The Devil's Magician

by Rick Jones

  Leviticus studied the landscape from a distant berm; saw the silver shine of the moon’s castoff over the surface. Shapes could be seen moving easily across the terrain from any post situated high upon the repository walls from a key observant, which was a concern for Leviticus. Then he whispered into his lip mic: “Roman.”

  “Go.”

  “You see anything from the east-side of the complex?”

  “That’s affirmative,” he answered. “Three tangos. Two on the rooftop and one walking the perimeter down below.”

  “Standby.”

  “Copy that.”

  Then to Jeremiah, who maintained a watch on the west-side of the repository, he whispered, “Jeremiah.”

  “Go.”

  “Tango visuals from your point of observation?”

  “Two,” he responded. “Both talking to each other by the entryway.”

  “Standby.”

  “Copy that.”

  Then to Ecclesiastes who was watching the south-side perimeter: “Ecclesiastes?”

  “Nothing on my side,” he answered.

  “Stand by.”

  “Copy.”

  Isaiah noted Leviticus’s concern by the way he nibbled on his lower lip, which was always a sign that he was in deep thought. “You’re feeling that something’s not right, don’t you?”

  Leviticus nodded. “You?”

  Isaiah turned to look at the compound. “Yeah,” he said. “Something doesn’t feel right. Not that anything seems out of line—”

  “But it’s a gut feeling,” Leviticus finished for him.

  “Exactly.”

  They continued to stare at the building from the sandy berm, as Leviticus decided on the method of approach.

  Five tangos altogether: two on the rooftop and three down below, with an undetermined amount on the inside. The SIV, according to their contact, placed the number close to a dozen hostiles within the entire cell, meaning that seven were withstanding, which in itself was a rough estimate based on Intel that was tenuous at best. Then Leviticus examined the landscape that divided his team from the facility, with the stretch in between as barren and rocky as a Martian landscape. Then into his lip mic, Leviticus said: “Roman.”

  “Go.”

  “Take out the three tangos from your vantage point.”

  “Copy that.”

  Leviticus lowered his lip mic, then to Isaiah he said, “Now we wait.”

  * * *

  Roman was an expert marksman equipped with an M82 Barret .50-caliber sniper rifle. From his position less than a click away, he set the rifle on its twin-pod and sighted the rooftop targets through the scope. He then hunted for and captured the hostile walking the perimeter below, the sniper going from target to target to get a feel for the range. After setting the sight on the target walking the perimeter, he followed the darkened shape who appeared to be walking in leisure or without care. Then as he passed within a circle of light that was being cast from a lightbulb above a locked entryway, Roman drew a bead, calmed his breathing, and pulled the trigger. The hostile’s head erupted like a melon as gore splashed against the wall of the building in a Pollock design, wild and indescribable. Then for good measure he took out the lightbulb, a single shot, the area where the body was laying now eclipsed by darkness. Then he repositioned the point of his barrel to the rooftop. Two tangos. Both looking over the silver-lit terrain from a moon that was too bright for such a covert undertaking. Roman then put the center of the crosshairs to one target, dialed in until the crosshairs aligned to center mass, knowing that the man was unaware that his life was to be snuffed out.

  Then Roman pulled the trigger.

  The hostile took a sudden and unseen punch as his backside exploded outward, the body curving, then folding, the man taking a step first to his right, then to his left, staggering. And then he fell over the roof’s edge and to the ground below, the body spinning and pinwheeling until it came to a sudden halt in the deep shadows.

  Roman spun his weapon to the final target, a man who realized that something was up but was unsure, as he crossed the roof. Roman lined up his sight and tracked the terrorist until the ruby-red + of his scope met with center mass, and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet struck the target hard, the round knocking the man off his feet.

  Roman, lowering his weapon, tapped his earpiece and spoke into his lip mic: “Leviticus, targets have been cleared. I repeat, targets have been cleared.”

  A moment later: “Copy that.”

  * * *

  That left two tangos who were both in Jeremiah’s jurisdictional undertaking.

  “Jeremiah.” It was Leviticus.

  Jeremiah tapped his lip mic. “Go.”

  “Roman did his job. Now we’re down to your two. Do you need backup?”

  “Negative,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Jeremiah, using his skills as a Vatican Knight, pressed forward like a phantom who would go unseen until the final explosive moment.

  * * *

  Inside the abandoned repository a man sits in the shadows. He stares at nothing in particular inside a veil of darkness that surrounds him like a security blanket. His breathing is measured, calm, as if he was on the verge of falling asleep but far from it. The only thing that gives him away that he was awake at all were the occasional nods of his head, as if he was mulling something over and agreeing to certain measures of some inner conversation.

  Then after a couple of raps on the door to his chamber, the door opened wide enough to allow feeble light from the hallway to slant into the room, though the man sat beyond the fringe of its illumination, with his shape remaining in the depths of the shadows.

  The man who entered the room clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head submissively. Hassan Maloof was wearing the same dark garments he wore on the night of the cardinal’s abduction, though his face was no longer concealed by the wrapping.

  “What is it?” the man in the shadows asked him.

