Authors: Rick Jones
Annapolis, Maryland
September 23, Early Morning
The
Governor’s Mansion was a two-story Colonial, situated on a manicured rise.
Columns and expensive fascia designs enhanced the house’s appeal, while Boston
ivy climbed the brick and trellises with reckless abandon.
On the gravel-laden driveway
leading to the mansion’s cul-de-sac, two state police vehicles sat on the
perimeter with an officer in each unit. They were no match for Team Leader’s
recon group; they were dispatched quickly, quietly and efficiently.
#
Agent
Nedza had
a good view of the grounds from
the mansion‘s wraparound porch and examined the landscape through night vision
binoculars, making a slow scan. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he lowered
the device and moved along to the porch’s south side. The moment he started to
ebb from sight, Team Leader’s recon group scaled the wall and landed behind a
row of pruned hedges.
Unslinging the world’s most
accurate sniper rifle, the Barrett M82A1, Team Leader’s sniper took aim through
the crosshairs of an emerald green lens, drew a bead, slowed his breathing, and
pulled the trigger. With the sound of the gunshot muted, Agent Nedza’s head
snapped forward with the bullet’s impact, and fell to the floor as a boneless
heap.
#
The
lighting in
the hallway was somewhat
subdued as an agent from the president’s detail walked into the governor’s
darkened library and stood silhouetted within the door frame, listening. The
moment he raised his hand for the light switch, three muted pops sounded off in
quick succession, the muzzle flashes winking intermittently from the darkest
edges of the room. With cold efficiency, the perfectly placed bullets hit the
center of body mass in a tight triangular pattern, dropping the agent as fast
as gravity would allow.
#
On the
second-tier
landing where the bedrooms
were located, two agents stood vigil at opposite ends of the corridor. When one
of the agents began to toy with his earpiece, a darkened shape moved along the
wall with feline stealth, drew a garrote around the agent’s neck, and pulled
him silently into the shadows, strangling him with such surgical precision that
the agent was unable to emit a sound upon the moment of death.
After the assassin lowered the
body to the floor, he melded so easily with the surrounding darkness that he
became a part of it. And then he was gone.
#
Agent
Cross stood
alone at the opposite end of
the corridor, unaware he was surrounded by a group of hostiles. The moment he
raised his hand to adjust his lip mike, he was taken down. The action was so
quick, so proficient, he was numbed by surprise.
Now, with the front line of
defense taken out, all that remained was the task of securing the designated
targets.
#
Darlene
Steele was
unable to sleep. The sound of
the wind blowing the leaves outside sounded to her like a symphony of distant
tambourines. Even from where she lay she could hear the wind driving the
already fallen leaves along the cul-de-sac in a cacophony that sounded like the
crackle of fire.
After releasing a barely audible
sigh, she turned to her husband who lay beside her, his chest rising and
falling in a slow, even rhythm. Apparently the stirring of autumn winds was
more of a lullaby to him than an annoyance. So she lay there for hours,
watching patterns on the ceiling as sleep eluded her. Her eyes remained open
and sighs escaped her. Her restless motions were unable to elicit even a single
uncouth comment from her husband, as he lay undisturbed by her actions. In time
she slid the covers back, got out of bed, and embraced herself against the
unseasonable chill. Grabbing her robe from the post of the bed, she left the
room and closed the door behind her.
In the hallway she turned up the
thermostat before descending the spiral staircase of their state-funded
$650,000 home—one of many political perks that made her marriage tolerable. As
the wife of a prominent governor, Darlene Steele found comfort in the prestige
and material goods her husband’s position provided. She knew her marriage was
not about love. It was a business arrangement. Her job was to be the dutiful
first lady, projecting a public image of grace and beauty and elegance.
Meanwhile, her husband was mired in affairs, an acceptable vice since she no
longer cared to try to fulfill him sexually. She would tolerate his violations
as long as she garnered the prize in the end, the status of senator’s wife.
