Hostaged Vatican

by Gar Wilson

  Abdul thrust the pliers in front of Encizo's face. The heat from the hot coin warmed his skin, although icy perspiration beaded across his forehead. The scent of hot copper resembled the smell of fear. Encizo could taste copper. He did not know if it was the odor of the glowing metal or the taste of his own terror.

  "This is a very old and time-honored technique," Abdul explained, moving the pliers closer to Encizo's unprotected face. "Ever since man first minted coins, he has used them in torture. The Greeks, Romans and Spanish have used this technique. When Iran was still Persia, it was a common practice to blind an enemy by placing hot coins on his eyes."

  Encizo pressed his neck against the backrest of the chair, hopelessly trying to avoid the hot metal that drew closer to his face. It moved less than an inch from his right eye. The heat seemed to soak moisture from the orb. He closed his eye, but he could still see the terrible glowing coin.

  "It will burn right through the eyelid, you know," Abdul declared. "It sears through flesh and scorches the eyeball before burning slowly through to the socket. Once in a while tears cool the coin and I have to replace it with another one. That's no problem. I've got more coins heating in the coals right now."

  Abdul snapped an order in Farsi. Reza, the grim-faced apprentice, grabbed Encizo's right hand. The Cuban slid the cartridge casing under his wrist. Reza used both his hands to pry Encizo's fist open. He bent the fingers back with one hand and gripped the thumb with the other.

  Encizo was afraid they had noticed the slight movement of his fist as he tried to saw the belt with the tiny brass tool. They were about to rob him of the only hope he had. They were about to take his only chance to escape from hell.

  Suddenly a terrible burning pain exploded from the center of his palm. He did not try to repress the scream that rose from his throat. The smell of charred flesh assaulted his nostrils.

  Abdul had placed the red-hot coin in the Cuban's hand. Reza released Encizo's fingers. His hand was numb. The coin lay in the center of his palm, embedded in the skin.

  "You fuckin' bastard!" Calvin James snarled.

  "Shut up, dog," Abdul replied. "Your turn is next."

  Saddam, the grinning torture assistant, stood by James's chair. He giggled as he swatted the back of his hand across the black man's mouth. James tasted blood, but he did not utter a sound. The commando glanced up at the sick smile on Saddam's unwashed face.

  "If I get out of this, I'll wipe that smile off your face permanently, asshole," James hissed through clenched teeth.

  Abdul used the pliers to pluck the coin from Encizo's palm. Skin had fused to metal. The Cuban groaned in agony as the coin was removed. A circle of raw, burned flesh remained in the center of his palm.

  "Well," Abdul remarked as he strolled to the side of James's chair. "This coin isn't hot anymore. I could get , another one for you, dog. Would you like that?"

  "I'd rather see you with one of those coins stuck up your ass," James replied. The Phoenix Force commando's anger was greater than his fear.

  "It's not smart to talk that way to Abdul," the torturer said as he leaned behind James's left shoulder. "I must show you the error of your disrespect toward a person of a superior race. I must do it quickly, or you won't remember why I punished you. Dogs must be punished immediately to understand that what they've done is wrong."

  He barked an order to Saddam. The assistant seized James's left hand and pushed it against the chair arm. Saddam pinned the hand and bent back the little finger.

  "This will give you something to think about, dog," Abdul remarked as he clamped the pliers around the tip of James's finger.

  Calvin James closed his eyes and pressed his lips tightly together. The pliers pinched skin and muscle. The pressure increased, crushing the first knuckle near the tip of his finger. The pain bolted up the nerves in James's arm, but he remained silent. Abdul twisted the pliers. Blood squirted from torn flesh.

  James trembled from pain and fear, but he did not scream or even moan. He refused to give his tormentors that satisfaction. Nerves and muscle snapped. James nearly cried out, but he managed to grind his teeth together to repress the scream.

  "You hold pain very well," Abdul commented as he held the bloodied pliers near James's face. "You see what I have here, dog? Recognize it?"

  A small lump of dark skin protruded from the pliers with a pale fingernail in the center. Abdul had ripped off the tip of James's little finger.

  "That's just a tiny bit of your smallest finger," the torturer stated. "Not much really. I can tear off the rest of that finger, or we can pull down your pants and..."