  “Commander, you were absolutely right. A force is converging on the outpost.”

  The shape remained as still as a statue and just as quiet. And then: “The perimeter guards?”

  “Three are dead. Two on the rooftop and the one who was making the rounds.”

  The shape nodded. “And the other two?”

  “They continue to man the entryway.”

  “How many in the opposing force, Hassan?”

  “We acknowledged five.”

  “Five.” When the man in the shadows said this, he did so as if the number ‘five’ was an insult. “Only five?”

  “That we can see, Commander.”

  “Well,” said the shape calmly, “in most cases it would take five Vatican Knights to take down an outpost such as this.” Even in the darkness, Hassan Maloof could see the shape turn his head in his direction. “But not today, my friend ...Not today.”

  “What about the men manning the entryway?”

  “Sacrifices to the cause,” was the immediate answer. “They’ll be in Paradise soon enough.” Then the shape got to his feet, the dark silhouette of a man that was raven black, tall and slender. “Get the troops ready,” he told Hassan. “The time has come to see who the stronger warriors are, and which god favors whom. Allow the Vatican Knights to walk into the spider’s den.”

  Hassan Maloof bowed his head as a measure of respect. “Of course, Commander.” And then he was gone, the door closing behind him. And once again the room was consumed by absolute darkness.

  * * *

  Jeremiah moved silently across the terrain, moving from boulder to boulder and from berm to berm, the landscape providing him with the necessary cover under the silver wash of the moon’s light.

  Less than fifty meters away, two men were conversing. They wore the black garments of ISIS insurgents and carried assault weapons. And Jeremiah knew that their complacency would work to his benefit because their shields were down. Jeremiah was swift and quiet, and
even in the light he was nothing more than a rare glimpse of a shadow or shape moving across the landscape.

  The voices were getting closer, louder. After slinging his assault weapon across his back, Jeremiah reached for his Ka-Bar combat knife. He retracted it slowly from its sheath, a soft sliding of metal against leather, and gripped it firmly in his gloved hand.

  As Jeremiah moved closer he kept low to the ground.

  And as he made his way to their position their voices grew louder with one man laughing.

  A joke, Jeremiah thought, his amusement about to be his last.

  Then the Vatican Knight was ten meters away.

  Then five.

  The men talking and bantering beneath a cone of light that was cast from a single lightbulb above the doorway.

  Three meters away.

  Two.

  The man was all but invisible.

  And then like the predator that Jeremiah had come to be, he pounced on his opponents by first slicing the blade of his knife across the back of one soldier’s neck to sever the muscles, a deep gash that sent the man to his knees. Before the other could raise his weapon, Jeremiah came across with a sweeping arc and slashed the man’s throat, cutting off any attempt for him to cry out. As the second insurgent fell back with his hands clutching his wound, Jeremiah turned to the man on his knees and drove the point of his Ka-Bar straight down through the cap of his skull, the knife driving directly downward through the soft underside of his chin, then retracted it swiftly, the action killing the terrorist. Then Jeremiah turned to the insurgent who was leaning against the door with a hand to his throat, and the other held out to the Vatican Knight. The man was gagging with a horrible wetness and choking on his own blood. So Jeremiah ended his life quickly with a pain- less puncture to the man’s temple, the brain ceasing to function upon impact. After Jeremiah wiped the blade clean and sheathed the weapon, he lowered his lip mic: “Leviticus.”

  “Go.”

  “All’s clear.”

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  “Roman.” It was Leviticus.

  “We’re heading for the main entrance to breach the palace. Watch our lanes and keep the area clear.”

  “Copy that.”

  Under the light of a third-quarter’s moon, Roman maintained his position by looking through the lens of one of the world’s deadliest sniper rifles.

  * * *

  Leviticus and Isaiah moved forward from their position while Ecclesiastes moved from his, the men converging to the same point of the repository with their weapons raised to eye-level and their heads on a swivel, first scanning the area from left to right, then right to left.

  When Leviticus and Isaiah reached the entryway, they noted that Jeremiah had moved the bodies into the shadows. A moment later they were joined by Ecclesiastes who, with a quick aim of his weapon and a pull of the trigger, a loud spit from the suppressor sounded off as the overhead light blew out with a muffled pop.

  Now they were in the dark.

  And darkness was their ally.

  After the unit engaged their NVGs, Leviticus reached for the knob and oddly discovered that it turned in his hand, the door unlocked. “This is too easy,” he said, his comment barely a whisper into his lip mic, perhaps the Vatican Knight was speaking more to himself than to those around him. The door swung inward and the Vatican Knights swiftly entered the premise with Leviticus and Isaiah going to the left, Jeremiah and Ecclesiastes to the right, the unit fanning across the perimeter with their weapons at eye-level. Everything through the lens of their NVG systems was lime-green with every crate, fixture, and cement column clearly defined, the area expansive and more like a warehouse, a place for storage.

  The Vatican Knights spread out to draw equal distance from one another, and then they moved forward, the line advancing to police and clear the area of potential hostiles and to close in on the valued asset. But there were no voices, no distant conversations. Nothing to acknowledge that anyone else was inside the facility except for the Vatican Knights. The guards perhaps nothing but the honey that draws the flies, Leviticus considered, and strongly so.

