The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

  As they neared the vehicles Parker held up his team.

  They listened.

  Nothing.

  And then they advanced.

  Slowly.

  The shadows remained dense with little light filtering down through the overhead leaves. Darkness pooled in areas, creating odd shapes that were as still as Grecian statues in the shadows.

  Then the team expanded the line, separating, each teammate drawing at least ten meters from one another to cover more ground, more area, leaving nothing to chance.

  Beneath this canopy, however, something moved within the dark pools, something that was dangerously large and powerful, something with a keen eye and infinite patience as it waited for the opportune moment.

  Then when the time to strike finally presented itself and the advantage belonged to the predator, it rushed forward from the darkness.

  #

  Kimball had always found the shadows to be his ally and knew how to use them well. The covering of the treetops provided him and his team with a safe haven of dark shadows. And from his position behind a blind of heavy brush he could see the advancement of Beckett’s mercenaries. They appeared seasoned and careful, and they moved with feline softness as the sounds beneath their footfalls were nearly nonexistent.

  Then Kimball saw the approaching team spread in formation to cover more ground, more territory. But it also meant that it created a divide between teammates, the advantage now going to him.

  Kimball checked his surroundings. A man to his far left. Another to the far right.

  So he focused on his quarry in the middle, who was entering a plush area of shrubbery.

  The mercenary moved slowly and effortlessly with eyes forward and ears tuning in. Every few meters he would stop, listen, and slowly move his head on a swivel looking from left to right, right to left, and then he would move on when he sighted nothing.

  Kimball remained a part of the shadows and became one with darkness.

  Slowly, and with a great measure of prudence and just as soundlessly, Kimball slipped his KA-BAR combat knife from its sheath and gripped it tightly.

  The mercenary advanced slowly, stopped, pressed on, stopped again, pressed on.

  The shape behind the mercenary moved closer, something that was blacker than black, its presence looming larger, closer, advancing without a sound.

  The soldier stopped and cocked his head, an additional sense now taking over, something created only within the field of battle.

  He was not alone.

  The mercenary wheeled around with the point of his weapon.

  His eyes flared, showing more white than brown.

  A shape.

  Dark and massive.

  It was standing before him. Over him. The point of the KA-BAR and the edge of its blade fully exposed with the promise of death.

  And then the clean sweep of the knife, the blade biting deep across the man’s throat to slash the cords before he had an opportunity to utter a sound. And then Kimball drove the point through the man’s heart for a quick and painless kill.

  After laying the man gently to the bed of the dirt floor, the Vatican Knight disappeared without a sound.

  #

  John Moreland saw slight movement to his left and another to his right. A skirmish line. But the shapes quickly disappeared by becoming one with the landscape. God’s Eye had become useless to them and orders had been received: Engage and acquire the priority packages.

  Bloody bullocks.

  Chance and Hammerhead were close, at least twenty meters apart, waiting. Soon the lines would merge. From his position he counted six. But it was difficult to get an exact count since the shapes disappeared and then reappeared moments later in the brush. He didn’t know if he was counting the same mark two or three times.

  Then into his lip mic, and softly, “Pull back,” he said. “Slowly. I can’t get an actual count.”

  “Copy that,” whispered Chance.

  Then from Hammerhead. “Copy. Same here. Can’t get an actual. But I’m thinking it’s more than six, less than ten.”

  “Copy,” said Moreland. Then: “Kimball?”

  Silence.

  “Kimball.”

  No response.

  Moreland lowered the stem of his lip mic in frustration. I knew those bloody imbeciles would be worthless.

  #

  There was a whisper to Parker’s forward and to his left, a barely perceptible sound that was like a soft soughing breeze through the pines.

  A target.

  Parker moved to his left and forward, and began to zero in.

  Chance was keeping his eyes forward by focusing on the shapes in front of him rather than around him. He was hunkered low behind a grouping of bushes that served as a blind.

  Parker edged closer.

