the monks and dragging him toward the stone altar. Orthodox tradition prevented the brethren from trimming their facial hair after receiving tonsure—a symbolic shaving of their heads—so his beard was long and gray, draping the front of his black cassock like a hairy bib.
“What do you want from us?” cried the monk as he was shoved to his knees. “We have done nothing wrong!”
The leader stepped forward. “You know why I’m here. I want the book.”
“What book? I know nothing about a book!”
“Then you are no use to me.”
He punctuated his statement with a flick of his sword, separating the monk from his head. For a split second the monk’s body didn’t move, somehow remaining upright as if no violence had occurred. Then Suddenly, it slumped forward, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Head on the left. Body on the right. Blood everywhere.
The monks gasped at the sight.
“Bring me another,” the leader ordered. “One who wants to live.”
2
SUNDAY, MAY 18
St. Petersburg, Florida
The phone rang in the middle of the night, sometime between last call and breakfast. The time of night reserved for two things: emergencies and wrong numbers.
Jonathon Payne hoped it was the latter.
He rolled over in the hotel bed and reached for the nightstand, knocking something to the floor in his dark room. He had no idea what it was and wasn’t curious enough to find out. Still feeling the effects of his sleeping pill, he knew if he turned on a light he would be awake until dawn. Of that he was certain. He had always been a problem sleeper, an issue that had started long before his career in the military and had only gotten worse after.
Then again, years of combat can do that to a person.
And he had seen more than most.
Payne used to lead the MANIACs, an elite Special Forces unit comprising the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard. Whether it was participating in personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counterguerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best. The boogeymen that no one talked about. The government’s secret weapon.
Yet on this night, Payne wanted no part of his former life.
He just wanted to get some sleep.
“Hello?” he mumbled into the hotel phone, expecting the worst.
A dial tone greeted him. It was soft and steady like radio static.
“Hello?” he repeated.
But the buzzing continued. As if no one had even called. As if he had imagined it.
Payne grunted and hung up the phone, glad he could roll over and go back to sleep without anything to worry about. Thrilled it wasn’t an emergency. He’d had too many of those when he was in the service. Hundreds of nights interrupted by news. Updates that were rarely positive.
So in his world, wrong numbers were a good thing. About the best thing possible.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case here.
Several hours later Payne opened the hotel curtains and stepped onto his private veranda at the Renaissance Vinoy in downtown St. Petersburg. Painted flamingo pink and recently restored to its former glory, the resort was a stunning example of 1920s Mediterranean Revival architecture. The type of grand hotel that used to be found all over Florida yet was quickly becoming extinct in the age of Disneyfication.
The bright sunlight warmed his face and the sea breeze filled his lungs as he stared at the tropical waters of Tampa Bay, less than 10 miles from many of the best beaches in America. Where the sand was white and the water was turquoise. Where dolphins frolicked in the surf. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, Payne rarely got to see dolphins in his hometown—only when he went to the aquarium or when the Miami Dolphins played the Steelers at Heinz Field.
In many ways, Payne looked like an NFL player. He was 6’ 4”, weighed 240 pounds, and was in remarkable shape for a man in his late thirties. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a world-class smile. His only physical flaws were the bullet holes and scars that decorated his body. Although he didn’t view them as flaws. More like medals of honor, because each one stood for something.
Of course, he couldn’t tell their stories to most people, because the details were classified, but all the scars meant something to him. Like secret tattoos that no one knew about.
The droning of a small aircraft caught Payne’s attention, and he watched it glide across the azure sky and touch down at Albert Whit-ted Airport, a two-runway facility on the scenic waterfront,