The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020)

by Rick Jones

  The room had been designed with a multi-Asian theme. On the walls hung shadow boxes displaying crisscrossing pairs of Japanese katanas, each with twenty-nine-inch blades. Though katanas were not the best swords in the world, they were the sharpest. And as for the Chinese adornments that shared along with the Japanese motif, were the floor-to-ceiling tapestries that contained the images of serpentine dragons and elongated tigers. The windows that surrounded the room had been shattered, as were all the windows on this tier. As strong breezes blew in through these openings, the long tapestries shifted with the dreamy movements of flowing silk.

  Outside of the blowing wind, Zamir heard and saw nothing, but he sensed that he was not alone. With instinct kicking in, he sensed that something was in the shadows drawing a bead on him.

  When Zamir took a firmer grip on his pistol, he discovered that his palm was overly moist.

  Then he took more steps into the room, all tentative and exploratory.

  The tapestries continued to wave along the walls with the course of a cool breeze, the animation drawing his attention.

  Then along the periphery of his left eye was a motion, something that was fast and fleeting, and then gone. Zamir moved with speed and agility after years of military training, the man trying to run down his quarry.

  Inside this large room, however, there were countless partitions and walls, too many places to hide. So Zamir, who remained prudent, exploited these walls to his advantage by using them as barriers. He continued to listen with hearing that was acuter than most and stayed close to the partitions.

  A wind blew.

  The tapestries moved.

  To his right something appeared to move behind one of the textile hangings, a shadow in play.

  Zamir smiled as he trained his weapon on the shape in hiding, the tapestry a poor barrier. And then the bottom of the silk fabric kicked upward from a strong wind, the tapestry now waving like a banner as it lifted high enough to reveal a replica statue of a terracotta warrior.

  Zamir set off a couple of shots that sheared away a portion of its clay head, the terrorist somewhat disappointed that it wasn’t a living target.

  Then from shadows behind him, something emerged with its weapon trying to direct itself on Zamir. It was blacker than black, a silhouette cast against the light of a broken window. But Zamir was well trained, the man once a military might when he fought along with a Saudi cast of special force operatives. He grabbed the point of the weapon and knocked it aside, the burst of gunfire going off in muzzle flashes enough to light up the face of his opponent.

  The features were strong and angular. And around his neck, which stood out in contrast to the color of his uniform, was the white band of a cleric’s collar. Zamir instantly recognized his enemy whose collar was emblematic of the team that wore it.

  Here was a Vatican Knight.

  As the MP7 went off and the bullets going on errant paths, a fist emerged from the shadow like a power driver and struck Zamir squarely on the jawline. The terrorist fell away with his eyes rolling up into slivers of white while seeing internal stars. But the moment was short lived as Zamir immediately collected himself. By the time he was able to level his weapon, the shape was gone.

  The surrounding tapestries moved.

  The wounded terracotta soldier looked upon him with indifference.

  And Zamir evoked the myth of the Vatican Knights, all elite warriors who existed both in the shadow and in the light of day. Even amongst his people, they had been dubbed as demons who walked in league with the devil.

  Seeing a partition before him, Zamir set off a volley of shots that peppered the wall. Holes magically appeared with every shot. And then Zamir carefully went to check his handiwork. When he examined the area behind the partition, he discovered the area empty. The Vatican Knight had moved on to a different location, to another shadow, the man as cunning as lore had made him out to be.

  Zamir was beginning to panic with his imagination taking over. His enemy could neither be defeated nor destroyed, for they were not mere mortals. They were the pagan committee who evolved within the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica, or so the legend is told in the Middle East, to wreak havoc specifically on the virtues of the Islamic State.

  But the Vatican Knights were so much more than that. They were the equalizers between Darkness and Light. They were the saviors to those who needed them most. And they dedicated their lives to protect those who could not protect themselves.

  In panic, Zamir set off a few more rounds until there was a series of clicks, his weapon going dry. In pro fashion, he expertly ejected the magazine and quickly reseated his final one, then he began to direct his weapon to all points of the compass by first turning his Glock to the left, and then to the right, and then once more to the left, the assassin searching for a viable target.

  Then Zamir hit his earbud and whispered into his lip mic. “Talib. I need you. In the Asian Conference Room. There’s a Vatican Knight.”

  “A what?”

  “Hurry.” Zamir shut his earbud off to concentrate on his surroundings that was suddenly too big for him to control by himself.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Ali Mustafa had heard everything over his earbud.

  “Talib. I need you. In the Asian Conference Room. There’s a Vatican Knight.”

  “A what?”

  “Hurry.”

  Then white noise.

  Ali Mustafa believed that he had planned well by cutting off all means of entry, had advised the authorities of his demands, and ruled over high-profile hostages by deciding who lived or died. How the Vatican Knights made it to the upper tiers was beyond his wonder. Though Mustafa’s team originated from piecing together elite commandos from the special forces ranks in the Middle East, the Vatican Knights were a completely different class of fighters.

  Mustafa could feel his heart racing, as well as to hear his blood rushing past his ears like the current of a fast-moving river. Suddenly, nothing made sense. The power of the Spear of Destiny was supposed to be absolute and uncontestable. Yet a fire raged out of control and the Vatican Knights were stalking his unit in order to neutralize what they would perceive to be a threat.

