In Between God and Devil

by Rick Jones

  The terrorist appeared complacent as if he was taking a leisurely stroll, his weapon pointed downward. Then as Isaiah heard the crunch of gravel getting louder as the terrorist approached, then gauged his position to be directly above him along the crestline, Isaiah, who rose from earth as a blackened shape, seemed to glide along the incline until he was directly behind the radical, cupped a hand around the extremist’s forehead, pulled him close, and drove the point of the blade once, twice, three times with puncturing strokes to the man’s heart, killing him before he had a chance to fire off his weapon.

  With the shapes of two forms combining and hunkering low in the shadows as something amoeba-like, Isaiah silently dragged the body off the ridgeline and to the stones below.

  * * *

  Khadim Tuma was a hardened veteran who had fought in many skirmishes and killed many people, mostly those who could not defend themselves. He preyed upon the weak and the innocent, and those who kept God close to their hearts, the Christians. If not for the fact that he relished violence and bathed in the blood of many, he would have been a simple herder of goats, otherwise, a life that was not for him. So, he picked up the black flag of the Islamic State and held it high for all to see. Here he had purpose and a belonging. And here he was a soldier fighting in the name of Allah.

  I am his vessel, he considered with a faint smile as he looked upon the marginally lit landscape. Paradise is my haven.

  From the corner of his eye he saw movement. It was quick and fleeting, but he caught the glimpse of what appeared to be feet being dragged off the crestline to the stones below. Khadim called out to his comrade in a loud whisper, while taking tentative steps to the location. The point of his AK-47 was raised and directed.

  “Ayaan?”

  Silence.

  Then louder: “Ayaan?”

  No response.

  Khadim reached the area of Ayaan’s disappearance, where he slipped over the edge of the ridgeline. “Ayaan?”

  In the pale moonlight, he could see a figure sitting amongst the stones that were the size of soccer balls. His shoulders were slumping, and his head was leaning forward as if his chin might be resting against his chest. He was either sleeping or defecating, Khadim couldn’t decide which.

  “Ayaan? Complete your rounds.”

  The shape remained unmoving, even as Khadim voiced his protestation that no one was to leave their post.

  “Aya—”

  Khadim’s weapon was knocked free from behind and slid down the embankment. Pivoting on his feet to confront his attacker, all he saw was a shape that was blacker than black standing before him. The only feature that stood out in stark contrast from this silhouette was the white square of a Roman Catholic collar.

  The moment Khadim’s eyes flashed with surprise, he felt the sharp point of a blade enter his chest and pierce his heart. And in an instant that was too quick to feel pain, Khadim died on his feet. And like Ayaan, he was dragged to the rocks below.

  * * *

  Isaiah, after setting the bodies amongst the stones below the ridgeline, lowered his lip mic and said, “Topside tangos removed. Open to perimeter maneuvers.”

  “Copy that,” Kimball returned.

  Positioning the bodies so that they lay amongst the rocks, he wiped the blade of his KABAR clean against the cloth of Ayaan and returned the knife to its sheath. Staying low to the ground, Isaiah retrieved his assault rifle and headed to his second point: the cave’s entrance.

  * * *

  “Topside tangos removed. Open to perimeter maneuvers.”

  “Copy that,” Kimball said. And then: “Bravo Team, you’re open to perimeter maneuvers. I repeat, you’re open to perimeter maneuvers.”

  “Bravo Team copies.”

  Lifting his lip mic over his head, he turned to Shari. “Two down and four to go. Then the fun really begins.”

  If that was Kimball’s way of proffering humor to break the tension, she didn’t find him funny at all.

  Then from Kimball: “I know this is something new to you. I get it. But all soldiers are introduced through trial by fire, because there’s never a slow lead up to situations like this. But you’ll be OK. The dust will settle from all this.”

  Shari wasn’t too sure about that. It was as if she had been suddenly cast into a culture shock that was highly toxic to her mental state of comprehension. The differences between the Bureau and the Company were like day and night. Though intel gathering ran mainly along the same lines, here she was a soldier and not an officer of the law. This world was entirely different from the one she had come from.

