by Rick Jones
Misters Archimedes and Michelangelo opened fire. Rounds from the MP7s struck thighs and shinbones, areas not protected by Kevlar, with the wounds opening and paring back like the blooms of rose petals and brought the team down.
Misters Archimedes and Michelangelo moved forward with the points of their weapons leading the way, then directed them on the security force. No one had been killed, only wounded. Once the weapons had been kicked out of the reach of the security force, the Consortium team maintained their positions and continued to hold the fortress.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Elias Caspari was the only one in the entire facility with a backup power source. The moment the nerve center was destroyed by the Semtex blast, all communication was lost which included visual and audio. A secondary source, however, provided him with the video portion of what was going on inside of Deep Mountain, though the quality was weak.
Through a screen filled with images obscured with white snow, he was able to witness the skirmishes within. He had seen the Consortium manhandle Salt’s elite forces with undeniable skillsets and fighting techniques. But he also noted the downing of the enemy as well, such as the killings of Misters Donatello and Galileo.
Then as the advantage started to shift in favor of the Consortium, Caspari realized that the best thing for him to do was to vacate Deep Mountain. The problem, however, was that his only means of escape was obstructed by members of the attacking team, who had control of the lobby.
Donning a communication headgear, Elias Caspari empowered the system and switched to a different set of visual monitors. On the center grid in black and white, Salt was holding a man at gunpoint inside the Vault. On the intruder’s person was Aaron’s rod.
Then into his lip mic, Caspari said, “Finish this up, Salt . . . We need to get out of here.”
Ripping off the headset in frustration and tossing it on the desktop, Elias Caspari believed that Salt would regain possession of Aaron’s rod and the crucible. And since Salt was unique in ways other soldiers wished they could be, he knew that Salt would get them to the Pacific stronghold where they would reestablish a workshop for discovery. What was going on inside Deep Mountain was a setback, something to learn from. And from this lesson he would establish better protocols for combat engagement and security measures.
While watching Deep Mountain being gutted from the inside out, Elias Caspari, who was both confident and ill at ease, watched and waited for the outcome between Salt and Kimball Hayden.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The mouth of the gun’s barrel appeared as large as the opening of a cannon, at least that was the way Kimball Hayden saw it.
Then from Salt: “You try to take what you can’t have.”
“What I have belongs to the Vatican.”
That was when Salt noticed the band of the cleric’s collar and the uniform that was pious in dress from the waist up and military from the waist down, including the combat boots. On his shirt pocket was an insignia denoting his military unit, which was a pair of heraldic lions standing on their hind legs with their forepaws holding a shield steady. Inside this shield was the symbol of the silver Pattée cross.
Salt’s eyes flashed as if seeing a unicorn. He had heard of the Vatican Knights but had never seen one. To him, they were lore. And then: “A Vatican Knight,” he said almost dreamily. “As much as you may believe that the staff belongs to the church, it belongs to me. Now hand it over.”
Kimball, after placing the staff on the floor, recalled the moment when he learned of Salt’s background as a Christian terrorist. “Are you a man of religion?” he asked him.
“I have my faith,” Salt answered blandly.
Hayden pointed to Aaron’s rod. “That staff predates Christ and has been held by the hands of Moses.”
Salt’s eyes gravitated to the rod only to discover that the head was covered by a rubber sleeve. “And the power granted by the Hand of Providence will be used wisely” Salt returned. “Once I become its custodian.”
“It’s custodian?” Kimball Hayden appeared incensed by Salt’s statement. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with here, this power of Creation. For all you know, you might be ushering in the Apocalypse.”
“What we will usher in is a new age of Enlightenment and Reform.”
Kimball Hayden did not see madness in this man’s eyes. But he did see a man of misguided conviction. Salt’s ideology of total conformity without questioning authority and to accept everything with blind faith.
Kimball Hayden, who left the staff on the floor, stood to his full height. Then: “I’m sure that Elias Caspari made declarations to you regarding the realignment of a new world order that could save mankind’s suicidal reign, am I right?”
