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

Ghazi fell back as air vacated his lungs. And then Isaiah jumped high in the air and performed a graceful revolution as he extended his leg, which came around and connected with Ghazi’s chest just below the throat area. Ghazi, perhaps weighing 170, was lifted off his feet and sent through the wall and into a luxury suite, the terrorist then finding himself on the floor but not out. Quickly, Ghazi reached for the khanjar inside his sash and got to his feet, readying himself for combat.

But the Vatican Knight was already inside posing before the terrorist in a martial arts stance that Ghazi did not recognize. Nor did he care as he began to circle Isaiah in study, while holding his knife tightly within his grasp.

Ghazi juked and weaved from side to side feigning to attack, while the Vatican Knight continued to watch and evaluate. And then Ghazi launched himself forward with his khanjar stabbing and slashing, the terrorist hoping that the blade would find its intended mark. But Isaiah was quick and steady in his routine. He waited and watched for the moment when Ghazi became fatigued to the point of slowing, like a boxer who throws too many punches enough to sap him of his energy. But the attacks came with velocity that had been motivated by an adrenaline rush, the sweeps and arcs moving in blurs, the thrusts coming with lightning speed equal to that of a serpent striking.

Isaiah fell back.

Ghazi pressed forward.

As Ghazi leapt with his right hand coming around, the blade of the knife found its mark and scored Isaiah’s flesh from wrist to elbow, a deep gash, though not crippling.

Falling back and feeling the hot sting of the wound, Ghazi smiled at Isaiah with amusement as though the victory was his. But Isaiah had other plans as the Vatican Knight came at Ghazi with purpose. Though the terrorist held his khanjar with a sturdy grip, nothing compared to the fists and feet of this Vatican Knight.

Isaiah approached with his hands moving in figure-eight patterns, the tactic often used to distract an opponent. As soon as Ghazi’s eyes locked onto the gestures, Isaiah sprang forward with a straight kick to the solar plexus, which sent the man backward off his stance with such momentum, that Ghazi smashed through the glass-brick wall that led to the bathroom. Pieces of glass shattered and skated across the marble floor as Ghazi came to rest against the tub. After he shook off the cobwebs and managed to get to his feet, Isaiah was already on top of him.

The Vatican Knight threw a number of power blows to the man’s face, neck and chin area, the terrorist’s eyes beginning to roll up enough to show nothing but white. And then Isaiah, seeing an opportunity, threw a knuckle chop to Ghazi’s throat, a direct hit. Ghazi, who wavered in his stance while appearing detached, the Vatican Knight attacked the terrorist by grabbing the back of his neck and then ramming his face against the porcelain sink once, twice, three times, the sink cracking and then breaking, with Ghazi’s face smashed to pulp. Ghazi, who fell limp within Isaiah’s grip the moment he released his khanjar to the tiled floor, was let go by the Vatican Knight with Ghazi falling lazily to the marble, his life gone.

Isaiah leaned against the wall breathing heavily as though he had just completed a marathon run. Ghazi, who had tested him well and better than most, lay on the floor as a huddled mass not far from where he was standing. After checking his wound and hissing when he rolled back his sleeve, he noted the long gash, though not as deep as it could have been, and determined that his arm would still be workable over the long course.

After tapping the earbud and lip mic, he said, “Job.”

“Go.”

“The building’s clear. Move the packages topside.”

“Copy that.”

Still trying to catch his breath with Ghazi’s face a mash of blood and gore and smashed tissue looking at him, Isaiah left the suite to join his team in the final push.

* * *

“Job.”

“Go.”

“The building’s clear. Move the packages topside.”

“Copy that.” Job tapped his earbud to close communication.

The smoke in the hallway was getting noticeably thicker and the climbing temperature almost unbearable to tolerate. People coughed, some sobbed, and Job could see the despair within their eyes, all of which pleaded for a savior. They had seen his collar, and they had placed their trust in this priest who was not a priest, but a soldier who fought in the name of his God under the espoused mantra of ‘protect those who cannot protect themselves.’ Lead us for we are your flock and send us to salvation. Job did not have to hear their thoughts. Their eyes had said it all.

Then in a final push as the flames raged one floor below, Job led his flock heavenward, though they were running out of space and options, from a foe that had no passion, mercy or reasoning . . . Just the need to take new ground.

* * *

Mustafa had finally reached the top of his castle of the seventy-fifth floor.

He was surrounded by walls of smoke, thick and dark, that rose from the lower levels as stalking flames continued to climb along the building’s walls. Standing on the H that marked the helipad, he checked his watch. The chopper had yet to arrive with less than three minutes remaining.

Standing by the heliport shack was the judge, the Chinese CEO, and the Cardinal Secretary of State. To show them that he still held ultimate power and absolute control, Mustafa raised the detonator, and with his other hand, the Holy Lance. Obviously, he knew he had made his point when Cardinal Favino broke down with racking sobs. It was also something that brought a pleasant smile to the terrorist’s face. Power was to be relished whenever the opportunity revealed itself.

Tucking the detonator