The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020)

by Rick Jones

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Talib entered the conference room the moment Zamir’s upper body had been separated from his lower, with his legs falling to one side and his torso the other. Standing over him was a Vatican Knight, by dress, who wielded the katanas like magic, with the bold stroke from the warrior claiming the life of Zamir, which enraged Talib. Shouting in anger, Talib leveled his AK-47 and sent off a volley of gunfire that lit up the room with staccato bursts of muzzle flashes. Kimball ducked, dove, and quickly rolled behind a statue of Buddha, though the rounds smashed easily through the ceramic structure with chalky dust and chipped pieces going everywhere.

  Talib moved forward with the point of his weapon moving from left to right, then from right to left, strafing as he closed on Kimball’s position. The terrorist screamed out in Arabic, his words sounding overwhelmingly angry and profane.

  Kimball looked at the swords in both hands as the statue he hunkered behind was being whittled down by the gunfire. Ceramic chips and dust developed all around him. Over his earbud he could barely make out Jeremiah, who was calling from a level below. And Kimball had no way to defend himself from his attacker since a katana was no contest against an AK-47.

  The firing suddenly stopped as clicks echoed through the poorly acoustic room. The weapon had run dry, the moment to be seized. As Qusay ejected a magazine and in his attempt to reseat another, Kimball stood up from behind the ruined statue of Buddha, which was now a jagged foundation, lifted his right hand, and let the katana sail between him and Qusay.

  The sword spun in blinding revolutions as it quickly closed the gap between them, the blade splitting the air to create whistles during its flight. Qusay, who appeared wide-eyed as he tried to insert the magazine, could only watch as the fast-moving katana spun across the small distance between them. On the downward swing of the katana’s circular rotation, the blade cleaved through Qusay’s skull and divided his head down to the bridge of his nose, where it became lodged with the bloodless gash line from crown to bridge ruler-straight.

  Kimball stared at the terrorist as clicking and guttural sounds emanated from somewhere in the back of Qusay’s throat. After a moment of weaving in his stance and then taking a few awkward steps, the terrorist dropped his weapon, fell to his knees, and died in that position—on his knees.

  Kimball, who examined his work from behind the whittled down Buddha statue, tapped his earbud and spoke into his lip mic. “Copy that, Jeremiah. One tango down for you. Two tangos by me. I believe that leaves three tangos active.”

  White noise. Then: “Copy.”

  Kimball then put in a call to Job. “Job, what’s your twenty?”

  “Still on the lower levels. I’m moving the packages to the upper levels.”

  “Number of packages?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “I’ll inform you when all levels are clear. So far, you’re good to sixty-five.”

  “Copy that.”

  Kimball terminated the communication. At his feet was an AK-47. Tossing the katana off to his side, Kimball grabbed the weapon, fully seated the magazine, racked it to feed a bullet into the chamber, then quickly made his way to Ali Mustafa’s throne, which sat high inside his burning castle.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Isaiah did not see Abd-al-Mumin hiding within the shadows, but he could sense him. He could almost hear the throb of the assassin’s heartbeat and smell his fear within each perspiring bead of sweat.

  But Abd-al-Mumin was a master in stealth, as most operators from special forces were.

  The Vatican Knight moved through the hallways searching and scoping for hostiles, and to clear the way for Job who managed to rescue those down below. Now that Kimball and Jeremiah had addressed their active threats, Isaiah now had to deal with the target he sensed was close by.

  His steps were soft and quiet like feline footfalls. He passed by multiple doors along the hallway, and then a decorative and unbelievably expensive bombe chest. Along the walls hung elegant drapery, luxurious and silklike. And then the power cells in the backup lamps started to fade, the bulbs blinking a moment before the illumination was gone. There was nothing but reigning shadows and little light from a smashed window at the end of the corridor.

  Isaiah pressed on sensing his quarry close enough to smell his scent, being the alpha predator that he was.

