In Between God and Devil

by Rick Jones

  Looking at her GPS monitor, she saw Kimball’s signal, a pulsating dot that was quite a distance from her position, but easily accessible through a pell-mell system of tunnels. Just as she was about to tap her earbud to inform Kimball of her retreat, the soft rearrangement of sand beneath someone’s footfalls as they tried to come up behind her was barely perceptible, but there. As soon as Shari pivoted with her Glock coming up and around, the blade of a knife sliced her arm from wrist to elbow, opening a horrible gash. Dropping her firearm and falling away until she stumbled to the ground, and then crawling away by using her elbows and feet, she saw the faces of Qadir and Alfarsi, and recognized them immediately from their dossiers. They were to Ahmed Ali as Ali was to Hassad: lieutenants.

  Pressing herself against a rock wall with the only avenues of escape cut off by Ali’s disciples, Shari, with her wounded arm that was beginning to rage with pain, forcibly lifted it up to tap her earbud.

  Qadir looked at the Glock on the ground, then kicked it aside. Then he showed her his knife and its wickedly keen blade, and he did so with a sinister grin filled with malevolent delight. Alfarsi, like Qadir, retracted his knife as well, and like Qadir held it up and turned it over in display between his fingers. The suggestion of what they were about to take pleasure in was in their actions. They were going to slice her with a thousand cuts before they removed her head and join it with Faizan’s at the ‘Gateway,’ this she was sure of.

  In her lip mic she said, “Kimball, get the hostages out of here and to the extraction site. You were right about me running into the lion’s den.”

  And then: “Shari—”

  “Go!”

  Lowering her arm which bled amply, Shari slid upwards along the wall using her back until she was on her feet and waited for the inevitable. But she was not going out without a fight or a challenge. She would take the cuts, the slices, perhaps the gutting of her innards as they slipped from her abdomen, but she was not about to go out like a lamb to slaughter.

  Qadir and Alfarsi started to move to flank her, with each taking a side to strike from.

  Shari ground her feet and raised her hands to ready herself. Her eyes darted from side to side, gauging their movements.

  Fight like the lion you are, my littlest one. Her grandmother’s voice came through loud and clear, the reception no longer sounding as if it came from the bottom of a well, hollow or echoey.

  Grandmama?

  Be happy with your decision, my littlest one, that you did not strike a man down when you had the chance. And be happy that you no longer have to live a lifetime with the pain of knowing that you killed a man who could not defend himself, no matter how wicked.

  Then Shari felt her grandmother’s voice beginning to slip away.

  Grandmama?

  With lascivious grins too appalling to see anything beyond the evil underneath, Qadir and Alfarsi approached her with their knives ready to cut, slice and gore, until Shari Cohen was anything but recognizable.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  When Kimball spoke into his lip mic, he did so with urgency. “Shari? Stop. Get to the extraction point before Ali’s team has a chance to regroup and retaliate. The element of surprise is gone.”

  “Kimball, I need you to get the hostages out of here and to the extraction site. You were right about me running into the lion’s den.”

  “Shari—”

  “Go!”

  Maybe it was the stress in her voice or the insistence of leaving without her, but Kimball detected a sense of paramount danger. Turning to Isaiah, he said, “Get the hostages out of here and quickly. I’m not sure if taking the path of least resistance is possible since Ali’s people are on the rise. They’ve been alerted.”

  “What about you?”

  “I think Shari’s in trouble—something she might not be able to back out of by herself.”

  “Kimball, this cave system is going to be overrun in about two minutes. You may end up finding yourself going beyond the point of no return.”

  “You know I can’t leave her behind, Isaiah.’

  “I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you to be careful.”

  Kimball grabbed Isaiah at the triceps of his arm and gave a slight squeeze. It was message enough that Kimball appreciated his concern. After referring to his GPS monitor, Kimball raced through the warrens in search of Shari by taking the shortest path between two points. But when the tunnels twisted crazily, it wasn’t easy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Isaiah, Jonah and Jeremiah, the ‘lead team,’ took point to create a wedge-like formation to drive through the masses, whereas Noah and Joshua took rear to encounter those who may come up from behind. The hostages had grouped together as a tight unit with Father Savino leading the way.

