The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  Michael looked up at his father. He reached over and flipped the pages of the book to the last page of the section titled “Morto.”

  It only took his father a moment to find the name “Joseph Apalis Reisenberger.”

  “Michael, you can’t let this happen.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Going Home

  Denver, CO

  Michael’s home was only ten minutes from Denver University’s campus and his father’s office. There was so much to digest, but it was the Pope that he was most worried about. The Order could kill him and put in his place a Pope of their own, a Papal figurehead controlled by them. The Vatican wouldn’t hand over their wealth, they wouldn’t need to; The Order would just do what they have always done: assassinate him, and put in a leader that they control.

  Adding to Michael’s troubles, Iran had declared war and was demanding that the US hand over the man responsible. Iran wanted him and they had promised war if the US didn’t comply. His worries were compounded by this; he trusted that the US would not hand him over to Iran. At least, that’s what he told himself. If the Pope were assassinated, his death would be viewed no different than if it had been judgment from the ancient Laws of Hammurabi: The Pope's death would be seen as an “eye for an eye.” He didn’t have to be an expert in the Middle East to know what would happen next: World War III.

  Breaking from his thoughts, the headlights in the rearview mirror bothered him. They seemed to be the same ones no matter which turn he made. His instincts and training kicked in, Michael accelerated the car from thirty-five to seventy, and two blocks later he made a quick right into a known dead end.

  Michael stopped the car, killed the lights, and stared intently into his mirror. Nobody followed him in. He waited another ten minutes and then drove on thinking that he must be paranoid.

  He pulled his car into his garage, his excitement growing to finally be at home with his wife. He had to hide his distracted state. Looking into the rearview mirror he said, “You are Michael Sterling, you work for an aerospace firm, you have an MBA, you are a corporate finance guy.” He repeated the mantra a second time.

  From inside their house, Sonia heard the door open that led from the garage and into the home. She put down her current favorite book The Time Traveler’s Wife. Smiling widely she ran to greet him.

  “Michael!” She jumped into his arms and he wrapped her in a tight bear hug.

  He needed to feel her as close to his body as possible, he consumed her smell, and remembered the feel of her jet black hair on his face and her strong sinewy arms wrapped around him. Her heart beat through her shirt pounding against his chest. They kissed, deeper than normal.

  Whispering into her ear he told her, “I missed you more than you can imagine, Sonia,” and then he squeezed her just a bit tighter.

  Releasing her, he put her down and Sonia stepped back from him a bit. She had not yet soaked in his appearance and became shocked at the way he looked. She said, “My God, Michael, your face, your clothes! What happened to you?” Her hand was reaching out to touch the wound on his cheek.

  And so begins the rehearsed story.

  “Don’t worry; it looks worse than it feels. I was on my way to the airport. I jumped out into the intersection at Pine and California, you know the one. Remember our trip to San Francisco? It was where we jumped on the trolley in the financial district; I was trying to get to a cab that stopped for me. Like an idiot, I wasn’t paying attention and I walked right out in front of a car that was turning the corner. I took a pretty good spill, but, obviously, lived to talk about it.”

  “Oh my God, Michael, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You would have just worried too much and I didn’t want you to.”

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “Yeah, I banged up my right leg a bit, some bumps and bruises, a couple small cuts but that’s it, nothing that won’t heal quickly.”

  Sonia moved closer to Michael, “You poor baby, I guess I am going to have to give you some extra special attention after dinner. I have just the medicine that you need, trust me, I am a doctor.” She had that look in her eye.

  Sonia pressed her body tightly onto Michael’s, grinding strategically against his. Instantly he became aroused, she smiled at this. “Relax big boy, after dinner you will get your medicine,” then she put her had over her nose, gave Michael the international signal for you stink, and then commanded, “but please take a shower first, you smell like you lost your lunch.”

  Michael blushed, “That’s not the worst part.”

  “Really, what was?”

