CABAL (The Vatican Knights Book 9)

by Rick Jones

  “Very good, Ismail.”

  “Any problems?”

  “We lost Musha,” he said.

  “A good man. No doubt he’s dining with Allah as we speak.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Keep me posted, Sayed. Mabus will be pleased with your efforts.”

  “Thank you, Ismail.”

  Ismail closed the call and kept his eyes to the east to where Kimball’s caravan was ultimately coming to journey’s end.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Vatican City

  The vehicles were on the move. Pathros was driving the lead van that had a local emblem detailing a laundry pick-up service and delivery. The second and third vans noted that they were from some sort of food distribution center, one being a baker and the other a caterer. The fourth and final van appeared as an ambulance.

  As Pathros took lead, vans two and three stayed significantly behind to avoid the concussion of a blast that was certain to come after the detonation, with van number four, the ambulance, behind them.

  To Pathros time seemed to move glacially slow. He could feel his heart hammering away with anxiety, rather than the anticipation of receiving something greater than this world. His brow was peppered with sweat the same time his thoughts accelerated through his mind. There was no true courage in surrendering his life, only obligation. So he naturally began to question his actions. Life may be hard and cruel and ugly from all facets, but . . .

  “Papers, please.” Pathros looked at the Gendarmerie guard who stood at the checkpoint with his hand out to receive the documents. “Papers.”

  Pathros swallowed, nodded, the motion causing beads of sweat to trickle down along his cheek on a day that was far from a blistering heat. He appeared nervous. And his pallor took on a sickly color that was gray and slick looking, like the underbelly of a fish. When he handed over the documents his hands were shaking, which didn’t go unnoticed by the officer.

  The officer of the Gendarmerie examined the papers, then looked at the driver, who was feigning a marginal smile.

  “Please, sir. If you’ll vacate your vehicle,” the officer said.

  Pathros’s smile vanished. His heart began to race faster as blood rushed thunderously by his ears to block out what the guard was saying—he could see the man’s mouth moving and obviously issuing orders of some kind. The rush of blood and adrenaline coursed faster through his veins. Anger bubbled and percolated underneath, rising to the surface.

  The guard was obviously becoming heated, his demands more fervent.

  Pathros couldn’t hear him, couldn’t understand. And within a blink of an eye his anxiety disappeared and reconstituted as vengeful hatred. All the years of having been radicalized reigned supreme, which meant that his life was irrelevant.

  Pathros raised his hand. Inside was a switch with his thumb on the button.

  The officer’s eyes flared to the size of communion wafers as his reached for his firearm in an uncoordinated attempt to do so, with the man bumbling about to retrieve his weapon from his holster.

  The papers fell to the ground.

  The guard backed away screaming orders with eyes that showed more white than the color.

  Then with a simple maneuver of his thumb, Pathros depressed the button with thoughts of Allah on his mind.

  The truck lifted off the hardtop the moment it erupted into a fireball, and performed a complete mid-air roll before coming down. Metal shards and nails inside the truck exploded outward killing people by the scores. Limbs detached, bodies were torn to pieces, and blood began to run along the seams between the bricks.

  The Earth shook as a column of smoke rose heavenward, thick and black. The sky was no longer a uniform blue. And the sun no longer glimmered in the sky as smoky drifts and tendrils blotted it out.

  Pathros had managed the first shot that would be heard around the world within minutes.

  #

  The office of Pope Pius XIV shook.

  There was a loud explosion, not too far, as concussive waves seemed to push and shove the world about. Crystal glassware tinkled when they vibrated. The floor quivered, small yet perceptible movements. And things like precious baubles and candlesticks had tipped and fallen over, with some of the fragile glassware shattering on the carpeted floor.

  Within moments the door to the papal office swung wide. In the doorway stood two members of the Security Detail, two beefy-looking men wearing maroon dress coats and black pants with matching tie. In the hand of one was a walkie-talkie.

  “Your Holiness,” said the one with the radio. “There’s been an explosion outside of St. Peter’s Square. Please maintain your position here inside the Palace, while things are being examined as to whether this was an accident or an act of terror.”

  “Follow security protocol,” stated the pontiff.

  “Yes, Your Holiness. We’re gathering the members of the Pontifical Commission and the State Council as we speak. Members of the Swiss Guard are manning the hall and entryways to the Apostolic Palace.”

  “Very good,” said Bonasero.

  After the door closed, Bonasero looked out the window and saw the black column of rising smoke.

  Soon it would be joined by another . . .

  . . . and yet again by a third.

  War had come to Vatican City.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Inside the Syrian Desert

  Ismail could see the dust trail left behind Sayed’s Jeep, which meant that they were close. If Sayed was maintaining a constant watch on the group holding Farid, then they were moving into striking distance.

  He called Sayed. “We have you in our sights,” Ismail told him. “Do you still have the infidels within yours?”

  “Yes, Ismail. They’re approximately six, maybe seven kilometers away.”

  “Excellent,” said Ismail. “Then we are close.” After a beat he said: “We will hasten our movement and intercept in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, Ismail.”

