Authors: Rick Jones
#
After checking on
the
remaining four members of the Holy See and finding them justifiably shaken,
Shari left Leviticus and Isaiah to tend to their needs while she continued to
search the vacant rooms that bordered the corridor.
In a room that held little light, Shari spotted a lump of
darkness gathered against the far wall. It was amoeba-like in its form, but
moving, its breathing labored and wet, however. When she neared the shape it
began to take on an outline of an old man holding another closely. The two
masses together, from a distance, indistinguishable. Up close, she could see
that the pope had drawn a dead man into his embrace.
“Your Holiness!” She kneeled and gently touched the old
man’s forehead and felt the heat of fever. “Your Holiness, you’re ill. We’ll
get you out of here as soon as possible.”
“Who are you?” he asked weakly while she wrapped blankets
around him.
“FBI Special Agent Shari Cohen, I’m here with the Vatican
Knights.”
His brows rose. “Kimball’s here?”
“Yes, sir. They’re acting as my Critical Incident Response
Group.”
“Then it’s truly over?”
“Yes, sir, you’re safe.”
The pope raised his hand. The chain that tethered him to the
wall for so long was now broken, a perfect shot by Team Leader freeing the man.
“I don’t know why he did this,” the pope explained.
Shari sidestepped the body of Bishop Angelo. “We’ll come
back for him. I promise.”
In that instance the floor suddenly erupted in shards of
wood and bullets. So Shari grabbed the pope and forced him close to the wall,
shielding him with her body. From underneath gunshots perforated the
floorboards and strafed the ceiling, causing bits of wood and old tar to
cascade down on them like rain. All around feathers floated in the gloom as
bullets penetrated the old mattresses, the feather stuffing swirling and
dancing about in lazy eddies. Bishop Angelo’s body also took multiple hits, the
punching bullets animating his corpse into jiggling fits. And in desperation,
Shari cried out as the room became a world of spinning lead, gently floating
feathers, and choking dust.
#
Kimball moved discreetly
down
the second floor corridor. Thirty yards ahead the area was lit by multiple
muzzle flashes, marking the spot where the members of the Force Elite were
shooting at the ceiling.
Over Kimball’s earpiece he heard Shari cry out over her mike,
not an order nor a battle cry, but a shout of extreme anxiety.
He quickly converged with his grenade launcher loaded and
ready. Less than a second later a grenade corkscrewed through the
quasi-darkness and exploded with an eruption that scattered the commandos
throughout the corridor as bits and pieces of gore. None of them knew what hit
them.
At the base point of their attack, Kimball looked up and
noted the perforated ceiling above him. When he called out Shari’s name
numerous times but received nothing but feedback, he became particularly
concerned for her welfare.
And then a voice, distant and hollow, came from behind. “You
would be Kimball Hayden, I assume.” Kimball turned quickly, his finger on the
trigger of an empty weapon, and then with his free hand removed his helmet and
lip mike and tossed them aside.
At the end of the hallway a man stood near the collapsed
stairwell, sizing Kimball.
Kimball took a step toward him, the mouth of the grenade
launcher pointing downward.
“I have heard so much about you,” the man said, his accent
thick. “I hear that there is no better warrior than you.”
Kimball moved closer, the face of the man clearer in the
feeble light. Beneath the chin, a wedge of scarring, the distortion of tissue
as identifying as a tattoo.
“And you would be Abraham Obadiah,” he said.
“That would be, at least for today, the name you would know
me by, yes.”
Obadiah reached down and methodically withdrew his
black-bladed commando knives from sheaths on both thighs. It was an invitation
to Kimball who lowered his weapon to the floor and withdrew his own
knives.
“Now,” said Obadiah, the points of his blades pointing
wickedly. “I would be so honored to be the one to kill the legend.”
Kimball took a fighting stance. “Don’t count on it.”
They closed the gap swinging the blades with precision and
savagery.
#
Dust and feathers
floated
with cloying thickness. When Shari pulled back from the pope she saw that the
floor was marked by countless holes inches apart. How she and the pope escaped
the volley was beyond her, but she couldn’t quite rule out a miracle either.
Removing dusty blankets from the pope, she saw he was untouched by the
fusillade. His eyes were glazed with fever, his skin hot to the touch, but he
smiled and raised a bony hand to brush his fingers softly against her cheek. “I
thought you said I was safe, young lady.”
