The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020)

by Rick Jones

  Ghazi fell back as air vacated his lungs. And then Isaiah jumped high in the air and performed a graceful revolution as he extended his leg, which came around and connected with Ghazi’s chest just below the throat area. Ghazi, perhaps weighing 170, was lifted off his feet and sent through the wall and into a luxury suite, the terrorist then finding himself on the floor but not out. Quickly, Ghazi reached for the khanjar inside his sash and got to his feet, readying himself for combat.

  But the Vatican Knight was already inside posing before the terrorist in a martial arts stance that Ghazi did not recognize. Nor did he care as he began to circle Isaiah in study, while holding his knife tightly within his grasp.

  Ghazi juked and weaved from side to side feigning to attack, while the Vatican Knight continued to watch and evaluate. And then Ghazi launched himself forward with his khanjar stabbing and slashing, the terrorist hoping that the blade would find its intended mark. But Isaiah was quick and steady in his routine. He waited and watched for the moment when Ghazi became fatigued to the point of slowing, like a boxer who throws too many punches enough to sap him of his energy. But the attacks came with velocity that had been motivated by an adrenaline rush, the sweeps and arcs moving in blurs, the thrusts coming with lightning speed equal to that of a serpent striking.

  Isaiah fell back.

  Ghazi pressed forward.

  As Ghazi leapt with his right hand coming around, the blade of the knife found its mark and scored Isaiah’s flesh from wrist to elbow, a deep gash, though not crippling.

  Falling back and feeling the hot sting of the wound, Ghazi smiled at Isaiah with amusement as though the victory was his. But Isaiah had other plans as the Vatican Knight came at Ghazi with purpose. Though the terrorist held his khanjar with a sturdy grip, nothing compared to the fists and feet of this Vatican Knight.

  Isaiah approached with his hands moving in figure-eight patterns, the tactic often used to distract an opponent. As soon as Ghazi’s eyes locked onto the gestures, Isaiah sprang forward with a straight kick to the solar plexus, which sent the man backward off his stance with such momentum, that Ghazi smashed through the glass-brick wall that led to the bathroom. Pieces of glass shattered and skated across the marble floor as Ghazi came to rest against the tub. After he shook off the cobwebs and managed to get to his feet, Isaiah was already on top of him.

  The Vatican Knight threw a number of power blows to the man’s face, neck and chin area, the terrorist’s eyes beginning to roll up enough to show nothing but white. And then Isaiah, seeing an opportunity, threw a knuckle chop to Ghazi’s throat, a direct hit. Ghazi, who wavered in his stance while appearing detached, the Vatican Knight attacked the terrorist by grabbing the back of his neck and then ramming his face against the porcelain sink once, twice, three times, the sink cracking and then breaking, with Ghazi’s face smashed to pulp. Ghazi, who fell limp within Isaiah’s grip the moment he released his khanjar to the tiled floor, was let go by the Vatican Knight with Ghazi falling lazily to the marble, his life gone.

  Isaiah leaned against the wall breathing heavily as though he had just completed a marathon run. Ghazi, who had tested him well and better than most, lay on the floor as a huddled mass not far from where he was standing. After checking his wound and hissing when he rolled back his sleeve, he noted the long gash, though not as deep as it could have been, and determined that his arm would still be workable over the long course.

  After tapping the earbud and lip mic, he said, “Job.”

  “Go.”

  “The building’s clear. Move the packages topside.”

  “Copy that.”

  Still trying to catch his breath with Ghazi’s face a mash of blood and gore and smashed tissue looking at him, Isaiah left the suite to join his team in the final push.

  * * *

  “Job.”

  “Go.”

  “The building’s clear. Move the packages topside.”

  “Copy that.” Job tapped his earbud to close communication.

  The smoke in the hallway was getting noticeably thicker and the climbing temperature almost unbearable to tolerate. People coughed, some sobbed, and Job could see the despair within their eyes, all of which pleaded for a savior. They had seen his collar, and they had placed their trust in this priest who was not a priest, but a soldier who fought in the name of his God under the espoused mantra of ‘protect those who cannot protect themselves.’ Lead us for we are your flock and send us to salvation. Job did not have to hear their thoughts. Their eyes had said it all.

