Broken Dove E-Book

J. Robert Kennedy

• Herausgeber: J. Robert Kennedy
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

"A little bit of Jack Bauer and Indiana Jones!"USA TODAY and BARNES & NOBLE #1 BESTSELLING AUTHOR • “A MASTER STORYTELLER” • OVER 800,000 BOOKS SOLD • OVER 3,000 FIVE STAR REVIEWSIf you enjoy action-packed thrillers, then don’t miss Broken Dove, a shocking, controversial thriller from J. Robert Kennedy, “a master storyteller” (Betty Richard) and “one of the best writers today” (Johnny Olsen).WILL A SECRET DESPERATELY HIDDEN FOR OVER ONE THOUSAND YEARS BY THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH FINALLY BE REVEALED?When the new Pope, a member of an ancient organization descendant from the Roman Empire, assumes control of the Roman Catholic Church, an organization founded by Saint Peter himself takes action, murdering one of the new Pope's operatives. Detective Chaney, called in by the Pope to investigate, disappears, and, to the horror of the Papal staff sent to inform His Holiness, they find him missing too, the only clue a secret chest presented to each new Pope on the eve of their election, since the beginning of the Church.Interpol Agent Reading, determined to find his friend, calls professors James Acton and Laura Palmer to Rome to examine the chest and its forbidden contents, but before they can arrive, they are intercepted by an organization older than the Church, demanding the professors retrieve an item stolen in ancient Judea in exchange for the lives of their friends.It is the most infamous kidnapping in history, set against the backdrop of a two thousand year old battle pitting ancient foes with diametrically opposed agendas.From USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy comes Broken Dove, the third entry in the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series, where Kennedy reveals a secret concealed by the Church for almost 1200 years, and a fascinating interpretation of what the real reason behind the denials might be.About the James Acton Thrillers:"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J. Robert Kennedy."The James Acton Thrillers series and its spin-offs, the Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers and the Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers, have over 3000 Five-Star reviews and have sold over 800,000 copies. If you love non-stop action and intrigue with a healthy dose of humor, try James Acton today!"James Acton: A little bit of Jack Bauer and Indiana Jones!"Available James Acton Thrillers:The Protocol, Brass Monkey, Broken Dove, The Templar's Relic, Flags of Sin, The Arab Fall, The Circle of Eight, The Venice Code, Pompeii's Ghosts, Amazon Burning, The Riddle, Blood Relics, Sins of the Titanic, Saint Peter's Soldiers, The Thirteenth Legion, Raging Sun, Wages of Sin, Wrath of the Gods, The Templar's Revenge

Leseprobe

Broken Dove

A James Acton Thriller

by

J. Robert Kennedy

From the Back Cover

From USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy comes Broken Dove, a shocking, controversial thriller that reveals a secret the Roman Catholic Church has desperately hidden for over one thousand years!

When the new Pope, a member of an ancient organization descendant from the Roman Empire, assumes control of the Roman Catholic Church, an organization founded by Saint Peter himself takes action, murdering one of the Pope's operatives. Detective Chaney, called in by the new Pope to investigate, disappears, and, to the horror of the Papal staff sent to inform His Holiness, they find him missing too, the only clue a secret chest, presented to each new pope on the eve of their election, since the beginning of the Church.

Interpol Agent Reading, determined to find his friend, calls Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer to Rome to examine the chest and its forbidden contents, but before they can arrive, they are intercepted by an organization older than the Church, demanding the professors retrieve an item stolen in ancient Judea in exchange for the lives of their friends.

All of your favorite characters from The Protocol return to solve the most infamous kidnapping in history, against the backdrop of a two thousand year old battle pitting ancient foes with diametrically opposed agendas.

From USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy comes the third entry in the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series, where Kennedy reveals a secret concealed by the Church for almost 1200 years, and a fascinating interpretation of what the real reason behind the denials might be.

About the James Acton Thrillers

"James Acton: A little bit of Jack Bauer and Indiana Jones!"

Though this book is part of the James Acton Thrillers series, it is written as a standalone novel and can be enjoyed without having read any of the previous installments.

