by Rick Jones
Gritting his teeth against the sudden pain, Salt kicked his leg behind him and caught Mr. Spartan at the point of his wounded knee, which drove Spartan to the floor where he cradled the area of his wound.
Now Hayden was back on his feet and searching for an opening, found it, then pressed forward with his hands punching Salt with extraordinary speed. His arms moved with choreographed blows that landed and counted. Blood erupted from Salt’s nose, an explosion. Then there was a crack of cartilage and more blood, enough for Hayden to feel victory, a conclusion.
But Salt, a man who had skillsets that most men did not, recalibrated himself and went into defense mode. As Hayden brought his arms and elbows up to absorb the blows, so did Salt, twisting and turning his body as Hayden’s streak of landing precise punches came to a quick and sudden halt.
Then the men grabbed each other and went into an obscene dance trying to gain the lead position. Both failed, however, as blows continued to be exchanged with little effect.
Then Mr. Spartan, who was not as blinded by rage as Hayden had thought, but was motivated by it, and with Herculean effort despite his ailing knee, wrapped an arm around Salt’s throat with the grip of a python and began to constrict the airway.
Salt gagged as he pawed feebly at the arm, the man behind him then hoisting Salt off his feet to take away the platform of the floor, the man now dangling as if hanging from the end of a rope on the gallows.
A mistake.
With his feet suspended, Salt thrust both legs forward with a mule kick and caught Hayden in the chest, knocking him backwards and to the floor. Then in the succeeding maneuver, he forced his head backward that caught Mr. Spartan in the face with a violent hit that caused Mr. Spartan to release the assassin.
As Salt wheezed oxygen into his lungs, his world became a little less dark and a little less gray. Now Hayden was in front of him and an enraged Mr. Spartan behind him. Two against one, a match he found to be, at least in his mind, equal. Such parallelism, however, could not go on forever. This he knew. Sooner or later a two-man team, even with Mr. Spartan’s wounded knee, would eventually rise to the top to conquer since both men were skilled fighters.
With his eyes rolling in his sockets searching for escape, Salt decided to fall out of the field of battle so that he could live to fight another day. Wobbling in his stance while his mind tried to wax its way towards clarity, he had the cognition to exit through one of the portals that led to the system of tunnels throughout Deep Mountain.
Moving in a staggering gait with a hand to his throat, Salt was eventually able to turn his bearing into a man who was as agile as a monkey. Leaping over a pair of tables, he then sprinted to the outer reaches of the chamber and disappeared into a dark warren.
Getting to his feet with a hand to his chest, Kimball Hayden quickly reached down to aid Mr. Spartan, only for the man to labor back to solid footing.
On the floor was Aaron’s rod and the rucksack containing the crucible.
Mr. Spartan, still feeling the numbing effects from Salt’s headbutt, pointed to the items. “Take them,” he said to Kimball. “Get to the mountain’s face and rappel to the bottom. We’ll provide you with the time.”
“You can barely stand.”
“Salt may be on the run, but he hasn’t been neutralized. And we have no idea where Caspari is.” After a brief pause, he added: “This is what it was always about, Kimball. A difference in agendas. My team cannot leave until we finish the primary objective which is to remove Elias Caspari completely from the equation and to assure that this never happens again . . . And Salt belongs to me.”
Kimball Hayden knew that Mr. Spartan was hardly in the condition to give chase, but he also believed that Spartan’s obsession with bringing Salt down was a personal matter, and not professional. Nevertheless, Mr. Spartan would not listen to reason other than to follow through with the vendetta that had been branded into his heart long ago. Now was his opportunity to salvage that part of him that had disappeared on the day his family was killed: internal peace.
Grabbing the staff and slinging it over his back, and then grabbing the rucksack containing the crucible once belonging to Nostradamus, he grabbed Mr. Spartan by the triceps and said, “We can do this together.”
But Mr. Spartan, after feigning a smile, said, “No. For so long I’ve been looking forward to this moment. Maybe I’ll find him, maybe I won’t. But you, Kimball, must get these relics into the hands of those within the Vatican where they’ll be safe. And be careful. You still have a lot of obstacles to maneuver through on limited time.”
Letting his hand fall from Mr. Spartan, Kimball Hayden said nothing further as he sprinted to the exit that led him to this Vault.
Mr. Spartan, watching Kimball Hayden move with the speed of a well-trained athlete, watched him disappear before he took it upon himself to follow Salt’s trail—bad leg and all—with darkness in his heart.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
As the facility technicians bandied at the elevators only to find them incapacitated, Elias Caspari was winding his way upward along a thin staircase that was not much wider than shoulder breadth. The muscles in his legs were being taxed, the man not used to such physical exertion. Now as sweat broke on his brow and finding himself winded every ten steps, Caspari realized that he allowed his arrogance to lead him into believing that he was untouchable, when, in fact, the Consortium moved against him with eager swiftness. Everything he planned for, his future and his expectations of a brave new world, were becoming jeopardized.
