The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020)

by Rick Jones

  There were none.

  “All right,” Kimball said, “let’s move.”

  With stealth and speed and practiced grace, the Vatican Knights started to make their final push.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Ghazi held his AK-47 firm as he stood before Mustafa, who appeared somewhat disappointed in the way that the present was playing out. In one hand he held the detonator. In the other was the Holy Lance.

  Ghazi, who stood before him slack jawed, couldn’t believe that the entire team had been terminated by the Vatican Knights, who, no less, were most likely converging on their position. “Everyone?” he asked Mustafa incredulously. “Zamir, Talib, Qusay and Abd-al-Mumin?”

  “Everyone. The entire team . . . Gone.” Mustafa didn’t look Ghazi in the eye when he forwarded this information. It was as though he was embarrassed and ashamed. His promises of victory had gone to the wayside. And his dream of commanding a great legion of warriors little more than fantasy at this point.

  “But the power of the Holy Lance,” said Ghazi.

  Mustafa shook his head. “Perhaps,” he began, holding up the detonator, “with the power of force, maybe they’ll provide us with the power we seek. Perhaps, one does not work without the other . . . The Holy Lance and the detonator.” Mustafa quickly gave a side-long glance to the door at the other end of the suite. “The hostages,” he said. “Gather them. They won’t risk the life of the Vatican’s Secretary of State. With that being said, Ghazi, we still have the upper hand. Now quickly, bring me the captives.”

  Ghazi lowered his head, a bow of respect. “Yes, Mustafa.”

  As Ghazi headed away, Ali Mustafa wondered if Allah had granted them enough time with the fire rapidly approaching. Will I be bathed in the glory of Your flames, Allah? Or will I rejoice in a well-deserved victory with me as Your ruling vessel?

  Staring at the Spear of Destiny and the detonator, he realized that he still had a slight advantage. He still had the hostages.

  Looking out the shattered windows and seeing nothing but rising smoke, Mustafa set aside the detonator and grabbed his cellphone. With a quick push of his thumb, he hit the number 9.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Müller’s cellphone rang. He answered. “Müller.”

  “The Chopper?”

  “It’s on its way.”

  “As you can see, the lack of time has now become a critical factor in operations, I’m afraid. If that chopper is not here within ten minutes, then I will kill another hostage. Maybe the Cardinal Secretary of State.”

  “Mustafa, we had no way of knowing how fast this fire would move.”

  “Again, you fail to see another aspect of what could be, such as the gas lines exploding.”

  “The chopper is on its way . . . And it’s on time.”

  “Good to hear, Müller. Maybe you’re on top of things after all. And the plane at the airport?”

  “As I stated before, it’s ready to go.”

  There was a pause. Then: “Ten minutes or the hostages start dying, since I believe that the clock is about to run itself out. I am prepared to meet Allah. Know this.”

  The line went dead.

  Zeller addressed Müller by asking, “What?”

  Müller tucked the phone into his pocket. “We have ten minutes.”

  “The choppers will be here in fifteen.”

  Müller didn’t know what to say.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Sixty Miles West of Vienna

  Behind the 18 AW169M chopper was a convoy of three Chinook helicopters that were flying in an eastbound direction when Udo Eckhardt, who was the lead commander of the extraction team, received a call from Base Command. Wearing a headphone to dampen the sound of the rotors, Eckhardt still had to shout over the noise. “This is Chopper One, Base Command! Go!”

  “Base Command to Chopper One, what’s your ETA?”

  “Approximately eighteen minutes!”

  “That’s negative, Chopper One. The time has been pushed to nine minutes. I repeat: the time has been pushed to nine minutes.”

  “That’s negative, Base Command! We’re too far out! I can push it to fifteen, maybe fourteen minutes!”

  “Negative, Chopper One! This is coming from the highest authority. Nine minutes.”

  “Then you tell that ‘highest authority’ that we can’t do the impossible! Even at maximum speed, we’re talking about fourteen minutes here! Realistically, it’s more like fifteen!”

  There was a pause on the part of Base Command, then: “I’ll forward your message, Chopper One. But as of right now, your window closes in nine minutes.”

