by Rick Jones
Both men stumbled backward as they tried to level their weapons. But Isaiah was on them, again, his fists and feet moving from one man to the next, the blows hammering, striking, and pounding, his movements nothing but blurs, the speed inconceivable to imagine.
The point of the weapon from the first mercenary aimed skyward, went off, and then fell from his hand as he took a series of lightning straight jabs to his throat.
… bam … bam … bam …
As that mercenary went to the ground, Isaiah came across with three straight kicks that hit all three marks within a second, the first being center mass, the other two to the face-shield, the blows eventually smashing the Plexiglas to small chips that looked like tiny pieces of cubed glass, tempered glass, with the pieces spreading on the forest floor like diamonds chips.
As soon as the assassin went down, Kimball said, “All right … Enough.”
When the mercenaries tried to reorient themselves by trying to shake the cobwebs free, they finally came to the realization that the larger of the two was pointing his assault weapon at them. “You two done?”
In defeat, they summarily and slowly raised their hands, knowing the game was over.
“Thank you,” said Kimball.
Then from their left, about forty meters, a fairly long distance away, Kimball got a glimpse of someone moving away from them in the brush. He caught bits and pieces of who it was, the quick glimmers of the man they called Mehmoud Atwa. Kimball passed off his weapon to Isaiah and pointed to the two men on the ground. “Hold them,” he said.
Then Kimball took flight, chasing Atwa through the brush.
#
Oliver Beckett did not feel good about the situation. It was taking too long. By now someone should have returned with a grinning smile of victory on their face. No one had. So Beckett began to pace and rake his fingers nervously through his hair. The mercenary who stood guard was as cool as cool could be, almost like ice.
“Where the bloody ‘ell are they?” Beckett finally asked him.
“Be patient,” he told him. “It’ll all work out.”
“Yeah, well, patience just happens to be a virtue I don’t believe in.”
“It’ll be–”
A bullet-hole magically appeared in the center of the man’s Plexiglas faceplate, with the inside of the faceplate suddenly colored over with a sudden splash of deep red. The man stood for a moment as if he was deciding if he was dead or alive, until he finally fell back with the stiffness of a board.
John Moreland was alone as he stepped forward from the copse of trees with his weapon pointed directly at Beckett’s face. “Sit your bloody arse on the ground,” he ordered. “Hands on your head and don’t move.” Beckett appeared stunned, having that deer-in-the-headlight look, which gave Moreland such a joy that he could feel himself smiling inwardly. “If I have to say it again,” he added while pressing closer, his gun trained, “I’ll put your arse in a bloody sling for life.”
Beckett complied as his eyes welled with the sting of tears.
Then from Moreland who saw this: “Once a bloody coward … always a bloody coward.”
A tear slipped from the corner of Oliver Beckett’s eye.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Cathedral Heights, Washington, D.C.
Shari Cohen found herself caught within a kaleidoscope of emotions, her feelings constantly shifting from one moment to the next. When she got off the phone with Allawi she was angry and furious, then she was frightened, then once again furious to the point where she was consumed with the want and need to see this man caught or killed, preferably the latter.
But deep inside she knew she was a person committed by oath to uphold a higher standard by maintaining the written law. She was not judge, jury and executioner. She was not Justice, though Justice had different points of interpretation. Such as the viewpoints belonging to Kimball Hayden.
She looked at the phone, trying to muster the courage to call Kimball, to speak to him, and to talk her into believing in his brand of justice for wanting Mohammad Allawi dead.
He deliberately took your family away from you, he would tell her.
He knowingly robbed the lives of others through acts of terrorism and will continue to do so.
Sometimes, she could hear him say in her mind, it’s time to stop with the Band-Aids …
… And cut away the cancer.
She sighed heavily. It was early morning in Italy. He’d be up, she thought.
Then she opened the drawer to the nightstand and removed a small black book, a phone book, and began to flip through the pages until she came to the number she was looking for. It was the number to the administration of the Holy See given to her by Bonasero Vessucci, who looked at her with high graces and respect. Call. Leave a message. It will be forwarded to the ones you seek. This I promise you for what you have done for the church.
She picked up the phone, memorized the numbers for an international call, and began to dial. The phone rang once, twice, a strange tone, until someone answered on the third ring, saying: “Ciao, questo è il Vescovo Argullo dell'amministrazione della Santa Sede. Come posso indirizzare la chiamata?” Hello, this is Bishop Argullo of the administration of the Holy See. How may I direct your call?
Since this number was given to bypass the Vatican telephone numbering plan, she needed to proffer a specific code, also written in the small book, by reading off a series of detailed numbers.
Realizing the caller was American, the bishop turned to remarkable English. “I’m afraid Kimball Hayden is not here, Signora Cohen.”
“When will he return?”
“That, Signora, I am not sure. However, I would be happy to take a message. Upon his return he will receive and return your call.”