She returned his smile. “You are now. For some reason I have
the feeling Kimball got involved.”
“You know something?” the pope said. “I think you might be
right.”
#
The blades deflected
off one
another as they fought viciously. With metal striking metal sparks flew
abundantly before dying out, only for new ones to take their place. Each man
moved with poise and skill, their actions motivated by instinct rather than
deduction since their movements were too fast for the mind to comprehend the
next move.
Obadiah came across in a series of upper cuts and horizontal
slashes, while Kimball countered with deflections and straight jabs, his
maneuvers also deflected. In Kimball’s mind he was amazed how good this man was
with double-edge weapons. He had never actually been tested before, until now.
As their arms moved with blinding speed, Obadiah came across
and slashed Kimball’s vest, the razor sharpness of the knife cutting easily
through the Kevlar. Vests, after all, were made to stop bullets, not knives.
Backing off for the moment, Kimball reexamined his position
while Obadiah paced from left to right like a caged animal.
“You’re good,” he told Kimball. “But not good enough.”
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
“Then let’s get this over with,” he said. “I’ve things to do
and people to kill.”
They converged on each other for the last time.
#
Those who had
seen the
perforated floor were amazed it was still strong enough to support weight. The
aged and decimated wood protested beneath Leviticus and Isaiah as they
carefully removed the pope and placed him in the care of the Metro Unit, who
quickly ushered the man away under the cloaking of their shields. The
Descending Angels examined and secured every room on the third floor, while the
ground troops maintained their post on the first floor entryway and stairwell.
Leviticus drew close to Shari.
“The pope is in good hands,” he told her in hushed tones.
“So we must go.” He turned toward Micah’s body. “We’ll be taking him with us.
There can be no questions.”
“I understand.”
Isaiah stood beside them. “Kimball will meet us on his own
terms,” he said. “But we’re thankful for all you’ve done.”
Isaiah and Leviticus dropped to a bended knee and placed a
closed fist over their hearts. “Loyalty above all else,” they whispered,
“except Honor.”
Shari felt absolutely flattered at this display of gratitude
to the point of feeling the sting of tears. Then, placing a closed fist over
her heart, said, “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”
For her, this was closure.
Milling with the Descending Angels and ground troops, Isaiah
unobtrusively lifted the body of Micah and draped it over the shoulders of
Leviticus, trying to give the impression of a ‘man down’ requiring immediate
medical attention. Shari watched the two Knights merge into the crowd and
within moments they were gone.
Only when Kimball didn’t answer his mike did she become
concerned.
#
The blades moved
faster,
beyond the comprehension of human sight, their arms moving in blurs and
blinding rotations as each man’s brow drew the sweat of his efforts. Neither
man rescinded his space, maintaining his territory. And neither man by the
plateau of his pride was willing to concede to defeat by the fatigue beginning
to weigh on both of them.
Breathless, both men reached into their inner selves and
mustered whatever reserve power they had left before being entirely sapped.
When Obadiah finally went in for a stabbing motion, Kimball
came down and slashed his blade across Obadiah’s forearm, a score that severed
the muscle that incapacitated him.
With a savage cry Obadiah dropped his knife and looked
skyward, the veins in his neck sticking out in cords. When Kimball went for the
kill, Obadiah rotated on his feet like a matador dodging the course of a
charging bull, and came around with a solid kick that sent Kimball across the
floor and over the edge of the collapsed stairwell. Dropping his knives,
Kimball reached for the exposed rebar and grabbed it before plunging to the
debris below. When he tried to pull himself up, Obadiah was standing at the
edge of the concrete holding a hand over his wounded arm, the blood flowing
freely between his fingers as he looked down on Kimball.
“You’re indeed a truly magnificent warrior,” he said. “But
tell me, that crest and shield on your vest. Is it a symbol of your squad? Or
is it the marking’s of something else?”
Kimball tried to pull himself up, but Obadiah placed a foot
upon the rebar, his weight bending the bar downward.
“Your style is different,” added Obadiah.
When Kimball’s hands slid downward along the bar, he
reaffirmed his grip.
