"Surely not Mary. It is Jesus to whom I refer. He was older and should have been out in the fields..."
The other man searched Judas' face, then nodded slowly.
Judas continued, "But when my mother did come back to us, she told me not only of her feelings of guilt for leaving the household to one so young, but also of her gratitude."
"I think it will be a day far from this one that Jesus would ever speak such words... At least to me."
Judas could feel James' ache, but was uncertain how to heal such a deep and personal wound. "We have carried much upon our backs, James, but think of Jesus' burden. Could you imagine being singled out as a prophet on your very birth night? We both long to have Jesus' vision, but could you dream of having it? Truly possessing the knowledge of God's will for you? Knowing that in any failing, you fail not yourself nor your family, but God?"
The two men stood in silence for a few moments, breathing in the ripe night air carried by a breeze from the river.
Judas continued, "I do not think I have such strength within me."
It was a few breaths before James answered. "In truth, neither do I."
"Then it is up to us to ease his burden in any way we might."
James sighed. "By being here when he asked."
"And forgiving him when he did not," Judas replied.
"Look! Look! Look!" Ameil's high-pitched cry made both men turn toward the desert. "He comes!"
In the distance, a slim figure stumbled in their direction. Without a word, both men hurried into the desert as Jesus fell to his knees, then onto his side. When they reached him, Judas could feel his friend's very bones, and his skin was like a reed after a drought. Yet somehow, some way, Jesus had survived. If it was not a miracle of God's grace, then it was a testament to his friend's faith.
"Help me," James said as he took one shoulder.
Judas took the other, and they carried Jesus back to the blankets. They laid his frail frame onto the wool. James grabbed the waterskin and placed it against his brother's lips as Jesus tried to speak.
"Drink, brother. Just drink."
After a few gulps, Jesus raised a weak arm and pushed the water aside. "James, I did not wish you here."
Judas' breath caught in his throat as James' face displayed every ounce of hurt imagined. James went to rise, but Jesus caught his sleeve. "I did not want you so troubled."
For all the pain that was in James' face, brotherly love replaced it. "You are no trouble, Jesus. Not ever."
Jesus' parched and cracked lips parted in a smile, accompanied by a wheezing laugh. "That is not what you shouted in your eleventh year when you were forced to fix our cart's axle by yourself."
Judas sat back on his heels to give Jesus more room as James smoothed a damp rag over his brother's forehead.
"But that is what I meant, dear brother. That is what I meant."
CHAPTER 8.
Pantheon-Sorbonne, Paris The shouts and gunfire echoing off the laboratory's hallway didn't surprise Rebecca. She wasn't sure if that a good thing or not. As usual, Svengurd was taking point as Brandt brought up the back, while Davidson tried to keep them moving in the middle.
"Stay together!" the private shouted as Bunny tripped and fell to the ground in a sobbing heap.
The professor's shock had worsened to the point that he only stared straight ahead as his supposed love cried and cried, "I can't. I can't!"
"Lochum, help her up!" Rebecca yelled as the plaster above her head exploded into a cloud of dust from a ricochet.
Brandt nearly ran into her as he backed down the hallway. "Move!"
Acting off the sergeant's urgency, Rebecca used her one free hand and pulled Bunny up. The sobbing didn't stop, but at least the redhead had found her feet again.
"Who's after us?" Bunny could no longer be considered attractive by anyone's standards. The redhead's eyes and nose were puffy with a garish red tint, her voice nasally with a distinctly childish whine. "Where are we going? What are-"
Rebecca caught her before she stumbled again. "It doesn't matter," she shouted over the commotion. "Just run!"
Because it really didn't matter. Another lesson hard won. Once the bullets started to fly, the only thing questions did was take breath away from the really important task of running. Who knew that the single most important class out of all her college studies would be PE?
Davidson urged Lochum on. Svengurd pulled to a halt at the entrance to the stairwell.
"Which way, Sarge?"
"Up."
