The devils protege, p.17
THE DEVIL’S PROTÉGÉ, page 17
Beckingham looked into the veils of dark shadows. “I’m not seeing it,” he told Ben. “I’m not seeing his motive to run.”
“In Mindanao, the hostages—the priests and nuns—were held captive until an unknown force not belonging to the Philippines went in with a high degree of military sophistication and took out the faction. Bill and I assumed that the church got involved, most likely the Vatican Knights given the complexity of the mission. They were here, in the Philippines, when the theft of the Scepter of Light went down. He put two and two together knowing that the pontiff and Vatican Intelligence would send the Knights to Manila to locate the relic. Bill knew they would track us down with the intent of retrieving the staff. Knowing this, he started to contrive a means to delete all personnel involved with the theft while leaving him the sole recipient of the Scepter of Light with no one to share the bounty with. He contacted Boosalis and contrived a story to get him here because he knew that Boosalis would do so after Bill forced him to send funds prematurely into a crypto account, giving Boosalis no other choice but to come here in order to preserve his investment. Why? To use Boosalis and his bloody goon squad as a faction to go up against the Vatican Knights knowing they would be wiped out. This would have ensured that any future threat to Bill would be gone with Boosalis and his team out of the picture. Meanwhile, the one hundred million stays in the crypto account, Bill is the benefactor of Boosalis’s death, and he can now resell the Scepter of Light on the black market for untold millions more.”
“That doesn’t explain why he would leave us behind. We’re all brothers from different mothers.”
“Because he would have had to split the bounty with us, which he doesn’t want to do. He wants it all.”
Beckingham remained quiet. Then: “I don’t see Bill like that. You’re describing a man we served with in the Middle East. A man who commanded us—”
“Bill killed Garney,” Ben intervened. “Shot him execution style. When Garney agreed to testify against the team after he was caught on video killing the Iman with the video going viral, it was Bill who neutralized him to keep him from informing the principals about our side trade. That was the day Charles Whittingham became William ‘Bill’ Cromwell. Not only did he kill Garney, but he also killed the man we’ve grown to trust—that of Charles Whittingham. Since the military principals could not find evidence as to who killed Garney, though they suspected, they gave Bill the option to resign his post when meeting behind closed doors with his record being expunged. But they would leave enough of his record intact so that he could still collect a pension. And that’s what he did. He resigned his post, created a new identity, and went off the grid to manage the black-market trade from the shadows.”
“He wouldn’t do us like that,” Beckingham returned. “Not to us. No way.”
“Greed not only corrupts a man, Beck, it cripples him, too.”
Beckingham remained quiet as though he was thinking this over.
Abbot and Barrett, though close enough to hear the conversation, also remained silent.
“I’m going back to the chamber where he said he was going to secure the Scepter of Light,” Ben stated. “If I’m wrong, then he’ll join our side. If I’m right—” He cut himself off since the rest of the sentence was self-explanatory. And then: “Bug out, Beck. You and the others. Let’s live to fight another day.”
“If you want to run with your bloody tail between your legs, be my guest. Bill would never do what you’re saying. Bill’s not the man you’re painting him out to be. It’s more like Bill was right when painting the picture about you, that you’re yellow-bellied.”
Ben Peyton eased away knowing that he had lost his team. “I’m returning to the chamber to prove that I’m right. My guess is that he’s run off with the Scepter of Light.”
“Then you better get going then,” said Beckingham, “before your yellow belly begins to shine and give away our position.”
It was an unnecessary shot, Ben Peyton thought, especially after serving valiantly over the years as the unit’s field leader inside the most critical hot spots in the world.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” said Ben. Withdrawing from the unit’s front line of defense, he added, “I’ll be back with the truth.” And then he was gone.
After Ben Peyton disappeared, the shadows surrounding the others—Beckingham, Abbot, and Barrett—started to come alive.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
William Cromwell, with the Scepter of Light festooning across his back like an Indian’s bow, made his way through a series of meandering corridors until he came to a small recess that didn’t appear to have any true function or purpose. About six feet off the floor and against the wall was a single lightbulb inside of a wire sconce. Hooking his fingers around the sconce’s wire grating, he pulled the unit outward, which was attached to a horizontal rod embedded inside the wall and turned it ninety degrees clockwise. Stepping back, the pulleys and weights behind the wall started to rumble. The floor beneath him began to vibrate as soon as the wall moved and ground against the concrete floor, the gateway opening.
Stepping inside the hidden room, Cromwell yanked a cord that enabled the door to close. Once again, the noise of stone grating against stone sounded as the wall closed seamlessly. After flipping an old-time switch, a dimly lit bulb burned from one of two hanging chains. The bulb in the second chain had burned out long ago, but the illumination was enough for him to spot the rungs of a ladder against the wall. Moving quickly, he placed his hand on a rung and tested its strength. It held. Then he traced the rest of the rungs with his eyes as they climbed toward a skyward shadow that was as dark as pitch. Taking the ladder, he climbed the rungs. The higher he scaled, the darker it became. Hand over hand, foot over foot, he climbed until he barked his head against the hatchway door. Reaching for the wheel handle, he turned until there was a definite click of the bolts releasing. When he lifted the hatch, light spilled into the shaft. But the door would not rise due to it being weighed down by vines and brambles. Removing his knife, he hacked and chopped away at the ropelike plants until the hatch was able to be lifted. Climbing out of the vertical chute, he found himself standing beneath a canopy of trees that allowed small patches of light through. The air was hot and muggy, and a little too soupy for his liking when compared to the dry heat of the Middle East.
