Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) by J Robert Kennedy

guilt as someone clearly close to her shrieked
in heartbreaking shock.
    Yet he
continued squeezing the trigger of his Beretta as they advanced, the surprised
French police barely getting any aimed shots off, his men, all experts,
eliminating them in less than a minute, the last one running out of ammo,
dropping his weapon.
    They
stopped firing, an uneasy stillness falling over the room as his men rushed
toward the police position. A man dove from the sidelines, grabbing the woman
and cradling her in his arms, comforting her as he inspected her wounds. He
suddenly jumped to his feet, grabbing a relic from one of the shattered
displays, an ancient jar long gilded in gold by misguided worshipers centuries
before.
    A Blood
Relic.
    The man
reached inside, grasping what was supposed to be the remnants of the sponge
used to quench Christ’s thirst in his final moments.
    He
placed his gun against the back of the man’s head. “I’ll kindly ask that you
not do that.”
    The man
carefully removed his hand from the jar, raising his arms over his head. “You
have to let me save my wife.”
    One of
his men rushed to his side. “All clear, sir.”
    “Secure
these two.” He motioned for one of his men, a trained medic, to examine the
woman. “Status?”
    “She’ll
die without immediate help.”
    He
frowned. He had taken this too far in his rage and fear. It wasn’t fair that
his father, such a good man, was dying from something he had no power over. He
had never done anything wrong, never contracted the disease through some error
in judgment, never eaten poorly, smoked or drank to excess.
    His only
sin was being born.
    And so
was his. Dietrich looked at the woman at his feet, clearly dying. It was one
thing to kill police, at least it was their job, and now that it was said and
done, his stomach was threatening to empty its contents at his feet, the guilt
over what he had done almost overwhelming.
    And he
came to a decision.
    He
flicked his wrist toward the door. “Take her with us.” Two of his men picked
her up, carrying her from the room as her two companions, now bound to nearby
pillars, protested. “Status on the relics?”
    “All
have been retrieved.”
    “Then
we’re done here.”
     
    Acton sagged against his bindings as the last of the attackers left
the Treasury. Several gunshots sounded outside then the distinctive sound of a
helicopter landing then taking off signaled their successful escape as sirens
wailed in the distance. Tears flowed down his face, his eyes burning with the
image of his dying wife cradled in his arms, the fear in her eyes the horrible,
final memory he was doomed to live with for the rest of his life.
    A life
not worth living without her.
    A life
without a purpose.
    He
looked across at Reading, still struggling against the tape binding him to the
pillar, the rage in his friend’s eyes inspiring, igniting a spark in his own
self, a warm, comforting hatred building inside as the tears, still staining
his cheeks, stopped, his eyes glaring in the direction Laura’s murderers had
fled.
    And he
swore he’d kill them all.
    He
pushed back at the waist and forward at the shoulders as hard as he could.
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he growled against his gag. The tape
stretched but continued to hold him. He shook from left to right, taking
advantage of the bit of give he’d managed to stretch out of the strong
cloth-backed adhesive.
    Suddenly
he heard a tear to his right.
    He
continued his struggle back and forth, throwing everything he had into his
jerks to the left, and the ripping sound continued. A final jerk and he felt
his shoulders loosen noticeably. A megaphone outside sounded, the police
finally having arrived but clearly having no clue what was going on inside,
instead surrounding the cathedral until they could determine what was
happening.
    Which
meant delays they couldn’t afford.
    As he
writhed in his bindings, slowly loosening himself, he felt a sense of hope
begin to