The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020) Rick Jones (ebook reader play store txt) 📖

was wearing the security uniform of the Austrian Imperial Treasury team, all the way down to the matching stripes, insignias and piping. Against his hip was a holstered sidearm.

“You know what to do, Khalifa,” Abd-al-Mumin told him. “Allah will see you through.”

Khalifa was a Saudi national and a one-time member of the Royal Saudi Armed Forces. After his term with the branch was over and with Allah the supreme leader in his heart, it did not take him long to find a desirable place in Ali Mustafa’s cell. At least here, he had purpose that was far above what the Royal Saudi Armed Forces had provided him with. And it was here that Khalifa felt most valuable since serving Allah was paramount. Even his personal welfare had little meaning to him as long as Allah waited to gift him with Paradise.

Khalifa nodded. “Stay close.”

The IS operative exited the vehicle with his eyes fixed on the guard shacks. There was a guard inside each shed that stood adjacent to one another, both busy typing away at a keyboard while glimpsing periodically at the monitor.

Khalifa set an earbud transmitter inside his ear and enabled it. “Abd-al-Mumin, you read?”

A moment later and through white noise an answer came back. “You’re . . . hear . . .”

“Adjust your settings. You’re breaking up.”

The second transmission from Abd-al-Mumin was clear, the settings exact.

“Good.”

Khalifa then adjusted the eye of his bodycam, which was a button-sized lens that was attached to his shirt pocket. In fact, it replaced and mimicked a button that all security uniforms had.

“Images?” he said softly.

“Clear.”

Khalifa nodded. “Here we go.” The terrorist started to cross the lot and make his way towards the guard sheds, the man moving with purpose and showing the confidence of one who belonged.

Then as he neared the guard sheds, both guards exited and patted the air for Khalifa to stop. Neither, however, had drawn their weapons. They were simply voicing their protests.

Khalifa raised his hands in mock surrender while approaching, the man wearing a becoming smile that had been practiced before a mirror a number of times.

Though the guards recognized the uniform, they did not recognize the face. Even in the cast of dim lighting, it was obvious that the man’s complexion was dark and his features more Middle Eastern. But his German was flawless.

“I was advised by the Treasury principals to check-in with you, since tonight’s my night to take watch inside the Secular Chamber.”

“We received no such correspondence from administration,” stated the guard on the right. “And everyone who was supposed to report . . . did.”

“I have paperwork,” said Khalifa, as he continued to move forward by way of taking smaller steps. “Right here. In my pocket.” He reached inside his shirt pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper, which he unraveled. Then he held it up. “I’m new.”

From the guards’ positions, at least by the markings, the order appeared genuine.

The guard on the left demanded to see the order, so that he could confirm it through the database.

“Yes, of course.” Khalifa handed over the document to the sentry, while the guard carefully appraised him through a narrowed eye.

Taking the sheet, the guard returned to the shack, laid the paper to the side of the monitor, then began to type along the keyboard while referring to the numbers on the page.

The second guard stood close with Khalifa, who remained the focus of his attention. There was no doubt in the guard’s mind that the man standing before him had Middle East ties, which was inherently a red flag issue with the sentry. Though the guard quietly posted a hand on the butt of his firearm, it did not go unnoticed by Khalifa, who remained confident in his skillset and had planned for the moment.

The guard inside the sentry booth grabbed the paper and looked at it inquisitively. After cocking his head slightly to the side in a perplexed manner, he exited the shack holding the paper up. When he spoke, it naturally drew upon him the attention of the second guard, who took his eyes off Khalifa. “Look, I can’t bring up any confirmation numbers regarding—”

Khalifa’s motion was quick and fluid and well-practiced, as he removed his suppressed firearm from his holster and placed two shots to center mass. Two bullet holes magically appeared in the paper the guard was holding, a poor shield, only for the kill shots to subsequently appear against his shirt instantly. As the guard stood riveted with a look of surprise as though his mind was slow to register his death, Khalifa turned his firearm against the second guard and put a bullet in his temple, a perfect shot. Unlike the first guard, the second officer fell quickly to the ground as a boneless heap.

Holstering his weapon, Khalifa tapped his earbud. “Area cleared and secured.”

These four words had galvanized Abd-al-Mumin’s unit into action, as the doors to the van swung wide. Within the feeble cast of streetlighting with the unit appearing as silhouettes, the ISIS team began to advance on the Austrian Imperial Treasury.

* * *

The Kristallpalast

Seventieth-Floor Suite

Ali Mustafa was not a participant but a spectator, as he sat in a darkened room before the monitor of a laptop. His face was ghoulishly lit from the light that was thrown from the screen, which caused the deep lines and shadows to writhe whenever his features shifted. The only other light came from the glass-bottom pool on the balcony behind him, though it shed marginal brightness.

His laptop screen was broken into six grids. And each grid gave a distinct view from each man’s bodycam. Khalifa had played his role well, he considered. He had applied his skillset to lure his prey and had taken them down with ease. The man was not only fast of mind, but quick with his draw. Khalifa’s hand moved so fast that Mustafa did not register the end of the exchange until Khalifa had holstered his weapon. Within a blink of an eye, two men