  Then in a final push as the flames raged one floor below, Job led his flock heavenward, though they were running out of space and options, from a foe that had no passion, mercy or reasoning . . . Just the need to take new ground.

  * * *

  Mustafa had finally reached the top of his castle of the seventy-fifth floor.

  He was surrounded by walls of smoke, thick and dark, that rose from the lower levels as stalking flames continued to climb along the building’s walls. Standing on the H that marked the helipad, he checked his watch. The chopper had yet to arrive with less than three minutes remaining.

  Standing by the heliport shack was the judge, the Chinese CEO, and the Cardinal Secretary of State. To show them that he still held ultimate power and absolute control, Mustafa raised the detonator, and with his other hand, the Holy Lance. Obviously, he knew he had made his point when Cardinal Favino broke down with racking sobs. It was also something that brought a pleasant smile to the terrorist’s face. Power was to be relished whenever the opportunity revealed itself.

  Tucking the detonator inside one pocket, he removed his cellphone from another. With his thumb, he depressed the number 9 and waited a time that equaled three or four heartbeats.

  Finally, Müller answered. “Müller.”

  “Where’s the chopper?”

  “It’s on its way. I promise.”

  “Your promises mean little to me, Müller. But here’s my promise to you. You now have two minutes. Two! Or I send another your way from the helipad. Perhaps the woman or maybe the judge. Or maybe . . . I’ll send the Cardinal Secretary of State.”

  “Mustafa, its coming. It may be a few minutes—”

  “Don’t even say it. I don’t want to hear about delays. If that chopper is not here within the timeframe we agreed upon, then we’ll see who comes your way. The judge, the CEO, or the priest.”

  “Mustafa—”

  The terrorist hung up, tucked the phone inside one pocket, then removed the detonator from the other pocket.

  The judge had somewhat of a one-sided and quirky smile, which irritated Mustafa.

  “What are you smiling at?” Mustafa asked.

  “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

  “About what?”

  “A punchline to a joke. Though, it’s not much of a joke to begin with.”

  “Humor me.”

  The judge nodded. “Sure. Why not.” After a pause, the judge, who still carried his smile, said, “It starts out with a man walks into a bar and sees three men—a Jew, a Muslim and a Catholic. And the man—”

  Mustafa patted the air for Rosenberg to cease. “Stop. I don’t like it already.”

  “But you haven’t heard it.”

  “I don’t have to. I already know I don’t like it.”

  “Why? Because you believe that a Jew and a Catholic don’t deserve to be mentioned in the same line as a person of your faith?”

  Mustafa gave Judge Rosenberg a hard look.

  “Even when most religious tomes declare that we share the same God since God has many faces but only one voice—be you Jewish, Catholic or Muslim. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a man of Jewish faith, a Muslim and a Catholic could dine together in the afterlife as a show of unity instead of division? Or is it too humorous to believe that a gorgeous mosaic of religions can be together in harmony under one roof? . . . Wouldn’t that be funny if that . . . could . . . happen?”

  Mustafa pared back his lips enough to
skin his teeth to reveal a snarl. To think of such a congregation as the judge had suggested was not humorous in any way, but blasphemous.

  “Perhaps, Judge, you will go over the edge when the time is up, yes?”

  “If that is your choice. But as I said, I have learned to live with fate long ago.” The judge’s quirky smile remained, that sarcastic uplifting of his lip that was a measure of the man’s character strength, fortitude and defiance. And that’s what Mustafa disliked about the judge, the core of his unshakable courage.

  First, Mustafa would keep true to his promise and take a life. As he stood before Judge Rosenberg, the cardinal and the CEO, he used the point of the Spear of Destiny as a wand to choose his victim. He went from victim to victim in a malicious game of eenie-meenie-minie-moe as though he was allowing the Holy Lance to decide as to which one to throw off the ledge. When he looked at their faces to delight himself in the moment of their uncontrolled fear, he noticed that they were looking behind him. Feeling a strange menace, Mustafa turned in a slow pivot.

