Authors: Rick Jones
Walking with urgency to the row of mattresses, Team Leader
stood before the bishops of the Holy See. With his weapon held against his
body, he then used it to point out Bishop Angelo. The mouth of the barrel
seemed as wide as a viper’s deadly yaw as Angelo cast his eyes away in
submission. “Take this one and set him before the camera,” he said.
Boa stared at the bishop who refused to look him in the
eyes. After a moment of appraisal, Boa spoke in a tone that held a hint of
sarcasm. “I guess you’re the lucky man of the day.”
With Kodiak forcing a struggling bishop to his feet, Angelo
shouted nonsensical words of protest and fought a futile battle against a much
larger man by rapping his fists against Kodiak’s Kevlar. Without hesitation,
Kodiak struck the bishop with a well-placed blow that knocked him senseless,
his cries evolving to guttural sounds as the bishop went boneless. To the Force
Elite it was strikingly comical to watch. For the bishops, however, they pulled
their knees up into acute angles and embraced their legs, each man terrified of
his fate.
After removing the manacle from the bishop’s wrist, Kodiak
half-dragged, half-carried the semi-conscious man along the hallway.
With the bishop’s head cast forward and his eyes at
half-mast, a fine thread of his own spit lengthened with every foot he was
dragged toward the killing chamber.
The mere action of rendering the bishop impotent enabled
Team Leader to study the four remaining bishops of the Holy See, who remained
submissive as Bishop Angelo was led into shadows so deep and profound, there
would be no returning, and another mattress would lay empty. At the very moment
Angelo was led away, Team Leader studied the bishops and determined that they
all possessed faith in an afterlife that promised incalculable peace. But they
were also undoubtedly afraid to reach for it due to the only avenue to obtain
it, which was by dying.
In a moment of loathing, Team Leader viewed them as
hypocrites and cowards. Nevertheless, he would look each man in the eye just
before the killing moment to see if any regained the blind faith incumbent upon
men of the cloth.
As Kodiak led the bishop down the hallway, Team Leader’s
trigger finger began to itch. Not in a physical sense, but in a manner of
contained excitement. In a few minutes he was about to write another historical
chapter for the cause, using the blood of an innocent man as the ink to
chronicle the event that would alter history. This he was sure of.
Leaving his station by the bishops of the Holy See, Team
Leader followed Kodiak into darkness.
Six Miles Northwest of Mesquite, Nevada
September 27, Morning
He had been riding his dirt bike for
nearly three hours. The rooster tail plumes of sand kicking up from behind his
wheels left the area in a constant haze in which the ring of mountains
surrounding him were hardly perceptible.
Jo-Jo Michaels, only thirteen, demonstrated skill and
dexterity in maneuvering his dirt bike over the rough terrain. He guided his
machine through the natural moguls and dips with the ease of someone twice his
age and experience. But today in the midst of roiling dust clouds he struck a
hidden mound, lost his balance, and tumbled off his bike which settled in an
explosion of dust and sand.
After getting to his feet and trying in vain to brush the
loose grains from his clothing, the dust began to settle. When it did, Jo-Jo
froze with mind-numbing terror when he realized that the makeshift mogul was
actually the half-gnawed torso of a man covered with a fine layer of the
valley’s dust.
Later that day five more bodies would be found, half-eaten,
baked and exposed to the elements for weeks, their carcasses riddled by gunfire
and found by scavengers who would leave just enough for CSI to determine their
identities.
#
The ethereal brightness
of
the Vault, and the antiseptic whiteness of the floor, walls and ceiling,
definitely cast something divine about the room. To Shari it seemed as if it
was created to resemble the surreal world of the afterlife. But the black
tactical outfits of the Vatican Knights provided contrast to the earthbound
surroundings, making it less dreamlike, more real, less heavenly.
She was intrigued the moment she had entered the Sacred
Hearts Church, and her intrigue was heightened by the wall that when engaged by
the play of stones, slid aside to reveal the Vault. Once inside she was
fascinated, yet disturbed by the display of weaponry behind the glass casings.