Reaching a level beneath the helipad was a chamber that housed a chopper, an Agusta AW 139, a top-line vehicle which was down for routine maintenance. The main rotor system of the static stops, the teetering hinge, the main rotor hub, and blades were all disassembled from the mast.
Elias Caspari then made his way to a small depository of weapons in an adjacent room. On display against the wall were sidearms and high-powered assault weapons. Hanging by itself was the BFG, a scaled-down rotary-barrel machine gun with a 1,000 to 1,500 ammo capacity/minute discharge. With a 300-round ammo belt attached, the ammunition would be gone in fifteen seconds, maybe less.
Grabbing the weapon and strapping it on, and then attaching the ammo belt into the feed, Elias Caspari, an expert in weaponry, knew he’d have to make the shots count. He had watched the live feeds of the skirmish between his security forces and the Consortium inside the main lobby, which continued to be overseen by the opposing forces.
But after stroking the six rotary barrels of the BFG with admiration, and no matter the weapons the Consortium team carried, they would be no match for the minigun. The rounds were high caliber, enough to punch through concrete. All he needed was an opening and an opportunity; the BFG would do the rest.
Adjusting the weapon and ammo pack until he found them comfortable to carry, Elias Caspari, who found soldiering beneath him, which was why he purchased mercenary services, realized that the notion of combat was somewhat exhilarating. This newfound experience enlightened him as to why people like Salt and Max Ueli found such a vocation an adrenaline rush. It was all about being the master of life and death, often choosing who lived or died.
With the weight of the minigun feeling good in his hands, Elias Caspari made his way topside to make his escape.
* * *
Misters Archimedes and Michelangelo were positioned within the lobby to discourage the approach of additional forces. The results of Caspari’s security team lay on the floor, the men lying and moving about in wild tangles from the painful throes of taking gunshots, with their attempt to retake the facility an abysmal failure on the part of the team.
Outside next to the helipad, the mechanical hum of hydraulics could be heard through the smashed windows of the facility’s front entrance. They were loud as a pair of metal panels lifted and pared back. As soon as the ground hatches raised and fell back, a silhouette of a man stood within the darkness holding something neither Misters Archimedes nor
Michelangelo could make out. Within the biting wind, this man was nothing but a shape that was midnight black compared to the surrounding shadows.
Raising their weapons to eye-level, Misters Archimedes and Michelangelo approached this dark image. While advancing, they parted from one another with the two distributing themselves wide to gain the advantage from different angles.
But to the man waiting in the shadows, this maneuver would make no difference.
* * *
The hum and whine of the hydraulic lift was louder than Elias Caspari wanted. And something that would most likely steal away his attempt at stealth. Nevertheless, with the BFG in his hands, he was supremely confident.
As the pair of metal doors parted and opened above him, he immediately felt the icy sting of the mountaintop wind. His hair blew madly with the chilling course. But his eyes remained fixed as he saw the members of the Consortium approach him with their weapons raised.
That’s right, he said to himself. Keep coming.
The two commandos approached and then parted from one another.
That won’t matter, Caspari thought. Not with this baby in my hands.
As his fingers were growing numb, Elias Caspari felt an alien rush flow through his system, something that made his blood throb against his temples and his heart drum against his chest. Wrapping his finger around the trigger of the BFG and with a smile brimming with pending victory, Caspari directed his weapon and set off a hellacious volley of gunfire.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Salt had never been so frustrated. Over the past few hours his family had been threatened and his life nearly lost. Luck and skill would only carry him so far. Eventually fate would come into play and work against him if he weren’t careful. The Consortium had their skilled personnel, commandos who were well-trained in the art of killing, when necessary. But the Vatican Knight was a surprise and a viable threat. Though Salt could hold his own against most elite special operators, the Vatican Knight had proved his worth as an equal. This was recently displayed inside the Vault with a number of attacks and counterattacks that nearly rendered Salt unconscious. No one had ever brought him to such a precipice before.
By choosing to live over the securement of the relics, Salt knew that this would not go over well with Caspari. He could only imagine the consequences from the man who not only believed in him as a master warrior, but also as a man who would rule by Caspari’s side as his ruling commander who would captain the troops in future endeavors.
What a failure I must be to the man who saw me with a vision of trust.
Taking tunnels that twisted and turned like a maze, though they were familiar to him as he moved to escape the depths to reach the heights of the surface, Salt ran on.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Mr. Plato found himself alone in a cavern filled with military armaments, which made sense since Elias Caspari dealt with selling unique weapons on the black market. As he raced for the bank of downed elevators so that he could climb his way to the lobby, he noted the technicians—both men and women with some crying and believing that they would never see family again, which may be true—all knotted up by the elevator doors.
After Mr. Galileo set the charges and informed the team that they had been enabled, everyone on the Consortium team had set their watches to countdown. The face of his watch, as was the reading on every members’ watch, displayed:
. . . 10:45 . . .
. . . 10:44 . . .
. . . 10:43 . . .
