The Hand of Christ (40 page)

A voice that was not Michael’s answered, “Because he is an officer with the CIA and he just assassinated the Ayatollah of Iran.” Chris had regained consciousness.

The force from the impact of Michael’s shots was absorbed by the protective Kevlar vest that Chris wore, and had only knocked him out. Their impact on the vest had cracked a number of his ribs making it difficult for him to breath; he was gasping in between his words. Two bullets also perforated his shoulder and had blown out through his back rendering his left side useless.

Sonia looked confused. “What is he talking about, Michael?” She then looked at her husband with innocent eyes, “What does he mean you are with the CIA?”

Without answering, Michael jerked his attention back to the masked attacker; he ripped of his helmet and mask.

Chris smiled at him, “It’s good to see you again, Michael. How was your flight in the Hornet?”

“
What the fuck! Chris?” Michael was stunned.

Sonia recognized the man, too, “Oh, my god! Michael, he was here today! That man was here earlier, before you arrived home! He came to the door dressed as a cop, there were two of them!”

There were three Hornets
.

Michael instantly recalled what the Airman at Travis Air Force Base had said.

Slowly, Michael turned his head back to the injured agent and drove an enraged gaze into the man’s eyes, “You fucking bastard!”

He swung out and cracked Chris across the cheek with his weapon, “Why the fuck am I a target? Who issued the order?” Michael hit him again, Sonia winced no longer recognizing her husband, “Who issued the goddamn order!”

“
Fuck you, Michael; is that the best that you’ve got!” shouted Chris.

“
Michael! What the hell is going on! What is he talking about! Is what he is saying true?” Sonia was crying, the weapon in her hand unsteadily shaking.

With his gun buried into Chris’s temple he never took his eyes off the man and spoke to his wife, “Sonia, listen to me. Put the weapon down, nice and easy okay? Just set it on the floor and go put on some clothes.”

Chris laughed again and coughed out, “You don’t have to on my account; I have already seen you naked remember, you’ve got good taste, Michael.”

Sonia looked at Michael and then looked at the weapon in her hand. Realizing she was standing there naked didn’t embarrass her; it angered her. She walked to the injured laughing man, reeled back, and with a loud scream, hit him square in the forehead with the butt of the weapon. Stepping back she threw it onto what remained of the bed.

So much for nice and easy
, Michael thought.

Chris was coughing harder, but still laughing at the same time, “Shit, that hurt! Goddamn, Michael, you’ve got a fiery one there!”

The agent shouted toward Sonia, “He never told you, did he? Your good husband here has been with the CIA for, what has it been Michael, over fifteen-years. Remember that little altercation in Syria you saw on the news today? That was your man. He was right in the middle of it.”

Michael ignored the agent, “Sonia, listen to me. I can explain all of this. Please, just go and get dressed and let me handle this first.”

The inside of Michael’s ear buzzed, “Report! What’s happening? Report!” The earpiece came to life with orders.

Michael’s blood was white hot; he depressed the small talk button on the earpiece, and answered back, “Your mission failed.”

Without warning, the wind whipped up outside, smacking the Northern Cedar Pine trees against the house. Michael looked up and was staring at a black and very quiet OH-58 Delta whose pilot was staring back. He recognized the Handler who now had a look of horror on his face. Michael stood up and pointed his weapon at the man and fired just as the Handler banked the helicopter.

The zip lines attached to both men flew back out of the window, “Oh, shit!” shouted Michael. He snapped off the quick release D-ring attached to Chris just as the line went taut but couldn’t get to the dead agent. Trevor’s body slammed mercilessly against the wall and was yanked forcibly out of the window.

Returning to Chris, Michael shoved his pistol deep into the bullet-hole in the man’s shoulder causing Chris to scream in agony. Michael’s instincts as an ex-Interrogator took over and demanded, “Why am I a target! I won’t fucking ask you again!” He shoved the pistol deeper into the opened flesh.

Chris screamed louder.

Sonia thought she was going to be sick.

“
This is so much bigger than you know. We are everywhere.” Without warning Chris turned his head and bit down on the collar of his protective vest; Michael knew what he was doing but reacted too late.

Chris’s head flung violently backward from the powerful chemicals that he had just ingested; there was a suicide pill sewn into the collar. His body began to convulse, foam dripped from the corner of his mouth. He was dead in a matter of moments.

Michael jumped to his feet, grabbed the MP5, and raced passed Sonia and down the stairs. Oblivious to his current state of undress, he ran out of the front door and looked to the sky. He was able to catch a glimpse of the dead body still attached to the helicopter and swinging through the sky as a bolt of lightning lit the darkness. He chased after the helicopter firing the remaining bullets in the automatic weapon; of the stream of bullets, one shot expertly found its target and severed the power line to the thirty-five foot rotor instantly freezing its revolutions.

The Allison 250-C18 turbo shaft engine groaned as it tried without success to supply power to the immobile rotor. The Handler struggled with the controls as smoke filled the cockpit; he knew he was going down. The small observation helicopter plunged into the raging waters of the creek and landed on its side.

Michael sprinted to where the mangled aircraft had crashed. The waters were too deep and fast moving; he could only enter them to his knees. The lightning overhead worsened and lit the sky with intertwining streaks of power. Michael could see the wreckage with each sequence of growing electrical blasts.

The pilot seat was empty.

On the opposite shore of the creek, the Handler struggled as he pulled himself up the muddy bank. Rolling over, he saw Michael; the two men stared at each other. Michael’s chest was heaving more from rage than from exhaustion; this man had tried to kill his wife. He pointed the weapon and fired. Nothing, the weapon was empty.

Looking intensely at the Handler he screamed into the microphone of the earpiece, “Why!”