Somehow the arsenal seemed blasphemous, the weapons magnificent in design and
engineering, but assuredly deadly in intent. And since most were created for a
special purpose, Shari couldn’t even begin to conceive some of the principles
of their operation. They seemed too fantastic to be functional.
As she stood in awe looking at the arsenal display case,
Kimball grabbed her lightly by the back of her arm and escorted her into the
computer lab where Leviticus danced his fingers across a keyboard with the
speed of a pianist. On the twenty-one inch plasma flat screen, she recognized
the dossiers and encrypted code taken from the CD. She immediately forgot the
weaponry in the other room.
“Anything?” asked Kimball.
Leviticus released a long sigh as if to vent fatigue. “Well,
there is some damage, and I’ve been at it all night trying not to set off the
viruses.”
“Viruses?”
He nodded. “I’ve seen this before from Mossad. They set up
their encryptions with pathway viruses. They’re basically a failsafe against
hackers who try to appropriate data. If the hacker initiates the virus, then
the information is lost.”
“So you know what you’re doing, right?” asked Kimball.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he said, his fingers moving over
the keys. “Right now I’m finding openings in the most difficult routes—you
know, a gate opening here, a gate opening there—but it’s more of a maze-like
path that’s incredibly time consuming to decode by conventional means.”
Kimball rolled his eyes, wishing he wasn’t totally computer
illiterate. But he could see Shari wasn’t lost in this communication as her
eyes studied the screen without the same look of perplexity as his.
“Are you at least close to bringing this whole thing up?”
“I think so,” he said. “But I do know this. I know whatever
is decoded is nothing but photos.”
“How do you know that?” Shari asked.
“Some of the pixel imprints have already come up like pieces
of a jigsaw puzzle,” he answered plainly.
“I didn’t think photos could be encrypted,” she offered.
“Sure they can. Now the question is: Why would somebody
encrypt photos unless they were vital to national security? And if that was
true, why attach it to low-level documents such as dossiers?” He continued to
type at a rapid pace.
Kimball leaned toward the screen. “Maybe they’re additional
photos of the Soldiers of Islam?”
“Not likely,” said Shari. “Why would somebody encrypt some
photos and not encrypt others?”
“Well, we’ll soon find out,” Leviticus said, keeping a
hovering finger above the ENTER key. “I just want you both to know that one of
two things is going to happen. Either the photos will load or the viruses will
initiate. With this type of safeguard, I cannot guarantee success.”
“You did the best you could, Leviticus. Go ahead.”
He dropped the finger on the ENTER key and the monitor
winked out. A mote of light remained alive in the screen’s center. Just as
Leviticus was about to apologize for his failure, the monitor flared up and the
pictures began to download. Shari celebrated his success with brief applause.
Kimball clapped Leviticus on the shoulder in gratitude of work well done.
The first pictures to load were that of groupings and
congregations of men in apparently warm weather climates. No one seemed to be
aware their photos were being taken.
In one photograph, the wall in the Gaza Strip could clearly
be seen. In another, a tropical beachfront property in which Shari recognized
Hector Guerra, who was the leading principal of Venezuela’s leading oil
producing conglomerate, the Petróleos de Venezuela or PDVSA, sitting inside the
cabana with several foreign dignitaries. The tie between Guerra and the
Soldiers of Islam, however, didn’t quite register. So in vague consideration
she thought that maybe Obadiah was telling the truth. Perhaps there wasn’t a
tie as he suggested. But if that was the case, why send a death squad to get
the CD?
She stepped closer to the monitor as the pictures continued
to download.
Faces of other dignitaries began to appear on the screen.
Vladimir Ostrosky appeared in conversation with Hector Guerra standing along
the surf of Guerra’s estate, a drink in each of their hands.
“I don’t get it,” she finally said.
“I don’t either,” said Kimball. “I recognize Vladimir
Ostrosky from DUMA, but the other guy—”
“That’s Hector Guerra from the PDVSA.”
