The Thirteenth Legion (A James Acton Thriller, #15) (James Acton Thrillers) Read online

  Somebody shouted for help, a crowd immediately forming around the downed man. Chaney stared at his old partner who turned to see what was happening.

  Okay Hugh, do you see me? It’s time to talk.

  “Let me through!”

  Chaney spun to see another man rushing up, pushing the crowd aside then kneeling beside the unconscious man. He then glared directly at Chaney.

  Oh shit!

  Fear gripped him as he recognized the man, he failing to take into account there might be two watching his old partner. He knew that Reading would be watched, just in the off chance he attempted to contact him, though he had never thought they’d spare two resources.

  And he knew this man.

  He was a friend.

  Rage filled his friend’s eyes.

  He means to kill me.

  Chaney looked at Reading, their eyes meeting, his old partner’s jaw dropping in recognition. But there was no time for a reunion.

  He bolted.

  Interpol Agent Hugh Reading stared, his mouth agape, his heart slamming with shock and excitement at the sight of his old friend. They had been partners for years, he the senior of course, but Martin Chaney was a good friend, they spending many an off-hour together.

  Until about a year ago, when he had last seen him in Venice.

  Then heard nothing since.

  He’s terrified!

  The fear in his friend’s eyes was clear, a wave of relief washing over Reading as that meant Chaney had probably disappeared for some good reason. It had pained him that his friend would leave without saying anything, that he wouldn’t trust him enough to say something.

  Yet he knew the reason.

  The bloody Triarii.

  It had been a shock to learn where his partner’s true loyalties lay, and it had hurt their relationship, the trust having to be earned yet again, but it had. And it wasn’t until Venice when they had learned the true extent to the battle raging within the Triarii that he had an inkling of doubt return.

  An inkling that had turned into outright suspicion when he had disappeared, putting in for an indefinite leave of absence to recover from his gunshot wound.

  And not telling his old partner why.

  Chaney turned, running in the opposite direction. Reading rushed after him, his tired bones not as quick to react as they used to, he raising his hand and shouting after him. “Martin, wait!”

  Another man cut in front of him, stepping away from the man who had collapsed, and chasing after Chaney. Car tires squealed ahead, an Audi A4 racing toward them on the opposite side of the street, the wheel suddenly cranked as it swung across, pulling a 180 just ahead of the oncoming traffic. It screeched to a halt, the passenger side door thrown open.

  Chaney dove in, the tires spinning, the traction control off, before it peeled away in a hail of blaring horns. The other man jumped out into the street, raising a weapon, oblivious to the vehicle about to run him down. Reading slammed into him, they both hitting the ground hard, the gun clattering away before a shot was fired. He spun him over onto his back, his fist raised when he froze.

  Wait a minute!

  “Rodney?”

  He couldn’t remember the man’s last name, though he had been a guard at the British Museum, a guard who had fled the British Museum, rather than face questioning. He was a man he knew to be a member of the Triarii, and apparently a friend of Chaney’s.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” He hauled the man to his feet, keeping a firm grip on him as he pulled him out of traffic. “Why are you trying to shoot at Martin?”

  Rodney shook his head. “Agent Reading, you don’t know what’s going on. You need to let me go, now.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  Rodney swung his arm in a loop, breaking Reading’s grip before he placed a foot behind Reading, pushing him off balance and onto his ass.

  Reading cursed, glaring up at the much younger man.

  A car pulled up beside him, two men jumping out and grabbing the still unconscious man, carrying him to the curb and placing him in the backseat. The car pulled up slightly, Rodney getting in the passenger seat. He pointed at Reading. “Don’t get involved, Agent, or someone you care about could get hurt.”

  Outside Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Faisal gently pushed his laughing boys inside their almost palatial home. As a member of the Saudi royal family, life was good. Extremely good. He had more money than he knew what to do with thanks to the generous stipends paid out by the family, and though he was far down the line of succession, there was so much money to go around, it meant little whether he was ten times removed or fifteen.

  He was rich.

  Life was good.

  And he had to do little for it, other than run his small corner of the kingdom, with an iron fist granted him by blood.

  A good life.

  He just hoped the rumors of the treasury being broke within five years due to the low price of oil were just that. Rumors. He knew the reasoning behind it. Saudi oil production costs hovered around $10 a barrel, a price no one outside of the Middle East could compete with. Their aim was to bankrupt shale oil and oil sand production, then lower production, jacking up the price.

  But the plan had to work before they ran out of money.

  “Safiya! We’re home!”

  He pulled off his gloves, tossing them to his manservant, then dropped in a chair, his boots promptly pulled off. He looked at his servant. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I had thought she was home.”

  “Of course she’s home, she’s not allowed to leave!” He shoved his now bare feet into sandals and dismissed the boys, heading toward their bedchambers.

  Perhaps she’s asleep.

  He felt a stirring down below.

  Maybe I’ll wake her with a surprise!

  He pushed aside the slightly ajar door to their bedchambers and smiled, his wife lying on the bed, a satin sheet covering her. He closed the door, locking it, then stripped naked, his excitement now raging as he grabbed the end of the sheet and yanked it aside.