  "That's enough, Abdul," Encizo announced, his voice unsteady as he gasped for air. "There's no point in going through this sort of pain. I'll tell you where our friends are."

  "You broke so soon?" Abdul said, frowning. "I'm disappointed. Your friend, the dog, isn't ready to talk. Maybe he's stupid, eh?"

  "Do you want the information or not?" Encizo demanded.

  "I'm listening," Abdul assured him, strolling back to the dish on the tripod. He placed the pliers in the hot coals. Smoke rose as the tip of James's finger burned.

  "There were six of us," Encizo began. "Two are dead. You'll find their bodies near the printing house of the Vatican newspaper. We buried them under some rubble. The others are probably at the railroad station. That's where we were suppose to meet after our hit-and-run assignments."

  James realized Encizo was lying to try to buy some time. He decided to play along with the Cuban's scheme.

  "Goddamn you, Santos!" the black warrior snapped. "Don't tell these sons of bitches another damn thing..."

  Saddam slapped James in the mouth to silence him.

  "Why would you meet at the railroad station?" Abdul asked, a trace of suspicion in his voice. "That was one of the first places you attacked."

  "Which is why you terrorists wouldn't be looking for us there," the Cuban replied. "It's also where our reinforcements are supposed to join us. They'll be coming across the wall any minute now."

  "Who are you working for?" the torturer demanded. "American CIA? Italian Secret Service?"

  "Interpol," Encizo lied smoothly. "We're part of a special missions branch that is highly confidential. Very little has been leaked to the public about us. There was an article in the Washington Post, or maybe it was a New York paper. I think Pravda printed something about us, too. I don't suppose you've read anything about us."

  "I haven't had much time for reading," Abdul replied. The torturer was not certain if the Cuban was telling the truth or not. "Hey, dog. What do you say?"

  "I ain't telling you shit, man," James answered. "Santos has a big mouth, but that doesn't mean he's telling you the truth. He's just trying to save his neck."

  "Interesting," Abdul mused. He walked to the door and spoke with the sentries in the corridor.

  Encizo painfully worked his fingers over the burned palm and found the cartridge casing at his wrist. He rubbed the brass against leather. The sharp end cut a groove in the restraining belt. Encizo repeated the process again and again.

  Reza and Saddam did not seem concerned about the two captives. Both were more curious about their master's conversation with the guards. Saddam and Reza carried 9 mm Beretta pistols in their belts. They obviously felt they could draw their weapons before James or Encizo could break out of their bonds.

  Encizo tested the strap. The leather began to split at the cut. The Cuban commando concealed a smile of satisfaction. Now, if the enemy made a mistake and gave him the opportunity he needed...

  "I sent one of the guards to contact Radmeni," Abdul announced as he returned to the tripod and dish of coals. "He might decide to send a patrol after your friends at the railroad station immediately. However, he'll want me to continue 'questioning' you two to make certain that you're telling the truth."

  "I told you the truth," Encizo insisted. "What do you plan to do? Torture me until I start to tell lies just to get the pain to stop?"

  "I must g
et your friend to confirm what you've said,'* Abdul sighed. "I should have questioned you one at a time. The conditions Radmeni forces me to work under are abominable."

  "Ain't that a pity," James said weakly. Blood dripped from the ragged tip of his mutilated finger. "Well, come on and do your damnest, you fat slob."

  "I intend to," Abdul assured him, taking a long iron needle from the dish of coals. The tip glowed bright crimson.

  "No!" Encizo cried, struggling against the bonds that held him to the chair. He took care not to push against the strap over his right wrist.

  Reza seized Encizo's hair and pulled him back against the backrest of the chair. The torturer's assistant uttered something in Farsi and stepped to the right of Encizo. He rammed a fist into the Cuban's stomach. Encizo gasped, but he almost welcomed the pain because it gave him the opportunity he had hoped for.

  The Cuban yanked his right arm upward. The strap broke at the groove he had cut in the leather. Encizo's hand streaked to Reza's belt, and he pulled the Beretta pistol free. His arm rose swiftly and slammed the steel frame under Reza's jaw.