Closing the hatch and spinning the wheel to lock it, he tossed the torn vines to cover it, though it was hardly necessary, but it was always his practice to sanitize his trail.
Feeling the case that contained the Scepter of Light on his back, William Cromwell, once a man of virtue and honor, now a man corrupted by greed, made his way through the jungle and to a safe haven only he knew about.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ben Peyton was spot on with his assessment of William ‘Bill’ Cromwell. When he entered the master chamber where so many discussions had taken place, and where the Scepter of Light had been stored for safekeeping, it was empty. The only way out of the bunker was to pass Peyton along the way, which didn’t happen, meaning that Cromwell absconded through a passageway no one else knew about.
After slapping his palm against the tabletop, Ben took a seat. Above him, a bulb burned dimly. Staring at the filament knowing he would never find the passageway in time, he resigned himself while recalling a Shakespearean quote that seemed oddly relevant at the moment: By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
The Vatican Knights were closing.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
One moment the shadows were still, then for a fleeting moment they became animated, and then nothing but still shadows once again.
The hairs on the back of Beckingham’s neck rose with the effect that something menacing was close by. “The shadows before us move and then they don’t. Do you feel them?” he asked softly.
From his left, Abbot whispered, “Yes.”
“They’re here. Inform the others to fan out and find them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Abbot was gone. A moment later, Beckingham went on the hunt.
* * *
Inside the central area that led to the master chambers, supply rooms, and bunking quarters, there were plenty of concrete pillars and columns, barriers for Beckingham and his team to take refuge behind when they moved through the black veils in search of prey. There were eight columns that were evenly spaced to support the thick cement ceiling above them. But the advantage was not exclusively theirs to own since the Vatican Knights also laid claim to not only owning the shadows but to everything inside this blackened landscape.
Abbot, with footfalls that were feline silent, moved through the shadows with a honed sense of tracking his prey through the darkness. In his mind’s eye, he could almost envision the entirety of his surroundings as though he were fully sighted. He imagined the debris of loose stones sitting on the floor or the occasional rat, vermin, or snake that moved close by. He could hear the enemy coming closer, the quarry assuredly unaware of Abbot’s presence with its steps too heavy, even when it tried to mask the footfalls.
Abbot smiled.
Abbot waited.
And then the footfalls stopped.
Abbot’s mind could no longer envision his enemy or establish its whereabouts, his mind suddenly going blank, vacant, his prey gone. Yet his inner self, that instinctive part when a quarry comes in the crosshairs of a predator’s spying eyes, realized that he had been the one who was being hunted.
Abbot tried to swallow the dry lump in his throat that had gone sour.
Lowering his assault rifle, he removed his combat knife, a quiet pull from its sheath, gripped the hilt until his knuckles turned white, and ventured ahead until he came to a concrete pillar. Turning his head slowly from one side to the other while trying to get a fix on his target, his ears failed to pick up anything.
Bending his knees so that he was in a crouch, Abbot put himself into a position to launch forward with his knife extended to gut, rake, tear, and gouge.
He moved forward, the former SAS member advancing in search of his prey. Yet the feeling lingered that he was not the predator but the game.
To Abbot’s left, a sound coming from the direction of Beckingham.
Using the hilt of his knife, he tapped the concrete floor twice, a pause, and then one more time, a predetermined code to hear if one of his own was close by in the shadows.
But there was no response.
Abbot moved wide to his right and away from the tapping area which no doubt gave away his position, then advanced on the source of the sound from a different point inside the area. His movement was slow and methodical, the man a master at using the shadows. The tapping would have attracted his quarry to the point of the sound, allowing him to attack from its blind side. But Abbot heard nothing, the ruse a failure.
He continued to work in the shadows trying every possible means to detect his enemy.
To his left, silence.
To his right, silence.
Ahead of him, silence.
Behind him—
And like a revelation, it suddenly came to him that his predator had been following him all along, matching him footstep by footstep. Closing his eyes knowing that his fate had been sealed, a hand wrapped around his mouth from behind to keep him from calling out, and then the sharp and piercing blade of a knife drove deep to pierce his heart. Mercifully, former SAS soldier Colonel Pete Abbot died before he felt the pain.
* * *
David Barrett knew that the team was grossly disadvantaged in the dark without any form of night-vision technology to aid them. As sharp as his instinct was, it also had its limitations.
Moving from pillar to pillar through the darkness, he eventually came to a point where he spotted a delicate light filtering into the chamber from a distant tunnel, a possible area of refuge where he could at least level the playing field.