  “The cops gave me a $120 ticket for jaywalking; the accident apparently was my fault.” Michael reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a San Francisco Police Department citation for jaywalking. It was given to him before he left Skunk Works; it was part of his CIA issued cover story.

  Sonia laughed and pushed him toward the shower, “Only you would get hit by a car and then get ticketed for it.”

  Dinner went quickly and was well received, Sonia prepared extra-virgin, olive oil seared, vegetarian tofu fillets seasoned with pesto sauce and grilled pine nuts; they were topped with fresh basil leaf that she had plucked from their small front yard garden. His first real meal in many hours, he was famished and nearly swallowed the cutlets whole. She had served the entrée along with the chilled Yellow Tail; the first sip was really satisfying, the second glass was beyond enjoyment.

  Their conversation flowed freely, Sonia had told him about her long and trying day, “Can you believe someone would try to kill their own kid?”

  “No, it is really hard to fathom. So, she was feeding her Comet, huh?”

  “Yeah, she was trying to quietly kill her, almost as if she wanted to influence the way the poor little thing lived her life.”

  His plate was cleaned of every morsel and his wine glass empty. “What do you say we change the subject and our location?”

  Sonia smiled.

  The husband and wife lay in their bed; she was on her side and with her back to him. The silhouette of Sonia’s naked body was outlined by the glow cast from the streetlight through the bedroom’s large bay window. He traced the line of her lean curves with his index finger; she stirred slightly, her lips bending into a smile.

  Turning to him, Sonia put her hand on Michael’s chest, “Are you ready for more so soon?”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep. I was just looking at you and thinking about how much I missed you while I was away.”

  “I missed you too, Michael. I hate it so much when you have to leave for business. Isn’t there anyway you could just send one of your employees next time?” At that moment he decided that he would wait until morning before telling her that he had to leave again.

  Sonia yawned; she was worn out from her day at the clinic and from the last two hours of reacquainting with her husband.

  “You are tired, go back to sleep.” Michael leaned in and gave his wife a tender kiss and caressed her shoulder; she turned over and fell back asleep almost immediately. He marveled at her ability to do so wishing he had that same skill right now.

  Lying in bed, Michael stared at the vaulted, textured ceiling unable to find any palpable calm. Huffing in frustration, he sat up and kicked his legs over the edge of their solid-wood, four poster bed. Outside, the night was as black as a briquette of charcoal, broken only by the small halo that surrounded the lone street light and by the occasional streak of lightning. The wind oscillated between forceful swirls and calm; the sound of sporadic thunder lingered lazily overhead.

  “Package 1, this is Mailman, do you copy?”

  “Mailman, I have you in my sights, are you ready to pickup two packages for delivery?”

  Chris was looking skyward and through the third generation AN/PVS-14 monocular night vision device that was positioned over his right eye. He could see the silenced, black OH-58 Delta hovering two-hundred feet overhead but heard nothing except for wind and the occasional thunde
r.

  “Mailman, watch the treetops, they are whipping a bit from the rotor wash.”

  “Got it; will climb another hundred feet. That should help.”

  The Handler pulled up slightly on the collective pitch control and instantly raised the black, silent helicopter higher.

  “How’s that, Package 1?”

  Before he could answer his Handler, Chris heard three quick bouts of static in his earpiece, the Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) to warn team when danger is nearby. The Handler heard the signal, too. Chris lowered his gaze to the hasty perimeter now being guarded by Trevor. Scanning, he soon found his partner squatting near a thick white Aspen that had been split by lightning from a previous storm.

  Trevor looked back at Chris and pointed his first two fingers at his own eyes, and then held up his index finger indicating that he sees one unknown person approaching. He then pointed in the direction of the danger.

  Chris looked that way and soon found the lone man walking toward them. He signaled for Trevor to stay put and then stealthily flanked the man.

  Walking into Chris’s line of fire, the transient didn’t see the CIA Operative who was dressed completely in black and was aiming a silenced MP5-SD 9mm German made submachine gun at his temple. The single shot came unannounced and the homeless man fell dead having never known his life had been in danger.