Passing through the living room, holding the robe tightly
around her, Darlene was already anticipating a warm glass of milk to exorcize
the chill from her bones.
Once in the kitchen she felt for
the island, found it, then made her way to the refrigerator, a stainless steel
unit built into the wall. When she opened the door, a feeble beam of light
shone across the kitchen, barely touching the darkest reaches of the room. It
wasn’t until she brought the milk to the island that she saw something black
and amoeba-like standing against the far wall, something that finally took the shape
of a man with a weapon.
Before her mind could register
that she was not alone, her breath hitched in a tiny gasp. And just as she was
beginning to sober to the seriousness of the situation, the figure stepped into
the outer edges of the light. He wore a tactical uniform, black, with matching
boots, and his face was partially obscured by the headgear of his night-vision
monocular. In the intruder’s hand, which he raised for the kill shot, was a .40
caliber Sig Sauer equipped with sound suppressor and laser-grip sighting.
“I’m sorry,” the man whispered,
directing the red dot of the laser sight to her chest, then to her brow. “But
I’m afraid it’s necessary that you become a casualty of the cause.” With that
he pressed the trigger, the muted sound barely audible as the well-placed
bullet struck her forehead and exited out the rear. The pulpy expulsion from
the exit wound cast a Jackson Pollack design of blood and tissue along the wall
behind her. As Darlene Steele pirouetted soundlessly before hitting the floor,
the assassin was already gone from the room.
#
Jonathan
Steele was
in the midst of a bad and
slow-moving dream when he awoke to find his wife missing. His hand was
searching the warm area of her side of the bed when he spotted the
phosphorous-green circles moving around his bed like lazy fireflies. With a
rare ability to speak out powerfully, he called out to the living shapes in his
room.
The glowing circles stopped
moving.
Then, from the depths of the
shadows, an emotionless voice said, “Governor Steele.” A threatening figure
moved closer to the bed. “You’ve been deemed a moral sacrifice.”
The governor galvanized himself
into action by swiftly throwing the covers aside, the unfamiliar voice striking
an undercurrent of terror as several hands pushed him back onto the mattress.
“What do you think you’re doing? You have no right to do this to me! Let me
go!”
Steele could see the phosphorous
eyes moving, could feel the strength of his attackers as one of the intruders
lifted the sleeve of his pajama top and inserted a needle into his arm.
Immediately the governor saw a nebula of light, felt the slowing of his mind,
then fell into complete and utter darkness.
#
The
noise was
distant, but enough to wake Pope
Pius XIII from a vague dream, of which he would have no memory. While he lay
there he listened for the obscurest of sounds, but heard nothing more than autumn
leaves blowing against the window panes.
As he labored to a sitting
position, he thought he saw the shadowy movement of feet along the floor
beneath the door to his room.
“Hello?”
Even though the movement stopped, Pius
knew somebody was standing on the other side of the door.
And then in a more prudent tone,
he asked, “Governor?”
The door opened slowly and two men
in military dress stood silhouetted against the backdrop of the hallway. The
only light was the faint blue glow of moonlight through the window. One man
reached up and engaged a switch on his monocular headset, activating a
phosphorous green light and giving him the advantage of night vision.
“Your Holiness,” one of them said,
but in the darkness the pope couldn’t tell which one spoke. “We’re not here to harm
you.”
The pontiff’s voice remained calm.
“What is it you want?”
“Your cooperation.”
“For?”
The men in uniform looked at each
other for a brief moment before turning back to the pontiff.
“Please, Your Holiness, don’t make
this difficult.”
“Difficult? I’m merely posing a
question.”
Then one of the voices became a
little less congenial. “Roll up the sleeve of your shirt.”
Both men moved forward in unison,
the one with the monocular holding a syringe, the other an assault weapon. To
drive his point home, the commando with the Bullpup pressed the mouth of the
weapon’s barrel against the pope’s temple. “Roll up your sleeve . . . now.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You’re not supposed to. Now roll
up your sleeve.” The commando forced the mouth of the weapon deeper into the
soft flesh.
