The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

  “You will always be challenged on this issue,” said the monsignor. “It’s how evil works. It plants the seeds of doubt in your mind and allows it to take root. And a man can’t work on questionable doubts. If doubts exist, even minutely, then you’ll need to move on from the church. But if your heart speaks differently, Kimball, then press on as a Vatican Knight. If you choose the latter, always expect doubt to be your greatest enemy in the long run. Because in the end your conviction to the church must be pure and absolute.”

  Kimball thought this over, the period of thought lasting seconds. “I have wants and needs like everyone else, Monsignor. But I also know that I’m wired differently and don’t fit into some norms of society. Being a Vatican Knight is the only thing I know how to do. How to be. But I also know that I struggle as a person outside these walls.”

  “And you’ll continue to struggle with this,” said the monsignor, “until you believe in the power of the Light.”

  Kimball stood. “I walk in the Gray,” he said drily. “It’s where I’m most comfortable and it’s where I belong.”

  “Remember the lessons that Bonasero has taught you. Take a step towards the Light. Just one. Sometimes it only takes a single step.”

  “I can’t,” Kimball said dispiritedly. “That right isn’t mine to take. Not now. And maybe not ever. All I can tell you, Monsignor, is that I’ll do my best … And what else does a man have left if he doesn’t do his best, right?”

  Without adding anything additional, Kimball left.

  #

  Kimball sat before the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci beneath the church. The chamber was small and cramped, but pristine and peaceful. The tomb was made of marble with bas-reliefs of cherubs and angels leading the way to Heaven, with Heaven represented by engraved beams that appeared to flow downward from the carvings of spherical-shaped clouds.

  Lowering his head, Kimball thought: How are you, my old friend?

  I’m good. Every moment you come by is a blessing, you know that. It tells me that you have chosen to continue your journey to seek the Light.

  This isn’t about redemption anymore.

  A beat. Then: You’re angry.

  I am.

  There are men out there you seek. Men responsible for my death.

  Yes.

  And now you see the need for retaliation.

  I do.

  Kimball, this is not the way.

  It’s my way, Bonasero. You know this. You accepted this.

  I accepted you as a man who was deeply tortured and gave you the necessary direction to channel the goodness that runs deep inside you. I picked you up when you stumbled. I brought you to the Light where you have stood upon its threshold for so long, and now you’re about to slip back into the Darkness.

  Kimball sighed. Bonasero’s voice was so clear. But it sounded different. It sounded more like Kimball’s inner voice.

  Bonasero, the Light rejects me because I cannot change. I am who I am. All my life I have walked in the Gray. That’s where I belong.

  No, Kimball. The Light has not rejected you. It’s as accepting of you as the Darkness. You stand in the Gray. Now that I’m gone, it’s time for you to make a choice.

  The man responsible for your death … His name is Mabus.

  Leave it be, Kimball.

  I can’t.

  Killing him, Kimball, will not bring me back.

  He kills so many innocent people. Good people.

  There was a long stretch of silence.

  Bonasero?

  Kimball, all I ask of you is to think about it. Take one step forward into the Light and stay there. Don’t let anger consume you. If you allow it to do so, then you will never find true peace. Will you take that step forward?

  I’ve been taking that step all my life. But something happens that sets me back two steps, back into the Gray.

  I’m afraid, Kimball, that if you falter by following through with your dark ambitions, then you will fall from the Gray and into the Darkness. You will finally fall from Grace and the personal redemption you seek will be forever lost.

  Kimball patted the tomb lovingly. I’ll try, Bonasero.

  Take the leap forward, Kimball. And there you shall find peace.

  But Kimball knew he wasn’t equipped to follow the path toward the Light. He never was. All he knew was that he would at least make a valiant attempt, and ultimately fail in the end. The Gray was his comfort zone. Here he could differentiate between justice and law without boundaries. And it was here that he could act with the same lack of restrictions.

  I’ll talk to you soon, he thought to Bonasero. But his thoughts remained empty with no response from the former pope. Just … silence.

  Getting to his feet with his head nearly touching the low-level ceiling, Kimball brushed his hand appreciatively over the surface of the tomb and left the chamber.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Outside Washington, D.C.

  April 5th, 2016

  Shari Cohen directed the FBIs Response Unit, the HRT, an elite force within the organization. Today they were after a domestic group of home-grown terrorists that were responsible for multiple killings in the D.C. area. They were radicals–Americans, actually–who had converted to Islam while incarcerated in state penitentiaries. There they had found a different kind of God, one who condoned the killing of another man because there was zero tolerance against those whose tenets were not in line with those of the Koran. And prison had become the perfect breeding ground for altering states of mind. People whose lives which held nothing but voids were now filled with indescribable hatred and darker purposes. Finally they had a cause to rebel against.

  A group had set up in an old warehouse on the outskirts of D.C. It was an old complex that died long ago when jobs had been farmed out to foreign markets to lower labor costs. Now a husk of a building, it now headquartered religious fanatics who lived and died by the will of Allah.

