Shepherd One (13 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Perugia
, Italy
.

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.”