James Rollins - Innocent Blood

Jordan sized up their team’s ability to resist an attack — in case it was an assault force winging their way.

Who am I kidding? he thought. Of course it’s an attack .

His team certainly had no cover out here in the open, and the two Sanguinists were their best defense — and offense, for that matter.

But how many were coming?

If it was Iscariot, the bastard had boundless resources: men, strigoi, even the monstrous blasphemare .

He turned to Christian. “How about flying to someplace more defensible?”

“The bird is almost out of gas, but even if it weren’t, it’s not fast enough to outrun the machine that approaches.”

Jordan pictured the hellfire missiles shot at them.

“I see,” he said with a sigh.

He swung his machine pistol up from his shoulder. He had little ammunition left. Erin checked her pistol and shrugged. Same boat as him.

Jordan gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin.

From the expression on her face, he failed.

Then he heard a distant whump-whump . His eyes picked out a dark mote in the glare off the sands. A small commercial helicopter swept toward them, coming in low and fast. It could hold at best five or six enemies. And it certainly had no missiles.

That was at least a small blessing.

The pilot seemed to be pushing the craft beyond its limits. White smoke trailed behind it. Jordan widened his stance and lifted his pistol, aiming for the cockpit. If he could take out the pilot, maybe the chopper would crash and solve all his problems.

As the helicopter sped closer, Jordan sighted on the right side of the bubble-shaped front, where the pilot should be seated. He moved his finger to the trigger.

“Wait!” Christian pushed his gun barrel down.

Jordan backed a step. “Why?”

“It’s Bernard,” Rhun answered. “In front, next to the pilot.”

Okay, now I want their eyes, too.

Jordan wouldn’t have recognized his own mother at that distance.

“Is that good news or bad news?” he asked.

“He’s not likely to shoot us, if that’s what you’re asking,” Christian said. “But I don’t think he’s going to be happy with us either.”

“So mostly good news, then.”

The helicopter aimed straight for them and made a rough landing at the crater’s rim, teetering at the edge, smoke boiling out of the back of the engine as it coughed to a stop.

Bernard hopped out, accompanied by a massive pilot, a true beast of a man in a flight suit. The latter ripped off his helmet, revealing a shock of dark red hair. From the cabin behind them, two women joined them. The first out had her long gray hair tied in an efficient braid, wearing Sanguinist armor. The second wore jeans and a silver shirt, covered by a long cloak. That cloak billowed into wings as the woman broke away from the others. Jordan noted the flash of chains binding her wrists.

Bathory.

She came scary quick, swooping down the slope, half skidding on her backside, showing little concern about the indignity of her approach. Her face was a mask of concern, her eyes fixed to one member of their group.

“Elizabeth!” Tommy ran up to meet her and hugged her hard.

She tolerated it for a moment — then roughly pushed his chin up, examining his neck.

“You look well,” she said, but her terseness belied her true feelings.

Jordan leaned to Erin. “I don’t get what the boy sees in her.”

Bernard reached them, eyeing Tommy, too. “You were able to heal them both,” he said gruffly, glancing at Arella. “Very good.”

The two other Sanguinists flanked behind him, backing him up, both stone-faced.

Bernard pointed to the large man. He was even larger up close, a true tank of a man, with a barrel chest and thick arms covered in mats of curly red hair.

“This is Agmundr.”

The newcomer thumped a meaty fist against his chest and flashed a grin at Christian. He lifted his other arm proudly toward the smoking aircraft.

Christian sighed and shook his head. “So it looks like you trashed another helicopter. I thought I taught you better, Agmundr. It’s not a Viking warship. It’s a finely tuned piece of machinery.”

“It vexed me.” Agmundr’s voice rumbled out in a deep-throated Nordic accent. “Too slow.”

“Everything vexes you,” Christian scolded, but they grasped each other’s forearm in a warm shake, earning Christian a slap on the back that almost dropped him to his knees. Jordan liked this Agmundr.

Bernard indicated the other Sanguinist. “And this is Wingu.”

The woman was black and stood taller than Jordan. Up close now, he saw her gray braid was decorated with feathers and wound by a colorful bead tie. Her face was stern, pocked with tribal scarring, small dots across her cheeks.

She gave them a simple nod, but her dark eyes took in everything.

“We have little time for pleasantries,” Bernard said, scanning the skies behind him. “We must bring the boy to the book. If he can be healed here, perhaps he can bless it here.”

“It is a holy site,” Erin said. “Possibly holier than St. Peter’s.”

Bernard frowned at the crater.

“This is where Christ performed his first miracle,” Erin explained. “When he was a child.”

Wingu spoke in a deep whisper, “I can sense great holiness here.”

Bernard slowly nodded, clearly feeling something, too, but he straightened and motioned to Tommy. “Then let us see if the book can be blessed upon this ground.”

Bathory let Tommy join them, but she looked reluctant. Not that she could do anything about it. Though she could walk under this ash-shrouded sky, she was clearly drained by the sun overhead, or maybe it was the holiness underfoot. Either way, she must know she could not resist the Sanguinists gathered here, on holy ground that gave them strength.

Bathory studied the pictures as she stepped across the ribbon of art. Her interest finally drew Bernard’s attention to the same. He did a double take, then moved closer himself, turning in a circle, his gaze sweeping from panel to panel, as if he were speed-reading.

He turned to Arella. “This is the story you destroyed in Jerusalem.” He strode to the last panel, bending a knee to touch the sword depicted there. His voice was full of anguish. “Why did you keep this from me?”

“The world was not ready,” she explained simply.

“Who are you to judge what the world is ready for?” Bernard stood, moving toward Arella with a hand on the hilt of his own sword.

Jordan touched his rifle.

Rhun blocked Bernard. “Stand down, old friend. Leave the past to the past. We must now face the present and the future.”

“If we could’ve possessed such a weapon…” Bernard shook his head, as distraught as Jordan had ever seen him. “Imagine the suffering we could have spared the world.”

“And all you would’ve wreaked,” Arella said. “I walked the mosque after you left Jerusalem. I saw what your forces did in the name of God. You were not ready. The world was not ready.”

Rhun touched his pectoral cross. “We have no time for this,” he reminded them. “The sun will be setting in another hour.”

His words seemed to finally break through Bernard’s anger and anguish. “You are right.” He reached to his armor and removed the Blood Gospel again and held it out. “Please, my child. Before it’s too late. You must bless this book.”

Looking worried, Tommy took it. The book looked huge in his small hands. “This didn’t work last time. And remember, I’m not the First Angel.”

Bernard gave them a baffled look. It seemed the cardinal was suffering one long day of surprises, most of them bad. Jordan knew how that felt. “What does he mean?”