by Rick Jones
The whispers stopped.
When they did, Kimball wondered if his enemies had a shared sense between them knowing that they were not alone—that something dangerous lurked just beyond their reach.
And then something was lobbed from the shadows and into the light, the spherical-shaped grenade landing and becoming bogged down in the sand. It was also something Kimball immediately recognized as a lethal brand and not a flashbang.
Kimball shouted in dire warning. “Down!”
As the Vatican Knight fell to the floor with his hands covering his head, Sherpa tried to imitate his actions. But he was too slow as the grenade went off in a flash of yellow and white, causing shrapnel to explode to all points of the compass. As Sherpa was going to the ground the power of the blast slammed him against the wall, and hard, while metal shards peppered him. A number of wounds suddenly opened against his torso and his legs. One piece even entered through one cheek and exited the other, smashing teeth along the way. With his body riddled, the Company man began to crawl along the sand in the slow throes of agony trying to get away from the situation.
Kimball, whose Kevlar vest accepted the force of a few shards and deflected them, moved quickly to his feet whole and unaffected. As he looked Sherpa’s way, he saw his companion bleeding out into the sand.
Sherpa was moving agonizingly slow along the floor, the man mindlessly trying to find refuge with his instincts no doubt dictating his actions. But his only true sanctuary, Kimball realized—at least from Sherpa’s point of suffering—would only be death.
Emerging from an opening, Kimball saw the point of an AK-47, grabbed it, and pushed it upward as a burst of gunfire went off. Bullets stitched wildly along the wall and across the ceiling, the roof caving in to provide a larger circle of light. Dirt and rock rained downward in a tumbling cascade with some of the stones—some that were as large as a man’s fist—striking two additional terrorists as they entered the arena and sent them to their knees.
Kimball, while continuing to hold onto the gun’s barrel, threw three straight jabs to the man’s face, the strikes blinding as the radical’s eyes started to roll up into his head, showing nothing but white.
Behind him, Kimball could sense the others rising to their feet. He turned to engage them with one hand still holding the barrel of the AK-47 while the terrorist, despite losing consciousness, refused to let go. Finally pulling the weapon free from the man’s loosening grip, he swung the AK-47 across in a full arc. By using the weapon as a cudgel, he was able to knock aside the aim of both extremists and force their shots wide.
With the blade of his right hand, Kimball chopped at the throat of the man he wrenched the gun from, causing the man to fall to his knees with his hands to his neck, then confronted the two who were beginning to swing their weapons around for the kill shot. But Kimball was quick and efficient, his timing perfect. Unable to turn the AK-47 in time to use against his opponents, the Vatican Knight slashed the assault rifle in his hands like the club that it was, and struck the barrels of his twin attackers, once again knocking them off target. More bursts went off, nothing but spent rounds that missed their intended mark of Kimball Hayden, the Vatican Knight now swinging the weapon with savagery, back and forth, back and forth.
Behind Kimball, the terrorist who had been sent to his knees was beginning to gather his wits. Coughing and gagging with a hand still to his throat, the Arab withdrew his knife while getting to his feet. The man teetered a moment to gather himself. Then he approached Kimball from behind in a drunken gait with his knife held in a white-knuckled grip.
Kimball had worked his way into the kill zone of his two opponents to neutralize their ability to turn their weapons on him, the three now fighting in a drunken tango. Kimball used the stock of the AK-47 to smash a terrorist in the teeth, turning them into sharpened points now coated with blood. The terrorist, however, smiled at Kimball with malicious delight as these bloodied rows of broken teeth gave the appearance that the man had surrendered himself fully to the ownership of the devil. The grin was that rictus and evil.
The Vatican Knight continued to brawl with his opponents, the cluster of men fighting in a tight grouping. And then Kimball felt a hot slice run across his lower back. Since a Kevlar vest was made to stop the impact of bullets and not the sharp point of a blade or its edge, Kimball knew that he’d been slashed, the pain sudden and white-hot. And Kimball could feel the weight of his MP7 sliding off his back, his assassin having severed the strap in the course of his action.
