by Rick Jones
CABAL
By
Rick Jones
© 2016 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]
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ALSO BY RICK JONES:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Bridge of Bones
Crosses to Bear
The Lost Cathedral
Dark Advent
Cabal
(Coming soon) The Golgotha Pursuit
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden
The Menagerie
The Thrones of Eden
Stand Alone Novels
Familiar Stranger
The Valley (Severed Press)
Mausoleum 2069 (Severed Press)
The HUNTER Series
Night of the Hunter
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Raqqa, Syria
November 13, 2015
Thirty-eight days ago ISIS commenced a series of attacks which started on October 6, 2015, in Aden, Yemen, when the cabal claimed responsibility for a series of bombings in Yemen’s two largest cities that killed at least 25 people, including troops from the Persian Gulf who were fighting Yemeni rebels.
On October 10, 2015, in Ankara, Turkey, two explosions killed more than 100 people who had gathered for a peace rally. The Islamic State was responsible.
October 24, 2015, in Dhaka, Bangladesh, the Islamic State claimed responsibility for three bombs that exploded during a huge procession commemorating the Shiite Muslim holiday of Ashura, killing one person and wounding dozens more.
On October 31, 2015, in Sharm el Sheikh, Egypt, an affiliate of the Islamic State, Ansar Beit al-Maqdis, claimed responsibility for downing a Russian passenger jet that killed all 224 people onboard.
On November 4, 2015, in Dhaka, Bangladesh, the Islamic State claimed responsibility for an attack that left one police officer dead and another wounded.
Also on November 4, 2015, in Northern Sinai, Egypt, four police officers were killed when a suicide bomber detonated an explosives-packed vehicle next to a police club in northern Sinai.
On November 12, 2015, in Beirut, Lebanon, the Islamic State claimed responsibility for a double suicide bombing in a busy shopping district.
On November 13, 2015, in Paris, the Islamic State, in a series of coordinated attacks across the city, 130 people were killed and more than 300 were injured.
In a small structure made of stone that was the color of desert sand inside the city of Raqqa in Syria, a man by the name of Mabus was sitting on a well-worn mattress tabulating these scores of attacks as conquests in the name of Allah. He was wearing the black garments and head wrap to match the black flag of Muhammad. And by his side leaning against the wall was his AK-47.
Hussaini first came to Iraq from Jordan with the intent of starting a war he thought would unite Sunni Muslims in the Middle East. Then after launching a series of suicide bombings and executions that targeted Americans and Shia Muslims, high numbers of Sunni Muslims came to Iraq from all over the world to join together with Iraqis to stand behind Hussaini in creating a Sunni caliphate across areas of Iraq, Syria and the Persian Gulf.
Divisions were created in the north and northwest, the organization showcasing their brand of savagery with several beheadings that went viral. And in time they spread virtually uncontested across the Middle East and the northern part of Africa. Now it was time for their push into Europe.
Abbad Chahine, also wearing the black garments of the cabal, silently entered the room to see Hussaini sitting along the edge of the mattress with his legs crossed and his eyes closed, as if meditating. As soon as Chahine saw this he started to step away.
“What is it, Abbad?” Hussaini didn’t open his eyes. He always had this preternatural sense to see what no one else could, even with his eyes tightly shut.
“News from the Paris Front,” Chahine said, stepping back inside the room. “Preliminary reports are that one hundred and twenty-five are dead, maybe more, with more than three hundred wounded, some critically.”
&n
bsp; Hussaini finally opened his eyes. “And the team?”
“Seven dead. Two missing.”
“So seven had found their way into Paradise,” he stated rhetorically. Then he looked at Chahine and their eyes locked. “Tonight was a very good night for the jihadists, yes?”
“A very good night,” he confirmed.
Hussaini stood. Then he transitioned to another pressing matter inside Syrian borders. “And the movement against infidel churches?” he asked.
“Those finding refuge within are getting due process by the edge of the blade,” he answered. “They’ve made their choices to seek salvation within the churches of a false god, instead of joining the ranks of an army directed by the will of Allah. Soon all of Syria will be cleansed.”