  With their weapons held at eye level, the Vatican Knights moving their weapons from left to right, and then right to left, searching. But the tunnels were clear with the opening less than a few hundred yards away. Liberty seemed within a hairsbreadth away, freedom almost assured. That was until they came upon four of Ali’s men, all seasoned soldiers who were far more skilled then the recruits they conscripted from villages. These men were dressed as ISIS militants and were equipped with high-end assault rifles and knives as long as Roman gladiuses. They were carefully scouring the tunnel and its outlets searching for intruders. And like the Vatican Knights, they moved their weapons from side to side in search of hostiles.

  Isaiah turned and gestured to Joshua to have the hostages fall back into the shadows, which they did silently. The second gesture from Isaiah was that the ‘lead team’ would engage the unit.

  The hostages hunkered deep beyond the dark veils, whereas the ‘lead team’ took position.

  Members of the Islamic State came forward with great prudence, slowly and with calculated measure of what was in front of them.

  Isaiah raised his weapon, and slowly, making sure that sudden movement, even within shadows, could cause a curious eye to wander in their direction. Even something that was blacker than black can draw attention against lighter shades, even if the colors were that of darkness.

  Isaiah waited.

  So did Jeremiah and Jonah.

  The guerillas pressed forward, searching, their weapons moving from left to right, then back again.

  Ten feet away.

  Unlike the Vatican Knights that were geared with night-vision scopes, the terrorists went by the dull illumination of a distant lamp, whose radius was marked by a circular fringe of its cast, which they had passed.

  Five feet away.

  The Vatican Knights had practiced this scenario countless times, becoming experts. It was more than just being on the same page, it was about creating an umbilical tie to one another so that when they operated, they did so as one.

  When the taking point reached the three-foot mark, that spot was also the predetermined distance to engage. No words had to be spoken as Jeremiah set off four muted bursts of gunfire.

  . . . Phfttt . . . Phfttt . . . Phfttt . . . Phfttt . . .

  All loud spits coming in quick succession as the area lit up with quick eruptions of light from the muzzle flashes, which was instantly followed by the smell of wafting gunpowder as the terrorists spasmed in their stance before dropping. Jeremiah had been true with his headshots, with every round striking the intended targets within a span of less than two seconds.

  Isaiah lifted his fist, then pointed a finger forward to move along. Silently, with four bodies piled against the tunnel floor, the hostages carefully watched where they placed their footing while proceeding.

  As for the lamp that cast the feeble light ahead of them, Isaiah took careful aim and neutralized the lamp. Once again inside of shadows which they used to their benefit, the ‘lead team’ led by using their night-vision scopes to lead them.

  With just over two hundred yards to go, no one knew for sure what stood between them and the way out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Shari could feel a tingle in her wou
nded arm, as well as the hotness of her pain. The slice would be the beginning of many, she thought, with this pain tenfold.

  But her determination was dogged in its intensity, the fight in her possessing a Pitbull mentality where the size of its ferociousness was legendary.

  I will not quit. I will not allow these two to do with me what they want to at will.

  Qadir, who was extremely diminutive, and if it wasn’t for his deeply seamed crow’s feet and the minute loops of curly hair that made up his beard, she would have considered him to be no more than twelve, maybe thirteen at the most. Alfarsi, however, was a different story. He was tall and lean and had the fierce eyes of a killer, though not as vacuous as Qadir’s, but semi-vacant, nonetheless. As they raised their knives to test the waters by cutting through the new and soft flesh of a woman, it was Qadir who lunged at her swinging his knife in a downward arc.

  Shari withdrew from the blow as her upper body pulled away from the sharpened blade that missed her by inches. She could see the gleam of the knife’s edge, nice and silver as if newly polished. From her right came the deep snicker from Alfarsi, a spectator at this point like cats at play with a mouse.