She hesitated, asking herself if this was the right thing to do. Then: “Tell him to call me as soon as he gets back,” she finally said. “It’s urgent. Let me give you my number.” She did.
“Very well, Signora, the message will be forwarded. As soon as Mr. Hayden receives it, then he will contact you. When that will be, Signora, I cannot say.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. And then she hung up the phone.
She knew she would not sleep, not after Allawi’s call. So she sat there on the couch stewing and fuming and feeling vulnerable at the same time.
To her left on the nightstand was a photograph of her grandmother taken three months before her death. She was thin, emaciated, her age and sickness eating her down to nothing. But she was a powerhouse of a woman who lived the unimaginable. So tiny, so small, but so enormous on the inside where it counted.
She traced her finger lovingly over the image and smiled. I have a war to fight, Grandmama. And I need you by my side for this one.
She closed her eyes and recalled the power of her grandmother’s words: “I’m one of Jewish faith as you are. But I was proud and refused to give up. To be a Jew in Auschwitz was certain death. But if you fight from here, if you’re truly proud of who and what you are, then you will survive. But never forget this one thing: there are terrible people out there willing to destroy you simply because evil has its place. If you want evil to take hold, then stand back and do nothing. But if you want to make a difference, then fight, so that all can live in the Light. Does this make any sense what I’m telling you?”
Yes, Grandmama … And I choose to fight.
The recall of these words had incredible impact that developed her inner fortitude to possess undeniable courage over time. She would stand and fight and have her place by living in the Light. And this was all she needed to get her through the night; the wise words of her grandmother’s wisdom.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Game Park
Kimball raced through the brush with his most trusted weapons, his KA-BAR knives, which were strapped to each of his thighs. Assault weapons often
went dry or jammed, but knives were forever. The caveat, however, was that you had to get up close and personal to use them. But Kimball was one of the best in the world at double-edged weaponry.
Atwa was up ahead weaving between brambles and shrubbery, just glimpses of a man running through the thicket and heading for the clearing.
Kimball followed, closing the gap between them.
And then they came to the edge of the field. Atwa raced from the tree-line to about twenty meters into the meadow. In the distance lay Shadid’s body, his once white shirt now dyed red with absorption.
Atwa stood in the field and waited for Kimball, who held up at the edge of the tree-line keeping a safe distance. He held a KA-BAR in each hand.
Atwa saw him. “Come,” he said. “I’m tired of running. We do this now, yes? You and me.”
Kimball remained along the fringe of the forest because he noted that Atwa was wearing a bandolier loaded with knives. The bandolier was snug and tight-fitting, perhaps it being more of a valued prize to be displayed in a shadow box or on a half-mannequin, rather than to be actually worn.
But Kimball wasn’t stupid, either. He knew Atwa’s skill, the surgical precision of his knife throwing, missing once but never twice.
Atwa beckoned him with his hand. “Come.”
Kimball took a few steps, then stopped. The tree-line was less than two meters behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked Atwa. “There’s nowhere for you to run. Not really.”
Atwa threw hands out to emphasize the great and open field. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know this area. I don’t know this country. Where would I go?”
“Your English is quite good.”
Atwa dropped his arms and took a few steps toward Kimball, who remained unmoving, and then he stopped. “In Syria,” he said, “before its fall, I had many American friends. I spoke the language and became close to them. They became close to me and my family as well. We had schooled together. Shared plenty of times together … But when the civil war came and everything looked bleak, and it was, I begged them to take me and my family out of Syria. I begged them. But they dismissed me as if I was worth less than the sand beneath their feet, and left me and my family behind … And because of this my wife and child are dead. They could not outrun the war as I had.”
“So you blame the world for the actions of a few?”
“It’s what gets me by.” Atwa saw the cleric’s collar and how it stood out due to its stark brightness. Then upon further appraisal he noted that the large man was piously dressed from the waist up, but more military from the waist down. The most outstanding feature about his opponent, however, was not his dress. But the stark luster of his cerulean blue eyes. And then Atwa spoke, his words dripping with a measure of respect. “I know you.”
“I doubt it.”
“No … I know you.” Atwa pointed to the emblem on the breast-pocket of Kimball’s shirt. From his distance he could only make out the image of the shield that had the silver cross Pattée centered within. “No,” he continued, pointing to the team’s symbol. “I know you. Maybe not personally. But I do know you.”
Kimball was very aware that Atwa was slowly inching towards him. Any closer, then Kimball would become a verifiable target susceptible to Atwa’s throwing skills. So he edged back toward the tree-line gripping his knives.
When Atwa saw this he stopped. “You are the one they call the priest who is not a priest,” he said. “Word is that you had been killed. Shot, I believe. In Syria.”
“Yeah, well, the word is wrong. I’m very much alive and plan to stay that way.”
“So now you plan to kill me for what I have become? A threat of a new order rising?”
“I want to know one thing from you, Atwa. Where’s the True Cross?”
“Ah. It all makes sense, doesn’t it? You, the priest who is not a priest, seek the holy relic and plan to return it to the vault above Golgotha Hill.”