“Who are you?” asked Obadiah. “You’re not with the FBI, that
much is for certain. Your style is too unique, and I thought I had seen them
all.” When Obadiah bent down, the blood of his forearm dripped on Kimball. In
the background the opposing forces were moving in, but Obadiah didn’t seem too
concerned by their apparent approach in Kimball’s view. “You’re not the Swiss
Guard, either. As good as they are, you fight like no other. So again, who
are—”
Obadiah turned to check the progress of the troops. Given
this window of opportunity, Kimball lunged up, grabbed Obadiah by the front of
his shirt, and pulled him over the edge.
Too surprised to utter in protest, Obadiah traversed the
open space to the debris below.
When the troops finally reached the precipice, a commando
reached down and aided a tired Kimball Hayden to the landing.
“Are you all right?” asked the assault team leader.
“I’ll live,” said Kimball. He pointed to the rubble below.
“You’ll need to contact Special Agent Cohen of the FBI regarding the man down
there,” he said. “She’s in the building somewhere.”
The assault team leader looked over the debris. “What man?”
Kimball immediately sat up and looked over the edge.
Obadiah was gone.
Washington, D.C.
September 30, Mid-Morning
The day had been a sweeping success
for the FBI. And like a deprived addict the media consumed the details. The
pope was taken to Massachusetts General Hospital to recuperate from a bronchial
infection. His overall prospects for recovery were rated as excellent by his
doctors. Once able to travel, he would then check into Gemelli Polyclinic in
Rome for a follow-up. Beyond the lead story of the pope’s health were accounts
of battles that procured the pontiff and the remaining bishops of the Holy See,
all unharmed.
The Soldiers of Islam, however, weren’t as lucky as Shari
Cohen of the FBI conducted a superior assault mission, in which the Incident
Command System was well established and performed with military precision. The
Command’s Ops Supervisor and Liaison Officer informed a special group of media
members, discreetly predetermined by the president of the United States, that
the Soldiers of Islam were eradicated. This, the media members were told,
demonstrates to the world that terrorism will never gain a true foothold on American
soil. The media went wild and unknowingly served propaganda as the main course
of public news. This in turn served the government’s purpose of burying the
real conspiracy involving the pope’s kidnapping and the true identities of the
players involved.
On the surface Shari had picked up various snippets
regarding Misters Paxton, Murdock and Pappandopolous—it all depended upon the
source at the time. Mr. Paxton apparently took a post in the field office in
the state of Oregon. But Shari knew the dark truth. This same dark truth
applied with respect to the sudden retirement of George Pappandopolous, and of
course, the unreported imprisonment to solitary confinement of Punch Murdock.
There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that these players shared the same
feared fate as Murdock, ending up in a grave in potter’s field.
The man known as Obadiah was never found. What was found,
however, were several false walls and panels allowing for his escape, a
contingency well thought out by the members of the Force Elite. One such panel
on the first floor by the rubble led to the network of sewer lines beneath
Boston’s numerous streets. Obadiah’s name was never mentioned to the media, but
only within the smallest Washington circles. Leaks could prove deadly, so whoever
spoke of him did so with caution.
Coincidental to all the positive news washing across
television and reported in the major papers, America suffered the pangs of
losing Vice President Bohlmer to a brain aneurysm, an imperceptible bubble
along the arterial wall that finally erupted, somehow missed by physicians
normally stellar in their tending of White House dignitaries. After three days
of closed casket viewing within the rotunda of the Capitol Building, he was
buried alongside his wife in California. Shari did not attend.
Kimball Hayden and the Vatican Knights had simply
disappeared. Shari thought of him often during her trip back to D.C. When she
returned to the archdiocese, she learned from Cardinal Medeiros that since the
threat to her family was over, they were gearing up for the return home. The
cardinal didn’t mention Kimball to her at all, nor did she dare ask.
Upon her arrival home, Gary was cleaning up from the mess
left by the skirmishes. When they first laid eyes on each other they simply stood
quietly, as if evaluating one another to glean each other’s secrets.
And then it came to them in a symbiotic rush. There was
nobody else for them, nobody. And for a long time she hugged Gary hard, a
reaffirmation of her love for him, something that eluded them for months. And
though Gary thought she might crush his ribs, his return hug was just as
affirming.
They had rediscovered each other while standing on the
threshold of Death’s doorway.
