by Gar Wilson
"Right," the Briton whispered. "The Courtyard of the Swiss Guards should be on the other side."
"Yeah," Trent rasped as he opened the bag. "I wonder who we'll find there tonight."
The American ninja removed two pairs of metal bands with spikes and straps. He attached the shuko to his feet, placing the spikes at the ball of each foot and binding the straps to his ankles. The ashiko were strapped to his wrists. The curved steel spikes jutted from his palms like the claws of a big cat. Trent slipped the bag over his shoulder and handed his shotgun to McCarter.
The Phoenix ninja slapped a palm to the wall and clawed at the stone with his ashiko. His other hand struck higher, and he stabbed the spiked shuko of his right foot against the hard surface. He pushed with his legs and pulled with his arms, continuing the process steadily until he scaled the wall.
He lay across the summit and looked down into the compound. It appeared deserted at first glance, but the sound of footfalls announced that at least two Iranian terrorists were patrolling the area near the wall. Trent stifled a gasp of surprise. He was amazed that the pair had not heard the scrape of metal on stone when he had scaled the wall. Neither Iranian gazed up as they passed under Trent's position.
The Colt .45 would alert other terrorists, and Trent could not wield his sword properly with the ashiko strapped to his hands. There was no time to plan tactics, no time to consider the risk involved or to weigh what could go wrong. Trent leaped from the wall and pounced on the unsuspecting terrorists like a leopard attacking its prey.
Both feet struck one Iranian in the upper back. The spikes pierced the nape of his neck and severed the man's spinal cord. The force of the fatal blow drove the man to the ground as Trent lunged toward the second terrorist. The sentry turned. Trent crashed into him, and both men fell to the ground. The Iranian's AK-47 was pinned under Trent's body. He desperately reached for the handle of a knife on his belt.
Trent slammed a palm into the Iranian's face. Ashiko talons punctured orbital bone. The claw pierced an eyeball and sunk deep into the socket. The terrorist experienced a split second of unbelievable pain and then fell into oblivion. The man was almost certainly dead, but Trent was not about to take any chances. He ripped the guy's throat with his steel claws.
John Trent's stomach began to churn. His training and discipline were the only things that kept him from running from the grisly corpse to puke his guts out. Instead, Trent moved to his first opponent and buried his ashiko spikes in the hollow of the man's throat to be certain that both sentries were dead. He unstrapped the bloodied claws from his right hand and took the bag from his shoulder.
The Phoenix ninja opened the container and removed a twenty-foot nylon mountaineer's rope. He tied one end to the thigh of a corpse and hurled the line over the top of the wall. Trent knelt on the dead man's chest to anchor the body while David McCarter hauled himself up the rope from the other side of the wall.
"God," Trent whispered as he pulled down the scarf mask to draw air deeply into his lungs. He smelled blood. The copper-salt taste of death lingered in his mouth.
The corpse moved under Trent. Its leg jerked upward as the rope pulled taut. The ninja tried to concentrate on the courtyard where more terrorists were likely to arrive at any moment. He unstrapped the other ashiko from his left hand and tossed it aside. Trent could not put the claws on again. Not right away.
McCarter jumped down from the wall. He folded his legs and rolled to break his fall. The Briton noticed the paleness of Trent's face as he knelt on the hideous lump of meat that had formerly been a human being.
"You had to do it, John," McCarter whispered, well aware of what Trent felt at the moment.
"I know," Trent replied softly as he rose from the body of his victim.
McCarter prepared to return the Remington shotgun to Trent. He suddenly dropped the weapon and turned toward the group of figures that had marched into the courtyard. Half a dozen terrorists, five dressed in gray ninja uniforms, stared back at the Briton. McCarter seized the M-10 that hung from a shoulder strap and fired from the hip. Flame spat from the muzzle of the silencer along with the muffled report of the suppressed weapon. Three 9 mm rounds ripped into the chest and face of the closest terrorist. An Iranian armed with an American CAR-15 carbine, pitched backward into the Japanese hoodlums.
