Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (21 page)

Giasson Residence, Via Nicolò III, Rome, Italy

“How are you feeling, my friend?”

Giasson
put a hand on his shoulder, wincing, overplaying his injury, not wanting Chief
Inspector Riva to think he was fully on his game. “Weak, in pain, but I’ll
live.”

“You
shouldn’t be here, you should be in the hospital.”

Giasson
smiled weakly. “I hate hospitals. With a passion. I’d rather be in my own bed
with my wife’s cooking and God at my side.”

Riva frowned
from his chair at the foot of Giasson’s bed. “Just remember that God put
doctors on this earth for a reason. Denying them is like denying His help.”

Giasson
chuckled then winced for real. “Too true. But don’t ever mention that to a
doctor, they have enough of a God complex as it is.”

Riva laughed
heartily, reminding Giasson of one of the many reasons he genuinely liked the
man. He found it completely disheartening that he had to suspect his good
friend of being the traitor in their midst, though if he examined the evidence,
he was the prime suspect. The man knew about the portrait, knew where it would
be and when, and it was men dressed as his police officers that had carried out
the theft.

It
has to be him.

The
alternative was even more horrible to contemplate.

He
nodded toward a stack of files on Riva’s lap. “What can you tell me?”

Riva
waved the files. “Very interesting stuff. The security footage from the
university gave us clear images of all the thieves. We’ve run the photos
through our database and confirmed they were
not
police officers.”

“That’s
a relief.”

“Indeed.”

“And the
leader?”

“Nothing
yet. I’ve sent all their photos to Interpol, maybe they’ll come up with
something.”

Everything
Giasson was hearing was exactly as he would expect to hear from an honest
police officer doing his job. It had him seriously reconsidering his doubts
about the man. So much so, the internal debate on whether or not to share the
information about Acton’s phone and the castle it had been traced to, began to
rage.

Prudence
won out.

“Any
idea how they knew where the portrait would be?”

Riva shook
his head. “No, I told no one. I merely sent the detail. I was supposed to be
there but I received a call where my presence was demanded.”

“Seems
to be quite the coincidence.”

Riva nodded.
“I agree. And it was no coincidence, at least I don’t think it was. They should
have called Tumicelli—I think you’ve met him”—Giasson nodded—“but his car had
been vandalized the night before and he was still at home dealing with that.”

“So you
were kept away.” Giasson frowned. “Why do you think they’d want that?”

“I know
every man under my command and picked four of my best to be there that I knew I
could trust. If I had arrived and found two more men who I didn’t recognize, I
would have aborted the entire operation.” Riva shook his head. “Like I said, I
picked the four men, sent them there with no idea why they were going except to
provide security. I have no idea how anyone could have found out.” He frowned,
his eyes looking away, drifting to the floor. “I hate to say this, my friend,
but I think the leak could be at your end.”

Giasson drew
in a slow breath, fearing Riva may actually be right.

And the
very idea sickened him.

Maggie Harris Residence, Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville,
North Carolina

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson made sure his fiancée’s
legs were clear then shut the passenger door of his prized 1964½ Mustang
convertible in original Poppy Red. He ran a finger along the hood as he rounded
the front of the car, not a blemish revealed to his delicate touch.

He loved
that car almost as much as he loved Maggie Harris.

Though
he’d never tell her that.

She’d
probably take it the wrong way.

The car
had been his father’s, left to him after the man died, and he had babied it
like any other man who loved cars would. His father had rarely taken the car
out, instead trying to preserve the engine, and Dawson knew it was one of the
man’s great regrets.

There
had been only one stipulation in the will.

Drive
it. Enjoy it.

So he
did. He had put almost as many miles on it in the past few years as his father
had in forty, though he was never tempted to go on any truly long trips with
it. Yes, he’d drive it, but he also wanted to enjoy it, and the constant worry
of some idiot doing something stupid on the interstate kept him tooling around
town, enjoying the wind in his hair.

He
looked at Maggie as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Top up or down?”

“Down. I
haven’t felt the sun in ages.”

He
smiled.

Definite
progress.

His
beautiful fiancée had been shot in Paris not long ago, a head wound that had
left her near death. She had made a full recovery from the wound’s perspective,
it was her hair that was the stumbling block. They had been forced to shave
half her head, and she had been left with a severe scar. His best friend’s wife
had clipped the remaining hair much shorter and maintained it that way as the
shaved side started to grow back. It was only this week that Maggie had been
able to look in the mirror and agree that the terrible days of mismatched
hemispheres was over.

It would
be years before her long locks returned completely, but at a casual glance,
you’d never know she had been shot, her hair now long enough to cover the scar
tissue.

Which
meant she was public ready.

Everyone
in the Unit was dying to see her, dying to see them together. The news of the
engagement had spread like wildfire, as he had expected it to, and everyone was
eager to congratulate them, though they also knew what she was going through so
had respected their privacy.

But the
Unit was tight.

Incredibly
tight.

As
members of America’s elite Delta Force, officially the 1st Special Forces
Operational Detachment—Delta, they were like family. Their jobs were classified,
even their families didn’t know what they did, except for their wives. Parents,
siblings, girlfriends—all out of the loop.

And
should one of them fall, it was never in combat.

Not
officially.

He loved
his job, loved it more than anything until recently. It wasn’t until he had
fully committed to Maggie that he realized he would be willing to give up his
career if she asked him to, he loving her so much.

