by Rick Jones
“Look, Mustafa, your demands are being met.”
“Get one thing straight, Müller, I have plenty of bodies up here to toy with. And the flames have no intentions of slowing down, either. Remember, time is not a luxury.”
“Mustafa, listen to me—”
“You’re not the negotiator here. You never were. I say. You do. It’s that simple. I say. You do. There are to be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. Understand that.” After a beat, he added, “Now look up.”
“Mustafa! You don’t—”
CLICK!
* * *
Müller looked at the phone after the call cut off and never felt so powerless. Ali Mustafa had him by the short hairs, this he knew. Worse, as he could do little more than to look up, he was unable to breathe because he knew the obscenity that was about to unfold before everyone’s eyes.
Then he wondered about the Vatican Knights and where they were. The tenth level? The twentieth? Higher? None of it would matter, however, since Mustafa had terminated all pathways to the upper levels.
Closing his eyes, Müller, a man whose inner core and strength had been forged over the years to be steel-like and stout, did not have the courage to watch the vulgarity of what Ali Mustafa was planning to do.
Grinding his teeth, the muscles in the back of Müller’s jaw worked as he waited for the inevitable.
* * *
Ali Mustafa wasted no time. He severed the call, went to Manning, cupped a hand under his chin, pulled his head upward, then placed the point of the jambiya at the base of the skull where the indent was. “For my people,” he said. “And for those who suffered at the hands of the infidels. As a vessel of Allah, I now show the world His might! Allahu Akbar!”
His team parroted the chant in unison: “Allahu Akbar!”
Mustafa plunged the point of the dagger so deep that the knife’s tip could be seen as a second tongue inside his mouth. As Manning gagged, blood filled his mouth and spilled copiously to paint his chin candy-apple red. As his eyes rolled upward to show nothing more than slices of white, Ali Mustafa took a step back and, with the sole of his boot, used his foot to shove Manning forward and over the edge.
The CEO tumbled into space with the ground coming up at him at an amazing speed. He rolled and somersaulted like a doll with no coordination to his actions, the man simply operating by the laws of gravity all the way until he hit the pavement.
Point made.
* * *
Müller could not and would not open his eyes. He knew that Mustafa’s plan was in play by the dreaded shouts of the crowd. The epilogue to this scenario finally came when the body hit the pavement with the sound of a ripe melon.
Still, Müller did not open his eyes.
When Müller’s phone rang, he questioned himself on whether to answer it. On the fifth ring and realizing he had no choice, he did answer. Placing the phone to his ear, Müller could say nothing, but it became apparent that he didn’t have to.
“That was on you,” said Mustafa. “And let there be no mistake, Müller, anything less than absolute devotion to my demands will see similar fates. Soon, once people realize they cannot move downward they will begin to migrate topside. My team will be waiting and willing to kill them if necessary. No more mistakes from here on in. No more playing around. Take absolute control and see that my demands are met. As you can see, the building continues to burn. Eventually, it will burn like the tallow of a candle if the fire blazes long enough.”
CLICK.
Müller, allowing his phone arm to drop by his side as though defeated, kept his eyes closed.
People screamed in the background, all invocational cries of horror calling for someone to do something to stop this. All Müller could think about were the Vatican Knights.
Where are you?
In the streets that surrounded him, people continued to cry out as chaos reigned and their voices loud and clear.
* * *
Mustafa closed his eyes and drew a deep breath into his lungs as though the air was springtime fresh, then released it all with an equally long sigh. He felt rejuvenated and back in control with things once again running smoothly. The firestorm underneath continued to burn, which would eventually force those trapped inside the building topside. When the masses realize that they’re trapped with no escape options, then the cortex shuts down and instinct takes over. People will then migrate naturally to the upper levels as the building turns into a pyre.
Mustafa gauged the faces of his team and could see the mixed measures of fear and excitement and the want to believe that everything would turn out as Mustafa had planned. The Kristallpalast was aflame, the floors below turning into char. The only reprieve from the stalking fire would be a skyward escape.
“We’re getting close,” he told his team. “Soon, the chopper will be here, and we’ll be airlifted to our homeland. And, as promised, we’ll be dining tonight as victors.” Mustafa slid the jambiya into its sheath and crossed the room. On the table by the dead computer sat the Holy Lance. With reverence and homage, he lifted the relic with both hands and held the Spear of Destiny skyward. “Behold the power of Allah,” he said. “For he who holds the Holy Lance will command great armies and rule the plains. And with thy staff with the Holy Dagger its scepter head, there will reign one master under One Rule under the One true God.” Then he showed his team the spearhead. Then as if on cue and the timing never better, the gold of the Holy Lance shimmered enough to cast a quick halo that came and went within the blink of an eye.
Mustafa crossed the floor with his eyes focused on the artifact. “Did I not tell you of its powers? We now hold the spearhead that was once dipped in the blood of one of God’s greatest messengers . . . where it came away as a crimson dagger with powers too great to contest.” Mustafa sounded overly gleeful.