Now holding a knife in one hand while stealing away Kimball’s MP7 with the other, the Arab fell back and directed his aim on the Vatican Knight.
Kimball, after dropping the AK-47 that he stole from the assassin who ironically appropriated his MP7, fought through the pain as he reached deep to find his reserves, then threw a series of well-coordinated elbow punches to the two-man team who were within arm’s reach. The blows were fast and furious and were coming at breakneck speed, the Vatican Knight smashing their faces, their noses, blood now erupting in gouts as the extremists were being knocked senseless, their eyes now rolling and turning to sheer-whites. Their weapons fell to the floor, to the sand, their AK-47s useless as they wavered in their stance, with Kimball’s elbows still smashing, still working, the endurance of the Vatican Knight holding steady. First the man on the left fell, and then the one on his right, both going down but not out.
Kimball, turning to confront the third man, saw that the terrorist was wise to draw distance between them. In the terrorist’s hand was Kimball’s weapon, which was directed at the Vatican Knight’s head. After the two locked eyes, Kimball fixed the terrorist with a furious stare. But the terrorist only appeared to smile at this, the passing of raw emotions between them to be one of contraries.
Kimball braced himself inwardly as he saw the slow draw of the trigger.
With a smile that was filled with cruel intention . . .
. . . the terrorist pulled the trigger.
* * *
Sherpa could sense his life bleeding away by the seconds and by the inches, with his ending coming on with the slowness of a bad dream. He recounted the moment of Kimball’s warning, but was too slow to respond. He had been lifted and dashed against the wall, while at the same time being riddled by shrapnel with some of the pieces striking vital organs. In the immediate aftermath as he started to feel a strange warmth fill his lungs, with the man now drowning in his own fluids, he considered how ghastly it was to die in such a way.
Looking up to see Kimball in a contested battle with two men, Sherpa noticed that his hands were free of his weapon, which had been lost in the explosion. Refocusing his attention on the Vatican Knight with his world fading in and out, he noted that Kimball was still engaged in battle but was maintaining his own. And then a third man rose to his feet with a knife in his hand, the man caressing his throat while moving steadily upon the Vatican Knight from behind.
Shrugging off his backpack with every move causing his body to sing out with a tabernacle of pain, Sherpa opened the flap. Inside was a glimmer of silver. He reached for his piton gun, which was already loaded with a stake, and removed it. After seeing the third terrorist run his knife across the Vatican Knight’s back, Sherpa forced himself to move with a sense of urgency. He grabbed an air cartridge, seated the container firm within its pocket, and leveled the gun.
As the terrorist fell back to kill Kimball with his own rifle, Sherpa’s sight began to fail him. His world started to dim as the objects within his sight became smaller. It was as if he was drifting away to another realm of existence. Enclosing his finger around the trigger while the voices of another kingdom began to call him Home, Sherpa pulled the trigger, causing the piton to eject with bullet-like speed.
Sherpa, however, would never know the outcome as he finally slipped away.
* * *
The terrorist was smiling with hateful relish as he stole away the Vatican’s Knight’s weapon after slashing h
im with the edge of his blade, the weapon now his proven trophy. What he wanted foremost was for the Devil’s Magician to feel intense pain before the actual kill. The assassin’s intention was to build himself up in the eyes of his constituency—to say that he was the one who destroyed the demon who had been mythicized in the Middle East. And that he was the one who looked the demon in the eyes before he slayed the fabled dragon.
As Kimball turned on him with their eyes locking, as the Arab maintained his wicked grin, the terrorist’s finger began to pull back on the trigger of his newfound trophy. As soon as the demon fell dead before his feet, he would claim the Vatican Knight’s head and display it on the sharpened point of a stick for all to see. In his mind’s eye, the radical could see himself becoming a prophet amongst his people from this one deliberate action, the Beast finally slain.
There was a whisper as something split the air.
A vertical slit unexpectedly appeared in the middle of the terrorist’s forehead, about two inches long, a perfect line. The piton moved so quickly that it was neither seen entering nor leaving the man’s skull, until it finally lodged into the stone wall behind Kimball.
