The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection With EXCLUSIVE Post-Shiva Short Story (48 page)

But that seemed to be the sticking point for Brandt. The sergeant couldn’t seem to wrap his head around impersonating a priest. His Catholic upbringing seemed to be coming to the forefront. He might be able to hunt down the world’s scum with impunity, but certain things the sergeant obviously still held sacred.

Lopez appeared to catch onto the fact that Brandt’s issue was moral rather than tactical. “But hey, somebody’s got to keep the car running. I’m ready for a change-up.”

Wow, Rebecca thought. The corporal must really love his sergeant if he was willing to give up his driving responsibilities, or Lopez knew full well that Brandt would never hear of it.

The sergeant’s face was a mask again as he waved off Lopez’s offer. “Priests it is. Now we just need an access point.”

Watching Davidson and Brandt huddle as they tried to make a map of the Vatican, Rebecca missed her laptop for the thousandth time. That and Lochum. He would know the Vatican inside and out. Each entryway. Each exit and everything in between. But he was gone. Along with Svengurd. And the people on the London plane. Plus the Ecuadorian tribe and anyone else who got in the Knot’s way.

She didn’t even realize tears had sprung to her eyes until Brandt rose. “You are going to get some sleep.”

“But—”

He pointed her toward the hatch that led down to the bunks. “If I’m wearing a Roman collar, you’re going to bed.”

How could she argue? Exhausted past the point of numb, Rebecca let her feet carry her down the steps, ready to shut out the world.

* * *

“Sarge, seriously, go below deck before you fall down there.”

Brandt tried not to act startled, but knew it was a lame attempt. He had obviously been jarred awake by Lopez. Somehow in his fifth attempt to sketch the Vatican’s lower level, he’d dozed off. Once you got used to the boat slamming into wave after wave, it became rhythmic, almost soothing.

Davidson was already in the hold, and knowing the private, already sound asleep. Rebecca long ago went to bed.

“You should get some rest,” Brandt said, rising to take the helm.

“Yeah, right. Remember the last time I tried to turn over the wheel? I say we don’t tempt fate.”

The sergeant wasn’t in the mood to debate. “You’ve been up for more than seventy—”

But Lopez shook his head. “And you’ve been not only electrocuted, but gassed as well. You’re up two to zip on the fucked-up barometer.”

With his leg throbbing, his spine bending over of its own will, and his eyelids trying to shut even as he was arguing with his corporal, Brandt just gave up. “Wake me in four hours.”

“You got it,” Lopez agreed, already turning back to the sea and cutting into the water like a just-sharpened knife.

Almost relieved he’d lost that round to the corporal, Brandt climbed down the four short steps to the hold. It was cramped quarters.

Davidson must have just fallen into bed. He was fully dressed and sprawled across the narrow berth, half his body dangling off the edge. His face smashed against the edge of the mattress.

To his left were two beds. But the hold’s ceiling was so low that Brandt doubted if he could even sit up properly on either of them. This boat was built for long races, not for comfort.

On the upper mattress, a lone figure was turned toward the hull, under a pile of blankets. He found his hand reaching out to her, but the sergeant stopped himself. Let her sleep. Whatever would be said, or needed to be said, could be said later. After a few hours of shut-eye.

Still soaking, Brandt peeled off his jacket and shirt. When his dog tags clinked together, echoing off the plastic hull, he paused to make sure he hadn’t awakened either of them. Certain they were still asleep, he pulled off his pants as well. Under normal circumstances he would have stripped down to the buff, but with Rebecca just a bunk away, he refrained. Another reason not to have chicks on missions.

Half bending, half collapsing, over, Brandt rolled onto the mattress. Or more accurately, the thin pad. He could feel every square inch of the unyielding plastic berth beneath the material, but a bed had never been more appreciated. Once his body was lateral, every ache and pain complained and complained loudly. Trying to block out the symphony of complaints, Brandt closed his eyes and was nearly asleep when someone sat down next to him.

“What the hell?” Jerking upright, he hit his head on the upper bunk. “Like I didn’t have enough injuries!”

“I’m so sorry!” a feminine voice apologized, her hand gingerly searching his head for the newest lump. “I didn’t see you there.”