  “Package 2, this is 1, it was a bum. He won’t be a problem. Regroup at launch point. Mailman, both packages are ready for pickup.”

  Inside of the Helicopter, the Handler worked its controls and expertly positioned the chopper above the treetops and over the creek. With his free hand, he controlled the winch that lowered two separate zip lines each with a quick release D-Ring. Through the trees, the zip lines were grabbed by both Trevor and Chris. The two agents attached themselves to the nylon ropes.

  “Packages ready for delivery.”

  Without warning, the two men were lifted quickly from the ground. The Handler issued his orders, “Blow the communication lines. Prepare for delivery.”

  Trevor reached to the left side of his Kevlar vest, attached to it was an RT-FMU (Remote Transmitter) wireless detonation device. He pressed its only button.

  Michael was staring out of the window when the street light went out along with the power feeding his bedside digital alarm clock. The sudden loss of power didn’t cause him any concern, Denver storms often cause the electricity to go out. He continued to stare ahead. His lack of concern changed when, looking out of the window, he saw two small flashes that were followed by two thuds on his window. A short bout of quiet thunder erupted in the distance.

  “Holy fuck!” He screamed, instinct taking over.

  “Shit! Chris, the target is looking out of the window; he is staring right at us!”

  The incendiary devices had just extinguished the street light and blown the communication and power lines to the house. The two-man assassination team tethered to the silent helicopter had each just fired small lumps of self detonating plastic from the M-203 grenade launcher affixed beneath the barrels of their MP5-SD’s. The two lumps adhered to Michael’s bedroom bay window. Once fired, the explosives would break through the thin plastic within which they are encased, and the oxygen from the air would create a chemical reaction igniting the explosives in three seconds.

  Chris and Trevor were swinging toward the window as the Handler gunned the helicopter forward using a technique that would catapult the roped agents faster toward the window.

  “Abort, abort! God damn it, he sees us, abort!”

  Chris’s screams were futile, it was too late. The small bombs on the window blew but only cracked the glass into neat spider web patterns; not shattering it as planned. Before moving into the home, Michael had one of his private contacts quietly replace all of the windows with polycarbonate resin thermoplastic. The Lexan bullet resistant windows were manufactured in a private facility in Burkville, Alabama and had been installed over night to avoid the prying eyes of any neighbors.

  “Fuck, the window didn’t blow. Open fire, Trevor, open fire!” Chris was frantic; they were heading toward the protective window at a high rate.

  Michael could see the multiple flashes from the silenced muzzles of the two weapons from the two agents swinging toward him followed by their bullets ricocheting off the window. Without haste, he launched himself backward on the bed and reached behind the solid wood headboard grabbing the pistol hidden in a hollowed out portion of the thick wood. Sonia jumped to a seated position and started to scream just as Michael spun toward her.

  With the weapon in his left hand, he wrapped his left arm around her, instinctively she grabbed on to him. With his right hand, he gripped on to the edge of the mattress and flung himself with his wife onto the floor. The mattress landed on top of them. The weakened window finally succumbed to the rain of bullets shattering inward amidst a stream of ricocheting ammunition.

  Sheet rock from the walls exploded around them mixed with shards of the Lexan glass. The debris rained upon the mattress that protected the naked husband and wife just as the agents crashed through what remained of the window. Michael flung himself to the left, and depressed the trigger of his weapon emptying the clip into the two attackers. The bullets easily found their marks and violently threw both attacking men backward.

  The room was deathly quiet.

  Jumping to his feet, Michael released the empty clip and quickly replaced it with the spare that was still in the hollowed out hole in the headboard. Carefully he eyed the two fallen men as he edged himself closer with his weapon aimed toward them, neither stirred.

  Dressed from head to toe in black camouflage, the two were wearing black balaclavas covered by black Kevlar helmets and goggles. He kicked away the two German made urban assault rifles. The man nearest to him was bleeding heavily from his left shoulder and the other showed no signs of life.