  Qadir, who showed off teeth that were as small and yellow as the kernels of corn when he smiled, raised his blade in exhibit as if to tell her that ‘here was the toy that was going to deliciously end your life.’

  Shari began to assess her situation. Qadir was a man who was disadvantaged by his size limitation and perhaps an advantage. If she could steal away his knife—which she had been trained to do at Quantico, and once again at Langley until the maneuver had been drilled into her until it became almost like an involuntary action—she might have a chance. But could she do it with a wounded arm?

  Qadir, however, appeared to sense her thoughts by the way she had looked at the knife. So he backed away, but slightly as he continued to showcase the knife in his hand.

  Then Qadir began to speak to her in Arabic, teasing her most likely, with images of what he was going to do to her body, to her femininity, which turned Alfarsi’s chuckles into cruel laughter that was coupled with a mischievous grin.

  “Let’s go half-pint,” she challenged the small man.

  Suddenly, Qadir’s smile began to melt away. Was it possible that he understood English, or at least enough to know what the term ‘half-pint’ meant? Did he have a Napoleon complex? Was it something she could use to her benefit?

  She beckoned him to come and attack her, to take her on. “Come on, you skinny excuse of a man. I know toddlers who are taller than you.”

  Qadir’s face became a mask of absolute rage.

  Oh, yeah . . . You understood me juuuusssst fine.

  The Arab cried out with uncontainable anger as he came at her swinging the knife in diagonal arcs and sweeps, his actions that of an untrained person who had no choreographed designs to neutralize his enemy, no skills to depend upon—just a wild man coming at her.

  Shari continued to dodge and juke, something she knew she could not keep up forever, especially with Alfarsi standing so close, a mere spectator until he decided to add himself to the fray.

  Qadir continued to swing his knife, sometimes slashing across Shari’s vest to create intersecting lines like tic-tac-toe, but not deep enough to score her flesh. The small Arab cried out savagely, his cries echoing off the walls and throughout the chamber.

  The knife swung, slashed, sometimes striking the rock wall to cough up sparks upon impact. Alfarsi stood close by regripping the handle of his weapon, the radical ready to commit, to stab, to gore and gut.

  When Shari found herself pressed against the wall with nowhere else to go, she also spotted signs of Qadir tiring. His momentum was slowing, his endurance waning. And like a serpent lashing out to strike venomously at its target, Shari reached out and grabbed Qadir’s wrist, and then she pulled herself close and fought over the knife in a drunken tango.

  Alfarsi took a few steps forward and slashed his blade horizontally across Shari’s thigh, scoring a deep groove before settling back to be an onlooker. In Arabic, Alfarsi goaded Qadir like an instructor who pointed out the missed opportunities that would have brought down his opponent.

  . . . She is a woman, Qadir . . . Take her down and end this . . .

  But Qadir continued to struggle even as Shari began to waver on her wounded leg, her body nearly sapped as her injured arm started to scream out in a tabernacle of pain. Still, she was a lioness who had the ferocious tenacity to live beyond the pain as her lifeforce bled out by the seconds.

  In the background, Alfarsi continued to coach and hail his brother in the name of Allah, telling him to drive the knife across her throat and across her flesh.

  Then as Shari’s sight began to waver, as the lioness inside her began to stumble upon its footing, she pushed away and fell back. At first the edges of her peripheral sight became purple and then black, the darkness now starting to close in to pinch out what little light there was left.

  Then from the depths of darker shadows, beyond the veils that hid hideous secrets, something rose from the floor and took to a greater height to become something more massive, something that was almost too large to comprehend as it spread its arms like the wingspan of a magnificent bird, the thing in the shadows becoming an apex predator.

  As Qadir leaned into her with his grandiose smile of victory, his grin slowly faded when he saw the reflected shape mirroring from her eyes of something tall standing behind him. It was a blackness that had no features, no contours, nothing to suggest that whatever stood behind him was a man at all, but a netherworld demon.

  Alfarsi began to call out in alarm after seeing the intruder, this creature of darkness.

