by Joseph Nagle
Michael’s blood was white hot; he depressed the small talk button on the earpiece, and answered back, “Your mission failed.”
Without warning, the wind whipped up outside smacking the Northern Cedar Pine trees against the house. Michael looked up and was staring at a black and very quiet OH-58 Delta whose pilot was staring back. He recognized the Handler who now had a look of horror on his face. Michael stood up and pointed his weapon at the man and fired just as the Handler banked the helicopter.
The zip lines attached to both men flew back out of the window, “Oh, shit!” shouted Michael. He snapped off the quick release D-ring attached to Chris just as the line went taught but couldn’t get to the dead agent. Trevor’s body slammed mercilessly against the wall and was yanked forcibly out of the window.
Returning to Chris, Michael shoved his pistol deep into the bullet-hole in the man’s shoulder causing Chris to scream in agony. Michael’s instincts as an ex-Interrogator took over and demanded, “Why am I a target! I won’t fucking ask you again!” He shoved the pistol deeper into the opened flesh, Chris screamed louder. Sonia thought she was going to be sick.
“This is so much bigger than you know. We are everywhere.” Without warning Chris turned his head and bit down on the collar of his protective vest; Michael knew what he was doing but reacted too late.
Chris’s head flung violently backward from the powerful chemicals that he had just ingested; there was a suicide pill sewn into the collar. His body began to convulse, foam dripped from the corner of his mouth. He was dead in a matter of moments.
Michael jumped to his feet, grabbed the MP5, and raced passed Sonia and down the stairs. Oblivious to his current state of undress, he ran out of the front door and looked to the sky. He was able to catch a glimpse of the dead body still attached to the helicopter and swinging through the sky as a bolt of lightning lit the darkness. He chased after the helicopter firing the remaining bullets in the automatic weapon; of the stream of bullets, one shot expertly found its target and severed the power line to the thirty-five foot rotor instantly freezing its revolutions.
The Allison 250-C18 turbo shaft engine groaned as it tried without success to supply power to the immobile rotor. The Handler struggled with the controls as smoke filled the cockpit; he knew he was going down. The small observation helicopter plunged into the raging waters of the creek and landed on its side.
Michael sprinted to where the mangled aircraft had crashed. The waters were too deep and fast moving; he could only enter them to his knees. The lightning overhead worsened and lit the sky with intertwining streaks of power. Michael could see the wreckage with each sequence of growing electrical blasts. The pilot seat was empty.
On the opposite shore of the creek, the Handler struggled as he pulled himself up the muddy bank. Rolling over, he saw Michael; the two men stared at each other. Michael’s chest was heaving more from rage than from exhaustion; this man had tried to kill his wife. He pointed the weapon and fired. Nothing, the weapon was empty.
Looking intensely at the Handler he screamed into the microphone of the earpiece, “Why!”
The Handler said nothing.
“Tell me why! Why are you doing this to me?”
The Handler’s left arm had been broken and with some difficulty he slowly pulled out from his jacket pocket a second RT-FMU remote wireless detonator with his right hand.
“Oh, shit!” Michael recognized the device and immediately spun around and sprinted up the deep muddy banks. He fell to his knees on the slippery slopes and dug his fingers deep into the moist ground to find any traction that he could.
The helicopter exploded sending large pieces of shrapnel in every imaginable direction. The fireball illuminated the night sky as if it were daybreak. At the moment of the explosion, Michael had thrown himself behind a large blue spruce tree shielding him from the debris that whistled past him. After a moment, he looked around the tree and across the creek; through the blaze he could see that the bank was empty, the Handler was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Hotel Bramante
Rome, Italy
It took a moment for the assassin to become aware of the ringing cell phone; he was just waking up from a night of well rested, deep sleep. His body yelled for a few more hours of the bliss. His hands and forearms ached from the work that he put them through. Sitting up on the thin mattress of the hotel bed and massaging his arms he looked over at his prey, a small wave of satisfaction glazed hot over him.
He grabbed for his coat and reached into the inside pocket extricating the still ringing phone, flipping it open he answered, “Yes?”
“My son, how good it is to here your voice. Tell me, how are you?”
Eyeing his prize hanging from the hooks on the wall the assassin answered, “Much better, the night went well.”
“Good, I am glad to here that,” the Messenger wasted little time and went straight to the reason for his call. “Attached to the underside of the table next to the bed, you will find your package. Familiarize yourself with its contents, please handle it carefully. Your instructions are to carry out the assignment tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. local time. That is approximately twenty-four hours from now; inside of the envelope you will find instructions on where to go next. Do you have any questions?”
“No, I have none.”
“I must remind you that your mission is critical to our goal, you must not fail. The Pope has to die; we must have returned to us what rightfully belongs to Islam. Your path is a dangerous one, are you ready?”
“This is what I was born for; I am Muslim and have submitted to God. I will die for Islam, for Allah. I will not fail. The apostates have harmed our people long enough. I will kill him even if I must give my life doing so.”