Knowing that the elevators were close to the mountain’s horn and most likely to fall from the concussive blasts, Mr. Plato discharged his weapon ceilingward, a quick burst, which immediately caused startled barks and cries. What followed thereafter was complete silence and inquisitive looks.
“Listen to me,” Mr. Plato told them. “The elevators are down. Inoperable.” He looked at his watch.
. . . 10:13 . . .
. . . 10:12 . . .
. . . 10:11 . . .
Then he added: “Charges have been placed throughout the facility and this part of the mountain, the Horn, is highly susceptible to falling into the ravine once they go off. We need to move away from this position toward the southside.”
One of the techs moved away from the crowd and pointed upward. “But the cable-car’s up there,” he said to Mr. Plato.
“Did you not hear what I just said? The elevators have been rendered inoperable. There’s too many of you. We need to get to the point of greatest stability, which is away from the Horn and closer to the south face.”
“I don’t think you understand,” said the tech. “This entire facility is filled with military hardware. One explosion could turn this entire mountaintop into dust.”
Mr. Plato looked at his watch:
. . . 09:47 . . .
. . . 09:46 . . .
. . . 09:45 . . .
Getting thirty-plus people topside would be an impossibility.
Then he could hear the distant and hollow resonance of Mr. Spartan’s voice in his mind, something he always said when situations appeared too great to overcome, by citing this mantra that was meant to goad and provide confidence regardless of the odds: the word ‘impossible’ does not mean that something cannot be done, he would say, it only measures the degree of difficulty.
Though the odds of survival were low, Mr. Plato could not allow these people to suffer the condemnation of Elias Caspari’s sins, even though their own judgments had placed them in this situation.
As a Consortium operative, he was bound to protect and provide aid to those who could not protect themselves, much like that of a Vatican Knight, even if the cost was his own life.
“Believe me,” he finally said, “there’s not enough time to get you all topside.”
“How would you know that?”
Mr. Plato flashed them the face of his watch.
. . . 09:12 . . .
. . . 09:11 . . .
. . . 09:10 . . .
“We head deeper into the mountain,” said Mr. Plato. “The stone walls will provide us with a buffer.”
“Or collapse all around us.”
This was true. Mr. Plato had no idea how much ammunition was stored inside the facility, or the power it would have once the initial Semtex charges went off. All he knew, by reason, was that time was not a luxury, nor was it to be spent wastefully.
“If you stay here, you die. There’s no doubt about that. Head south to where the walls are thickest, then you can ride out the blasts.”
“Says you,” said the tech. “I’ll take my chances through the shafts.”
“It’s a long climb. And timely. You’ll never make it.”
“And I’m to trust you?”
Mr. Plato pinned the tech with a long and even stare. Obviously, he wasn’t going to be able to reach anyone unless this tech was agreeable. Then from Mr. Plato: “That’s your choice.”
“It is. And going topside is what I choose.” After waving a few of his associates to help him in opening the elevator doors, they did so. The shaft was deep and dark with no bottom to perceive. Looking up and scanning the rappelling lines, which was at least a thirty-foot climb, the techs debated in hushed whispers.
And then from the vocal tech: “You said you could lead us to safety, yes?”
“I can try.”
“Trying isn’t good enough.”
Mr. Plato once again held the face of his watch for everyone to see.
It read: 08:17.
“I’m not your Savior,” he told them. “But I’m the best you’ve got and we’re running short on time.”
Finally conceding with a nod of his head, the tech said, “Lead the way.”
Mr. Plato, not knowing whether their chances were great or nonexistent, escorted them towards salvation at the risk of his own life.
Because that’s what I was bred to do.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Kimball Hayden raced thro
ugh chambers and stockpiles with Aaron’s rod and his rucksack containing the crucible once belonging to Nostradamus securely attached.
Then he glanced at the timer of his watch:
. . . 08:04 . . .
. . . 08:03 . . .
. . . 08:02 . . .
He needed to get to the elevator shaft.
And quickly.
He meandered through hallways and moved swiftly through tunnels, his mind charting a course from one point to the next that was not only the path of least resistance, but the shortest distance, as well.
When he reached the elevator doors, he discovered that they had been parted. Looking up into the shaft, he saw the rappelling lines. Reaching out and grabbing the one closest to him, Kimball Hayden gripped the line with both hands and started his climb.
Thirty feet.
That’s how far the climb was.
Climbing hand over hand while using his feet to buoy him against the metal framework, Hayden was making considerable gains.
Twenty feet.
The door leading to the lobby and his escape seemed both distant and near.
Then as he was about ten feet from conceived liberty, that’s when Kimball Hayden heard gunfire from above.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Elias Caspari opened fire without any sense of moral conflict. High-caliber rounds smashed through the entryway framework, the metal lifting from their rivets and flying inward into the lobby. The marble tile along the walls smashed like glass with chips and pieces exploding outward like shrapnel. And Mr. Archimedes, who had no chance despite wearing dragon-scale, was ripped apart. Bullets smashed into his chest, his joints, the massive power from the minigun simply punching through one side of his body and out the other, with exit wounds in sizes greater than a man’s fist.
