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  Sign of the Cross

  ( Payne and Jones - 2 )

  Chris Kuzneski

  Chris Kuzneski. Sign of the Cross

  (Payne and Jones — 2)

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Sign of the Cross

  ‘One of those rare finds: a chilling tale told by a true craftsman. Whether for the superb writing or the non-stop, what-was-that-noise-in-the-other-room suspense, this one will keep you up at night. Daring in both plot and style, Sign of the Cross is a winner!’ Robert Liparulo, author of Comes a Horseman

  ‘Chris Kuzneski is a remarkable new writer, who completely understands what makes for a good story: action, sex, suspense, humor and great characters. I can’t wait for the next Jonathon Payne novel!’ Nelson DeMille, #1 New York Times Bestselling author

  ‘Harrowing, but always suspenseful, Sign of the Cross makes you wish it would never end. Chris Kuzneski writes as forcefully as his tough characters act’ Clive Cussler, #1 New York Times Bestselling author

  ‘Chris Kuzneski writes with an energy that is contagious! Action, suspense, mystery, and a biting thread of humor… what more can you ask of a novel?’ James Rollins, USA Today Bestselling author

  ‘One of those perfect bookstore finds. I was hooked at the first sentence — literally — and from then on, it was one continuous wild ride. Chris Kuzneski flawlessly and seamlessly combines truth and fiction to create a wonderfully entertaining story. He’s the real deal’ John Gilstrap, author of At All Costs and Six Minutes to Freedom

  ‘An immensely inventive and rewarding thriller packed with enough fascinating information and international intrigue to keep the reader’s brain cells spinning long after the last page is read’ Lewis Perdue, author of Daughter of God

  ‘Sign of the Cross starts with a bang and twists masterfully through a maze of truth, lies, betrayal, and hope. An intriguing blend of fact, fiction and theory propel this unique story to a tense and exciting conclusion’ Allison Brennan, author of The Kill

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chris Kuzneski attended the University of Pittsburgh, where he played football, wrote for three newspapers, and passed most of his classes. He earned a master’s degree in teaching, then taught English for five years before pursuing a career in writing. His first novel, The Plantation, introduced the characters of Payne and Jones, and received rave reviews. To learn more, please visit his website www.chriskuzneski.com

  Sign of the Cross

  CHRIS KUZNESKI

  1

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is a difficult task but not nearly as tough as raising a son who wants to be an author. Therefore, I’d like to start off by thanking my mom and dad. There’s no way I would have a writing career if it weren’t for them. They’ve been the key to everything. Somehow they always figured out what I needed (love, support, free food, etc.) and provided it for me. Seriously, I can’t imagine having two better parents.

  Professionally, I’d like to thank Scott Miller, my agent at Trident Media. How we teamed up is a remarkable story. He bought a self-published copy of The Plantation (my first Payne amp; Jones novel) in a Philadelphia bookstore and liked it enough to e-mail me. At the time, I had a folder with over one hundred rejection letters from literary agents, yet the best young agent in the business bought my book (at full price) and contacted me. Not only did I get a royalty from his book sale, but I also got the perfect agent. Amazing!

  Of course, Scott doesn’t work alone. I’d also like to thank Claire Roberts, who handles all my foreign sales, and the entire staff at Trident Media. You’ve done a remarkable job!

  Speaking of jobs, I’d like to thank Berkley for paying me to do something I love. No, not watching football in my boxers. I’m talking about writing books. A huge thanks to Natalee Rosenstein for taking a chance on me. I’m so fortunate to work with an editor who is looking beyond my current project. Instead, she’s hoping to build my career.

  On a day-to-day basis, Michelle Vega is the person who I deal with most often at Berkley, and she’s a superstar. In my opinion, she’d make a great game show host because she has the answers to all my questions. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone I’ve ever dealt with at Berkley has been wonderful.

  Next, I’d like to thank Pat LoBrutto, Joyce Kuzneski, and Joe Golden for their editing expertise. They helped shorten my 711-page first draft into something readable. Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Ian Harper for answering all my late-night research questions, and Randy Raskin for his computer expertise. You guys are great friends.

  Finally, I’d like to thank the dozen or so fans I already have. The first version of The Plantation came out a long time ago, and since then I’ve heard from many of you — mostly to tell me to get off my lazy ass and write another book before Payne amp; Jones die of old age. Man, I wish it was that easy. Unfortunately, the publishing world is a hard one to break into. Over the years, I’ve learned a few lessons (inside joke) and taught a few, too. In the end, I’m hoping Sign of the Cross was worth the wait…

  Knowledge is the enemy of faith.

  — translated from a stone marker

  discovered in Orvieto, Italy

  (circa 37 AD)

  1

  Monday, July 10

  Helsingør, Denmark

  (thirty miles north of Copenhagen)

  Erik Jansen was about to die. He just didn’t know how. Or why.

  After saying a short prayer, he lifted his head and tried to regain his bearings but couldn’t see a thing. Salt water burned his eyes and blurred his vision. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands were bound behind him, wrapped in thick layers of rope and attached to the frame of the boat. His legs were secured as well, tied even tighter than his arms, which meant there was no hope for escape. He was at their mercy. Whoever they were.

