by Rick Jones
“What about you?” Sherpa asked. “You sound as if you’re hanging behind.”
“That’s because I am. Ahmadi’s team is working their way to our position, so let them. Trust me,” he said, patting his KABAR, “I’ll have a present for them. The optimum thing right now is to see that the head of the golden calf gets into the hands of Vatican principals.”
Sherpa, a Company man, advised that he was going to stay with Kimball and that his allegiance was not with the Vatican Knights but to his administrators, who wanted Ahmadi dead. And that was his second objective, to assassinate the leading member of the Islamic State.
Since Kimball had no jurisdictional command over him, he said, “Just stay out of my way.” Then back to his teammates and in hushed tones, he added, “If you come into contact with Ahmadi’s team, remember that they’re closing in to kill you. They have a twofold drive to attain the head of the golden calf. Use your skillsets to remove yourselves from harm’s way, but only if you must. Outside of that, I’ll see that you get clear. Meet me at the Altar of Moses at mountain’s base. You should reach it by nightfall. If I’m not there by morning, move ahead without me. Do I make myself clear?”
To everyone, he did.
In the background, Ahmadi tried to spur Kimball along with a nagging voice that was almost too coarse for Kimball to listen to for much longer. Holding his tongue from lashing back, Kimball maintained his calm and told Isaiah to lead the team ahead, but to be cautious of those who lie in wait.
Nodding, Isaiah led the unit forward to pick up the trail of Moses’ departing footprints. Since they had secured the item of the golden calf, or at least a portion of it, their mission now was not to hunt or kill an opponent unless provoked to do so, but to abscond with the item in hand. Getting it to the Vatican was everything.
Kimball, however, was never wired to follow the rules of the Church. He skirted the decrees because he believed in cutting away the cancer rather than to place a Band-Aid over it.
While the Vatican Knights went in search of the exit, Kimball turned to Sherpa and reminded him to stay out of his way.
“I heard you the first time,” Sherpa told him.
“Just making sure.”
While Ahmadi continued to speak from the shadows on the opposite side of the Master Chamber, Kimball disappeared into the labyrinth of tunnels with Sherpa close by.
* * *
After Kimball called out to Ahmadi from the shadows from across the way, the Arab had heard nothing more from his enemy, who had grown disturbingly silent.
“The Vatican Knight is no fool,” stated the Bangladeshi. “There must be a purpose behind his actions.”
“Again, Bangladeshi, I think you’re overestimating the abilities of these priests.”
“They’re not priests,” the Bangladeshi returned harshly. “They’re commandos.”
“And yet they sit across the way, the unit bogged down.”
“Or perhaps that’s what they want you to believe, Ahmadi. They remain silent allowing you to believe that they are where you believe them to be, across the way. But perhaps they are the ones who are now on the hunt.”
“They wouldn’t stand a chance against my team, Bangladeshi. My people are too good.”
Amal Purakayastha, however, did not hold the same confidence. “If you believe that you have the upper hand in all of this, Ahmadi, then you’re a fool.” Turning, the Bangladeshi disappeared into the winding corridors, leaving Ahmadi alone.
* * *
Isaiah lead the unit with Jeremiah taking rear. Roman and Joshua took center as the Vatican Knights made their way opposite the opening they had entered. Common sense had dictated that if one set of footprints led into the Master Chamber without a retreat set, then Moses had clearly discovered another way out.
As rays of light beamed down from random openings overhead, most of the dried-up tributaries were steeped in darkness. But with the aid of their NVG hardware, the Vatican Knights were able to navigate through these hollowed out corridors with ease.
First, they went north and then east, with Isaiah leading them far from the Burning Bush. They had not come upon anyone within Ahmadi’s group since the tunnels and warrens were too numerous to canvas. But they did come upon a second compartment that was larger than the Chamber of the Burning Bush.
