But Kimball was more than ready.
“Move! Move! Move!” Leviticus cried into his lip mike. With Isaiah and Micah moving into position to flank Omega Team from behind, Leviticus grabbed his HK XM8 that he had already broken down to the carbine style and exited the van to take position alongside the body of Nehemiah.
Viper was coming in from the right, and Cobra and Mamba were directly in front of him. With the point of his commando knife held between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, Kimball took aim, and with precision that had been honed by years of practice, let the weapon fly until it buried itself deep within Mamba’s throat. With an unnatural gurgle, Mamba drew his hand to his neck and fell to the ground like a rabbit.
Cobra never saw the flight of the knife or heard the punch of the blade into Mamba’s esophagus, but realized that the man was dead when he reached down and felt the slick hilt of the knife sticking out from the base of Mamba’s throat.
By the time he looked up, an immense shadow of a man stood over him. It was dark and foreboding, something that exuded dread like a slap. Then in an act too fast for Cobra to register, Kimball rendered the commando impotent with a single blow that sent him into eternal darkness.
Viper crept toward the mansion with all the prudence of a skilled assassin, fully aware that a combatant was to his fore and two others to his right. Immediately his instinct took over when he saw Mamba and Cobra lying within the brambles, the limbs of their bodies lying askew as if boneless, and then he dropped to a single knee, carbine raised, and surveyed the ground ahead of him. The area was eerily quiet, all shadows locked in place, the hostiles nowhere in sight. With caution he moved toward the mansion sighting nothing, his carbine sweeping the area as if on a swivel, all the time considering the hostiles to be as silent as the night since they had vanished like eddies of mist in a strong wind. But he knew they were watching, waiting, targeting; perhaps drawing a bead from no more than arm’s length away.
Suddenly Viper felt the sharp point of a knife stabbing beneath the Kevlar and into his kidneys, followed by an intense burning sensation that swept across his lower back as the blade twisted and diced his entrails. With a feeble bark more out of surprise than in pain, he turned to view his killer, his carbine dropping to the ground. He looked into the man’s face but saw only shadows. When his eyes dropped to the starch whiteness of Kimball’s Roman collar, he thought God had forgiven him for his transgressions. Then with a gradual slowness like ice gliding along a hot surface, he slid downward along Kimball’s body and to the ground with his eyes burning their last embers of life.
Now with the Force Elite eradicated and no one to question, Kimball was beside himself. He allowed his emotions to carry him to the point beyond reasoning, where killing was the panacea to quash his anger rather than to commit to the mission to capture the insurgents and mine them for information.
In his dismay, as he wiped a hand vaguely over his face, he understood a single fact. It seemed all but certain the pope was going to die.
Shari managed the final step and stood before Murdock, who still leaned forward with his hands against the banister overlooking the foyer below.
“Where’s the globe?”
Without looking at her he pointed his thumb in the direction of the governor’s room. “It’s on the dresser,” he said. “After I realized what it was I called you immediately. I haven’t touched it since, afraid that I might compromise the evidence.”
She headed for the governor’s bedroom. “It’ll be all right.”
He nodded. “I know it will.”
When Shari stood in the room’s center and looked upon the dresser, she could have sworn that her heart misfired.
There was no snow globe.
Punch Murdock had lied.
Kimball stood in the shadows feeling regret like no other. Letting his emotions go the way he did only made him consider that he hadn’t changed at all, but became a throwback and killed with the cold fortitude of a machine, making him no different than the men who lay dead at his feet.
“Nehemiah’s gone.” Leviticus’ confirmation was flat and spiritless, the voice of grieving.
“And there’s no one left of the Tangos,” said Kimball. “I bear all responsibility for my actions.”
“It’s not your fault, Kim—”
“It is my fault!” he interceded angrily. And then more calmly as if he caught himself and tried to make amendments of change, said, “I was wrong. I gave way to emotion even though I knew we needed these people alive. And I’m the one who always teaches against losing control. Everything I base my experiences on is all about control and now we have nothing.” He stepped away and bowed his head in self-admonishment. Why, he asked, can’t I do anything right?
Punch Murdock stood in the doorway with the point of his weapon directed at Shari’s center of body mass. “I can’t really say that I’m sorry it had to be like this,” he told her. He then stepped into the room, his eyes on the pistol in her shoulder holster. “You scared a lot of people, Ms. Cohen. But now it’s all coming to an end.”
She cocked her head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. Why are you doing this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
And then it came to her in a sudden rush. “You’re Yahweh, aren’t you? And you’re trying to start a war by using the pope as a catalyst.”
Murdock’s lips curved into a wry grin, and in her honor his fingers tipped the brim of his fedora. “I’m impressed,” he said “You are perceptive. I am the catalyst. But I’m not Yahweh.”
She looked past him, a miniscule glance, but Murdock picked up on it and shook his head.
“Kimball Hayden?” he asked. “Is that who you’re looking for? Well, I’m afraid he has his hands quite full at the moment.”
Shari was surprised by his insight.
“Oh, yeah,” Murdock said, moving closer. “I know all about Kimball Hayden. Why he’s here is beyond me, though — a mystery actually. But I don’t think his presence is going to matter much since he’s out there and you’re in here.” He managed the weapon so its aim was directly in line with the cleft of her breasts and pulled the trigger in rapid succession. The bullets hit her with such fierce momentum that she was lifted off her feet, over the bed, and sent to the floor on the other side. It was a perfect strike. Then, tipping the brim of his fedora one last time, Murdock gave a cocky smile and said, “Good night, Gracie.”
Three loud reports came from within the mansion, the gunshots spaced in rapid succession. And all Kimball could think about was Shari’s welfare. If something happened to her, he knew he would never forgive himself for allowing her to go inside the house alone. But in his heart, he knew it was over.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
With the odor of cordite rich in the air, Shari rolled on her side and undid the strap securing her Glock in the pancake holster.
She pulled the weapon and pointed it in the direction of Murdock’s approaching footfalls that seemed to fall with the slow and measured cadence of a man who thought he had all the time in the world. When he rounded the corner of the bed his mouth gaped in surprise, his hooded eyes informing her that he had made the critical mistake of thinking he had completed the job, thinking he had killed her on the first volley of gunfire.