Sign of the Cross

Don’t worry about the Spirit. Just find the spot.

Dial glanced at the map, frantically searching for the spot. ‘People,’ he mumbled. ‘Millions of people. Where will people be this weekend?’ He ran dozens of events through his mind. ‘Think! Where are the most people? What’s the pattern? What’s the goddamn pattern?’

Denmark. He placed his finger on the red pushpin at Helsingor.

Libya. He drew his finger to the south to the pushpin at Tripoli.

America. He ran his finger across the Atlantic and stopped at Boston.

He held the fourth pushpin in his hand, not sure where to put it.

‘Dammit!’ Dial cursed as he punched the wall in frustration. He knew he was close. He knew he was on the verge of cracking this case wide open. All he had to do was finish the pattern, and the game was over. ‘Think, Nick, think. Where will they strike next?’

Getting agitated, Dial rubbed his eyes, trying to massage away the stress that was building. It was a simple act, one that he did all the time, yet there was something about his hand moving toward his face that made him realize what he was missing. It was the hand movement, the simple gesture that all Christians did.

‘IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.’ The hand goes up to the forehead.

‘AND OF THE SON.’ The hand goes down to the heart.

‘AND OF THE HOLY.’ The hand goes to left.

‘SPIRIT.’ The hand goes to the right.

Dial looked at the map and suddenly realized that Denmark was near the top. Way up at the top. Just like the Father. Just like his forehead. It was the beginning of the sequence.

The next case was in Libya. Down near the bottom. Just like the prayer. That was the Son.

The third was in Boston. Way over to the left. Following the pattern. It was the Holy.

Which left the Spirit. Way over to the right. Somewhere on the right. But where on the right?

With a burst of energy, he fumbled for a pencil and ruler. Three seconds later he was putting them next to the pin in Denmark and lining them up with the pin in Libya. He was about to draw a line between the two when he realized one existed. A freaking line already existed.

Faintly, very faintly, he saw a thin blue line that stretched from the top of his map to the bottom, a line that arced ever so slightly along its path but went just to the right of Helsingor and Tripoli. Looking closer, he realized it was the longitude mark for 15° E, which meant the first two cities on his list were directly lined up at 12°E.

Thousands of miles apart but in a straight line.

Next he turned his attention to Boston, trying to remain calm, trying to stay focused even though he knew that he had cracked the riddle. He placed his ruler below the pushpin and ran the pencil from left to right, 5° below the 45° N line, near 40°.

He traversed the Atlantic, continued through France and Italy and Bosnia and extended through China and Japan before ending in the Pacific. Then he traced his finger from left to right, searching for major cities on the line, looking for anything that jumped out at him.

Nothing in France. Or Italy. Or the war-torn lands of eastern Europe. But there, just beyond the Gobi Desert, just before he reached the Sea of Japan and the warm waters of the Pacific, he found the spot that he was looking for. The perfect spot. The one that followed the pattern. A city that was directly east of Boston. Far east of Boston yet in a straight line. Right near 40°.

Located in China, the most populous country in the world. A nation where billions of people were suddenly looking to the West for organized religions. A place where the killers could get more bang for their buck than anywhere on earth.

The Spirit would die in Beijing.

57

The Forbidden City,

Beijing, China

This one was going to be special. Not only because it was taking place so far away but because it was the final clue in a massive puzzle that would rewrite the history of religion. This would be the piece de resistance that revealed their secret to the world.

It would complete the sign of the cross.

The Forbidden City, called Gu Gong in Chinese, served as the imperial palace for several centuries, and ordinary citizens were prohibited from entering its grounds until 1911. Protected by a moat twenty feet deep and a wall that soared to over hundred feet high, the rectangular city is composed of 9,999 buildings on 183 acres of land. All told, it took over one million workers to finish the project. Most of the large stones were quarried from Fangshan, a local suburb, then moved into place during the winter months on giant sheets of ice. To make the process go smoothly, the Chinese built a well every fifty meters to have a steady supply of water to repair the frozen road.

Nowadays Gu Gong is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Asia, attracting millions of visitors a year, people of all ages, races, and backgrounds. People with cameras and sketch pads. People like Tank Harper. Except, unlike most tourists, the photos he’d taken over the past few days weren’t of paintings or shrines, but rather to illustrate the position of the armed guards and the weaknesses in the massive gates. Because unlike the tour groups who helped him blend in, Harper didn’t give a damn about China or their fucked-up Commie culture.

Why? Because Harper wasn’t a tourist. He was an executioner.

He’d been contacted a month earlier by a man named Manzak who’d heard of Harper’s exploits as a mercenary in Asia. One conversation led to another, and before long, Manzak was offering him a job. A big job. The one that would allow him to retire.

After hearing the terms, Harper was asked to choose three men he’d worked with before, three men he’d go to war with. Manzak took their names and ran a background check on each. They were natural-born killers, the scum of the universe, the type of men who would scare Satan.

Simply put, they were perfect.

Manzak insisted that he meet the four of them at once. Somewhere distant, somewhere private. It didn’t matter where, he’d said, just pick a spot and I’ll be there. Anywhere.

Harper wanted to see if Manzak was as good as he’d claimed, so he decided to test him. He picked a bar in Shanghai near the Huangpu River, a place that only the locals knew about. No way Manzak would find it. Not in forty-eight hours. It was next to impossible.

When Harper arrived, Manzak was waiting at the bar. He wasn’t smiling or gloating. He wasn’t even drinking. He was just sitting there, quiet, as if to say, Never doubt me again. Not surprisingly, Harper and the others agreed to his terms later that night.

Manzak’s rules were simple. Sixteen men had been chosen to commit four crucifixions. Four men were assigned to each location. ‘Do not discuss your mission in public. Do not split up at any time. If a member of your crew is caught or killed, your team is disqualified. Same thing if someone talks or walks. The murders must be done as outlined. Bodies must be left as planned. Do not improvise at the crime scene. There is a reason for everything, even if you don’t understand it.’

At the end of the week, everyone was to meet near Rome where the survivors would split up sixteen million dollars. In other words, if his crew didn’t choke, the least Harper would make was a cool million. And if the other teams fucked up, he could possibly take home four.

Not a bad payday for something he was going to enjoy.

Paul Adams was born in Sydney, Australia, the only child of two missionaries who spent their lives trying to make the world a better place. Whether it was bringing food to India or vaccinations to Africa, their only goal was to help those that were less blessed than they were.

Remarkably, even as a child, Paul Adams enjoyed the missionary lifestyle even more than his parents. Where most children would’ve crumbled under the severe conditions, Adams managed to thrive. He shrugged off the heat and the bugs and the lack of creature comforts because it was the only life he’d ever known. Why would he waste his time watching TV when he could be helping his fellow man instead? That’s what was really important.