A Covenant with Death: The Peacock Trilogy - Book 3

by Bill Wetterman

  He sensed he’d meet her in Rome. He shivered.

  #

  “More concrete blocks outside the entrance,” Connor shouted. “I want a six-foot wall protecting us from those bastards.”

  Cher disagreed. “We need three forces, two outside hidden along the mountain walls and one in the very back of our compound.”

  “The purpose?”

  “My force to the left. Ming’s force to the right.” Cher waved her arm in the direction where she spoke. “We’ll fortify behind those boulders that litter the area. From there we have a clear view of their manpower and equipment. If they have no artillery, we move to the security of the center. If they fire heavy weaponry, we defend from the sides. They blow the blocks apart, but no one dies.”

  Reasonable, Connor thought, “I didn’t think of cannons. They’d have to bring them in from Yuma.”

  “Yes,” Cher said. “Count on it.”

  This Gurkha warrior, tough, lean, and cold as a Siberian breeze, commanded Connor’s attention.

  “All right. Ming, position your people as Cher instructs you.” Connor called to her forces, twenty-two strong, “Move the heavy equipment, forklifts, tool carts, anything you can find, into the space in front of the dirt incline exiting to the landing field. We’ll hold out up along the edge of the landing field in hopes we can still be shuttled out.”

  No third shuttle run was coming. She knew that full well. But the longer they had a glimmer of hope and kept Ammad’s forces at bay, the more time Edison’s destruct program had to erase all identifiable memory. Ammad wouldn’t get any useable information. She crawled up to the opening thirty-feet above ground level and looked out at the landing strip.

  High above her was the mountaintop. At eye level, a two-football field size landing strip stretched across a mesa. Nothing moved. The enemy hadn’t found a way to the top. They had to come through her fortifications to get to Edison or the imaginary shuttle that would never come. A hand touched her shoulder. Harry had climbed to join her. “Lovely day to meet our Maker.”

  His gentle smile and rosy outlook made him ever so attractive—the kindhearted Pendleton. “A lovely day indeed, little brother. At least George is off to carry on the family name.”

  A jarring blast ripped into the complex. Both Harry and Connor scrambled down to the ground and shinnied to the ridge’s edge. The concrete blocks had disappeared. Only fragments of rubble remained.

  “We’re okay out here.” Cher’s voice resounded on Connor’s receiver.

  “Another blast and nothing will remain inside,” Connor said. “I doubt they’ll risk destroying Edison completely. Do they know you’re out there?”

  “They’re commanders are scanning the entrance from atop the mortar launcher.”

  “I’ll see if I can take them out.” Connor whispered.

  She waved her people up the dirt incline. Her husband was with Ming on the right flank. She checked the range from the edge of the mesa’s ridge to the launcher. She could see three officials pointing at the rocks where Ming’s people hid. Without hesitation, she fired at the man in the middle. Her laser weapon lost some accuracy at that distance and hit the leg of the man to the right of her target, blowing it apart.

  Cher and Ming’s forces fired at the flanks of the enemy’s troops who seemed like a swarm of ants from Connor’s position, rushing toward the rocks firing their weapons at will. This was not an orderly army. This was a crazed mob.

  “Take out as many as you can,” she called to those with her. Her companions positioned themselves at the rim of the landing area and fired.

  #

  The commander of Ammad’s forces ordered his slain second-in-command be dragged behind the launcher. Jumping off, he and his field commander directed the attack, issuing orders that Connor, George, and Harry Pendleton be captured if possible, but not killed.

  Every few minutes, the launcher fired mortar rounds at the rim above, until the return fire stopped. The commander drew his sword, checked his watch, and stepped out into the open. Nothing moved. “Step aside.”

  His troops gave way, as he marched to Ming’s side of the defenses. A glance at his timepiece said the battle took sixteen minutes. He’d lost another eighty people, but his enemy lay helpless in front of him. When he found a body, wounded or dead, he slit its throat and cut off an ear, dropping the ear in a bag he carried on his waist-belt.

  “A woman,” someone called out.

  “Alive?” he answered.

  “No.”