  Standing within eddies of smoke that vaguely shielded him was a Vatican Knight. He was broad of shoulder and thick of chest. Then he emerged from the veils as though he was a part of them—perhaps this hellish manifestation created from smoke and fire, Mustafa considered—to finally show itself. Here was the face he had seen many times before in his nightmares, a face that had stared back at him from the shadows. And he knew that the demonic wizard of his dreams, this Devil’s Magician who had long been considered to be an angel to some and a demon to others, had finally come to collect his soul.

  But the terrorist had the magical talisman to ward off his demon. He had the power of the Holy Lance, which he held high in display as a deterrent.

  It wasn’t.

  Kimball Hayden marched forward with venom in his eyes.

  * * *

  Judge Rosenberg watched the scenario play out before him with complete composure, the man a rock. Beyond the gauzelike wall of smoke stood the silhouette of a man, a large man, watching as though he had the remarkable ability to see through the smoky veils. And then he pushed forward through the wall of smoke. The man’s face was greasy with sweat and marked with patches of soot, as was his uniform, which was soiled with gray ash and dust. Around his collar, he wore the band of a cleric’s collar which stood in contrast against his outfit, white against black.

  “A Vatican Knight.” The words came from the cardinal to the judge’s left as whispers, the cleric appearing relieved with his smile quietly transmitting that everything that was about to play out would be in his favor. This priest who emerged from the smoke was obviously much more than just a man, but their savior. Judge Rosenberg had no idea what Cardinal Favino was talking about or why he was smiling with a sense of liberation. The only thing the judge knew and what he saw was a man of remarkable build coming to challenge Mustafa, who was now displaying the relic of the Holy Lance as though it was Merlin’s wand.

  When the Vatican Knight failed to alter his charging pace, Ali Mustafa removed the detonator, which seemed to have more of an impact. This man, this Vatican Knight, obviously understood the destructive nature of the controller and immediately became as still as a Bernini statue.

  The judge watched the exchange between the two as Mustafa held the Spear of Destiny in one hand and the detonator in the other. Then Judge Rosenberg looked at his suicide vest and at the C-4 brick, which had a caustic and acidic scent to it. He toyed with the wires and touched the plastique, knowing they were secured. Then he rationalized the moment: smoke from the lower levels was climbing at an exponential rate, the means of escape was beginning to dim with the prospect of dying ratcheting up a few percentage points . . . And further inaction would only promote an undesired outcome.

  The remote in Ali Mustafa’s hand became the focal point of the judge’s attention. As the terrorist confronted the Vatican Knight, who remained riveted, Judge Rosenberg took the initiative and attacked Mustafa. In his mind’s eye, however, his movements appeared too slow as he extended his hands to take away the remote and neutralize his enemy. But that was because Judge Rosenberg was never a man who saw physical combat as a means to quell a situation, but through the weaponry of jurisprudence.

  Rosenberg’s hand extended with his fingers ready to grab and to close over the remote, then clinching it. At that very moment as their hands were about to engage one another, everything moved with the slowness of an unhinging nightmare as Mustafa’s words sounded off in drones and nonsensical syllables. As soon as Rosenberg’s hand touched Mustafa’s, the world oddly adjusted to live time with their motions suddenly fast and furious. The judge, who was an aged man, was little competition to the much younger Mustafa. But the Judge’s determination did not go without failure. Instead of taking control of the remote, the device fell from Mustafa’s hand and onto the roof’s decking. In a subsequent move, Mustafa came around and drove the point of the Holy Lance across Judge Rosenberg’s cheek, scoring and parting the flesh. As the judge fell to the concrete helipad, Mustafa charged at him with the Spear of Destiny high above his head for the final plunge downward, when a hand suddenly enclosed around Mustafa’s wrist. The grip was that of a python, strong and unyielding. When Mustafa turned to face his challenger, he was looking into the cerulean blue eyes of Kimball Hayden. Though they were the color of Jamaican waters, the terrorist did not witness the same lack of faith or the underlying and consummate fear that the cardinal possessed. Instead, Mustafa saw a conviction of faith that suddenly dissolved into volcanic rage and a frightening Darkness that was untamed.