The pope did as instructed. He
felt the prick of the syringe and gave way to its effects.
The mission was complete.
Team
Leader was thoroughly pleased that the operation took less than ten minutes,
with zero casualties to his team. Those dispatched on the opposing team were
done so quickly and dispassionately.
Moving his operation to the dining
room, Team Leader felt awash in glory as cold, blue light shone through the
west wall windows. Behind him, the eyes of past governors watched the
proceedings with mute detachment.
At the end of the dining table,
with the wide brim of his hat casting his face in even deeper shadow, a man sat
with one leg casually crossed over the other. “Your team did well,” he said.
“Much better than I expected.”
Team Leader made his way toward
the man, the green glow of his NVG monocular lending him sight as he took
position before the operative. “Your job is done here, Judas. Your services are
no longer needed.”
“And miss the final scene of this
magnificent production? I don’t think so.” The man remained still, the tone of
his voice as cold as the stone tiles beneath his feet.
Team Leader bowed his head. “So be
it.”
“Then let’s get this show on the
road.”
Al-Bashrah and al-Hashrie were
ushered into the dining room and forced to their knees. The mouth of a Bullpup
was positioned at the base of each man’s skull. Neither captive was willing to
show fear, each having resolved to meet his fate head on.
Team Leader circled them in
appraisal, wondering what drove such men to give up their lives for an
afterlife that he considered highly implausible. Then, in Arabic, so that the
understanding was between Arab and Hebrew only, Team Leader spoke.
“You came to this soil to make
history for your people,” he told them. “So history you shall make. But not as
you dreamed or imagined.” Team Leader turned his back on them and began to walk
away. “Today marks the onset of a brave new world; the beginning for some, the
end for others.”
Even though the man sitting in
the shadows didn’t understand the exchange, he couldn’t help but laugh with
malicious amusement.
Team Leader closed his eyes and
drew a deep breath. His hatred for Judas was enormous. Judas was a mercenary
whose only cause was to line his pockets with blood money. But since Judas’s
presence was deemed a necessity for the advancement of the cause, he held his
tongue.
“Did you tell them?” said Judas,
his voice dripping with malice. “Did you tell them that they’re about to die?”
“What we do, Judas, we do without
malevolence, which you seem to have forgotten.”
“What we do,” he returned, “we do
for money. Now get on with it.”
The muscles in Team Leader’s jaw
began to work. Judas was a major player, the one who opened the door and made
the cause possible. But Team Leader was not accustomed to taking orders from a
man whose only motivations in promoting the cause were financially based. To
Team Leader, Judas was nothing but a whore.
However, Judas was right. He
needed to move this along.
The last standing member of the
president’s detail, a man by the name of Cross, was guided into the room with a
Bullpup pressed to the base of his skull.
“The area’s secured,” stated the
commando holding the Bullpup. “Their entire defense force has been eliminated.”
Judas stood, ran a finger along
the brim of his fedora in greeting, and addressed Special Agent Cross with
playful sarcasm. His features were recognizable for the first time in the blue
light. “Top of the morning to you,” he said.
Cross turned away. His face, his
eyes, everything about his manner professed disbelief that a man he knew,
respected, and idolized could have maneuvered this team.
Team Leader looked at Cross. “So
you know Judas.”
Cross looked at him. The strength
of his chin, the determination evident in the way it stood out, was a signature
of stoicism. Even if it was forced, it was an action Team Leader admired.
“Judas,” Cross said, as if in quiet
examination. “It fits.”
Judas’s face remained partially
hidden by the brim of his hat. “Fits? Perhaps,” he said. “But unlike the real
Judas who did it for thirty pieces of silver, I’m doing it for ten million
dollars, and I’m sure you would, too, David, if you had the chance.”
“You’re wrong.”
