Weeping uncontrollably, Shari pulled an unconscious Gary close to her.
With a quick move, Dark Lord grabbed her hair and pulled her head back to expose the soft tissue of her throat.
Slowly and deliberately, he raised the blade for the final cut.
Donning familiar and comfortable black fatigues, Abraham Obadiah changed his game face back to Team Leader, then drove northbound on Route 1, toward the Massachusetts border. The truck moved smoothly, hitting the occasional pothole. But his trip went without incident.
At 0245, a coordinated effort was scheduled by Judas and Omega Team to assassinate Shari Cohen. Knowing Omega Team was always punctual in their endeavors, Obadiah considered the matter closed, and that Agent Cohen was no longer a part of the equation. The constituents from Russia and Venezuela would be happy to hear that damage control had succeeded, and that Cohen would no longer be a troubling factor.
Now that he had quelled the suspicions of his foreign liaisons, there would be no reason for Obadiah to return to D.C. until after the death of Pope Pius. Within a few hours he would assassinate a member of the Holy See, and remind the world that the list of people leading to the pope was getting shorter. And with every death, with every symbolic assassination of faith, came dwindling hope.
Believing Ms. Cohen was no longer among the living, Team Leader drove on.
Judas stood within the grove of trees, the collar of his jacket hiked against the cold, the vapor of his breath an indicator of a chilly night.
From the corner of his eye he saw movement. A single man, larger than most men, moved past him beyond the trees with the grace of a feline — smooth and sleek with the purpose to make a kill.
“Well, well, well,” whispered Judas. “And whose little boy are you?”
It had become obvious that Cohen was under surveillance from someone outside his circle. And then he realized he had no way to warn his team. No matter, he thought. It was still three against one.
Dark Lord held the knife blade at the point of its zenith for the final downswing, a macabre display to incite paralytic terror. “This is for looking in places you shouldn’t have,” he said. Just as the blade fell toward the openness of Shari’s throat, Dark Lord and his two companions were sent sprawling across the room. The rear assault hit like a hammer blow. But each man got his feet at once. And with athletic grace and practiced agility, they spun toward their attacker. Their knives poised to kill.
A lone man, impossibly tall and broad shouldered, black-faced with streaks of grease paint, stood between the Cohens and Dark Lord’s commandos. Around his neck he wore the starched white collar of a priest. His chest was protected by a black tactical vest that held the emblem of the crest and silver Pattée.
Omega Team did what was natural; they banded together in a refined area and converged on their target, a priest, an unlikely savior.
In response measured in milliseconds, Kimball withdrew knives from sheaths attached to each thigh and stirred one of the black-bladed commando knives about in an act of distraction, first in circular motions, then in figure eights, a practice that kept the attention of his opponents from focusing on the second blade, the strike weapon.
Omega Team moved slowly into the danger zone, close enough to engage, to slash, to kill the priest knowing when and where to strike.
Circling, Dark Lord studied this man, his opponent, and noted similarities of a man he once knew and coveted as a mentor and leader — the build, the height, the breadth of the man’s shoulders, all reminiscent of a hero in the judgment of the Pentagon brass. And then he looked into the man’s cerulean blue eyes and the gold flexes that peppered the irises like glitter. For a brief moment his chest grew cold, the reality surreal and sobering at the same time. And then realization set in. There was only one man who held such remarkable eyes.
Dark Lord stopped his advance. The other two followed, as if attached to an umbilical tie in which their hesitation was simultaneous.
“Kimball?” he said almost too softly. “Kimball Hayden?”
Kimball’s eyes flared. Recognition came on his part as well. At one time he and Dark Lord worked closely together in covert operations as an unholy alliance.
“Word is… is that you’re dead.” Dark Lord lowered the point of his knife, but not enough to appease Kimball, who kept his weapon at the ready. “So what’s this about?”
Kimball said nothing.
Dark Lord’s lips curled visibly. “It’s about redemption, isn’t it? Goddammit, Kimball Hayden has gone religious. Look at that collar.” Dark Lord’s smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. The tone of his voice suddenly took on a level of managed anger. “This isn’t your fight, Hayden. Now get the hell out of the way before you get hurt by the big boys.”
Kimball stepped closer, his attractor blade continuing to slice deliberate figure-eight patterns through the air. Hesitation flickered in Dark Lord’s eyes.
“Don’t do this,” warned Kimball. “You know you’re no match for me.”
“Still the same old cocky son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you, Hayden? Think your two blades can match our three? I don’t think so.”
Dark Lord inched closer, his actions matched by his two imitators. “Last time, Hayden. Get out of the way and let us do our job.”
“I’m not going to let you hurt these people.”
“Then you’re crazier than I thought.” Dark Lord suddenly struck.
The commandos of Omega Team struck out and slashed with killing blows, but Kimball met their strikes with blinding speed, deflecting the knifes, the contact coughing up sparks as the blades pounded against each other as metal struck metal. Shari’s mouth dropped in amazement as she watched her champion ward off deadly blows with fluid effort.
With uncanny skill Kimball’s motions became faster, his circular motions repelling the blows that seemed to come faster and with far more brutal force. By inches he pushed back the Omega Team, who was losing ground, the strikes coming to the point where everyone’s arm was moving in blurs and blinding revolutions. Sparks radiated in numerous pinpricks of flame before dying out. And then came an opening.
With surgical precision Kimball drove the edge of his blade across the bicep of a commando, severing the muscle. The man screamed in agony, took a knee, then tumbled out of the battle line and was gone, disappearing into the hallway and into the night.
As the fight waged on Kimball seemed to pick up steam rather than lose it. His motions were deft, and with purpose. The odds of two blades warring against two appeared to favor Kimball as he pushed his opponents back to the far wall. They were running out of room.
In another motion Kimball bent down to a lower point of gravity, and made a horizontal slash just above the patella of the commando standing to the right of Dark Lord, nearly severing the muscle that attached the upper and lower leg. With a banshee-like wail the commando moved surprisingly well on his good leg, dove through the study window, and landed on a parked car below. His weight caved in the roof and shattered the windshield; then, after rolling off the vehicle and getting to his feet, he half ran, half limped for the cover of trees.
Judas watched from the shadows across the street as a dark figure smashed through the second story pane of the brownstone in a spray of glittering glass and landed on a parked car, caving in the roof and shattering the windshield. The man rolled off the vehicle, got to one foot, and hobbled toward the copse of trees. Moments later Judas watched a second man run through the front door of the brownstone holding his arm. The wounded commando crossed the street and merged with the shadows beneath the trees.