Footprints from sandal wear had marked the territory long ago. At the rear of this hollowed out area was other opening, more triangular. Torches that had gone unused for thirty-five centuries leaned against the wall by the opening. There was an old cot in the corner, ancient, the wood having collapsed long ago. And an old table, which also collapsed centuries ago, lay on the dirt floor with clay bowls surrounding it with some broken and some intact. Here was the chamber of Moses as he secluded himself to rewrite the Ten Commandments on replacement tablets, after he broke the original tablets in anger of his people after they had sinned a great sin.
Isaiah, with the aid of his NVG, led the Vatican Knights through the last doorway.
* * *
Sherpa, even as he shadowed Kimball inside the tunnels, eventually lost sight of him. The Vatican Knight was gone, like mist, the man somehow disappearing when he was only an arm’s length away. Now Sherpa was alone, the Company man using his Langley training and techniques to hunt down Ahmadi, who had suddenly gone quiet, which unnerved him.
Moving through the tunnels, with some dark while others provided overhead light, Sherpa found himself inside a dry reservoir. The walls were steep and smooth, with the above opening no larger than a beachball. As Sherpa stepped within this beam of light and within its warmth, he felt an odd comfort that was different from the coolness of the caves and became riveted. He stood within this beam as if he was being spotlighted.
And then there was an awful sound behind him, a wet gagging which caused Sherpa to pivot quickly on his feet with his weapon raised. A terrorist approached him in a stumbling gait a few strides before falling to his knees. His eyes ogled brilliantly with the surprise of approaching death, his orbs mostly whites, as the point of a KABAR knife stuck out from the man’s neck. As the terrorist choked on blood that filled his lungs and throat, the man lifted a hand towards Sherpa with the optimism of receiving aid, only to be shunned by Sherpa’s inactivity because the Company man was so surprised by this sudden intrusion, he became paralytically numb.
From the shadows, as the terrorist kneeled before Sherpa with an imploring hand reaching out for the man’s assistance, a Shadowman quickly made its presence known within the fringe of light. Reaching for the knife’s handle that stood out from behind the terrorist’s neck, Kimball pulled the blade free, causing the point to vanish from the front of the terrorist’s throat, and leaving a vertical gash in its place. Gagging for the last time as blood bubbles burst along the corners of his mouth, the radical fell forward with the teeth-first approach in front of Sherpa’s feet.
After wiping the blade dry against the terrorist’s clothing, Kimball gave Sherpa a disapproving look. “I said, eyes and ears open. Don’t become a liability.” The Vatican Knight looked upward at the light’s origin, a circular hole, then at Sherpa, who was caught within its shaft. Through the clenching of his teeth, Kimball said, “This isn’t a vacation. Sunbathe some other time. This guy had been following you for some time now. Stay . . . alert. I won’t tell you again.”
As Sherpa was about to say something, perhaps an apology but could not find the words, Kimball Hayden returned to the shadows.
Sherpa followed.
* * *
The Bangladeshi was a man of rational thinking who was not prone to allow his ambitions or the ambitions of others to cloud his judgment. When he was a member of the BSOF he had heard of the Vatican Knights and of their particular skillsets, which could not be emulated from their Spartan model of training. And as he moved through the warrens, he had discovered the bodies that were left behind as part of their handiwork. Ahmadi’s men were considered to be of elite s
tatus, terrorists who once fought for exclusive military units in the Middle East. Yet here they were, the fallen remnants in the wake of the Vatican Knights.
As the Bangladeshi moved with purpose that was more out of retreat than a man on the hunt, he realized that the possibility of retrieving the golden calf was nominal. Yet the Bangladeshi was beholden to Abesh Faruk and was his trusted operator in the field. Returning to Zurich without the prize, even if it was just the head of the calf, he knew would be unacceptable.
Moving in and out of the shadows, Amal Purakayastha came upon a number of footprints. The imprints in the sand held the markings of the papal cross—the emblem of the Vatican Knights.
The team was on the move—their course, however, perplexing. They were moving away from the original point of entry rather than towards it.