  The drapes to Isaiah’s left moved, the fabric parting enough to reveal a sidearm with its point directed at the Vatican Knight. But Isaiah sprung forward with his reflexes lightning quick and slapped the point of the firearm aside just as it discharged, the fired-off bullet lodging inside the opposite wall. As Isaiah tried to bring his weapon around, Abd-al-Mumin exploded from behind the drape and kicked the weapon free from Isaiah’s grip. As the MP7 skated across the carpeted floor and beneath the bombe, Isaiah lashed out and grabbed the wrist of Abd-al-Mumin’s gun hand and twisted it, the action completely flipping the terrorist off his feet and through the air in a perfect somersault, where he then landed hard on the floor. But Abd-al-Mumin quickly regained himself with the Vatican Knight already standing before him in challenge with his hands and feet arranged in the technique of Taekwondo, something Abd-al-Mumin immediately recognized. To counter Isaiah’s stance, Abd-al-Mumin went into his own performance of displaying the martial art technique of Wing Chun Quan.

  The two sized each other up with the two circling each other, though the hallway did not provide ample space. But it was Abd-al-Mumin who struck first after believing to have discovered a weak spot and a moment of opportunity against the Vatican Knight.

  The terrorist threw a few forward thrusts with speed that would not have been seen by most. But Isaiah was a master of his craft as the Vatican Knight countered with a series of moves that deflected the blows, and then he brought up his foot and hammered it squarely against Abd-al-Mumin’s chest. The force of Isaiah’s kick lifted Abd-al-Mumin off his feet and punched him through the door of a suite, the wood splintering in loud report.

  At first, the terrorist saw the gauzy pattern of cobwebs inside his head.

  And then the ceiling.

  The expensive wall hangings.

  A nearby bed.

  Furniture.

  Abd-al-Mumin quickly realized that he was lying on the floor of a suite the same time his attacker was squeezing himself through the smashed doorway. Getting to his feet, Abd-al-Mumin attacked the Vatican Knight with his hands and feet moving with perfectly designed movements, all which the Vatican Knight easily defended.

  The two men warred with each other, sometimes grappling with one another in what appeared to be a drunken tango, only for them to part and do battle. They engaged one another with flurries of punches and kicks, with some landing and some missing.

  Then Isaiah went into high gear. Having mastered many arts and many routines, he had combined the best of most techniques into his own personal brand. With lightning flashes of thrusts and kicks and elbow strikes, Isaiah moved as a man possessed and one who would not be denied a victory. His fists, the sharpened points of his elbows, the balls of his feet, these myriad parts of his body all served as weapons that struck major blows to Abd-al-Mumin.

  The fists came as straight jabs to the face and chest area, all undefendable while striking with powerful forces that broke the terrorist’s nose and drew blood. And then the blows came faster and faster, like moving pistons, with the driving impacts moving Abd-al-Mumin closer to where a window once stood.

  . . . whap-whap-whap . . .

  Abd-al-Mumin fought back as best he could with his hands and arms throwing wild and powerless shots as darkness closed in along the borders of his periphery vision, with the man now on the verge of passing out.

  . . . whap-whap-whap . . .

  Isaiah continued this fight with relentless power and with speedy thrusts, the terrorist edging towards the opening, a deep drop.

  . . . whap-whap-whap . . .

  The edges of Abd-al-Mumin’s vision began to pinch inward with the ligh
t closing, then fading. And there was a smell of blood. His blood. Metallic and coppery. With his legs sustaining him, he continued to fall back . . . back . . . back . . .

  And then Abd-al-Mumin, with his eyes closed, could feel himself smiling as he was floating above the Earth, the man free. The wind blew against his skin, soft and cool and satisfying. The mayhem of the fight was over with the pain little more than throbbing discomforts. The Vatican Knight had relented through his weakness of mercy, he considered. But this was all mere fiction. When the terrorist opened his eyes, he saw the pavement of the street racing toward him. In the time he had left, within those few precious seconds between life and death, he wondered why Allah did not flex His might on this day. Why?

  Unfortunately, Abd-al-Mumin would never get his answer.

