Shepherd One

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Basilio was wrong.

After jumping to the concrete landing from the height of his holding cell, he landed in the shadows out of view of a guard, who sat beneath the cone of feeble light cast from a bulb that dangled from a length of chain. The man appeared to be sleeping, his eyes closed. But when the man raised his hand to scratch the skin hidden beneath a heavy thatch of bearded growth along his chin, he knew the guard was only resting.

With his heart hammering against the rack of his ribs and his blood throbbing against the temples of his skull, Basilio moved quietly down the corridor and away from the guard.

At the end of corridor was a stairwell, which led to a massive room that had once been an assembly line of a major plant. Old antiquated machinery still marked the floors as rusted hulks too cumbersome to move and not worth salvaging. Overhead, the ceiling held myriad holes, some gaping from where it caved in, the broken pieces lying scattered across the floor as rotted chunks of wood, plaster and glass. The plant had been abandoned for decades.

Oh no!

Through the gaping holes he saw patches of blue from a daytime sky. What he thought would be the shelter of darkness was not. He had simply misjudged his timing by relying on his barometric sense, thinking that low humidity meant night. It was simply a cool day.

Basilio kept his head on a swivel, moving from one shadow to the next, often seeking the cover of dead machinery.

From above the birds alit quietly on the overhead beams, watching. Everyone once in a while one would lift its wing and preen itself. But they mostly studied Basilio without sentiment.

And then it occurred to him: The plant was too quiet. One would think that in an area so large voices would surely carry or footfalls would echo.

But there was nothing.

Suddenly the birds took flight and landed on a neighboring beam, as if to acquire a better view. The unexpected noise of their wings flapping caused Basilio to start.

Immediately he looked up, looked at the birds, and then felt the cold muzzle of an assault weapon pressing against the base of his skull.

“Stand up,” the voice said. It was deep and menacing. “Or I will kill you right where you kneel. It’s your choice, kid.”

Basilio no longer hunkered behind the colossal machinery, but slowly got to his feet raising his hands in submission. He had failed his family, his father. Now he had failed himself.

“Turn around.”

Basilio did so, slowly, his eyes on the verge of tears as his mind raced with the terrible thought of his life coming to an end.

The man holding the weapon was large and extremely muscular; his shirt threatening to split at the seams. His features were monkey-like with a broad, flat nose, and a brow that sloped in a simian sort of way. “Yeah, well, nice try, kid.” Al-Rashad then struck Basilio hard across the face and split his lip, the blow driving Basilio to the floor. Then in a quick and fluid motion, al-Rashad reached down and ripped the shirt right off of the boy’s back.

She had been ringing her hands since Basilio left and paced the room like a caged feline. If she had the athleticism, grace or agility, she would have climbed after him and brought him back down.

Even if Basilio was trying to find himself, she would not have allowed him to take such a risk.

The lock in the door began to click, the noise reverberating throughout the room as the bolt began to retract.

A large man with incredibly broad shoulders and massive arms had to duck to enter the room. In his hands was a bloodied shirt; Basilio’s shirt.

Saying nothing, the man tossed the shirt in her face and left the room, the lock moving back into position after the door closed.

She could smell the scent of her son on the shirt; feel the wetness of fresh blood.

And in agony that was all consuming, Vittoria Pastore cried out in a horrible wail that echoed throughout the entire plant.

Kimball hardly determined the matter to be that of divine intervention. He simply chalked it up to one man’s panic.

In one of the forwarding rows, a bishop from the Holy See began to cry nonsensically, his words a rambling series of pleas to God as he tried to leave his seat with a disturbing preoccupation to his eyes, not realizing what he was doing. Other bishops reached up and tried to force him back down. But the bishop’s ramblings became more intense, more agitated, which brought the ire of the Muslim Revolutionary Front, who raised their weapons and ordered the man to take a seat or take a bullet.

When the bishop did not obey the screams of the terrorists heightened, as if their sharp inflections would have more affect. They did not. The bishop moved along the seats mumbling, his eyes totally detached from reality, his lips crying out ‘why’ and ‘how’ this could be happening. Why was such a pious man as he being punished? Did he not live by the Lord’s doctrines?

