward as he stepped aside, dropping the rock and shoving Nazario’s shoulder with his right hand, sending Nazario into a spin, his knife wielding arm now twisted around and behind him. Acton shoved up hard, the hand with the knife now safely held against Nazario’s back.

Acton pushed up again.

Harder.

Nazario cried out and the knife clattered to the ground as the pain proved too much. Acton reached around with his right arm and wrapped it around Nazario’s neck, placing the crook of his elbow tight against his throat. He let go of Nazario’s now disarmed limb and jammed his elbow down on Nazario’s left shoulder. He interlaced the fingers of his right hand on his left arm, then wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the back of Nazario’s neck.