The Blood Gospel

“You next, padre,” Jordan called. “You’re smaller than me.”

With a nod, the priest dove headlong through the narrow hole and rolled into a ready crouch beside Erin. He took a quick look around the passageway. What did he expect to see?

Erin turned back to Jordan. He gave her a quick grin. Behind his back, the entire roof dropped in one large piece, crushing the sarcophagus.

Jordan leaped at the opening. He got one shoulder through the hole, then stuck fast. His face reddened with effort. The tomb continued to collapse behind him, imploding under the mountain’s weight. His blue eyes met hers. She read his expression. He wouldn’t make it. He motioned his head toward the dark passageway, indicating that she should leave him.

Then Father Korza was there. Impossibly strong fingers snagged Jordan’s free arm and yanked with such force that bricks broke away as his body popped free. Jordan fell atop the priest, gasping, his face contorted between agony and relief.

Father Korza lifted and helped him up.

“Thanks, padre.” Jordan cradled his arm. “Good thing I don’t need that shoulder.”

The priest gestured down the dark passageway. It dropped steeply, carved with crude stairs. As the entire mountain shook, it was clear they were not yet out of danger.

“Go!” he said.

Erin wasn’t about to argue.

She fled down the tunnel, leaping steps, her tiny flashlight all she had to lead the way. The path zigzagged. The mountain shifted. She lost track of right and left. Up and down. Only forward mattered.

A misstep twisted her right ankle. Before she could fall, the priest scooped her up and hauled her in a fireman’s carry. The arm locked around her was iron; his muscular movement as he ran reminded her of the flow of molten rock.

After a precarious flight down a steep section of the passageway, he abruptly stopped and set her down.

She caught her breath and tried her ankle. Sore but not bad. She swept her tiny beam ahead. Light splashed against a wall of limestone that blocked their way.

Jordan groaned as he joined them. “Dead end.”

6:33 P.M.

Rhun ran his hands across the flat wall of rock that blocked their way, examining its surface for any clues. A flicker of warmth spread to his hand. Though night had fallen, the stone still held some of the sun’s heat.

He closed his eyes, picturing a massive stone, pushed into place to seal the outer entrance to the tunnel. He’d already felt the gaps along the bottom corner.

Next, he laid his ear against the rough surface, listening, concentrating on the world beyond the stone. As he strained, he heard life outside: the soft pad of paws on sand, the faint heartbeat of a jackal—

“Do we go back, padre?” Jordan asked, his voice boomingly loud. “Look for another passage?”

But the American knew there was no other passage.

“We are nearly free,” Rhun declared, straightening and turning. “This is the last obstacle.”

But time was running short, flowing like sand through an hourglass.

In this case, literally.

Overhead, the mountain continued to shake. Sand now poured down the passageway’s steep steps, sifting through fissures and cracks far above and accumulating in this lowest section of the tunnel. It would not take long to completely fill the tiny space.

Jordan joined Rhun and placed a palm on the rock. “So then we push?”

There was no other choice.

Erin joined them, tucking soft blond hair behind her ears.

Rhun threw his weight against the stone next to theirs. He recognized the futility after the first attempt, but he labored with them until their heartbeats betrayed their exhaustion, and he smelled blood on their palms where rock had torn their skin. The shared efforts had not been nearly enough.

All the while Masada shook.

Sand had climbed midway to his calves.

Side by side, the other two rested their backs against the immovable rock.

“How about that grenade on your belt?” The woman pointed. “Could it blow through the stone?”

The soldier sagged. “It’s not enough to destroy it. And the blast would deflect right back at us. Even if I hadn’t used up the C-4 in McKay’s demolition pack, I doubt we could blow that rock without turning us into hamburger.”

A strong jolt rocked the mountain. The woman’s face whitened. The soldier stared at the rock as if he were vowing to move it by sheer force of will. Desperation etched his features, the raw desire to live another hour, another day.

The soldier slipped an arm around the woman and pulled her close. She softened against him, burying her face in his shoulder. The man gently kissed the top of her head, possibly so softly she never felt it. How effortlessly they had moved into an embrace. The priest stared at the simple comfort of contact, of touch, the solace found only in companionship.

An ache cut into him, a longing to be like them.

But that was not his role. He turned and faced the boulder, determined to serve them.

Sand rained on his brow and lashes. With his face still upturned, he closed his eyes in prayer.