Three more parabellums slammed into the nearest enemy ninja. The man clawed at his chest and belly, staggered forward and fell dead. The other four Asian terrorists froze in their tracks. Two of them raised their hands in surrender. The other two hesitantly reached for the hilts of their swords. None of them carried firearms.
"Chotto mate kudasai!" Trent snapped as he stepped forward, his right hand resting on the hilt of his own sword.
"What's going on?" McCarter asked. "These blokes aren't real ninja, are they?"
"I'll talk to them," Trent replied as he continued to approach the group.
"Haaii!" a gray-clad figure cried as he drew his sword, raised it overhead and attacked.
Trent's ninja-do streaked from its scabbard in a cross-draw as he stepped forward. The blade sliced into the enemy ninja's chest before the man could complete his sword stroke. The mortally wounded Japanese was on his way to the ground as Trent raised his sword in a two-hand grip.
Another enemy ninja struck at Trent with his sword. The blade missed as Trent weaved aside and slashed a quick diagonal stroke. The American's blade cut the attacker on the side of the neck, severing his carotid and jugular. Blood splurted from the lethal wound as the Asian fanatic tumbled backward, barely missing one of his comrades.
A third ninja terrorist swung his sword at Trent's head. The American's ninja-do blocked his opponent's weapon. Trent's left hand suddenly slapped the unsharpened edge of his sword. He pivoted with the movement. The blade cut from an unexpected direction, and the Japanese goon did not have time to counter or dodge. Sharp steel struck the enemy ninja under the chin. He dropped his sword and staggered backward, clamping both hands to the bloody fountain that flowed from his slit throat.
The fourth and last Asian terrorist tried to attack Trent from behind as he swung his sword at the American's neck. Trent's right arm rose so that the blade of his knife guarded the back of his neck. Steel sang against steel when the enemy's sword struck. He raised his weapon for another stroke, but Trent spun about in a low sweep. His sword cut the terrorist across the abdomen. The man doubled up in agony as Trent raised his ninja-do. The blade sliced into the wounded man's neck, severing his head, which bounced across the pavement as blood gushed from the gap between the shoulders of the decapitated corpse.
"You were going to talk to them, eh?" McCarter mused. "They tell you anything?"
"Yes," Trent replied as he flicked blood from the blade of his sword and returned it to its scabbard. "They weren't real ninja."
"Well," the Briton said with a shrug. "That's certainly useful information."
"The real ninja sent these mere students as guinea pigs," Trent explained as he picked up his shotgun. "That means they're totally unprincipled and ruthless."
"We sort of figured that out already," McCarter remarked. "This has been fun, but we'd better get back to work."
The Briton and the American moved into the shadows along the wall of the Patrimony and headed for the opening of the courtyard. Terrorists were darting from one building to another. The enemy had heard the sounds of a muffled battle, but they had not been able to pinpoint the exact area because no shots had been fired.
However, several armed figures had decided to check the Courtyard of the Swiss Guards while the others tried to find out if the fight had occurred in one of the neighboring buildings. McCarter turned to Trent and nodded. The ninja returned the gesture.
They waited for the patrol to draw closer. Then McCarter stepped forward, the M-10 in his right fist and an SAS concussion grenade in his left. The Briton opened fire on the group. One-handed firing of a machine pistol was not terribly accurate, but McCarter was an expert with t
he M-10, and the range was close enough to compensate for any lack of accuracy. Nine-millimeter slugs sprayed the terrorists. Three enemies collapsed with crimson-soaked shirts. Two others screamed as parabellums tore burning tunnels through arms and shoulders.
McCarter allowed the Ingram to dangle from its shoulder strap as he yanked the pin from his flash-bang grenade. Trent opened fire on the surviving members of the terrorist scout team. The Remington bellowed as twelve-gauge loads of buckshot pounded the remaining fanatics into bloodied slabs of lifeless flesh and shattered bone. A Basque terrorist managed to charge past a volley of shotgun pellets, although several buckshot rounds ripped into his arm.
The Basque zealot used his staff to try to knock Trent's shotgun from his grasp. Trent raised the Remington and blocked the wooden pole with the shotgun barrel. He held the gun with his left hand as the right drew the ninja-do. The blade slashed upward in a smooth, fast cut. The Basque terrorist screamed and fell backward as the sword sliced open his armpit. He dropped the staff and dropped to the ground as blood flowed from the terrible gash under his arm.