  He approached the body. “Oh. A Gurkha warrior.”

  With respect, one highly trained combatant to another, he doffed his hat. “Bury her with honor.”

  Inside the compound he went, sending a dozen troops up the dirt path to the shuttle landing area. When he heard the all-clear, he headed up the slope to level ground. A sickness of mankind, war, he thought. Each direction he looked, bodies or parts of bodies lay strewn about like manikins.

  He appreciated valor.

  As before, he approached each body, slitting the throat and removing an ear for his bag. Four of his enemies were crawling when he found them, dragging themselves along and writhing from pain. Before he slit their throats, he looked to see if he had one of the Pendleton children in his hands. He stared carefully at each face. If Harry, George, or Connor Pendleton were alive, they’d likely be here.

  A gurgle caught his ear. What fortune. Just when he feared his information was wrong, there, lying on top of a woman, shielding her, was Harry Pendleton. The commander called over his photographer, the man assigned to record the death of any Pendleton encountered. “Begin recording.”

  He bent down and rolled Harry onto his back, revealing the face of Connor Pendleton looking up at him. He smiled. Taking his knife, he placed it at Harry’s throat. “Proclaim your allegiance to Ammad, the Chosen, and Allah, and I will spare his life.”

  Connor spit.

  He could see the blood running freely out of a wound in Harry’s neck, hence the gurgling. He grasped he was too late for sport. The man was dead.

  Chapter 31

  As Connor opened her eyes, she realized her brother had shielded her from the last barrage of mortar rounds thrown by the enemy. She remembered firing at the horde of attackers overrunning Ming’s position. Harry, not adept at fighting, grabbed weapons for her from fallen comrades, as hers lost their charge. Then a blast no more than twenty-feet away knocked her unconscious. Harry must have fallen on her to protect her.

  She wished she’d died.

  Harry’s weight lifted off her, and she heard a voice. “Proclaim your allegiance to the Chosen and Allah, and I will spare his life.”

  She spit. Her eyelids lifted open to see gray skies above and blood dripping off her. A piece of shrapnel pinned her to the ground at the waist. She strained to see where it had penetrated her.

  “The metal entered between your hip and your spine three inches from the edge of your left side.” A bearded-man stood over her. “Again I ask you. “Proclaim . . .”

  “Forget it.” Connor forced out the words. “My allegiance is to my Lord, Jesus the Christ, to my father, and to my family.”

  “A family that is dwindling.”

  Her anger increased her pain. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. Harry died protecting her. She wouldn’t give this monster the pleasure of seeing her in agony. Connor set her mind, as her mother instructed her. She pictured heaven, bright and welcoming.

  “Cut off his head,” the commander said.

  A heavyset man took a step, swung, and blood spatter misted over Connor’s face.

  “Do you have this on camera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put it on a pole and plant it here next to this infidel.” He bent down and glared at her. “Before long, you will beg for me to kill you.” He stood and shouted, “Salomon, strip her.”

  Hours passed. Connor lay naked looking at Harry’s head set on a pole dripping blood until none was left to drip. Sweet brother, she thought
. At least you’ve found peace. Every ounce of her training kicked in to picture beauty in the midst of torture. The sun broke through the clouds and the temperature rose. The wind died down. Her body sweated as her lower stomach swelled with blood.

  The bearded man walked up, took a hammer and spike, and drove the spike into her right elbow, smashing it and pinning it to the ground as well. “You can end this by proclaiming allegiance to Ammad, the Chosen.”

  She bit through her lip when the hammer struck. Closing her eyes, she refused to give him the pleasure of begging for her life. Lord, make this end.

  Time passed. She saw Saint Stephen being stoned to death, and Saul holding his cloak. She saw Jesus stand up to receive Stephen’s spirit. Flashes of red popped into her vision—spots that didn’t belong and didn’t go away. She felt herself being lifted up and dragged across the landing area.

  “We do not have your mother.” She thought she saw the bearded man. “But we have you. So you will receive her punishment.”

