Free The Venice Code by J Robert Kennedy

Roberto rushing onto the topmost level along with Vincenzo. Giuseppe scrambled across the floor to his master.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, searching for a wound, but finding none.
    “Yes, I’m fine.”
    “But you screamed. I thought you were wounded!”
    “The behemoth stepped on my foot and nearly broke my toe,” replied Marco, getting up. “I fell backward and they almost got the best of me before you arrived. It’s good to know you can’t follow orders.”
    It was said with a smile and Giuseppe took it for what it was. “Would you rather I wait for you down in the courtyard?”
    Marco put his arm around his servant, then pointed to the center of the floor and the pedestal. “This is what it is all about.”
    Giuseppe turned and gasped, a feeling of terror and uncertainty gripping him at what he saw.
    In the center of the pedestal, surrounded by candles whose light seemed to pool together in the idol’s eyes, sat a crystal skull, exactly as he had imagined it in his dreams.
     
     

 
     
    Colonel Thomas Clancy’s Office, The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
    Present day, one day after the kidnapping
     
    With Maggie at the barbecue, Colonel Thomas Clancy’s outer office was empty. Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson rapped on the closed inner office door, still dressed in his Bermuda shorts and gaudy Hawaiian shirt with genuine bamboo buttons. He glanced down and quickly buttoned it up, covering his rock hard abs and chest—exposed to impress Maggie, but he figured the effect would be wasted on the Colonel.
    “Enter!”
    The Colonel didn’t sound happy. Dawson opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
    “Good afternoon, Colonel,” he said, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Clancy’s desk, the orders of the day always casual within the Colonel’s office unless brass or Washington were present.
    “What the hell’s good about it?” muttered Clancy, jabbing his finger at a file on his desk. “Do you realize I’m supposed to be fishing right now? Fishing! Just me, a boat, a hat, a damned fishing rod and a cooler of beer. And some damned fine cigars my wife doesn’t want me smoking!” Both their eyes darted to the empty space on his desk that used to be occupied by his humidor.
    “Sorry to hear that, Colonel,” replied Dawson, knowing the man too well to be worried that he was actually upset at him. Clancy was a soldier’s soldier. Dawson knew he always had his back, regardless of what politics might make him say publicly. He believed in “no man left behind”, he believed that The Unit was a family, and that to lose a member of the family was unacceptable.
    “You heard about the kidnapping?”
    “Just did.”
    Clancy pushed the folder toward Dawson. “Take a look.”
    Dawson took the file and flipped it open.
    “Skip to the photos,” said Clancy, grabbing a pencil and sticking it in his mouth, the placebo a poor substitute for the real thing.
    Dawson flipped through the file and found several crime scene photos. A Caddy with a dented front end and crushed rear end. An SUV that had rammed it. Two bodies and then something that had him stop, his chest pounding.
    “Are we sure about this?” he asked Clancy, still staring at the enlarged photo of a man’s wrist, the symbol tattooed on it far too familiar for his liking.
    “Absolutely. Both bodies have the tattoo on the inner left wrist. It’s identical to London. And their MO is the same. Non-lethal force, using tranquilizer darts instead of bullets.”
    Dawson pursed his lips, flipping back to the two men. “Should have used bullets by the looks of it.”
    “Agreed.”
    Dawson flipped the folder closed. “So why am I here?”
    “Because you’re one of the few in the Special Ops community who knows what really happened. The powers that be think this is going to get ugly, and our type of expertise might be needed, so they want people who already know the truth, rather than have to read-in more that