  “This is different from what I imagined,” she told him. Her eyes remained on the open landscape that divided them from the mouth of the cave, which seemed too far without cover. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I am afraid.” She turned to Kimball, their eyes locking. “And yet you appear as calm as ever.”

  “It doesn’t mean that I’m not afraid,” he told her. “I only mask it better.”

  A moment after Kimball turned to view the landscape, Shari did the same.

  * * *

  The guard who watched the eastside quadrant was conscripted a decade ago when he was fourteen. At first, he hated his new life under the auspices of the Islamic State. But over the years his ideology changed after having it pounded into his head for so long and without mercy, that the ritual of believing in Allah became an everyday method to reshape, remold, and redirect the mind and its pattern of thinking. And here he was, a young man with purpose and fully devoted to the cause.

  As Abdalmalek maintained vigil by watching over the area for possible absconders, he did not see the approach of the shape that stayed close to the ground until it was too late. Before he could raise his rifle, the shape kicked aside Abdalmalek’s weapon before he had a chance to put a finger on the trigger. When Abdalmalek reared his head to call out, he also exposed his throat which took a chop from the side of a bladed foot as Noah threw a side kick.

  The tubing of Abdalmalek’s esophagus cracked inside his throat, a crunch that sounded like a stick of celery being halved. Abdalmalek, his eyes flaring while bringing his hands to his throat, gagged and went to his knees. That was when Noah pivoted on the ball of his foot with a spin-turn round kick and connected with Abdalmalek’s temple, the impact snapping the Arab’s neck and killing him instantly.

  Grabbing the terrorist by the back of his collar, Noah dragged the body further away from the cave’s mouth.

  “Command Post from Bravo One,” Noah whispered as he continued to drag the body.

  “Go.”

  “Tango neutralized.”

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Joshua took the westside quadrant.

  A big man of intense size and strength, he, like Kimball Hayden, had uncanny speed and agility. They were the athletic freaks who moved with the nimbleness that was necessary to become a Vatican Knight.

  A terrorist was moving close to his area, the man walking as if he hadn’t a care in the world, surely the sign of complacency. When the extremist stopped, Joshua wondered if he was sensing a moment of nearby danger.

  He was.

  Raising the point of his weapon, the person who looked more like a child who was on the cusp of being a man, approached. He was cautious, meaning that there would be no true element of surprise outside the initial laying on of hands.

  The terrorist stopped walking, then started, then stopped again, all the time listening for an anomaly, for which there was none.

  Joshua, with knife in hand, decided on a different measure. He returned the knife to its sheath and set his weapon down on the sand behind the chest-high boulder he hid behind. And then he hunkered down waiting to spring.

  As the Arab moved closer, Joshua could hear his footfalls and the crunch of sand beneath his feet.

  Joshua began to round the boulder as the extremist began to reach his head around the large stone. His weapon was raised and ready, his finger on the trigger. When he rounded
the sized rock, he saw the weapon lying on the ground, which pinned his interest long enough for Joshua to circle around the boulder from the other side and come up behind him. Cupping one hand beneath the terrorist’s chin and the other firm against the forehead, the Vatican Knight gave a violent twist that snapped the Arab’s neck, killing him instantly. Both the gun and body fell quickly to the earth. After dragging the body behind the rock boulder, Joshua spoke into his lip mic.

  “Command Post from Bravo Two.”

  “Go.”

  “Tango neutralized.”

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Keeping watch on the northside quadrant was a battle-seasoned warrior who had fought wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and now in Syria. His life had always been hard and tough because his father had been a constant irritant who often emphasized his points of teaching with the lash of a whip or from the steady beating of a riding crop. His backside was testament to his father’s rearing from all the scars.

  . . . You will not violate the tenets of the Koran . . .

  . . . whap . . .

  . . . You will not violate the true laws of Allah . . .

  . . . whap . . .

  . . . You will not join the Islamic State or the Taliban . . .