Salt remained silent as he continued to hold his weapon steady.
Then from Hayden: “One Rule under One Voice.” When Hayden took a step closer and saw Salt’s trigger finger twitch—that slight action cause for Hayden to approach no further. “Look, Caspari is not the first of his kind to think like this nor will he be the last,” Hayden said, then he pointed to the staff. “The power lodged inside that rod is too great to question its authority. For Caspari to think that he can use its properties to manufacture the ultimate weapon of mass destruction only heightens the ability to destroy the masses, not benefit them.” Against his better judgment, Kimball Hayden took another step forward. “Let me put these relics to bed where they belong. Let me put them in a place where people like Elias Caspari can never get the chance to place anyone in jeopardy again.”
Salt’s eyes shifted in their sockets, cold pale orbs that had more of the milky sheen of blindness to them rather than insightfulness. Then in Salt’s earbud, as if the devil were sitting on his shoulder, he heard: “Finish this up, Salt . . . We need to get out of here.”
Salt offered Hayden a wry grin the moment Caspari signed off. And then: “You know what,” he said to Hayden as he held his weapon firm. “I think it’s time for you to die.”
Hayden stood ready to take the impacts by puffing his chest out in face-saving macho posturing, only to feel overwhelming relief when he heard the voice of his savior.
“Not on my watch,” a voice behind Salt said. “Not today.”
Salt, without redirecting his weapon, recognized the inflection and the way the man spoke with even authority.
Nodding acceptance of his opponent, Salt said, “Mr. . . . Spartan.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The Semtex charges that had been strategically applied against the columns within Deep Mountain counted down in unison . . .
. . . 14:23 . . .
. . . 14:22 . . .
. . . 14:21 . . .
. . . with absolutely no means to stop them.
. . . 14:20 . . .
. . . 14:19 . . .
. . . 14:18 . . .
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
“Salt,” Mr. Spartan acknowledged, as he hobbled forward with a Glock pointed to the back of his enemy’s head. His knee was terribly wounded, and the adrenaline lift that had carried him through the pain was now gone.
“I can hear your footfalls, Mr. Spartan. So, my advice to you, if you care about the life of the man who stands before me, is for you to drop the gun I know you’re wielding.”
Mr. Spartan stopped. The fabric below his wounded knee was saturated with blood. And Kimball Hayden could see that Mr. Spartan’s face was becoming as slick and pale as the underbelly of a fish. Mr. Spartan was slowly losing his footing in the conscious world, this Kimball Hayden could clearly see, but it was something Salt could not because he maintained the entirety of his focus on Hayden.
“I did not hear the gun drop, Mr. Spartan. And I have two of the three pounds necessary to pull the trigger. From your distance you may miss. But I assure you, from where I stand I will not. The choice is yours to make. And let it be known that neither of us has all day.”
Mr. Spartan continued to hold his weapon, thoug
h it began to wobble in his grip, the man losing strength, which was a concern to Hayden.
And then it occurred to Mr. Spartan that he had heard Salt’s voice before. Where, however, had escaped him.
Cocking his head slightly to the side with the wobble of his grip growing increasingly unsteady, he said, though with the questioning tone of unsureness, “I know you, don’t I?”
“Of course, you do” said Salt. “Only you cannot remember where.”
Mr. Spartan took a step, though he really dragged his bad leg along rather than lift it and carry it forward. A ribbon of blood marked his wake. And then: “I do know you.”
Salt redirected his aim to a spot between Kimball Hayden’s eyes. “Not one more step, Mr. Spartan. Not one.”
Mr. Spartan stopped. Now that the gun was becoming too heavy for him to bear, the mouth of the barrel dipped occasionally to the floor, only for Mr. Spartan to force himself to return it to its rightful aim. The man’s strength was ebbing quickly. Then he repeated: “I know you.”