The Handler said nothing.

“
Tell me why! Why are you doing this to me?”

The Handler’s left arm had been broken and with some difficulty he slowly pulled out from his jacket pocket a second RT-FMU remote wireless detonator with his right hand.

“
Oh, shit!” Michael recognized the device and immediately spun around and sprinted up the deep muddy banks. He fell to his knees on the slippery slopes and dug his fingers deep into the moist ground to find any traction that he could.

The helicopter exploded sending large pieces of shrapnel in every imaginable direction. The fireball illuminated the night sky as if it were daybreak. At the moment of the explosion, Michael had thrown himself behind a large blue spruce tree shielding him from the debris that whistled past him. After a moment, he looked around the tree and across the creek; through the blaze he could see that the bank was empty.

The Handler was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Hotel Bramante

Rome, Italy

It took a moment for the assassin to become aware of the ringing cell phone; he was just waking up from a night of well-rested, deep sleep. His body yelled for a few more hours of the bliss. His hands and forearms ached from the work that he put them through. Sitting up on the thin mattress of the hotel bed and massaging his arms he looked over at his prey, a small wave of satisfaction glazed hot over him.

He grabbed for his coat and reached into the inside pocket extricating the still ringing phone, flipping it open he answered, “Yes?”

“
My son, how good it is to here your voice. Tell me, how are you?”

Eyeing his prize hanging from the hooks on the wall the assassin answered, “Much better, the night went well.”

“
Good, I am glad to hear that,” the Messenger wasted little time and went straight to the reason for his call. “Attached to the underside of the table next to the bed, you will find your package. Familiarize yourself with its contents; please handle it carefully. Your instructions are to carry out the assignment tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. local time. That is approximately twenty-four hours from now; inside of the envelope you will find instructions on where to go next. Do you have any questions?”

“
No, I have none.”

“
I must remind you that your mission is critical to our goal, you must not fail. The Pope has to die; we must have returned to us what rightfully belongs to Islam. Your path is a dangerous one, are you ready?”

“
This is why I was born; I am Muslim and have submitted to god. I will die for Islam, for Allah. I will not fail. The apostates have harmed our people long enough. I will kill him even if I must give my life doing so.”

The Messenger knew the assassin was telling the truth and felt a moment of sorrow knowing that, no matter the outcome, this mission would be his last, “Do not fail me, and do not fail Allah. Go and offer a Salat, ask to be shown the correct path and then follow it. Go with Allah.”

The Assassin was ready and replied, “I will not fail.”

“
Tomorrow at 8:00 a.m., follow the instructions,” The line went dead.

The assassin reached under the table next to the bed and pulled the large manila envelope that had been taped there. Ripping it open, the envelope contained three items, a thick silver ballpoint pen, his instructions, and a hand written note from the Messenger:

“
Brother, from the day we first met I knew that you were destined to serve Allah. At life’s end, you will be remembered as a great man by every Muslim. When you enter Paradise it will be as a martyr, there is no greater proposition.

For centuries our Islamic brothers have been held captive in their own lands, the slaves of infidels. Zion has infiltrated the hearts of many men; it is our duty to rid the world of these sinners for it is written. It is time that their kingdom comes to an end, once and for all. Greatness will come to Islam as the Prophet Mohammed predicted. Take great care in your task and remain focused.

May Allah be your guide.”

The assassin knew exactly what he was holding; it was one of many unique killing devices the Messenger had taught him about. Using it correctly would kill the Pope instantly. He delicately caressed the glistening pen. The thoughts of the dying Pope, convulsing at his feet and frozen in fear at death’s gate, forced a trickle of sweat at the nape of his neck. He couldn’t wait the required time; thoughts of killing had already entered his mind once more.

Allah must have felt his desire; there was a knock at his hotel door. “Mr. Hami?”

He heard the pseudonym he used when checking in and rose to his feet. He approached the sound coming through the thick door and waited. The knock came once more; this time the voice was louder, “Mr. Hami, I am Signor Giancarlo, owner of the hotel. Are you there?”

The assassin opened the door; Giancarlo stared wide-eyed over the shoulder of the assassin and at the body of his nephew hung on the wall. He could not scream for him.

The assassin already had him by the throat.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Home of Giancarlo

Rome, Italy

Signor Giancarlo had been away for more than two hours and his wife was worried. There was no word from Benito, or from her husband. She had tried calling the hotel to no avail, “Where could that man and that boy possibly be?” Paranoia was in her feeble voice. Their nephew, Benito, was missing and now him. She picked up the phone and dialed the Vigili Urbani, the local police.

After the call she hurried as quick as she could to the hotel where she was surprised by the numerous powder blue and white Alfa Romeo, model 159 police cars that lined the streets: all had their blue lights circling. A crowd had gathered near the hotel.

Fear enveloped her as she thought of the worst.

She pushed her way through the throngs of curious onlookers, tears already falling down her face. Her intuition told her that nothing good would come of this. At the main entrance, two very large men stood guard. Wearing bulletproof vests over their blue shirts, the white-sashed Carabinieri presented an ominous image. The military arm of the Polizia wouldn’t have been at the hotel unless a serious crime had occurred.

She had made it to the door when both Carabinieri lifted their automatic rifles out of instinct stopping her from entering.

“
Signora, I cannot let you go in there.”

“
This is my hotel! My husband and nephew are inside, what happened? Where are they?”

Her questions had grown into shouts; she was frantic. The two armed men looked at each other knowing that Signora Giancarlo was about to receive the horrific news that both men had been savagely murdered. Nearby, Detective Alberto Dante overheard the commotion and, to the relief of the two Carabinieri, intervened.