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

Rosenberg looked at his suicide vest and at the C-4 brick, which had a caustic and acidic scent to it. He toyed with the wires and touched the plastique, knowing they were secured. Then he rationalized the moment: smoke from the lower levels was climbing at an exponential rate, the means of escape was beginning to dim with the prospect of dying ratcheting up a few percentage points . . . And further inaction would only promote an undesired outcome.

The remote in Ali Mustafa’s hand became the focal point of the judge’s attention. As the terrorist confronted the Vatican Knight, who remained riveted, Judge Rosenberg took the initiative and attacked Mustafa. In his mind’s eye, however, his movements appeared too slow as he extended his hands to take away the remote and neutralize his enemy. But that was because Judge Rosenberg was never a man who saw physical combat as a means to quell a situation, but through the weaponry of jurisprudence.

Rosenberg’s hand extended with his fingers ready to grab and to close over the remote, then clinching it. At that very moment as their hands were about to engage one another, everything moved with the slowness of an unhinging nightmare as Mustafa’s words sounded off in drones and nonsensical syllables. As soon as Rosenberg’s hand touched Mustafa’s, the world oddly adjusted to live time with their motions suddenly fast and furious. The judge, who was an aged man, was little competition to the much younger Mustafa. But the Judge’s determination did not go without failure. Instead of taking control of the remote, the device fell from Mustafa’s hand and onto the roof’s decking. In a subsequent move, Mustafa came around and drove the point of the Holy Lance across Judge Rosenberg’s cheek, scoring and parting the flesh. As the judge fell to the concrete helipad, Mustafa charged at him with the Spear of Destiny high above his head for the final plunge downward, when a hand suddenly enclosed around Mustafa’s wrist. The grip was that of a python, strong and unyielding. When Mustafa turned to face his challenger, he was looking into the cerulean blue eyes of Kimball Hayden. Though they were the color of Jamaican waters, the terrorist did not witness the same lack of faith or the underlying and consummate fear that the cardinal possessed. Instead, Mustafa saw a conviction of faith that suddenly dissolved into volcanic rage and a frightening Darkness that was untamed.

In a subsequent reaction, Kimball threw a palm thrust into Mustafa’s chest and knocked the wind from his lungs as he fell back, though Mustafa continued to hang onto the Spear of Destiny as though it was a dagger. With a hand to his chest at the point of Kimball’s impact, he began to circle the Vatican Knight.

“You can’t defeat me,” he said to Kimball as he labored to breathe air. “I have the power of Allah in my hand. I am His vessel.”

Kimball remained silent as he closed the distance between them.

“You think you have won, Vatican Knight? You haven’t. If I die, then it’s by Allah’s will. And if you kill me, then you light the wick of an explosive candle and I will be martyred.”

Kimball’s features remained even.

“Do you hear me, Vatican Knight? I will be martyred.”

When Kimball came within striking distance of the Holy Lance, Mustafa charged him. The terrorist swung the weapon in crisscrossing and diagonal slashes, scoring nothing, the Vatican Knight too quick, too elusive. Then in a moment that was too fast for Mustafa to register, Kimball Hayden stepped inside the kill zone, grabbed Mustafa’s wrist, and wrenched it with enough force to break the twin bones in Mustafa’s arm. As the terrorist cried out, he released the relic which Kimball caught in flight, and then he plunged the spearhead deep into Mustafa.

The terrorist’s eyes ogled with astonishment, and then an odd smile crept over his face as he backed away from Kimball and out of the stab. Kimball appeared somewhat perplexed as Mustafa moved away while leaving Kimball holding the dagger, which was now crimson with the radical’s blood.

Standing back with his arms out to his sides in mock crucifixion, though the broken arm hung at an odd angle, and as he bled profusely from his wound, Mustafa laughed with a hint of madness to it. “Now, behold the power of Allah.”

Kimball waited, as did everyone else—the judge, the cardinal and the CEO. But nothing magical happened. The smile that Mustafa carried was beginning to fade. He had fully expected a miracle cure with the wound on his abdomen knitting and healing itself into a vague scar, and the bones within his arms to straighten and bind themselves into a useable limb. Neither happened. Mustafa continued to bleed out onto the helipad. Falling to his knees, he could feel his life beginning to slip away. That was when realization struck him.

He faced the Vatican Knight and looked at the Holy Lance, which dripped with blood. “It’s not supposed to be like this,” he said with a detachment, as life began to escape him. “I’m supposed to have the power of Allah. I’m . . . His vessel.”

“You’re nothing more than a delusional man who’s about to die,” Kimball told him.

Mustafa was looking at Kimball imploringly as his pupils pinched themselves into pinpoint dots, and then he was gone, his life finally expiring.

Looking at the Spear of Destiny, which was coated the color of crimson, Kimball did not feel anything that would amaze him with its alleged powers. There was neither a tingling sensation nor the feeling and crackle of static electricity. It was simply a cold artifact.

“Bravo, Father. Bravo.” It was the voice of Judge Rosenberg.

Kimball turned to him. “I’m no priest, believe me.”

“Yes, you are, son. You just haven’t looked deep enough. Even I can see what you truly are deep inside . . . Bravo.” That was when the judge handed the remote to Kimball. “In your wisdom at what you do, is