About J. Robert Kennedy

With over 800,000 books sold and over 3000 five-star reviews, USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over thirty international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

"A master storyteller." — Betty Richard

"A writer who tells what we are thinking but sometimes afraid to say." — Bruce Ford

"Kennedy kicks ass in this genre." — David Mavity

"One of the best writers today." — Johnny Olsen

"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy." — Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer

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Books by J. Robert Kennedy

The James Acton Thrillers

The Protocol Brass Monkey Broken Dove The Templar's Relic Flags of Sin The Arab Fall The Circle of Eight The Venice Code Pompeii's Ghosts Amazon Burning The Riddle Blood Relics Sins of the Titanic Saint Peter's Soldiers The Thirteenth Legion Raging Sun Wages of Sin Wrath of the Gods The Templar's Revenge

The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

Rogue Operator Containment Failure Cold Warriors Death to America Black Widow The Agenda Retribution

The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

Payback

Table of Contents

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Table of Contents

Beginning

Preface

1

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3

4

5

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Acknowledgements

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Thank You!

About the Author

Also by the Author

Preface

Before the ninth century, all Papal processions from the Patriarchium, the Pope’s residence, to St. Peter’s Basilica, would travel a route known as the Via Sacra, the most direct route between the two points. After the death of Pope John VIII, a Pope later stricken from the records, the Via Sacra, or “Sacred Road,” was renamed by the locals, “the shunned street,” and since then, no papal processions have taken this road.

After the death of Pope John VIII, for over six hundred years, during the papal consecration ceremony, the newly elected pope would sit on the sella stercoraria, a seat with a hole in the middle like a toilet. The newly elected pope’s genitals were then examined, and after confirmed male, the examiner would announce, “Mas nobis nominus est,” or, “Our nominee is a man.” Once this announcement was made, the new pope would receive the keys of St. Peter.

In 1276 AD, Pope John XX, after ordering an exhaustive search of the records, renamed himself Pope John XXI, in recognition of two Pope John VIIIs.

To this day, the Roman Catholic Church denies the original Pope John VIII existed, and denies a female pope ever existed.

“Even while living in the world, the heart of Mary was so filled with motherly tenderness and compassion for men that no-one ever suffered so much for their own pains, as Mary suffered for the pains of her children.”

Saint Jerome, circa 380 AD

1

Outside Tyrus, Judea 342 A.D.

Berenice gripped the book hidden beneath her robes, tight to her chest with one hand, the other grasping the seat of the cart she sat in. Flanked on either side by two of her sisters, she waited for word from the advance scouts sent ahead almost thirty minutes before. It felt like she had been holding her breath the entire time. Her heart pounded, her palms sweat profusely, and her cheeks were flushed, their warmth like fire upon her face.

The snort of a horse ahead stirred them all, her companions sitting with her, and the guards surrounding them on horseback. Hooves pounded, echoing through the pass they found themselves about to enter.

This cannot be good.

She closed her eyes and prayed to the Blessed Virgin as the thunderous sound neared.

“Prepare for attack!” yelled one of the guards. “Protect the Word at all costs.”

Berenice opened her eyes. There was no retreat. Roman soldiers were behind them, two hours at most. If they couldn’t go forward, these treacherous mountains would become their tomb, and the Word would be lost. The decision to move it had been hers, and she now realized she had made a mistake. The hope had been to not only escape the never ending searches by the Romans, but also to deliver it to the Coptic monks of Abba Antonious, still sympathetic to their cause, where in a single week, they could make dozens of copies of what she now held, the last copy known to exist. A book so terrible, so blasphemous, so apocryphal, the Emperor had ordered it and all others like it destroyed after the Council of Nicaea had concluded any teachings not fitting their narrow beliefs must be destroyed. Emperor Constantine’s edict had resulted in the destruction of thousands of precious works, some indeed blasphemous, others innocent, but burned from ignorance, hate, or opportunism.

Including the few dozen copies of this collection of pages she now gripped.

And today, if those pursuing them had their way, the last copy would be lost.

“It’s Sister Joanna!”

Berenice looked up, opening her eyes. Joanna raced to a stop in front of the wagon, breathing as hard as her sweat-caked horse. Both appeared ready to collapse. “We can’t go that way!” she gasped. “The end of the pass is sealed by a contubernium of soldiers.” She sucked in some more air, too exhausted to continue.

Sister Sapphira, sitting beside Berenice, spoke. “We have double that behind us. If we can’t go forward, and we can’t go back, what do we do?” The panic in her voice was obvious to them all. And they all felt it.

“We fight!” One of the guards on horseback shook her fist in the air as those around her cheered, her steed rearing on its hind legs.

“And we die,” said Berenice, calmly. The group fell silent. Berenice looked from face to face with a smile as she remembered how she had met each over the years. She patted the book under her robe. “This is worth more than our lives, is it not?”

Every head around her nodded in agreement.

“Then what happens to us is irrelevant. This book must survive, and be delivered to the monks. If we fail in that mission, all is lost. The Word is lost, and that is something I fear will damage the teachings of our Lord, and the Blessed Virgin, for eternity.” The smile disappeared from her face. “One of us must survive.”