  He cried out.

  Two round holes, dripping with blood, were torn through her back, a pool of blood soaking the sheets. He spun toward the far wall, screaming for help, staring at the sheets hanging there, pulled aside. The door to his secret vault lay open and his heart leapt into his throat. He rushed forward into the room, surveying his treasures, the stacks of cash in various currencies and gems of varying sizes and settings, ignored, his eyes seeking what he already knew was missing.

  He collapsed to his knees as his servants pounded at the locked door.

  It’s gone!

  Golgotha, Judea

  April 10th, 30 AD

  Decanus Vitus strode into the room, one of the prefect’s assistants, Junius, bowing, holding out his hand and stopping him. “A warning, sire, the prefect is not in a good mood.”

  Vitus pursed his lips, then nodded. “Thank you for that.” He held up a small bag. “Perhaps this will improve it.”

  Junius smiled, his eyes widening slightly. “A gift?”

  “You could call it that. A curiosity at the least.”

  Prefect Pontius Pilate’s voice echoed down the walls, his words shouted, though unclear. Apparently, a group of soldiers was missing, the Jewish elders demanding their deaths for blasphemy. Strange things were afoot since the Rabi claiming to be the King of the Jews and the son of their god, had been crucified at the behest of the Jewish elders. Vitus had heard rumors that Pilate had reluctantly agreed, his wife urging him not to, he even giving the crowds the choice between the peaceful man’s life, or that of a murderer.

  The crowd had chosen.

  Vitus thought poorly.

  But control of Judea was paramount, and tenuous. Pilate, as prefect of the region, couldn’t risk losing control, so in an effort to placate the locals, gave the elders wide leeway in administering their own affairs as long as they didn’t interfere with Rome’s will.

 
; And in this case, some religious man being executed meant little to them.

  A group of senior officers marched by, not pleased by what they had heard, a hint of fear in the eyes, Vitus not sure of the source, everyone still on edge after the violent storm that erupted the moment this man called Jesus had gasped his last breath.

  The aide held out his hand. “He will see you now.”

  Vitus strode with confidence into Pilate’s office, snapping to attention then delivering a salute. “Decanus Vitus, I have—”

  Pilate cut him off with a raised hand. “I understand you were witness to the crucifixion?”

  “From a distance, Prefect. I was at the foot of the hill.”

  “And you witnessed the storm? Did it start as they say, the moment he died?”

  Vitus thought for a moment, choosing his words cautiously. “I cannot say with any certainty. The skies darkened I think before he died, but there was a shaking of the earth followed by a much more severe storm, that I do believe began when he died.”

  “And what makes you say so, if you were so far away?”

  Vitus gulped. “I heard the wails of his loved ones just after the ground shook. I heard them before, but they were much more pronounced after.”

  Pilate nodded slowly, apparently satisfied with this response. Vitus breathed, not realizing he had been holding it. Pilate looked up, though not at him, as if addressing someone else. “These Jews are a difficult people to rule. They believe fervently in their god, and I get the distinct impression merely tolerate us, as if they think they could overthrow us at a moment’s notice, as if we were the ancient Egyptians of old. I sometimes wonder if we will have ten plagues visited upon us at some point.” He suddenly stared directly at Vitus. “I understand you have something for me?”

  Vitus stared blankly for a moment, then lifted the forgotten bag. “Yes, something that was found only moments after the ground shook. A large boulder rolled down the hill where the crucifixion took place, then split in two. This was found inside.” He untied the string binding the bag, then reached inside, pulling out the surprisingly heavy object, placing it on the prefect’s desk.

  A shiver raced up his spine and he noticed that Pilate himself shook slightly as well, rubbing his arms, goosebumps visible despite the heat. “What is it?”

  “I’m not certain, Prefect, a curiosity for certain. Please, keep it with the complements of the soldiers who serve you.”

  Pilate nodded, staring at the curiosity intently before picking it up. “Heavy.”

  “Indeed.”

  He turned it, holding it up to a candle burning on his desk, the light playing about it, giving it an eerie glow. “Fascinating.” He tore his eyes away, looking up at Vitus. “This pleases me. Thank your men, and give them an extra ration of wine for their brave service.”

  Vitus smiled. “Yes, Prefect. Thank you, Prefect.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  Vitus snapped out another salute then turned, marching from his leader’s presence, passing the aide at the doorway, a smile on his face, he apparently pleased his master’s mood had improved.

  “Junius! Come here!”

  The man flinched, obviously the Junius referred to, rushing toward Pilate’s desk as Vitus left the room.

  But his mood quickly turned, for he was certain he knew whose heads the Jewish leaders were demanding, and they were men under his command, good men, men who didn’t deserve to die.

  I must warn them.

  He glanced back and felt his chest tighten, for if the prefect were to find out, his own head would be added to the pile.

  Despite the gift he had just bestowed.

  Junius rushed into the prefect’s office, his eyes immediately locking onto the object held in Pilate’s hands. A chill ran through him, reminding him of the terror he had experienced when the ground had shook and the storm had nearly overwhelmed them. It had been vicious, terrifying, and he had wanted to hide in a corner until it was over.