McCarter hurled the grenade at the terrorists beyond the courtyard. The concussion blast sent several opponents onto the cobblestones. Several others dropped to their knees, clutching their heads in agony as blood oozed from their nostrils and ears.
Headlights suddenly cast a harsh beam across the battle zone. A Fiat bolted from a passage near the Tower of Nicholas V and headed straight toward McCarter and Trent. As if in a scene from a movie, a terrorist leaned out of the passenger window and fired a Skorpion MP at the pair. The bullets did not even come close to McCarter and Trent.
The Briton raised his Ingram and triggered a volley. High-velocity slugs punched through the windshield. The driver released the steering wheel and clamped both hands to his face. It had been shredded by shards of glass and punctured by a 9 mm projectile. The car swung out of control, and the machine gunner hurtled out of the window of the Fiat. He crashed headfirst to the ground and tumbled across the pavement.
The Fiat skidded past McCarter and Trent to crash into the side of the Tipografia Poliglotta Vaticana. The sturdy brick walls held; the front end of the car was crunched into a metal accordion. McCarter and Trent dashed to the cover of the tower as shouts announced the arrival of more terrorists.
"Have one," the Briton invited, tossing an M-26 fragmentation grenade to Trent.
"Gee, thanks," Trent replied dryly. The ninja had a fundamental knowledge of explosives, but he did not like them. "What should I do with it?"
"Throw it in that direction," the Briton replied. "You'll know when."
McCarter tilted his head to the south, but his eyes looked north as he pulled the pin from another frag grenade. Three seconds later several terrorists appeared from around the corner of the main post office. The Briton lobbed his M-26 at the group.
Trent forced himself not to watch McCarter or the enemies lo the north. He kept his eyes focused south and his finger hooked in the ring of the grenade pin. Suddenly four or five enemy warriors darted from the Tipografia Poliglotta and made for the remains of the Fiat. Trent yanked out the pin and threw the grenade at them. The M-26 hit the ground and rolled under the car before it exploded. Chunks of mutilated terrorists accompanied the metallic debris as flaming gasoline splashed across the cobblestones.
"You knew what they'd do," Trent told McCarter, impressed by the Briton's prediction.
"Standard fork attack," McCarter replied, loading a fresh magazine into his M-10. "Any good chess player could have figured it out. Frontal attack fails so you try to hit your opponent from two directions simultaneously."
"What do you think they'll do next?" Trent inquired.
"Let's not hang around to find out," McCarter answered. "We promised to provide a distraction, and I think we've succeeded. Time to retreat to the courtyard and over the wall before they hit us with grenades, rocket launchers and anything else that goes 'boom.'"
The pair jogged to the Courtyard of the Swiss Guards. They moved along the wall of the Patrimony. Suddenly four armed terrorists leaped from the courtyard. McCarter and Trent dived to the pavement as the enemy opened fire. Bullets sliced air above them. Trent hastily plucked a metsubushi from a pocket and hurled it at the group. The eggshell burst, igniting flash powder, black pepper and metal filings. It was the type of grenade Trent was accustomed to.
The terrorists screamed. They had been blinded by the unexpected burst of light and cloud of stinging fragments. McCarter's Ingram unleashed a merciless salvo into the group. Three tumbled backward when their torsos were ripped open by 9 mm fury. The fourth shuffled clear as he pawed at his eyes with one hand and held an assault rifle in the other. He cleared his vision in time to see Trent's sword descend like a guillotine. The sharp edge struck the crown of his skull and split his forehead to the bridge of his nose. Trent yanked the blade free and allowed his opponent's lifeless body to fall to the ground.
"Well," McCarter began, breathing hard more from stress than exertion. "That was a surprise."
"Can we get out of here before we get any more?" Trent asked urgently.
"Bloody right," the Briton agreed.
15
Four Iranian terrorists stood by the stairs to the Museo Chiaramonti. They had been ordered to stay at their post, although dozens of others were rushing in the direction of the gunshots and explosions that had been heard coming from the south wing. The flickering light of a fire was visible in the distance.