“There’s no deal between you and Beckett. Not anymore. It’s over.”
“It’s not over,” he said. “A deal has already been struck and the wheels are already in motion.”
“Beckett will never see the light of day again. That means you won’t receive the weapons because Beckett will never see the Cross.”
“It goes much deeper than that,” Atwa answered. “Much, much deeper. The wheels are turning and there’s nothing you can do to stop them. And if you want the True Cross, priest who is not a priest, then be my guest. You’ll find it in the heart of Syria. Good luck.”
“Where in Syria? With Mabus?”
“Does it really matter if I tell you?” Atwa said. “You would never get within a thousand kilometers of it. You’d be dead the moment you set your foot inside the country.”
Syria was not a kind place to Kimball. He’d nearly been killed there while serving on his last mission attempting to extract orphans from the territory. Bandits, rebels and hostile tribal leaders were everywhere. The Islamic State was spreading across the terrain like a fast-moving cancer. So Atwa was right when he alluded that in order to retrieve the True Cross, he must first go through Hell to get it.
“Does Mabus hold the cross?”
“He does. But you’ll never get to Mabus.”
“Where is he?”
Atwa laughed at this. “Seriously, priest who is not a priest? I’ve met with Mabus. I’ve sat with him and even spoke to him. But still I know not what he looks like. No one does but one man.”
“You’re talking about Chahine,” Kimball offered.
“Ah, I see you are caught up with your intel.”
“Where can I find Chahine?”
“In Syria.”
Angrily: “Where?”
Atwa casually removed a perfectly balanced knife from his bandolier. “In Syria,” he repeated with a cool smile.
Kimball was getting nowhere. Atwa was too seasoned of a fighter whose conviction to his cause was a strong as his will to commit atrocity after atrocity in the name of Allah. Now the problem was that Atwa had several knives attached to his bandolier and could kill from a distance in open space, which is probably why he led Kimball to the open field to begin with.
“I will get the True Cross,” Kimball told him.
“Like I said, good luck. If you’re caught, they will kill you. Perhaps they will light you up as a human torch or lower you into a vat of acid. Either way, priest who is not a priest, none of the options they will come up with will be favorable.”
Someone was coming up from the rear in the forest, the brush moving in such a way that the individual wasn’t even trying to mask his approach.
It was Twelve-Gauge. And he was heavily armed.
When Twelve-Gauge made his way to the fringe connecting the forest to the the open field, he took post a few feet behind Kimball and leveled his weapon directly at Atwa for a kill shot.
“The Calvary, I believe the term is, has arrived, priest who is not a priest.”
Atwa kept his smile, one that was calm yet sly-looking. Then: “Good luck with your hunt for the True Cross, priest who is not a priest. For tonight I dine with my family in Paradise.” Atwa brought the polished blade of the throwing dagger to his throat and ran it across his carotid, severing it. Arcing trajectories of blood pulsated from the side of his neck once, twice, three times as he stood there with his foolish grin while his life ebbed with every beat of his heart. Then he fell forward to the surface where he died with his face buried in the grass.
And with him went the information regarding the exact location of the True Cross.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Kimball erupted from the brush like a charging rhino. Twelve-Gauge was behind him, but several paces behind.
Isaiah was catering to a badly wounded Leviticus, while Beckett sat on the ground along with two mercenaries who were being he
ld at gunpoint by Moreland. Their hands were on their heads when Kimball suddenly rushed by, grabbed Beckett by his collar, and began to drag him away.
“Hey! What the bloody ‘ell,” cried Beckett.
When he got Beckett into a slight clearing, he released him. The arms dealer, from his sitting position, was looking into piercing blue eyes that pinned him with a stare that told him to remain seated.
“You bloody ruined my pants–”
Kimball was on Beckett before he could finish his sentence, grabbed Beckett’s pinky finger, and snapped it like a dry twig. The crunch sounded very reminiscent of a stalk of celery being broken in half. As soon as Beckett cried out in pain, Kimball grabbed the finger beside Beckett’s pinky finger and snapped that one as well.
Beckett was now on his side, the man screaming as he rolled back and forth while cradling his injured hand.
Moreland was right beside Kimball at a moment’s notice, while Twelve-Gauge held the mercenaries in check with the point of his weapon.
“What the bloody ‘ell are you doing?” Moreland yelled at Kimball. “We need him alive.”
“So don’t we all,” he said.
When Kimball reached down for a third finger, Beckett raised his healthy hand in submission. “Stop!”
“Your buddy is dead,” Kimball reported.
“My buddy?”
“Atwa. Obviously you know the deal is off. There’ll be no trade of the True Cross for weaponry. But you have information I need.”
“I don’t know what the bloody ‘ell you’re talking about.”
Kimball wrestled the man’s wounded hand away and broke a third finger, the middle finger. “There are two-hundred-and-six bones in the human body,” he said. “I can do this all damn day, if you’d like.”