  “You’ve done well, Sayed.” After closing communication, Ismail tossed the GPS tablet to the side since it was no longer necessary for tracking. In a few moments they would attack their quarry like a pack of wolves on an injured beast ready to be taken for a feast.

  Ismail couldn’t wait.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Inside Syrian Desert

  A second dust cloud arose to join the first. But it was still a distance away. But it was all that Kimball needed to know that the second unit had caught up. Soon they would be overcome. And Kimball would be rendered impotent to do anything about it.

  “It was a valiant try, Mr. Hayden.” Apparently Sister Kelly had seen the clouds as well. “Soon one will join the other.”

  Kimball set aside Farid, who was sitting on his lap, and labored to a standing position to man the .50 caliber machine gun. When he checked the receiver, the barrel support and barrel group, the children were perceptive enough to know that an engagement was about to commence, which caused the younger ones to start crying.

  Even as he checked the mechanisms his heart began to bleed for them. Time was running short for all of them. But if he could draw a bead on Sayed and punch a hole through him with a single shot, then he could go to damnation with a smile of achievement. All he could hope for was that the children would be spared in the end. But with the Islamic State, who’s to know.

  Then Kimball called over his shoulder. “Solomon! How much fuel do we have?”

  Solomon leaned forward to look at the gas gauge on the dashboard, then leaned back to cry out the sliding window that divided the cab from the bed. “Not much!” he answered. “Less than a quarter of a tank! We’ll be running on fumes here pretty soon!”

  Kimball looked at the stretch of landscape before them. There were rises and falls, berms and stone outcroppings, things that could provide temporary shelter. But the key word was ‘temporary.’

  When more children began to cry, Sister Kelly tried to placate them with lies that were meant to ease. She s
poke fluid Arabic as her words were soft and light. Yet they didn’t penetrate because they knew the truth beyond her words. To the west they could see dust devils brewing, those funnel-shaped clouds that danced in the desert air. And the large man who had become their savior would fight them off as much as he could until he could fight no more.

  But the savior part of Kimball was tormented by his complete inability to save the children as they cried.

  Sister Kelly continued to tell them lies.

  And in the distance, like pieces to a puzzle, the clouds merged.

  Ismail had finally met up with Sayed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Rome, Italy

  The moment Raamiz’s team witnessed the explosion of the first van that took out the checkpoint, the rest of the vehicles maneuvered around the traffic and headed for the thin line that divided Rome from Vatican City. The second van made a wide berth around the smoldering debris in the road, hit the curb hard, and sped his way to the front door of the Gendarmerie Police Station.

  Now that Pathros was out of the game, it was Easo’s turn to step up and follow through on his end. He raced the van along the outskirts of Vatican City, with people jumping and diving out of the way. The station was now in sight, a building of stone masonry with glass doors in the front. Gendarmerie officers were running from the building like roaches into the street. When they spotted the van approaching at an abnormal speed, a team of officers quickly got to their knees, raised their weapons, and opened fire.

  The windshield held against the first barrage of lower caliber bullets, the strikes causing nothing more than spider-web cracks. But the second volley simply smashed through the window already in its weakened state, and peppered the inside of the van.

  Bullets struck Easo in the shoulder and bicep. One even took off the lobe of his left ear. With pain that was searing and white-hot, Easo managed to fight through the agony and pressed on, the vehicle closing the distance between them within seconds.

  As soon as the officers broke formation and started to run out of the van’s path, Easo raised his hand, screamed ‘Allahu Akbar,’ and pressed the button.

  The van went up as a massive explosion that blew out a crater against the brick-lined street. Shards of metal and stone blew out in all directions of the compass. Mangled bodies took flight against the wave of the blast, sending some as far as fifty feet through the air. The front of the Gendarmerie Station was obliterated, the entire section completely rendered as piles and slabs of broken rock and glass. Bloodied limbs protruded from the rubble with few pointing their accusing fingers at the spot of the explosion. Others lay wounded in the streets, the officers dragging themselves to nowhere in particular and leaving a trail of blood in their wake. It was a macabre display. One that would eventually go viral on many streams.

  The station was rendered impotent as officers who were not caught in the direct blast moved confusedly about by the situation created. No matter the training or skill set, sometimes self-preservation took over and training went out the window as officers moved about the rubble to regather themselves. But this was taking time and lots of it, which benefitted the Islamic State.

  For Raamiz and his team, everything was working to plan.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  The moment Pope Pius XIV saw the second column of smoke, he knew this was not an accident but an act of terrorism. The Security Detail was moving the exalted cardinals of the Pontifical Commission and the State Council behind the walls of the Apostolic Palace. The Secretary of State had yet to be found.

  As the group gathered, members of the Swiss Guard remained vigilant outside the door. They no longer carried halberds in display, but firearms.

  Pope Pius spoke to the group of cardinals with courage and calming effect, his prayers offering hope that this event will come to a swift and rapid end.

  It didn’t.

