by Rick Jones
FBI Director Johnston nodded. “We already considered that point,” he said.
“We’ve called electrical maintenance to come down to disable the entire system. We’ll inform the people that the power outage is short-term, and that they are to head for the parking lot until service is back online. This will assure compliance and civility.”
“Unless Allawi’s spotters dictate otherwise,” Shari told him.
“To walk away with few casualties is expected,” he said. “But at least we’ll be able to defuse a disaster. Right now, we concentrate on the mission, which is to pave the way for the bomb squad. We’re to get them inside to do their job once the arena has been emptied, to avert a disaster.”
After telling his field agents to proceed with caution and to report anything that appears to be an anomaly, he held up Shari so that the two could talk alone.
“Your cabin,” he stated simply. “Three dead and one out of commission, who is now in our custody . . . Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Like what?”
“Like how that happened.”
Shari sighed. “Larry, you already know. I don’t think I have to say anything.”
Johnston nodded. “Then tell me, is he inside?”
“Yes.”
Another nod from her director. “The priest who is not a priest,” he said. “The Vatican will have a lot to answer for, Shari, for his involvement. This is not a clerical matter that’s of any concern to the Vatican.”
She wanted to tell him that he was wrong. Under the criteria of the Vatican State, a Vatican Knight was mobilized against threats to the Vatican, to the sovereignty of the Vatican, or if there’s a threat to the welfare of its citizenry. Shari, after saving the life of the pontiff years before, was provided the position of Honorary Knight for her valor, making her part of the citizenry, even though her faith lies with Judaism.
“He’s an asset to the team, Larry. We both know that. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. And we both know that, too.”
The director could not deny that. “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” he said.
“Believe me,” she told him. “He does.”
As they headed for the venue, Shari wondered about Kimball Hayden.
Where are you?
Chapter Fifty-Four
Kimball moved down the aisle that was dimly lit. The voices were getting closer, becoming louder. He held a cleaver in each hand, ready to use them when necessary.
The voices stopped.
Kimball, in the quasi-shadows, remained still.
Nothing but silence, which he thought peculiar.
He turned his head sideways, listened.
And then his sixth sense started to prickle, that measure of one’s instinct kicking into action to detect approaching danger.
They know I’m here.
He slipped into the shadows and waited. But on some level, he knew that he had been compromised and was not alone. So, he stepped forward to make himself available, the Vatican Knight waiting.
From his left, the sound of a ladle hitting the floor as someone rushed him, a sizeable shape that moved in and out of the light like a bull who cared little for stealth, only to take down his quarry, this priest, his prey.
But Kimball was ready and waiting, his feet fixed as the man approached. The assailant leapt through the air to eclipse and conquer, only for Kimball to catch him in mid-flight and throw him over a stainless-steel table, the attacker taking with him the loose pots and pans that clamored against the floor like a warning bell to others.
The man stood up, a large African American who was no doubt a part of Allawi’s posse of terrorists. His eyes were narrowed, as if to get a fix on the best way to approach. Then he reached to his left to grab a knife from the stove, and then he grabbed a knife that was to his left from the table. Now equipped with a knife in each hand, the man advanced slowly while maneuvering the knives with skilled choreography.
Kimball maintained his ground, his footing, the space minimal between them. The terrorist drew closer, their eyes connecting, locking. And then the attacker pounced on Kimball with his knives looking for an opening to cut and slice, to gut and eviscerate. But Kimball waved the cleavers with dexterity to ward of the blows, tit for tat, the attacker not even close to scoring the priest with the edges of his blades. Behind him, Kimball could hear the others approaching, could hear the footfalls of his attacker’s cavalry. So, he began to perform an ensemble of his own calculated moves and began to swing the cleavers first in horizontal sweeps, and then diagonally, the blades cutting deep grooves, a deep X, slicing the man’s abdomen from right shoulder to left hip, then from left shoulder to right hip. The terrorist, whose gaping eyes and mouth gave off high-end surprise, fell hard to his knees and forward onto the floor.
Kimball, feeling others close by, disappeared into the quasi-shadows.
* * *
The Messengers. They were the expendables in Mohammad Allawi’s army of extremists, those who had nothing in their lives, not even belonging, until Mohammad Allawi gave them purpose by way of absolute devotion to him and to Allah. Two had already absconded from the front lines, finding that living was far more attractive than their belief in their God. That left Abu Nasir and Kashif to man the entryways with their Semtex vests. The day was not overly warm, but it wasn’t overly cool, either. At least not cool enough to warrant the heavy jackets they wore to hide their vests.
Abu Nasir, however, was showing the greatest stress between the two, the nineteen-year-old sweating profusely from his brow while shuffling from one foot to the other, always shifting from side to side as if he had to urinate badly. As people entered the arena to the south, his job was to cut off any measure of retreat by detonating his vest, should the operation go sour, as was the duty of Kashif, who stood by the entrance to the north.
Both men prayed to Allah and peppered Him with phrases, such as Allahu Akbar
. . . Allahu Akbar, only to receive silence in return.
Allahu Akbar!
Nothing appeared to quell their fears or calm their nerves. No prayers, no salutations, not even the knowledge of Paradise that awaited them with the glories of afterlife treasures.