“Let it be you, Sister Berenice,” said Joanna. More nods of agreement were followed by a few calls of her name. “You are the best of us, the most learned of us. Should the book be lost, as long as you survive, at least the Word can still be passed on.”

Berenice smiled at Joanna. “I thank you for your faith in me.”

“Then it shall be so!” announced Joanna, raising her sword in the air. “Long live Berenice! Long live the Word!”

The guard echoed the call, thrusting their swords in the air.

Berenice blushed, the shame of their praise at once filling her heart with love, and wounding her with her unworthiness. She raised a hand to quiet them. “There was a farm, not far back, where the farmer seemed a good Christian, and sympathetic to us.”

“The one who gave us fresh milk this morning.” Joanna nodded. “Yes, you must return there, hide until the troops pursuing us have passed, then make your own way when it is safe. We”—she circled her sword indicating the others—“will charge forward and attack the troops blocking our way. Should we succeed in vanquishing them, we will return for you. Should we fail, we will have died in the name of our Blessed Virgin, and shall dine tonight in Heaven, at her side!” Her sword thrust in the air, the morning sun glinting off the blade as she closed her eyes, staring up at the heavens, her compatriots doing the same.

Berenice lowered her head in silent prayer.

Should any of us survive the day, it shall be a miracle granted by the Holy Mother herself.

2

Natanz Nuclear Facility 20 miles NNW of Natanz, Iran Present Day

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson froze.

Which was difficult, considering he was hanging at the end of sixty feet of rope, held from above by a pulley system and a hulk of a man named Atlas. He gently placed his gloved hands against the sides of the ductwork he was hanging in, and waited. Below him—five feet below him—stood two guards, chatting in Farsi, who were not supposed to be there. Intel had said this level was always free from guards, too sensitive even for them. The Natanz facility, identified over a decade ago, was now one of the main uranium enrichment plants of the Iranian nuclear effort, with over 7000 centrifuges in the one million square foot facility. This level led to the two main centrifuge facilities, each over a quarter million square feet in size, and two of the most secure rooms in Iran, with boots on the ground security provided from above, though not on the same level, at least according to the intel. Yet for some reason, today of all days, they were here, and he didn’t speak Farsi to know what the hell they were talking about.

But someone at Control did.

“One of them is asking the other how long they think he will be. I think they’re talking about a third person.”

Dawson said nothing. He couldn’t. One sound and they would look up, and if they did, the mission could be blown. He took deep, steady breaths, but his muscles screamed for relief. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead. The tiny, translucent dot raced along the bridge of his nose, then sat there. He slowly moved his left hand to wipe it away, but his balance shifted and he stopped. Raising his head, he stuck out his lower lip and breathed in, trying to suck the bead into his mouth.

He felt it drop.

Not into his mouth.

He stared down and watched it fall through the grate and onto the shoulder of the guard directly below him. No reaction. At least not from him. His partner, however, pointed at his shoulder. Dawson reached for his sidearm, removing it from its holster, and as the two men looked up, placed one bullet between each of their eyes. They crumpled to the ground.

“Two hostiles eliminated, our cover might be blown. Zero-Two, status of security override?”

“Security override in place and functioning.” Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme’s voice came across the comm crystal clear and confident. Dawson never doubted his second in command and best friend. They were Delta Force, the best-trained group of special operations soldiers the US military had to offer, and his team, Bravo Team, was the best of the best, in his completely biased mind. He was their leader. As with all Delta teams, the command structure was very flat, with everyone ranked at some level of sergeant. He happened to be the highest ranked in his unit, and by default was in command, but he had earned that position, leading his team of operators on missions throughout the world, successfully, and unseen.

And today better be another one of those.

He grabbed the power screwdriver off his utility belt, slid the head through the grate, then pushed forward on the slide adjusting the angle of the head. It snapped several times as it bent to a 180-degree angle, a small mirror showing him the position of the head. He adjusted it, then pressed the button, providing power. The screw unwound, then the magnetic charge held on to it when it was freed. He pulled back on the slide with his thumb, pulled the head with the dangling screw through the grill, and pocketed it. Repeating this three more times, he pulled the grate up and into the duct with him, placing it against the side, resting on the lip. Snapping the screwdriver back on his belt, he pressed a button on his harness to lower himself the final few feet, then unhooked, dropping to a knee, his weapon drawn, as he checked to see if the area remained clear.

