Sign of the Cross

water burned his eyes and blurred his vision. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands were bound behind him, wrapped in thick layers of rope and attached to the frame of the boat. His legs were secured as well, tied even tighter than his arms, which meant there was no hope for escape. He was at their mercy. Whoever they were.

They had grabbed him as he left his apartment and forced him into the back of a van. Very quiet, very professional. No time for him to make a scene. Within seconds they had knocked him out with a narcotic. He awakened hours later, no longer in the bustling city but on the open sea. Day was now night. His freedom was now gone. His life was nearly over.

Jansen was tempted to scream but knew that would only make things worse. These weren’t the type of men who made mistakes. He could tell. If help was nearby, they would’ve gagged him. Or cut out his tongue. Or both. No way they would’ve risked getting caught. He had known them for less than a day but knew that much. These men were professionals, hired to kill him for some ungodly reason. Now it was just a matter of time.

When their boat reached the shore, Jansen felt the rocks as they scraped against the bottom of the hull. The sound filled the air like a primeval wail, yet none of them seemed to care. It was the middle of the night, and the coast was deserted. No one would come running. No one would come to save him. It was in God’s hands now, as it always was.

Suddenly, one of the men leapt over the side and splashed into the icy water. He grabbed the boat with both hands and eased it onto the narrow beach, just below a footpath. The other three followed his lead, and soon the boat was hidden in the trees that lined this section of the island.

They had traveled over a thousand miles but were just getting started.

Without saying a word, they loosened the ropes and lifted Jansen from the boat, placing him on their broad shoulders for the journey inland. Jansen sensed this might be his last chance to escape, so he flailed back and forth like an angry fish trying to break free of their grasp, yet all he did was upset them. In response they slammed his face into the jagged rocks, breaking his nose, shattering his teeth, and knocking him unconscious. Then they picked him up and carried him to the place where he would die.

One of the men cut off Jansen’s clothes while the others built the cross. It was seven feet wide and ten feet high and made out of African oak. The wood was precut so the planks slid into place with little effort. When they were finished, it looked like a giant T spread across the freshly cut grass. They knew most people would be confused by the shape but not the experts. They would know it was authentic. Just like it was supposed to be. Just like it had been.

In silence they dragged Jansen to the cross and positioned his arms on the patibulum — the horizontal beam — and put his legs on the stipes. Once they were satisfied, the largest of the men took a mallet and drove a wrought-iron spike through Jansen’s right wrist. Blood squirted like a cherry geyser, spraying the worker’s face, but he refused to stop until the nail hit the ground. He repeated the process on Jansen’s left wrist, then moved to his legs.

Since Jansen was unconscious, they were able to place his feet in the proper position: left foot on top of the right, toes pointed downward, which would please their bosses no end. One spike through the arch in both feet, straight through the metatarsals.

Perfect. Simply perfect. Just like it needed to be.

Once Jansen was in place, out came the spear. A long wooden spear. Topped with an iron tip that had been forged to specifications. The largest of the men grabbed it and without blinking an eye rammed it into Jansen’s side. No empathy. No regret. He actually laughed as he cracked Jansen’s ribs and punctured his lung. The other men followed his lead, laughing at the dying man as blood gushed from his side. Laughing like the Romans had so many years before.

The leader checked his watch and smiled. They were still on schedule. Within minutes, they would be back on the boat. Within hours, they would be in a different country.

All that remained was the sign. A hand-painted sign. It would be nailed to the top of the cross, high above the victim’s head. It was their way of claiming responsibility, their way of announcing their intent. It said one thing, one simple phrase. Six words that were known throughout the world. Six words that would doom Christianity and rewrite the word of God.

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.

2

El Presidio de Pamplona

(Pamplona Penitentiary)

Pamplona, Spain

The frigid water slammed the prisoner against the stone wall and held him there like it was made of Velcro. That is until the prison guard turned off the fire hose and watched him fall to the floor.

‘?Hola, Senor Payne! ?Buenos dias!’

‘Buenos dias, my ass.’ He had been locked in a cell since Friday, and this was the third morning in a row that they’d used the hose to wake him up.

‘What is wrong?’ the guard asked with a thick accent. ‘Not happy to see me, eh?’

Jonathon Payne climbed off the floor and stretched his six foot four frame. He was in good shape for his mid- thirties, yet all the training in the world couldn’t stop the years from adding up. Throw in some old gunshot wounds and a few football injuries, and getting out of bed was his least favorite part of the day. ‘Oh, it’s not you. I love seeing your two teeth every morning. The thing I can do without is your wake-up call. I go to sleep in Spain and wake up in Niagara Falls.’

The guard shook his head. He was slight of build and ten inches shorter than Payne, but the thick iron bars gave the guard courage. ‘Just like a spoiled American. I go out of my way to shower you in bed and you do nothing but complain. Tomorrow I might skip the hose and wake you with my bullwhip.’

‘Damn, Ricardo. You’re one kinky cop.’

‘What you mean kinky?’

Payne ignored the question and walked to the front of the cell. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but your boss promised me a phone call today. That means the embassy will be here long before you show me your bullwhip and matching leather thong.’

‘Yes, I sure they will drop everything to save you and your friend.’ The guard laughed as he walked down the corridor. Pointing to another inmate, he said, ‘Hey, hombre! You an americano, no?’

‘Me?’ the prisoner asked with a twang. ‘Yes, sirree. I’m from Bullcock, Texas.’

‘And why are you in jail?’

The man blushed slightly. ‘I was caught whizzin’ on one of your streets.’

‘That is right! The Pisser of Pamplona! How I forget about you?’ Laughing harder, the guard pointed toward the man’s crotch. ‘And how long have you and your little senor been in here?’

‘About two weeks.’

‘For pissing in public?’ Payne growled. ‘And the embassy hasn’t helped you yet?’

‘I’m still waiting for ’em to show. They’re down in Madrid, and we’re way up here in Pamplona. I reckon they don’t come this way too often.’

‘Son of a bitch,’ Payne mumbled. He had assumed that he and his best friend, David Jones, would be given their release once the weekend was over. Or, at the very least, someone would explain why they’d been arrested. But his confidence was slowly waning. If the Texan was correct, Payne realized he might have to do something drastic to get out, because there was no way in hell he’d rot in a cell for much longer. Especially since he didn’t do anything wrong.

Three days in jail and still no charges. Three goddamned days.

It had started last week. They were in Pamplona for the Fiesta de San Fermin, better known as the Running of the Bulls. They’d been in town for a couple of days, drinking and sightseeing, when they were ambushed at their hotel. Completely overwhelmed by a surprise attack.

Payne was getting cleaned up for dinner when someone kicked in his door. The local cops. A lot of them. They were there en masse to arrest his ass. They kept mumbling in broken English about something he’d done long