  But he would discover darkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  After extending the perimeter line around the Kristallpalast to a zoned area marked safe from a potential building collapse, Müller had to use a binocular to spy the tower. From his out-of-range position, he noted through his binoculars that the billowing flames were becoming more forceful in their upward climb, and that the smoke had coated the sides with black soot. As he zoomed in to focus on the topside level, he saw a dark speck that was in free fall. Increasing the focus, he was able to see that it was a person spinning and pinwheeling through space. As soon as the body struck the pavement, Müller lowered the binoculars, pointed to Zeller, and said, “You. With me.”

  The two quickly got into a Jeep and drove to the body’s landing zone. Even from half a block away, they could see someone lying in the street as a wild tangle of broken bones. As the Jeep came to a skidding halt, Müller and Zeller quickly exited the vehicle to examine the corpse. With Abd-al-Mumin’s face remaining intact, though his body was a twisted mangle, Müller recognized Abd-al-Mumin immediately from the photos of his biographical record.

  “Abd-al-Mumin,” he stated evenly. “Ali Mustafa’s lieutenant.” Then he looked skyward to view the top of the tower, which was obscured by rising smoke. “Let’s assume that the Vatican Knights made it,” he stated as a hypothetical matter. “Then we can also assume that they’re moving on Ali Mustafa’s position.” He turned to Zeller and commanded: “When the Chinooks come in, I want them up and running on my call. No shut down.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Understood.”

  Müller, with Zeller taking the passenger seat inside the Jeep, looked skyward at the building aflame. The flames were steadily eclipsing the upper floors with incredible speed, with the danger here eliminating the much-needed time necessary to evacuate the guests.

  Zeller, who clearly intuited Müller’s thinking as the Einsatzkommando leader put the vehicle into DRIVE, asked, “You don’t think they’re going to make it, do you?”

  “No. I don’t. Not at the pace in which the fire is claiming the floors. The Vatican Knights were granted a timeframe to work with, but exigent circumstances dictate otherwise. The window will close long after the flames reach them, so I’m breaking my order to ‘stand down.’”

  Zeller looked at his watch and performed a quick calculation. “Twenty minutes for the choppers, maybe another fifteen to thirty minutes to evacuate the guests. And that’s if they’re ready for extraction.”

  Müller, driving back to the safe zone, agreed. “That’s the problem,” he said. “There are too many variables. That’s why my team and the Chinooks need to be ready. The fire’s moving too quickly for my comfort.”

  “Twenty minutes for the choppers to arrive and another thirty or so minutes for the extraction, you don’t think it’s enough? That’s almost an hour.”

  “In my line of work,” he told Zeller, “there’s always one constant: There’s never enough time when you need it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Isaiah was standing at the broken window looking down, but the rising smoke was so thick that he was unable to see the streets below. But it didn’t take a mental giant to realize Abd-al-Mumin’s fate.

  Isaiah hit his earbud. “Kimball.”

  Nothing but the noise of static, the frequency growing weak.

  “Kimball, do you read?”

  A message finally came through, though the connection was breaking up. But Isaiah was only able to pick up half the words and piece together a message. Four tangos were confirmed down. Two remained. Head to the seat of Ali Mustafa’s command on the seventieth floor.

  Isaiah said, “Copy that.” And then he was gone, the Vatican Knight moving upward and away from the all-consuming flames.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  “Talib?”

  Nothing.

  “Qusay?”

  Nothing.

  Zamir? . . . Abd-al-Mumin?”

  Still nothing.

  After killing his earbud mic, Ali Mustafa fell into his seat and onto his throne that was nothing more than an uncomfortable chair that sat before the downed computer. Without question his team was dead—Qusay, Zamir, Talib and Abd-al-Mumin, all gone . . . All who were receiving the fruits of Paradise.

  Ali Mustafa sighed through his nostrils. He still had Ghazi who manned the topside. Below him, the Vatican Knights, who were no doubt converging on his position.

  Mustafa gripped the Holy Lance hard enough for the edges to bite, but not break, his skin. The Spear of Destiny, he thought, a divine relic that promises a commanding rise to kings and kingdoms alike, and to rule with the power of a deity. “Where is your power?” he whispered.