#
After Shari was
granted time
at home to relax, FBI Director Larry Johnston called her to the downtown office
to confront her on a few issues. Most notably he wanted to know who her CIRG
Team was, since all valid members had been accounted for at Quantico at the
time of the assault.
When she arrived at the office the director closed the door
behind her and gestured for her to take a seat in front of his desk.
“You look good,” he told her, his tone congenial.
“Thank you.”
He examined a few documents before placing them on the
desktop before him. “These are the documents by the Planning Ops Chief from the
Incident Command Post.”
Shari wanted to roll her eyes.
Here it comes.
“None of your team checked out with the Incident Commander
for accountability when they completed duty, which is against ICS protocol.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” she lied. She realized Johnston
knew it as well.
“I’d also like to know who your squad was, since everybody
who made up the Strike Force Team was accounted for at Quantico during the time
your assault against the Force Elite commenced.”
Shari remained composed and quiet. Johnston seemed almost
fatherly as he addressed her with a wry grin. “As a First-Team Assault Unit,
they were fabulous in clearing the stage for the rest of the team’s maneuvers,
perhaps saving a lot of lives considering who they were up against.” And then
with a measure of gratitude he said, “I’m proud of you, Shari. The Bureau, the
president—you’ve made this agency shine. And for that we are all proud.”
“Why . . . thank you.”
He picked up the papers. “The assault from beginning to end
took less than eight minutes from the moment your team struck first, until the
takeover by the Ground and Air Support Units. There were no casualties or
injuries on our side—a job well done.”
“Eight minutes?”
“Eight minutes,” he confirmed.
“It seemed much longer than that.”
“Being on the front lines—I‘m sure.”
She diverted her attention to the papers he was holding.
“What else does the report say?”
He placed them back on the desk. “Nothing damaging . . .
that’s for sure.” He paused before posing the next question. “So are you going
to tell me who they were?”
Shari could only stare while her mind searched frantically
for an answer. Then without so much as a quaver in her tone, “I can’t.”
Johnston’s face remained passive despite her inability to
confide in him. “You know I should be admonishing the hell out of you for doing
what you did. But I can’t argue the outcome of the situation. Despite the lack
of protocol regarding the ICS, I’m going to send this report to the attorney
general, who I’m sure will agree with the recommendation that your efforts be
recognized. You and your team did a nice job, Shari. There are a whole lot of
people who are really proud of what you did.”
Shari was beyond relief. “May I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Abraham Obadiah . . . Are we going after him?”
Johnston’s features became guarded. “No.”
Shari couldn’t believe what she just heard. “But this is the
man who started all this. He tried to start a war—”
He cut her off by raising his hand. “Abraham Obadiah
apparently doesn’t exist; at least that’s the viewpoint of Mossad, the Israeli
government, and the attaché. We’ve already checked, even though we believe him
to be a major player in Mossad’s Lohamah Psichlogit Department. However, these
agencies are admitting nothing. So whoever this guy is, he’s obviously a
powerful person whom they apparently want to keep away from the watchful eyes
of other nations, including our own.”
“So we’re just going to sweep this under the rug?”
“And what do you suppose we do? Risk dredging up a
conspiracy that could have buried this country in the eyes of our allies—of the
world? I don’t think so. If this man surfaces again, we’ll handle it. Until
that time, we’ll continue to work with our allies in a positive way. If they
say this man doesn’t exist, then
he
doesn’t exist. Is that clear?”
She sighed. “Yes, sir, very.”
“Then have a good day.”
Shari got up from the chair and thanked the director.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. The smile returned to his
face. “You have a special engagement to attend to this afternoon.”
“An engagement?”
“The pope is being released from the hospital today. And he
has requested a personal meeting with you prior to his plane leaving. I believe
he wants to thank you for what you’ve done, which is an engagement most of us
would envy.” He returned to the paperwork on his desk. “Your plane leaves for
Boston in about an hour.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be back in plenty of time to
be with your family.”
For a moment her heart hitched inside her chest. Would she
get another chance to see Kimball and say goodbye? She at least wanted that
privilege, to tell the man how much she truly respected him, and that their
courses were taking them in two separate directions. She just wanted to say goodbye
to someone whom she would never see again.
“If I were you, Shari, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity of a
lifetime.”
She thanked Johnston once again and didn’t have to be
reminded a third time that a plane awaited.