Then his face shifted with his features going from pride to stoicism. “Soon, many will journey topside to escape the flames. I need you, all of you, to hold them at bay. For those who choose to challenge you, take their lives as a show to others. They are to be herded like the cattle they are to the rooms below, until our means of escape has come to light. Maintain the line and hold them steady. Once we’re gone, then Muller’s forces can rush the topside all they want to evacuate the guests, if there are any to be saved after the flames claim the levels. Gather these migrators and lock them inside the rooms below before they turn into unwanted surprises.”
Abd-al-Mumin stepped forward and bowed his head. “As you wish, Mustafa.”
“And kill anyone who tries to play the hero.”
Once again from Abd-al-Mumin: “Yes, Mustafa.”
As the team dispersed with minimal ammo and their khanjars, Mustafa was alone inside the suite with the exception of the hostages, who remained behind a locked door. With the Holy Lance in his left hand, Mustafa removed the jambiya from its sheath with his right hand and held the two daggers side by side. The Holy Lance was magnificent compared to the Yemen product, the jambiya nothing more than a substandard piece of junk by comparison. Returning the jambiya to its sheath, he allowed the Spear of Destiny to sit across the palms of both hands with his eyes ablaze with fascination. Still, there was no sensation of the relic’s magic, no tingle of its power being absorbed by Mustafa’s flesh. It simply remained cool to the touch. Nevertheless, Mustafa continued to adore the item as flames continued to engulf the building several stories below.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
The Vatican Knights were in peak shape, so ascending the stairwells posed no problems to the team members who were neither winded nor taxed. The only true obstacle came when light smoke drifted through the east- and westside stairwells on the forty-fifth floor, with the smoke on each level above forty-six getting noticeably thicker.
Kimball and Isaiah were working the eastside stairwell. Jeremiah, Job and Daniel were ascending the westside.
When the air drifted in
space as slow-moving commas of smoke, Kimball held up and tapped his communication earbud. “Jeremiah, what’s your twenty?”
“Forty-fifth floor.”
“You come across heavy smoke?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“We knew this was going to happen.”
In the few short moments as they stood inside the stairwell, gray smoke was thickening into a black mass and the heat was elevating, meaning that the fire was inching towards them.
Then from Kimball: “The stairwells are impassable at this point. I was hoping to go another two or three levels before alternating our course.”
“The fire’s moving quickly.”
“Move down one level and meet me at the alternate site.”
“Copy that.”
Kimball, along with Isaiah, headed to the floor below.
* * *
Mustafa was sitting before his PC with its monitor nothing but snow. But he appeared to be hypnotically immersed at the showing as though the screen was calling to him. Even as he viewed the lead-colored pixels flash and dim, his mind’s eye was watching something entirely different.
He envisioned his future—one that was glorious and wonderful. He would command great legions with the power of the Spear of Destiny and hold his enemies accountable for their lack of faith in the one true God. Streets would run red with their blood to match a blood-red sky as fires razed once great cities and turned them into ruins. There would be years of change and conflict. But in the end when his enemies had been overwhelmed, it would be time to rebuild and reform. Mosques would dot the landscape, perhaps one at every corner, the thought bringing a light and dreamlike smile to him. And it all starts here, he thought, with a small crew armed with two AK-47s with limited ammo, suppressed sidearms, and a few daggers. But with the Holy Lance serving as his spiritual power, he knew that his team was simply the seeds that would germinate into a great and uncontested force that would be equaled by no one.
He looked at the Holy Lance sitting on the table before the monitor and thought: I am king.
Down below, the warriors of his newfound empire were about to be contested by a band of Christian fighters who sought to balance the playing field by forcing Ali Mustafa, the man who would be king, to utilize the power of the Holy Lance to better his odds.
The Vatican Knights, however, would be up to the challenge.
* * *
While Ali Mustafa daydreamed of a future that might be, as the Vatican Knights tried to conquer an obstacle in the making, Talib, Zamir, Qusay and Abd-al-Mumin were shoring up the line of defense.
The teams had established themselves along the corridors and stairwells between floors sixty and sixty-nine, the group had strategically placed themselves in positions to stop and intercept the pending flow of panicking guests. As the smoke thickened and with the climbing threat of the flames becoming apparent, those trapped above the fiftieth floor would be forcibly hemmed in by Mustafa’s team. The hostages would be herded and locked away with Abd-al-Mumin commanding his team of sheep dogs to establish full control.
So is the word of Ali Mustafa.
Zamir and Talib acted as the first line of defense in the stairwells with their AK-47s. Qusay and Abd-al-Mumin monitored the hallways that were lined with suites. As soon as guests tried to enter the hallway, either Qusay or Abd-al-Mumin ordered them to return to their rooms. And for those who balked at their orders, they unfortunately found themselves the recipients of well-placed kill shots. Their bodies, which lay prone on the floor with their blood fanning out from beneath them, served as scarecrows to others. Ye who attempt to go beyond this point will also find their fate equal to those who challenged the will of Allah. Bodies of the innocent were already mounting with at least four dead.