  They had grabbed him as he left his apartment and forced him into the back of a van. Very quiet, very professional. No time for him to make a scene. Within seconds they had knocked him out with a narcotic. He awakened hours later, no longer in the bustling city but on the open sea. Day was now night. His freedom was now gone. His life was nearly over.

  Jansen was tempted to scream but knew that would only make things worse. These weren’t the type of men who made mistakes. He could tell. If help was nearby, they would’ve gagged him. Or cut out his tongue. Or both. No way they would’ve risked getting caught. He had known them for less than a day but knew that much. These men were professionals, hired to kill him for some ungodly reason. Now it was just a matter of time.

  When their boat reached the shore, Jansen felt the rocks as they scraped against the bottom of the hull. The sound filled the air like a primeval wail, yet none of them seemed to care. It was the middle of the night, and the coast was deserted. No one would come running. No one would come to save him. It was in God’s hands now, as it always was.

  Suddenly, one of the men leapt over the side and splashed into the icy water. He grabbed the boat with both hands and eased it onto the narrow beach, just below a footpath. The other three followed his lead, and soon the boat was hidden in the trees that lined this section of the island.

  They had traveled over a thousand miles but were just getting started.

  Without saying a word, they loosened the ropes and lifted Jansen from the boat, placing him on their broad shoulders for the journey inland. Jansen sensed this might be his last chance to escape, so he flailed back and forth like an angry fish trying to break free of their grasp, yet all he did was upset them. In response they slammed his face into the jagged rocks, breaking his nose, shattering his teeth, and knocking him unconscious. Then they picked him up and carried him to the place where he would die.

  One
of the men cut off Jansen’s clothes while the others built the cross. It was seven feet wide and ten feet high and made out of African oak. The wood was precut so the planks slid into place with little effort. When they were finished, it looked like a giant T spread across the freshly cut grass. They knew most people would be confused by the shape but not the experts. They would know it was authentic. Just like it was supposed to be. Just like it had been.

  In silence they dragged Jansen to the cross and positioned his arms on the patibulum — the horizontal beam — and put his legs on the stipes. Once they were satisfied, the largest of the men took a mallet and drove a wrought-iron spike through Jansen’s right wrist. Blood squirted like a cherry geyser, spraying the worker’s face, but he refused to stop until the nail hit the ground. He repeated the process on Jansen’s left wrist, then moved to his legs.

  Since Jansen was unconscious, they were able to place his feet in the proper position: left foot on top of the right, toes pointed downward, which would please their bosses no end. One spike through the arch in both feet, straight through the metatarsals.

  Perfect. Simply perfect. Just like it needed to be.

  Once Jansen was in place, out came the spear. A long wooden spear. Topped with an iron tip that had been forged to specifications. The largest of the men grabbed it and without blinking an eye rammed it into Jansen’s side. No empathy. No regret. He actually laughed as he cracked Jansen’s ribs and punctured his lung. The other men followed his lead, laughing at the dying man as blood gushed from his side. Laughing like the Romans had so many years before.

  The leader checked his watch and smiled. They were still on schedule. Within minutes, they would be back on the boat. Within hours, they would be in a different country.

  All that remained was the sign. A hand-painted sign. It would be nailed to the top of the cross, high above the victim’s head. It was their way of claiming responsibility, their way of announcing their intent. It said one thing, one simple phrase. Six words that were known throughout the world. Six words that would doom Christianity and rewrite the word of God.

  IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.

  2

  El Presidio de Pamplona

  (Pamplona Penitentiary)

  Pamplona, Spain

  The frigid water slammed the prisoner against the stone wall and held him there like it was made of Velcro. That is until the prison guard turned off the fire hose and watched him fall to the floor.

  ‘¡Hola, Señor Payne! ¡Buenos días!’

  ‘Buenos días, my ass.’ He had been locked in a cell since Friday, and this was the third morning in a row that they’d used the hose to wake him up.

  ‘What is wrong?’ the guard asked with a thick accent. ‘Not happy to see me, eh?’

  Jonathon Payne climbed off the floor and stretched his six foot four frame. He was in good shape for his mid-thirties, yet all the training in the world couldn’t stop the years from adding up. Throw in some old gunshot wounds and a few football injuries, and getting out of bed was his least favorite part of the day. ‘Oh, it’s not you. I love seeing your two teeth every morning. The thing I can do without is your wake-up call. I go to sleep in Spain and wake up in Niagara Falls.’

  The guard shook his head. He was slight of build and ten inches shorter than Payne, but the thick iron bars gave the guard courage. ‘Just like a spoiled American. I go out of my way to shower you in bed and you do nothing but complain. Tomorrow I might skip the hose and wake you with my bullwhip.’

  ‘Damn, Ricardo. You’re one kinky cop.’

  ‘What you mean kinky?’

  Payne ignored the question and walked to the front of the cell. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but your boss promised me a phone call today. That means the embassy will be here long before you show me your bullwhip and matching leather thong.’