The four men were not happy about standing by while others plunged into battle. They were soldiers of the Islamic Jihad, the war against the infidels. Even in death they would find glory if they died fighting the enemies of Allah and the Ayatollah. They could not understand why they should be denied the opportunity to confront the Western heretics on the field of battle. What glory was to be found in observing rather than in acting?
"Excuse me, man," a voice called softly in English.
None of the four Iranians understood the language, but rhey turned sharply and stared at Calvin James. The tall black man stood at the foot of the stairs with an open map of the Vatican in his left hand. The unfolded paper covered his chest as he peered over the top of the map and grinned at the terrorists.
"I can't find any rest rooms on this thing," he announced. "Where do I go to take a leak?"
The terrorists were too startled to respond immediately. A split second passed before the first Iranian raised his rifle. A hole suddenly appeared in the center of James's map. The terrorist was pitched backward by the force of a 185-grain projectile that crashed into the man's chest. The Iranians had barely heard the muted report of the silenced pistol. The throbbing of the pulse behind each man's ear rose above any other sound.
James discarded the map to reveal that he held the Colt Combat Commander, with its nine-inch sound suppressor, in his right fist. He gripped the pistol in the two-hand Weaver position and aimed it at another terrorist. The terrorists barely glanced at their slain comrade as they desperately tried to raise their weapons.
A spasm of metallic coughs erupted from behind the terrorists. Nine-millimeter slugs smashed into the backs of two men. They dropped their weapons and fell forward to tumble down the marble stairs, which did little extra damage since their backbones and spinal cords had already been severed. The fourth and last terrorist turned to see Rafael Encizo with the silencer-equipped H&K MP-5 in his fists.
The Iranian did not know what to do. Should he try to shoot the black man or the one with the machine pistol? Should he try to surrender or pray to Allah for salvation in the next life? Dying for the Jihad no longer seemed glorious, and the reality of facing death lacked any of the romance of his leaders' propaganda slogans. However, his decision was made for him. He died. Calvin James blasted a well-placed .45 caliber round through the Iranian's forehead.
"These dudes ain't doing shit for the tourist trade," James remarked as he ran up the stairs.
"Neither is the security department at th
e Athens airport," Encizo replied with a shrug.
Suddenly one of the doors opened. A curious terrorist poked his head outside. Encizo quickly bashed the steel frame of his H&K into the man's face. The blow propelled the hapless terrorist backward into the room, where he spread-eagled on his back. Encizo lashed a boot between the man's splayed legs. The terrorist shrieked in agony and fainted.
Another terrorist, seated behind a desk that had formerly been part of an information center for visitors to the museum, gasped something in Farsi or Arabic. Encizo did not know either language well enough to differentiate between them. However, he did not need a translation to understand what the terrorist intended to do as he reached for the M-3 submachine gun on his desk.
Encizo swung his MP-5 at the terrorist and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. The machine pistol had jammed. The terrorist at the desk picked up his M-3 and swung the barrel toward Encizo.
The Cuban's hand streaked to the shoulder straps of his holster rig where he plucked a star-shaped shaken from a rivet. His arm whipped across his body and released the shaken in a throw not unlike a Frisbee toss. The star whirled across the room and struck the gunman's right forearm. He howled with pain as the sharp tines stabbed flesh.
The terrorist pried the shaken from his wounded limb. Blood trickled from the punctures in his arm. Encizo did not give the guy time to recover. He charged forward and slapped his hand on the desk. Encizo used it for a brace as he launched himself over the top. He sailed feet first into the terrorist's chest. Both men went to the floor, although the Cuban landed on top of his stunned opponent. Encizo chopped the side of his hand across the bridge of the terrorist's nose, then punched the man in the head to be certain he was out cold.
James closed the door and watched the hallways while Encizo bound the unconscious terrorist with riot cuffs. The Cuban considered gagging the man but hesitated. He had broken the guy's nose. If he gagged the terrorist while he was unconscious and unable to breathe through his nose, the man might suffocate.