The terrorist, who was dead on his feet before his mind had time to register his death, dropped the nose of the MP7 until it was facing downward, and pulled the trigger, while dropping the knife with his other hand. It was remarkable how the man stayed upright, Kimball considered, all the way until the magazine ran dry. After a long series of dry clicks, the assassin finally buckled straight downward and into a contorted mass.
Kimball maneuvered to his feet to quickly note that Sherpa was gone, the man’s eyes now on their way to film over with the milky glaze of death. Then in the same pivotal maneuver, the Vatican Knight returned his attention to the terrorists, who were getting to their feet.
After swaying momentarily in their stances and shaking off the cobwebs, the two had enough presence of mind to remove their knives. Kimball, in response, did the same by removing his KABARs.
With bloodied faces that gave the terrorists a red mask that highlighted the whites of their eyes, they began to circle the Vatican Knight. From their movements, Kimball knew immediately that these two were no strangers to combat when it came to double-edged weapons.
Feeling a sting in his lower back, Kimball fought through the pain. But he could feel his shirt becoming sticky and tacky as it clung to his flesh like a second skin. And this was cause for concern since he didn’t know how deep the wound was. Or if it had lacerated a muscle that would eventually weaken and take him fully out of the game.
Watching the terrorists circle, Kimball held one knife steady while moving the knife in his other hand in figure eights. The figure-eight motion was a means of distraction, since the human eye naturally became drawn to motion. As soon as the extremist on his left looked at the moving knife, which was his mistake, Kimball launched himself against his opponent.
The Vatican Knight threw his weapon in a series of choreographed maneuvers that had been practiced over years and decades, the man perhaps one of the best in the world when it came to a bladed contest. Two blades against the one, the advantage belonging to Kimball as he slashed and rendered his opponent with cuts and tears, the man yelling and falling away as Kimball took on the second man, who was now upon him.
Kimball swung his knives in perfect arcs, diagonally and horizontally, with some of his swings deflected while others hit home. The Arab was good, but he only had one knife. Although he managed to deflect some of the Vatican Knight’s attacks with metal striking metal, Kimball’s free blade eventually raked across the man’s abdomen and gutted him. His opponent, who grimaced in pain as his fell to his knees to catch the coils of his spilling innards, looked into the eyes of the Devils’ Magician and saw the white band of the Roman Catholic collar, which would also be the last thing he would ever see before falling to the sand, his life now gone.
Kimball quickly turned on the man that was left. The terrorist’s shirt was slashed with multiple tears, and the man’s bleeding was apparent. The Vatican Knight narrowed the gap between them, predator versus prey, with the kill about to terminate with a final and closing act.
The terrorist, after crying Allahu Akbar, attacked Kimball in a futile attempt of possibly striking it rich with a killing stroke, only to be easily deflected with the counter stroke from Kimball, who drove his knife deep to pierce the man’s heart, killing him instantly. As Kimball held onto the knife, the body slowly fell away from the blade and to the ground.
After confirming that his opponent was never going to rise again, Kimball took to his knees, the man driven to the sand by the pain in his back with the muscles, to some degree, most likely torn.
Still, somewhere within this maze was Zahid Ahmadi and the Bangladeshi.
Forcing his way to his feet, Kimball grimaced in pain as he grabbed his firearm, seated a fully loaded magazine into his suppressed MP7, then continued the hunt.
* * *
The Bangladeshi had a tight grip on Roman’s ankle, the man suddenly appearing at the opening to stake his claim of the Vatican Knight, who clung to the wall. Amal Purakayastha had followed the imprints in the sand of the papal cross that led him to this point. It was a last-gasp intent of trying to obtain the head of the golden calf.
With his hand around Roman’s ankle, the eyes between the Bangladeshi and the Vatican Knight remained fixed on one another, with Roman finding himself at the Bangladeshi’s mercy.
Topside, the Vatican Knights were unable to respond since the Bangladeshi had complete authority to wrench Roman cleanly off the wall with a simple pull.
