The Blood Gospel by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell

helicopter, waiting on her.
    One of the flight crew clanged shut the rear cargo hatch. Something bumped hard against that closing door, knocking the man back a step, leaving him visibly shaken before he got the latch closed.
    She allowed a small smile, reassured. The black mark on her throat was not her only protection.
    Hush , she sent forth to that rear hold, you’ll be free soon enough .
    The message was not words, but a casting out of warmth and comfort.
    She felt an echo back: satisfaction, hunger, and a deep well of love.
    Basking in that glow, she adjusted the Kevlar and leather that hugged her form, secured the holstered Sig Sauer in its shoulder harness, and headed across the wide hangar to join her team aboard the helicopter. The chopper’s engines were already whining up for liftoff, the noise deafening in the enclosed space.
    Ducking under the whirling blades, she climbed into the cabin of the specially designed Eurocopter Panther and slammed the door closed behind her. Inside, it was dark and cool, insulated and whisper-quiet. The medium-size craft would carry ten passengers, along with the additional six hundred pounds of payload secured in the rear hold.
    But it was no ordinary chopper. Stealth modifications made it run nearly invisibly, and sound-dampened engines made it run quietly. It had also been painted with Israeli colors, camouflaged to fit the region. Except for the cabin windows—which had been painted black, blinding them to the outside.
    As she moved to her lone open seat, eyes tracked her. The nine were all seasoned hunters, well-blooded. She read the raw hunger in their eyes, recognizing the ferocity hidden behind their blank stares.
    Ignoring them, she sat next to her second in command, Tarek. In the dim cabin, he was merely a darker shadow, and just as cold. She remembered Farid’s heat, the touch of his hot hand on her back. It seemed a distant memory now.
    She fitted her headphones in place and radioed the pilot. In the blackened craft, he would be navigating by instruments alone, aided by flight-simulator software.
    “What’s our status?” she asked.
    His answer came back tersely. “I’ve already radioed the proper Israeli security code for access to the summit. They’re expecting a cargo helicopter. We’ll be skids down there in twenty-two minutes.”
    She calculated in her head. Seven minutes after sundown .
    Perfect.
    The engines sped up with a muffled roar from outside. She pictured the hangar doors sweeping open overhead, blazing with sunlight. She felt the craft lurch up toward the sun and pictured their craft racing across the hot sands, a dark mote against a fiery sea.
    “How many?” Tarek growled.
    She knew what he was asking: what force could they expect to meet them at Masada? But she also heard the underlying lust in those two words. It cast a flash of excitement across the cabin, like a match dropped into a pool of gasoline.
    She answered him, addressing both what was spoken and unspoken.
    “Seventeen.”
    Tarek’s face remained in shadows, but she sensed his hard smile, raising the small hairs on the back of her neck, an instinctive response to the presence of a hidden predator.
    According to her intelligence, only a small force of soldiers still guarded the summit of the mountain. With the nine at her side and the advantage of surprise, she estimated it would take no more than a couple of minutes to secure the area.
    After that, the book must be found.
    Her hand tried to drift to her throat again, but she clutched her fingers in her lap.
    She could not fail Him.
    But there remained one unknown element as she remembered the warning that came with His note:
    A Knight has been dispatched to retrieve it.
    Let nothing stop you.
    She told Tarek that, too.
    “Be prepared. A Knight of Christ may also be present.”
    Tarek stiffened, his shadow becoming a sculpture of black ice. His voice was a quiet hiss, using the ancient name for such a one like a