The Blood Gospel by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell Page A

sword wrapped in a ribbon. This is something new.”
    Curious, she touched the central symbol. “Looks like a Norse rune. From Elder Futhark. Maybe an Odal rune.”
    She drew it in the dust on the floor with a finger.

    “The rune represents the letter O .” She turned to Jordan. “Could that be the medal owner’s initial?”
    Before she could contemplate it further, McKay barked, “Freeze! Hands in the air!”
    Startled, she spun around.
    Jordan shouldered his Heckler & Koch machine pistol and twisted toward the tomb’s entrance. Again the ground shook, rock dust shivered—and from out of the shadows, a dark shape stepped into the room.

8
    October 26, 5:04 P.M ., IST
    Masada, Israel
    “Hold your fire!” Jordan yelled, lifting up his left arm. “It’s the padre.”
    He lowered the muzzle of his submachine gun and strode over to the clergyman. It was strange enough that the priest had come down here, but he noticed something even more disturbing.
    He’s not wearing any rappelling gear.
    Jordan stepped in front of him as the aftershock faded. “What are you doing down here, Father?”
    From under the cowl of his hood, the priest regarded him. Jordan did the same, sizing the other up. Father Korza stood two inches taller than Jordan, but under his long open jacket, he was leaner, muscular, a whip of a man. The hard planes of his face were clearly Slavic, softened only by full lips. He wore his black hair down to his collar—a bit too long for a holy man.
    But it was those eyes, studious and dark— very dark—that set Jordan’s heart to pounding. His fingers involuntarily tightened on his weapon.
    He’s only a priest , he reminded himself.
    Father Korza stared a moment longer at Jordan, then his gaze flicked away, sweeping the room in a single glance.
    “Did you hear me, padre? I asked you a question.”
    The priest’s words were whispered, breathless, oddly formal. “The Church has prior claim to what lies within this crypt.”
    Father Korza started to step past him. Jordan grabbed his arm—but only caught air. Somehow the priest smoothly shrugged out of his way and stalked toward the open sarcophagus.
    Jordan followed, noting the priest’s eyes fix to the child staked to the wall, his face unreadable. Reaching the tomb, the man glanced inside the empty sarcophagus and visibly tensed, going statue-still.
    Erin approached him from the far wall. She held aloft her cell phone, plainly searching for a signal, hoping to get her photographs uploaded somewhere safe, always thinking like a researcher.
    As she reached the sarcophagus, Jordan kept between her and Father Korza. For some reason, he didn’t want her near the strange priest.
    “This is a restricted area,” Jordan warned.
    Perlman backed him up, resting a palm on his sidearm. “You should not be here, Father Korza. The Israeli government set strict guidelines on your visit here.”
    The clergyman ignored them both. He focused on Erin. “Have you found a book? Or a block of stone of such size?” He held out his arms.
    Erin shook her head. “We found nothing like that, just the girl. It looks like the Germans cleared this tomb during the war.”
    His only reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes.
    Who is this guy?
    Jordan placed his hand on the butt of his machine pistol, waiting to see what the holy man would do next. Brusque and taciturn, the priest had obvious issues with authority, but so far he’d shown no outward signs of threat.
    Peripherally, Jordan watched McKay slip a hand to his own dagger.
    “Easy, Corporal,” he ordered. “Stand down.”
    The priest ignored McKay, but he suddenly tensed, freezing in midturn, his ear cocked to the side. He made eye contact with Jordan, but his words were for all of them.
    “You must all leave. Now .”
    The last word bristled with warning.
    What is he talking about?
    The answer came from Jordan’s earpiece: a scream burst forth, full of blood and pain, sharp enough to stab deep into his