“The PDVSA?”
“It’s Venezuela’s oil conglomerate. Mr. Guerra is its
minister.”
“So why would a guy from Venezuela’s oil producing giant
meet with a man from the Russian Parliament?”
“Good question. But even more so, how does this tie in with
the Soldiers of Islam?”
No one had an answer. The pictures continued to load in slow
progression.
More recognizable dignitaries from Russia, Venezuela and
Israel snapped in congregation. The Israeli principles were from political and
military circles. Obadiah was among the gathering seated at a suit-and-tie
affair with Ostrosky sitting on one side, Guerra on the other.
The second batch of pictures was that of the Soldiers of
Islam in what appeared to be surveillance photos. There were pictures of them
coming and going from stores and shops in Ogden, Utah, from their residences,
from places of worship, but nothing that shed anything beyond the dossiers.
The third batch was even more intriguing. Maps of Russia,
Venezuela, Israel and the Palestinian territories surfaced on the monitor with
black amoeba-like shapes that seemed to be overlays spotting the charts.
“Now what is this?” Shari muttered. “We have photos of
foreign dignitaries, photos of the terrorists, and maps of—what?”
Leviticus interjected. “I know what they are,” he said.
“I’ve seen this before. They’re maps of geological surveys for tracts of oil.”
Kimball and Shari leaned closer to the monitor. “What does
this have to do with the Soldiers of Islam?” he asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” she answered.
They waited in silence, watching and hoping that additional
photos would provide more insight, but didn’t.
Feeling the pinch of a headache coming on, Shari took a seat
and wondered what she was going to tell the president. She had photos that told
her little, but in actuality, spoke volumes as to why the pope was kidnapped.
While studying the screen, her cell phone rang. The caller
was Alan Thornton. She was to meet with the president and his staff inside the
Oval Office within the hour. And this time, Thornton told her, the president
wanted answers.
Boston, Massachusetts
Team Leader walked urgently into
Pope Pius’s chamber. And in a deft move that appeared slight-of-hand, produced
a key seemingly from thin air and inserted it into the lock of the shackle,
undoing the metal cuff. “I want you to watch something,” he said. With little
effort Team Leader yanked the pope to his feet and pulled the pontiff so close
to him his lips nearly touched the old man’s ear. “Be prepared,” he whispered.
“Because you’re not going to like what you’re about to see.”
The pope raised his chin in an act of defiance.
And for the first time, Team Leader noted genuine faith and
strength in the man’s eyes. “Good,” he said, and then he led the pope toward
the killing chamber.
#
“That was Alan
Thornton,” she
said, snapping the cell phone closed. “My presence is needed for an update.
Apparently the president is going ‘live’ this afternoon.”
“Be careful,” Kimball said.
She turned to him. “What do I give the president? I can’t
give him this,” she said, pointing to the images on the monitor.
“Why not?” said Kimball. “If the president and the Force
Elite were trying to get that CD, then there will no longer be a point to
further any action against you if you hand it over to the president.”
“But they could also be calling me to the meeting to find
out if the data has been interpreted. If they learn it has, then they may send
another response team to keep me from delving even deeper.”
“True, but why put you in a position to discover the
necessary information only to put you down? It doesn’t make sense.”
“For cosmetics,” she answered. “The president can say that
he did his best as an administrator by putting his money player to work. So if
my team fails, then the accusing finger points directly at me and not at him.
I’ll be the one who’ll end up the scapegoat. But now that I’m getting close,
they’re apparently having second thoughts and want to undo what they did. And
now that it’s all unraveling, the president needs to cover his tracks before
whatever he’s hiding becomes public.”
“Which is why he sent the Force Elite after the CD,” said
Kimball.
“Exactly. It also means that Obadiah is somehow connected
with
his
administration.”
Kimball stepped away from the computer, the lines on his
face registering deep thought. “Not only Obadiah but Mossad, the White House,
Russia, Venezuela, Israel—they’re all connected. But how? And why?”
