The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

  With heavy sadness in his heart and the True Cross tightly in his grasp, Isaiah started his vehicle and made his way back to the safety of AKçAKALE.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Syria

  The rooftops from one structure to the next were very close, about two meters apart, just enough to form alleyways between them.

  Mabus ran along the rooftops as the flames behind him were destroying the timber supports of his hut, the wooden beams kindle dry. He started to feel the heat against his back, a warmth too hot even on a desert night.

  He leapt onto another rooftop, rolled, came to his feet, and turned to see if the demon had been giving chase.

  It had not.

  When part of the rooftop to his hut caved in, a shower of sparks rose skyward as lazy whorls of oranges and reds eventually died off.

  His demon was nowhere to be seen.

  Mabus smiled.

  Allah watches over me still.

  #

  When the timbers supporting the ceiling in the first half of the hut collapsed, heavy debris rained downward with hundreds of pounds of desert stone. Plumes of dust rose. The fires continued to drive along the walls and ceiling, the flames taking new ground.

  Kimball fell deeper into Mabus’s room with his arms held up in defense against the all-consuming blaze, the heat becoming lava-hot.

  The ladder.

  He took the rungs, though they protested and threatened to give beneath his weight, to an opening in the roof. He grabbed the edges, hoisted himself up, and rose to his feet like something out of a bad dream. He was a dark and massive shape silhouetted against the flames in the background, something of nightmares.

  In the distance but only a few rooftops away was Mabus.

  Then taking a few steps forward to close the gap between them, and then picking up those footsteps into a jog, the jog now turning into a sprint, the sprint then turning into a run, Kimball charged Mabus like a rhino.

  #

  The arrogant smile on Mabus’s face quickly faded when he saw a hulking mass rise from the opening in the ceiling and stand tall. The shape was silhouetted before the towering flames behind it, the menace of its existence completely profound. Mabus could feel its reach coming across the divide that separated them.

  And then it began to move. Slowly at first, and then faster, and yet faster, until this demon with the red mask came at him with amazing speed and vengeance in its eyes.

  Mabus turned, ran, could feel the demon closing as he called upon Allah for help, the extremist pleading and asking Him to reveal his almighty power as a show of support.

  Was the answer ‘no’?

  Mabus turned.

  The shape closed the distance between them; two rooftops away.

  More pleas to Allah.

  The pleas went unanswered.

  Mabus was coming up to a divide between rooftops about four meters in length, about thirteen feet, a long stretch between points A and B. He picked up his speed, lowered his head, and leapt from the lip of one building onto the roof of another. When he landed he twisted his ankle badly, the tendons straining then snapping like high-tension wires. The man rolled as he grasped his injured ankle that ached with white-hot pain.

  He closed his eyes, squeezing tears. But when he opened them he saw the dark mass standing over him. In its hand was a knife that looked impossibly long and wickedly keen.

  As soon as Mabus turned over and tried to belly-crawl away, a hand reached down, grabbed him by his hair, and flipped Mabus over onto his backside, and pinned him to the ground.

  Mabus pointed to him. “I know you. I’ve seen your face.”

  The shape was unresponsive, unmoving.

  “You were killed. My lieutenant told me so.”

  Though Kimball could understand Arabic perfectly, his ability to speak the language was sorely lacking–though he always managed to get his point across. He leaned over Mabus, his wide shape blotting out the sky above the terrorist. “You’re talking about Sayed?” This was a rhetorical question by Kimball, more of a statement. Then: “Well, Sayed’s wrong. And he lies dead by my hand.”

  “So now you have come to kill me?”

  Kimball exhibited his knife by raising it before Mabus’s stark-white eyes. Even in the darkness they shone. “How many times have you used a knife to cut off the heads of men, women and children? How many people did you order to kill innocent people who had nothing but goodness in their hearts?”

  Mabus said nothing.

  “What? Too many to count?” said Kimball.

  Then: “They were infidels.”

  “Infidels? You ordered the murder of children six, seven, eight years old. You ordered the deaths of Christians who never raised a violent hand against anyone. And when they did raise a hand to someone, it was to help them.”

  Mabus spit to his side, an act of defiance. “The deaths of all infidels is the way of Allah.”

  “Let me clue you in on something. There is no god that would ever condone the killing of another man. Your god. My god. Any god.” Kimball held the blade of the knife close to Mabus’s throat. “There was this little girl named Yara. A beautiful child who wanted nothing except to play simple games like patty-cake and to have crushes on boys.”

  Mabus didn’t know what he was talking about. What’s a patty-cake?

  “You ordered Sayed’s team to lay an assault on a team of children. And she was killed in the crossfire because of it … How low can one human being be?”

  “You can’t defeat this,” said Mabus. “You can’t defeat Allah.”

  “I can try.”

  “If you kill me, then another will take my place.”

  “Then I’ll kill him.”

  They looked each other in the eyes, saw the darkness lodged deep in their souls.