He looked up to find Rebecca sitting just inches from him. Her hair dripping wet, moistening her white T-shirt in all the right places.

She must have noticed his gaze, but misinterpreted it. “Of course, it was my change of clothes that were lost with the Aquada,” Rebecca explained. “So I borrowed one of your shirts. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s fine,” Brandt said, trying to keep the huskiness from his voice, but she was so close. Her breasts were within inches of his bare chest as she leaned over to check his head wound. Ignoring the visual input, he measured his words. “I thought you were in the upper bunk.”

“No, there’s a duffel bag up there.” She pulled back so they were nose to nose. “Well, I don’t think the bump’s fatal. It’s not even bleeding.”

How much Brandt wished the wound was gushing so that she might stay close, but his scalp wasn’t cooperating. Water dripped in slow motion from her blonde curls. She must have washed her hair in the lavatory. Even with the purplish scrapes and reddened, haunted eyes, Rebecca had never looked so beautiful.

They stayed there, motionless, exchanging a few breaths until Brandt realized he needed to get out of the bunk now, or he’d do something he’d regret.

“I’ll take the top bunk,” the sergeant said as he went to squeeze past her, but she put a hand on his naked shoulder.

“Stay.”

It hurt his throat to say the words. “I can’t.”

“Not for that,” Rebecca said. With just the right amount of pressure, she pushed him down to the bed. The motion wasn’t charged with sexual urgency, but had an insistence to it nonetheless. “Just stay with me. Really stay.”

Despite the million reasons he shouldn’t, Brandt opened his arms, letting her slip into his embrace. Resting her head on his bicep, she curled her body against his, then took his other arm and draped it over her waist, the circle complete.

Now, it was his turn to pull her close so that there wasn’t a hairsbreadth between them. The rise and fall of her rib cage in turn moved his own. Soon they were breathing in perfect synchrony.

It had been so very long, but Brandt finally felt at home.

Prophecies

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Jerusalem

AD 42

Judas wiped sweat from his neck. The road was hot and dusty as the pilgrims arrived for Passover, but their party traveled no farther. Jesus had stopped their procession far short of the city’s wall. They had waited patiently for over an hour. Due to the sun’s relentless burn, the women tossed blankets onto a nearby tree to provide shade for the little ones, but with such a large assembly, babies began to cry, children whined, and dogs barked.

“He will not even discuss the reason for our delay,” Andrew fumed. For all Jesus’ sermons on patience, the younger man was quite anxious to have events unfold upon his insistence.

The Twelve had gathered, but Judas stood apart from them. His leg ached with an intensity it had not since childhood. The swift pace they had assumed over the past three days had inflamed his knee so that he could not stand for long without support, but he did not wish the men’s frustration directed toward him, so he leaned against a tree, feigning meditation.

“Judas! Look who has joined our humble ministry!” Jesus called from down the road.

“Uncle!”

There was only one voice that brought such joy to Judas’ heart.

“Ameil!”

Despite his leg’s complaint, he rushed to meet his nephew, catching him at a run, pulling him into a warm embrace. “How I have missed you!”

“I learned to milk a goat!” Ameil announced to the growing crowd.

Judas spied the boy’s father behind Jesus. “Kyle. Thank you for joining us.”

“Jesus promised me work in the city.”

His friend patted Kyle’s back. “God shall provide, as he always does.”

Paul, however, seemed less certain. “Will he be as patient for your entrance into Jerusalem?”

With an easy smile, Jesus put an arm around his disciple’s shoulder.

“We delay no longer.” He leaned over to Ameil. “Do you think you could lead a donkey, child?”

The boy nodded solemnly. “If they don’t move, you pull their tail.”

“Indeed,” Jesus chuckled. “Could you go down the road and bring back the ass tied to the fence?”

“May I? Please. Please. Please?” Ameil looked at Judas, but Judas made certain to glance for Kyle’s permission before he gave the child leave.

“Of course.”

His nephew dashed off as if he hadn’t just walked an enforced march for over a week. To have the resilience of youth.

Paul was not pleased. “That honor was reserved for Andrew’s son.”

“There is a season for all. Not all fruit is meant to be picked when ripe.” Jesus answered cryptically.