  . . . whap . . .

  . . . You will not do this . . .

  . . . whap . . .

  . . . You will not do that . . .

  But in the end, it had an adverse effect since all these whippings developed a natural curiosity as to why his father was so adamant.

  And in the end, when he discovered what it was his father tried to protect him from, he took a knife that was handed to him from a recruiter, and under the recruiter’s watchful eye, murdered his father with such pent-up rage that he stabbed him seventy-six times before he found enough strength to remove his head from his shoulders. Though the man was his father, he still had fond memories of that moment because the Islamic State had shown him a way out.

  Looking up at the sickle shape of the crescent moon, Abdul-Majid was everything his father didn’t want him to be. He was a calloused and cold killer who broke his teeth by severing his father’s head, and then his mother’s head after she had voiced her opposition against the Islamic State.

  I am a vessel of Allah, he thought. And he is my guide.

  Abdul-Majid had finally discovered a purpose that had transcended his father’s teachings.

  Looking away from the moon, Abdul-Majid felt a need to release his bladder. Setting down his weapon and lowering the waistline of his pants, he sighed with the sudden release. After lifting his pants and tying himself off, he reached for his weapon, which was not where he had left it. In fact, it was gone. Looking around his immediate area, his eyes came upon something that should not be.

  A figure as black as pitch, no doubt a man by its shape, stared back at him.

  Abdul-Majid’s mouth moved in protest. He had never seen the man approach, even as he made his way through the wide spaces of nothingness. At first the land was bare, and then it wasn’t. As his eyes gravitated towards the white square of the Roman Catholic collar, a hand crossed over his mouth to stifle the scream that was about to come. In the subsequent moment, Abdul-Majid felt the sharp point of a knife violate his body by entering deep, and then given a final twist that ended his life.

  Then into his lip mic, Jonah said, “Command Post from Bravo Three.”

  “Go.”

  “Tango neutralized.”

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Time seemed to be moving at a glacial pace for Shari Cohen. Even though five minutes had passed, to her it seemed more like five hours. The heart inside her chest was drumming powerful enough to force the rush of blood flow near her ears sound like a passing train. Whenever she was in moments like this, when the adrenaline started to pump through her veins, the Y-vein on her forehead began to throb, as well. Lifting a finger to the center of her forehead, she attempted to feel its pulsation, which was foolish. It was like someone cupping their hands around their mouth to blow into them, and then taking a whiff to see if they had bad breath. Still, she moved her fingertips around her forehead to catch a read.

  “What are you doing?” Kimball asked her.

  She quickly dropped her fingers. “Nothing.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  Kimball reached across and placed a hand on her shoulder, this time giving a squeeze. Instead of sensing an electric charge, she felt an amazingly wonderful chill, instead.

  “It’ll be all right, Shari. When the time comes, things will come naturally to you. Instinct will take over.” He kept the hand there, could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric. When he pulled his hand away, he stared at it for a moment and flexed his fingers. It was as if he was trying to understand the spark of wonderful sensation after touching her. Then shaking his hand as if he had just touched something hot, he once again returned his focus onto the battlefield.

  With an inward smile, Shari Cohen did the same.

  She was also at ease.

  * * *

  Jeremiah knew that only one man remained, and a colossally sized man at that. This guard was tall and sizeable, not fat but broad at the shoulder. He walked his route like a conscientious soldier, and not as a man who was unworried.

  With three down and one to go, Jeremiah would normally fire off a kill shot to the head. But the muzzle flash might alert someone who was hiding in the shadows, someone they didn’t detect. And as good as Jeremiah was as a combatant, thicker men tended to absorb the blows better.

  Moving stealthily along the ground, Jeremiah was able to lay within a grouping of stones of all different sizes and waited. When the terrorist began to make his way back to the Vatican Knight’s location, Jeremiah removed his knife and held it in such a tight grip, he became white knuckled.

