The black monk, p.15
The Black Monk, page 15
They had infiltrated the supply area with practiced ease. Here, in this forgotten corner, crates upon crates were stacked precariously containing deactivated weapons – remnants of a time when bullets and bombs reigned supreme.
In the shadows, Eclaire shifted, a near-silent command to Colbert as they moved in sync, their steps light and precise despite the obstacles of surrounding crates. Nor did they speak as Eclaire drifted left with his fingers brushing the worn metal of a deactivated missile launcher. Memories, cold and clinical, flickered in his mind – specifications, blast radius, outdated technology rendered obsolete by smart weapons. Then he pushed on; the silence broken only by the rasp of his boot striking a loose crate lid lying on the concrete, the cover skidding a few inches. In the hushed shadows, the sound of it sliding across the concrete floor was dramatically amplified.
Both Eclaire and Colbert came to an abrupt stop.
What followed was a subsequent silence.
But it wouldn’t last long.
* * *
In the shadows where nocturnal creatures lie in wait, two figures clad in the obsidian armor of the Vatican Knights pressed themselves against a stack of crates. The air held a commanding silence as they waited for their quarry to make a misstep. For Isaiah and Samuel, patience was both a silent vigil and the perfect virtue to possess as a hunter.
Then across from them in the maze of crates, they felt a shift in air pressure, faint but unmistakable, as two figures, barely a whisper in the darkness, reacted with a startled flinch. The element of surprise that Eclaire and Colbert tried so hard to cultivate had vanished within the harsh echo of a dislodged crate lid that slid across the floor, the sound as clamorous as a deafening trumpet sounding out in the pitch darkness.
Isaiah and Samuel rose in unison, their movements a blur of practiced efficiency despite the darkness, then separated with each man moving toward a specific target.
* * *
Colbert’s muscles coiled tight as he crouched amongst the crates. His breaths were shallow, and his heartbeat slowed, both the hallmarks of a warrior in control. The darkness was his friend, an adage that had been implanted in his mind long ago. The shadows—always keep them close—for they are your shield. Without sight, even the most honed reflexes become dulled. And when one sense becomes dulled, then another must be enhanced—like hearing, the ability to pick up the most perceptible sound and to home in on it; or perhaps the sense of touch, such as to feel a footstep planting itself on a nearby floorboard that conducts its vibrations from point A to point B; or the sense of smell where the chemicals inside a glass of water could be detected from across the room. Without sight, other senses had to become hyper-aware of their surroundings and the things that lurked within them. That was what Colbert was taught as an officer of the Irish Defense Forces Special Forces Unit.
In the shadows, he traced fingers over the familiar ridges of his assault rifle, the cold metal a grounding force in his anticipation of taking the enemy, knowing in his heart that it was approaching. Then Colbert squeezed his eyes shut and pictured the warehouse in his mind's eye. Each crate became a looming presence, every corner a potential hiding place. Time became distorted with each tick of his internal clock an eternity punctuated by the measured beat of his heart. He strained to hear, anything – the rustle of clothing, the exhale of a held breath, the telltale click of a weapon being readied. But there was nothing, only the sense of his unseen enemy growing heavier with each passing moment, nearing, the hostile’s grace that of a feline. The air hung thickly over him like a pall, a hovering menace, the former commando intuiting that his enemy was just beyond his reach.
It was closing, this he knew, the operative gripping his weapon in a white-knuckled hold.
I know you’re there.
His eyes remained closed as his ears, his sense of smell, and the feel of the earth beneath his feet, all became supersensitive. And yet, nothing registered outside of his instinct, which did not betray him. Something was there, watching and waiting, perhaps for the opportune moment to strike, this he knew.
He stood as still as a Grecian statue with his senses and instincts in overdrive.
I know you’re—
A pair of hands reached out from the darkness, two tendrils that were blacker than black with a hand planting itself on the forehead of Colbert’s helmet, the other cupping his chin, and then a violent twist, Colbert’s neck snapping with an audible crack that echoed throughout the chamber.
After Colbert fell immediately to the ground as a boneless heap, the hands disappeared into the shadows.
* * *
The rough wood of the old crate pressed into Eclaire's back as sweat slicked his skin as a result of the dampness of the depository. Every muscle in his body was taut, a hunter's coil against the unidentified predator stalking him and Colbert. And then, a sound. A sickening crack that echoed hollowly through the darkness.
As a sour lump lodged inside Eclaire's throat, he realized with a chilling clarity that the snap wasn't Colbert's doing. It was the sound of his neck twisting, of life being snuffed out in an instant. His unseen enemy, a phantom in the darkness, had moved with a predator's grace.
He drew a slow, deliberate breath, forcing his senses to hyperdrive. The whisper of moving fabric, the faintest shift in weight on the uneven floorboards – anything. But he heard nothing, felt nothing, the world around him seemingly dead.
Reaching up, he tapped his earbud and whispered, “Base command.”
“Go,” it was Jonah.
“Colbert’s down.”
“What?”
“Colbert . . . is . . . down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty much.”
“Pretty much. What does that mean?”
“Turn on the lights.”