The Messenger knew the assassin was telling the truth and felt a moment of sorrow knowing that, no matter the outcome, this mission would be his last, “Do not fail me, and do not fail Allah. Go and offer a Salat, ask to be shown the correct path and then follow it. Go with Allah.”
The Assassin was ready and replied, “I will not fail.”
“Tomorrow at 8:00 a.m., follow the instructions,” The line went dead.
The assassin reached under the table next to the bed and pulled the large manila envelope that had been taped there. Ripping it open, the envelope contained three items, a thick silver ball point pen, his instructions, and a hand written note from the Messenger:
“Brother, from the day we first met I knew that you were destined to serve Allah. At life’s end, you will be remembered by every Muslim as a great man. When you enter Paradise it will be as a martyr, there is no greater proposition.
For centuries our Islamic brothers have been held captive in their own lands, the slaves of infidels. Zion has infiltrated the hearts of many men; it is our duty to rid the world of these sinners for it is written. It is time that their kingdom comes to an end, once and for all. Greatness will come to Islam as the Prophet Mohammed predicted. Take great care in your task and remain focused.
May Allah be your guide.”
The assassin knew exactly what he was holding; it was one of many unique killing devices the Messenger had taught him about. Using it correctly would kill the Pope instantly. He delicately caressed the glistening pen. The thoughts of the dying Pope, convulsing at his feet and frozen in fear at death’s gate forced a trickle of sweat at the nape of his neck. He couldn’t wait the required time; thoughts of killing had already entered his mind once more.
Allah must have felt his desire; there was a knock at his hotel door, “Mr. Hami?”
He heard the pseudonym he had used when checking in and rose to his feet. He approached the sound coming through the thick door and waited. The knock came once more; this time the voice was louder, “Mr. Hami, I am Signor Giancarlo, owner of the hotel. Are you there?”
The assassin opened the door; Giancarlo stared wide eyed over the shoulder of the assassin and at the body of his nephew hung on the wall. He could not scr
eam for him, the assassin already had him by the throat.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Home of Giancarlo
Rome, Italy
Signor Giancarlo had been away for more than two hours and his wife was worried. There was no word from Benito, or from her husband. She had tried calling the hotel to no avail, “Where could that man and that boy possibly be?” Paranoia was in her feeble voice. Their nephew, Benito, was missing and now him. She picked up the phone and dialed the Vigili Urbani, the local police.
After the call she hurried as quick as she could to the hotel where she was surprised by the numerous powder blue and white Alfa Romeo, model 159 police cars that lined the streets: all had their blue lights circling. A crowd had gathered near the hotel. Fear enveloped her as she thought of the worst.
She pushed her way through the throngs of curious onlookers, tears already falling down her face. Her intuition told her that nothing good would come of this. At the main entrance, two very large men stood guard. Wearing bullet-proof vests over their blue shirts, the white-sashed Carabinieri presented an ominous image. The military arm of the Polizia wouldn’t have been at the hotel unless a serious crime had occurred.
She had made it to the door when both Carabinieri lifted their automatic rifles out of instinct stopping her from entering.
“Signora, I cannot let you go in there.”
“This is my hotel! My husband and nephew are inside, what happened? Where are they?”
Her questions had grown into shouts, she was frantic. The two armed men looked at each other knowing that Signora Giancarlo was about to receive the horrific news that both men had been savagely murdered. Nearby, Detective Alberto Dante overheard the commotion and, to the relief of the two Carabinieri, intervened.
“Signora, please come with me,” the Detective put his arm gently around her and quickly took her inside the hotel. “Please, take a seat.”
She sat only looking at the detective; no words could come to her lips. Deep inside she knew what the detective was going to say; it would be something horrible, every shred of her being told her that her husband and nephew were dead.
“Signora,”
“Please, my name is Claretta,” she wanted her name to be known, and not to simply be the wife of a victim.
“Of course, forgive me.” Detective Dante knelt next to her and touched her shoulder, “Claretta, there is no easy way for me to tell you this,” the Detective paused for a moment, watching as she sunk further into the chair, “Both men have been killed; your husband and nephew have been murdered.”
Outside of the hotel the two hardened Carabinieri flinched at the loud wail that suddenly pierced the air. Both men looked at one another knowingly: she had been told.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Returning Home
Denver, CO
The front-room of Michael’s home was on the first floor of the three-level townhome. From the front window that overlooked Cherry Creek, the glow from the front-room’s light drifted slightly through the drawn, thick wooden slat shades. A small table lamp, next to which sat Sonia, was barely able to light one corner of the vaulted room but was enough to clearly demarcate the fear and confusion worn on her face.
Barely five minutes had passed since two men had crashed through her third floor bedroom window, one of which had killed himself with poison, and the other, still attached to a rope, she had shot dead before he was yanked out of the broken window by a silent black helicopter that had seemingly materialized from out of nowhere.
During that time she had done the opposite of what she was sworn to do. A man’s life was not saved but extinguished by her choice. Having broken her Hippocratic Oath, she had also learned that her husband was not the man she knew; he was a government agent for the CIA. At her chest, she closely cradled the MP5 urban assault rifle and was afraid of every creak and groan from the wind-whipped house that seemed to amplify around her. She rocked slightly, and let out an occasional whimper. Her face was void of any semblance of comfort.