Both ends of the long corridor were empty, the two gunshots, though muffled with a suppressor, apparently not drawing any attention. He peered through a small window on the door nearest him, and found the room vacant. He tried the knob. Locked. A quick glance showed it to be a standard household type. He pulled his pick gun off his belt, stuck it in the keyhole, and squeezed a few times, feeling the tumblers fall into position. The door unlocked. He pushed it open then pulled both bodies inside.

The door clicked shut behind him as a voice in the hall called out. He checked the floor and breathed a sigh of relief. No blood trail, his shots at enough of a downward angle there were no exit wounds. He pulled the bodies out of sight from the door’s window, then positioned himself on the side of the frame, knife at the ready. The light pouring in from the hallway dimmed as someone put their head to the glass. Dawson shifted his foot so his boot would block the door if whoever was on the other side gave it a casual push.

Then he remembered the missing grate.

Don’t. Look. Up.

He heard footsteps walking away from the door, along with what he guessed was cursing. A few moments later, a click echoed through the emptiness. He opened the door to his hiding place and peered quickly up and down the hallway. It was clear. “Control, Zero-One, proceeding with mission, over.” He jogged to the end of the hallway where a door with an electronic keypad stood, and activated his comm. “Zero-One in position.”

“Zero-Five and Zero-Eight in position.”

“Zero-Six in position.”

He punched in the code from memory, provided by someone not too thrilled at a jihadist state having nuclear weapons, and the door clicked open. He drew his weapon, and a breath.

“Proceed on my mark. Three. Two. One. Execute!”

He shoved the door aside and stepped into a brightly lit room the size of five football fields, the ceiling extending over one hundred feet above him. Stretching in long rows were thousands of centrifuges that, according to his briefing, were used to enrich uranium. Two technicians to his left stopped and gaped at him. He put two bullets in each of their chests. They dropped, and he began a clockwise round of the massive room. Another technician, sitting at his desk engrossed in a display, never knew what hit him. Dawson rounded the first corner, eliminating three more scientists with clipboards in a heated debate over something, when the alarm went off.

Shit!

“Control, Zero-One, we’re compromised. The alarm has sounded, say again, the alarm has sounded, over.”

“Zero-One, Control Actual, assessment?”

Dawson recognized Colonel Thomas Clancy’s voice. He was always happy knowing Clancy was in charge of an op. He trusted him. In the past, there were occasions when he had no idea who Control was, and on some of those occasions, he and his men had been left hung out to dry, or compromised in some way, left to their own devices to save themselves.

But not today.

Scientists and technicians were poking their heads out from among the centrifuges as the alarm wailed overhead. Dawson picked each off as he ran, and began pulling magnetic explosives off his vest, tossing them toward the centrifuges as he raced by. As he threw each one, he could hear a satisfying clank as they attached themselves to the metal.

Two more down.

Running toward him, he could see Sergeant Trip “Mickey” McDonald, his distinctive ears hidden away, doing the same, having entered from the other end.

“Almost finished clearing the room, explosives being set. Estimate exit two minutes, over.”

“Copy that, proceed at your discretion.”

Dawson and Mickey met up and turned inward, clearing several rows of centrifuges, then broke off again, heading back toward their entrance points. Dawson continued to toss explosives, and only encountered one more tech on his way out. He closed the door behind him then sprinted down the hallway toward the missing grate in the ceiling. “Zero-Seven, drop the rope.”

As he skidded to a halt, the rope, drawn up earlier by Atlas, dropped in front of him. He hooked on, then pressed the control to begin pulling him up. As his head cleared the ceiling, he heard something, then the pounding of footsteps and yelling. Hands grabbed his feet, pulling him back down. He could see someone in a military uniform, markings indicating a Colonel. Dawson, weapon still drawn, took a bead and fired. The man crumpled to the ground, freeing Dawson’s legs, and he ascended, the machine pulling him up along with the massively muscular Atlas yanking on the rope at the other end, speeding things along.

Within moments, he was at Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James’ position. He propped himself up on an intersecting duct and disconnected from the rope as Atlas folded up the equipment. Dawson rapidly crawled down the duct, Atlas bringing up the rear. “Zero-One to Zero-Five and Zero-Six, status?”

“Zero-Five and Zero-Eight, clear.”

“Zero-Six, clearing now.”

Dawson stared ahead and could see feet dangling from the junction ahead disappear. Moments later, he was there and shoved himself to his feet then raised his arms. Two sets of hands grabbed him and pulled him up, Atlas below pushing on his boots. He rolled onto the concrete slab housing one of the more remote exhaust ports for the facility, and cleared it as Atlas was hauled out. Stucco and Casey replaced the cover as Dawson got his bearings, then they began a fast sprint across the desert sand, away from the alarms and lights.