Rebecca had no idea why they were going up, but up she went, dragging a sobbing Bunny behind her. The concrete stairwell echoed with gunfire. The sound of Davidson changing clips barely registered over her ragged breaths.
As they passed the third floor door, Bunny leaned over the railing to look up the stairwell. "Oh, God, it's another two floors to the roof!"
Before Rebecca could get to her, Brandt grabbed the redhead by the elbow and jerked her back from the railing as a burst of fire came from below, then a responding burst from Svengurd above.
"That's called cross fire. Avoid it," Brandt said as he shoved the redhead forward.
Shaken, Bunny's legs became like rubber, and the waterworks started again. Rebecca looked ahead. Maybe Davidson could help. He seemed to have a way with her, but the private was struggling to keep Lochum on the move. Svengurd was far above, out of sight.
The bones became burdensome, as she had to practically drag Bunny along. The redhead's tears took up all her energy. When they finally mounted the fourth-floor landing, Bunny just stopped. No urging could get her to move.
"Bunny, it's just one more floor."
Her blotched cheeks billowed in and out. "I'm not going anywhere until someone explains-"
An explosion sounded. The entire stairwell shook as Bunny's skinny body was slammed against the ceiling, then fell back to the landing. As Rebecca reeled down the stairs, the shirt full of bones tore open and clattered down the cement stairs as she crawled over to Bunny.
"Get them!" Lochum suddenly came out of his stupor, scrambling down the stairs. Brandt had to bodily block the older man.
Typical. His lover had fallen in a bloody heap right front of him, yet he didn't move a muscle until his precious bones were endangered.
Davidson dropped to his knees next to Bunny as Brandt fired over their heads into the blackened fourth-floor hallway.
"No time!" the sergeant shouted as return fire ricocheted around the enclosed stairwell. "Move her."
"There's no way she can walk or even-"
Brandt didn't argue with the private, he just grabbed Bunny, throwing the unconscious woman over his shoulder. "Go!"
Davidson tugged Lochum up the stairs. After his outburst had been contained, the professor had gone back into his stupor. Tying the shredded pieces of her shirt together, Rebecca salvaged what bones she could, then grabbed the professor's other arm. Together, they carried the old man.
Brandt fired behind them the entire time.
Svengurd slowed as he reached the fifth-floor landing. A friendly, green-glowing sign announced in both English and French that it was an exit. A beloved exit. Just five feet and they would be out of this shooting gallery. But after what happened on the fourth floor, those were a treacherous five feet.
"What do we do?" Davidson asked his sergeant.
When an answer did not immediately come, Rebecca looked at the sergeant. For the first time since she had met him, Brandt didn't look certain what to do next.
Crap.
They must be totally screwed.
The broken look on Rebecca's face didn't make Brandt's decision any easier. It wasn't like he didn't know what he should do. He just didn't want to do it. He should have Svengurd keep his weapon, Davidson should carry the redhead, and Monroe should take the professor. But that would slow Rebecca down significantly, and the shit was about to hit the fan.
Brandt already had one injured woman draped over his shoulder, her blood soaking through his shirt. Her cries had died down to tiny whimpers. Each time Bunny moaned, Brandt imagined what if that had been Rebecca.
Damn it, this was exactly why women weren't allowed in combat. They slowed you down. Not because of any inherent physical weakness, but because of men's reluctance to place them in harm's way. The rule was, you never broke routine. Never. But here he stood, ticking away precious seconds, worrying about Rebecca's safety.
Screw it. He had to go with his gut.
"Everybody down!"
Firing across the landing, he took out the roof door's lock. Unlatched, the metal door slowly swung open to an empty roof. Lopez was not there yet, but Brandt wasn't worried. The corporal would make it.
Either that, or they were all dead.
Turning to his men, Brandt could feel the command back in his voice. "Davidson, can your shoulder support Bunny?" Off the private's curt nod, he handed the injured woman over. "Svengurd, you'll go first with Lochum."
There was a brief moment of confusion on his point man's face, but he took the professor from Monroe regardless.
