With surgical precision Kimball drove the edge of his blade across the bicep of one of Aziz’s commandos, severing the muscle. The man screamed in agony, took to a knee, then tumbled out of the battle line and was gone, disappearing into the shadows and toward the fore of the plane.
As the fight waged on Kimball seemed to pick up steam rather than lose it. His motions were deft and with purpose. The odds of two blades now warring against two seemed to favor Kimball as he pushed his opponents back toward the front of the fuselage.
And then came a second opening, something so slight it could only be seen by the seasoned eye.
In a fluid motion Kimball bent down to a lower point of gravity, and made a horizontal slash just above the patella of the commando standing to the right of Aziz, nearly severing the muscle that attached the upper and lower leg. With a banshee-like wail the commando moved surprisingly well on his good leg as he hobbled toward the trapdoor.
Fighting at a level that transcended his own technique, Kimball was now in his element as he backed Aziz against the fuselage wall, pinning him. But Aziz’s will to finish the battle had become ingrained from years of tough mental training. And to surrender would be a cowardice brand against the Aziz name and his religion.
“Put down the knife,” Kimball said in perfect Arabic. “I won’t ask you again.”
Aziz flashed a cocky grin. “Not on your life.”
“Then I’ll make this a fair fight.”
Without taking his eyes off Aziz, Kimball returned one of the knives back to its sheath.
In that moment Aziz sized Kimball for an opening, circled, found what seemed to be an opportunity, and tried to cut Kimball with a sweeping horizontal arc across his abdomen. But Kimball grabbed the attacker’s wrist, forced the man’s arm over his head, exposing his armpit, and drove the sharpened point of his nine-inch blade deep into the unprotected area until the pommels of the knife could go no farther.
Staggering along the fuselage in a drunken gait, Aziz reached for the weapon’s hilt, gave minimal effort to withdraw the knife, found it impossible to do so, and fell to his knees coughing up blood from a perforated lung. “Hakam was correct,” he said, speaking through bubbles and wetness. “You’re no priest… No priest… can fight like you.” And then he fell forward, hard, his face slamming flush against the floor before rolling to its side, his life gone.
If Aziz saw the light of his Paradise, it did not reflect on his face. What Kimball saw as he stood over Aziz and jerking the knife free, was a man who looked surprised by his own mortality.
So his name is Hakam, he thought. Well, Hakam… here I come.
After wiping the blade of his knife clean on Aziz’s shirt, Kimball sheathed the weapon.
The trapdoor sprung open like the lid of a jack-in-a-box and Aziz’s team bolted to the main deck. Aziz was not among them. Nor was the head of the Vatican Knight.
The man with the wounded leg slammed the door shut behind him, and lay on the carpet in agony with the tendons along his neck sticking out like cords. His face was flushed as he bled from a gash above the knee. The other assassin sat against the wall fighting for air, his lungs pulling desperately while his face blanched to the color of whey. With his good hand he grabbed his torn bicep, the wounded arm having been rendered entirely useless, and cried out in frustration.
When Hakam heard the cry he rounded the wall leading to the trapdoor. He was riveted by what he saw. Blood flowed from rented flesh, the cuts deep and disabling as their bleeding showed little sign of slowing down. “Where’s Aziz?” he asked.
The man with the wounded bicep winced before speaking, his teeth clenching as his arm became white hot with pain. “He’s dead,” he said. “The priest took him out.”
Hakam appeared fazed. “Aziz …”
“Three against one,” said the assassin with the wounded leg. “Three against one and he toyed with us.” He situated himself against the wall, groaned, and applied pressure to his leg to staunch the bleeding. “This priest,” he began, “fights like no other.”
“That’s because he’s not a priest,” Hakam quickly corrected.
And then he watched their blood fan out onto the carpet.
“And what about Aziz?” he asked. “You just left him behind?”
“We had no choice,” said Wounded Arm. “The priest, who is not a priest, took us out, so we fell out of the skirmish line.” Leaning his head against the wall and looking ceilingward with an almost dreamy gaze, he then spoke as if in homage. “He was so fast,” he said. “So incredibly fast. And Aziz was the best in double-edged combat. Plus with two more by his side…” He let his words trail before facing Hakam. “We were nothing to this guy. I don’t think he even broke a sweat.”
Hakam raked the man with a fierce eye. Homage is to be paid to Allah and to Allah only, not to dissidents who believed in false gods or prophets. “Do not appreciate this man too much,” he said. “He is your enemy.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Hakam. The man is an enemy to Allah; therefore, an enemy to us all.”
Hakam nodded, accepting his statement as an apology. “Just make sure you understand that.”
The assassin with the wounded arm tried to stand up, his world becoming dizzy, and sat back down.
The man with the wounded leg was beginning to shiver, and sweat, his pallor going gray and his lips turning blue; the signs of slipping into shock. Hakam then got to a bended knee and placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. “You fought valiantly, al-Kadeen.” And then turned to face Wounded Arm: “As did you, al-Marid.”
Wounded Arm gingerly smiled at the praise and rediscovered his boldness. “In the name of Allah and for the honor of Aziz, let me go back down there with a firearm and—”
Hakam waved him off. “And if an errant bullet should pierce the fuselage, al-Marid, then the mission will be over long before it even has a chance to begin.”
“But my aim is true, Hakam. You know that. I was a Master Gunnery in the Guard.”
“And Aziz was the best at what he did, as well. And now he lies dead somewhere in the fuselage of this plane. No, al-Marid, this priest who is not a priest, this… Vatican Knight, is a different breed of warrior. I think it best to use caution at this point.”
Al-Marid quickly disagreed. “He’ll wait for us,” he said, “like he did last time — inside the shadows. But when he realizes that we’re not coming to him, then he’ll come to us.”
Hakam shook his forefinger back and forth. “No, my friend, he won’t. The best way to stay safe from a hungry tiger is to keep it caged.” Hakam stood. “He can go nowhere once we disable the elevator and lock this trapdoor.”
“But the weapons, the payload…”
“There’s nothing he can do,” he stated. “They have commenced their sequences and are now at the point of no return. He won’t do anything knowing a foolish act on his part may cost the life of the pope whom he is sworn to protect. No, this man will try something else. And when he does, I’ll be there waiting.”
The Garrote Assassin had seen to the wounds of al-Marid and al-Kadeen. Al-Kadeen, however, was slipping into shock, his body surrendering to the trauma as he lay wrapped in a wool blanket. Al-Marid, on the other hand, was full of piss and vinegar and vowed to fight on, even with his arm in a makeshift sling fashioned from a pillow case.