“Control, Zero-One, we’re clear, over.”

“Zero-One, Control, execute, over.”

“Control, Zero-One, executing, over.”

Dawson nodded to Red who flicked a cover protecting the detonator switch, then pushed his thumb down on the exposed button. The entire area rumbled, the ground shaking, as the explosives below detonated. Dawson glanced back and saw nothing at first, then, as the explosion spread, the roaring flames forced their escape through the ductwork they had just been in, and out the exhaust ports behind them. The entire desert lit up as they ran.

“Overseer to Zero-One, you’ve got a vehicle in pursuit, stand by.”

Dawson checked over his shoulder and saw the bouncing headlights as they mounted a crest. He and his team disappeared over the hill and down the other side. He skidded to a halt at Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung’s position as he fulfilled his Overseer duties, squeezing off another round. Dawson looked back over the hill and saw steam hissing from the engine block of the vehicle.

He slapped Niner and his spotter, Sergeant Gerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson, on their backs. “Okay, let’s go.”

Both jumped to their feet and followed the rest of the team. Another hill crested, and in front of them sat their salvation, an ultra-top secret Gen-3 Ghost Hawk chopper, or “Jedi Ride” as they liked to call it, its remarkably silent engines powered up and ready to go. As Dawson took up the rear, the rest of the team piled aboard then hauled Niner and Jimmy, and finally Dawson, inside. “Go! Go! Go!”

The pilot pulled up on the stick and the chopper lifted from the ground. Within seconds, they were racing across the barren landscape toward Iraqi soil. Niner, his nickname provided by himself after a racial slur about his Asian heritage resulted in a bar fight, looked at Atlas and gave a thumbs up. “Man, that was more fun than that time we planted the fake drone!”

The entire team chuckled.

“You’d’ve thought they’d at least get suspicious when it supposedly crashed and had no damage,” said Atlas.

Niner laughed. “Yeah, and the few hundred dollars of Radio Shack parts didn’t even raise an eyebrow.”

Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman’s eyebrow shot up.

Dawson smiled as the camaraderie enjoyed after a successful mission played out. “Control, Zero-One, we’re on our way out.” He muted the comm and yelled to the pilot. “ETA?”

“Fifteen minutes!”

“Control, ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Zero-One, Control Actual. Acknowledged. As soon as you’re clear, I have a priority one mission for you and your team, over.”

Dawson shared the expressions of confusion on the exhausted faces surrounding him.

“Control, Zero-One, confirm that last transmission, over?”

“Zero-One, Actual, we received an SOS from an old friend, over.”

An old friend? Who the hell could that be?

3

The Vatican Three Days Ago

Father Granger held the flashlight far in front, its beam slicing through the pitch black confronting him. The light bounced off the dusty shelves as he slowly made his way, revealing dozens of priceless pieces of history with each step. And he had examined every one. His heart pounded as he waved his free hand ahead to catch any cobwebs, confident he would find few if any here; this particular section searched just yesterday. Today, he continued his methodical hunt in the adjacent section. An hour each day, before the rise of the staff. In secret. No one could know he was in the Vault. No one could know the Vault existed.

If they knew what I was doing, where I was!

The scandal could destroy the Church, which, despite his purpose, he would never let happen. He would die before he would let anything happen to the Church, or his beloved Father. It was at his request that he was here, searching for something the world knew little about. And of those few who knew the truth, most had no knowledge of this mission.

The Archivum Secretum Vaticanum, the Vatican Secret Archives, was massive, with enough history to make all of the museums in the world envious. The Secret Archives were in themselves huge, and if you didn’t know what you were looking for, you weren’t getting it. The entire collection was available, and indexed, however anyone wanting to view something, had to request it specifically—there was no browsing in the archives.

But where he searched now was something completely different. There were no catalogues or indices showing the location of artifacts, no tour guides to answer questions. Where he was now, merely a handful knew even existed, and in almost two millennia, little more than five hundred were made aware, and of those, three, maybe four-score, had actually laid eyes upon it.

Which was why, when he rounded the last stack he had previously searched, he was shocked to not only see fresh footprints in the dust, but a hand swinging through the flashlight beam, followed by the excruciating pain of something hitting the side of his head.

He dropped to his knees, the flashlight rolling away from him, revealing the boots of his attacker, but nothing more. He raised his hands to cover his head when a second blow landed, breaking the fingers interlaced over his scalp. He cried out in pain, the desperate plea’s lonely echo falling only on his own ears, and that of his assailant, whose merciless assault continued with blow after blow. With pain racking his body, and the assault showing no signs of letting up, he put himself in the hands of God, and prayed.