Hussaini gave a one-sided smile—a smirk, really. “And by the will of Allah we shall push forward.” Hussaini grabbed his AK-47 and raised it proudly. “Paris was but a taste,” he said. “Now we move on Rome. And from there . . . we will take the Vatican and burn the city to the ground.”
CHAPTER TWO
Central Syria
Seven Months after the Attack on Paris
In the remains of a stone church in central Syria stands a wide basilica where the columns of Byzantine architecture separates the aisles from the nave, and has the added features of low piers and soaring arches to create the feeling of expanded space. Since one of the walls had fallen, stones had piled into rubble outside the church. And though the church no longer served as a place of worship, it did serve as a haven for Syrian children who’d been orphaned by the recent conflict.
The sun was blistering hot as Father Rob Jenkins catered to the children who sat along the pews drinking the last of the goat milk from dented cups. Sisters Patty Metcalf and Kelly Allenby aided with kindness to those whose memories of their mothers were strongest, even though it wasn’t quite the same as the umbilical tie between mother and child. But as surrogates, Sisters Patty and Kelly proved to be adequate substitutes.
From the church’s bell tower a boy of ten kept watch over the desert landscape. In the distance he could see dust rising behind a group of pickup trucks that had .50 caliber machine guns mounted to the bed of each truck. And behind every weapon was its operator, a gunner, a skilled practitioner in the art of killing and strafing. As the vehicles approached the church the boy reached for the bell’s cord and pulled, causing the bell to toll in warning as an ISIS death squad continued to advance.
CHAPTER THREE
Father Jenkins immediately went to the opening in the wall and saw the approach of the pickup trucks. Then he galvanized himself to gather and usher the children to the chamber below the church. Sisters Patty and Kelly assisted by telling the children that everything was going to be “all right.” But the children had seen the warriors of ISIS as the crusaders for the coming apocalypse, and had witnessed the summary executions of their parents as part of the Christian genocide. So no matter how the sisters tried to comfort and appease, no matter how soft their voices were or how calm they appeared to be, there was nothing they could say or do to quash their fears.
“Hurry, children,” said Father Jenkins. He held open a heavy door of thick wooden beams that were pieced together with black-steel bands and rivets, while urging the children forward with summoning gestures to the level below.
One after the other the children descended the staircase as ancient torches in black-metal scones lit the way. The steps were thin and winding as Sister Kelly guided the children downward with Sister Patty taking the rear. Father Jenkins stayed behind to close and lock the entryway by sliding a metal bolt across the door and into the stone wall. Though a formidable tool to keep those outside from getting in, it certainly was not a foolproof measure. The locked door only bought them time, this Father Jenkins knew. Then the Franciscan priest descended the steps hastily, noting that sisters Kelly and Patty were waiting for him at the lower level along with the children.
When he reached the level below, he saw the questioning look in Sister Kelly’s eyes. Is there hope?
Father Jenkins returned a barely perceptible nod. But it spoke volumes. I’m afraid not. I gave us some time and nothing more. They’ll find us eventually.
Sister Kelly understood as she attended the children, telling them they were safe with a string of lies meant to calm, as did Sister Patty.
In the gloom of the lower level Father Jenkins stared up at the door. Then he went to his knees, made the sign of the cross, and asked God to embrace their souls after he brought his hands together in an attitude of prayer.
Father Jenkins prayed.
The nuns spoke calmingly.
And the children cried.
CHAPTER FOUR
Three pickup trucks maneuvered to the north, south and west sides of the church. In each truck were three men: the gunner, the driver and the passenger, a total of nine insurgents, with each man exiting their vehicles as soon as the pickups came to skidding halts on the hard-packed earth, and leveled their weapons.