Salt nodded in agreement. “We met one time before,” he told him. “Face to face.”
Mr. Spartan, however, could not recall the moment. “When?”
Salt smiled amusingly before saying, “Imagine me, if you will, wearing sunglasses, a fedora and a goatee.”
Then it hit Mr. Spartan like a sledgehammer to the chest, a daunting blow that sparked a revitalization within him as he discovered a second wind deep inside his reserves. He raised the weapon and drew a bead. “You’re the one,” he stated through clenched teeth. “You were the one at the picnic that day. You and one other. You killed my wife and daughter.”
Salt nodded. “That I did. And if remember correctly, I left you for dead as well. Sloppy on my part, that I must agree with.”
“You murdered two innocent people who knew absolutely nothing!”
“I had an agenda to fulfill,” Salt stated. “And Elias Caspari had an agenda to fulfill. And the only one who stood in our way was the Consortium. That’s why I tried to discover the stronghold location and the whereabouts of Mr. da Vinci, which you refused to surrender to me on that day. That was the purpose of my recruitment into the Shadow Klan . . . To neutralize the threat.”
Mr. Spartan’s newfound adrenaline rush began to recede quickly, his gun hand beginning to tremble. It was either that or, as Kimball Hayden had accepted, to be absolute rage that was tampering with his aim.
“But’s that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?” Salt added. “So now we must deal with the present and eventually the future. And Elias Caspari leads the way.”
“Elias Caspari is an idealist,” noted Kimball Hayden. “But hardly the realist. He’s blind to his ambitions and sees what he wants to see without grasping the dangers that surround him.”
“The only danger,” Salt stated, “is to allow our kind to continue without direction. Elias Caspari will provide direction as soon as the superpowers realize that they have an Achilles Heel. And the weakness is the power of Elias Caspari, and what he brings to the global table of negotiation.”
“I think you really believe that.”
“Do you think I’d be here applying my wares if I didn’t?”
Kimball Hayden knew that Salt was not going to listen to reason. In Hayden’s world, people like the Salts and the Casparis were ruled by lofty goals and unprecedented convictions. They had often locked themselves onto a course, and then refused to alter their path to reach their ambitions at the end, which were often unattainable.
And then from Salt: “One last time, Mr. Spartan . . . Drop your weapon.”
Instead, the Consortium’s Battle Master pulled the trigger . . .
. . . again . . . and again . . . and again . . .
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Elias Caspari was obviously premature in believing that Salt would simply execute his opponent at gunpoint and make off with the treasures. What he did not see was the obstacle of Mr. Spartan, who had come from the chamber’s dark veils to take position behind Salt with his pistol raised.
Caspari, in frustration, swept everything off his desktop with a cry of rage, then spewed off a string of X-rated profanities at the TV monitor.
There was an obvious exchange going on between the two men, both bartering for the dominant position. Whenever Mr. Spartan tried to draw close, Salt would make his point by redirecting his aim at Kimball Hayden, which stopped Spartan in his tracks.
Then as the second power source started to run dry and the screen began to falter by turning into a monitor of snow, Elias Caspari was able to view enough of their exchange. Before the screen faded entirely from view, he had witnessed Mr. Spartan get off a volley of gunfire, though the outcome was not made clear before the images disappeared. Then running his fingers nervously through his hair, Elias Caspari realized that he could not rely on anyone other than himself. If he was to escape Deep Mountain, then he would have to abscond immediately through the tunnels that meandered topside.
And should Salt live through the moment, his hope, though marginal, was that his chief operator would succeed in carrying the Eye of Moses to the island stronghold in the Pacific.
After Caspari made his way to a concealed doorway in his office, he tossed a series of hardcover books from the bookcase to the floor to reveal an ocular scanner. After typing in a numeric combination on the keypad and then saying his name for voice recognition, the scanner came online to take a visual reading of the pulsating lines within the whites of his eyes. Once done, the bookcase, which was as thick and sturdy as a bank vault, swung open on its axis to reveal a darkened maw that led to a staircase that ascended to the topside platform.