  And then Chance began to fall back, slowly, the commando drawing minimal distance between himself and the approaching line.

  Parker raised the point of his weapon that had a suppressor as nearly as long as the weapon’s barrel, drew Chance within the crosshairs with the X of the gun’s sight centering on Chance’s skull, and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a spit.

  Chance’s skull erupted like a melon with flesh and bone and gray matter exploding from the exit wound. Chance was dead upon impact. His body falling to the ground as a boneless heap.

  Parker couldn’t help the victorious smile, the slight upturning at the corner of his lip that was as thin as a hook.

  Then the smile faded.

  Parker was not alone.

  #

  Isaiah witnessed the kill shot. Chance was dead before he hit the ground.

  The Vatican Knight had moved in an attempt to stop the shot. But Parker was quick on the finger pull.

  Isaiah approached from behind with Parker now in his sights and within an arm’s reach.

  But Parker was swift. He got to his feet and swept the tip of his assault weapon around. But the point of the barrel was kicked away by Isaiah. Parker’s gun went off twice, the errant rounds going off into the brush. And then Isaiah came across with a roundhouse kick, a blinding rotation by pivoting on the ball of his anchored foot, and striking the Plexiglas faceplate of Parker’s Kevlar helmet.

  Parker fell back, stumbled, rolled, his weapon now lost to him in the brush as he got to his feet. The Plexiglas was cracked and was blocking his view, the world nothing but spider-web cracks. He removed his helmet and tossed it at Isaiah. The helmet struck the barrel of Isaiah’s weapon and knocked it off target long enough for Parker to close the gap between them and provide his own series of pummeling strikes. Parker moved forward, blow after blow, strike after strike, straight jabs working like pistons hitting center mass.

  Isaiah fell back with the power of the punches, lost his weapon, and was losing his breath with the edges of his sight going red, then black. Isaiah brought his left arm across to deflect the blows, then offered his own series of straight jabs to Parker’s face and throat, and then came across with a series of elbow strikes–left, right, left, right–the nose breaking; blood spraying, first as a mist; then gushing.

  Parker’s eyes began to show slivers of white as they began to roll upward.

  Left, right, left, right.

  Then Parker ducked, swung out of the way, and threw a bladed hand to Isaiah’s throat. But Isaiah caught the man’s wrist, torqued it hard, and forced Parker to his knees. Parker looked up, knew what was coming and accepted the fact. Suddenly his world began to move with the slowness of a bad dream as he watched Isaiah raise his leg high with fluid motion, and bring it down with a crushing blow to top of his head. There was an audible crack and pop as Parker’s neck snapped.

  Nothing but absolute darkness.

  #

  Moreland had watched the match between Isaiah and Parker. He even drew down
on Parker, but the action was so fast, the hand to hand so close, it was impossible for him to get off a clean shot.

  Moreland kept low and continued to train his weapon for support should an advantage present itself. But one never did. Nor was it necessary. He was surprised at the grace and speed of Isaiah, the quickness of his flying fists moving as blurs, and then the velocity of his leg coming up and down, like a hammer, rendering Parker as one of the dead.

  To say the least, Moreland was highly impressed. Who are these people?

  But the combat did not go without it drawing the attention of those close by. Three mercenaries had seen the fight as well, and stealthily drew to Isaiah like sharks to prey. The assassins were closing and drawing a bead. Isaiah was outgunned, outmanned, his weapon somewhere in the brush. Three against one, all heavily armed.

  … Phfttt … Phfttt … Phfttt …

  Three shots.

  Three kills.

  The rounds from Moreland’s weapon went off as three soft pops, each bullet finding its mark. The mercenaries’ face-shields shattered one right after the other with their faceplates having a singular hole that was surrounded by a myriad of web-like cracks. As soon as the rounds pierced the Plexiglas and pulverized their faces, blood and gore instantly painted their face-shields from the inside a moment before they fell to the ground.