  “Yeah! I copy!” Eckhardt switched off the communication then commented to himself, “Good luck with that.”

  Eckhardt’s co-pilot turned to address his commanding officer, then asked him, “Are they serious? Nine minutes!”

  Eckhardt nodded. “It’s not going to happen! We’re too far out!” And then: “Whatever is going to happen in nine minutes is going to happen! We’re not miracle workers!”

  Like a gaggle of geese in a migration pattern, the choppers continued their eastbound journey with a fifteen-minute ride ahead of them.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Inside the Kristallpalast

  Vienna, Austria

  Ghazi unlocked the door to the hostage area and stepped inside shouting threats in Arabic. His face was flushed and spittle flew from his lips, the terrorist displaying the high-strung emotion of a man who commanded by intimidation, which had been apparent by the way he directed his AK-47 on those inside the room.

  Judge Rosenberg stood with the features on his face remaining stoic. The Chinese CEO also got to her feet, though slowly and with reluctance, the woman obviously frightened and sobbing. The cardinal, however, remained seated with his back against the wall, cowering. He begged to Jesus and pleaded to God with his steepled hands held in prayer. Tears marked his cheeks, the telling signs of his cowardice. With the brunt of his makeup that of arrogance, his core had rotted long ago by his true lack of faith. And perhaps in the eyes of God, he further considered, it was too late to work his way back into the Lord’s good graces through some form of atonement. As he prayed and begged for His divine mercy, he was afraid that He had said ‘no.’ Or that the cost of his atonement was punishment coming by way of death and sacrifice.

  “Please, Cardinal,” said Judge Rosenberg, “show yourself to be a man of your station. Get up and lead the way. Become that shining light of hope and faith of what will happen to us is not the end . . . But a new beginning.”

  But the cardinal nodded and refused to stand, the man pleading, begging and sobbing.

  The judge frowned at the cardinal. “Really.”

  Ghazi’s patience had run thin as he crossed the room, grabbed Cardinal Favino by the C-4 suicide vest, and hoisted the man to his feet with the point of the assault weapon dug into the cardinal’s side as added motivation.

  Ghazi continued with his Arabic tirade, yelling and shouting for them to move along. The judge was first, the woman second, and then the cardinal, who was forcibly escorted out of the room by the terrorist.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” the cardinal begged. “Please.”

  “Cardinal,” this came from the judge. “I’m surprised by your conduct. I truly am. If not for the position I keep as an associate judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, I would surely give you a ‘bitch slapping’ because you don’t deserve to be punched like a real man. Your actions as a man of faith is deplorable, to say the least. I’m ashamed of you.”

  But the cardinal did not appear to hear him, the man much too absorbed within his fear.

  The trio had been marched into the suite where Ali Mustafa sat before a dead computer. In one hand was the remote detonator. In the other, the Spear of Destiny.

  After Ghazi lined them up, Mustafa appraised each and every one. Judge Rosenberg looked entirely composed. The woman appeared frightened, though she appeared to have accepted her
fate through faith. The cardinal, however, appeared to be neither composed nor in acceptance of his fate. He was simply a coward who posed as a man of holy conviction when, in fact, he was a fraud in sheep’s clothing.

  Ali Mustafa got to his feet, cocked his head in study, then stood before the judge. “You, Jew, are you not afraid?”

  “Should I be? Would it change anything if I were?”

  Mustafa looked into the man’s eyes and saw insane courage underneath, and something that irked him deeply. Then he moved on to the woman, a Chinese national who held her chin high, though her cheeks were streaked with tears. Nevertheless, he had to admire her showing of courage, even when it was a feigned one. But it was his moving on to the cardinal that pleased him most. The cleric was quietly sobbing as he stood with paralytic terror.

  “You, priest, tell me, has your courage abandoned you? Does your faith not lift you?”

  The cardinal started to speak nonsensical syllables.

  Mustafa chuckled. The power he exuded over the cardinal was like an opiate and a memory to be cherished. Here were two men of different faiths challenging each other as to who holds the mightier faith, the priest or the extremist.