As people continued to enter the facility, they waited anxiously for the proper moment to pull the cords to their vests.
* * *
Shari Cohen and FBI Director Larry Johnston were met by the electrical engineer topside, who then escorted them to the Electrical Room. Once they reached the area and the engineer unlocked the door, they entered the room that hummed like an active hive. Against the far wall stood locker-like equipment that maintained and monitored the electricity that flowed throughout the arena.
“Our optimum goal is to knock out the power to the security cameras,” the director informed the engineer, “in case someone is hacking into the feeds for live coverage. Then we want to kill the power to the entire operation, so that we can advise the people to evacuate the venue until the power is restored—slowly, calmly and effectively.”
The engineer was chewing gum when he asked, “Something you want to tell me about, Director?”
The director’s answer was firm and direct. “No.”
The engineer nodded, then he went to a locker-shaped console and pointed to it.
“This one powers the cameras.” Then he flipped a set of toggle switches with the crook of his finger, killing the power line. “That’s it,” he said, “cameras are down.”
“Now for the facility’s power,” Shari told him. “Perhaps one area at a time, so as not to alarm the people all at once.”
With the crook of his finger, the engineer did as she asked, and killed the power from area to area one switch at a time.
* * *
“What happened?” Allawi sounded genuinely upset.
Najm, after typing commands into the keyboard, came up empty. Then he tried to reroute the feed to other cameras by tapping into other power sources. But that option failed
, as well. Falling away from the computer monitors that showed nothing but snow, he said, “They killed the power . . . They know.”
Mohammad Allawi cried out in anger as he jumped down from the truck’s bay to the soft earth beneath his feet. He continued to pace behind the vehicle while raking a hand through his hair, thinking. They had under two hours before punctuating the final jihad with an exclamation point on American soil.
Jumping back inside the truck, Mohammad Allawi noticed the countdown on the LED display. It read: 1:46:37.
“Are you sure, Najm?” he asked.
“Positive.”
“And the package?”
“Since it’s independent from their power source, I can control everything from here.” He pointed to the BGAN system.
. . . 1:46:11 . . .
“Not all will perish, my friend, but we’ll get many to fall, regardless.” Allawi pointed to the BGAN system. “Finalize the final stroke of Allah’s sword.”
“Yes, Mohammad.” Leaning over the keyboard, Najm began to type.
* * *
When the power brought down the main lights, the arena and the levels underneath the main staging area lit up with a backup system. Halogen light bulbs had shed passable light for the people to see, as they were being shepherded out with the guidance of staff, who stood by the entryways and coaxed them with gentle waves of their hands, the employees smiling and suggesting that ‘this was a minor setback and that the power would return shortly.’
Using his lip mic to convey information, FBI Director Johnston told the regulators to see that everyone was far enough from the venue before sending in the bomb-squad unit. There was plenty of time before the beginning of the competition, about ninety minutes.
Everything, so far, was moving as designed, calm and calculated.
Still, Shari wondered and worried about Kimball.
Where are you?
* * *
The already feeble lighting to the second galley became worse when the halogen lamps popped on. The power was out, something Kimball Hayden realized immediately. This also gave him the advantage to use the deeper, darker shadows. Watching from his darkened recess, Kimball saw two men advancing slowly down the aisle that was divided by a median of stainless-steel tables. They were searching with small firearms gripped in their hands, the weapons obviously suppressed by the length of the barrels.
Kimball leaned back into the shadows and found comfort within his element, as he gripped both cleavers and waited. His prey was coming to him, the flies stepping unwisely into the spider’s lair.
Then as the one closest to him approached with the point of his weapon panning side to side, Kimball, raised his cleaver high, and when he saw the leveled arm come into range, brought the blade down in an arc. The cleaver’s edge dug deep to break bone but did not sever the man’s arm, as it hung at a sickening ninety-degree angle just beyond the elbow.
The terrorist’s eyes blazoned with astonishment as he could only utter a few garbled sounds, which gave Kimball time to swing the second blade in a horizontal slash that caught the man in the throat, the cleaver biting deep.
The extremist, upon the second cut, fell to the floor like a stone, hard and fast. Kimball tossed his cleaver aside but allowed the second to remain lodged in the man’s throat. Grabbing his attacker’s gun, Kimball hefted its weight, checked the magazine, reseated it, and that’s when the barrage of gunfire began, when the dead man’s associate started to fire off his weapon.
Kimball ducked and took cover as the man fired off his firearm, the shots random and wasted as they peppered the areas around Kimball, either driving chips off the surrounding tile or skipping off the metal appliances, with the bullets coughing up sparks upon impact.
Kimball ducked, weaved, put himself into a seated fetal position, the Vatican Knight trying his best to make himself a small target as bullets ricocheted all around him.
Then a series of clicks, his would-be assassin running dry. In the time it took the terrorist to eject the magazine and grab another from his pocket, Kimball Hayden was already on his feet with his weapon directed at the man’s forehead, the mouth of the gun’s barrel large and looming. The extremist froze, knowing that he was caught between a rock and a hard place with no opportunity to better his position. Even within the weak lighting, the man could see the white band of the cleric’s collar stand out as if it was a beacon, white against black, a deep contrast from one another like Darkness against Light. But who would this man favor, the assassin wondered, the Darkness or the Light?
