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

inside one pocket, he removed his cellphone from another. With his thumb, he depressed the number 9 and waited a time that equaled three or four heartbeats.

Finally, Müller answered. “Müller.”

“Where’s the chopper?”

“It’s on its way. I promise.”

“Your promises mean little to me, Müller. But here’s my promise to you. You now have two minutes. Two! Or I send another your way from the helipad. Perhaps the woman or maybe the judge. Or maybe . . . I’ll send the Cardinal Secretary of State.”

“Mustafa, its coming. It may be a few minutes—”

“Don’t even say it. I don’t want to hear about delays. If that chopper is not here within the timeframe we agreed upon, then we’ll see who comes your way. The judge, the CEO, or the priest.”

“Mustafa—”

The terrorist hung up, tucked the phone inside one pocket, then removed the detonator from the other pocket.

The judge had somewhat of a one-sided and quirky smile, which irritated Mustafa.

“What are you smiling at?” Mustafa asked.

“I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“About what?”

“A punchline to a joke. Though, it’s not much of a joke to begin with.”

“Humor me.”

The judge nodded. “Sure. Why not.” After a pause, the judge, who still carried his smile, said, “It starts out with a man walks into a bar and sees three men—a Jew, a Muslim and a Catholic. And the man—”

Mustafa patted the air for Rosenberg to cease. “Stop. I don’t like it already.”

“But you haven’t heard it.”

“I don’t have to. I already know I don’t like it.”

“Why? Because you believe that a Jew and a Catholic don’t deserve to be mentioned in the same line as a person of your faith?”

Mustafa gave Judge Rosenberg a hard look.

“Even when most religious tomes declare that we share the same God since God has many faces but only one voice—be you Jewish, Catholic or Muslim. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a man of Jewish faith, a Muslim and a Catholic could dine together in the afterlife as a show of unity instead of division? Or is it too humorous to believe that a gorgeous mosaic of religions can be together in harmony under one roof? . . . Wouldn’t that be funny if that . . . could . . . happen?”

Mustafa pared back his lips enough to skin his teeth to reveal a snarl. To think of such a congregation as the judge had suggested was not humorous in any way, but blasphemous.

“Perhaps, Judge, you will go over the edge when the time is up, yes?”

“If that is your choice. But as I said, I have learned to live with fate long ago.” The judge’s quirky smile remained, that sarcastic uplifting of his lip that was a measure of the man’s character strength, fortitude and defiance. And that’s what Mustafa disliked about the judge, the core of his unshakable courage.

First, Mustafa would keep true to his promise and take a life. As he stood before Judge Rosenberg, the cardinal and the CEO, he used the point of the Spear of Destiny as a wand to choose his victim. He went from victim to victim in a malicious game of eenie-meenie-minie-moe as though he was allowing the Holy Lance to decide as to which one to throw off the ledge. When he looked at their faces to delight himself in the moment of their uncontrolled fear, he noticed that they were looking behind him. Feeling a strange menace, Mustafa turned in a slow pivot.

Standing within eddies of smoke that vaguely shielded him was a Vatican Knight. He was broad of shoulder and thick of chest. Then he emerged from the veils as though he was a part of them—perhaps this hellish manifestation created from smoke and fire, Mustafa considered—to finally show itself. Here was the face he had seen many times before in his nightmares, a face that had stared back at him from the shadows. And he knew that the demonic wizard of his dreams, this Devil’s Magician who had long been considered to be an angel to some and a demon to others, had finally come to collect his soul.

But the terrorist had the magical talisman to ward off his demon. He had the power of the Holy Lance, which he held high in display as a deterrent.

It wasn’t.

Kimball Hayden marched forward with venom in his eyes.

* * *

Judge Rosenberg watched the scenario play out before him with complete composure, the man a rock. Beyond the gauzelike wall of smoke stood the silhouette of a man, a large man, watching as though he had the remarkable ability to see through the smoky veils. And then he pushed forward through the wall of smoke. The man’s face was greasy with sweat and marked with patches of soot, as was his uniform, which was soiled with gray ash and dust. Around his collar, he wore the band of a cleric’s collar which stood in contrast against his outfit, white against black.

“A Vatican Knight.” The words came from the cardinal to the judge’s left as whispers, the cleric appearing relieved with his smile quietly transmitting that everything that was about to play out would be in his favor. This priest who emerged from the smoke was obviously much more than just a man, but their savior. Judge Rosenberg had no idea what Cardinal Favino was talking about or why he was smiling with a sense of liberation. The only thing the judge knew and what he saw was a man of remarkable build coming to challenge Mustafa, who was now displaying the relic of the Holy Lance as though it was Merlin’s wand.

When the Vatican Knight failed to alter his charging pace, Ali Mustafa removed the detonator, which seemed to have more of an impact. This man, this Vatican Knight, obviously understood the destructive nature of the controller and immediately became as still as a Bernini statue.

The judge watched the exchange between the two as Mustafa held the Spear of Destiny in one hand and the detonator in the other. Then Judge