After months living with his dear friend, Judas had begun to suspect that at times Jesus used his parables not so much to instruct but to avoid conflict. How could you argue if you weren’t sure of the Savior’s meaning?

But Paul seemed intent on doing just so. “Prophecies are not mere words, Jesus, they must be fulfilled. We cannot deviate from our course.”

Judas knew the apostle referred to their long dissections of the Holy Scripture. So much was foretold of Jesus’ life, and they used the ancient words as a compass to guide their ministry.

“You do not think I have seen this path since I was Ameil’s age? My coming to Jerusalem was prophesied, but it is I, alone, who chooses with whom I journey.”

The rest appeared taken aback by the force of the Savior’s words, but Judas was not surprised. The closer they came to Jerusalem the more intent his friend had become. The more withdrawn. The more like the awkward child upon the river.

The end was near. They all felt it.

Rome and Jesus could not both lay claim to the Holy City.

And by Scripture, it would be Christ to die and resurrect so that they might all be saved.

CHAPTER 29

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Deep below Prince Island

Dazed, and his earpiece buzzing incessantly, Tok allowed himself to be dragged down the rough dirt steps. His hooded guard guided him into the bowels of the mountain. They traveled deeper than even the destroyed chamber where Mary and the others had rested.

Hot tears burnt in Tok’s eyes.

The Virgin was gone. Smashed to ruin because of him.

He should have died in that blaze, but Petir’s quick mind had gotten them out of the chamber before the world exploded into searing reds and oranges. But he did not think his mentor had saved him out of affection.

No, as Tok’s feet slipped out from under him, and his guard scraped him along the root-encrusted stairs, he was certain that Petir wanted his student alive only so that he may answer for his weakness.

So they descended deeper. Below any of the laboratories, beyond even the well that fed the monastery. Tok could feel the weight of earth pressing down upon him. Not for the punishment that was about to be meted out, but for his failings.

Brusquely, he was shoved to the base of the steps. Before him opened a judgment hall hewn out of the bedrock. It was black except for a single beam of light which shone harshly above to the center of the room. Around the edge, deep in shadow, stood an assembly of twelve hooded judges.

His accusers. His jury.

Was Petir amongst them? Would he be the first to recount Tok’s many crimes against the Knot? Would his dearest mentor indict his most unworthy student for hubris?

How many times had Tok, himself, stood at the edge of that hall and decided another’s fate? But today it was his life that hung in the balance.

The guard went to jerk him to his feet, but Tok knew the ritual. Without prodding, he stripped naked and then walked over to the natural spring that bubbled up into the volcanic rock and dipped his hands into the icy water. Slowly he washed every inch of his bloody and bruised body even though the frigid water stung his wounds and blanched his hand’s scars. But, no matter. One must be pure to face his fate.

Donning the proffered loincloth, Tok stepped into the center of the room, taking care to resist the urge to shield his eyes from the harsh light. He deserved the scrutiny the Twelve now gave him.

By the Knot, he should have been asked to answer for his crimes, but only silence greeted him. No lengthy questioning. No inquisition. No words at all.

The only sound that pierced the still air was the scrape of wood against stone. Even under the bright light, Tok could feel his eyes dilate as the guard dragged a long stake into the center of the room and threw it down. Tok’s failures had been great, but this was a punishment so cruel it had never been dealt by the Knot. Mary had forbidden it.

His muscles quaked even though he begged them not to as the guard guided the stake into a freshly dug hole and brought it upright. The thick wood now stood over seven feet high. The guard dropped another shorter plank and two metal spikes at the base of the stake.

No wonder there was no need for discussion or inquiry.

Tok had already been tried and convicted. His execution was ordered.

Just like the man they had protected for over two millennia, Tok’s suffering would be upon the cross.

* * *

Brandt awoke with Rebecca curled asleep in his arms, but something was wrong. Davidson snored like a deaf eighty-year-old, but that wasn’t it. The arm under her head tingled with pins and needles, but that wasn’t it, either.

The boat hit one, then another wave. Too long an interval. They were slowing. Carefully extracting himself from Rebecca, Brandt pulled on his dry pants as a weak light filtered under the hatch door. It had been longer than four hours since he had lain down, and Lopez hadn’t awakened him or Davidson. The corporal must have stayed at the helm the entire night.