Abdo Hussaini, the passenger in the lead vehicle, commanded the unit. He was a man of average height; olive-colored skin, almost sickly in hue; and possessed eyes that were as black as obsidian glass. The most outstanding feature about him was his left eye, which deviated from the normal parallel lines of vision and cast widely to the side, while his right eye looked straight ahead. But looking into that one eye that was so incredibly dark and appeared to be without a pupil, anyone could see that Hussaini was a man of icy-cold extremes. There was no sense of forgiveness or tolerance in his makeup, only the need for one to adhere to Islamic Law. To believe in a Christian God only meant that Allah was absent in their hearts; therefore, these non-believers were a scourge who needed to be exorcised. So Hussaini moved from one church to the next looking to clear the Syrian nation of non-believers or those who collaborated, by the blade of his knife.
With predetermined hand gestures Hussaini ordered his people to police the church. “The bell had tolled in warning,” he said. “I want whoever’s inside there on their knees before me! Now!” Hussaini removed his knife from its sheath and held it behind the small of his back. The blade had a mirror polish to it. But the running edge of the knife appeared lackluster as if a whet stone had scrubbed the shine completely off the metal, so that the blade could meet a certain standard of surgical sharpness.
Hussaini lifted and pointed the knife toward the entryway: Go.
Two insurgents remained beside Hussaini. The other six ventured inside the church and fanned out with their weapons raised to eye level.
Outside, Hussaini started to slap the flat side of the knife’s blade against the palm of his hand, anticipating the thrill of the slaughter.
He would line up the infidels within the shadow of the church—men, women and children, it didn’t matter—and end their lives in ISIS fashion, with the traditional exhibition of beheadings.
He continued to slap the flat side of the blade against his hand while carrying a predatory grin that was wide enough to expose holes where teeth once resided.
. . . Slap . . .
. . . Slap . . .
. . . Slap . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
The moment the members of the Islamic State entered the church, they fanned out with half the unit going left, and the other half moving right. The ceiling bore numerous holes that allowed biblical beams to shine through with some spotlighting the statue of the Virgin Mary, and another highlighting the altar. Above the altar hung the image of Jesus Christ in a state of crucifixion. His eyes looked heavenward as the crown of thorns bit deeply, which caused the appearance of weeping wounds along His forehead.
The members of the Islamic State moved forward knowing that bells did not toll by phantom hands. So they pressed on with considerable caution, the points of their weapons moving from left to right, then right to left, their heads on a swivel.
When they reached the altar they immediately tipped it over. And as soon as the table struck the sanctuary fl
oor it broke into several slabs. Next came the statue of the Virgin Mother, the stone figure falling and shattering upon impact as pieces skated across the floor, especially the head, which came to rest in the aisle between the pews. The suspended crucifix, however, remained untouched, while other Christian icons continued to be vandalized with relish.
Once the destruction in the main hall and the sanctuary was complete, they broke off for other parts of the church, searching. What they would discover, however, would be something far different than what they expected to find.
CHAPTER SIX
It was impossible to muffle the cries of the children as dust sifted down from the ceiling every time something heavy landed against the floor of the church above. At first Father Jenkins was angry at the desecration, then he realized that these people had no virtues or morality, only a need to kill. Sisters Kelly and Patty tried to gather and shush the children, finding the task impossible. And Father Jenkins felt for them as he looked into their tear-streaked faces.
God will embrace you, he wanted to tell them. Just a moment of pain . . .
. . . And then an eternity of indescribable peace.
But a sour lump cropped up in his throat, painful and bitter.
Then he lowered his head and prayed for a quick transition from life to death.
What he would get, instead, was divine intervention.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The members of the ISIS unit checked the nave and the east and west transepts, finding no one. Then they spread to the utility rooms and to the sacristy. Dakhil Ghazi took to exploring the sacristy, a small room behind the chancel, with the point of his weapon raised.
The room was small with armoires that lined the walls. With most being empty, only one held the vestments of a priest. The garments hadn’t been worn in a long while, the apparels dusty and aged from lack of use.
Ghazi backed away with his assault weapon at eye level. The sacristy was empty. Then he went to one of the two adjoining confessionals next to the chancel, the one closest to the east transept, and found the door to the priest’s stall slightly ajar.
He directed the point of his weapon to the door, then in Arabic he said evenly, “Step out.”