Her mind drifted to the dead man laying upstairs in her bedroom. The man had said that Michael killed the Ayatollah of Iran, and that he was in the attack in Syria that was all over the news. A war was being threatened because of the assassination. Her Michael, the one that she knew, would never have done such a horrific thing; this man was not her husband. But who is he then? The question circulated in her thoughts as if they were stuck in a revolving door.
Outside, the thunder and lightning was increasing in magnitude and frequency, Sonia stood and walked to the window overlooking the creek. Spreading apart the horizontal, wooden slats of the shades, she strained her eyes looking for Michael, but saw only the outline of the century old evergreens and blue spruce trees.
Staring intently, her concerned gaze was met with a brilliant unannounced flash followed by the sound of a massive explosion. Throwing up her free arm to shield her eyes from the brightness she saw the enormous fireball rise from the flowing waters of the creek.
“Michael!” Sonia screamed for her husband and ran to the front door and scrambled outside. Looking toward the fire, she shouted, “Michael! MICHAEL! God damn it, answer me!”
The fear that her husband was gone forced Sonia to her knees. She wanted to run to the explosion, to find him, but all of her strength was gone. Sonia could not move, her body feeling exponentially heavier; she was frozen to her front yard. Her body simply gave away any remaining strength as she fell to the earth hunched over in uncontrollable sobs, “Michael.”
Then she heard him, “Sonia! Are you okay? Sonia!”
She raised her head and saw her naked husband, covered in mud, running to her, “Oh, thank God,” she whispered.
He ran to her side with his hand extended and helped her up, “What’s wrong, are you alright?”
She slowly pushed herself away from him her chin sinking toward her chest. She stood breathless for a moment and without lifting her gaze said, “The explosion, I thought you were dead.” Sonia looked at her husband, and asked, “Who are you?”
Michael had hoped that this day would never come. They had warned him to avoid it, but here it was.
“It’s me, Sonia; I am the same man that you have always known.”
Before he could finish another sentence, Sonia slapped him so hard that he faltered backward a step. She screamed, “The same man! You think that you are the same man! You have got to be kidding; I have no idea who you are! You have lied to me the entire time I have known you!” She slapped him again.
Holding his cheek he looked ashamed, “Sonia, wait. You don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand, what is there to understand? You have told me that you work for an aerospace firm, in their treasury department. That was a lie. You told me that you are a finance professional, which was a lie. Every time you go on a business trip you lie about why and where you are going. You weren’t hit by a car in San Francisco were you?”
He shook his head no.
“Do you even have your MBA?”
Michael felt like he had been caught cheating on his wife, “No, I have a PhD.”
Sonia just stood there in complete disbelief and stammered, “You are a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“In what?”
“Middle Eastern and Religious Studies.”
Sonia paused before saying, “You have got to be fucking kidding me, Michael! Just like your Dad? I can’t believe this. Does he know about you?”
“Yes, he does but he didn’t agree with my choice. We have had problems for years and that is why we have been estranged. Listen to me please. Sonia, you have to believe me when I say that I have always wanted you to know, but I was advised not to tell you, it was for your protection.”
“For my protection? Why would I need to be protected,” Sonia stopped for a moment and thought of what had just happened, “Michael, have I ever been in danger before?”
In the distance the sound of sirens could be heard as the police and
fire department were racing to the site of the explosion. Michael looked around and could see that many of his neighbor’s lights were coming on. Standing outside covered in mud and without clothes on wasn’t his first fear. Michael was facing every married man’s nightmare: the wrath of a woman scorned.
“Sonia, we have to get inside. I am naked and our neighbors are awake.” He grabbed her arm to lead her inside but she instantly snatched it away.
“Don’t you touch me you son-of-a-bitch!”
“Sonia! I know you are upset and confused but this isn’t the time or place to go through this. You are standing in front of an armed and naked, mud covered man while holding a machine gun, and our house has a dead man upstairs. We have to get inside now!”
There was something about Michael’s tone that forced her to comply without resistance. She sensed the need to be obedient.
The two were inside their home and Michael had taken control, “Sonia, get into the car. Do it now!”
“What? Why, where are we going?”
“We have to get out of here, its no longer safe for us, they will come back.”
“What do you mean “they,” who the hell are you talking about, what’s going on, Michael?”
“Listen, I will explain everything, just get into the car, take nothing and leave the weapon.”
Sonia somehow knew that she had to comply with her husband. She had never seen him like this; his orders spat out of him like a machine, his actions became robotic. She put down the MP5 and walked to their garage. A few minutes later Michael jumped in the car, his hair was wet and his body clean. He had taken a quick shower to get rid of the mud and thrown on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
He said nothing as they sped away from their home.
“Michael, you didn’t answer my question.”
“Which one was that?”
“Have I ever been in danger before?”
Michael thought of the man whose life he had so angrily taken at the hospital. He could see the syringe of toxin that he had stuck into his chest. He felt the anger that he had felt then. He cringed and gripped the steering wheel harder. It was time to stop lying to her.