With his weapon firm within his grasp, Amal Purakayastha, also known as the Bangladeshi, followed their trail in the sand.
* * *
Ahmadi called out to Bangladeshi in whispers, only for these whispers to bounce back at him from the terrible acoustics these tunnels provided. He reluctantly found himself alone with the Bangladeshi apparently moving on with an agenda of his own, which didn’t sit well with Ahmadi. Since Purakayastha was the liaison between him and Faruk, that made the Bangladeshi the important link between the two, and someone he could not afford to lose until the head of the golden calf was in his custody.
“Bangladeshi?”
Nothing but the hollow cadence of his voice bouncing back at him.
“Bangladeshi?”
Receiving no response, Ahmadi turned in the direction of the Vatican Knight across the divide of the chamber. The shadows were dark and midnight black, the perfect cover for a man who did not want to be seen. And it was here that Ahmadi wondered if Amal Purakayastha was accurate in his assessment: Was the Vatican Knight using the shadows as an ally? Was the Devil’s Magician across the way and within the veils?
. . . Or was he on the hunt? . . .
If the Bangladeshi was the canary in the coal mine, then the answer was clear to Ahmadi: The Vatican Knight was in pursuit of his prey.
Holding his weapon tight, the master terrorist took to the channels praying that Allah would be his guide.
* * *
Kimball Hayden moved through the tunnels with furious intent. The men he chose to pursue were notorious assassins to those who could not protect themselves. People like Zahid Ahmadi and those he incorporated into his little cabal to commit acts of terrorism to show allegiance to a god by way of human sacrifice, would come under Kimball Hayden’s wrath. There was no god who would ever condone the killing of another man, Kimball believed. And to kill people who never lifted a hand in anger but suffered under the brutality of a terrorist regime, Kimball’s inner rage had become a bonfire of absolute fury. In his eyes and in his heart, he would become their champion.
He moved through the tunnels in hot pursuit, the Vatican Knight being led by an inner sense few were born with. With the power of his olfactory senses, he allowed instinct to govern his moves, his direction, the warrior seeking his prey with catlike grace and agility.
Sherpa stayed close behind, the Company man realizing that Kimball Hayden was more to him than just an operative—he was also his shield.
They made their way through the tunnels and through the dried-up reservoirs. By virtue of his instincts, Kimball could sense and feel others nearby, with his enemy closing from all points. Within moments Kimball and Sherpa were about to become the focal points of hostile contention.
Kimball beckoned Sherpa to move in for close counsel. With the two hunkering in the shadows, Kimball whispered, “We’re being hemmed in.”
“How do you know that?” Sherpa asked him just as softly. “I don’t hear anything.”
“You’re not supposed to hear them. You feel them. I’m not so sure they know where we are, but they’re around us. They’re canvassing the tunnels to clear them, and then to make their way back to a communal point. We just happen to be between them and that point.”
“How do you know this?”
Kimball pointed to the head of the tunnel. Light was filtering into their corridor, meaning that there was another naturally carved-out cistern with a natural skylight ahead.
And then to Sherpa, he whispered, “Ahmadi’s group is using a military technique to drive the enemy into a containable spot. Let’s not disappoint.”
Kimball, without adding anything further, turned and headed for the naturally carved cistern with Sherpa on his tail.
* * *
The Vatican Knights had seen the light of a new opening. The sun was not coming in from above, but from a natural doorway. With Isaiah leading the way, he quickly discovered that the opening led to a precipice, which was a half-rounded balcony that overlooked the desert wasteland from 2,000 feet above the floor. The mountain beneath the extension was absolutely sheer, its flawless vertical wall going straight down. Fifty feet above their position, however, was the landing of their refuge. Even though getting there would prove difficult, it would not be impossible. Unlike the rock face below them, there were hand- and footholds to grab onto, small recesses to use and lift themselves topside.
Jeremiah looked over the edge. The ground appeared to be miles away, a long drop. Then he kicked a few pieces of gravel over the side. “One thing’s for sure,” he said. “There’ll be no room for mistakes.” Then he looked upward. “I’d say about fifty feet. But doable.”