  When Isaiah turned and saw the three lying close, and then seeing Moreland hunkering behind a row of shrubbery with a blue ribbon of smoke rising from the mouth of the barrel, he offered the leader of Group 13 a thumbs-up in appreciation, located his weapon in the brush, and disappeared.

  Moreland held his position, however, knowing that more of Beckett’s team were approaching.

  And probably from all sides.

  #

  Leviticus had two in his sights. One to his left and one to his right, the team closing.

  The Vatican Knight was pressed against a thorny bramble.

  The gap was closing.

  And he had nowhere to go but forward.

  Leviticus raised his weapon towards the mercenary to his left. The crosshairs finding its mark at the point of where the man’s temple should be. But the Kevlar helmet provided an obstacle, so he recommitted to the open area of the man’s throat.

  … Phfttt …

  A blood mist exploded from the side of the mercenary’s neck as the man went to his knees with his hands to his throat. Then a blood gout pumped from between the gaps of his clenching fingers in even thrusts, the man falling forward as he bled out.

  Then at the base of Leviticus’s neck he could feel something ice cold. The mouth of a gun’s barrel was pressing hard against his flesh, dimpling it.

  “Drop your weapon and turn around,” whispered the mercenary. “I want to look into your eyes.”

  Leviticus did, slowly, the weapon falling while raising his hands in surrender. When he pivoted on his knee to face his assassin, he could see the man’s eyes gravitate toward the brightness of his cleric’s collar.

  A mistake.

  Leviticus lashed out and redirected the point of the assassin’s weapon.

  … Phfttt …

  Another errant shot. This time into the ground, the earth coughing up a tiny bit of soil.

  Leviticus was quick to his feet, twisted the weapon hard, and freed the rifle from the mercenary’s grip where it went to the ground. The mercenary reached for his combat knife while Leviticus reached for his firearm.

  The assassin lashed out with a forward kick, striking Leviticus in the ribs, breaking two. The sound of his bones breaking was pronounced, the audible clear. Leviticus was severely wounded.

  Then the mercenary retracted his knife from its sheath and yielded it in a manner meant to stab and pierce, rather than to slash and slice. He began to circle Leviticus who was favoring his left side. And the grimace on Leviticus’ face told the assassin that the advantage was his to take.

  The man came forward with his arm drawn back like a pitcher about to toss a fast ball, then brought it down to strike the killing blow.

  But Leviticus was quick, his pain all but forgotten due to self-preservation. He swung his arm across in a swimming motion and deflected the course of the man’s downward effort, the blade missing and driving the killer off balance. Leviticus seized the opportunity by wrapping his arm around the man’s throat, then lifting the mercenary off his feet. But the assassin struck an elbow to Leviticus’s ribs, who suddenly lost his python grip. The mercenary fell to the ground and to his knees, the man gasping for life as Leviticus fell back clutching his side.

  The mercenary realized that he had never lost hold of the knife, even when his vision started to blacken along the edges. He immediately got to his feet, assessed the moment and searched for an opportunity, saw that his enemy was in pain, then came forward jabbing the knife in quick and even strokes.

  Leviticus ducked to his left, to his right. His pain was agonizing, like broken glass shifting against his side and in his gut. The point of the knife was coming close to hitting its intended mark, within inches of striking his chest and abdomen.

  Then when the mercenary changed course with a series of sweeping arcs, Leviticus volunteered his arm by bringing it up and allowing the blade to sink deep between the twin bones in his forearm, the point punching all the way through to the other side, the knife lodged. Before the assassin could pull the knife free, Leviticus came across with his free hand and drove his knuckles into the man’s throat, hard. In reaction, the mercenary stumbled back with his hands to his neck. Quickly, with pain beyond description, Leviticus removed the knife from his arm and drove it home by stabbing the mercenary several times in the chest and abdomen, until he could thrust no more.

