by Rick Jones
Once she collected and donned her backpack, she realized that she had completed only half of her objective, with the true mettle of her ability to openly kill a man by execution had yet to be tested.
Then entering the chamber as if on serendipitous cue, Ahmed Ali walked right into Shari’s kill zone. The challenge had oddly presented itself upon the moment of her thought.
Holding her Glock before her, she willed herself to justify an act that was not common with her beliefs. Ahmed Ali is an animal who kills the innocent to make points to strike terror within the hearts of the unwilling, she professed. He is a monster in the making and someone who needs to be put down just as a rabid dog needs to be put out of its misery.
She stared at the firearm in her hand, one she became an expert with while on the range. But paper targets were one thing, flesh and blood were another. In the end there was little to contemplate, little to challenge herself with. She would use the weapon to strike down a man who was no different than Josef Mengele, as least in her mind, who decided as to who lived or died within the camps with a simple flick of his cane.
Nevertheless, she hesitated. Even though she tried everything in her power to justify this act of killing Ali, something held her back, perhaps a conscious pang of regret. But none of this mattered since the challenge between doing and not doing was presented to her.
Ahmed Ali had entered the chamber with Shari Cohen standing ten feet away, their eyes locking.
As she directed the point of her weapon at Ahmed Ali, she thought: the easiest thing any man can do is to justify his actions, no matter how heinous those actions may be.
Slowly, she began to pull the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Powering up the GPS unit on his upper arm, the charted design of the cave system that had been digitally mapped out by the mini drone, included every winding conduit which appeared on the screen as yellow boundary lines. Kimball appeared as a pulsating dot on his mini display. The second throbbing dot on the monitor was Shari Cohen who, according to his VDT, had reached Ali’s chamber.
According to Kimball’s monitor, the recruits were housed in the tunnel up ahead, at least this was what Faizan reported before he had been compromised. To get to the hostages’ detainment area, they could easily circumvent the route by taking a less traveled corridor due to its narrowness, even though movement would be highly constricted. Walls would be tight and the ceiling low, and the path taken would not be the shortest distance between two points. But the optimum measure here was to avoid the galvanization of recruits, if possible.
Kimball took point with Isaiah taking rear. As the unit moved through the corridor, Kimball was finding it increasingly difficult to wend his way through the passageway. At times the ceiling was too low and the walls almost too thin for his shoulders to pass, forcing Kimball to sidestep his way through much of the passage until he came to a naturally carved doorway that led into the detainment area.
The doctors and nurses, along with Father Savino, were stretched across the floor with their hands beneath their heads as makeshift pillows, sleeping, with all nine appearing to be in decent states.
Three heavily armed guards watched over the two openings that led to major channels, all speaking in raised voices that no doubt had kept the hostages awake.
Kimball laboriously managed to turn in the tight space and gestured to his team that he spotted three tangos by raising his fore, middle and ring fingers. Then he pointed to himself and made a cutting motion across his throat, indicating that he would be the sole engager.
Manning his weapon so that his NV scope was at eye level, Kimball entered the area and steadily made his way toward the terrorists.
. . . Phfttt . . . Phfttt . . . Phfttt . . .
Three shots that were no louder than spits went off in quick succession, all perfect kill shots. The first round struck a terrorist above his left eye, with the exit wound opening enough to allow a splash of blood and gore to alight upon the cave wall as a horrific rendition of nonsensical art, something abstract. The second round smashed into the face of the insurgent who was standing directly to the first man’s left, his features collapsing to look like a sphincter. The last man standing fared no differently as the third shot hit him in the forehead with a hole the size of a quarter magically appearing. As they lived together as one, they now died together as one as they fell to the floor collectively as boneless heaps. Everything happened so fast and so quickly, not one of them was able to raise their weapon in defense. Kimball had stolen away their opportunity before they had a moment to register what was happening to them.
As those lying on the floor lifted their heads appearing entirely perplexed, Kimball brought a finger to his lips to inform everyone to remain quiet.
From the small opening, the rest of the Vatican Knights entered the chamber with their weapons raised and scattered to all points. After they cleared the area, Kimball went over to Father Savino and stood over him. In his Robocop apparel wearing composite shin, knee and elbow guards, along with shoulders pads and breast plates, Savino got to his feet while staring at the Roman Catholic collar of this soldier. Moving on from the collar to the man’s eyes, the priest—even in the faint lighting—could see the red stitches that crisscrossed through the whites of the warrior’s eyes, as if he was maddened. Then Father Savino went back to looking at the collar and at the white band he often wore with his attire. But when he saw the insignia on the large man’s beret, that of two heraldic lions standing on their hind legs with their forepaws holding the edges of the shield to stabilize it, with the implication of the lions symbolic of bravery, strength, ferocity and valor, he knew this man to be a Vatican Knight.
“You were sent by the pontiff,” he whispered. It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
Kimball placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder, and stated softly, “We’re here to bring all of you home.”