  Mustafa raised the Holy Lance before the cardinal. Its sharpened tip sparked a moment with a spangle of light, before disappearing. “Do you know what this is?”

  Cardinal Favino nodded.

  “Tell me, priest.”

  “It’s the Spear of Destiny.”

  “That’s right. Now, tell me more.”

  After licking his parched lips, Cardinal Favino said, “It was rediscovered during the First Crusade by Christian Crusaders at Antioch. Its recovery inspired the Crusaders to take the offensive against the Muslims to take the city.”

  “Which they did. They took Antioch. And now a Muslim holds the relic to take back what had been stolen from us.” After a beat, he asked, “Do you know of its power?”

  A nod from the cardinal.

  “Validate it,” Mustafa stated curtly.

  The cardinal swallowed. “It gives uncontested power to those in possession of the artifact, to reign over a great kingdom and command great armies.”

  Mustafa’s smile flourished. “That’s right.” The terrorist then pointed to the broken windows. Outside, the wall of rising smoke was getting thicker, blacker, the far and distant view now obstructed behind darkened veils. “A firestorm is closing fast on our position. Soon, this entire level will be engulfed in flames. But with the guidance of Allah, He has seen to provide me with the advantage of His blessings.” He held up the Holy Lance as though it were an exhibit, then stepped back to address all three hostages. “We are going topside where a helicopter will meet us for transport. I expect full compliance. Full compliance. If not,” he held up the detonator, “I will not hesitate to use this, believe me. I am fully prepared to meet Allah and to dine by His side tonight, if necessary.” He quickly turned to Rosenberg as though to address him specifically. “Do you understand? I do not want to see any attempts at heroism. It’ll only get you all killed.”

  The judge’s response was his maintained, stoic appearance.

  Mustafa turned to Ghazi. Softly, he whispered, “Maintain the premise, Ghazi. Allow me to wield the Holy Lance as the scepter of rule. Trust me, the lands will shout your name in rejoice.”

  Ghazi immediately understood. He was to be a moral sacrifice in the name of Allah by staying behind to fight the Vatican Knights, until he could fight no more. And Ghazi seemed to relish the idea of being a part of folklore. But even more so, his father would finally be proud of him and speak the name of Ghazi with reverence.

  “Yes, Mustafa. I understand.”

  Mustafa leaned into him until their foreheads were touching, then stated softly, “Tonight, you will dine with Allah. And delight in the fact that it was you who paved the way to my power. People will name their sons in your honor and as a symbol of a hero’s bravery. People will shout the name of Ghazi . . . Ghazi . . . Ghazi. Can you see it, my brother? The people in the streets throughout the Middle East shouting your name in celebration: Ghazi . . . Ghazi . . . Ghazi.

  Ghazi’s eyes took on that dreamlike quality to them, that faraway look. “I do,” he said, smiling, imagining.

  In continued whispers, as though to mimic a stadium filled with fans, Mustafa continued his chant of: “Ghazi . . . Ghazi . . . Ghazi.”

  Ghazi was enchanted with his eyes fixed on a realm that only he could see, that of people dancing in the streets throughout the Middle East chanting his name in homage.

  . . . Ghazi . . . Ghazi . . . Ghazi . . .

  As soon as Mustafa realized that he had penetrated Ghazi’s deep-rooted sense of romanticism, he smiled inwardly. Ghazi had unwittingly handed himself over to Allah after Mustafa appealed to his fantasies that would never come to light. He simply looked at Ghazi as a pawn to be played with and used, nothing more. Once Mustafa boarded the chopper with the hostages, Ghazi would be nothing more than an afterthought that would fade from memory over time.

  Mustafa pulled away and smiled, showing perfect lines of teeth. “Thank you, my brother.”

  Ghazi nodded. “Tonight, I dine with Allah in honor.”

  “Yes,” Mustafa told him. “You will.”

  Ghazi looked at his AK-47, which had minimal rounds. Then he looked at the khanjar he had stashed within the sash around his waist. Between the lack of firepower and the khanjar, he knew Ghazi’s time was limited. But he would fight in the name and glory of Allah. And he would prove his worth by going against the Vatican Knights.