But one
of the reasons he loved her is because she would never ask him to. Being his
boss’ personal assistant, she knew from the get-go what his job was and what
she was getting herself into. She had an advantage none of the other
girlfriends had. When an operator met someone, and decided to get married, his
future wife would be read in, sworn to secrecy.

And more
than a few ran.

Though most
didn’t. Military wives were a different breed. You didn’t marry a serving
member if you wanted the simple life in one spot for the rest of your life. You
were marrying into a family that spread across the country and around the
world, never knowing where you might be posted next. You either loved it or
hated it, but you could never be surprised by it.

The
wives of the Unit were phenomenal, all supportive of each other when their
husbands were deployed, and every one of them from his team, Bravo Team, had
stepped up to the plate to take care of Maggie during her recovery.

And they
were both eager to thank them all, publicly.

So when
he had called his best friend and second-in-command, Master Sergeant Mike “Red”
Belme, to tell him that Maggie was ready for a public appearance, the word had
gone out and a barbeque behind the Unit was organized that very day, everyone
to a man apparently confirming their attendance.

He
couldn’t wait.

The
comradery of the Unit was one of the greatest things about military life.
Everyone who served had their own Unit. A group of men and women that knew what
they were going through, that worked hard, every day, at each other’s side.
People you knew had your back, that you trusted like no other.

And a
combat vet’s Unit was quite often tighter than family.

The bond
forged under fire was something no civilian could truly appreciate, and thanks
to people like the men under his command, most civilians would never be forced
to experience it.

It was a
privilege reserved for the proud few who volunteered to protect the way of life
they loved so dear, loved enough to be willing to die to preserve it.

As they
drove through the main gate at Fort Bragg, clearing the heightened security
that seemed always to be in place, he held Maggie’s hand, enjoying the feeling
of the sun beating down on them, the gentle breeze ruffling his outrageous
Hawaiian shirt that had been closet bound for so long.

Life was
getting back to normal. Sure, tomorrow—even tonight—he might be called away to
some hellhole, but right here, right now, this was bliss. Driving with the only
girl he had ever loved to meet the best friends a guy could ever have, to eat
good old American barbequed food followed by a game of softball with the families,
was his idea of a perfect day.

He
pulled into the parking lot, smiling, giving a double-honk of the horn to
announce their arrival.

“Everyone’s
already here,” said Maggie, drawing in a loud breath.

He
looked at her, taking her hand. “You sure you’re up for this?”

She
turned to him and smiled, giving a curt nod. “Absolutely.”

He
grinned and climbed out, rushing around to open her door and help her.

“Hey,
you two, long time no see!”

Dawson
smiled at his best friend Red, as he and his wife Shirley walked over, everyone
else crowding around. Handshakes and hugs were exchanged, congratulations
offered, the whirlwind of activity he could see quickly tiring Maggie. He
steered her through the crowd and placed her in a lawn chair, pointing at a
beech umbrella lying across a picnic table.

Sergeant
Leon “Atlas” James grabbed it and tossed it over, Dawson catching it easily and
jamming it into the ground behind Maggie.

“Ice
tea?”

She
nodded.

Shirley came
over with a glass and Dawson took it, handing the ice-cold beverage to his
fiancée. “Can I get you anything else?”

Maggie
shook her head. “I’m perfect, thanks.”

“You’ve
got a keeper, there,” said Shirley.

“Yup,
he’s going to make one hell of a wife,” laughed Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung, one
of the funniest men Dawson knew, and probably the best sniper on the team,
though in Delta that didn’t mean much. If Niner was a 10, everyone else was a
9.5. The others joined in the good-natured ribbing, as he had fully expected.

They
were
family, after all.

“So, BD,
will you be wearing white?” asked Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman.

Dawson
laughed, taking a beer handed to him by Niner. “No, but I’m looking forward to
seeing you guys in your bridesmaid’s dresses.” He checked out Niner’s legs.
“You’re going to look absolutely fabulous.”

Niner
did a dainty curtsy. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

Atlas
put an arm over Niner, the massive man making Niner seem like a plaything. “You
remember our deal. If we’re both single when we’re forty, you can be my wife.”

Niner
wriggled his way free. “No,
the deal was you’re
my
wife.”

Spock
cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head down. “Umm, wouldn’t that be like a Chihuahua
trying to hump a Great Dane?”

Dawson
spit his beer, Maggie giggling. “Ugh, that’s one hell of a visual.”

Sergeant
Jerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson walked over, lighter fluid in hand. “Grill Master
Sergeant, care to do the honors?”

Dawson
grinned, taking the special Unit blend probably illegal anywhere outside of
Texas. He soaked the coals, already prepared by one of the men, then struck a
match.

“Fire in
the hole!”

He
tossed the match on the barbeque and a mini explosion tore skyward, a roar from
those gathered as the barbecue was officially underway. The show over, the kids
were back on the baseball diamond, tossing balls and Frisbees as the adults mingled,
beer flowing, hamburger patties being readied.

Dawson
winked at Maggie, talking to Shirley and Sergeant Zack “Wings” Hauser’s wife Robyn.
She flashed him a smile, she clearly enjoying herself. He was immensely proud
of her. What she had been through had been harrowing, yet the bravery she had
shown in fighting back, in regaining her health without losing her spirit, was
inspiring.

His
phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out, expertly tossing patties
onto the grill. Glancing at the call display, he frowned, it a blocked number.