  Abdul dropped the needle and staggered backward. He was horrified to see that one of his victims had a gun in his hand. Saddam drew his Beretta and extended his arm to aim the pistol at Encizo. He failed to notice that he had stretched his arm out in front of Calvin James.

  The black warrior's right leg lashed out in a high arch. The toe of his boot struck Saddam in the face. The smiling sadist's teeth were pushed inward. He swallowed two of them as he fell back against a wall. His finger jerked the trigger of the Beretta, and it fired a harmless round at the ceiling.

  Encizo swung his pistol toward the dazed Saddam. He squeezed the trigger and pumped a 9 mm slug into Saddam's forehead. The torturer's assistant slumped over, leaving a smear of brains and blood against the wall.

  The sentry posted in the corridor charged into the room when he heard the shots. Encizo quickly nailed him in the chest with two parabellums. The guard was hurled back through the doorway and onto the hall floor.

  Reza grabbed Encizo's arm as he tried to wrench the pistol from the Cuban's grasp. Encizo allowed his arm to be pulled toward Reza and then he suddenly jammed the muzzle of the Beretta under the guy's chin. He triggered the pistol, and the top of Reza's skull exploded in a volcano of blood.

  The noise of gunshots within the confined area echoed in the ears of the three survivors. Abdul stared into the muzzle of the Beretta and fell to his knees. He interlaced his fingers and begged for mercy. Encizo did not listen. The Cuban was trying to use the butt of the Beretta to force open the buckle to the belt confining his left wrist.

  "You've got to tell me how you managed this little miracle, Rafael," James remarked as he watched Encizo unbuckle the last strap across his chest.

  "Later," the Cuban promised. He rose from the chair and hurried to James.

  "Hand me the piece Smiley dropped," the black hardass urged.

  "Take this one for now," Encizo replied, inserting the butt of the Beretta into James's right hand. The weapon was smeared with blood from the burn wound in Encizo's palm.

  The Cuban hastily unstrapped James from the chair. The black man glared at Abdul and occasionally glanced at the doorway. He kept the Beretta trained on the fat torturer. Abdul was still on his knees and babbling for compassion from the men he had tortured.

  "They made me do this terrible work," Abdul said in a trembling voice. "I find no pleasure in it. It sickens me, but Radmeni threatened to kill my family in Iran if I refused to do what he ordered. The man is a monster..."

  Calvin James rose from his chair and walked toward Abdul. His expression was as hard as the steel barrel of the Beretta in his fist. Abdul's eyes widened with terror, and he turned to try to crawl away.

  "Don't forget this," James growled as he kicked the tripod, tipping it toward the torturer.

  The dish fell on Abdul. Hot coals spilled across his back. The torturer screamed and rolled away, driving the burning coals deeper into his flesh. James glanced at the severed end of the little finger of his left hand. He considered the possibilities of using the pliers that now lay at his feet. The same pliers Abdul had used on him.

  "Go ahead, Calvin," Encizo remarked, well aware of what the black man was thinking. "If you think you can live with yourself afterward."

  "Shit," James rasped as he kicked the pliers across the floor.

  He leaned forward and aimed the Beretta at Abdul's face. The torturer still screamed. James fired a single round through the man's open mouth. Abdul was silenced forever.

  Encizo picked up the other Beretta pistol. He held it in his left hand. The right was swollen and throbbed with pain. The welt in his palm had split open and blood oozed down his fingers. The Cuban moved to the doorway and cautiously peered into the hall. Two figures headed toward the room. Encizo aimed the pistol at the pair. He held his fire. One man carried an Uzi submachine gun braced across his right arm. The other held an FAL rifle and wore a backpack.

  "Madre de Dios," the Cuban sighed with relief. "Thank God. It's Yakov and Gary."

  "Oh, man," James laughed in relief rather than amusement. "It's a reunion!"

  "Come on in," Encizo invited. "Everyone who's still breathing is friendly."

  Katz and Manning hurried to the door. The Israeli glanced at the enemy bodies scattered about the room and nodded.

  "We had planned to rescue you," he remarked. "But it seems you managed that on your own."

  "How'd you know we were here?" Encizo asked as he jammed the Beretta pistol in the waistband of his pants.

