The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER SEVEN

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.