  Pilate had shown no fear, and demanded none be shown by his staff, an order no one dared disobey, he clearly in a foul mood.

  “What is it, Prefect?”

  “A rather unique sculpture, don’t you think?”

  Junius stared at it, his hands trembling to reach out and touch it, an action he dared not take whilst the prefect was so engaged. “It-it is that. I don’t think I have ever seen anything like it.”

  “Nor I. They claim it was inside a stone, broken in half when that Jew was crucified.”

  Junius bowed repeatedly, unsure of what to say, it sounding fantastic to him. He didn’t believe in the Jewish god, though he had to admit his faith had been shaken enough to hedge his bets, directing a silent prayer to him. And if this sculpture were related to what had happened, then their god’s power was truly great.

  And perhaps he was more real than any of his own gods.

  I’ve never had a prayer answered, at least not one I could say wouldn’t have happened anyway.

  Suddenly Pilate placed the object on his desk. “Take it.”

  “Yes, Prefect.” Junius reached forward, lifting the object and turning it toward him, it seeming to stare back at him. He gasped, an uncontrollable shiver rushing over his body, he nearly dropping it.

  “Be careful, you fool!”

  “Y-yes, Prefect.” He carefully placed it back in the bag the Decanus had brought it in, tying the string around the top. “Wh-what should I do with it?”

  “Take it, put it somewhere. I don’t care. I don’t have time for it.”

  “Y-yes, Prefect.”

  He turned to leave when Pilate barked a final command at him.

  “But don’t dispose of it! I may have use of it someday.”

  “Y-yes, Prefect.”

  Junius rushed out of the room, gripping the object tightly to his chest, heading toward his own modest office. He placed the bag on a shelf carved into the wall, then sat, taking several deep breaths as he tried to get control of his frazzled nerves.

  There was a knock at the door, sending his heart racing once again.

  “Enter!”

  The door opened and an old man stepped inside, closing the door behind him. But was he an old man? He appeared frail, yet his posture was good, his stride and motions strong. If Junius were to see him walking in the dark, merely a dimly lit shadow, he would swear he was half the age he appeared to be.

  “What do you want?”

  The man nodded toward the shelf with the sculpture.

  “My name is Ananias, and I have come to speak to you about your new acquisition.”

  Acton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland

  Present Day

  “It was strange. He looked scared.”

  Professor James Acton’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his wife, Professor Laura Palmer. Their friend, Hugh Reading, was on speaker, Acton’s cellphone sitting on the couch behind them, they having one of the more riveting conversations he could recall having, at least recently.

  “Scared of you?” asked Laura.

  “That’s what I thought at first, but then like I said, someone started chasing him. He got in a car and the guy was going to take a shot but I stopped him.”

  Acton shook his head. Their friend, for he did think of Martin Chaney as a friend, had been missing for over a year. They weren’t as close with him as Reading, though they had spent social time together, Chaney even coming to one of their digs in Egypt. It was there that he had been shot, trying to protect some of Laura’s students.

  And it was there that things had descended into a mysterious spiral that deepened with each ongoing day. Chaney had slipped into a coma, then came out of it, appearing in Venice when they had found an artifact the Triarii for centuries had been searching for.

  And then had disappeared.

  It had deeply troubled their good friend, Reading, the two men very close. Reading was a bit of a loner after his divorce many years ago, he and his son estranged until only recently. And he had found love once only
to have it tragically ripped from him, the poor soul swearing off ever falling in love again.

  It pained both him and Laura, knowing what their friend was going through.

  And it had thrilled them when Reading had called, his excited utterance of “I saw Martin!” momentarily giving them hope the two would be reunited.

  But it wasn’t to be so, apparently.

  “And you said it was Rodney who tried to shoot him.”

  “Yes.”

  Laura leaned toward the phone. “Are you sure? He seemed like a nice young man when I met him.”

  “Same here,” agreed Acton. “He was clearly indoctrinated into the Triarii, but then again, so was Martin.”

  “Exactly!” exploded Reading. “They’re both members of that damned cult! And remember what we were told, that there’s some sort of split in the Triarii. Clearly Rodney is on the other side and has been after Martin.”

  “Maybe that’s why he disappeared? He’s afraid for his life?”

  Reading grunted. “Could be.” He sighed. “Things were never really the same after London, you know, when we all met.”

  Acton laughed. “How could we forget? You two spent your time chasing me down as a multiple murder suspect.”

  “I didn’t arrest you, did I?”

  Laura dropped her chin. “You arrested me!”

  “Nooo, I merely took you in for questioning.”

  “Huh, not how I remember it. It was come in voluntarily, or I’ll arrest you.”

  Reading laughed. “Sounds like something I’d say. But after I found out Martin was part of this Triarii, and was more loyal to them than the Yard, it just wasn’t the same. He tried, I know, to patch things up, and I think we were headed there, but after he disappeared…” He growled. “A man can’t have two masters.”

  “Agreed,” said Acton, “but he did help save Laura.”

  “Yes, but in doing so, betrayed his oath. He could have just as easily got her killed.”

  Acton squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “But he didn’t.”

  “True, but he should be a copper first, cult member second.”