  After they cleared the first floor, they came upon the stairwell that led to the second level. According to the SIV contact, the high-valued asset was inside a room on the second floor. Which room, however, could not have been discerned among the thirty rooms.

  They took the steps silently, vigilantly, their actions meticulous—nothing but black shapes that moved as soundless as the wind.

  Still, there were no voices, no hostiles, nothing to indicate that anyone had ever been there since the hallways appeared clean and unlived in, with the corridors as empty for as far as the visual of their night optics would allow them to see.

  “This isn’t right,” Isaiah whispered into his lip mic.

  Leviticus nodded, concurred, the absolute silence in itself a red flag. “We’re being watched,” he finally said. “They know we’re here.”

  Isaiah said: “It’s a strong feeling, isn’t it? I can almost feel their eyes weighing me down.”

  Then to Jeremiah, Leviticus said, “Stay behind and monitor the stairwell. Watch our backs.” Then to Isaiah: “I’ll take point. You and Ecclesiastes will follow and survey. What I miss you don’t.”

  Isaiah gave him a thumbs-up. “Clear on that.”

  Leviticus moved forward with his knees bent and his head on a swivel. His weapon was raised to eye-level as he panned from left to right, then right to left, searching.

  When they came to the first door on the left, Leviticus raised a balled fist and halted his team.

  Silence.

  Reaching for the knob, Leviticus grabbed it and turned it slowly. When he swung the door open, a volley of gunfire erupted from within the room. Muzzle flashes from AK-47s flared intermittently like strobe lights, the hallway lighting up as the wall opposite the open door exploded upon the bullets’ impacts, taking out fist-sized chunks of concrete.

  Leviticus countered with a flashbang by pulling the pin and lofting inside the room. The grenade went off, the concussive blast numbing the insurgents, the insurrectionists becoming blind and confused, their world nothing but a maelstrom of spinning darkness as they reached their hands out for the purchase of something to hold them steady.

  But Leviticus stepped inside the door’s framework, a hulking mass, and moved his weapon from left to right as he pulled the trigger, panning the barrel’s mouth as rounds ripped, tore and stitched across the bodies of three terrorists, the impacts knocking them off their feet and against the wall.

  Leviticus then policed the area, cleared it, and then moved on down the hallway with Isaiah and Ecclesiastes in tow.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for an insurgent team to come up on Jeremiah from the first level. They had been waiting, hiding, knowing all along that the Vatican Knights were in motion.

  Then into his lip mic, he said: “We’ve got company from below.”

  “We’ve been set up,” was all Leviticus said. “You know what to do, Jeremiah. Keep the path clear.”

  “Copy that.”

  Jeremiah set his position at the top of the stairwell. In his hands was an ACR Grenadier assault weapon with an AGOC Sight. With several grenades attached to his vest, Jeremiah waited to unleash an unexpected fury against those down below.

  * * *

  From Roman’s position outside the repository, he heard the cascade of gunfire and saw the muzzle flashes through the windows, which pinpointed the location of the Vatican Knights. A moment later he heard the frequency exchange between Jeremiah and Leviticus. Apparently the team had been set up; the mission compromised. If the high-valued asset was inside the repository, retrieving him would not come without a cost. Not now. Not when all the measures of stealth had been equally compromised. Roman looked through the lens of his rifle and bounced the crosshairs from window to window, sighting nothing. His attention was so intent and so fixed, he never heard the unit coming up from behind
.

  * * *

  Doors started to open from both sides of the hallway, the corridor filling up with figures in dark clothing and facial wraps, their weapons firing off in barrages, all screaming in the name of their god, the name of Allah, with everyone dictating his greatness in a chant. Bullets smashed along the walls of the corridor and tracked along the floor as the rounds quickly closed the gap between them and the Vatican Knights. The Knights dove from the gunfire that stitched along the floor of the hallway and to their position, the rounds missing. Isaiah, Leviticus and Ecclesiastes got to bended knees, took aim, and returned fire. The ammo was not wasted, no errant shots. Every round had found its mark one way or another, either to center mass or a clear head shot. And just like that bodies went down, at least six. The remaining insurgents fell back and deep into the shadows, even beyond the range of the Vatican Knights NVGs.

  Leviticus held up his fist. The mission was over, compromised beyond salvation. Then into his lip mic: “Abort.”

  The Vatican Knights began to fall back, and slowly, with the points of their weapons still directed towards the shadows at the end of the hallway.

  “Jeremiah,” Leviticus said into his lip mic.

  “Go.”

  “Still got company?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “Clear the path. The mission’s aborted. We live to fight another day.”

  And Jeremiah did just that. He began to clear a path.

  * * *

  A unit of Hassan Maloof’s men began to ascend the stairwell with their weapons directed to kill. Jeremiah, loading his grenadier to launch a grenade, aimed the weapon, picked a strategic point, and pulled the trigger. A grenade left the chamber with a whump sound, then hit its mark a moment later.