  Shari commanded from a distance, from inside a cubed van that had banks of monitors lining both walls. She was wearing a blue-tooth type device with a lip mic and earbud, and directed the team to take the appropriate position for the pending assault.

  The teams had set a perimeter and were ready to storm the premise from all fronts. When the teams were in place, she gave the command for the units to move forward.

  It was night, which meant the advantage went to the FBI’s paramilitary unit since they had night-vision goggles. Nevertheless, the night lit up through the windows of the warehouse in a series of muzzle flashes that gave off strobe-like effects. And in the end, with ten dead and twenty-four captured, it would be those accumulated deaths that Special Agent Cohen would be held responsible for by someone who was not present at the time of the takedown.

  And it would be by the hand of this terrorist that she would pay dearly.

  #

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Following Day

  His real name was Montrell Thompson. But his converted name was Mohammad Allawi, a three-time felon who had a dangerously high I.Q. in the Mensa range, but wasted his gifts on bad choices which earned him prison time. Now that he was valueless in society’s eyes, he created his own personal worth in prison by finding a God who accepted him as he was. While behind bars he had discovered purpose and belonging, realizing that he was wanted when he was never wanted before. And because Mohammad Allawi was a man whose interests centered on electronics and switches, and on developing and devising high- to low-end explosive devices, he also became a person in demand. So by the time his conversion was completed inside the Brockbridge Correctional Facility, he was absolutely sure that it had been Allah who had originally bestowed upon him these gifts. He just needed to realize this. And with this realization came the understanding of his existence: He now had a cause.

  But the cause was quashed. His team gone.

&nbs
p; A day after the raid by the FBI in the warehouse he had established to create his toys and wares, ten of his brethren–two real-life brothers–were dead, and twenty-four were captured. Oddly enough he felt remorse for surviving the assault. The only reason why he missed the party was because he’d been scoping possible weak spots in the D.C. area to strike. Now he was sitting inside a flea-bag motel north of the Capitol watching the constant hero-worshiping handed to Special Agent Shari Cohen of the FBI who–in some ridiculously named venture called Operation Eagle Swoop–had quashed a homegrown terrorist ring after months of surveillance, tough investigation, and yada-yada-yada. Their net–a haul they failed to mention during the broadcast–was a cache of assault weapons, several bricks of C-4 explosives, and five pounds of Semtex. They were wise not to mention the buildup of such an arsenal so close to the highest political seat in the land, Mohammad thought. If such a collection was discovered in Washington, where else could another buildup be? Maybe New York? Boston? Los Angeles? The list of cities could be endless.

  “But you didn’t catch me,” he commented softly to himself while watching the tube. Though he did escape the dragnet, Mohammad knew the game well. He knew that surveillance was state-of-the-art, so he kept his head low by working through false IP addresses on computers. And he was careful only to communicate through couriers, who also worked through fake IPs, in order to dilute their trails. But as transparent as his trail may have seemed in cyberspace, Mohammad Allawi was still on the FBI’s radar, though he was currently off the grid.

  Now alone, and with his team most likely to be tucked away inside of a political black-site where they would never see the light of day again, he would act solely on his agendas with Special Agent Shari Cohen topping that list.

  On TV, the images of a stylishly dressed Shari Cohen continued to play. She was quite articulate at the podium, ensuring the public that homegrown terrorism had been contained and that the people, and society in general, were safe. Political pundits also voiced their praises by confirming the country’s strong backbone against terrorism, both here and abroad, and that it was people like Special Agent Cohen that kept America safe.

  Allawi could feel his inner rage starting to boil and simmer.

  Then mildly to himself, he said: “We’ll see how special you are after I come knocking on your door. And as for my brothers … Allahu Akbar.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cathedral Heights, Washington, D.C.

  April 15th, 2016

  Ten Days after the Assault on the Warehouse

  Cathedral Heights was a small residential neighborhood for those with upper middle-class incomes. The houses had grand spaces to the interiors, close to three-thousand square feet, with unique and customized floor plans. Everything was top quality: state-of-the-art appliances, granite countertops, Berber carpets, and a fireplace made of fieldstone that took up an entire wall in the living room. The list of amenities went on.

  The TV was on in the living room and was loud enough for Shari Cohen to hear it from the kitchen, as she stowed dishes and utensils in the dishwater. The news anchor was informing the audience of the latest polls in the presidential race.

  People were screaming at rallies. Fights were breaking out, an age of violence brewing on the floors of political forums, with the candidate who was vying for the most coveted seat in the nation supporting the actions. Sanity was giving way to insanity. And once civilized actions were giving way to savagery.

  Shari could only shake her head thinking: We’re losing our way as a nation. We’re losing our sense of humanity.

