by Rick Jones
As soon as the second operator turned his attention on the conflict opposite him, nearby shadows came alive. A khanjar lashed out from a veil of darkness and struck the second operative in the shoulder, the blade cutting deep enough to sever the muscle and render his arm useless. The operative, trying to swing his assault weapon around, was immediately eclipsed by the enemy. Two assassins of Abd-al-Mumin’s team acted like wolves taking down their prey, with knives rising and falling as the blades stabbed repeatedly enough to cause sickening wet sounds whenever the knives were driven and then retracted. The ex-Jagdkommando never had a chance.
Operator One, however, remained fully functional. But as he tried to adjust his stance to engage in combat, his attacker was just as accomplished with the skillset between them equal.
The assassin came across with the knife, which was easily deflected by the ex-Jagdkommando, who then thrust forward a leg and caught the attacker by surprise. The flat of the former commando’s foot had struck his opponent in the chest and drove him back into a standing case, which rocked heavily upon impact. The attacker, with a hand covering his solar plexus because the air had been knocked free from his lungs, fell to his knees which provided the ex-Jagdkommando a ripe opportunity. Just as he was about to train his assault rifle of the ISIS operative, a bullet had punched through his forehead to create a peach-sized exit wound. He had been shot from behind, the round a heavy caliber. As the one-time commando wavered briefly in his stance, he then fell forward against the floor, hitting hard.
And as soon as the shadows congregated to aid the other back to his feet, the interior alarm system to the Treasury began to keen and wail like a banshee.
* * *
SYSTEM ALERT
SYSTEM ALERT
SYSTEM ALERT
The warning had flashed on Khalifa’s screen. The mission had been clearly compromised, which was obviously stated when the alarm started to sound off in ear-splitting protest.
Khalifa tried to administer his ability to hack and log in to the system but failed repeatedly, always receiving the message of ACCESS DENIED.
After tapping his earbud, he said, “Abd-al-Mumin?”
“Go.”
“A secondary system has been enabled, most likely a failsafe protocol. I’m unable to disable it.”
“Do what you can, Khalifa. We’re close to obtaining the relic.”
“Understood. But you also need to understand that the authorities are most likely on their way. Your time to retrieve the Holy Lance has been significantly shortened, I’m afraid.”
“Buy us time.”
“Understood . . . Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
Khalifa removed his earbud, placed it on the console, then stepped away. Allah had made His decision, he considered. And Paradise awaited. Grabbing the rucksack, Khalifa rummaged through it and counted six claymores, all which needed to be set around the guard shed. He would create the first and only line of defense to buy Abd-al-Mumin time.
Removing the devices from the rucksack, Khalifa, while asking for Allah’s embrace, began to set the claymores accordingly.
* * *
Abd-al-Mumin was actively nibbling on his lower lip, something he did when fighting for calm. The mission that was so carefully planned had gone south, the alarms no doubt an invite for law enforcement.
Abd-al-Mumin called into his lip mic. “Ghazi?”
“Go.”
“What happened?”
“There was a back-up switch—nothing I could do to stop it.” And then: “I’m sorry, Abd-al-Mumin. I failed you and Allah.”
“We’ll talk about your failures later. Right now, I need you topside. Khalifa’s about to have company and we need to be prepared for what’s coming.”
“Copy that.”
“Move!”
As the alarms kept wailing, Abd-al-Mumin tapped his earbud with a mixture of frustration and anger. They had maneuvered to the precise locations with little contest, only to botch the assignment when the Spear of Destiny was literally within arm’s length away.
Turning his attention to the display, Abd-al-Mumin noted the jeweled cross that was more of the focal piece within the display case rather than the Holy Lance. Motioning to his team to galvanize themselves, they reacted with precision. Tipping the case over with a resounding crash that did little to top the sound of the alarms, the glass shattered in tempered pieces that spread across the floor like diamonds.
The jeweled cross slid across the floor as did the Holy Lance. Under the flash of flickering lights, the gold that surrounded the Spear of Destiny reflected and throbbed in concert with the ebb and flow of the constantly flashing lights, as though the artifact had a heartbeat and was alive.
Abd-al-Mumin didn’t waste any time, as he grabbed the relic. What he immediately discovered to be odd, however, was that there was nothing special or magical about its touch. There was no static electricity or warm discharge that engulfed him wholly, as expected. Nor was there a sense of sudden power that was neither absolute nor indomitable. In fact, it felt no more than an ice-cold token or bauble.
Holding the relic high as though to show Allah that he had been gifted with the Holy Lance, he then placed the article within his rucksack. Once secured and with their weapons held at eye level, they began their escape.
* * *
Khalifa was manning the guard shack when he saw a convoy of flashing flights bearing down on the Treasury from both sides of the Michealerplatz, he grabbed his firearm, a peashooter in comparison to what he was about to come up against, and stood before the guard shack tucking the Glock within his waistband behind the small of his back.
The Arab stood with his legs parted in a Weaver stance, readying himself. As he mouthed the words to a prayer while the vehicles approached, Khalifa felt in his heart that Allah would welcome him fully. He would be martyred. And with this honor his family would be paid for their loss. But they would also live with the cherished memory that their son or brother or cousin had died for a cause, and that he would be anointed in Paradise.
