by Jones, Rick
The only thing that sounded thereafter was the constant and amplified dripping of rancid water from aged pipes.
Hunkering in the shadows, the Vatican Knights centered their attention to the makeshift room. There was no doubt they had found the holding pen. The problem was they could not fire their weapons at the sentries in fear that an errant bullet might miss its intended mark and pierce the wall, possibly killing a child.
And because engagement was to be had, they would have to do so in close combat.
Isaiah made a quick hand gesture that was understood by his team that he was going to move in from the left, and did so by staying within the deep-seated shadows. When he got to the side of the tin shed, he laid his MP-5 against the wall, and quietly withdrew his commando knife.
The terrorists were less than fifteen feet away, less than a two-second closing distance between them.
In an instant Isaiah was upon them, the element of surprise working in his favor as he came across in a fluid sweep and slit the throat of the closest terrorist, opening a wound that grimaced like a horrible second mouth. The second terrorist responded quickly by raising his weapon. And in doing so Isaiah responded by coming across with a roundhouse kick and knocked the weapon from the man’s grasp.
The terrorist backpedalled and withdrew his own knife, its point wickedly keen and the polish of its blade holding a mirror finish. On the floor his comrade went into convulsions as blood flowed as freely as a fount from the ruin of his throat, the man choking of his own terrible wetness.
Isaiah moved closer, the point of his weapon directed for an upward strike. His opponent held the knife in a grasp to ward off the blow, which told Isaiah that this man was no novice. He was obviously a professional whose talents went beyond the sophomoric teachings provided in an al-Qaeda camp. He was not proven wrong when he attempted to strike a blow, which was easily defended.
The men circled each other in study, their knives poised to kill.
And then they converged.
Isaiah came across in a series of quick strikes; the terrorist countering with strikes of his own as each man warded off deadly blows with fluid effort. With uncanny skill Isaiah’s motions became quicker, his circular motions repelling blows that seemed to come faster and with far more brutal force. But within a minute he had gained the edge over the terrorist and drove him back as their strikes continued to the point where their arms moved in blinding revolutions.
When the terrorist came across in a high-arcing sweep, Isaiah ducked and came up with point of his knife, penetrated the flesh beneath the lowest rib, and drove the tip upward, piercing the heart for a quick and merciful kill.
As the terrorist lay there with his eyes at half mast and showing nothing but white, the cherub began to sing and filled the air with a wonderful sound of sweetness.
#
Al–Rashad had seen it all from a distance.
He found the bodies in the north-side entryway; the three men shot dead, two as they sat playing Tarneeb. From that point he moved with stealth, the barrel of his Glock appearing impossibly long with its attached suppressor until the holding pen came within sight.
From the first-floor level he watched one man quickly take out two of his best. But barring the quick kill of al-Abbas, al-Ghafur was not an easy takedown; his weaponry skills in double-edged combat at one time made him the best in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. His opponent, however, took him out in less than sixty seconds.
What made the entire situation odd—at least in al-Rashad’s mind—was the total lack of an invasion from a complete assault team. This guy was mercenary.
But who sent him?
And could one man alone take out a faction of five?
Believing this not to be the case, al-Rashad explored the shadows from afar. But he could not see anyone else. Although he knew they were there, somewhere, and watching very closely.
Slowly, with the cover and aid of rusted machines that hadn’t worked for more than half a century, al-Rashad moved from one unit to the next, hunkering low, then hiding, pin-balling from one useless machine to another, as he retreated from the area.
But as stealthy as al-Rashad was he did not go undetected.
From the shadows on the second tier he was clearly seen. And when al-Rashad departed the vicinity for the safe haven of an adjoining building, Leviticus was not too far behind.
#
Vittoria Pastore cradled her youngest daughter who sang an old nursery rhyme, her voice as sweet as an angel.
Enclosed in absolute darkness they were not oblivious to sound. Beyond the walls they could hear the clashing of metal striking metal, which was soon followed by a quick bark of pain that was followed by silence that was terrifyingly whole. And in the wake of that silence her daughter sang to dispel the horrors beyond the door—the singing, in effect, a placebo that made their fears tolerable.
In Vittoria’s hand—the hand not cradling her child—she gripped Basilio’s shirt with such intensity the fabric bled between the gaps of her fingers. And now he was gone, her Basilio, her son. And they would be next. She knew this. So despite the guard’s requests of desistence, she allowed her baby to sing.
When the lock on the door began to rattle, she pulled her daughters close.
The singing never stopped.
When the door opened a feeble wash of light filtered into the room. And she could see a man in uniform standing silhouetted within the doorway against an illuminated backdrop.
“Ms. Pastore?” The voice was calm and benevolent, the quality of his tone passive. “Are you all right?”
She pulled the children tighter when the man came forward.
“I’m Isaiah,” he said kindly. “We were sent by the Vatican.”
When he stepped into the moderate lighting she could see the fresh-scrubbed look of a young and handsome man, which was far from the bearded and unkempt look of her captors. “I think . . . they killed my boy,” she told him, proffering Isaiah her son’s shirt.