Isaiah concurred, then said, “One at a time and use caution with every move. I’ll lead.” Stradling his weapon over his back so that it hung laterally, Isaiah reached out with his right hand, hooked the points of his fingers into a nook, repeated the action with his foot, secured himself, then fully left the ledge with no safety net below. At first, he clung to the wall like an insect, the Vatican Knight unmoving while assessing his next move. Then slowly, he began his climb. Moving hand over hand and foot after foot, Isaiah began to scale the wall, which drew the absolute attention of his team.
“You got it,” Roman stated with confidence.
A third of the way up, Isaiah placed his fingertips into a small crevice. The surrounding stone, however, was loose and had collapsed under his grip, the stones falling into open space as the Vatican Knight lost his balance and his footing, the man now hanging by the crooks of his fingers of his left hand. His body swung like a pendulum, back and forth. And now his fingers were beginning to lose their strength as gravity to weigh him down, his body too heavy. But then his right foot found the purchase of a small ledge, something to stabilize him, until his left foot discovered the same, a foothold. Sighing inwardly and closing his eyes momentarily in gratitude, Isaiah continued his climb until he reached topside without further event.
Joshua was next, a big man with sausage-like fingers. With the head of the golden calf inside his backpack, it did little to weigh him down as he began his climb. Taking the same route as Isaiah, he, too, made it topside.
Jeremiah was next. Though he was nimble and quick, he took to the wall above the desert floor with caution and ease. When he was close enough to reach out his hand, Joshua grabbed it and aided the Vatican Knight to the landing.
That left Roman alone on the precipice, who was gauging his pending moves along the rock wall before he finally reached out for the outcroppings. Swinging out over the desert floor, he began his climb. He found the nooks and crannies, then slowly began to elevate himself. As he was reaching out to clench another small projection of stone, a hand lashed out from below and grabbed him by the ankle, stopping him.
Roman, looking down, found himself staring into the cold and fathomless eyes of the Bangladeshi. There didn’t appear to be any pupils because his eyes were so dark and so much without compassion, they seemed more like marbles, those little pieces of glass that shined like obsidian.
While clinging against the wall and finding himself impotent to adjust his fate, Roman suddenly foun
d himself at the mercy of a killer.
* * *
The cistern was large and round and had smooth walls. It also reminded Kimball of an old-time carnival ride at Salisbury Beach, the Gravitron. The ride was a simple concept based on physics. While pressing your back against the circular wall, the room would begin to spin until the centrifugal forces pinned you to the wall the faster the room spun. Eventually, the floor beneath your feet would drop and leave you clinging to the side with no footing. Why this thought of comparison suddenly came to Kimball’s mind he didn’t know. It just had, this simple memory a reminder of a time when he was happiest.
Looking at the walls and spotting a tear in the ceiling that allowed light, he could feel himself being surrounded.
Sherpa could clearly read the warring of tics on Kimball’s face, his features an obvious barometer of a brewing storm that was heading their way. “What?” he whispered.
Kimball could hear the approach from his enemy who were coming from two tunnels that led into the chamber. Gesturing to Sherpa to stand beside one opening, Kimball pressed himself close to the second, the two waiting.
For Sherpa, his heart raced with cheetah speed that beat with a palpable sensation against his ribcage. Kimball, however, forced calm upon himself. But it was something he knew would vanish the moment his pent-up rage would rear its ugly head to rule.
Kimball heard the whispers of their approach, their murmurs. If they had suspected their presence, then they would have maintained their silence. And because they had set aside their protocols of maintaining operational silence during the hunt, then the advantage of surprise, Kimball knew, now belonged to him.
Sherpa appeared anxious and nervous, which prompted a reaction from Kimball who patted the air with a downward motion with his palm facing to the floor, telling Sherpa to calm himself. Sighing ever so softly, Sherpa nodded then ground his feet against the sand, readying himself.