The vehicles approached, their sirens adding to the keen of the Treasury’s alarm system, a high-pitched wailing. As they approached, the words to Khalifa’s prayers blossomed into shouts with the devotions now cries of praise to the one true God, as he slowly extended his hands in mock crucifixion while turning his head heavenward.
The sirens.
The alarms.
The screaming words of prayer all adding to the bedlam and to the chaos.
As the vehicles approached and neared the guard shack, Khalifa started to reach for his weapon, though his eyes remained skyward at the canopy of stars. Just as he wrapped his hand around the stock of his weapon, a police cruiser tripped a wire of a claymore by driving through the perimeter line Khalifa had set up. The broken line set off the charge, the landmine exploding. Then the other mines went off in succession, one right after the other like dominoes. Shrapnel zipped across the open space with a rate of high-caliber rounds, at more than 2,200 feet per second. Holes were punched into the sedans and struck vehicles with multiple rounds that killed all inhabitants within upon impact. Other cars erupted into fireballs when their gas tanks ruptured, the vehicles upending and going skyward, only to perform graceful pirouettes before landing hard against the pavement. One patrol unit, however, went unscathed.
Khalifa started to walk with purpose towards this car as a pair of officers exited the vehicle. In the Arab’s right hand was his firearm, the man moving forward without showing fear or emotion, while shouting praises of Allah.
The officers raised their assault weapons as they hid behind the open doors of their vehicles and shouted commands.
Khalifa continued to disobey their warnings.
There were more demands to stop, the officers’ stresses continuing to go unheeded.
Then Khalifa opened fire. Bullet holes suddenly appeared against the doors, like magic, with some of the rounds creating sparks and embers, which died
off quickly. The officers returned fire with the consequence to Khalifa grave. Bullets stitched across his chest and abdomen, as the fabric of his shirt bloomed from the impacts. As his body jolted from the blows, his gunfire became random as he spent rounds that went skyward and then to the pavement. His finger was simply pulling the trigger with an involuntary act as his life was slipping away. When the Glock sounded off with a series of dry clicks, Khalifa finally went to his knees.
. . . Click . . . click . . . click . . .
He then looked skyward and at the glimmer of stars, believing that Allah would make him such a glimmer in the Heavens that would shine down upon those who were still committed to the cause.
Allah has called him home.
. . . Click . . . click . . . click . . .
As his final breath escaped him, and as the edges of his sight closed in with utter darkness, Khalifa fell forward to the pavement with the bones of his face crunching obscenely upon impact.
Allahu Akbar.
* * *
Not only did Abd-al-Mumin and his team hear the claymores go off, but they also witnessed the results of Khalifa’s strategic placements. Vehicles rose and tumbled through the air in an exquisite ballet that appeared to have been slowed down, the moment surreal. Others exploded as the interiors instantly became engulfed by flame, the occupants dead or dying before their eyes. What Khalifa created was poetry in motion, with bloodshed and death the topics of his artistry. But the work was not complete.
A vehicle with a pair of officers had gone unscathed. From the sidelines, Abd-al-Mumin and his team could only watch as Khalifa sacrificed himself in the name of his God, so that others could continue.
With the attention of the officers on Khalifa, Abd-al-Mumin moved his team forward with their weapons raised. They moved across the plaza as moving shadows, black within black, until Abd-al-Mumin opened fire. Others followed his lead as the night suddenly lit up with a volley of muzzle flashes. Rounds hit the officers and the nearby pavement, with the bullets stamping out their lives the same way they had stamped out Khalifa’s.
Bodies were lying everywhere, and vehicles remained ablaze.
Abd-al-Mumin could only look down at Khalifa, as blood spread along the pavement underneath the dead man’s head as a crude halo. It wasn’t until someone grabbed Abd-al-Mumin by the triceps to shake him from his reverie. “We must go,” was all he heard. He wasn’t sure if the voice belonged to Qusay, Ghazi or to another since it sounded hollow and distant.
Ripping his arm away, Abd-al-Mumin continued to look down at Khalifa. And then: “I will join you in time, my brother, after I serve His needs. Allahu Akbar.”
With his praises his last words, Abd-al-Mumin hastened to remove his team from the site.
* * *
Ali Mustafa was beside himself. They had planned for months and had gleaned intelligence regarding the make of the facility, including its mainframe operations. His visit to the Treasury with Abd-al-Mumin had simply been a reconnaissance mission to see if the schematics had lined up, which they did. But the undertaking had proven true on one aspect: that plans always looked good on paper but are rarely played out to perfection as designed.
He had seen everything through their bodycams from multiple angles. He had watched as the Spear of Destiny became the property of Abd-al-Mumin. He saw the killing of Khalifa, though his pride was admittedly high when he saw the aftermath of multiple explosions take place. Still, he knew they were far from succeeding in their quest. With the Holy Lance now in possession, his team would have to avoid the dragnet he knew would form within the city and along the borders. He would act swiftly to abscond with the article, believing that its power would see him through, along with the grace of Allah.
Ali Mustafa would be wrong.