Immediately, the Muslim Revolutionary Front gathered around the bishop, including the one guarding Kimball, with their Glocks directed on the panicked man. With intensity they cried out in Arabic, their orders going unheeded as alarm began to set. The bishop tried to scale his seat in order to get to the rear of Shepherd One, away from the terrorists and their guns, away from reality and toward a false sense of salvation.

With one leg looped over the back of the seat, the bishop managed to fall over into the subsequent row, and then scrambled for the next seat to mount. The man was getting closer to the plane’s rear the hard way. The moment he raised his head he was bludgeoned, his world going dark, his lips silenced, the bishop rendered unconscious with a blow from the barrel of a Glock.

After the bishop was secured, the guard who had been watching over Kimball returned to his seat at the rear of the plane. However, when he got there Kimball was gone. The only things left in his place were a tie left on the seat, and a bloodied tie still attached to the armrest.

After Kimball Hayden freed himself from his binds, he immediately went aft to the kitchen area. To his right, next the door of the wine vault was the elevator. Although narrow for the wide breadth of his shoulders, Kimball managed to fit inside and pushed the button to the lower level of L-1, trying to form an agenda in his mind.

For his entire life he had always been in control, always knew which direction he wanted to go in. But there was no military text, outline, or step-by-step directions describing how to take out a group of terrorists on a plane leveled at thirty-three thousand feet.

At L-1 he found himself in a well-stocked pantry, and then locked the elevator in place. At the small stainless steel sink he ran his injured wrist under tepid water, the blood diluting to a pinkish fluid as it spiraled down the drain. Flexing his fingers and massaging his wrist, he could feel the warmth returning, the effects of pins-and-needles subsiding. Soon he would have full mobility of his hand.

After shutting off the water, he placed his hands on the sink and leaned forward with his eyes closed, his mind trying to find a way to neutralize the situation. There was no doubt they would come looking for him. And no doubt he would be ready. He had counted six able men who were armed. He on the other hand had nothing but his combat skills, which would take him far. But in the end he would be no match against a hollow point, if one should find its mark.

Leaving the pantry area, Kimball found himself standing before a flimsy door that led to the baggage area. It was locked. So with a powerful forward thrust of his left hand, he struck the door and broke the latch, causing the door to hang drunkenly from a single hinge.

Inside the cargo bay marginal light filtered in through the porthole windows, illuminating the baggage area which seemed impossibly long, given that he was standing in the jet’s aft area looking forward. Stepping into the hold, Kimball found himself with ample space. Reaching up, he could not touch the floor of the level above him. On both sides he had the wide expanse of the airplane. The problem was that it was too ample, too wide open, leaving little place to hide with the exception of a few tethered crates and strewn baggage. The entire level was simply too hollow and possessed few shadows to hide in. Perhaps on the lower level, he thought, perhaps on L-2, he could make a stand against his enemies.

He quickly made his way through the luggage hold and callously tossed aside some bags, searching for his own. On the bottom of the pile he found what he was looking for, a specifically modified piece of luggage with a molded interior to safely keep his hardware safe. Beneath his clothing, beneath the cleric shirts and Roman collars, was a false bottom that held his specially designed pair of black-bladed KA-BAR combat knives and Kydex sheaths.

Since coming into the combat ranks Kimball was always known as the silent assassin; a man who killed with stealth. For more than twenty years he remained at the top of his game by continuously honing his skills. Like Tai Chi, which can possess up to 108 moves, Kimball incorporated a set of 230 moves in a single exercise, teaching defensive and offensive techniques, mental balance, and oneness with his inner Chi. As one of the best in the world in double-edged weapons and combat engagement, it was important for Kimball to maintain his performance and mentor his team of Vatican Knights, so they can be the best the world could offer.

Removing the knives and sheaths, Kimball strapped a bladed weapon to each thigh like a gunslinger would strap on a holster. The handles felt good in his grip, the motions of the blades cutting through air in graceful arcs were artistic in its nature and aesthetic to the eye. The adage of ‘poetry in motion’ was a perfect assessment of Kimball’s skill, as he handled the weapons so fluidly it was hypnotic. With his mind focused and eyes forward, he sheathed the knives by slipping them into their thin slots, and slid them into place.