  Finally, Kimball said: “Since there is no god that would condone the killing of another man, I guess I’ll see you in Hell.”

  Mabus tried to slap Kimball’s knife hand away with the madness of self-preservation, the wide-eyed man pleading no-no-no-no-no.

  But Kimball worked on Mabus with the cold fortitude of a machine.

  #

  Kimball moved solemnly down the streets oblivious of the village people as they ran from burning huts trying to escape the flames, or at least trying to douse them with buckets of water. But these people were not members of the Islamic State, just villagers who were forced to tolerate Mabus’s presence without question.

  Wooden timbers on both sides of the roads were beginning to catch fire, the sparks spreading like vermin. But Kimball walked between these fires without care or consideration of his welfare. The villagers around him cried out in chaos while running through the streets unmindful to Kimball’s presence, about as much as he was to them. Or perhaps they just didn’t care about this stranger since their homes were burning.

  Kimball had worked his way back to Mabus’s hut which had been completely razed by the fire, leaving nothing but a stone foundation. He got into Chahine’s vehicle and sat unmoving for a long moment as the village burned. He took it all in. Quietly. The flames reflecting off his eyes. Then he raised his hands before him and appraised them.

  They were covered with blood.

  Kimball then reached beneath the dash and yanked out a set of wires–Chahine’s vehicle was old, so none of the modern anti-theft devices existed–and touched the ends to spark the engine to life.

  The Vatican Knight then exited the village and drove north to Turkey, while the village in flames reflected off his rearview mirror.

  Kimball had never felt so hollow.

  #

  Many of the stone huts were saved. But as a show of fellowship and communion, the villagers would band together and rebuild.

  At the outskirts of the community but less than 100 meters away from the nearest
structure, villagers had gathered before a standing totem, a pike, and praised Allah that they had been freed.

  Mabus’s head was jammed down on its point, his head severed in a clean cut. His pallor was sickly gray like the underbelly of a fish. His eyes had filmed over with a milky sheen. And his mouth had become a new haven for flies as they buzzed about in crazy loops and patterns.

  Villagers took this as a sign from Allah.

  A cancer had been stricken from their village. And their women would no longer be sexually violated by those who held Mabus in such high esteem: his guards.

  Here was a sign from their god.

  And the sign was clear.

  Mabus was no longer sitting at the top of the food chain.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The Church of the Holy Sepulchre

  By the time Isaiah reached the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, he looked completely war-torn and thoroughly exhausted. His uniform was filthy, caked with dust. His cleric’s collar was soiled, as if smudged with charcoal. And when he walked he did so with a labored gait. He had come far to return something magical to the land of Golgotha.

  With the True Cross held closely to his chest, the doors parted and the priests within the church parted, giving Isaiah free passage to the vault below.

  A priest guided him and spoke not as he led them to the chamber beneath the church. And as much as Isaiah wanted to rest, he couldn’t. His journey was almost complete, the vault close by. At the end of the final hallway was the door constructed above the sacred site of Golgotha. He was literally standing on the site of Christ’s crucifixion, and within his hold the remnants of the True Cross he was nailed upon in sacrifice of all man’s sins.

  Isaiah never felt so blessed.

  When the priest parted the door, reflections of gold filled the corridor. Before Isaiah was an empty altar, the resting place for the True Cross. Isaiah took short steps into the room, could feel and sense the essence of God in his surroundings. Then he placed the True Cross on its rightful place on the altar above Golgotha, and took a step back.

  The frame shone like the highest quality of gold.

  The room had a light and airy feel to it, something that could only be described as surreal.

  And then he left the vault, the door closing, and then locking.

  The True Cross had finally made it home.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Washington, D.C.

  Shari stayed at headquarters all evening because she wanted to be the first on the scene if Allawi had been tracked down. But the news was never good. Allawi had escaped the net. Again. Dogs were used, Belgian Shepherds, supposedly the best. Choppers flew overhead. Nothing. Law enforcement canvassed the streets, the highways, all the roads that led in and out of Bethesda. But Shari knew that covering all routes was an impossibility, since there were too many roads of escape. Apparently, Allawi had found one.

  She was still wearing her Kevlar vest while sitting behind her desk when Director Johnston gave a quick knock on the door and entered.

  “Busy?” he asked.

  She was typing away at her keyboard. “What do you think?”

  “Stupid question.”

  She stopped typing. Her eyes were red and raw with fatigue and had gray half-moons beneath them. “Please tell me you have good news.”

  “Wish I could. Just wanted to come by to tell you that we identified those in Allawi’s cell.” He handed her the reports. One man was identified as Joaquin Abadem, a man on FBI’s watch-list due to his continuous visitations to a mosque suspected of colluding with hostile factions. The other two were completely off the radar.

  “I wonder how many more people are in this country who hold an allegiance with the Islamic State that we don’t know about,” she said. Then: “And the two Hispanics?”

  “Cartel members,” he responded. “That’s how the guns made their way to Bethesda. They came up through Mexico before the authorities could shut down Beckett’s industry there.”