* * *
There suddenly seemed to be a vacuum after Khalifa’s death as Abd-al-Mumin led his team to the van, since an especially important piece to the mission was now missing. Not only was Khalifa someone who navigated through the straits of turbulent warfare, he was also a master planner. Though the situation they now found themselves had fallen short of the goal, the Holy Lance was within Abd-al-Mumin’s ownership—a coup, he considered as the team made their way quickly inside the vehicle.
The engine started, revved, then the vehicle pulled away from the curb. In the backdrop, the wail of the Treasury’s alarm system continued to keen along with the approach of additional sirens from law enforcement, now a streaming convoy of blue and white flashing lights.
Abd-al-Mumin gripped the Spear of Destiny within his hand as his knuckles turned white. He closed his eyes and prayed for divine intervention and for Allah to show His might through the dagger’s head. In his mind’s eye he saw the blue bolts of His fury lash out to strike down the enemy. But when he opened his eyes, he saw no such tendrils. The article that had once been dipped in the blood of Jesus was just as cold as when he first laid hands on it.
Outside the rear window of the van, Abd-al-Mumin could see the police vehicles converging on the Imperial Treasury. It wouldn’t take long for the authorities to identify Khalifa and tie him to the Islamic State.
Nibbling on his lower lip and then shaking his head disapprovingly, Abd-al-Mumin admonished himself for his shortcomings. Knowing that Khalifa was now by Allah’s side in Paradise provided him with little comfort. He was still in the land of the living with much to do.
As regrets washed through him on so many levels, such as the loss of his friend and that the mission had been compromised, he continued to pray over the Spear of Destiny. When, he asked himself, will I feel Your power or Your greatness?
His answer came by the way of distant sirens and fading wails.
* * *
Big Brother was expanding to all territories and to all nations. Along the streetlamps and intersections, along the avenues and boulevards, CCTV cameras were everywhere. From the moment the van moved away from the front of the Hofburg Palace, it was also captured going from one set of lenses to another to create a trackable path that would eventually lead the authorities to the Kristallpalast.
So far, the Holy Lance was doing little to aid in Abd-al-Mumin’s escape.
CHAPTER TEN
Lakeside Cabin in Maryland
As soon as the sun had set in Maryland, Shari Cohen was standing on the deck that overlooked the lake. The loons and mallards that were normally a part of the scenery were gone, which made Shari wonder where they went when the sky drew dark. Then she looked skyward at the pinpoint lights and noted the constellations. There was Cassiopeia, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, Cepheus and Draco, all configurations that had stood the test of time. Then she wondered if her relationship with Kimball could weather through the hardships that came with any pairing. She knew that she made him happy. The fence was merely a symbol of Kimball’s vision of the suburban American Dream—the white-picket fence around a residential home, one-point-six children, simple employment, a barking dog who forever and playfully bounds about in the backyard, and family barbeques. But all of these were false imaginings. The surrounding fence did not appear appropriate for a log cabin. In fact, it was out of place and somewhat unpleasant to look at.
Shari winced as a sharp pain pierced her side, one that was sharp and agonizingly hot.
Gathering herself after taking a deep breath, Shari questioned whether Kimball’s dream was living up to his imagination, or if they were falling through the cracks. He was a man who always lived on the divide between two worlds—that between Darkness and Light, or a similar area between her and his team. She offered him both, believing he deserved to find happiness after years of suffering through tribulations that most men would never experience in a lifetime. To see him smile and fully content gave her innumerous pleasure. And this was her reward.
Another sting of pain, one that was sharp enough to cause her to bend over at the waist. As the pain subsided, she took another long breath and exhaled with an equally long sigh. The pains to both sides were coming quicker,
the cramps bone deep and sometimes lingering longer than the norm.
On the railing of the deck where she had placed her cellphone, the faceplate lit up. When she went to grab it, immeasurable pain struck her side as though someone had run her through with a longsword. Starpoint bursts of light sparked in her field of vision. Then her ability to see began to fade as the edges surrounding her peripheral sight started to close in. When she reached for the cellphone as her sight dimmed, she ended up knocking it off the railing and to the deck. The phone continued to shrill, though its sound faded as if the device had been falling inside a deep well, the ringtone diminishing as she began to lose consciousness. Then her world became completely black as she fell to the deck. Though she lay unconscious and would have no recollection of the pain that coursed through her had been mercifully numbed, Shari could still hear her phone ringing from a far-away land. Though she remained deep within this darkness, she also managed to take with her a sweet memory. The last thing she recalled throughout her gradual fade into oblivion was a single word that spoke volumes as it popped up on the phone’s screen: KIMBALL.
As the screen eventually fell blank and the phone stopped vibrating, the constellations stood sentinel and watched over Shari from above.
* * *
The call had eventually gone to Shari’s voicemail, leaving Kimball to stare at his phone wondering. He had called Shari on two occasions and received no calls in return, which made him wonder if he had angered her in any way. But he quickly pushed this aside because she, in fact, had given her blessings for him to return to the Vatican. Still, he felt a certain unease. In Rome, it was just after midnight, whereas in Maryland the sun had set an hour before. She should have been available.