Kimball Hayden was now in his element.

After locking his suitcase, Kimball began to move forward to investigate the fuselage to get a better feel for his surroundings, noting every niche and shadow, anything that would give him the advantage of knowing his terrain better than his enemy. When he came upon a couple of tethered crates he also noticed the two aluminum cases situated between them. At first he ignored them and pressed forward, taking careful measures with his forward advancement until he heard a sudden whine and pitch coming from behind him.

Immediately his hands came to fall on the handles of his combat knives, ready for a quick draw. And then he listened, intently, his chin cocked forward as he quietly turned on the balls of his feet trying to gauge where the sound was coming from, the pitch and whine vacillating in tone, and slowly followed the pull of the noise to the two aluminum cases.

By the time he got there the sound was barely perceptible, a slight ringing, and then gone. Getting to a knee, he gingerly traced his hand over the cover of the first case, in an almost loving stroke, and found the shell to be cold to the touch.

Undoing the clasps, he carefully lifted the cover and exposed the three burnished spheres. Leaving the cover up, Kimball opened the second case, with far less caution and no hesitancy on his part, by yanking the lid upward.

There, lined side by side, an additional three spheres.

Leaving the tops open, Kimball fell onto his backside and sat there.

There was no doubt in his mind as to what they were. No doubt at all.

His agenda just got harder.

Hakam and three of his assassins stood at the end of the aisle staring at the vacant seat that once held Kimball Hayden. The ties were still there, a bloodied one hanging on the armrest, the other placed dead center of the seat in mockery.

“You know I’m a better soldier than that,” informed the assassin responsible for watching Hayden. “I simply responded to what was happening up front. I thought the priest was tied down tight.”

Hakam placed a hand on the assassin’s shoulder. “Where can he go?” he asked. “The man is on a plane more than thirty thousand feet in the air.”

The assassin’s eyes fell ashamedly to the floor, nonetheless.

In turn, Hakam squeezed the man’s shoulder reassuringly. “If you want to make amends, Aziz, then you shall have that right.”

The assassin projected his chin out aggressively. “My failure to you is a failure to Allah.”

“You failed no one, my friend. Your actions on the battlefield have more than proven your worth in the eyes of Allah.” Hakam moved to the kitchen area and looked through the glass pane of the elevator chute. From his vantage point he could see the top of the elevator one level below. “He’s in the baggage area,” he said. “And no doubt he’s locked the elevator down.”

“There’s another way,” said Aziz. “In the fore section next to the cockpit is a trapdoor leading to all sublevels.”

Hakam nodded. “No firearms,” he said. “This particular man scares me.” He moved back to the kitchen area with his hands clasped behind the small of his back, his mind working. “He’s a fighter,” he added. “And the last thing I need is for someone like him to get a hold of a firearm and end this mission before it has a chance to get started.”

“My aim is true. I will not miss.”

“My point, Aziz, is that the priests up here are lambs too frightened to fight back when it comes to their own slaughter. I never anticipated one who would fight back. So, for this man, I think we shall exercise caution, yes?” Hakam opened a drawer filled with knives that were long, sharp and keen. Butcher’s knives set aside to cut the baked meats normally served on trans-Atlantic flights. “Take two men and go below,” he ordered. “And leave your firearms here — give him no chance to acquire a weapon so he can try to level the playing field.”

Aziz appeared disappointed. “You don’t trust me, do you? You think a priest who prays to a false God can defeat a soldier of Allah?”

Hakam nodded. “A soldier of Allah you are, my friend, and a very good one. But this man is no priest.” He reached into the drawer, pulled out a knife, and handed it to the assassin. “Bring me his head to be placed before the pope.”

Aziz took the weapon and held it firmly in his grasp.

Hakam then produced two more knives for the soldiers who would be accompanying him to the lower level, and laid them on the countertop. Although the color of the blades were as dull as aluminum casting, their edges held a razor-like sharpness to them. “Allahu Akbar,” he said.

Aziz thrust the knife he was holding downward, the pointed end planting deep into the countertop in a display of its effectiveness. “Allahu Akbar.”