  “Our borders,” she commented. “It’s a wonder how nothing worse than drugs have made it across.”

  “You’re tired,” he said. “And cranky. Why don’t you go home and get some rest.”

  “Too much to do.” She went back to her keyboard.

  “Stop,” he said.

  She did.

  “Shari, go home and get some rest. You’re no good to us half on your feet.”

  She eased back in her chair. Then she rubbed the burning itch from her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “You’ll call me when you get Allawi?”

  “Of course. Now go home.”

  She continued to sit at her desk as if debating.

  “Home … Now,” commanded the director.

  Shari nodded, got to her feet, removed her vest, and turned to Johnston pointing a finger at him. “You promise to call me now if you capture Allawi.”

  Johnston smiled. “Yeah. Promise. Now go home.”

  While she drove home she did so by using her internal guiding system by taking the corners and junctions without thinking about them, her body simply reacting by instinct from taking the routes so many times over the years that her actions became involuntary. Though her body functioned adequately behind the wheel, her mind was light years away, her thoughts consumed with Allawi.

  He’s playing with me, she thought. But this wasn’t the case at all. Mohammad Allawi was a man who planned well and was undeniably lucky. Nothing more or less.

  As she turned the corner to her street and saw her house at the end of the cul-de-sac, she also noted the FOR SALE sign on her lawn. Two nights ago she decided to sell the place while sitting at the dinner table that was surrounded by too many empty chairs.

  Pulling into the driveway, Shari got out of the vehicle and went to the sign. Its letters were in big bold, blue colors. When she fixed the sign to a straight and upright position, then stepped back to admire her handiwork, never for a moment did she realize that she was being placed within the crosshairs.

  #

  Mohammad Allawi had taken a position inside a house a quarter of a mile from Shari Cohen’s residence. It was a perfect point to fire a rifle from, since there were no trees or Italian cypresses that stood two stories tall or higher to impede his line of fire. In the attic of a home belonging to an elderly couple, the couple now dead from gunshot wounds to the head, Allawi took position on the top floor by a small window which offered him a straight-line view from home to home. Allawi then set up his M600, worked the mechanics of the weapon, drew Shari within its scope, locked on, and savored the moment before the pull of the trigger.

  He could feel his heart racing and his blood pounding along his ear canals. Special Agent Cohen was fixing a sign so that it no longer slanted to one side, the woman a perfectionist, he considered, and then he slowly began to draw back on the trigger.

  #

  Shari looked at the sign, then at the house, remembering times spent with her family. Emotional pangs still came and went, causing her eyes to well and a sour lump to crop up in her throat. Now was such a time and tears once again threatened.

  Then the sign began to tilt, again, the soil soft and saturated from the heavy rains over the past few weeks. When she bent over to plant the sign deeper to keep it from leaning over, a distant shot rang out, a crack that split the silence.

  Something slammed into her backside like a hit from a sledgehammer, the impact driving her off feet with the sign still in her hands. At first she felt nothing as she stared at the overhead clouds and their undulating formations. Then she felt a burning hotness in her back, the pain swelling, blossoming, then becoming white hot. Blackness began to form along the edges of her eyes, dark rings that started to expand inward until her sight became tube-like. Then she started to move her mouth in mute protest as the light began to fade, her shrinking vision now becoming a pinprick of light the s
ize of a mote, a dying ember …

  … Until there was nothing left but absolute darkness.

  #

  Mohammad Allawi was amazed at how well the weapon functioned. All it took was a slight squeeze of the trigger and the weapon did the rest. From his vantage point nearly a quarter of a mile away, Mohammad Allawi, never a skilled marksman, saw Shari Cohen take flight upon the bullet’s impact.

  What I could do with soft targets, he told himself.

  And then he was gone, the man disappearing like mist in the wind.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Vatican City

  Kimball Hayden had never felt so utterly lost or alone.

  While sitting on the edge of his bed inside his chamber and setting aside his cleric’s collar by placing it on the nightstand, he examined his hands. It had taken time to wash the stains of Mabus’s blood off them, the redness having clung to his flesh like a tattoo. Eventually, it had come off.

  Then he recalled the moment their eyes had met for the first time inside the burning hut. He had seen himself in Mabus, and Mabus knew that he had seen himself in Kimball. There was an umbilical tie between them. They had both murdered men, women and children for one reason or another, and always justified their reasons in the end.

  Mabus was what Kimball used to be.

  So when he killed Mabus–he tried to kill that part of himself.

  And in doing so he knew he would never see the Light of Loving Spirits. In an action committed by the madness of his own hatred, he had fully condemned himself to damnation.

  He looked up at the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mother … and waited.

  During a certain time of the day when the sun passed overhead, the image of Mother Mary would reach out to him in invitation with rays of warm light streaming into the chamber. But today there was no call or summoning to be embraced by the Light at all. There were no rays of hope filtering down into the room, no accompanying warmth or the peace offering of comfort–nothing that said, ‘Come into my Light.’