Stone of Truth

by Adam Hiatt

  Reddic changed positions to take in more of a panoramic view, while continuing to survey the plaza. His eyes bounced from one pocket of individuals to the next, searching. Nothing stood out. He was satisfied that the two men he had identified were alone.

  He forced his way through the crowd in a direct line toward the first terrorist. He took a deep breath when he got to within two paces of the killer. What he planned to do would take precision timing and quick hands. Having relaxed muscles was paramount. He knew he would only get one try at it.

  Taking two quick steps forward, he bumped shoulders with the terrorist, simultaneously slipping his hand in the man’s kaftan. Without slowing, he yanked his hand out and charged ahead.

  “Permiso,” he uttered, unsure as to why he spoke in Spanish. The terrorist only grunted.

  Reddic tucked his hand away inside his own robe. In it he held a gun, a Jericho 941 Desert Eagle, the killer’s gun. A silencer was attached to its nose. He had calculated correctly that the man was right-handed, surmising that the gun would be on his left side. How the killer managed to sneak it onto the Noble Sanctuary was another question altogether. No matter. Reddic now had the weapon.

  He pushed through a wave of people to the other terrorist, coming to a stop by his side. He contemplated spraying a few rounds in the man’s back, but quickly abandoned the idea. Killing somebody in the presence of so many witnesses would be bad strategy; too messy. There was another way.

  His arm dangled at his side with the gun in hand. He took aim at the terrorist’s foot and fired. The discharge sounded like a cough, drowned out by the drone of human communication. The man started to scream, but Reddic quickly silenced him with a stiff chop to the throat. Gripping his neck, the man gasped for air. Cupping the man’s shoulder with his left hand, Reddic hammered the butt of the gun against the temple with his right. The terrorist sank to the ground in Reddic’s arms.

  On the courtyard floor Reddic crossed the unconscious man’s legs in front, making sure the bloody foot was concealed with the robe. He pushed the man’s torso over top of the legs and pulled the head cloth over his face. To anybody expressing curiosity he would look like a man in deep meditation.

  Ducking low, Reddic worked his way back to the first killer, finding him right where he had left him. He snuck up behind and tapped the man on the shoulder. On edge, the man spun around hastily. As he did Reddic buried a fist just below the sternum, the force of which nearly caused the man to topple over. Callously, Reddic cracked the brachial plexus at the base of his neck with the gun, knocking him out cold. Swiftly tucking away the weapon, Reddic disappeared into the crowd before the terrorist’s limp body bounced off the limestone platform.

  “That’s enough,” Reddic said, pulling Jaxon to his feet.

  “You got them?” asked Jaxon. He brushed off his knees and gazed out over the large gathering.

  “All but the bellhop at the door. Let’s go say hi.”

  With Jaxon at his side Reddic approached the west entrance slowly, peacefully. He didn’t want to alarm the guard just yet.

  “Ask him a question,” Reddic mumbled under his breath.

  “Sallalahu aleyhi wasallam,” Jaxon said in clipped Arabic. Peace be upon him. “When will the doors be opened?”

  “Shortly,” the doorman offered vaguely.

  Without warning Reddic burst forward and shoved the man against the thick door, reaching into his robe. With the man pinned against the door, Reddic found his gun and tugged it out. He held the weapon close against his body to conceal if from any onlookers, aiming it at the killer’s midsection as he stepped back slowly.

  “Who’s inside?” Reddic demanded. The guard’s eyes rested on Reddic’s face, focusing. “I know you speak English. Now answer my question.”

  “It’s you!” he cried out, suddenly enraged. He peered into the crowd over Reddic’s shoulder.

  “Your friends will not be coming to your aid,” Reddic said evenly. “I can promise you however, that your fate will be better than theirs if you cooperate.” A wave of fear passed over his face as he realized he was alone. He seemed to be analyzing his options. His eyes darted from side to side, assessing, calculating.

  “Don’t be a hero,” Reddic said, snapping off the safety. Cognitively, he knew the man’s intent. The terrorist hoped that Reddic would follow his eyes, producing a distraction for a mere millisecond, giving him the opening he needed to counterattack, or at least make an attempt. The gambit wouldn’t work; Reddic was prepared for the subterfuge.