There was a pause.
Then from Eclaire in a strained whisper, “Turn . . . on . . . the . . . li—”
A hand clapped over Eclaire’s mouth, the act catching the former DGSE operative by surprise as his eyes flared wide as the blade of a knife crossed his throat and cut deep, the man now gagging in his blood as he fell to his knees, dropping his weapon. With his hands grasping his throat, he tried desperately to hold the lips of his wound together, that horrible second mouth that bled copiously. Then he started to gag with a sickening wet sound, a gurgle, and then he coughed a mist of red.
“Eclaire!”
Eclaire tried to answer, but he couldn’t, his wet noises were nothing but nonsensical sounds.
“Eclaire!”
And then he fell forward with his helmet smashing hard against concrete floor, the man now lying in his own pool of blood that spread outwardly beneath him in a perfect halo.
“Eclaire!”
There was no response.
* * *
“Base Command.”
“Go.” Jonah said.
“Colbert’s down.”
“What?”
“Colbert . . . is . . . down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty much.”
“Pretty much. What does that mean?”
“Turn on the lights.”
Jonah leaned forward and stared at the blank screen; the warehouse section housing old World War II components was blacked out.
Then from Eclaire: “Turn . . . on . . . the . . . li—”
With Eclaire’s earbud still on, Jonah, along with the techs at the panel, could hear the subsequent struggle, and then the gagging, and the coughing.
“Eclaire!”
The choking, and the nonsensical vowels and the choppy sounding consonants that followed.
“Eclaire!”
Then came the abrupt ending of the signal as the helmet hit the concrete, causing the earbud to shatter.
“Eclaire!”
Silence.
“Turn on the lights,” Jonah told the tech.
The technician’s fingers typed in the commands and hit the ENTER button. On the screen, the lights inside the Old War Room winked on, one bank after another turning on in sequence. Though the lighting wasn’t the greatest, it was enough to shed enough illumination onto the bodies of Eclaire and Colbert.
“No,” Jonah said, raking his fingers through his hair. “No-no-no-no-no!” Jonah didn’t know why he was surprised, but he was. He had placed too much confidence in his unit, believing they could outwit and outmaneuver the Vatican Knights. But Isaiah’s team had full command of the situation by taking out two members of his mercenary team—Colbert and Eclaire, both who were classified as superior soldiers when operating in the dark. But being a Vatican Knight himself, Jonah chided himself because he should have known better. The Vatican Knights trained in the shadows for days on end, honing their senses until they became one with the darkness, something Kimball Hayden taught them.
When he stopped raking his fingers through his hair, he said evenly, “Turn on the lights to the facility.”
“All of them?”
“All of them. Apparently, my team’s expertise of operating in the dark is not what I was led to believe, at least not on the level of the Vatican Knights. By turning on the lights, we take away their advantage. There will be no shadows for them to hide in.”
“Yes, sir.”
After a few clicks on the keyboard and a tap on the ENTER button, the lights to the subterranean bunker lit up section by section.
* * *
Demerol and Uncango in the central tunnel, and Jenson and Diamanti in the west-wing tunnel, all appeared dumbfounded when the overhead lights blinked on, the tunnels now cast in quasi-gloom from aged bulbs working on low wattage.
Demerol was immediately on his earbud, as was Jenson, the two wanting to know ‘what’s going on.’
“What’s going on?” Jonah ripped into them. “You,” he said, calling out Demerol personally with Jenson listening in, “told me that your men could operate under any condition—cold, dark, heat, whatever. So, I hired the team leaders of their respective commands believing they were the best of the best. Now, I have two men lying dead in the east wing, meaning that the Vatican Knights have opened a gateway to march freely into the command center.”
“Are you saying Colbert and Eclaire—”
“Yes!” Jonah cut off Demerol. “Colbert and Eclaire are dead. I don’t even think they put up a fight by the looks of things—just two stiffs lying on the ground without them firing off a round. There are no shell casings to be found anywhere.” After a beat, Jonah calmed down and said, “But it’s my fault, as well. I should have known better. The Vatican Knights use the shadows like no other. And they train for days without food or water to develop that preternatural sense to operate in the dark. To compete against them from here on in, I took away their advantage by turning on the lights. No more cloaking shadows to hide behind. That means you’ll have to hit them straight on, mano-y-mano, with knives out and teeth bared.”
“I don’t see a problem with that,” said Jenson.
“I was proven wrong by believing in your talents that you could operate in the dark. Don't prove me wrong again by allowing me to continue believing your combat skills are more superior than the Vatican Knights.”
“No worries,” said Demerol.
But Jonah did worry. It was the first time he doubted the abilities of his troops while he foolishly underestimated the capabilities of the Vatican Knights.
“Demerol,” Jonah finally said, “what’s your twenty?”
“About a half click inside the central tunnel.”
“Return to Base Command,” Jonah ordered. “If the Vatican Knights broke through the east-wing team, that means they’re on their way to my point.” Jonah motioned to the tech to bring up camera images in the east-wing tunnels until they found two Vatican Knights, Isaiah and Samuel, moving in an eastbound direction to Base Command. And then: “Demerol.”