  Ghazi locked eyes with Mustafa. “Allahu Akbar!”

  But Mustafa’s cry was much softer and lacked intensity. “Allahu Akbar,” he returned.

  Showing his rifle as though it was the instrument of divine power, Ghazi went to hold the Vatican Knights long enough for Mustafa to escape with the key to absolute power that was the Holy Lance.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Inside the Kristallpalast

  Vienna, Austria

  Like the alpha predator that Isaiah was, he had Ghazi within his sights.

  The terrorist had moved silently down the stairwell and into the corridor, searching by the way he maneuvered through the hallway and into the shadows. And then he was gone, the man a magician who disappeared within the dark shades before Isaiah’s eyes. Since the terrorist was no novice to special operations, it was obvious to Isaiah that Ghazi knew or felt the Vatican Knight’s presence.

  Isaiah moved along the gloomy lit corridor with lamps so dim that only their filaments burned. He could sense and feel the terrorist’s whereabouts—close but not in striking range.

  The pooling shadows.

  The lights dimmed and flickered as though on their last dying energy feed.

  Step after step with his footfalls silent and graceful, the Vatican Knight was ready to lash out against his opponent. In his hand was a KABAR, a combat knife, and one of the most respected double-edged weapons crafted.

  The lights dimmed even further, the filaments little more than orange threads inside the bulbs. The shadows became darker, deeper, the terrorist taking a page out of the Vatican Knight’s handbook. Use the Darkness as your friend, your ally, and use it well.

  Isaiah closed his eyes and cocked his head in a manner to use the natural radar of his olfactory senses to pick up Ghazi’s location. In his mind’s eye, he could envision this shape standing within the shadows and waiting with his fast-paced heartbeat a certain giveaway. He could smell the sweat of both fear and something that was more intoxicating—the eagerness to hunt.

  Isaiah opened his eyes and homed in on the man’s position, though the shadows before him remained uniform. Gripping his KABAR tightly, Isaiah moved with catlike speed with his attack silent and quick as he burst from his position behind the veils and challenged what he could not see but sensed.

  The KABAR came across and hit the barrel of the AK-47, deflecting it in time to avoid the sudden burst of gunfire. The hallway lit up with muz
zle flashes that were short, staccato bursts of white light. But Ghazi was a master soldier himself, an elite combatant who countered Isaiah’s actions with equal and quick measures. As soon as the point of the gun was knocked aside, Ghazi retaliated by coming across with an elbow strike and connecting with Isaiah’s jaw. The Vatican Knight was uncharacteristically knocked off guard after seeing explosions of light before his eyes, and his KABAR falling from his grip. As Ghazi tried to swing his weapon around, Isaiah retaliated with a series of palm strikes to the terrorist’s face with one right blow after the other—whap, whap, whap, whap, whap—and knocking Ghazi off his stride.

  There was another burst of gunfire, a kneejerk reaction as Ghazi pulled on the trigger in reflex, and then a series of dry clicks. The AK-47 was now out of ammo, the weapon itself nothing more than a cudgel at this point. Ghazi began to swing the weapon like a baseball bat, with the swinging arcs driving Isaiah against the far wall, the swipes missing and failing to strike their mark.

  Isaiah weaved and bobbed, the Vatican Knight searching for an opening, an opportunity, but discovering little room to work with. Then he found himself up against the wall, the man having no room to operate or maneuver. Then ghazi brought his weapon around in a horizontal sweep with the stock of the weapon coming around to bludgeon and destroy.

  Isaiah anticipated the move and ducked. The stock of the AK-47 smashed through the drywall and got wedged, the weapon refusing to loosen its grip, even as Ghazi attempted to pull it free.

  The opportunity was here, now and fresh.

  Isaiah came up with a series of knuckle punches to Ghazi’s midsection, the blows a blitzkrieg that came hard and fast like the pistons of an engine, with each thrust striking and connecting against the abdominal walls and the solar plexus.