  The Handler was frantic and couldn’t retreat until the agents released themselves from the zip lines. He was screaming into his microphone to the two men, “Report, report! God damn it, report!” There was no reply.

  Michael could hear the noise coming from the man’s ear nearest to him; he grabbed the earpiece putting it in his own ear, and then reached down and felt for the man’s pulse. Without any cue, three dull-sounding shots whizzed over his shoulder, Michael dove for cover. Looking up he saw that the second man had a pistol in his hand, but was now clearly dead. He looked back at Sonia, she was standing behind him holding one of the MP5-SD’s uneasily in her hand. Smoke was coming from the silenced barrel.

  “Sonia!” He shouted at her. She didn’t move.

  “Sonia!” This time he shouted a bit louder. Slowly, she turned her eyes and met Michael’s.

  “Michael, why do you have a gun and why did two men wearing all black uniforms just jump through our window, shoot up our bedroom, and try to fucking kill us!”

  A voice that was not Michael’s answered, “Because he is an officer with the CIA and he just assassinated the Ayatollah of Iran.” Chris had regained consciousness.

  The force from the impact of Michael’s shots was absorbed by the protective Kevlar vest that Chris wore, and had only knocked him out. Their impact on the vest had cracked a number of his ribs making it difficult for him to breath; he was gasping in between his words. Two bullets had also perforated his shoulder and blown out through his back rendering his left side useless.

  “What is he talking about, Michael?” Sonia looked at her husband with innocent eyes, “What does he mean you are with the CIA?”

  Without answering, Michael jerked his attention back to the masked attacker; he ripped of his helmet and mask.

  Chris smiled at him, “It’s good to see you again, Michael. How was your flight in the Hornet?”

  “What the fuck! Chris?” Michael was stunned.

  Sonia recognized the man, too, “Oh, my God! Michael, he was here today! That man was here earlier, before you arrived home! He came to the door dressed as a cop, th
ere were two of them!”

  There were three Hornets. Michael instantly recalled what the Airman at Travis Air Force Base had said.

  Slowly, Michael turned his head back to the injured agent and drove an enraged gaze into the man’s eyes, “You fucking bastard!”

  He swung out and cracked Chris across the cheek with his weapon, “Why the fuck am I a target? Who issued the order?” Michael hit him again, Sonia winced no longer recognizing her husband, “Who issued the God damn order!”

  “Fuck you, Michael; is that the best that you’ve got!” shouted Chris.

  “Michael! What the hell is going on! What is he talking about! Is what he is saying true?” Sonia was crying, the weapon in her hand unsteadily shaking.

  With his gun buried into Chris’s temple he never took his eyes off the man and spoke to his wife, “Sonia, listen to me. Put the weapon down, nice and easy okay? Just set it on the floor and go put on some clothes.”

  Chris laughed again and coughed out, “You don’t have to on my account; I have already seen you naked remember, you’ve got good taste, Michael.”

  Sonia looked at Michael and then looked at the weapon in her hand. Realizing she was standing there naked didn’t embarrass her, it angered her. She walked to the injured laughing man, reeled back, and with a loud scream, hit him square in the forehead with the butt of the weapon. Stepping back she threw it onto what remained of the bed.

  So much for nice and easy, Michael thought.

  Chris was coughing harder, but still laughing at the same time, “Shit, that hurt! God damn, Michael, you’ve got a fiery one there!”

  The agent shouted toward Sonia, “He never told you, did he? Your good husband here has been with the CIA for, what has it been Michael, over fifteen-years. Remember that little altercation in Syria you saw on the news today? That was your man. He was right in the middle of it.”

  Michael ignored the agent, “Sonia, listen to me. I can explain all of this. Please, just go and get dressed just let me handle this first.”

  The inside of Michael’s ear buzzed, “Report! What’s happening? Report!” The earpiece came to life with orders.