“Go.”
“Verified. I have two hostiles making their way to my position from the east tunnel, which means that there are two Vatican Knights elsewhere, most likely in the west-side tunnel. I need you and Uncango here to help secure the comm center. And Jenson?”
“Go.”
“Our visual monitors haven't picked up two of the hostiles, meaning that the Vatican Knights divided themselves into two two-man teams, one going east, the other west. It’s a common tactic they use to hem in the enemy I want you to locate them and take them down.”
“Copy that.”
Jonah cut off communication and, to the tech, ordered him to locate the two remaining Vatican Knights believed to be in the west-wing tunnels.
The tech, searching through a large number of monitors inside of a grand system, did just that. But it wouldn’t be easy since the Vatican Knights, along the way, were taking out the lights with their suppressed weapons, and taking back the advantage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
When the Vatican Knights saw the overhead lights flicker on, they knew they had to regain the advantage. As they moved down the corridor, they aimed their weapons with eagle-eye precision and with one shot took out a camera, one right after the other.
. . . pop . . . pop . . . pop . . .
The caveat, however, was that they didn’t have an infinity number of rounds, so the ammo had to be used sparingly.
. . . pop . . . pop . . . pop . . .
* * *
At Base Command, Jonah was watching the monitors go from a full view to having no view at all, the screens going dark one right after the other in quick succession.
“What’s going on?” Jonah asked. “Where are my pictures?”
The tech typed commands into the computer, bringing up visual feeds on the grid-patterned screen. In the west-wing tunnel, Jonah watched Isaiah and Samuel moving down the corridor aiming their weapons at the cameras, and with such surgical precision with just one shot necessary, they took out a camera here and a camera there, the tunnel turning black in their wake.
“They’re blinding us,” Jonah said evenly. “They know we can follow their path, so they’re taking back the advantage. I would have done the same thing. We took away their advantage of the darkness, and they took away our advantage of the light.” Then Jonah hit a button on the console. “Demerol!”
“Go!”
“What’s your twenty?”
“A couple hundred yards, maybe less.”
“Step it up! I need you and Uncango here now! We’re about to have company!”
“Copy that.”
Hitting the communication button to kill the call, Jonah reached for his knife that was neatly stowed away in a tanned leather sheath. Undoing the button, he removed the knife, a long and steady draw. The black matte blade was ten inches long with a razor edge on one side and a serrated one on the other. He looked at it with adoration, the blade an extension of himself, and one that had taken the lives of those without faith or hope. But his most prized kill was when he ran the blade horizontally across the gut of Kimball Hayden.
Then his voice that was barely above a murmur as he appraised the knife endearingly, he said, “The power of God is with me.” As he tucked the weapon back into its sheath, he looked at the monitors. Isaiah and Samuel were moving at a steady click down the west-wing hallway, coming closer and closer to the comm center. In the last grid, the lower right box, Isaiah, looking directly into the camera, something Jonah took as a challenge, raised his weapon and pulled the trigger. There was a brief muzzle flash, and then nothing, the screen went black.
* * *
It didn’t take long for Demerol and Uncango to reach the comm center station of PCs, wild tangles of cable across the floor, and a plethora of monitors. Neither man was winded, even when running the length of two football fields at full speed.
When they reached Jonah, the man simply pointed to the west-wing monitors. “He’s taking out our cameras,” he simply stated. “The team has divided into two groups. This group,” he said, pointing, “has perhaps the most elite of the Vatican Knights now that Kimball Hayden is not among them. His name is Isaiah.” On the screen, Isaiah, along with Samuel, continued toward their position, taking out cameras along the way. “The Vatican Knight with him is Samuel. The other two are in the west tunnel where they’ll be met by Jenson and Diamanti. Your job is to confront these two, Isaiah and Samuel, and neutralize them.”
Neither Demerol nor Uncango betrayed their emotions.
“This is your chance, gentlemen, to prove your worth not only to me . . . but to God. You’re doing His work now, so he’ll favor you over the heathens. Remember that.”
Demerol nodded.
Then from Jonah, “May God be with you.”
Without saying another word, they were gone, heading to intercept the Vatican Knights.
After they disappeared into the shadows, Jonah placed a hand on the primary tech's shoulder, addressing everyone at the console – six techs in total. “You have done your jobs well,” he stated to them in monotone. “You have ignited a hell storm through the use of AI that will force people to walk through Hell before they can go to Heaven, will it not?”
There was a chorus of light murmurs.
“No matter who comes through those gateways,” Jonah said, pointing his finger toward the deep shadows, “you will continue to man your posts to the very end. What you do, you do in the name of God, yes?”
Another round of muttering in agreement.
“The Vatican Knights will not harm you since it’s against their code of ethics, so there’s nothing to fear. Keep spreading the disinformation for as long as you can. If my people are not up to the task of terminating the intruders . . .” He let his words hang since his emotions were vacillating between whose unit was superior, his group of mercenaries or the Vatican Knights. Despite his hope for his mercenaries' success, logic dictated the Vatican Knights' advantage.