  Mustafa stared at the artifact with eyes that had the look of anger to them. He had prayed and hoped and waited with saintly patience only to receive nothing in return. The relic had not yet provided him with an advantage or a strategic win. The explosion and the subsequent fire within the building was now ablaze with uncontested fury below, his entire team had been terminated by the Vatican Knights, and lack of time had now become a grave disadvantage.

  “Where is your power?” he whispered once again.

  Then his eyes shifted. On the desk by the computer monitor was the detonator to the C-4 suicide vests. All he had to do was to give a simple flick of his thumb to set off the plastique. A simple . . . flick.

  Setting the Spear of Destiny aside, he picked up the detonator, examined it, then realized that true violence made kings, not the legend of divine relics. If he was to reign, then he would do so by the power of weapons, by the power of explosives. If Allah decided to call him to Paradise, then who was he to question His authority? Still, the relic of the Holy Lance. Perhaps the two together needed to work in tandem to create the necessary results, he considered.

  Ali Mustafa smiled: Of course.

  In one hand was the Holy Lance, in the other was the detonator. Together they would make a formidable force, even against the Vatican Knights.

  Hitting his earbud, he said, “Ghazi.”

  “Yes, Mustafa.”

  “I need you. We’re about to have company.”

  “Yes, Mustafa.”

  Mustafa cut the connection by tapping his earbud. In one hand was the detonator. In the other was the Holy Lance. Then he weighed the items as though his hands were balance scales, eventually concluding that the Spear of Destiny had the greater weight; therefore, the greater power. Nevertheless, the detonator would also play a big factor in the outcome of the mission. “Now,” he whispered while holding the two items side by side, “show me Your power.”

  As the smell of smoke started to waft through the suite, whereas cloaking veils of smoke beyond the windows moved skyward to blot out the light as though scudding clouds were passing across the sun, Ali Mustafa could feel his confidence waning, no matter how much he wanted to believe in the power of the items within his hands.

  Show me Your power, he willed. Show me . . . Your power.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  The lower floors had been cleared and the treats removed, leaving Job to freely escort the guests to the helipad. The hallways,
however, were thickening with smoke, causing some to cough and gag. Smoky commas and slow-moving eddies were shifting in space, the smoke a revealing sign that the fire was nearing their level at an unprecedented rate.

  “We’re almost there,” he goaded. “Almost.” But Job could feel his lungs growing heavy with smoke and his throat becoming sour. His immediate surrounding was beginning to overcome and overwhelm.

  Coughing, the Vatican Knight continued to drive his people to the nearest stairwell. Once the stairway was reached, Job put his shoulder into the door and rammed it open. The area was just as smoky and just as thick, though the upper levels appeared clear.

  “Move,” he told them. “Everyone to the topside.”

  With people coughing, gagging and choking, even when they wore gaiter masks fashioned from torn sheets and bath towels, their motion was becoming slow due to the smoke beginning to sap them of energy and oxygen. Still, as the leader of his flock, Job continued to shepherd these strangers to safety with his life at risk.

  So were the virtues of a Vatican Knight.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  One level below Ali Mustafa’s suite, Kimball met up with Jeremiah and Isaiah.

  “All right,” Kimball told them softly, “Job is moving the masses forward, but our mission is not done, not even remotely. We press ahead, we move up, and we push forward. So, what do we know at this point?” Kimball raised his gloved hand and held up four fingers. “One, Mustafa is in control of the hostages, so we proceed with stealth.” He lowered one finger. “Two, only one remains on Mustafa’s team.” He lowered another finger. “Three, Mustafa is highly educated, so he’ll intuit our moves and counter them the same way he countered the hard entry by the Einsatzkommando unit.” He lowered a third finger. “And four, our time is limited. The fire is gaining, so we need to move quietly and with absolute efficiency, even though he’ll be expecting us.” He lowered his last finger until a fisted hand remained. “Questions?”