Doctors Gregor and Mayne, as well as the nurses, got to their feet, most stunned by the presence of the Vatican Knights, perhaps the true blessings and answers to Father Savino’s prayers, after all.
“How did you get in here?” Savino asked him.
Kimball stepped away to address the others in the room. “When we move,” he told them almost under his breath, “stay tight and move fast. My man will lead, and you will follow. Do not speak or make a sound. Do not break from the pack. If something goes down, anything at all, hit the floor and hit it hard. Stay down until you’re told otherwise.” Kimball festooned his assault weapon so that it crossed his chest, then tapped a few codes into the GPS unit that was on his upper arm and close to his elbow. On screen, red lines came up as the borders to the cave system. The recruits were stationed west of their position inside a lengthy corridor that was most likely guarded by insurgents to stem the flow of absconders. To the east, however, which was a much longer trek with severely winding passages, took them through the ISIS den, a place where seasoned soldiers gathered to eat, sleep and to create battle plans.
With quick calculation, Kimball determined that six were terminated outside the system and the three who guarded the hostages, nine altogether. Then adding the four who were killed by the Islamic State and then had their heads hung so they could stand sentinel by the ‘Gateway,’ that left thirty-nine. Still, these figures were excessive. The only advantage was the number of conscripted recruits who knew little about battle. The disadvantage of forcing those ill prepared to accept an ideology that was not their own was a shortcoming on the part of the Islamic State, since youth were often prone to panic easily under certain conditions. And this was something Kimball had understood—that time was needed to bend the mindsets of those who objected change in the beginning, unless their ideology had already been twisted. And that was the unknown variable here, wasn’t it? That unknowing factor of how many had gone to the other side and were willing to put up a fight.
Deciding upon the path of least resistance, Kimball Hayden decided to press forward in a northeasterl
y direction and right into the mouth of the lion’s den. But this wasn’t the only issue that influenced his decision. According to Faizan’s intel, those who had been conscripted into the ranks were teenagers not far from playing soccer in their villages, kids for the most part. And to kill a child—even if they had absorbed enough of the teachings to dement their beliefs—was considered to be as wicked as taking a bite from the forbidden fruit. It just wasn’t done.
Looking at his GPS unit and seeing the second flashing dot on the screen, Kimball hit his earbud and whispered, “Shari.”
Nothing but silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Shari stood with her firearm aimed directly at Ahmed Ali’s center mass. When the Arab entered the chamber without a weapon, he was absolutely stunned to find her standing there. The sudden shock in his eyes, as they flared, seemed almost exaggerated, as he looked right into the mouth of the Glock’s barrel, that looming eye that was as black as night, which was directed at his heart.
Yet with all the skillsets she possessed, with the logic and deductive reasoning that were maintained by few, Shari Cohen found herself unsure on what to do. The devil on one shoulder told her to pull the trigger—that the time was now. The angel sitting on the other side, however, the one with her grandmother’s voice, told her to choose wisely before taking the life of a person. Is this something you can live with, my littlest one?
Shari could feel the sweat beading on her upper lip, while her heart hammered relentlessly against the wall of her chest. Her finger along the trigger suddenly seemed as slick as grease as she started to pull back.
Ahmed Ali stood as if waiting for the inevitable, believing that Allah would embrace him joyously after the transition of leaving this world to enter another. But then he began to pick up on Shari’s hesitation and her inability to take a life, something that came easy to him.
And then his lips turned into a wry grin because he was confident in his assessment that this woman did not have what it took to rob a man of his life, unless she was forced into a predicament that gave her no other choice. To bolster his certainty, he noted the errant lock of hair that hung down over her forehead in the shape of a question mark, which seemed perfect against her inquisitive face, while deciding between the warring angel and demon who sat upon her shoulders.
Then in English, Ali said, “It appears that Jinan Samara—at least that’s what we knew him by—got his message across after all.” He took a step forward as if testing the will of the woman who held him at bay, only if temporary. “And now the CIA has sent you to kill me, is that it?” His smile remained, that half grin that was deserving of a gunshot to wipe it away.
Shari ground her feet into the sandy floor.
Look at him as the true monster that he is, she told herself. Look at him as something as an abomination who would be better off dead. He’s just another menace the world would no longer have to contend with. Addition by subtraction, Shari. Addition by subtraction. Pull the trigger—just a simple squeeze and it’s all over. Case closed.
Her breathing started to ratchet up as her conscience began to weigh on her as the voices came from all sides and from deep within, assaulting her from many fronts. The voice of her grandmother, her angel; the voice of the CIA principal, her devil; and then a third voice, her own, the three voices now coming together and sounding off all at once to win their argument.
--The easiest thing any man can do is justify any act, whether it be in the name of god or country, no matter how heinous that act may be. All you have to do, Shari, is pull the trigger—
--Choose wisely, my littlest one. Remember our people. Remember the camps. Remember those who had no say over their lives. Can you look into his eyes the way Josef Mengele looked into the eyes of my papa and my mama? Can you pull the trigger against a man who cannot do anything to protect himself?—
--He’s a monster, Grandmama. If you had a chance to take down Mengele when you had the opportunity, would you have done so to stop the bleeding? —
Before she received an answer from whatever inner conscionable manifestation that tormented her from the inside out, her earbud chirped: “Shari.” It was Kimball.
