The Venice Code by J Robert Kennedy Page B

the cuffs. Grant’s mind immediately began to run through his options, all involving him miraculously incapacitating the two unarmed men, when a third man walked down the steps, an occupied holster evident on his hip.
    His options suddenly boiled down to one.
    Do nothing.
    The cuffs were removed and he swung his legs off the cot, sitting upright.
    “There, that must be better,” said the man. “It was necessary so you didn’t hurt yourself when you woke up.” He motioned toward the stairs. “Now how about we all go upstairs and have a little chat. Get to know each other, so to speak.”
    To say Grant was confused would be an understatement. None of it made any sense. These men had killed his escort, shot him with something, obviously not a bullet, kidnapped him against his will, handcuffed him in a basement, and now wanted to be friends?
    The third man climbed the stairs, the man who had done the talking motioning for Grant to follow. He warily complied, certain something sinister awaited him at the top—perhaps a bullet or a beating. He cleared the steps and entered a kitchen with a small dining area. A fourth man was sitting eating a Subway foot long. He smiled, waving at him with one hand as he took a sip from his large fountain drink. Grant waved back, half-heartedly, his confusion growing.
    The third man led them into a living area and he pointed at what appeared to be the most comfortable chair available, some sort of La-Z-Boy. He sat, sinking into the soft cushions as the diner emerged from the kitchen with a large drink and a still bagged Subway sandwich and handed it to him.
    “Eat up, I’m sure you’re starving,” he said. “I got you a ham with just lettuce, tomatoes and mayo, just to be safe since I wasn’t sure what you’d like. And a Diet Coke.”
    Grant took the drink and sandwich, still uncertain as to what was going on. He put the drink on an end table to his left, the sandwich on his lap.
    “What the hell is going on here?” he finally asked. “Who are you?”
    The first man smiled. “We’re friends of your father.”
    Grant’s jaw dropped as almost every muscle in his body slackened. He reached for the drink blindly, sipping the ice cold liquid as his eyes darted about the faces in the room.
    “Bullshit.”
    The first man laughed. “You’re a lot like your father, you know that?” He pointed at his chest. “My name’s Mitch Reynolds.” He pointed at the second man. “That’s Chuck Holder”—he nodded toward the third man with the gun—“that cheery fellow is Ben Cowan and finally, your waiter is Chip Schneller.”
    “Pleased to meet ya!” said Chip with a wave. “Don’t be afraid of that sandwich, it won’t bite.”
    Grant nodded, looking down at the still bagged meal. His stomach grumbled.
    To hell with it. If they poisoned it, then they mean to kill me anyway.
    He pulled the sandwich out, unwrapped it and tore the two halves apart. He took a bite and chewed as the others looked on, his eyes still wandering the room. He noted the curtains were all closed, the furniture mostly dated if not worthy of an antique shop, the walls plaster with deep cove molding usually only seen in older homes.
    Definitely very old.
    His stomach growled again in appreciation as he swallowed his first bite, and after a few more, he began to feel his old self.
    “How do you know my father?” he asked between chews.
    “Tell me,” said Mitch, “did your father ever mention the Triarii?”
    “Tree what?”
    “Triarii. It’s Latin.”
    Grant took a drag on his drink, shaking his head. “Never heard of it.”
    “That’s too bad. It would have made this a lot easier,” replied Mitch. “What I’m about to tell you will probably sound like BS to you, but I assure you, it’s all true, and your father believed in it deeply.”
    “Okay.”
    “Have you ever heard of the crystal skulls?”
    “Sure, who hasn’t? Indiana Jones, Stargate SG-1 before that. They’ve got some in museums,