Looking back at the screen and seeing nothing but snowy pixels, Elias Caspari would not allow his spirit to be dampened. Then after striking another numeric combination into the keypad which lit the staircase and the way upward, the door closed behind him as he ascended the steps.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Spartan had lost all control to absolute rage. He could see Salt clearly on the day he murdered his wife and daughter, then recalled the assassin’s lack of contrition as though killing was something to rejoice over rather than be agonized by it. Then in a rage-driven throe of conduct, Mr. Spartan pulled the trigger of his weapon, though the gun’s point was off mark from his ever-growing feeble grip on its handle.
Bullets went wide until the weapon sounded off with a series of dry clicks. Yet Mr. Spartan continued to drive forward on a bad knee and clenched teeth as cords stood along the sides of his neck. Then in furious anger, he screamed, “SALLLLT! . . . SALLLLT!” More dry clicks sounded long after his Glock had emptied, the despondent man pulling the trigger repeatedly by the instinct to kill. “SALLLLT!”
Realizing that Mr. Spartan would be no match for Salt in his condition, that was when Kimball Hayden took over.
* * *
Gunfire went off repeatedly from the point of Mr. Spartan’s weapon, which prompted Kimball Hayden and Salt to take to the floor in self-preservation. Bullets and rounds had not even come close to scoring a kill shot. In fact, diving probably would not have been necessary since Mr. Spartan had apparently lost his range of direct fire. Hayden could see the fever growing in the man’s eyes by the seconds and moments, his rage becoming paramount with every word spoken. It was a side of Mr. Spartan that Hayden never believed he would see, since Spartan had always carried that cloak of unbelievable sadness around him. Now he understood why as he lay on the floor until Mr. Spartan’s Glock went dry.
Then as Mr. Spartan approached like something from a zombie apocalypse with pale features and eyes that had a red and rheumy look to them, Salt started to bring his weapon around to bring Mr. Spartan down.
With a straightforward kick, Hayden was able to strike the crown of Salt’s head, which jammed his neck and knocked the direction of his gunshot off target.
Mr. Spartan continued to approach with a savage look about him, seemingly unaware that a bu
llet just missed him by inches.
Then Hayden, along with Salt, quickly got to their feet.
Just as Salt was beginning to swing his weapon against the bigger threat in Hayden, the Vatican Knight grabbed Salt’s wrist and torqued it hard to the left, forcing Salt to drop the weapon. But Salt countered with a series of straight jabs with blow after blow driving Kimball back until his body began to lose coordination and balance, the impacts coming fast and furious. This man, this Salt, had a skillset that could match that of a Vatican Knight, a rarity.
But Hayden drew on his training and brought his arms and elbows up to shield himself, with Salt’s blows doing little to exact punishing blows or make them count. So, when Hayden discovered an opening of opportunity, he took advantage.
As Salt’s blow was deflected and his left arm went wide of its mark, Kimball Hayden slipped a perfect shot with his palm and drove it forward into Salt’s jaw. The effect was instantaneous and brutal as Salt’s eyes began to roll upward to show slivers of absolute white. Then in a subsequent landing of his fist, Hayden connected once again to the point of Salt’s chin, which caused the assassin to see internal stars a moment before falling back.
As Salt began to lose connection with his surroundings, Kimball Hayden became very aware of this. The Vatican Knight sensed that a kill was within his reach, the takedown blow just a swing away.
But as he approached, Salt responded with a forward thrust of his leg which caught Kimball Hayden in the midsection, with the result knocking air from his lungs and driving him to a knee.
Then as Salt began to collect his faculties, as his world began to emerge through the veil of cobwebs, and just as he was about to come down on the back of Kimball Hayden’s skull with the point of his elbow, Mr. Spartan tossed his weight into the mix by throwing a series of kidney punches to the small of Salt’s back.