When he took it he saw the dried blood. “Ms. Pastore, do you know how many people took you? How many people are involved here?”
For a moment she appeared lost, her eyes glazing over and going distant until, “Six,” she whispered, and then she leaned over and kissed the blond crown of her youngest daughter before turning back to Isaiah, the faraway cast in her eyes completely gone. “I saw six. But there could be more.”
They had neutralized five, leaving one.
“Will you please find my Basilio?” she asked him, her voice cracking. “He’s a very good boy.”
“Of course,” he said gently. In recompense he returned to her Basilio’s shirt, which might be the only thing left of him. “We’ll try our best.”
She took the shirt, brought it to her face, and wept. No longer could she hold back the tears and be strong for her daughters who now joined in, each sobbing and crying, the terror yet to go away.
And though they were safe, Isaiah knew a long period of catharsis was sure to follow.
And this was their beginning.
Poking his head through the doorway, Jonah spoke in a hushed tone. “Isaiah, Leviticus isn’t at his post.”
“There’s another one out there,” he informed him. “My guess is that he’s backtracking to see if we were being flanked or followed.”
In other words, the man was on the hunt.
#
When al-Rashad opened the door to Basilio’s locker hold, the boy spilled out and tumbled down the low mound of rubble it was situated on.
The boy appeared red, almost scarlet, his flesh warm to the touch. “Get up, boy. You’re not dead yet.”
Basilio smacked his dry lips, the lower lip crusted with blood. “Water . . .”
“You want water? I’ll tell you what; I’ll piss down your throat if you don’t get up within the next two seconds. How’s that for water?”
Basilio rolled his eyes. The boy was really out of it. And although al-Rashad needed him for leverage, he did
n’t want to be burdened with dead weight either.
“I’m going to count to five, kid, and that’s it. If you don’t get up,” al-Rashad pointed his Glock at Basilio’s head, “then I will shoot you dead. One . . . Two . . .”
Basilio made a valiant effort, which showed al-Rashad the boy was at least cognizant enough to understand directions, but failed mightily in his attempt to get to his feet.
“Three . . .”
Basilio began to whimper, yet it sounded more primal than the whine of a fifteen-year-old boy. It was the cry of self-preservation.
“Four . . .”
Suddenly al-Rashad’s vision exploded in a nebulas cloud of brilliant whiteness. When his mind cleared he found himself on the ground with a man looming over him with the mouth of his MP-5 directed at his forehead. “Are there any more?” he asked.
“Any more what?”
Leviticus pressed the barrel against al-Rashad’s cheek, indenting the flesh. “How many in your team?”
Al-Rashad smiled, showing the lines of his teeth. “Millions,” he said. “In the army of Allah, there are millions.”
Leviticus repositioned the barrel from the man’s cheek to the center of his forehead.
“You think shifting your weapon from one side of my face to the other is going to make a difference?”
“How many?”
“I’ve told you.” And then the big man cocked his head, noting the Roman Catholic collar that was starch white, even in the quasi-darkness, and the striking Silver Pattée and flanking lions that stood out on his body armor akin to the S on superman’s chest. “Who are you?”
“How many? I won’t ask again.”
In the rubble Basilio moved, which prompted Leviticus to quickly shift his eyes away from al-Rashad and to the boy. The action, however, proved costly as the downed Arab came across with his leg and cut Leviticus right out from under his stance, the MP-5 going airborne.
By the time Leviticus got to his feet al-Rashad was already up with postured hands and feet in Tae Kwon Do fashion. Besides being immensely large, the man was quick.
Circling slowly around his opponent, Leviticus remained ready as he silently condemned himself for making a sophomoric mistake. Taking his eyes of his opponent was a fundamental error which could have cost him his life, and may still.
Holding his hands in a style al-Rashad did not recognize only made the man of simian appearance bolder. “And what do you call that position?” he taunted. “You hold yourself like a little girl.”
Leviticus did not respond.
Between them lay the MP-5. But this time Leviticus was not about to shift his gaze. His lesson duly learned.
“Are you a priest?”
More silence as al-Rashad goaded him.
“And that emblem on your chest . . .”
Leviticus stood rooted, waiting, hands and feet ready.
And then the Arab lunged forward, his massive hands striking and cutting in an attempt to kill. But Leviticus’s unorthodox style made it easy for him to defend against the larger man’s blows as they glanced off him with little effect, further enraging al-Rashad.
In a savage scream the Arab came across with his hand, missing, then cut back, hitting nothing but open air. And then he came across and sliced at him with an open elbow, missing, kicked out with his leg, the move easily defended and the leg pushed aside, throwing the larger man off balance and forcing him to reconnoiter his position.
For the moment both men took a recess as they studied each other.
Whereas al-Rashad appeared winded, the Vatican Knight seemed hardly effected. Worse, his opponent looked as if he was simply toying with him.
“I was the best in my class in martial arts,” he told Leviticus as he sucked in air. “So you don’t stand a chance.”
“A four-year-old girl could kick your ass.”