  How did they get here? Mustafa asked himself. How did they skirt the flames? But the answer came to him in folklore fashion: In the Middle East, the Vatican Knights had been mythologized as demons who came out of the shadows that had been cast by the spires of St. Peter’s Basilica, to become the alpha predators they were known to be.

  But this was only partially true. The Vatican Knights did use the shadows to their advantage, but they were in league with the Light—not the Dark as the Islamic State would believe them to be.

  Mustafa quickly grabbed the Holy Lance from the computer station and held it to his forehead. Closing his eyes, he prayed to Allah with his lips moving soundlessly. When he finished his litany of entreaties, he extended his hand to examine the Lance. There was no magic or divinelike enchantments, only a relic that remained cool to the touch.

  Tapping his earbud, he said, “Ghazi, do you see the chopper?”

  “Negative. It’s difficult to see through the walls of smoke.”

  Mustafa checked his watch. Time was running short. Then into his lip mic, he said: “Zamir, Talib, Qusay and Abd-al-Mumin, there comes a moment when we all become tested in both faith and conviction. A Vatican Knight rarely fights alone. Where there is one, there will be others. Find them. And with the blessings of Allah, destroy them. Remember, I hold the power of the Holy Lance, a conduit to Allah’s might. The presence of the Vatican Knights is a true test that will enable its powers.” After a slight pause, Mustafa, sounding disheartened, said, “Allahu Akbar.”

  The challenge was on.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  When Kimball’s weapon went off with errant bursts of gunfire after Zamir deflected the point of the barrel, the assault rifle jammed due to a malfunction. After lashing out with a hammer blow to Zamir’s jaw, Kimball fell back into the s
hadows trying to get the weapon operational. He racked it and tried to clear the chamber, only for the assault rifle to remain nonfunctioning. Laying the weapon aside, Kimball, with his trusty combo of KABAR knives that were sheathed and attached to his thighs, removed them. These were his weapons of choice because he never had to worry about them going dry or malfunctioning, like the MP7.

  Using the shadows as his allies, Kimball moved into position with Zamir in his sights. The Arab, in panic, set off a volley of gunfire into the partition which Kimball had used to conceal himself moments after the Vatican Knight had fallen back into the room’s darker circles.

  Then the terrorist spoke in whispers, the man no doubt wearing an earbud with an attached lip mic.

  Kimball moved within the shadows, black on black.

  Zamir continued his manic search by aiming his Glock in all directions, his target close but not yet seen. And then a piece of loose clay, a fragment, from the terracotta soldier, fell from the damaged head and to the floor, the clay fracturing. Zamir turned his weapon on the figure and pulled the trigger in quick succession, his aim deadly and true as the rest of the head exploded into particles of dust.

  And then there was a series of dry clicks, the Glock empty.

  Zamir looked at his firearm with something Kimball assumed as anger. Then Zamir patted himself in search of another magazine, but quickly discovered that he was out of ammunition.

  Kimball emerged from the shadows with a KABAR in each hand, and with the points of the black matte blades keen.

  Zamir tossed the gun at Kimball, who sidestepped it, and backed away until he could back up no more. Pinning himself against the wall, Zamir looked at the shadowbox hanging to his right.

  The katanas.

  Though not the greatest sword on the market when it came to durability, it certainly had the sharpness to sever limbs with simple sweeps. And the katana had a far more effective reach than a KABAR. Using the point of his elbow, Zamir smashed the glass. The displayed swords were crisscrossing over one another, with the pair coming directly from an expert craftsman in Japan. Zamir grabbed both weapons and hefted them with the feel good in his hands. Then he began to operate the sword in his left hand with the simple ease that a majorette swings a baton. And then he deployed the same measure of skill with his right hand, the action telling Kimball that the Arab was highly trained in the art of double-edged weaponry.

  Kimball knew instantly that his KABARs would be useless since the reach of the knife compared to the reach of the sword gave Zamir an effectual advantage.

  As Zamir cautiously approached, Kimball carefully slid his knives back into their sheaths and started to back away towards the opposite wall where another shadowbox hung. Inside were another crisscrossing pair of katanas with sharp-whetted edges that could carve and dice. And like Zamir, Kimball used his elbow to smash through the glass. Then grabbing the swords, Kimball, like Zamir, performed his own routine. He swung the blades in circles and poetic arcs with graceful choreography, with his message just as clear to Zamir as Zamir’s was to him: That they both had a remarkable skillset when it came to bladed weaponry.

  Zamir and Kimball sized each other up as they circled one another, with the two drawing closer upon each rotation. As they circled close enough for the two to be within the kill zone, it was Zamir who struck first.

  The blade of his katana came across in a horizontal arc with the sword easily deflected by Kimball, the sparks flying with the metal-on-metal impact. Then Zamir became the aggressor with his skill apparent as he attacked with blinding speed, arcs and sweeps that were carefully calculated and performed with practiced design. But Kimball was just as fast as the katanas swept aside and deflected the blows, the blades moving with blinding speed and going faster and faster with every maneuver and movement.