From the lower levels as the guests clamored for greater heights, the terrorists would seize them at gunpoint and usher them to certain suites that served as holding pens.
At first there was a dozen, and then two dozen as panic started to set in. There were tears, sobs, people desperately pleading, all which fell upon deaf ears and insensitive hearts. And then the upward migration stopped with the congregation of guests stopping at a final count of forty-eight people, a relatively small number.
Talib and Zamir were ordered by Abd-al-Mumin to clear the lower levels with the use of lethal force, should it be necessary. But for the few who were discovered below, Talib and Zamir had always found it ‘necessary’ to extinguish their lives with a bullet spent and a life taken. There had been no mercy, clemency or forgiveness on the part of either terrorist as they pulled the trigger again and again, with both devaluing lives because they were in the act of killing infidels and, in their mindset, justifiably so.
Once the slaughter was completed and the floors were cleared, Zamir was on his lip mic to Abd-al-Mumin. “Lower levels clear.”
“All the way down to the fifty-first level?”
“That floor is much too hot, as are floors fifty-two to fifty-five. The flames are moving fast, Abd-al-Mumin. I hope Mustafa knows what he’s doing.”
“Trust in him.”
Still, Zamir maintained his doubts. “Now what?” he asked.
“Police the floors until they can be covered no more, move up, then wait for my call.”
“And those being held inside the suites?”
“Let them burn as moral sacrifices to Allah.”
It was obvious to Zamir that Ali Mustafa was simply using the lives of the guests as bargaining chips to achieve his means of escape, though the chips had no true value to anyone outside of Austrian authorities. This Mustafa obviously understood, so he used this knowledge to his advantage. He had no intention of showing the Islamic State’s soft side. In fact, their deaths would further serve as ISIS’s show of power.
“Yes, Abd-al-Mumin.”
“That goes for everyone. Maintain vigil and take nothing for granted. There may be that one person hiding within the shadows waiting until it’s too late for you to react. Stay focused. When it’s time to leave, you’ll be called topside.”
“Yes, Abd-al-Mumin.”
After hitting his earbud to shut off his lip mic, Zamir started to search the shadows.
Soon, they would be crawling with unfriendly shapes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Inside the Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
The Vatican Knights met at the bank of elevators on the lower level, which was one flight down from the teeming smoke of the level above. Job, the big man who even dwarfed Kimball, stood before an elevator, slipped the tips of his fingers within the seam that divided the doors, and forced them apart.
The shaft was dark, and heat billowed at them as though Job had just opened an oven door.
Kimball, sticking his head inside the chute, looked upward. The area two stories above their position was as black as pitch, but no flames were visible.
“All right,” Kimball started, “it’s not going to be easy. But it’s clear. It’s hot. And the climb, I’m guessing, is somewhere between ten to fifteen floors that way.” He pointed skyward. “Stay close and be careful.” He pointed to the ribs and struts inside the elevator shaft which appeared like ladder rungs and beam supports, the foot- and handholds of their climb.
Kimball stowed his weapon behind him so that it angled across his back, reached inside with his gloved hands, though fingerless, and felt the steel ribbing that was nearing the point of becoming too hot to handle. After blowing on his fingertips, Kimball gripped a rail and swung himself over the shaft’s drop. Clinging to the wall as sweat immediately began to surface on his brow, he began to climb. With hand over hand and foot after foot, Kimball made excellent time. But with every foot climbed towards the topside level, the heat was becoming more noticeable and the metal almost too hot to touch. One floor up, Kimball started to wonder if the route taken would be disadvantageous to his team. But it was the only course available, the only route.
As the rest of the Vatican Knigh
ts followed, they climbed the walls with the aid of the beams and struts and ladder rungs, with the only challenge the sting of the warming metal against their fingertips, and the intensifying escalation of heat.
. . . The forty-eighth floor . . .
. . . The forty-ninth floor . . .
They continued to climb with the heat at least forty degrees higher than it was a few floors below.
The metal ribbing, the jutting struts and the ladder rungs, all were becoming too hot, so the Vatican Knights used their berets as a mitt to dampen the scorching touch of the steel.
. . . The fiftieth floor . . .
The enclosed space was literally as hot as Hell. If not for the darkness, they would be able to see the air shimmering as a battery of heat that swirled around them and upward, as heat always rises. The temperature here was nearing one hundred forty degrees, the limit any man can tolerate for a period of ten minutes before suffering heat stroke.
The Vatican Knights continued to climb and pushed themselves beyond their capabilities, even as the heat mounted with the fiftieth floor the origin point of the explosion.
“Keep moving, guys.” When Kimball spoke, he did so not as a strict commander who used fear as a motivator, but as a friend whose soft tone said that ‘we’re almost there.’
They pushed themselves upward and onward with every measurable foot of climbing beginning to sap their strength. Though they were the best the world had to offer as a fighting force, they were also humans that had limitations.
. . . The fifty-first floor . . .
Kimball continued to gently goad them along. “Just a few more floors, guys . . . Just a few more.”