“If you direct your weapons on me,” Purakayastha informed them, “then you force me to do what does not need to be done. All I ask from you is one thing—just one. All I ask is that you give the head of the golden calf. In payment for the idol, I will release your companion. If not, then I will pull him off the wall. And as you can see, it is a long fall to the base.” The Bangladeshi’s features were flat and unemotional, the man unreadable as to whether he was telling the truth or flashing his best poker face. “Your choice,” he said, directing his demand to Isaiah. “The head of the golden calf for your Vatican Knight. It should not even be a consideration for you, but an easy deliberation.”
Isaiah looked down from his perch. All he could see was a portion of the Bangladeshi’s peeking head and the hand that rested around Roman’s ankle, nothing else.
“I will not wait here all day, Vatican Knight,” Purakayastha said. “In fact, I will count down from ten to one, in order for you to accelerate your decision . . . Ten . . . Nine . . .”
“Don’t do it!” Roman called up to Isaiah. “You know as well as I do that this is bigger than all of us!”
“. . . Eight . . . Seven . . .”
“If he gets the head of the golden calf and disappears, we lose!”
“. . . Six . . . Five . . .”
“Isaiah,” Roman looked into the eyes of his lieutenant that appeared to be languishing in throes of self-anguish. “It’s always been our rule to govern by ‘the sacrifice of few for the good for the many.’”
“. . . Four . . . Three . . .”
“If those nukes fall into the wrong hands,” Roman continued, “who knows how many will suffer from Ahmadi’s actions.”
“. . . Two . . . One . . .”
Roman gave Isaiah a smile, one of appreciation and respect. And then: “I’m good with this,” he stated with an odd peace given the high-end gravity of the situation. “I’m sure He’ll understand since the decision here is not yours to make, Isaiah, but mine.” And just like that he pushed himself away from the wall to begin his long descent.
And no one was more surprised than the Bangladeshi, who felt Roman suddenly slip from his grasp. Purakayastha’s jaw dropped as he looked at his empty hand, the assassin trying to figure out what went wrong or why he was no longer in control of the matter.
Somewhere above him, many crie
d out Roman’s name while others shouted out a resounding ‘NO!’ in disbelief.
Purakayastha peered over the ledge to see the Vatican Knight shrinking in the distance, the man falling like a stone at an uncontested rate of speed. As soon as the Vatican Knight’s journey ended, the Bangladeshi fell back and stood within the archway of the opening, astounded. In a single moment of one man’s self-sacrifice, his final means to receive the head of the golden calf had been forever lost.
Closing his eyes in shame of falling short of his goal, Amal Purakayastha knew that Abesh Faruk would be gravely disappointed—perhaps enough to see that the Bangladeshi pay for his failure. I can never return, he thought. Not now.
Opening his eyes, Amal Purakayastha fell back into the shadows and disappeared.
* * *
The Vatican Knights were numbed to lose one of their own, the entire unit incapacitated by the decision making of one man who put the welfare of others above himself. The self-sacrifice of any Vatican Knight was never easy to digest or emotionally containable, which Jeremiah exhibited by trying to climb downward and give chase of the Bangladeshi in retaliation. But it was Isaiah who reached out and grabbed Jeremiah to stop him short, with both their eyes filled with the pain of sudden loss.
“I can do this,” Jeremiah told him. “I can find him.”
“And then what? Take his life in revenge? . . . It’s not what we do or what we’re about.”
Jeremiah realized that Isaiah was right. In that moment of losing his cool, Jeremiah had also lost his sense of virtue. They were the champions to those who could not protect themselves. They were not killers who stalked their prey in vengeance. In those few moments that this symbiotic connection between him and Isaiah lasted, Jeremiah surrendered all intent to follow the Bangladeshi.
“Roman’s in good hands with the Lord,” Isaiah solemnly stated. “He made the only choice he could. Right now, it’s our job to return the head of the golden calf to the Vatican and to meet Kimball at the Altar of Moses.” He looked over the edge and to the valley below. Somewhere lay the body of Roman. And then: “We’ll find him and bring him home. I promise.”
