Secret of the Templars ("JOHN ""DOC"" HOLLIDAY", Band 9) - Softcover

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Paul Christopher is the pseudonym of a popular thriller writer. His works include Secret of the Templars, Lost City of the Templars, Valley of the Templars, Red Templar, The Templar Legion, The Templar Conspiracy, The Templar Throne, The Templar Cross, The Sword of the Templars, The Aztec Heresy, Rembrandt's Ghost, The Lucifer Gospel, and Michelangelo's Notebook.

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PART ONE

1

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a man who taught history at West Point Military Academy and he loved his job and he loved his wife, Amy, even more. He had a favorite uncle, who’d taught him almost everything worthwhile he knew, and a cousin named Peggy, who was funny and full of laughter and, when you got right down to it, was probably his best friend.

But that was once upon a time and that fairy-tale life was over. Amy died a torturous death as cancer ate her alive; his uncle was dead along with the job he loved at West Point. And now, so was Peggy. He was wanted for murder in the country he’d fought for so many times and he had a legion of enemies trying to track him down for the things he knew and the power he had. Power that he didn’t want, power that he’d never asked for, power that he wished desperately he had never known existed.

He stood on the high cliffs of the Dorset coast feeling the cold, slanting rain from the English Channel slashing into him, chilling him to the bone. On a clear day, you could make out the coast of France from the muddy pathway, but it hadn’t been clear for weeks now.

Lieutenant Colonel John “Doc” Holliday, U.S. Army Rangers (retired), turned away from the cliffs and followed the path back up to the old thatched cottage that he and Eddie Cabrera had rented for the winter, paying six months in advance and in cash. He and Eddie were living completely off the grid now—no credit cards, no cell phones, no wireless devices of any kind. The only communication they had with the outside world was a big Grundig Satellit 900 portable radio with short wave, long wave and police bands.

Holliday turned up the walk and stepped through the little gate and into the overgrown garden in front of the cottage. The old woman who owned the place was willing to have the dead plants and dry grasses cleared away, but Holliday had declined the offer. The tall grass and the windswept undergrowth gave the place a deserted look, which was just what he wanted. The cottage was located on a low hill and there wasn’t a neighbor for a mile in any direction. The closest village was Pelham Buckthorpe, a three-mile walk inland, or twenty minutes away on the bicycle that served as their only means of transportation. The nearest constabulary was in Swanage, twenty miles up the coast. “Isolation” was a word he and Eddie were taking quite seriously these days.

Holliday tapped his boots on the fieldstone step and gave a triple tap twice on the worn plank door, announcing his arrival. He pressed down the latch and stepped into the cottage.

Eddie was sitting in one of the old overstuffed armchairs in the living room with an old Purdey Nitro Express elephant gun resting across his legs. The radio stood on the Victorian end table beside him, chattering quietly.

“Anything?” Holliday asked.

“Very quiet, mi amigo,” replied his Cuban friend. From the kitchen Holliday could smell the rich aroma of some kind of stew. Thankfully the Cuban loved to cook and was good at it; Holliday’s repertoire of culinary expertise ran to overcooked fried eggs, charred burgers and barely edible mac and cheese from the box.

Holliday waited until they had sat down for the evening meal to lay out his thoughts. “I was thinking today while I was out for my walk,” he said.

“Only poets and sailors’ wives should think while walking by the sea.” Eddie smiled, mopping up the last of his stew with a chunk of bread.

“Maybe you’re right, but I’ve still been thinking.”

“About what, compadre?” asked the tall black Cuban, his intelligent brown eyes searching Holliday’s expression.

“I’ve been thinking it’s time we parted ways,” said Holliday.

Eddie sat back in his chair. “And why would that be?”

“Because it’s me they’re after, not you. I’m the one they want to kill. I’m the one with the notebook and all the secrets. I have no right to drag you into all this.”

“Nobody drags Eddie Vladimir Cabrera Alphonso anywhere he does not want to go. Anything I have done, I have done willingly.”

“That’s all well and good but I don’t think you should share in a burden you never chose.”

“No one chooses their burdens, Doc. Fate throws them in our direction and we either avoid them or we do not.”

“One of these days they’re going to find me and eventually they’re going to kill me. There’s no reason you should die too.”

“We are friends, Doc, and friends do not abandon each other just because life becomes difficult.”

“I still think we should split up.”

“And what do I do with myself? There is very little call for river pilots these days.”

“You’re making this difficult,” said Holliday.

“And I intend to keep on making it difficult with every sentence you speak, amigo, so why not shut up and help me with the dishes?”

Someone knocked at the door.

Holliday and Eddie both stood up. Eddie picked up the shotgun leaning on the table at his side and both men moved silently toward the door, keeping out of a direct line of fire. Holliday reached the door and stood with his back against the wall. Eddie lowered himself behind one of the upholstered chairs, aiming the elephant rifle over the back and directly toward the door at latch level. Anyone coming through unannounced would be cut into ribbons.

“Who is it?” Holliday called out.

“It’s Carrie Pilkington, Colonel Holliday. We spent some time together in Cuba a while back. There’s an MI5 kill team fifteen minutes out. We don’t have much time.”

Eddie cocked the huge-bore rifle. Holliday thumbed down the latch and threw open the door. A pretty woman with dark hair pulled into a ponytail stood there, dressed in climbing gear with a long skein of nylon rope over one shoulder and a gym bag over the other. Her black vest was hung with pitons, clips and locking rings. She was also wearing a 9-millimeter Glock 19 in a sling holster. “Let me in,” she said. “I’m dripping wet.”

Holliday stood aside and she stepped into the cottage. Holliday closed the door behind her and the young woman dropped the gym bag onto the floor.

“How do you know that MI5 is coming with a kill team?”

“I still have connections,” said the young woman.

Holliday remembered. “Black, the Englishman.”

“That’s right.” She nodded. “But we can reminisce later. We’ve got about ten minutes before they start throwing flash-bangs through the window.”

“Where do we go?”

“The cliffs. Put on something waterproof and come with me. Colonel, bring that bag. Forget everything else.”

A hundred feet down the path, with the cottage lights blazing behind them, they reached the cliff edge. The rain was coming down in windy sheets from the sea and Holliday could barely hear the waves crashing in on the rocky beach a hundred feet below them. There were already two heavy pitons holding lengths of rope pegged into the chalky soil when Carrie Pilkington opened the bag and pulled out two climbing harnesses.

“Either of you do any rappelling?”

“No,” answered Holliday.

Eddie shook his head.

“I hope you’re quick studies. Get into the harnesses,” she said sharply. From somewhere behind them there was the harsh coughing sound of a rifle-fired grenade launcher.

By the time the two...