The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020), Rick Jones [free ebooks for android txt] 📗

Seventy-Twenty-Four and bring me this man. Another will be with him. Make sure the other person ends up as a statement. And make no mistakes.”

Then from Ghazi, “Understood.”

“Now go.”

Ghazi and Zamir responded without question, the two moving with purpose and spiritual energy.

Ali Mustafa returned his attention to the others inside the room—to Talib, Qusay and Abd-al-Mumin, with a neutral expression. “There are others to be gathered.” From that point on, Ali Mustafa, who honestly believed that he was a conduit in service to Allah, outlined his strategy as to who to target.

His team listened, shook their heads in agreement, and questioned nothing.

When all was said and done, Ali Mustafa’s team moved to gather additional lambs for slaughter.

Now alone in the shadows of the suite with nothing but the glare of the monitor shining upon him, Ali Mustafa held the Spear of Destiny before him. Then he wondered if the smallest measures of Christ’s blood remained embedded within the pores of the spearhead. And if so, and should he trace a fingertip over the dagger that had once been dipped in the blood of Jesus, would it connect him directly to this divine power?

With an almost loving caress with the tips of his fingers, Mustafa ran them lightly along the dagger-shaped body of the spearhead. Still, he was not enlightened by the fact that he had been touched by the power of the Holy Lance, even with loving touches. There was no electrical discharge or surge of power. Nor was there an eclipsing of warmth or peace or contentment. All Mustafa could feel were the spearhead’s material composites, that of metals which included inscribed sheets of silver and gold.

Now holding his hand before his face, he wiggled his fingers: perhaps the sensors within the flesh were not working properly? he wondered. Were there to be no sensations of ultimate delight or to fancy the pleasures of possessing such divine powers?

He continued to look at his fingers.

Nothing.

As he continued to hold the Spear of Destiny as though it were an extension of himself or an added appendage, he got up from his chair and made his way to the balcony. To his right was the glass-bottom pool, which gave an open and scary view of the streets below. It was something he never considered to delight himself with, since he was afraid that the pool would somehow crack, break, and spill more than ten-thousand gallons of water, as well as himself, seventy stories below.

In the surrounding streets below, convoys of vehicles continued to mount with numbers. Law enforcement was everywhere. And all avenues of escape had been taken away.

Mustafa looked at the dagger that was lightly gripped within both hands and thought: But everything has a solution, doesn’t it?

Holding the Holy Lance high to pay reverence to Allah, he said, “With Your guidance and strength we will defeat and overcome the impossible, since the word ‘impossible’ does not mean that something cannot be done. You have taught me otherwise that the word ‘impossible’ only measures the degree of difficulty. And for this I thank You for testing me and the powers You have bestowed upon me. Be assured that I will not fail You.”

Lowering the spearhead close to his chest, Ali Mustafa closed his eyes and prayed.

Elsewhere, the world was gathering its strength to contest a holy ancient relic that was alleged to have the powers of God.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Kristallpalast

Hartwig Klein of Germany’s Bundestag, along with his wife of thirty-two years, were vacationing on the seventieth floor of the high-rise building. Like most customers on this level, they were afforded the luxury of a glass-bottom pool that also served as a balcony, with the cost paid for by the German taxpayers. As a member of the Bundestag, such luxuries often went unquestioned when the stay was claimed as a government expense, as long as he met with allied leadership, even if that meeting was no more than thirty minutes inside a coffee shop.

As he slept, his wife, Marta, found it difficult. After two hours of tossing and turning, she finally got up, donned a robe, and made her way into the kitchenette. Opening the refrigerator to choose from one of the two wine bottles, one red and the other white, she did not see the moving shapes behind her.

After deciding upon the white wine, she reached inside and grabbed the bottle by its neck. But then she hesitated, that sixth sense suddenly telling her that she was not alone.

As her eyes shifted in their sockets in the direction of where she suspected a threat while her body remained pinned by paralytic terror, a darkened figure raised its arm as though to point at her in accusation. But the arm appeared extended and stretched. And then the room lit up with a single muzzle flash as Ghazi fired off a muted round that sounded off as a loud spit.

. . . Phfttt . . .

At first, Marta appeared confused as she looked at the wine bottle trying to understand why she was holding it, the moment suddenly shrouded in mystery. It wasn’t until a second muted gunshot to the back of her head that finally sent her to the floor.

Zamir, after softly closing the refrigerator door to cancel out the light, followed Ghazi’s lead.

* * *

Hartwig Klein slept with his mouth open with his buzzsaw snores a clear indicator that he was in a deep sleep. Zamir, who stood on one side of the bed with Ghazi on the other, carefully placed the point of his suppressed weapon deep inside Hartwig’s mouth, then tapped the suppressor against the man’s teeth to wake him. When Hartwig’s eyes opened with astonishment, he saw a figure standing over him—a Middle Eastern by his appearance—who had injected the point of his gun into his mouth. All Hartwig could think about was how the barrel had tasted of oil.

“Do not make a sound,” Zamir stated calmly. “If you do, then I will