“Good question. What I can’t figure out, though, is how they
tie in with the Soldiers of Islam and the kidnapping of the pope. Or why the
White House administration would even be supporting this act.”
Kimball ran his hands across his face as if to wipe away the
frustration.” All right,” he finally said, “so what do we have here?”
Shari raised her hand and began to tick off events on her
fingers, starting with the thumb. “The men who tried to kill me last night were
from an indigenous force. Obadiah, who happens to be from the Israeli attaché,
wanted that CD. That ties him to the White House since they sent in Dark Lord.
Then there are the photographs of political and big business dignitaries mixed
in with the dossiers of terrorists.” She lowered her hand. “That CD, Kimball,
holds more than just the profiles of terrorists.”
He nodded in agreement. “It’s also a schematic.”
“But of what? There are pieces still missing and we’re
running out of time.” Shari nervously paced the room. “And in one hour I have
to go see the man who’s trying to kill me. How ironic is that?”
“He’s not going to hurt you.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one he’s gunning
for.”
“Shari, it’s unlikely you’re going to go missing at the
White House door. If anything, they’ll wait for an opportune time, like last
night—when it’s unexpected.”
“Then I’ll draw them out,” she said. “I’ll copy these photos
and dangle the carrot before the mule. So if there’s anyone in that room who is
part of this, and if
these
photos are worth killing me over to keep me
from finding out the truth, then they’ll send a second attachment to finish the
job. You agree?”
Kimball gave a nod. “If they think you can expose them, then
they’ll come after you like the Hounds of Hell.”
“If the president and his administration are somehow
involved in this, we need to know now. We’re running out of time. Just be ready
to take prisoners when they come for me.”
Shari could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t too
keen about her proposal.
“Look, Shari, this isn’t child’s play. These people are
dangerous. And this time they’ll be waiting for me.”
“Right now I don’t see any other option.”
Kimball hesitated, his cerulean blue eyes connecting with
hers. “Just be careful.”
Shari drew closer to him. “Just don’t fail me when I draw
them out.”
He didn’t move. He could smell the hint of her perfume.
“We’ll be there.”
“Then let’s draw the flies to the honey.”
The time was exactly 11:30 a.m.
#
Boston, Massachusetts
September 27. Late Morning
Boa was manning
the camera
when Kodiak carried the bishop into the room with a gloved hand across the
man’s mouth. The bishop, barely cognizant, put up feeble resistance swinging a
clawed hand errantly through the air.
The stage was comprised of a canvas backdrop and a
splintered wooden floor. Kodiak forced the bishop to his knees on the chalk
drawn X in front of the camera.
Whining and whimpering like a dog, the pain of knowing he
was about to die so fundamental, the sounds issuing from his throat so primal,
the members of Omega Team felt nothing but cold detachment for Bishop Angelo.
“We ready to rock?” asked Kodiak.
Boa shot a thumbs-up. “We are as soon as the main man gets
here.”
Kodiak took a piece of duct tape and strapped it across the
bishop’s mouth. “You won’t feel a thing,” he assured him, and added cruelly.
“But then again, I’ve never been shot in the head with my brains spilling out
all over the floor, either.” This brought malicious laughter from Boa, who
panicked the condemned man into exposing hugely white eyes filled with
terror-stricken madness.
When Team Leader entered the room with the feeble-looking
pope by his side, the laughter quickly subsided. The old man looked as if his
legs were about to buckle, his knees shaking and unsteady. With hardly any
effort at all, and with the pope unable to provide any resistance, Team Leader
forced the man to his knees. “For the man of the hour,” said Team Leader, “the
best seat in the house.”
He then removed his holstered weapon and held it by his
side, the Sig hardly perceptible in the shadows due to its black brushed steel.
Then, without any sense of remorse or guilt or conscience, or anything that
would brand him as remotely human but rather cold, said, “Let’s get this show
on the road.”
The bishop began to sob uncontrollably as Team Leader
approached him.