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

That was when his cellphone rang.

* * *

Mustafa was in a fury. At first, he believed that Müller was acting against his demands with the Special Forces officer playing him for a fool. As soon as Müller answered, Mustafa didn’t even wait for Müller to speak. He had simply gone into a tirade.

“Do you want me to kill the hostages, Müller? Is that what you want?” Mustafa was in such a rage that his eyes distended somewhat from their orbital sockets as laces of red stitching crisscrossed over the whites as though to better establish his anger. And when he spoke, spittle shot from his lips.

“Calm down, Mustafa—”

“You don’t tell me what to do! I tell you! I thought I made that point quite clear!”

“Mustafa, hear me out. What happened was that a news chopper broke the perimeter of restricted air space. We tried to stop it, but it managed to break free.”

“Then your ability to maintain control, Müller, is obviously lacking. Perhaps an additional show of my power to assure that nothing like this will happen again.”

“Look, Mustafa, your chopper is on the way. Everything you’ve asked for will be met. I promise. What happened was not my doing or the doing of any law enforcement agency.”

Mustafa, though still angered, at least was collecting himself. He did not like it when a plan didn’t operate smoothly. He then glanced at his watch, then said, “You now have seventy-eight minutes.”

“I know that.”

“And for your inability to maintain control . . . there will be a consequence.”

“This doesn’t have to happen, Mustafa. I told you. This was not our fault.”

It is your fault. You could have shot the chopper down. That’s what I would have done.”

“It’s not what we do here. We don’t just shoot down—”

But Mustafa interjected sharply by stating, “Look up.”

The connection between them was immediately cut. Mustafa hung up.

* * *

After tapping the phone dead with a vehement stab of his thumb, Mustafa fought for calm as the Y-shaped vein that stuck out like cords on his forehead began to fade. Taking a few deep breaths after closing his eyes, calm was eventually restored within the minute. Opening his eyes and feigning a dry smile, he stated evenly, “Talib, Zamir, choose one to be made an example of, as long it’s not the judge or the Cardinal Secretary of State.”

Talib bowed his head. “Yes, Mustafa.”

As the two terrorists hastened to acquire a hostage, Mustafa reached down to his sheathed knife and removed it from its leather scabbard. Bringing the weapon close for examination, he noted the curve of the blade and its recently whetted edge. What he was holding was a jambiya dagger.

Mustafa crossed the room and stood on the edge where the balcony used to be moments before the chopper had clipped it and turned it into ruins. Smoke wafted lazily from below with its thickness soon to be strong enough to blot out the sun. And a mild wind buffeted him. Through the haze, he could still see the downed helicopter, which was still smoldering as smoke rose from the wreckage in black mushroom clouds.

The blade in his hand.

The moment about to be.

Ali Mustafa stood at the apex of a building that overlooked the city of Vienna, the pinnacle high spot of the land. This was just the beginning, he thought, a king standing at the highest peak. Though his foundation was burning out from beneath his feet, the flames were also gutting the supports of his throne of his makeshift kingdom. Black smoke and a raging fire appeared to be his groundwork; a true Hell that was inching its way closer to stake its claim of Ali Mustafa’s soul.

Staring out over the city of Vienna, Mustafa calmly slapped the flat side of the jambiya dagger against the flat of his palm, as if keeping with a tune playing inside his head . . . and waited.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Inside the Hostage Chamber

The Kristallpalast

Vienna, Austria

There were four hostages left: two CEOs, the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State and the associate judge from the United States Supreme Court. Cardinal Favino and Judge Rosenberg, however, were the only ones who sported suicide vests that were unremovable. Though the two wanted to toy with and find a way to disconnect the wiring to the C-4 bricks, they were advised that doing so would only detonate the plastique.

“If we are to die,” said Rosenberg, who sat with his back against the wall and his legs folded in Indian-like fashion, “then we must do so with dignity. I, for one, will not allow a terrorist the pleasure of seeing me panic.”

“Yeah, well, I have no intentions of dying,” stated a CEO. Johnathan Manning was the Chief Executive Officer of an American oil company and a man who was high on the corporate totem pole. In fact, his word was gospel within the empire he had created after start-up fees and loans turned into billions over the last two decades. If money was to be doled out as ransom, then he would immediately greenlight the transfer of funds to an account of Mustafa’s choosing.

“And what?” asked the judge. “You’ll buy your way out too?”

Manning jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Do you know who I am?”

“Should I?”

“I’m the CEO of BattleTech Oil.”

“And you think they care? They come from lands drenched in oil.”

“I don’t think you understand. All I have to do is make one call—just one—to secure my release to whatever amount this guy wants.”

The judge gave him a one-sided grin. “We’ll see.”

Manning flashed the judge a hard look. “What? You don’t think so?”

“What I think, Mr. Manning, is that we’ve all been vilified in their eyes regardless of how much money we may have. Sure, they ransom people for their cause. But if the measure of their cause is greater than the riches of the infidels they hold, that makes us all expendable. I have been vilified long ago simply because I’m