  “How many men are inside?” he asked again. Staring blankly, the man refused to respond.

  “How many!” Reddic shouted, raising the gun.

  The watchman flinched. “Three,” he answered in heavily accented English.

  Reddic examined the man as he spoke. He looked for any telling sign of deceit: a twitch beneath the eye, dilated pupils, a quivering lip, shaking hands, excessive swallowing. Any of which could easily give away his intention. But he exhibited none; he told the truth. Three men. That meant that Faulkner—Khalid Hasaan—Muhktaar, and one other henchman awaited them inside.

  Muhktaar, Reddic suspected, wouldn’t leave Faulkner’s side, especially not since Faulkner revealed his true identity. Therefore, it would be a logical assumption that the third man was posted on the other side of the west doors; a backup gun just in case somebody slipped through the triad outside. As a consequence, if anybody but the watchman came through the door they would probably be greeted with a bullet, not a salutation.

  It was sound conjecture, Reddic knew, but definitely not certainty. Still, he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating his opponent by failing to prepare. “If you’re prepared you’ll have no fear,” his college coach used to say; a lesson that Reddic fully assimilated.

  “Listen carefully,” Reddic said to the terrorist. “You’re going to open the door and tell your friend on the other side that the master’s guests have arrived. Got it?”

  “I do not understand. There is nobody across door,” the man said. His eyes blinked rapidly, like a camera’s shutter.

  “You’re lying,” Reddic stated fiercely. He lifted the gun, pointing it at the man’s throat. “Last chance,” he said.

  The man swallowed hard. “If I do this, you let me go,” he said, voice quivering.

  “Agreed.” The killer dipped his head and turned to the door. “Remember, my friend,” Reddic said softly. “My brother speaks fluent Arabic and this gun is aimed at your head. No more lies.”

  Inserting a key, the Arab twisted on the lock and pushed open the oversized door. He took one step inside and immediately stopped.

  “What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Bashaar?” a voice asked in Arabic.

  “It is okay, Jabir,” the man at the door, Bashaar, replied. “The master’s guests are here.”

  Looking over at Jaxon, Reddic wondered what was being said. Jaxon held his thumb in the air, a gesture indicating that the dialogue was proceeding as planned.

  “What guests? I was not told there would be guests,” Jabir said. “The master ordered solitude.”

  Bashaar hesitated, unsure how to retort. Adrenaline surged through Reddic’s veins. He knew that the pause would be a resounding warning to a professional assassin that something was wrong. There was no more time to wait. He had to take action.

  Reddic rushed through the door with his gun in ominous view, pushing Bashaar in front of him. The other man, Jabir, was caught off guard by the improvised maneuver.

  “Stay calm,” Reddic said, moving farther into the Dome. He scanned the vast shrine, looking for others as Jaxon walked through the door, quietly closing it behind him.

  The interior of the Dome was an exquisite wonder. Wall mosaics, beautiful red and green carpets, and stained glass windows were everywhere. Two rows of marble Byzantine and Roman columns and arches supported the ceiling and the wood-lined cupola, skillfully decorated and gilded with gold stucco painting. Directly beneath the cupola, encircled by
a short wooden partition, was a large exposed rock about thirty feet in circumference. It was the bedrock summit of the hallowed Mount Moriah, but it was also the mythical foundation stone.

  A faint, nearly imperceptible movement from the man named Jabir put Reddic on alert. It could have been interpreted as a simple weight shift, but something about it was unnatural. A half second later Reddic understood why. The man’s right sleeve was armless.

  “Don’t move,” Reddic said.

  He was too late. Jabir’s kaftan robe suddenly flew open. He raised his right arm, a dark object in between his fingers.

  It was a gun!

  The muzzle flashed as he fired. The bullet missed Reddic, instead striking Bashaar in the throat, tearing through the soft tissue, killing him instantly. Jaxon fell to the floor and covered his head while Reddic dove to his left, rolling on the expensive red carpet. Jabir fired again but missed wide. On his belly Reddic took aim and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The result was fatal. The killer Jabir slumped to the floor, bleeding profusely from the center of his chest.

  Reddic remained where he was, immobile, listening. Despite the noise suppressors, the gunfire momentarily disturbed the monastery-like abeyance. He listened closely for the shuffling of feet, the ruffling of clothes—in short, the pursuit of a hunter. But he heard nothing, only a cadenced baritone murmuring from somewhere within the shrine. The voice was slightly distorted. It sounded like it came from somewhere below the floor.