  ‘Yes, I sure they will drop everything to save you and your friend.’ The guard laughed as he walked down the corridor. Pointing to another inmate, he said, ‘Hey, hombre! You an americano, no?’

  ‘Me?’ the prisoner asked with a twang. ‘Yes, sirree. I’m from Bullcock, Texas.’

  ‘And why are you in jail?’

  The man blushed slightly. ‘I was caught whizzin’ on one of your streets.’

  ‘That is right! The Pisser of Pamplona! How I forget about you?’ Laughing harder, the guard pointed toward the man’s crotch. ‘And how long have you and your little señor been in here?’

  ‘About two weeks.’

  ‘For pissing in public?’ Payne growled. ‘And the embassy hasn’t helped you yet?’

  ‘I’m still waiting for ’em to show. They’re down in Madrid, and we’re way up here in Pamplona. I reckon they don’t come this way too often.’

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Payne mumbled. He had assumed that he and his best friend, David Jones, would be given their release once the weekend was over. Or, at the very least, someone would explain why they’d been arrested. But his confidence was slowly waning. If the Texan was correct, Payne realized he might have to do something drastic to get out, because there was no way in hell he’d rot in a cell for much longer. Especially since he didn’t do anything wrong.

  Three days in jail and still no charges. Three goddamned days.

  It had started last week. They were in Pamplona for the Fiesta de San Fermin, better known as the Running of the Bulls. They’d been in town for a couple of days, drinking and sightseeing, when they were ambushed at their hotel. Completely overwhelmed by a surprise attack.

  Payne was getting cleaned up for dinner when someone kicked in his door. The local cops. A lot of them. They were there en masse to arrest his ass. They kept mumbling in broken English about something he’d done long ago. Way before his recent trip. None of it made any sense until he glanced down the hall and saw Jones in handcuffs, too. That’s when he realized this must have something to do with their former careers. Their military careers. And if that was the case, then they were screwed. This would become an international incident.

  The duo used to run the MANIACs, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the best soldiers that the Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, counterguerilla sabotage, or foreign defense, they’d seen more shit than a proctologist. And caused their share of it, too. Clandestine operations all over the globe. Missions that no one else could handle. Or be entrusted with. When they got an assignment, it came straight from the top brass. Right from the Pentagon. And the reason was simple: the less people who knew about the MANIACs, the better. They were the government’s secret weapon. The boogeymen the U.S. wouldn’t admit to. Couldn’t admit to.

  And that’s what had Payne worried. If he’d been arrested for something he’d done with the MANIACs, would the Pentagon come to his aid? Could they afford the negative publicity?

  So far it had been three days and still no word.

  Three days and counting…

  3

  Orvieto, Italy

  (sixty-two miles northwest of Rome)

  Dr Charles Boyd dropped his hammer and searched for his canteen. He was in decent shape for a fifty-eight-year-old, but the heat from the floodlights was brutal. Sweat poured off his scalp like rain.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he complained.

  Maria Pelati smiled but kept working. She was half her professor’s age and possessed twice the energy. And while he suffered in the traditional garb of an archaeologist — khaki pants, cotton shirt, hiking shoes — she wore a T-shirt and shorts.

  They’d spent the past few days together burrowing into the 900-foot plateau that lifted Orvieto high above the vineyards of the Paglia Valley, a location so impenetrable that it was used as a safe haven by the popes of the Middle Ages. Papal documents prove that the Italian popes transformed Orvieto into the vacation Vatican, their home away from home during the most tumultuous era in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. Sadly, papal scribes were banned from describing any specifics for fe
ar that their descriptions could be used by their enemies to plan an attack. Still, that didn’t stop rumors from spreading.

  According to legend there was supposed to be a city built underneath the city — the Catacombs of Orvieto — which was used to store the Church’s most important documents and protect its most precious artifacts. Most experts dismissed the Catacombs as a fairy tale, the creation of a drunk monk from the fourteenth century. But not Dr Boyd. Not only did he believe in their existence, he used all of his free time to search for them.

  ‘Professore? When I was little, my father used to speak of the Catacombs, though he never talked about them in real terms. He always considered them to be like Atlantis.’ Pelati took a deep breath and brushed the hair out of her eyes, something she did when she was nervous. ‘Well, sir, I was wondering, why are you sure that the Catacombs exist?’

  He held her gaze for several seconds, then eased the tension with a half smile. ‘Trust me, my dear, you aren’t the first person to question me. I mean, who in their right mind would waste their time searching for the Catacombs? I might as well be fishing for the Loch Ness Monster.’

  She laughed. ‘Just so you know, it’s probably cooler near Loch Ness.’

  ‘And just so you know, I’m not the least bit crazy.’

  ‘I never said that you were.’

  ‘But you’ve considered it. You’d be crazy if you didn’t.’

  She brushed the hair out of her eyes again. ‘There’s a very fine line between genius and insanity, and I’ve never seen you cross that line… Of course, you are rather elusive. You still haven’t told me about the Catacombs yet.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Catacombs. Tell me, my dear, what do you know about the Roman Empire?’

  ‘The Roman Empire?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘I know quite a bit, I guess.’