  Surrounding him were masses of Islamists, each with a blade in-hand. A pole was embedded in the ground, and she was hoisted up by a rope looped under her arms. The spikes in her body remained in place. Light headed and dying, Connor let her body slump. Each warrior stabbed her as he passed by. Her legs, arms, side, every part of her, all being ripped apart, while avoiding killing blows.

  When the stabbing stopped, her mind drifted away to insanity. She babbled incoherently for a while. The bearded man raised his hand. “She is a vegetable. Drop her down and put her head on the block.”

  They cut the rope, and she collapsed to the ground. They dragged her to the chopping block and set her head on it. Her breathing came in gasps. In an instant, she saw herself floating above her body. She watched the masses rejoicing over her defeat as the cameraman recorded the event. The axe fell severing her head. They placed it on a pole next to her brother’s and left it there for the vultures to peck out her eyes.

  A gradual change occurred in the world around her, from horror to calm, from calm to peace, from peace to joy. Heaven opened to welcome her and the cares of the former world disappeared.

  #

  “It is done.” The bearded man spoke to his command headquarters.

  “Have the cameraman upload the recording to Imam Akbari.”

  #

  Akbari clapped his hands as the recording of Connor’s execution ended. Ammad had left to give final instructions to his followers before heading into Rome. Reports were that five shuttles had come and gone from the complex itself, but that the Pope and Pendleton were still in the Vatican and had not boarded a shuttle. The time had come to move.

  He sent Ammad a message. Come in as soon as you can!

  He waited for almost an hour, knowing Ammad would come as he pleased. Finally, the door swung open. “The curator is impatient for us to leave.”

  Ammad grumped and slammed the door. “I’ve put on the front of peace.”

  “You must see this before we go.”

  Ammad’s gaze fixed on the scene in front of him as Akbari replayed the murders of Pendleton’s precious imps. His face contorted into fiendish sneers and gleeful smirks as each Pendleton died.

  “They should have skinned her alive.” He slapped his sides and roared with laughter. His rejoicing ceased a few seconds later, and he frowned. “How can we be sure Pendleton will see this with communications now cut?”

  “His lines are cut here on earth, but not from space. Sayyid may be able to send a message to him through an open space line.”

  “I command it be done.”

  “At once, master.”

  #

  Arthur Pendleton’s limousine returned to the Vatican after he observed the fifth shuttle leave for the motherships. “Thank God. They’ve taken off.”

  “Let’s hope they return in time for the rest of us, or God help us,” Cline mused. “The journey takes twenty-four hours. Our scouts say Ammad’s forces are approaching Rome. They departed Tivoli a few minutes ago.”

  “He’s a fiend,” Pendleton spit out. He flushed. “The rest of the world has no knowledge of the beheadings in Balmoral or the attack he’s attempting at the Edison site.”

  “Or what he’s doing here for that matter.” Cline touched his friend’s knee. “But Chui knows. His people know. And that’s almost half the world.”

  As they entered the Sacristy and Treasury Museum, the Pope’s butler and personal valet ran up. “Sir, we received a file from the main space complex, Titled, The Battle to save Edison. We’ve waited for your return to view it.”

  “Maybe it’s good news,” Pendleton said. “We could use some.”

  Cline opened the door to their quarter and said, “Wouldn’t good news come straight from George?”

  Of course, it would, Pendleton thought. “Let me see the file.”

  The Pope’s butler led him to a computer connected to the Vatican server. He pulled up the attachment. The sender’s code on the message was a combination of letters and numbers. Pendleton copied those down and typed them into the search box. Restricted.

  “Let’s call George at the Space Complex,” Pendleton said, and dialed.

  #

  George Pendleton stared out at the vast universe surrounding him. More at home in space than on earth, he wasn’t distracted by fear or space sickness. He’d watched the destruction of the Edison Complex and the ruthless murders of his sister and little brother. Having the best seat in the house and no way to change the outcome, George forced himself to accept their deaths as part of God’s plan.

  He’d prayed. He’d begged. On his knees, weeping, “God save my family.”

