Shepherd One (27 page)

Leviticus and Isaiah took the stairway to the second level.
Jonah and Jeremiah remained below with their heads on a swivel—the points of
their assault rifles ready to engage and destroy. 

The pungent air of raw sewage was thick and soupy, the
nauseating stench as heavy as a wet comforter. Beneath their soft laden
footfalls rats scattered into the dark recesses upon their approach. Rancid
pools of greasy water marked the concrete as puddles. And moonlight the color
of whey poured in through the open ceiling, giving them the benefit of light
when everything around them appeared to be steeped in darkness. But as they
neared the building’s rear they observed an illumination not proffered by the
sky at all, but of incandescent lighting.

Moments later they heard voices of distant conversation, the
male tones vacillating from excitement to calm, the dialogue unmistakably Arab.

The Vatican Knights pressed on.

#

Three terrorists were
gathered around a small table beneath the feeble glow of a bulb playing
Tarneeb, a card game, when one of the Arabs stood, stretched, and checked his
watch. From their vantage point the Knights observed the terrorists wearing
military fatigues and the red-and-white checkered
keffiyeh
. Their faces were heavily bearded,
an indication they had not been marked for martyrdom. And they were mightily
armed with AK-47’s.

The standing terrorist made a comment in Arabic, which drew
quick laughter from the two at the table as they continued to toy with their
cards, then veered off down the second tier walkway and into the shadows.

As he fumbled for the zipper of his pants, the Arab
continued to talk over his shoulder as he relieved himself, adding to the
already stagnant puddle before him. When he returned to the table his words
trailed and faltered in his step.

His two comrades sat at the table with their arms limp
beside them, both staring skyward with slack-jawed surprise, as smoke curled
lazily from a single bloodless gunshot wound to their foreheads.

The terrorist looked up and appeared flummoxed as he
searched the surrounding shadows but spotted nothing, heard nothing. But knew
someone was there.

In sudden reflex the terrorist went for his AK-47 that
leaned against the table when several bullets suddenly stitched across his
chest and knocked him to the floor, the body skating a few feet along the
surface before coming to a full stop. 

The only evidence proposing that the Vatican Knights were
even there was the marginal odor of cordite, which lasted a brief moment before
the natural air of pungency once again enveloped the section.

They were not seen.

They were not heard.

In the darkness, the Vatican Knights became one with the
shadows.

#

President Burroughs was
informed
by Doug Craner that Imelda Rokach had been spotted in her favorite eatery
alone, with a CIA operative a few tables away waiting for the order to dispatch
her. 

“We have twenty-five minutes left,” said Burroughs. “We need
to see what our man on board Shepherd One can do.”

“And if he fails to commit himself within that time?” asked Thornton.

The president tuned to him, his face a detailed expression
that spoke volumes. If Father Kimball fails in his attempt, then they would
have no choice. “Then we follow through with the assassination,” he said.

#

Kimball Hayden worked
his way
to the top of the maintenance closet and pressed his palms firmly against the
open space next to the water tanks that supplied the lavatory. Slowly, he began
to apply pressure, the strength of his powerful arms pushing, pressing, the
wall now beginning to bow and crack, the noise louder than he cared for as the
fire-resistant material protested against his authority. And then a portion of
the wall split and gave way, the material falling to the floor.

He immediately scrambled into the spacious bathroom and, in
fluid fashion, withdrew a combat knife from its sheath. Then, placing an ear
against the door, he heard nothing but the hum of the plane’s engines.

Slowly, and with marked prudence, Kimball edged the door
open enough to peer down the length of the aisle leading to the fore. From his
point he did not see the Garrote Assassin. The aisle was completely empty.

He moved quickly and silently, like a wraith in the plane’s
aft, and made his way to the kitchen area. He looked into the elevator shaft
and noted that the cables had been cut. And then he moved to the opposite side
of the area and looked down the adjacent aisle.

And there they were—the Garrote Assassin and the able-bodied
terrorist. The men stood in the center of the aisle with the Garrote Assassin
gesticulating and speaking, whereas the other listened and nodded. Hakam was
nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably in the cockpit. That left the
two disabled terrorists who were most likely posted by the trapdoor, which
would put the entire faction in front of him. And this is why he chose the
closet in the plane’s aft. Now there was no chance of being flanked or
surprised from behind.

Kimball pulled back, his mind formulating a plan of assault.
It would be easier to attempt a takedown separately, he considered, than it
would to take out two insurgents in a single action.

But he had no choice. Even if protocol required patience,
since the two would eventually have to separate, he was simply running out of
time. He had to engage them now.

With his back against the wall he silently withdrew his
second blade, the two knives now equaling his chances.

And then he self-meditated.

Slowing his breathing, Kimball peeked around the corner to
gauge their location before the assault. And just as he was about to commit
himself, the Garrote Assassin patted his associate on the shoulder and pointed
toward the plane’s aft. With a nod the acolyte accepted whatever he was told
and began to make his round of Shepherd One, starting in the rear section. In
his hand was a firearm, which he held by his side as he made his way down the
aisle.

Kimball, liking his odds, pulled back, firmly gripped the
handles of his weapons . . . And waited. 

The party was about to begin.

#

Two terrorists stood
before the
makeshift room fashioned from corrugated tin, each man relishing a cigarette,
one seemingly more so than the other. Unlike the crew manning the point of
entry, these two appeared alert and focused, neither of them taking anything
for granted. 

Between their whispers something else floated dreamily
across the air. It was the soft, lilting sound of a cherub singing, its sweet
resonance a peaceful melody that carried like the flow of milk and honey. It,
however, ended abruptly when one of the Arabs banged on the tin wall, ordering
an immediate desistance of the child’s singing.

The only thing that sounded thereafter was the constant and
amplified dripping of rancid water from aged pipes.

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.”