  In a subsequent reaction, Kimball threw a palm thrust into Mustafa’s chest and knocked the wind from his lungs as he fell back, though Mustafa continued to hang onto the Spear of Destiny as though it was a dagger. With a hand to his chest at the point of Kimball’s impact, he began to circle the Vatican Knight.

  “You can’t defeat me,” he said to Kimball as he labored to breathe air. “I have the power of Allah in my hand. I am His vessel.”

  Kimball remained silent as he closed the distance between them.

  “You think you have won, Vatican Knight? You haven’t. If I die, then it’s by Allah’s will. And if you kill me, then you light the wick of an explosive candle and I will be martyred.”

  Kimball’s features remained even.

  “Do you hear me, Vatican Knight? I will be martyred.”

  When Kimball came within striking distance of the Holy Lance, Mustafa charged him. The terrorist swung the weapon in crisscrossing and diagonal slashes, scoring nothing, the Vatican Knight too quick, too elusive. Then in a moment that was too fast for Mustafa to register, Kimball Hayden stepped inside the kill zone, grabbed Mustafa’s wrist, and wrenched it with enough force to break the twin bones in Mustafa’s arm. As the terrorist cried out, he released the relic which Kimball caught in flight, and then he plunged the spearhead deep into Mustafa.

  The terrorist’s eyes ogled with astonishment, and then an odd smile crept over his face as he backed away from Kimball and out of the stab. Kimball appeared somewhat perplexed as Mustafa moved away while leaving Kimball holding the dagger, which was now crimson with the radical’s blood.

  Standing back with his arms out to his sides in mock crucifixion, though the broken arm hung at an odd angle, and as he bled profusely from his wound, Mustafa laughed with a hint of madness to it. “Now, behold the power of Allah.”

  Kimball waited, as did everyone else—the judge, the cardinal and the CEO. But nothing magical happened. The smile that Mustafa carried was beginning to fade. He had fully expected a miracle cure with the wound on his abdomen knitting and healing itself into a vague scar, and the bones within his arms to straighten and bind themselves into a useable limb. Neither happened. Mustafa continued to bleed out onto the helipad. Falling to his knees, he could feel his life beginning to slip away. That was when realization struck him.

  He faced the Vatican Knight and looked at the Holy Lance, which dripped with blood. “It’s not
supposed to be like this,” he said with a detachment, as life began to escape him. “I’m supposed to have the power of Allah. I’m . . . His vessel.”

  “You’re nothing more than a delusional man who’s about to die,” Kimball told him.

  Mustafa was looking at Kimball imploringly as his pupils pinched themselves into pinpoint dots, and then he was gone, his life finally expiring.

  Looking at the Spear of Destiny, which was coated the color of crimson, Kimball did not feel anything that would amaze him with its alleged powers. There was neither a tingling sensation nor the feeling and crackle of static electricity. It was simply a cold artifact.

  “Bravo, Father. Bravo.” It was the voice of Judge Rosenberg.

  Kimball turned to him. “I’m no priest, believe me.”

  “Yes, you are, son. You just haven’t looked deep enough. Even I can see what you truly are deep inside . . . Bravo.” That was when the judge handed the remote to Kimball. “In your wisdom at what you do, is there anything you can do about this?”

  Kimball saw the remote as a rudimentary device. Using the point of the Holy Lance to pluck off the remote’s back, he saw its power source; two batteries connected to the motherboard and three wires. The setup was so fundamental, Kimball was able to neutralize the device by first plucking the red wire from the power source, and then the blue one. Once done, the green light on the device winked off, signaling that the unit and the frequency were both dead.

  Kimball handed the device back to the judge. “You’re good.”

  The judge smiled. “Bravo. Now, is there anything you can do to remove these vests? They’re rather uncomfortable.”

  Using the sharp edges of the spearhead, Kimball sawed through the straps of the judge’s vest, and then through the cardinal’s vest, who repeatedly commended Kimball for his actions, though the Vatican Knight turned a deaf ear on the Cardinal Secretary.