Part 1 (1/2)

EMERALD.

A NOVEL BY BRIAN JANUARY.

by Brian January.

This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. They are used throughout this book in an editorial fas.h.i.+on only. In addition, terms suspected of being trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks have been appropriately capitalized, although the author (Brian January) cannot attest to the accuracy of this information. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, registered trademark, or service mark. The author (Brian January) is not a.s.sociated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book.

BOOK ONE.

ONE.

St. Mark's Basilica, Venice, Italy.

WHEN the chancel floor exploded, Skarda hunched his shoulders and dove into the shadow of a colonnaded archway. Above his head shattered marble flew like shrapnel, gouging furrows in the frescoed plaster with a sound like chisels grating through stone.

A scream cut through the aftershock of the blast. Then another, jagged with pain. Getting to his haunches, he spun around. Through coils of acrid black smoke he could see strobelike images of three men storming up through the jagged hole at the presbytery: a.s.sault troops, dressed in pale red jumpsuits and military-style body armor. Gun oil gleamed in the candlelight as each man unslung a Kalashnikov AK-47 automatic rifle from his shoulder.

Paris.h.i.+oners sprang up from pews and wooden chairs, at first milling in terror, then fleeing for the narthex and the exit to the Piazza. Others stood frozen in place, their faces slack with disbelief. Under the canopy of the high altar a young black-robed priest broke and ran, his arms flailing wildly.

A second explosion made Skarda duck. High above the altar the apex of the Ascension Dome blew to pieces, raining down fractured wooden ribs, chunks of gilded stucco, and lead tiles. Smoke boiled through the opening, shredded to tatters by the rotor wash of an Mi-25 guns.h.i.+p silhouetted against the bright blue sky.

The fuselage door slid back. Black polyester ropes snaked down, blown almost horizontal by the downdraft. Then they grew rigid as three more armed commandos rappelled down, their boots. .h.i.tting the gleaming floor with echoing thuds. The men fanned out, bringing their rifles to bear on panicked tourists. Two of the men were tall and heavily-built: one with close-shaved reddish-brown hair and a prominent nose; the other with a blond buzz-cut and the high cheekbones of an eastern European.

But it was the third man who got Skarda's attention. He was at least five inches taller than the other two and sinewy-lean, with broad shoulders that looked unnatural on his slim build. His shaved head and dark skin made him look like an ancient Egyptian, but his eyes, sunken deep into oversized orbits, shone a striking azure blue, made more intense by the contrast to the color of his skin.

Clearly he was in command.

”Everybody down!” the tall man ordered. He said it first in Italian, then repeated the command in German and English. His rifle chattered out a few rounds at the ceiling.

A woman shrieked. Fleeing people flopped on their bellies, hands flung out in supplication. A child whimpered, its cry drowned out by a quavering voice praying in Italian.

A new sound reached Skarda's ears: the m.u.f.fled tread of booted feet from beyond the wall of the narthex. He twisted around, seeing the bronze doors flung open as three more armed men marched in and took up positions in the nave, their rifles raised and ready to fire.

Shrinking back into the deep shadows of the alcove, he quickly a.s.sessed the situation. So far the commandos hadn't seen him, which gave him an edge. But it wasn't worth much: with no weapons he didn't have a chance against their firepower.

A tight smile pulled at the corners of his lips. There was another thing they didn't know about: April.

Outside, on the broad Piazza, she would have seen the Mi-25 and the onion-shaped dome being blown to pieces.

She'd be coming.

But right now his eyes were locked on the auburn-haired woman with the funky black gla.s.ses who was backing up against the inner wall of the iconostasis, the marble-columned wall that separated the main nave from the chancel and apse. Her name was Dr. Laura Carlson, aka Flinders Carlson. He and April had picked up her trail half an hour ago and followed her here.

And now she was about to do something stupid.

Next to the smoking hole in the floor four carpeted steps led up to the high altar, and on it lay a sarcophagus enclosed in a pale green marble sheath covered by a metal screen. It was here that Church tradition maintained the skeletal remains of St. Mark the Apostle rested.

Now the blond man stepped up beside it, yanking a battery-powered jackhammer from his pack. Without hesitation he fired it up, gripping the rubber handles and thrusting the machine at the marble sheath like a spear. The chisel bit chewed into metal and stone, hammering at thirty-five times a second, spewing out a fountain of jade-green chips.

A man's voice shouted in Italian. Skarda cut his eyes left, seeing the young priest who had run away earlier now coming storming back, brandis.h.i.+ng a huge jeweled crucifix like a broadsword. His voice rising to a howl, he charged the commandos.

The big-nosed man lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger. Bullets tore the priest's chest into a crimson mess and he was flung back against a fallen painting in a slick of blood.

Unfazed, the blond-haired man continued to blast the top of the sarcophagus to rubble.

Skarda's intense blue eyes hardened into chips of polar ice. Again he looked at Flinders.

She was going to charge the altar.

Weapons or not, he knew what he had to do. Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped out into the open, very slowly, raising his hands high in the air. Immediately rifle muzzles tracked his position. Catching the attention of the leader, he rolled his eyes in Flinders' direction, indicating they were together. The tall man nodded an okay.

Skarda moved out along the line of the iconostasis, mentally wincing as he glanced to his right and saw a tourist on the cold floor, his arms flung wide, a pie-shaped shard of marble buried in the center of his forehead. Next to him a woman had sunk to her knees, sobbing.

And on the other end, Flinders was rising-.

He yelled out a warning.

But he was too late-.

With a harsh cry, she exploded forward. ”Stop!” she shouted at the blond man. ”You can't do that!”

The big-nosed man swung his rifle up to fire just as Skarda tackled her by the waist, dragging her to the floor and pinning her in place with his body. Breath exploded from her lungs, cutting off her cry of surprise.

Flicking his eyes up, he watched the gunman's finger tighten on the trigger- But the tall man stepped forward. An emotion had caused his eyes to narrow.

Recognition.

Reaching out, he grabbed the other man's barrel and thrust it away. The man stepped back.

Flinders squirmed. ”Get off me!”

Scrambling to a crouch, Skarda wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her backward, struggling and kicking. With his free hand he fished out his Stealth VII smartphone, tapping 112, the local police emergency number.

No reception.

That meant the Bad Guys were jamming the signal. Using Flinders' body to s.h.i.+eld his action, he brought his hand up, snapping a surrept.i.tious photo of the leader and his men.

She was still wriggling like a netted eel. ”Let me go! Don't you see what that man is doing? He's destroying a priceless historical artifact!”

He pressed his mouth against her ear. This close, he could hear her heart hammering like a frantic animal trapped inside her chest. ”If you want to stay alive, shut up and stay down.”

She jerked her head away, eyes flas.h.i.+ng. ”Let me go! I have to stop them!”