Basilio rolled his eyes. The boy was really out of it. And although al-Rashad needed him for leverage, he didn’t want to be burdened with dead weight either.
“I’m going to count to five, kid, and that’s it. If you don’t get up,” al-Rashad pointed his Glock at Basilio’s head, “then I will shoot you dead. One… Two…”
Basilio made a valiant effort, which showed al-Rashad the boy was at least cognizant enough to understand directions, but failed mightily in his attempt to get to his feet.
“Three…”
Basilio began to whimper, yet it sounded more primal than the whine of a fifteen-year-old boy. It was the cry of self-preservation.
“Four…”
Suddenly al-Rashad’s vision exploded in a nebulas cloud of brilliant whiteness. When his mind cleared he found himself on the ground with a man looming over him with the mouth of his MP-5 directed at his forehead. “Are there any more?” he asked.
“Any more what?”
Leviticus pressed the barrel against al-Rashad’s cheek, indenting the flesh. “How many in your team?”
Al-Rashad smiled, showing the lines of his teeth. “Millions,” he said. “In the army of Allah, there are millions.”
Leviticus repositioned the barrel from the man’s cheek to the center of his forehead.
“You think shifting your weapon from one side of my face to the other is going to make a difference?”
“How many?”
“I’ve told you.” And then the big man cocked his head, noting the Roman Catholic collar that was starch white, even in the quasi-darkness, and the striking Silver Pattée and flanking lions that stood out on his body armor akin to the S on superman’s chest. “Who are you?”
“How many? I won’t ask again.”
In the rubble Basilio moved, which prompted Leviticus to quickly shift his eyes away from al-Rashad and to the boy. The action, however, proved costly as the downed Arab came across with his leg and cut Leviticus right out from under his stance, the MP-5 going airborne.
By the time Leviticus got to his feet al-Rashad was already up with postured hands and feet in Tae Kwon Do fashion. Besides being immensely large, the man was quick.
Circling slowly around his opponent, Leviticus remained ready as he silently condemned himself for making a sophomoric mistake. Taking his eyes of his opponent was a fundamental error which could have cost him his life, and may still.
Holding his hands in a style al-Rashad did not recognize only made the man of simian appearance bolder. “And what do you call that position?” he taunted. “You hold yourself like a little girl.”
Leviticus did not respond.
Between them lay the MP-5. But this time Leviticus was not about to shift his gaze. His lesson duly learned.
“Are you a priest?”
More silence as al-Rashad goaded him.
“And that emblem on your chest…”
Leviticus stood rooted, waiting, hands and feet ready.
And then the Arab lunged forward, his massive hands striking and cutting in an attempt to kill. But Leviticus’s unorthodox style made it easy for him to defend against the larger man’s blows as they glanced off him with little effect, further enraging al-Rashad.
In a savage scream the Arab came across with his hand, missing, then cut back, hitting nothing but open air. And then he came across and sliced at him with an open elbow, missing, kicked out with his leg, the move easily defended and the leg pushed aside, throwing the larger man off balance and forcing him to reconnoiter his position.
For the moment both men took a recess as they studied each other.
Whereas al-Rashad appeared winded, the Vatican Knight seemed hardly effected. Worse, his opponent looked as if he was simply toying with him.
“I was the best in my class in martial arts,” he told Leviticus as he sucked in air. “So you don’t stand a chance.”
“A four-year-old girl could kick your ass.”
The Arab’s eyes immediately flared in the same flash of moment that his simian brow took on the furrowed lines of someone becoming highly agitated. In uncontested rage he went after Leviticus with blows far deadlier than his initial assault, the blade of his hands coming across, then down, forcing the Vatican Knight to backpedal and retreat. When he drove Leviticus against a concrete pillar, the Arab came around with a perfect roundhouse kick and drove the flat of his foot against a support, the impact cracking the column and giving it a slight dog-bend appearance. But Leviticus ducked and maneuvered out of the way — a man toying with a child, then stood aside.
Al-Rashad turned with his chest heaving and pitching, the veins in his arms and neck sticking out like cords, his face scarlet red.
And Leviticus realized the man would never quit.
Al-Rashad came forward, slowly, with his hands balled into lethal fists. “This time,” he said. “I will kill you.”
Leviticus shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. And then: “It’s now… my turn.” With that he launched himself against the much larger man by raining blows that were impossible to defend against, the motions quick, damaging, one hand following the other, strike after strike connecting, hurting, driving a fount of blood from the big man’s nose, al-Rashad falling back, stumbling, his hands flailing wildly about in a futile attempt to defend himself, failing. And then Leviticus took flight, defied gravity, his vertical leap taking him higher than mere mortals could comprehend, and then came across in a blinding revolution that connected with the man’s simian jaw, the force snapping al-Rashad’s neck.
Within moments the Arab was no more.
After grabbing his MP-5, he went to aid of Basilio who was able to prop himself up on an elbow. “How are you, son?”
“Water…”
Leviticus smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you what you need.”
The boy was going to be all right.
For the past hour Hakam was unable to reach al-Rashad or any member of his team, which disturbed him greatly. The Perugia laptop was to be manned at all times, no excuses, which led Hakam to believe the old munitions depot had been compromised. And if that was the case, then his leverage over the pilot was gone.
Hakam slowly lowered the screen of his laptop. “Your family is doing well,” he lied. “And so that you know, it has been agreed by the principals that their death would serve us no purpose. If you do not allow your conscience to run interference in regard to the pope, and if you continue to follow through with my wishes, then your family will be freed.”
Enzio did not believe him as he gave Hakam a hard, sidelong glance.
“There’s something you wish to ask me?” said Hakam.
Enzio nodded. “What guarantees can you give me that my family will be safe?”
“They have not seen the faces of those who took them. Nor do they know where they are. Once the United States meets my demand, then your family will be returned unharmed.”
“And if the Americans do not follow through?”
“Then the United States will suffer the consequences.”
Enzio was clearly guarded. So he proposed a question served to determine Hakam’s truthfulness. Depending how Hakam answered would help him decide whether or not the Arab was sincere. The answer would surprise him. “Am I going to die?”
Hakam did not hesitate. “Yes… You and everybody else aboard this plane.”
If Hakam had said no, then Enzio would have cast him off as a liar, realizing the Arab was simply telling him what he wanted to hear. But this was not the case. Maybe his family had a chance after all.
“As it now stands,” said Hakam, “your children will grow old and have children of their own. And your wife will be the doting grandmother. Should you deviate from anything I tell you to do, then your entire lineage will be destroyed by the time the sun rises over Italy.” Hakam slowly got to his feet, feeling secure that his truths and untruths weaved an uncertainty within the pilot. And then he punched his point home. “The life of your family for your loyalty, that’s all I ask for.”