  After she finished loading the dishwasher, she went into the living room. Her two daughters were lying on the floor on their stomachs, side by side, watching the news. Her husband, Gary, was pulling up the knob of his tie. He appeared late and hurried for an important meeting, always rushing when he didn’t have to since there was never a meeting to attend. Gary simply had this nervous energy to rush through things, even when he had all the time in the world.

  He grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen counter, took a slurping sip, and set it back down. “Come on, girls. I have to get you to school.”

  Stephanie, the older of the two, looked over her shoulder. “We still have ten minutes.”

  “I said now.”

  After comments of showing their disapproval, they got to the feet, grabbed their backpacks, and stood there with are-you-happy-now? looks.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered. “Into the Escalade.”

  When they left the house for the vehicle and subsequently leaving the door open, Gary reached for Shari and pulled her close into a hug. He smiled. “You know what today is, don’t you?”

  Of course she knew. It was Date Night. The first of two they took every week. “Can’t promise you anything,” she told him. “New case.”

  “You always say that. But you always find time.”

  “So … Italian?”

  “You know how much I like Magianni’s,” he told her. Magianni’s was an Italian restaurant that served the best veal parmigiana ‘east of anywhere,’ as far as he was concerned. The wine was top-notch. And the garlic bread was second to none because it was basted with butter that had a unique blend of spices. In fitting vernacular, everything at Magianni’s was Perfecto!

  They kissed and drew apart. Then Gary checked his watch. “Gotta go.” Gary always said that: gotta go. Even when he didn’t have to. Not really. He gave her a wink, then a final pat on her forearm, a loving gesture, and headed for the door. “Have a good day,” he cried out without turning, then he closed the door behind him.

  Less than ten seconds later her phone rang.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Montrell Thompson, aka Mohammad Allawi, while incarcerated at the Brockbridge Correctional Facility, could not resist the gravitational pull of an Islamic State recruiter. For the first time in his life, despite all the tools he had to succeed, he was given purpose and hope. He was also given the sense to rightfully belong and be needed. Now he had the will to succeed. He believed in matters which he never believed in before, the cause of a God he knew little about. But now Allah had breathed life into his soul by endearing him as a living vessel who would change the world, a glorious mission.

  For years he had nothing–no purpose, no goals, and no cares. He was brilliant with a studious mind. But he had no father to nurture that gift, nor a mother who took time out to sober up enough from drugs and booze to guide him. So he took to the streets finding family in those who were like him, those wayward children who raised themselves without discipline. He immersed himself in crimes, becoming a runner for gangbangers because, as a minor, it was difficult to get a criminal charge to stick on an adult level. Then he graduated to forms of brutality, such as strong-arm robberies and assaults. But it was the manslaughter charge, even at seventeen, for which he was convicted as an adult and sent to Brockbridge.

  There he met a man by the name of Asad. An African-American like himself who discovered purpose and was willing to share it with him. He spoke of Allah with reverence and of a world that sounded far more pleasant than Montrell could even imagine. It was a world of One: One law, one rule, and one religion. Everyone was equal, truly equal. And evil would be forever banished if everyone lived by the laws of Islam. In the end, when it was time for life’s transition, he would be granted the eternity of Paradise and greatness, despite past crimes.

  It sounded all too wonderful.

  And he had been sucked in, his mind and will no longer his, but Allah’s. And on the day of his release from Brockbridge, from the moment the first ray of sunlight hit his face, he took it as a sign from his newfound God.

  He would do His bidding. And His bidding was to spread a new faith across the landscape with high costs of life, which meant little since heathens had no value.

  None whatsoever.

  The day was gray and misty. The weather had been like
this all week. Beads of raindrops formed on his windshield as he kept watch from his vehicle. At the end of the cul-de-sac was a lavish brick house of high-end living, something Allah would never approve of. He had been here since early morning, at the time when the rain came hard before it finally tapered off into a light drizzle. Then as soon as the girls exited the house and headed to the Escalade that was parked in the driveway, Mohammad immediately sat up in his seat. In his hand was something that appeared to be a garage remote, same size and shape that had a button to be depressed in order to discharge a signal.

  In his other hand was a burner, a cell phone that could be bought at any store with limited time and was virtually untraceable, since it could be activated without a contract or listed owner. Then as soon as a male exited the premise and headed for the Escalade, Mohammad raised the phone and dialed a quick-dial number placed into the phone’s memory, and waited.

  #

  Shari picked up the phone on the third ring. “Hello.”

  No response.

  “Hello.”

  “Ten of my brethren are in Paradise because of you,” the voice finally said. “Two were my actual brothers. Same mother, different father.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Twenty-four are incarcerated and will never see the light of day again.”

  Then it hit her. Montrell Thompson, aka Mohammad Allawi, the one who had escaped the net. Authorities had been looking long and hard for him, but the man left his apartment without so much as leaving behind a trace element.

  “Montrell,” she whispered.

  “Mohammad,” he corrected.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to go to the window,” he said calmly.

  “What?”

  “Go … to … the window. Simple, right?”