Hunkering in the shadows, the Vatican Knights centered their attention to the makeshift room. There was no doubt they had found the holding pen. The problem was they could not fire their weapons at the sentries in fear that an errant bullet might miss its intended mark and pierce the wall, possibly killing a child.
And because engagement was to be had, they would have to do so in close combat.
Isaiah made a quick hand gesture that was understood by his team that he was going to move in from the left, and did so by staying within the deep-seated shadows. When he got to the side of the tin shed, he laid his MP-5 against the wall, and quietly withdrew his commando knife.
The terrorists were less than fifteen feet away, less than a two-second closing distance between them.
In an instant Isaiah was upon them, the element of surprise working in his favor as he came across in a fluid sweep and slit the throat of the closest terrorist, opening a wound that grimaced like a horrible second mouth. The second terrorist responded quickly by raising his weapon. And in doing so Isaiah responded by coming across with a roundhouse kick and knocked the weapon from the man’s grasp.
The terrorist backpedalled and withdrew his own knife, its point wickedly keen and the polish of its blade holding a mirror finish. On the floor his comrade went into convulsions as blood flowed as freely as a fount from the ruin of his throat, the man choking of his own terrible wetness.
Isaiah moved closer, the point of his weapon directed for an upward strike. His opponent held the knife in a grasp to ward off the blow, which told Isaiah that this man was no novice. He was obviously a professional whose talents went beyond the sophomoric teachings provided in an al-Qaeda camp. He was not proven wrong when he attempted to strike a blow, which was easily defended.
The men circled each other in study, their knives poised to kill.
And then they converged.
Isaiah came across in a series of quick strikes; the terrorist countering with strikes of his own as each man warded off deadly blows with fluid effort. With uncanny skill Isaiah’s motions became quicker, his circular motions repelling blows that seemed to come faster and with far more brutal force. But within a minute he had gained the edge over the terrorist and drove him back as their strikes continued to the point where their arms moved in blinding revolutions.
When the terrorist came across in a high-arcing sweep, Isaiah ducked and came up with point of his knife, penetrated the flesh beneath the lowest rib, and drove the tip upward, piercing the heart for a quick and merciful kill.
As the terrorist lay there with his eyes at half mast and showing nothing but white, the cherub began to sing and filled the air with a wonderful sound of sweetness.
Al — Rashad had seen it all from a distance.
He found the bodies in the north-side entryway; the three men shot dead, two as they sat playing Tarneeb. From that point he moved with stealth, the barrel of his Glock appearing impossibly long with its attached suppressor until the holding pen came within sight.
From the first-floor level he watched one man quickly take out two of his best. But barring the quick kill of al-Abbas, al-Ghafur was not an easy takedown; his weaponry skills in double-edged combat at one time made him the best in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. His opponent, however, took him out in less than sixty seconds.
What made the entire situation odd — at least in al-Rashad’s mind — was the total lack of an invasion from a complete assault team. This guy was mercenary.
But who sent him?
And could one man alone take out a faction of five?
Believing this not to be the case, al-Rashad explored the shadows from afar. But he could not see anyone else. Although he knew they were there, somewhere, and watching very closely.
Slowly, with the cover and aid of rusted machines that hadn’t worked for more than half a century, al-Rashad moved from one unit to the next, hunkering low, then hiding, pin-balling from one useless machine to another, as he retreated from the area.
But as stealthy as al-Rashad was he did not go undetected.
From the shadows on the second tier he was clearly seen. And when al-Rashad departed the vicinity for the safe haven of an adjoining building, Leviticus was not too far behind.
Vittoria Pastore cradled her youngest daughter who sang an old nursery rhyme, her voice as sweet as an angel.
Enclosed in absolute darkness they were not oblivious to sound. Beyond the walls they could hear the clashing of metal striking metal, which was soon followed by a quick bark of pain that was followed by silence that was terrifyingly whole. And in the wake of that silence her daughter sang to dispel the horrors beyond the door — the singing, in effect, a placebo that made their fears tolerable.
In Vittoria’s hand — the hand not cradling her child — she gripped Basilio’s shirt with such intensity the fabric bled between the gaps of her fingers. And now he was gone, her Basilio, her son. And they would be next. She knew this. So despite the guard’s requests of desistence, she allowed her baby to sing.
When the lock on the door began to rattle, she pulled her daughters close.
The singing never stopped.
When the door opened a feeble wash of light filtered into the room. And she could see a man in uniform standing silhouetted within the doorway against an illuminated backdrop.
“Ms. Pastore?” The voice was calm and benevolent, the quality of his tone passive. “Are you all right?”
She pulled the children tighter when the man came forward.
“I’m Isaiah,” he said kindly. “We were sent by the Vatican.”
When he stepped into the moderate lighting she could see the fresh-scrubbed look of a young and handsome man, which was far from the bearded and unkempt look of her captors. “I think… they killed my boy,” she told him, proffering Isaiah her son’s shirt.
When he took it he saw the dried blood. “Ms. Pastore, do you know how many people took you? How many people are involved here?”
For a moment she appeared lost, her eyes glazing over and going distant until, “Six,” she whispered, and then she leaned over and kissed the blond crown of her youngest daughter before turning back to Isaiah, the faraway cast in her eyes completely gone. “I saw six. But there could be more.”
They had neutralized five, leaving one.
“Will you please find my Basilio?” she asked him, her voice cracking. “He’s a very good boy.”
“Of course,” he said gently. In recompense he returned to her Basilio’s shirt, which might be the only thing left of him. “We’ll try our best.”
She took the shirt, brought it to her face, and wept. No longer could she hold back the tears and be strong for her daughters who now joined in, each sobbing and crying, the terror yet to go away.
And though they were safe, Isaiah knew a long period of catharsis was sure to follow.
And this was their beginning.
Poking his head through the doorway, Jonah spoke in a hushed tone. “Isaiah, Leviticus isn’t at his post.”
“There’s another one out there,” he informed him. “My guess is that he’s backtracking to see if we were being flanked or followed.”
In other words, the man was on the hunt.
When al-Rashad opened the door to Basilio’s locker hold, the boy spilled out and tumbled down the low mound of rubble it was situated on.
The boy appeared red, almost scarlet, his flesh warm to the touch. “Get up, boy. You’re not dead yet.”
Basilio smacked his dry lips, the lower lip crusted with blood. “Water…”
“You want water? I’ll tell you what; I’ll piss down your throat if you don’t get up within the next two seconds. How’s that for water?”