  Touching his ear and pointing, Reddic pantomimed the plan to Jaxon: follow the muffled voice. Silently, they walked through the Dome until they arrived at the southeast side of the foundation stone where the voice was stronger and much clearer. They moved forward slowly, squatting low next to what looked like a self-supporting arched doorframe. Through the peculiar entryway a set of stairs led to a crypt-like cave beneath the foundation stone. Delicate rugs covered the floor and a brass railing ran along the cavity’s wall.

  Faulkner stood in the middle of the cave with his back turned to the stairs. He held the small, white Stone of Truth high above his head, chanting. The language was lost on Reddic. He looked at Jaxon quizzically, raising one eyebrow.

  “Hebrew”, Jaxon mouthed.

  Nodding, Reddic returned his focus to Faulkner. He gripped the Desert Eagle tightly and placed his foot on the first step. The moment had come to confront the malevolent fraud, and this time Reddic had the advantage.

  A sweeping shadow, a flash of movement in Reddic’s peripheral vision caught his attention. It came from his left, behind Jaxon. Reddic jerked his head around and spotted it. Partially concealed by a brown head cloth, a set of narrow eyes on a dark, sinister ferret face glared menacingly. Reddic’s mouth fell open in surprise.

  It was Amjad Muhktaar!

  “Jaxon, watch out!” he screamed. Dropping the gun, Reddic seized Jaxon’s robe and heaved, sending him tumbling down the steps just as Muhktaar cut through the air with his shiny six-inch stiletto.

  Reddic lithely jumped up and clutched Muhktaar’s wrist, twisting it counterclockwise. Strangely, Muhktaar didn’t resist. Instead, he leaned with the pressure. Suddenly, he leaped off his feet, propelling his body into an aerial cartwheel, breaking Reddic’s grip. The killer landed lightly on his toes. He kicked out with his left foot, connecting with Reddic’s stomach, knocking him back three steps.

  Reddic regained his balance and yanked out the second gun he had stuffed into his belt. He rapidly took aim and pulled the trigger. The shot missed badly. He set up for another and fired. At that very instant Muhktaar somersaulted forward, barely evading the bullet, popping up to his feet only one meter in front of Reddic. Pressed, Reddic tried to shoot again, but Muhktaar was too quick. He batted the gun away with his left hand and slashed at Reddic with his right.

  Reddic grunted in pain as the stiletto sliced through the robe and into his forearm. The gash was agonizing and felt white hot, but Reddic knew it wasn’t serious. He could still clench his hand; no ligament damage was done. He looked up, locking eyes with Muhktaar. The terrorist saw blood fall off of Reddic’s pinky and grinned wildly.

  Bounding forward, he ferociously swung the knife from side to side. Reddic blocked the first two attempts and jumped away from the third. The fourth sliced his robe at chest level, creating an eighteen-inch diagonal incision. Reddic kicked out, but Muhktaar easily dodged it. He kept coming at Reddic, each time with more vigor and speed. Reddic knew he had to change his strategy.

  Backpedaling, he pulled the ghutra off his head and twirled it in the air, coiling it tightly. He slowed his retreat, allowing the terrorist to close in, and snapped the head cloth at his face like a towel. The cloth cracked as it made contact just below Muhktaar’s left eye, immediately leaving a welt. The attack stunned him. His left eye contracted spasmodically.

  It was the opening Reddic wanted. He swiftly wrenched his robe off and lofted it into the air just above Muhktaar. As the terrorist rose up to ward off the object, Reddic pivoted on his heel and swept the killer’s legs out, propelling him to the carpeted floor. The robe fell down overtop of Muhktaar, covering his torso. Reddic planted his left foot and lashed out with his right, connected with the man’s midsection.

  He reared up to kick again when a sick, low moan stopped him. It came from beneath the robe; from Muhktaar. Guardedly, Reddic leaned down and tossed the robe to the side. Muhktaar, lying in the fetal position, clenched at his stomach; the stiletto was buried deep within his abdomen. He coughed and tried tugging the knife out, but his strength failed him. His breathing became erratic; he was dying.