Judas clapped a hand on the
agent’s shoulder and addressed him again, sarcasm dripping and bleeding like a
hemorrhage. “Just so you know where I stand,” he told him, “I’ll be at your
funeral telling your wife what a good man you were, how much you’ll be missed,
and then maybe—just maybe—I’ll sleep with her to help her fill that sudden and
horrible gap in her life. So what do you think about that, huh? Sound good?”
Judas couldn’t help the malice.
“Have a good death, David. It’s a stop we all have to make some day.” Still
wearing a smile of dark humor, Judas left the room with all the ease of taking
a stroll through the park, his hands buried deep within the pockets of his long
coat.
His lack of respect for his fellow
agents only confirmed the hatred Team Leader felt for Judas—a man without
honor.
Facing Agent Cross with a neutral
expression, Team Leader addressed him. “Your team, Special Agent Cross, was so
complacent there wasn’t much sport to it. Judas or no Judas, your protection of
the pope was lax. Your team would never have been so poorly trained under my
command.”
Team Leader turned to the commando
holding the Bullpup to Cross’s head and held a hand out. “His weapon, please.”
The commando removed a Glock from
his waistband and gave it to Team Leader.
“Nevertheless,” said Team Leader,
turning the weapon over in his hand to check the weight. “Since you are the
only one left alive in your unit, I’m going to make you an American hero.”
Team Leader examined the mouth of
the barrel before removing a suppressor from his cargo pocket and screwing the
device into the Glock.
“I’m sure your family will be
extremely proud of you,” he said in accented English. “And I’m sure you’ll be
awarded something posthumous for your efforts in taking down two known
terrorists. I think Americans love that sort of thing, don’t you?”
After the suppressor was fitted,
Team Leader placed the weapon by his side so the mouth of the barrel faced the
floor.
“At least your children will grow
up in a safe place,” he concluded. “That is something I only dreamed of.”
At that moment he raised the
weapon and shot al-Bashrah and al-Hashrie with shots to the chest and throat.
They dropped as fast as the bullets that felled them.
Agent Cross’s knees buckled, his
balance wavering. The commando forced him back to stable footing. Once the
agent stood on his own again, the commando stepped back.
“I’m almost jealous of what you
are about to become,” said Team Leader. And then he drew a silencer-equipped
pistol from his holster and shot Cross in the throat. After teetering for a
moment in a wide-eyed drunken stance, Cross fell to his knees with his hand
pressed against his neck, then fell to the floor, hard.
While blood bubbles foamed in the
gaping hole in Cross’s neck and his eyes stared at nothing in particular, Team
Leader, after removing the suppressor, placed the pistol in al-Bashrah’s hand.
The other commando placed the Sig in the hand of al-Hashrie.
After Team Leader removed the
suppressor from Cross’s weapon, he worked the agent’s hand around the Glock.
With what little strength he had left, Cross lifted his head slightly to see
what Team Leader was doing. His throat rattled with an awful wetness and his
eyes were beginning to lose their luster. Finally, his eyes taking on a
detached stare, he succumbed to his wound.
Team Leader watched and listened
as Cross took his last labored breath with somewhat of a detached stare of his
own, then placed the agent’s finger on the trigger and laid his hand carefully
against the blood-soaked tile.
Standing, Team Leader took note of
his work.
The stage had been set. Al-Bashrah
and al-Hashrie had been killed in a fire-fight with Cross.
“Everything secure?” asked Team
Leader.
“Cleared and sanitized. We’re
ready to move.”
Team Leader nodded his approval.
“All in less than fifteen minutes,” he said. “Yahweh will be most pleased.”
The time was 0259 hours.
#
At
exactly 0700
hours Eastern Standard Time,
CNN in Atlanta would receive a call from someone claiming to be a member of the
Soldiers of Islam. The caller would clearly state that Pope Pius XIII was now
under the authority of their regime.
It was the first step of the Final
Jihad.