  Zamir continued to slash and stab with the intention to gore and slice, only to fall short of his endeavor. The blades continued to slash and cut through air as blurs, with metal striking metal to create matchhead-sized sparks that took flight and died off.

  Faster and faster the blades of the katanas moved with the two fighting effortlessly without tiring, with each looking for an opportunity to strike and maim. More flashes of brilliant swordplay continued as the blades moved with a designed pattern that had been perfected from years of training, with strikes and counterstrikes.

  At first, Zamir pushed Kimball back, and then Kimball pushed Zamir back with the fight a seesaw battle.

  Then Kimball interpreted Zamir’s pattern, one in which he never deviated from. The terrorist was performing the same repeated actions without mixing up his game plan, which was a mistake. On the next go around, Kimball intuited the move before it happened and stole the advantage. When Zamir brought his sword down in a vertical curve, Kimball stepped aside from the path of its downward glide, performed a full pivot on the balls of his feet, and followed through by coming around and driving the blade horizontally through Zamir’s lower back.

  Zamir’s eyes ogled with the surprise of his mortality as darkness approached the moment the katana sliced through bone and muscle with the proverbial ease of a hot knife slicing its way through a warm cake of butter. With a marginal grunt of astonishment, Zamir’s halved body fell to the floor.

  As Kimball stood over the cleaved body, that was when Talib entered the room with his AK-47 firing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Qusay had heard the communication from Ali Mustafa about the Vatican Knight, then weighed the evident concern in his voice. A Vatican Knight rarely fights alone. Where there is one, there will be others. Find them. And with the blessings of Allah, destroy them.

  But the Vatican Knights were a different breed of animal that was cunning and dark and had the powers of devils. No matter how good he was when he used to serve as an elite commando for special forces, he would rather go up against an fully armed unit with his bare fists than to go against a Vatican Knight with all the weapons he could carry.

  Carefully scoping the corridor of the sixty-sixth floor with his suppressed sidearm, he listened for every noise and searched for any movement, which included living shadows. Everything was quiet, the darkness remaining still. But that meant little to him since a Vatican Knight always used the shadows to his advantage by remaining as still as a Grecian statue within, until he decided to make himself known. By then, however, it was often too late. One would first see a flash, a glimmer, and then you were dead.

  Qusay could feel his heart hammer against the wall of his chest, hard and relentless.

  The corridor appeared almost too long, a surreal image, the odd stretch having been triggered by his imagination of believing that something menacing lurked somewhere along its length, watching. The walk would be a long one, a fearful one, and one that would pass with glacial slowness. Though he was devout in his beliefs, Qusay was also human with very human concerns. Life was a gift granted to him. Death was a gift granted to Allah. But within this moment where the hallway appeared too ominous and too silent, he begged for the gift of life.

  The terrorist continued to move with care and caution. His Glock remained aimed before him, ready to make a kill shot. With Allah his guide and the power of the Holy Lance his shield, Qusay discovered a false sense of security that Allah would prevail through him. Qusay, however, would discover otherwise.

  Moving along the corridor, which operated on dying power cells, the light was somewhat feeble and the area gloomy. Shadows remained still with the presence of darkness all around. Vatican Knights were clever and knew how to manipulate their surroundings by becoming a part of it. In any terrain, they could become chameleons to any backdrop.

  For Qusay’s comfort, however, the area was too quiet. It was something similar to being in a jungle when the cries of the animals suddenly stopped and absolute silence fell, which was usually a telltale sign that an alpha predator was nearby. Qusay could not shake off the feeling that he was not alone, and that this jungle was still for a reason.

  The po
wer-cell lamps started to wink in a semblance of Morse Code, in dots and dashes of failing light before they eventually died off, leaving him in the shadows barring the minimal light that came in through a shattered window at the end of the hallway.

  Qusay froze, listened, the terrorist trying to home in on anything close. Nothing sounded.

  Then the terrorist took a few tentative steps forward while imploring to Allah with his prayers so soft, it was as if he was mouthing his words.

  Directly to his left as though it came directly through the wall instead of a veil of deep shadow, Qusay saw the point of a gun’s barrel extend from the darkness. The tip was so close that he could see the opening of the silencer, that circular black hole. And oddly, as he stared at Death’s eye, and instead of thinking of his mortality or preparing for a transition to the afterlife, Qusay wondered how the Vatican Knight appeared so suddenly from the moments between the dying lamps and the subsequent darkness, with the fluctuation from one to the other happening so abruptly.

  While he was in the midst of this thought, the eye of the suppressor erupted in a muzzle flash of light. Qusay’s head snapped back as the round punched through his forehead and exited through the back, with the wall behind Qusay suddenly the splashed canvas of blood and gore. For a moment Qusay staggered in his stance as his mind tried to process and register his death. And then in one defining moment, he suddenly collapsed and fell straight down after his knees buckled underneath him.

  Jeremiah emerged from the shadows. Then into his lip mic, he said: “One tango down.” When Kimball did not respond, the Vatican Knight repeated the call: “Kimball, do you copy? One tango down.”

  But Kimball Hayden had problems of his own.