  Then a pair of hands reached out to grab Qadir by the chin and by the back of the head, then he pulled the small man close and forced the Arab to look him in the eyes. What Qadir saw was the mean streak of a man who knew no boundaries and had no parameters. What he saw in that moment were the eyes of a creature that worked in the Dark to serve the Light. Here was the Devil’s Magician who was said to be an angel to some and a demon to others, with his eyes blazing with unbridled rage. And within that moment that was less than a second, Qadir saw a lifetime of his actions within this man’s eyes. He saw his rise within the ranks of the Islamic State and of the faces of those he killed. He remembered relishing in the acts and being celebratory with the victory of the kill always marked upon his bloodied blade as he held his knife high. This was always the mindset, he considered, of reliving one’s accomplishments that had been created over a lifetime, just before a man died. In the concept of real time, this process appeared to have spanned over several minutes, when it actually took place within the blink of an eye. After seeing what he had become in life and his gruesome undertakings, he knew his life was literally within his chooser’s hands, which gripped him tightly. Seeing no mercy, Qadir closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. With a quick jerk and a clean snap of the spinal column, Jamon Qadir fell to the earth as something boneless.

  Alfarsi—who saw this play out in actual time that took less than two seconds between emerging from the shadows to killing Qadir—lifted his knife and attacked the Shadowman.

  Unlike Qadir who was unskilled with double-edged weapons, Alfarsi was cleaner in his actions, more accomplished. He came across with driving arcs and slashes to slice open blood-gushing wounds. The Shadowman fell back while calculating Alfarsi’s moves, avoiding the edge of the blade that was scalpel sharp. Then the shape withdrew his own knife, a KABAR, and closed the gap between them.

  Alfarsi came across again and again, only for the shape to deflect the blows in toying manner. Then the Arab lunged forward with strikes that cut the air with blinding speed. And then the blades met as the two squared off, with metal striking metal. Sparks flew from the multiple impacts, the embers lifting, burning and then dancing briefly in space before dying. Alfarsi pressed the shape deeper into the shadows while screaming the praises of Allah, saying that he was th
e king of kings who would see all infidels removed from this world in order to create a better world under the one true god.

  When the two finally reached the far wall with the Shadowman’s back against the stone wall, and as Alfarsi’s endurance began to waver, the shape thrust out with his leg and struck the Arab in the gut with his foot, and hard, the blow knocking Alfarsi back a few hardy steps.

  Between that moment that divided them, each man grounded their feet into the sand and squared off with each other. The Arab and the Shape, two equals up to this point.

  But then the Shape spoke, his words chilling as they cut to the Arab’s bones. “Now, it’s my turn,” he said.

  In a split moment, the shadow figure exploded from the darkness and attacked Alfarsi with a vigor that was drawn from deep within, something that controlled his Dark side when serving the Light. The Shape maneuvered his weapon with fluid design and perfected choreography, his motions nothing less than poetry in motion as he drove the Arab back. Alfarsi, who struggled to deflect the blows and no longer called out to Allah as his savior, was being pushed back with ease. Blades struck as the Shadowman’s KABAR cut and sliced his opponent that opened wounds, nothing but gashes that were superficial, until the Shape pivoted on the balls of his feet and swung in a full circle with his knife held out, and scored Alfarsi’s abdomen with a deep cut.

  Alfarsi dropped his knife as he hitched his breath and fell back. His hands covered the lips of his wound, a lateral slash that opened the stomach wall. And when he pulled his hands away to measure them, when they came away sticky and warm, his entrails began to deliver themselves unto the ground, with the spillage like a coil of sausage. Falling to his knees with his bloodied hands held before him, Alfarsi’s eyes widened. What stood out in the shadows in stark contrast was the small square of white, the band of a Roman Catholic collar. As the Arab tried to speak, only guttural noises clicked in the back of his throat. Then as he expelled his final breath, a long and vacating sigh that fully evacuated his lungs, he leaned forward until his forehead touched the ground and died on his knees.