  Outside there was another explosion, one that would rock the Palace as if the Earth was rolling beneath their feet.

  The Islamic State was knocking on the Vatican’s front door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Ismail’s team had met up with Sayed’s pickup. In numbers they were eleven heavily armed vehicles with a manpower of thirty-two. From their position they could see Kimball’s transport, a small speck trailing along the desert sand. Through a pair of binoculars Ismail could see that the pickup was overloaded like a Filipino ferry boat, too many people for too little space.

  Then Ismail issued a command over his headset. Immediately the units maneuvered into position so that they were lined up side by side, creating a battle line. Together they moved at a heightened speed to close the gap, the distance between them tightening. Lukose, who was normally Sayed’s driver, manned the weapon in the back while Sayed drove.

  Ismail calculated the time of intercept by gauging the speed of his team, to that of his quarry. According to his calculations if the speeds remained constant, then the time of intercept would be in the area of eight minutes.

  Eight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  The aerial drop-off of the two Strykers from the C-130 was successful as the mobile units parachuted to the terrain with the Vatican Knights in tow. Once the chutes were removed, the Strykers were set in motion and followed the course granted them by a live feed sent directly to the vehicle’s GPS monitor.

  At 100 kilometers per hour, the Strykers moved over the terrain easily because that was what they were engineered to do, to maneuver quickly and clear space for the infantry.

  As dawn approached, the landscape appeared as barren and dead as any land could be. Other than a few outcropping of rocks and boulders and perhaps some sage, the terrain was a place of complete abandonment. And it continued to appear like this for hours.

  “How far?” Leviticus asked Amos.

  Amos checked the monitors inside the Stryker’s cab. “About one hundred twenty kilometers,” he answered.

  Just over an hour, considered Leviticus. Then to himself: Hang on, Kimball.

  Hang on.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Sayed was now a part of Ismail’s team. And Kimball could see the line of vehicles lined side by side and closing.

  When the children saw them they began to sob openly.

  Sister Kelly cradled a young girl’s head to her bosom, then kissed the crown of the child’s head. When she looked at Kimball her chin began to shake with a gelatinous quiver, which spoke volumes. Sister Kelly was a rock, a titanic mountain of strength. But apparently she had her limits as well. With her face cracking and about to break into her own routine of sobbing, Kimball wondered if hope had completely abandoned her.

  Then issuing orders to his Vatican Knights who took to the rear of the pickup behind the gate, they rested the barrels of their weapons along the gate’s edge and took aim. The children huddled behind them as a tight mass with Farid among them.

  Watching the cloud screen rise and grow in the distance, and seeing the vehicles charge forward at intercept speed, Kimball knew that their time was five, or maybe six minutes before the moment of their capture.

  With such overwhelming odds he considered abandoning the notion of a firefight and simply surrendering to Ismail’s forces in order to spare the lives of the children. But to do so would condemn his team and Sister Kelly to death, and maybe the children with the exception of Farid.

  He had minutes to make his decision.

  Surrender or fight.

  He looked at Sister Kelly’s face.

  The answer wasn’t there.

  And time was rapidly ticking away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Vatican City

  The third van, the one claiming to be from a bakery that served the best rolls on any side of Italy, ran wide of what was left of Pathros’ vehicle, and jumped the curb. Bullets peppered the walls of the van but did little damage. People screamed and jumped out of the van’s way, or at least tried to as the vehicle clipped a male adult and sent him airborne
. The Colonnades seemed to loom large as he neared them. Then he altered his course, a hard right to the steps of the Basilica.

  There was a pop, an explosion, as a tire gave way to a round that found its mark. The truck tipped slightly, but maintained itself as he approached St. Peter’s Church. People’s faces looked on with a mixture of terror and confusion, either their mouths dropping or their eyes flaring.

  Then Mathu, with a slick hand on the steering wheel and another holding the detonator switch, praised Allah as he held the switch high, cried out his allegiance to his god, and depressed the button.

  As soon as the van hit the steps leading into the Basilica, the van erupted into an explosion so powerful that the unseen force of the concussive wave punched people off their feet and tossed them several meters. Some slammed into the stone wall of the church, fracturing bones. Others were killed the moment metal shards and twisted steel riddled their bodies. Blood ran down the steps in runnels. Cries filled the air. And smoke the color of black tar rose skyward.

  On this particular assault more than three dozen people perished in the blast with more than one hundred wounded, some critically.

  That left one van.

  The foot soldiers.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  “Stop the pickup!” Kimball cried out to Solomon.

  The truck came to a halt.

  Those Knights sitting by the gate looked at Kimball questioningly.

  “We can’t outrun them,” he told them. “We make a stand here.”

  The cloud of dust was closing in on them like the wall of a vise. And so were the vehicles, all eleven of them.

  Kimball saw a small dip in the landscape with a rocky overhang, a small escarpment, and pointed. “Get Sister Kelly and the children to that overhang,” he stated to the Vatican Knights in the pickup’s bed with him. Then over his shoulder to Solomon in the cab: “Solomon, are you ready to make a head-on run?”