  Footsteps and the crunch of sand beneath the behemoth’s weight sounded like someone eating cereal. When the big man was upon him, Jeremiah sprung from his position, knocked the AK-47 free from the large man’s hands, and brought his knife down in an arc. The big man, however, countered by leveling his arm over his head in defense. As the knife plummeted, the point drove through flesh and lodged itself between the twin bones of the forearm. The terrorist whipped his arm away, taking with it the buried knife whose sharpened point had entered one side and exited out the other.

  Jeremiah was surprised that the knife had disappeared from his grasp so quickly.

  The large Arab, whose eyes were narrowed with absolute anger, clenched his teeth, grabbed the knife’s handle, and slowly slid it free from his arm. It was a slow draw that had a sucking sound to it, with the slow slide a show to Jeremiah that this was minimal damage the big man could easily handle. After the knife was removed, the Arab smiled gleefully as if the experience was a pleasurable one and held the weapon’s point towards Jeremiah. Speaking in Arabic, a language the Vatican Knight understood only by piecing together a few words to determine the rest of the meaning, the message was clear. The terrorist was planning to use the knife against Jeremiah in the obscenest ways.

  Jeremiah raised his hand and beckoned the large man in challenge.

  The Arab chortled, something that was wicked sounding. And then the large man lunged at Jeremiah with the blade swinging from the wounded arm in such a way that it didn’t appear wounded at all, but fully functional.

  Jeremiah stepped aside and threw a side kick into the Arab’s abdomen as he went by swinging the knife, missing. The kick, however, did little to slow down the extremist as he turned on his feet wearing the same malicious grin. Then turning the knife over in his hand in artful display, the terrorist began to size Jeremiah as he continued to speak Arabic at an even level. No shouts for backup were needed, since he viewed Jeremiah as his to take. Come morning he would hold Jeremiah’s head high, the trophy of his kill, which would please Ahmed Ali to no end.

  Then in English, which was clipped,
the large Arab said, “Come.” As Jeremiah did to him, the terrorist raised his hand and started to flex his fingers for the Vatican Knight to charge him, an invitation. “Come.” His smile still lingered, that evil grin that was filled with too much confidence. “Come.” The summoning was now beginning to sound like a mantra.

  Not one to disappoint, Jeremiah crept closer to wage a battle against the much larger man.

  “Come.” Blood dripped from the slits of the Arab’s wounds, which the man treated as superficial. Then as the corners of his mouth slowly curled into a contorted grin to mimic the maniacal face of a mad clown, the terrorist bull rushed Jeremiah.

  But the Vatican Knight was quick on his feet, faster than fast. As the large man came at him with the intent to take Jeremiah down and pin him to the sandy floor where he could lord over him, the Vatican Knight jumped into the air and rotated a full 360 degrees while extending his leg. Jeremiah’s action was quick and fluid, the Vatican Knight nothing but poetry in motion as he connected with the large man’s temple with the heel of his boot.

  The Arab, having been knocked off balance, stumbled away in a drunken gait, the man obviously seeing the star-point glitters of internal stars. Before Jeremiah could take advantage of the moment, the large man collected himself, turned, and reared up like a bear with his arms extended high and his chest puffed out in a show of bravado. In the weak moonlight, the blood that ran along the Arab’s arm looked like tar, black and shiny, then he charged for a second time.

  Jeremiah ground his feet into the sand to stabilize his footing, held his hands ready, and like a matador, sidestepped the charging man and drove the point of his elbow straight down against the center of the man’s spine.

  The Arab went down as he clenched his teeth and closed his eyes against the pain. As he was about to get to his feet, an arm closed around his throat and began to squeeze. The hold was like the grip of a python, the clinch tightening slow and steady. As the terrorist’s sight began to close to a pinprick point of vision, he reached up, grabbed Jeremiah by the shoulder, and pulled the Vatican Knight forward. Jeremiah, feeling the sudden and powerful tug, was sent flying over the terrorist and to the ground, the Vatican Knight now finding himself at a disadvantage as the large man quickly eclipsed and pinned Jeremiah to the sand with his weight, the man becoming an immoveable object.