But due to her inaction, Ali ran out of the room and down a tunnel screaming to give rise to a hornet’s nest.
Dammit!
In hindsight of her indecision, Shari set off a muted burst of gunfire, the round chipping a piece of the stone wall as she missed Ali, but not by much, maybe inches. With Ali now on the run, Shari gave chase.
She would not miss a second time, she promised herself, while the devil on her shoulder smiled gleefully as he chalked a win between morality and immorality.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Command Center
The Green Zone
Baghdad, Iraq
“Your operative, Mr. Jacoby, the one you were so high on,” said the male principal from Langley who watched every move from the skype monitor Shari made through her bodycam, “failed when the target had availed himself to her by walking right into her kill zone.” The tone was heated, angry, that of a man who became easily stressed when operations did not go as clockwork. “She might have been a superstar with the Bureau,” the voice continued, “but the operational standards of the Company require a completely different mindset in order to achieve the means. Perhaps she would be more suited to work stateside as a consultant.”
On the main screen, which was lime green, everyone could see that Shari was giving chase through the warrens attempting to close the gap.
“You received the photos she took?” Jacoby asked.
The image of the male superintendent that was on the wall behind Jacoby as a part of a grid of several witnessing principals that skyped and faced the main screen, said, “We did.”
“And Langley?”
“All the files were sent to them as well.”
Jacoby pointed to the main monitor, “You see her running after the target, don’t you?”
“Don’t play her up,” the principal said. “A seasoned operative would have put three bullets into Ali before he had a moment to register what had happened to him. She was there. She had the opportunity. And now Ali is galvanizing his troops because of her inability to execute a man who deserves to be killed.”
Onscreen, Shari was running with a sprinter’s speed through feebly lit hallways.
Ahead, Ahmed Ali, as he took the twists and bends before she could get off a shot, kept shouting to awaken the bees’ nest.
“If she dies,” said the principal, “it’s because she deserved it.”
Jacoby couldn’t deny the fact that Shari Cohen’s inability to kill the man was also the cause that enabled Ali to get away and to alert his troops. The mission had been compromised, at least in part. The documents she managed to record had been sent to the analysts. So whatever secrets Ali had with Hassad, they would be secrets no longer.
But as Ali’s minions rose from the darkest areas of the tunnel to converge on their targets, with many against a few, he agreed with the principal that Shari’s inaction would most likely cost her her life.
What Jacoby didn’t bank on, however, what none of the principals had banked on, was the expertise of the Vatican Knights in battle situations. They were more than just men with pious souls who wore the cleric’s band of a Roman Catholic collar. They were an elite team of the world’s greatest warriors who were about to flex their muscles.
On the main screen, Shari’s world remained lime green as she followed Ahmed Ali deeper into the cave system.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Shari?” This was Kimball’s second try to contact her.
Shari hit her earbud. “Go.”
“My monitor indicates you’re quickly on the move deep inside the tunnel. Are you all right?”
“I had Ali within my sights, and I missed the opportunity to take him down. He’s on the run alerting his people.” As she continued to race through the warrens, she noticed additional crates that were marked w
ith lettering from Bulgaria and Romania, the two main suppliers of weaponry to the Islamic State. And then: “Kimball, this is a weapons’ depot—guns and Semtex are crated everywhere throughout these tunnels.”
“Most likely stockpiling for easier movement to vicinity sites once ISIS begins developing new territories,” he returned. And then: “Shari, we have the hostages. They’re safe and we need to vacate before Ali’s recruits begin to fan out. Forget Ali. There’ll be other opportunities.”
You don’t understand, she wanted to tell him. I’m operating under the microscopic eye of Langley. I’ve been thrown into a vat of heated contention to prove my worth which, to this point, has been an abysmal failure.
“Shari . . . running into the lion’s den is not advisable. You of all people know that.”
How would you know? she thought. You know nothing about me. I’m just a stranger to you. What you did know about me is gone, erased.
“Shari? Stop. Get to the extraction point before Ali’s team has a chance to regroup and retaliate. The element of surprise is gone.”
Shari slowed up and then she stopped, partially winded. Ali had only bested her because he knew the system, knew the territory. Raising her Glock to give it a long look, she realized that she had failed. Not only had she neglected to assassinate a reigning leader of the Islamic State, she had also jeopardized the lives of others by not pulling the trigger.
Letting her arm fall by her side with a sense of self-loathing, Shari realized that the Company played by a different set of rules that was not in tune with her moral compass. In the eyes of her principals, they would either look upon her failure as ‘learning by your mistakes,’ or ‘someone who could not be depended upon.’ She thought they would see her as the latter, since mistakes were often considered as unpardonable sins.