  As the mercenary lay dead and the surrounding ground absorbed his blood beneath him, Leviticus first went to his knees, then to his backside, and could do nothing more as incredible pain washed over him as he closed his eyes.

  Then the feel of friendly hands.

  Leviticus felt himself being lifted into a sitting position. Twelve-Gauge was aiding him, telling him that he’d be all right. But his voice sounded far and hollow as if he was speaking from some great distance at the end of a long tunnel. “Bloody unbelievable,” the man kept telling him.

  Bloody unbelievable.

  Ain’t seen nothing like what you did.

  Not with what you had to deal with.

  No way.

  You just … kept … coming.

  Leviticus looked at Twelve-Gauge and considered how close his eyes were, like the barrels of a shotgun.

  “You’re going to be all right, mate? You’re going to be just fine.”

  But Leviticus thought otherwise: How many more of them were out there?

  #

  Hammerhead was not alone. He was spying two mercenaries who were approaching him with urgency. Apparently there was no more need for subtlety since bodies were beginning to pile up on the landscape. And it was obvious to him that he was held within their sights.

  They came at him low to the ground and their weapons leveled. And then came the short bursts of gunfire, the rounds nipping and tearing away the limbs and saplings surrounding Hammerhead.

  Hammerhead ducked as the bullets hummed past his ears in waspy hums, zipping and chipping at tree trunks around him, behind him, beside him, the shots pinning him down. Then Hammerhead raised his assault weapon and set off his own burst, the weapon swinging from side to side, the rounds chopping at the brush as blue smoke rose from the gun’s barrel and scenting the air with an acrid odor. The rounds continued to come fast and furious from both factions, bullets zipping and whining, none appearing to hit their mark until a single round finally clipped Hammerhead in the shoulder. He fell back against the force, his weapon taking flight from his weakened grasp, and tried to recover with the hand from his non-wounded side reaching for his gun.

/>   Just as the tip of his finger was about to hook around the trigger guard so he could pull it towards him, a heavy foot came down on his hand, and hard, the bones cracking. Hammerhead grimaced and clenched his teeth as the mercenary began to grind his foot. Bones within the hand shifted, but Hammerhead refused to cry out.

  After the assassin removed his foot and stepped back, Hammerhead raised his head to see the twin points of gun barrels looking down on him, and then he looked into the eyes of his attackers. They were wearing Kevlar helmets with clear Plexiglas face–shields. Their faces appeared stiff, neutral and emotionless, their looks as plastic as the Plexiglas masks they wore.

  Just as Hammerhead began to open his mouth to say something crude as a final swan song, both men lit up the area with muzzle flashes as they pulled their triggers in perfect synchronization. The rounds punched savagely into Hammerhead’s face, ripping and tearing the flesh into pulp and gore and broken bone that glistened with blood.

  Then a hush fell over the wooded area.

  But it didn’t last long.

  A pair of Vatican Knights happened upon them.

  #

  Kimball and Isaiah had heard the firefight, though it came as a series of loud spits from suppressed weapons. To their right and not too far from their position, an engagement, perhaps thirty meters away, was going on behind a grouping of hedges.

  And then an uncomfortable silence.

  They maneuvered through the brush, through the closely grouped trees and tall-standing bushes, and saw two of Beckett’s people standing over a body. Though the face had been pulverized into stringy masses and clumps of flesh and bone, they could tell by the gear that it was Hammerhead.

  Then heads turned.

  Eyes connected.

  And the teams sized each other up.

  Two against two.

  Just as the tandem team of mercenaries began to pivot on their feet, one fired off a round that struck Isaiah’s rifle, the impact sending it airborne. When the assassins tried to train their weapons on the Vatican Knights, Isaiah closed the distance between them and leapt through the air with one leg sending a straight kick to the Kevlar mask of the first mercenary, while throwing a straight punch to the faceplate of the other. Both Plexiglas face-shields cracked upon impact from this single, fluid motion that appeared as one move, one technique.