The Arab’s eyes immediately flared in the same flash of moment that his simian brow took on the furrowed lines of someone becoming highly agitated. In uncontested rage he went after Leviticus with blows far deadlier than his initial assault, the blade of his hands coming across, then down, forcing the Vatican Knight to backpedal and retreat. When he drove Leviticus against a concrete pillar, the Arab came around with a perfect roundhouse kick and drove the flat of his foot against a support, the impact cracking the column and giving it a slight dog-bend appearance. But Leviticus ducked and maneuvered out of the way—a man toying with a child, then stood aside.
Al-Rashad turned with his chest heaving and pitching, the veins in his arms and neck sticking out like cords, his face scarlet red.
And Leviticus realized the man would never quit.
Al-Rashad came forward, slowly, with his hands balled into lethal fists. “This time,” he said. “I will kill you.”
Leviticus shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. And then: “It’s now . . . my turn.” With that he launched himself against the much larger man by raining blows that were impossible to defend against, the motions quick, damaging, one hand following the other, strike after strike connecting, hurting, driving a fount of blood from the big man’s nose, al-Rashad falling back, stumbling, his hands flailing wildly about in a futile attempt to defend himself, failing. And then Leviticus took flight, defied gravity, his vertical leap taking him higher than mere mortals could comprehend, and then came across in a blinding revolution that connected with the man’s simian jaw, the force snapping al-Rashad’s neck.
Within moments the Arab was no more.
After grabbing his MP-5, he went to aid of Basilio who was able to prop himself up on an elbow. “How are you, son?”
“Water . . .”
Leviticus smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you what you need.”
The boy was going to be all right.
#
For the past hour Hakam was unable to reach al-Rashad or any member of his team, which disturbed him greatly. The Perugia laptop was to be manned at all times, no excuses, which led Hakam to believe the old munitions depot had been compromised. And if that was the case, then his leverage over the pilot was gone.
Hakam slowly lowered the screen of his laptop. “Your family is doing well,” he lied. “And so that you know, it has been agreed by the principals that their death would serve us no purpose. If you do not allow your conscience to run interference in regard to the pope, and if you continue to follow through with my wishes, then your family will be freed.”
Enzio did not believe him as he gave Hakam a hard, sidelong glance.
“There’s something you wish to ask me?” said Hakam.
Enzio nodded. “What guarantees can you give me that my family will be safe?”
“They have not seen the faces of those who took them. Nor do they know where they are. Once the United States meets my demand, then your family will be returned unharmed.”
“And if the Americans do not follow through?”
“Then the United States will suffer the consequences.”
Enzio was clearly guarded. So he proposed a question served to determine Hakam’s truthfulness. Depending how Hakam answered would help him decide whether or not the Arab was sincere. The answer would surprise him. “Am I going to die?”
Hakam did not hesitate. “Yes . . . You and everybody else aboard this plane.”
If Hakam had said no, then Enzio would have cast him off as a liar, realizing the Arab was simply telling him what he wanted to hear. But this was not the case. Maybe his family had a chance after all.
“As it now stands,” said Hakam, “your children will grow old and have children of their own. And your wife will be the doting grandmother. Should you deviate from anything I tell you to do, then your entire lineage will be destroyed by the time the sun rises over Italy.” Hakam slowly got to his feet, feeling secure that his truths and untruths weaved an uncertainty within the pilot. And then he punched his point home. “The life of your family for your loyalty, that’s all I ask for.”
Enzio tu
rned back to view the open sky, the micro expressions on his face telling Hakam that he was warring with himself and losing.
“Do I have your loyalty?”
Enzio nodded. When it came to surrendering moral fortitude for the lives of his family, he saw no other alternative. “And what exactly are you asking from me?”
Hakam felt overwhelming shame. As much as he prayed and pled his case to Allah, his courage escaped him. So he had to place his faith in a most unlikely ally. “Within the hour, the Americans will inform me on whether or not they have followed through with my demand. If they have, then they will plead for more time so they can follow through with additional plans. And I will grant them three hours, and no more. At the end of the third hour you will redirect Shepherd One over the center of the city and take her down to ten thousand feet. Is that clear, Captain Pastore—to ten thousand feet? If you fail to do that under any circumstances, then my people holding your family have been ordered to take their lives and place their heads along the sidewalk in front of the Polizia De Stato as I promised you earlier.”
Enzio felt highly vulnerable. Hakam had played him well. “And I have your promise that my family will be fine?”
Hakam placed the flat of his hand on the laptop. “You have my solemn word,” he lied. And then he left the cockpit.
#
Imelda Rokach had no idea she was being targeted for assassination. Nor did she realize that her death would serve two purposes for the president of the United States, a man whom she had never met. One, she would become the mechanism to deactivate a nuclear weapon, if Hakam was to honor his word. Two, her death would give the president much needed time to re-explore his position regarding the four additional targets—perhaps as much as five hours, which was ample time to evacuate Los Angeles.
It was amazing how a single person became the unwitting key to the salvation of tens of thousands in a city across the country. But in the business she was in, getting blindsided was the norm, even by her allies.