"All right, we're going across in waves. Svengurd and Lochum first. Davidson and Bunny next. Monroe, you will go across with my cover, then Davidson will provide suppression fire while I cross."
Shots came from below. He returned the courtesy.
"Let's move."
Svengurd wrapped one arm around the professor's waist, then draped Lochum's arm around his own shoulder. "Ready."
At as fast a sprint as possible with a nearly comatose man at your side, Svengurd made it across the landing and burst onto the roof. Brandt fired down the stairwell as Davidson made the same trek with Bunny slung over his good shoulder. The hallway door stayed dark and quiet. No explosions. No surprises. Maybe they would make it out of this after all.
He grabbed the doctor's arm, making sure she took in each and every one of his words. "Don't stop. Don't look back. No matter what happens, I want you at a full run out of here. Understood?"
She gulped, then nodded. "See you on the flip side?"
A grin flickered on his lips. She referenced an old surfer term used before riding a really big wave. "Hang ten."
Rebecca grinned back, then worry covered her face.
He squeezed her arm. "Full run."
To her credit, the doctor didn't hesitate. With the small sack over her back and low to the ground, Monroe sprinted across the landing. Just as she crossed the threshold, the hallway door exploded, throwing her clear. Brandt however was slammed against the railing, but that was okay. He was prepared. He had positioned himself against the metal railing so it could brace him during his recovery. Firing into the smoke-filled doorway, he checked on Rebecca, but she hesitated, looking back.
"Go!"
Then the one thing he couldn't have planned for happened. His body arched in pain as the railing became electrified. He shot into the ceiling as his fingers jerked against the trigger. Pain narrowed his vision. Brandt couldn't stop as he flopped onto the landing. Even though the voltage was cut off, he could still feel his heart racing way too fast. It took conscious effort to keep his diaphragm breathing in and out. His muscles bunched upon themselves.
And worse, Rebecca hadn't moved. He tried to yell, but his throat locked up as two men stepped through the smoky doorway, one short, the other tall. The point man just stared over at Monroe as the taller man held a gun upon the sergeant. The armed man spoke, but Brandt's teeth chattered too violently to hear clearly.
Why wasn't the man shooting him?
The pain was a bitch-and-a-half, and if he was going to die, Brandt would rather it be sooner than later.
Rebecca was frozen in place. The two men who had emerged from the building were like parts to a whole. Despite being unarmed, the shorter man, Tok, was clearly in charge. His bone structure spoke of Middle Eastern descent, but his eyes were more Asiatic. But there was something odder than his mixed heritage. The man's lips didn't move, yet the man who identified himself as Petir clearly spoke his employer's words. It would have been an intriguing interdependency study if they weren't threatening Brandt's life.
She couldn't look at the sergeant. Whatever pain a bullet might cause didn't compare to your body betraying you, jerking beyond your control.
"The bones for his life," Petir reiterated. Unlike his boss, there was nothing at all contradictory in his stature. This older man descended from the Nile region. His nose alone told the story of his ancestry. More than that, his face was wizened. Rebecca did not think she had ever used that term before, but just a few feet away was the dictionary example of the word. But in what language did wizened translate into cruel?
Cocking the gun, Petir spoke more forcefully. "Tok will not offer again."
"Don't..." Brandt's voice brimmed with pain. "They'll just-"
"Kill me, then you anyway," Rebecca finished for him. "Yeah, I'd kind of figured that out already."
Behind her she could hear the beat of rotors. How Lopez had not only found but stolen a helicopter at nine o'clock at night in downtown Paris, Rebecca didn't know, but escape became reality, not just some theoretical hope. The sergeant's master plan had been set in motion, but it fell to her to find some way to execute it.
"His blood is on your hands, then," Petir aimed at Brandt.
"No! Wait!" She screamed and took a step forward.
The older man's eyes flickered to Tok, then back to her. "The bones."
She remembered Brandt's last orders to his men. Rebecca could only hope they followed them. Taking a slight step to the left, she unblocked the doorway. The private better be as good as she thought he was.
Rebecca's eyes met the sergeant's gaze. "Be ready."