  "We caught some terrorists upstairs," Manning answered. "One of them spoke French. He told us they had you two down here in a torture chamber. We were afraid you guys would look like two mounds of raw hamburger by the time we reached you."

  "Doesn't look like you had a picnic here," Katz remarked, reaching for the small first aid kit on his belt.

  "That's my job," James announced, taking the kit from the Phoenix Force commander. "I'll need a little help wrapping my own hand."

  "Quit showing off," Manning said gruffly, plucking the kit from James's grasp. "Give me your hand."

  "Wrap the little finger, which is now a littler finger," James instructed. "Cap over the top of the wound with the bandage by..."

  "I've been trained in fundamental first aid, Calvin," the Canadian assured him. "Hold still."

  "How are we doing against the terrorists?" Encizo asked as Katz helped him wrap a bandage around his wounded hand.

  "Not badly," Katz replied. "Gary deactivated the explosives that had been planted to trigger an earthquake, so the main threat has been neutralized. McCarter and Trent are outside. They liberated the hostages. All that's left is to wrap this mission up with as little damage as possible to Vatican property."

  "Then let's go kick ass," James declared.

  21

  David McCarter glanced at his Le Grand wristwatch. The luminous minute hand informed him that ten minutes had passed since Katz and Manning had entered the Apostolic Palace. The Briton had heard gunshots from somewhere deep within the building but he had still waited the full ten minutes.

  "Finally," he whispered, taking a tubular flare launcher from a pocket.

  He raised the launcher overhead and pressed the trigger. The projectile shot about five hundred feet into the sky and exploded in a bright orange nova of light. McCarter tossed aside the launcher and grabbed his Ingram machine pistol. The Briton turned to John Trent, Captain Jacobi and three other former hostages who had insisted on taking part in the raid against enemy headquarters.

  "All right," McCarter announced. "We're going in. You chaps follow me, and remember not to shoot unless you're sure of your bloody target. I've got some friends in there, and I don't want any of them catching a bullet because one of you blokes panicked."

  "Hey, fella," an American whispered. "I was on two tours in Nam when I was in the Corps and I never panicked."

  "Just don't do it now," the B
riton insisted.

  Trent finished strapping the steel claws to his hands and feet. He had already given his shotgun to one of the former hostages. The ninja would be armed with only the .45 Colt pistol and the traditional weapons of ninjutsu. McCarter looked at Trent and shook his head.

  "Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" he asked.

  "I'll stay on the outside," Trent replied. "If there are any ninja left, they'll probably try to escape by climbing out a window or onto the roof. You guys brought me along to deal with enemy ninja, and I haven't encountered a real one yet. Just those amateurs who knew little more about swords than which end to hold on to."

  "Sounds bloody risky to me," McCarter said. "But it's your decision, mate. Good luck."

  "Same to you," Trent replied. The American ninja headed for the wall and began to climb the stone surface.

  "Come along, lads," McCarter told the others. "Let's show these terrorists the worst bloody time they ever thought about giving to somebody else. The survivors are going to have nightmares about tonight for the rest of their bleedin' lives."

  The great doors to the entrance of the palace opened, and three terrorists emerged. They scanned the sky, obviously puzzled by the flare. The terrorists did not see McCarter lurking among the shadows until the Briton opened fire with his M-10. Nine-millimeter rounds chopped down the trio like cornstalks under the blade of a machete.

  The Briton pulled the pin from a flash-bang grenade and tossed it through the gap between the doors. The explosion blasted the doors wide open. McCarter charged to the entrance, closely followed by the four former hostages. Two terrorists lay unconscious or dead. Three more were severely stunned by the concussion grenade. One Iranian fanatic still held an AK-47 in his fists. McCarter hit him in the chest with a three-round burst from the Ingram. Another man knelt on the floor, clutching his ears with both hands. The British ace slammed a boot under the guy's jaw and knocked him unconscious.

  The third terrorist raised his hands in surrender. McCarter jogged past the dazed crackpot and whipped the frame of his Ingram across the back of the man's skull. The terrorist fell forward and into a hard right cross from the ex-Marine in McCarter's group. The punch knocked the guy on his ass. He sprawled unconscious as Jacobi and two other Swiss Guardsmen jumped over him.