Without saying a word, he nodded to his men. They sprang into action, grabbing one of the monks and dragging him toward the stone altar. Orthodox tradition prevented the brethren from trimming their facial hair after receiving tonsure—a symbolic shaving of their heads—so his beard was long and gray, draping the front of his black cassock like a hairy bib.
“What do you want from us?” cried the monk as he was shoved to his knees. “We have done nothing wrong!”
The leader stepped forward. “You know why I’m here. I want the book.”
“What book? I know nothing about a book!”
“Then you are no use to me.”
He punctuated his statement with a flick of his sword, separating the monk’s head from his body. For a split second the monk’s body didn’t move, somehow remaining upright as if no violence had occurred. Then suddenly it slumped forward, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Head on the left. Body on the right. Blood everywhere.
The monks gasped at the sight.
“Bring me another,” the leader ordered. “One who wants to live.”
CHAPTER 2
Sunday, May 18th
St. Petersburg, Florida
THE phone rang in the middle of the night, sometime between last call and breakfast. The time of night reserved for two things: emergencies and wrong numbers.
Jonathon Payne hoped it was the latter.
He rolled over in the hotel bed and reached for the nightstand, knocking something to the floor in his dark room. He had no idea what it was and wasn’t curious enough to find out. Still feeling the effects of his sleeping pill, he knew if he turned on a light he would be awake until dawn. Of that he was certain. He had always been a problem sleeper, an issue that had started long before his career in the military and had only gotten worse after.
Then again, years of combat can do that to a person.
And he had seen more than most.
Payne used to lead the MANIACs, an elite special forces unit composed of the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counter-guerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best. The boogeymen that no one talked about. The government’s secret weapon.
Yet on this night, Payne wanted no part of his former life.
He just wanted to get some sleep.
“Hello?” he mumbled into the hotel phone, expecting the worst.
A dial tone greeted him. It was soft and steady like radio static.
“Hello?” he repeated.
But the buzzing continued. As if no one had even called. As if he had imagined everything.
Payne grunted and hung up the phone, glad he could roll over and go back to sleep without anything to worry about. Thrilled it wasn’t an emergency. He’d had too many of those when he was in the service. Hundreds of nights interrupted by news. Updates that were rarely positive.
So in his world, wrong numbers were a good thing. About the best thing possible.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case here.
SEVERAL hours later Payne opened the hotel curtains and stepped onto his private veranda at the Renaissance Vinoy in downtown St. Petersburg. Painted flamingo pink and recently restored to its former glory, the resort was a stunning example of 1920s Mediterranean Revival architecture. The type of grand hotel that used to be found all over Florida yet was quickly becoming extinct in the age of Disneyfication.
The bright sunlight warmed his face and the sea breeze filled his lungs as he stared at the tropical waters of Tampa Bay, less than ten miles from many of the best beaches in America. Where the sand was white and the water was turquoise. Where dolphins frolicked in the surf. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, Payne rarely got to see dolphins in his hometown—only when he went to the aquarium or when the Miami Dolphins played the Steelers at Heinz Field.
In many ways, Payne looked like an NFL player. He was 6’4”, weighed 240 pounds, and was in remarkable shape for a man in his late thirties. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a world-class smile. His only physical flaws were the bullet holes and scars that decorated his body. Although he didn’t view them as flaws. More like medals of honor because each one stood for something.
Of course, he couldn’t tell their stories to most people because the details were classified, but all of the scars meant something to him. Like secret tattoos that no one knew about.
The droning of a small aircraft caught Payne’s attention, and he watched it glide across the azure sky and touch down at Albert Whitted Airport, a two-runway facility on the scenic waterfront, a few blocks away. It was the type of airfield that handled banner towing and sightseeing tours. Not large commuter jets. And certainly not the tactical fighters that he had observed during the last forty-eight hours. They required a lot more asphalt and much better pilots.
Every few months Payne visited U.S. military installations around the globe with his best friend and former MANIAC, David Jones. They were briefed on the latest equipment, and they offered their opinions to top brass on everything from training to tactics. Even though both soldiers were retired from active duty, they were still considered valuable assets by the Pentagon.
Part expert, part legend.
Their latest trip had brought them to Florida, where Mac-Dill Air Force Base occupied a large peninsula in the middle of Tampa Bay—eight miles south of downtown Tampa and nine miles east of St. Petersburg. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad place to be stationed. Or to visit. Which is why Payne and Jones always looked forward to their next consulting trip.
They picked the destination and the military picked up the tab.
“Hey!” called a voice from below. “You finally awake?”
Payne glanced down and saw David Jones standing on the sidewalk, staring up at him. Jones was 5’9” and roughly forty pounds lighter than Payne. He had light brown skin, short black hair, and a thin nose that held his stylish sunglasses in place. Sadly, the rest of his outfit wasn’t nearly as fashionable: a green floral shirt, torn khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops.
“I’m starving,” Jones said. “You want to get some chow?”
“With you? Not if you’re wearing
that
.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Honestly? It looks like Hawaiian camouflage.”
Jones frowned, trying to think of a retort. “Yeah, well . . .”
“Well, what?”
“Maybe I’m looking to get
leid
.”
Payne laughed. It wasn’t a bad comeback for a Sunday morning. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
TEN
minutes later the duo was walking along Bayshore Drive. The temperature was in the mid-seventies with low humidity. Gentle waves lapped against the stone wall that lined the harbor while palm trees swayed in the breeze. Payne wore a golf shirt and shorts, an outfit considered dressy in Florida, where many people wore T-shirts or no shirts at all.
As they turned onto Second Avenue NE toward the St. Petersburg Pier, Payne and Jones spotted a parked trolley-bus called the Looper. It was light blue and filled with tourists who were taking pictures of a tiny brick building with a red-tiled roof. A senior citizen tour guide, wearing a beige Panama hat and speaking with a Southern drawl, explained the building’s significance over the trolley’s loudspeaker system. They stopped to listen to his tale.
“You are looking at the fanciest public restroom in America, affectionately known as Little St. Mary’s. Built in 1927 by Henry Taylor, it is a scaled-down replica of St. Mary Our Lady of Grace, the gorgeous church he built on Fourth Street that we’ll be seeing soon. Both buildings are typical of the Romanesque Revival style, featuring several colors of brick, arched windows, and topped with a copper cupola. This one’s approximately twenty feet high and fifty feet wide.”
Cameras clicked as the tour guide continued.
“As the legend goes, the local diocese offered Taylor a large sum of money to build the octagonal church that he finished in 1925. However, for reasons unknown, they chose not to pay him the full amount. Realizing that he couldn’t win a fight with the church, he opted to get revenge instead. At that time the city was taking bids to build a comfort station, a fancy term for bathroom, somewhere near the waterfront. Taylor made a ridiculously low bid, guaranteeing that he would get the project. From there, he used leftover materials from the church site and built the replica that you see before you, filling it with toilets instead of pews.”
The tour guide smiled. “It was his way of saying that the Catholic Church was full of crap!”
Everyone laughed, including Payne and Jones, as the Looper pulled away from the curb and turned toward the Vinoy. Meanwhile the duo remained, marveling at the stone-carved columns and the elaborate tiled roof of Little St. Mary’s.
“Remind me to go in there later,” Jones said. “And I mean that literally.”
