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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ali Mustafa was working on two fronts. His team moved quickly to secure targeted assets, all high-profile dignitaries to be used as bargaining chips, while Zamir initiated the first step of command under the direct order of Mustafa.

Inside the elevator, Hartwig Klein was on the verge of tears. His Marta had been taken from him; the act born from brutality. Now he found himself absolutely impotent as Zamir held the point of his Glock to Hartwig’s temple. In Zamir’s other hand was a small device, a radio transmitter.

“Do as I say, and you won’t get hurt,” Zamir stated coldly.

But Hartwig Klein knew that this was a deceptive claim. The falsehood was simply stated to give him a fake sense of security to remain compliant. He was simply Zamir’s puppet, and in the eyes of his captors a moral sacrifice.

“Please don’t kill me,” Hartwig mustered while watching the numbers above the doors descend from floor to floor.

“In your pocket,” said Zamir, “is a cellphone. You will hit the number nine before you hand the phone over to the person in charge. Is that clear? You must hit the number nine.”

“Please don’t kill me.”

“Is that clear?”

Hartwig nodded.

“They will ask you questions. You will say nothing. If you say anything—anything at all—I will push the button on this remote and you will die.” Zamir pressed the point of his Glock against Hartwig’s temple hard enough for the flesh to dimple. “Now, tell me, what are your orders.”

Hartwig tried to swallow the sour lump that was cropping up in his throat but failed to wash it away. Then: “Before I hand over the phone to the one in charge, I’m to hit number nine.”

“That’s right.”

“And should they begin to question me, then I’m to remain quiet.”

“Simple enough, yes?”

Hartwig nodded.

When the bell inside the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, Zamir gently pushed Hartwig into the hallway. “You know what to do.” Then he held up the remote. “You are wearing a bodycam. Upstairs, they see and hear everything. Do as you’re told; you will be fine. Should you decide to do what you should not, then—” The terrorist held up the control with his thumb on the toggle switch, his point made.

As soon as the doors closed on Zamir, Hartwig caught himself staring at his own reflection that shined from doors that had a mirror polish to them. He appeared tired and jaded, the man somewhat forlorn in the appearance with his face suddenly hanging with the looseness of a rubber mask.

“Do not move!”

Hartwig turned to see police officers moving in his direction with their weapons drawn, all who were apparently drawn by the chime of the elevator door. Zamir’s forceful removal of him from the lift and the door closing behind took only five seconds, though it seemed like an infinity to Hartwig.

“Do . . . Not . . . MOVE!”

Hartwig raised his hands. When it was clear that he was wearing a vest loaded with a plastique brick, the officers held their position.

“Get on the ground!” someone shouted.

“You don’t understand,” Hartwig told them. “I’m wearing a bodycam. Everything I do is being recorded. If I don’t do as I’m ordered, there will be consequences. So please, I need to see the officer in charge.” Hartwig kept his hands raised.

“Get on the ground!”

Hartwig closed his eyes, swallowed, then he took a few steps forward, all tentative. “Please, in my pocket,” he said, “there’s a cellphone. The man upstairs would like to communicate with the officer in charge.”

The officers held steady as they continued to draw a bead on Hartwig, who kept moving towards the main lobby. He fully expected to feel the punch of gunfire but was surprised when they allowed him passage.

As he stood between the juncture of the hallway and the lobby, only then did he open his eyes. The police officers had drawn distance. Their guns, however, remained focused on him, more than a dozen.

Two official looking members wearing suits maintained their distance, though the taller of the two approached by taking a few steps, then he stopped. The gap between them was approximately twenty feet.

And then the tall man pointed at Hartwig with a finger that was too long and bony looking. “That vest you’re wearing,” he began, “is that what I think it is?”

Hartwig ran a tongue over his dry lips, then nodded.

“Are you the one holding the detonator?”

Hartwig nodded. He wasn’t.

“Someone else, then?”

Another nod in confirmation.

The tall man was beginning to appear anxious. “Are you a liaison between Ali Mustafa and myself?”

“I’m not allowed to answer questions,” Hartwig finally said. “I’m to give you a cellphone.” Hartwig reached into the pocket of his pajama top and produced a cellphone. Then he held it up for all to see.

“Is that a detonator?”

“I believe the man you mentioned, Mustafa, wishes to communicate with you. I’m to dial nine.”

“How do I know that nine is not the detonation code?”

“You don’t. But I’m to hand the phone over to the one in charge and dial nine.”

The tall officer hesitated. Then he ran a tongue along the inside of his cheek as though pondering his next move. “All right,” he finally said, then he walked to Hartwig until they were within arm’s reach of each other. “Now what?”

Hartwig’s hand shook with a severe tremble, but he managed to bring up the numeric pad and thumbed the number 9. Then he extended the phone for the tall officer to take, which he did, and hesitantly placed it against his ear wondering if the device was set to explode and take away half his head.

Sighing, he said, “Yes.”

“Good morning,” Mustafa answered. “I’m curious as to how you discovered our whereabouts so quickly.”

“In the age of technology, Mustafa, no one, not even you, is beyond our reach.”

“I see you know my name.”

“You murdered a lot of people tonight, Mustafa. Did you really think that you were going to get away?”

“I did. And I still do.