Kimball Hayden pulled the trigger.
* * *
Fahd was the last man standing. From his location approximately twenty-five yards from the firefight, he saw the muzzle flashes, all misses. Then there was a final muzzle flash as the priest stole the life of the man that Fahd had once called his brother. Advancing, Fahd, who was a skilled shooter with a sniper’s sharpness, kept his weapon level. Unlike his associates, Fahd would not miss his mark, he never had. The shadows, dark and deep and filled with the promise to hide someone completely and absolutely, Fahd fired off a pair of rounds. But the light emitted from the gun’s barrel during the discharge revealed empty space. Fahd turned quickly on the balls of his feet, looking behind and around him.
Nothing.
Where are you, priest?
Silence.
And then the silhouette of something made itself known a short distance away, this man apparently using the shadows to move from point to point unseen. In his hand was a firearm, a pistol, the priest attempting to draw a bead on him with concentrated aim. But Fahd was fast, the man a skilled assassin with a keen eye and a quick finger. And so was his opponent, a seasoned fighter, perhaps one of the best the planet had to offer.
Their arms had come up with incredible swiftness like blurs to direct their aim, a mere and split moment of time, only for them to pull their triggers at the same time.
A round struck Fahd in the forehead with the wound that was about the size of a nickel, but the exit wound was about the size of a peach that erupted with gore. As Fahd arced his back and became as stiff as rebar, the man fell backward and caromed off a steel table, taking with him a bounty of loose pans that clanged like cymbals against the floor.
Kimball, taking a few steps forward, dropped the gun and began to stumble as if intoxicated. His strides became choppy and uncoordinated, and then he went to a knee with a hand to his left pectoral muscle.
Fahd had found his mark after all, as Kimball withdrew his hand to see that he was bleeding copiously from the wound. So much, in fact, he wondered if an artery had been nicked.
Wincing, Kimball grabbed the gun with one hand, and covering his wound with the other hand, went to find the package.
* * *
The sounds of pots and pans sounding like the nonsensical smashing of cymbals at a rock concert was enough to galvanize Shari Cohen and Larry Johnston, who advised the engineer ‘to stay put and to close the door behind them for his own safety.’ The engineer did not have to be told twice. As Shari and the director held their weapons forward, they made their way down the corridors and aisles. The area was gloomy, even under the soft filtering of light from the halogen bulbs. They were quiet and cautious and fully astute as to the secrets their surroundings may hold. And then they came upon the first of two bodies. One with a cleaver to his throat, the other with a bullet to the head.
“Tell me something,” the director whispered to Shari. “Is this the hallmark trail of your friend?”
She remained silent.
They moved down the aisle and discovered another body. This one took a precise shot to his forehead, with the results of the kill having spread gray matter to the surrounding stainless-steel tables and ovens, while a halo of blood continued to expand slowly on the floor around the man’s head.
“Your friend leaves quite a mess.”
Shari rolled her eyes inwardly and continued down the aisle. But what disturbed her most was the blood drops tha
t peppered the floor, a trail that went on and on.
Had Kimball been wounded? Or was this the blood of another? Either way, they followed the trail.
* * *
Najm typed the final program into his laptop and let the point of his finger hover above the ‘ENTER’ button. “The program’s ready, Mohammad. The final call is yours to make.”
Allawi stood over Najm’s shoulder with his fingers toying the hair of his chin. Finally, he said, “Go ahead, Najm. Press the button.”
And that’s exactly what Najm did—he pressed the button.
. . . 1:44:25 . . .
. . . 1:44:24 . . .
. . . 1:44:23 . . .
The LED timer hesitated, winked off, then recalibrated to a new time setting.
. . . 00:10:00 . . .
. . . 00:09:59 . . .
. . . 00:09:58 . . .
In less than ten minutes, the Jackson-Hall Arena would be nothing more than a crater.
“Very good, Najm. We won’t get the full effects, but it’ll be enough. Many will still die.”
Najm nodded.
And then from Allawi: “Take us to Virginia Beach,” he said to Najm. “It’s time to make our way to Cuba.”
Najm, closing his laptops for the last time, got behind the wheel of the bakery truck, started it up, and made his way onto the highway. Virginia Beach was only minutes away, as was their gateway to freedom.
In Mohammad Allawi’s mind he was envisioning the implosion of the site as walls collapsed to kill scores of people in the name of Allah.
In silence, they headed for freedom.
* * *
Kimball stumbled until he could stumble no more. At the end of the hallway was a metal door, a pantry, which was protected by a new Master lock, with the chrome of the padlock gleaming with a mirror polish to it. Kimball pointed the tip of his suppressed weapon at the mechanism, took aim, and fired off three shots. The lock still held. After another three shots, the lock finally gave. Removing it and opening the door wide, the first thing he saw was a body lying on the floor next to an ice chest. Within the light of the halogen lamp, he could tell that the man’s eyes were already beginning to glaze over with the milky sheen of blindness.