  He gazed into Reddic’s eyes, evincing an amalgam of hatred and sorrow. But Reddic felt no sympathy for the man. He was a cold-blooded killer, a nefarious creature. He got what he deserved.

  Sprinting down the corridor, Reddic scooped up the Desert Eagle and skidded to a stop just before descending the stairs into the cave. Where was Jaxon? He wasn’t on the stairs where he should’ve been. After three steps the entire crypt came into view. What he witnessed paralyzed him.

  “You are too late, Reddic,” Faulkner said. He faced the stairs, the white stone slung around his neck. From where Reddic stood it looked like it was glowing. To Faulkner’s left, kneeling on the rug was Jaxon. His face was swollen and his nose bled. Faulkner held a gun, a Beretta, to his head.

  “Are you okay?” Reddic asked. Jaxon said nothing. He merely shook his head.

  “Throw your gun down,” Faulkner ordered, enjoying the moment. Reddic dropped the gun on the stairs.

  “So what now, Hasaan?” Reddic asked scathingly.

  Faulkner gave a low hearty guffaw. “I see that you discovered my secret,” he said. “You must be proud of your accomplishment.”

  “Not really. Validation more than anything I’d say. I always knew you were a traitor.”

  “Tisk tisk, Reddic,” Faulkner patronized. “Your myopic vision makes you vulnerable, my young friend. Can you not see that the power of the Stone of Truth supersedes geopolitics? My transgressions were a means to an end, Reddic. Only a man’s results define his legacy. Everything else is just a footnote.”

  “You’re wrong,” Reddic said sadly. “What about loyalty and integrity? What about the giving of yourself for your family, friends, and country?”

  “Foolish sectarian notions,” Faulkner snapped. “Nevertheless, I forgive your naïveté. You have been subjected to maelstrom of heinous indoctrination, but I believe it is not too late. Your eyes can yet be opened. However, you must make a choice. You have eliminated my best servant, proving yourself worthy to stand at my side. Come,” Faulkner beckoned, “your place in history is waiting.”

  Reddic’s gaze rested on his brother. His anguish was heavy, Reddic could sense that. But there was something else he discerned in his brother’s eyes. It was hope. Hope that Reddic could save him; again. Hope that they could make it back to Ithaca and maybe do some fishing. Hope that they could have their own families someday and vacation together. They w
ere all things that Reddic wanted too.

  But how would he make it happen? He couldn’t get to Faulkner without jeopardizing Jaxon’s safety. Then a thought occurred to him. What if hope weren’t enough? What if he needed to believe? What if he needed faith?

  He closed his eyes and let go of his thoughts. He let his mind drift until he felt comforted, reassured that what he planned to do would work. Slowly, he lifted his eyelids and glared at Faulkner.

  “I don’t care about my place in history,” he said. “All I care about is seeing you pay for your crimes.” The spurious smile around Faulkner’s mouth faded into a malignant scowl.

  “So be it,” he said forebodingly.

  Without warning, Jaxon jumped up and clasped the stone hanging from Faulkner’s neck, jerking it free. Startled, Faulkner angrily turned on him and fired the Beretta. The gun didn’t have a silencer; the discharge erupted throughout the entire shrine. The noise was deafening.

  The shot hit Jaxon squarely in the chest, knocking him off his feet. He crashed on the floor where he laid, motionless.

  “No!” Reddic roared, leaping down the stairs. The full weight of his body collided with Faulkner, sending the older man reeling backward out of control. He fell over the brass railing, head smashing gruesomely against the cave wall. The sound of shattering bone and ripping cartilage was nauseating.

  Reddic picked up the Beretta and took aim at Faulkner’s forehead, but he didn’t fire. Bending over, he felt for a pulse. He stood up and let the gun fall out of his hand, clattering on the floor next to the man’s head. Khalid Hasaan, who the world knew as Joseph Faulkner, was no more. He was dead.

  Afraid to turn around, Reddic willed himself to look at his brother. He knelt by his side and grabbed his hand, studying his face. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted. His face was surprisingly free of tension; he looked peaceful.

  Reddic bowed his head and sobbed. The tears flowed easily, plentiful. His heart was full of grief. He was too late. He had failed his only brother. He couldn’t save him. Now he too was gone.