Barrett pressed his back against the pillar and listened.
Nothing. Yet, he could sense a nearby presence, and could almost feel the heat coming off someone’s body.
“I know you’re there,” he stated softly. “I can sense you.”
No response.
“Remaining silent will not catch me off guard.”
Nothing.
Barrett started to backpedal towards the feeble point of light with his weapon directed into the main area. Then he zigzagged from pillar to pillar and took cover until he reached the mouth of the corridor. Behind him, the dim light, though it was hardly salvation but a branch of a tunnel that led to the bunker’s smaller interior chambers.
Before him, a vacuum of utter darkness.
Going against protocol, he gave away his position by setting off a burst of gunfire. The area lit up intermittently with flashes of muzzle fire. His surroundings were empty except for the columns. He kept firing and peppering the concrete pillars and the floor. The room lit up with pops of light that gave him quick glimpses of an enemy he could not see.
When the magazine went dry, he immediately ejected it, reseated another, and took aim before him. There was nothing in the shadows waiting as he presumed, no demons to speak of. Yet, he knew someone was there, perhaps hiding behind the pillars—stalking, waiting, the apex predator having an appetite for destruction based on its patience of knowing when the opportune moment arose to strike.
Nibbling nervously on his lower lip, Barrett continued to backpedal down the corridor and toward the feebly lit corridor. Occasionally, when the feeling that he was being stalked became paramount, he would set off a quick volley of gunfire by sweeping the barrel from left to right, then from right to left. In the muzzle flashes, he could see the rounds chipping chunks of concrete from the wall. But in these momentary flashes, he did not see his tracker, just an empty hallway.
I know you’re there!
Barrett trained to improve his predatory skills which included the sharpening of his instincts. Though his eyes appeared to deceive him, his instinct did not. Something was out there in the shadows, tracking him.
Turning and hastening towards the light, he came to the junction and turned left into a lit corridor. Like other tunnels, this hallway was lit by two bulbs inside of wire sconces. At the end of the hallway was a steel door.
Barrett, when he reached the door, saw that the hinges were badly rusted and covered with verdigris with the lever handle just as bad. Apparently, this was a supply room that hadn’t been ventured into for decades. Releasing the handle and stepping back, he directed his weapon and fired off a few rounds. The bullets ricocheted off the metal, missed Barrett, and stitched along the surrounding walls. Barrett, checking himself and realizing that he had literally dodged a bullet or two, raked his fingers through his hair. He had boxed himself into a corner and the only measure left to him was to barrel through an enemy that was cloaked by shadows.
He turned to view the mouth of the tunnel where he entered, nothing but a wall of darkness. And then one of the lightbulbs popped, leaving the area by the steel door doubly dim.
“Wait!” Barrett cried out.
For the moment, the second light had not been extinguished by a muted gunshot.
“Why don’t you come into the light and show yourself? As a soldier and face to face. Allow me to see my enemy.”
A moment later, Jeremiah stepped into the circle of weak light with his weapon directed at Barrett. “Toss your weapon,” he said.
“This ol’ thing,” Barrett returned while holding up his HK MP5 with his right hand. “It’s nearly out of rounds anyway.” He tossed the weapon to the ground and kicked it hard, the weapon skating towards Jeremiah. Taking note of the Roman Catholic collar, he added with a wry grin, “A Vatican Knight.”
“The Scepter of Light,” Jeremiah stated evenly, “where is it?”
“Somewhere.”
“Tell me where it is, then you can walk away from this unharmed. None of this has to go any further. All we want is the scepter.”
“And where’s the bloody honor in that?” Barrett asked him. “You’re a soldier. You know the code.”
“Your code is not my code, believe me.”
“I get it. Being with the church and all. It kind of warps your sense of honor believing that you’re a soldier of God and all that, and that you operate by a different book of rules. But in the end, mate, you’re still a soldier. And we both know what that means, yes?”
“It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“It does when you have an image to keep and a personal honor to maintain.”
“I don’t care about your image. All I want is the Scepter of Light.”
“If you want it, then you’ll have to go through me to get it.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“No.” Barrett started to take a few steps in Jeremiah’s direction. “I’ll tell you what, let’s do this with a soldier’s honor. You and me. You know, hombre y hombre.”
“How about you stop right there and tell me where the scepter is.”
“How about you work it out of me like a man who’s not hiding behind his gun.” Barrett’s hand reached for the sheath on his right thigh, undid the snap with his thumb, and slowly retracted his combat knife. “Either you take me out with your weapon right here and now, or you can best me in a fight and force me to tell you where the Scepter of Light is.”
Jeremiah maintained his position, whereas Barrett, who was slapping the flat side of his blade repeatedly against his palm, continued to close the gap between them.
Then from Barrett: “Tell me something, were you the one who took out Finny? Carved him up real nice in an alleyway in Makati.”
“What’s a Finny?”
“Apparently not.” Barrett continued his approach.
