Blood Brothers: A Short Story Exclusive by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell Page B

shifted away from the chaplain and squared off, ready to fight if need be. He had seen Sanguinists battle. No doubt this slight chaplain could take him out, but that didn’t mean Jordan would go down easy.
    Captain Stanley moved between them and cleared his throat. “It’s been cleared all the way up to the top, Sergeant Stone.”
    “What has, sir?”
    “He will explain everything,” the captain answered, gesturing to the chaplain. “Go with him.”
    “And if I refuse?” Jordan held his breath, hoping for a good answer.
    “It’s an order, Sergeant.” He gave Jordan a level glare. “It’s being handled way above my pay grade.”
    Jordan suppressed a groan. “I’m sorry, sir.”
    Captain Stanley quirked one tiny corner of his mouth, equivalent to a belly laugh from a jollier man. “That I believe, Sergeant.”
    Jordan saluted, wondering if it was for the last time, and followed the chaplain to a black limousine parked at the curb. It seemed the Sanguinists had barreled into his life again, ready to kick apart the rubble of his career with their immortal feet.
    The chaplain held open the door for him, and Jordan climbed in. The interior smelled like leather and brandy and expensive cigars. It wasn’t what one expected from a priest’s vehicle.
    Jordan slid across the seat. The glass partition had been rolled up, and all he saw of the driver was the back of a thick neck, short blond hair, and a uniform cap.
    The chaplain lifted his pant legs to preserve the crease before sliding in. With one hand, he closed the door with a dignified thump, trapping Jordan inside with him.
    “Please turn up the heat for our guest,” the chaplain called to the driver. Then he unbuttoned the jacket of his dress blue uniform and leaned back.
    “I believe my CO said that you would explain everything.” Jordan folded his arms. “Go ahead.”
    “That’s a tall order.” The young chaplain poured a brandy. He brought the glass to his nose and inhaled. With a sigh, he lowered the glass and offered it toward Jordan. “It’s quite a fine vintage.”
    “Then you drink it.”
    The chaplain swirled the brandy in the glass, his eyes following the brown liquid. “I think you know that I can’t, as much as I’d like to.”
    “About that explanation?” he pressed.
    The chaplain raised a hand, and the car slid into motion. “Sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger business. Or perhaps robe-and-cross might be the more apt term?”
    He smiled wistfully as he sniffed again at the brandy.
    Jordan frowned at the guy’s mannerisms. He certainly seemed less stuffy and formal than the other Sanguinists he had met.
    The chaplain took off his white glove and held out his hand. “Name’s Christian.”
    Jordan ignored the invitation.
    Realizing this, the chaplain lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Yes, I appreciate the irony. A Sanguinist named Christian . It’s like my mother planned it.”
    The man snorted.
    Jordan wasn’t quite sure what to make of this Sanguinist.
    “I think we almost met back in Ettal Abbey,” the chaplain said. “But Rhun picked Nadia and Emmanuel to fill out the rest of his trio back in Germany.”
    Jordan pictured Nadia’s dark features and Emmanuel’s darker attitude.
    Christian shook his head. “Hardly a surprise, I suppose.”
    “Why’s that?”
    The other raised an eyebrow. “I believe I’m not sackcloth and ashes enough for Father Rhun Korza.”
    Jordan fought down a grin. “I can see how that would bug him.”
    Christian set the brandy in a tray near the door and leaned forward, his green eyes serious. “Actually Father Korza is the reason I’m here.”
    “He sent you?”
    Somehow Jordan couldn’t picture that. He doubted Rhun wanted anything more to do with Jordan. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
    “Not exactly.” Christian rested skinny elbows on his knees. “Cardinal Bernard is trying to keep it quiet, but Rhun has disappeared without a