  He had forty-eight missiles he could fire at his enemy. But every time he decided to do it, his hand wouldn’t move to give the command. It was as though another hand pressed atop his. The more he tried the more difficult moving became, until the urge passed. He’d only felt pressure, but not pain. He understood. God’s hand held his down.

  Why?

  The scream inside his mind shouted to the Ruler of the Universe. As the ringing in his head quieted, the buzzing on his table increased. He lifted his cell. “Yes.”

  “George, it’s me.” His chest tightened as he recognized his father’s voice. “I received a file on the battle to save Edison. The code is Restricted. Do you know about the file?”

  His jaw quivered and tears burst down his cheeks. “Do not open that file. For your own sanity destroy it.”

  His father gasped. Choking and sobbing followed. When the sounds faded, there was a clank and then a voice. “Thad Cline here. What’s going on George? Arthur’s collapsed on the floor.”

  “They murdered every person there. They tortured Connor. When they were done, they put Harry and Connor’s heads on poles and left them for the vultures.” He breathed in a full breath. “Don’t let my father watch that file, and don’t tell him the details. It will kill him.”

  “Yes. I understand.” An abrupt click ended the conversation.

  George slumped into a chair. “Don’t You have something to say to me?”

  He shook his fist at the view of the stars. He opened his mouth to curse God. Nothing came out but air. He pictured the painting The Scream. The refection in the window of his face seemed to morph into a replication. He had nothing available to take his frustration out on, so he made a blind dash into a support post and everything went black.

  Chapter 32

  Twenty guards stood at each side of the entrance to Saint Peter’s Square. If you didn’t have the proper papers, you could not enter. Ammad’s approach had unnerved the populace. Peacock strolled past them without making eye contact with Custos by her side.

  “I haven’t any pain. I look as though I’ve never been tortured. People only see me when I want them to see me. So...”

  “So your old body underwent a restoration of sorts. Your new body is yet to be, for you aren’t transformed yet.” He tilted his head. His expression said she asked too many questions. “You’ll
need all the strength I can give you when you face the devil’s pawn.”

  “I’ve faced him before.”

  “Not like this. He’s grown.” Custos smiled. “The world loves him, because he tells them what they want to hear. He will subjugate women and cloud the minds of men. Humanity will do unspeakable perversions and believe they are doing the right thing.”

  “Then I know who he is now,” she said. Her whole body trembled. “So he has come.”

  “He has. But prophesy must be fulfilled to the nth degree. And you will fulfill it. You have been prepared for this time by the life you’ve led without you knowing. God turns what the devil uses for evil to good.”

  “I know Connor and Harry died violent deaths. I don’t know why I know.”

  Custos grew twice his size and glowed like a heavenly flame. “They have received great reward and await you in peace.”

  Am I willing to face the lawless one?

  Even in a restored state, Peacock chilled to the marrow of her bones. The realization of her task momentarily stunned her and she stopped walking. “I can’t kill him. Can I?”

  Custos vanished. She stood in darkness in the middle of the day. Could she face the son of perdition? If God be for me, who can be against me?

  “No,” she said. “I am not willing. But I will do it, and I will not be alone.”

  The bright sunlight reappeared. The dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica radiated beautiful shades of gold and red in the distance. Custos reappeared and took her hand. “Well said. No human being could be willing to face him now. But like Gideon, you do not see the hosts of heaven on the surrounding hills. However, Ammad will not die—yet.”

  Peacock, Laverna, Donna O’Connor—whoever she was, inhaled the air with new resolve. Like she had defeated her husband’s enemies in the past, she would accomplish God’s purpose now. “If my interpretation of the Bible is correct. My role doesn’t lead to victory.”

  “Yes. It does. Just not yet.”

  “Then, lead on.”

  As they strolled together toward the Basilica, the wind blowing against Peacock’s body cooled her. The arctic winter that plagued Northern and Central Europe as far south as Greece missed a swath from Western Europe, including the British Isles, to Italy. Still the temperature in Rome was seven degrees cooler on average all year round. Yet she hadn’t noticed temperature, nor had she experienced hunger. Now she felt both. A quick glance at Custos gave her the answer. He’d lifted the protective hedge around her.