Ark of Fire (56 page)

“I don’t know about you, sir, but I can’t wait to blow the Dome of the Rock to kingdom come.” Fully recovered from his earlier injury, Boyd Braxton positioned himself behind the steering wheel of the 6×6 convoy truck.

“‘Vengeance
is
mine, sayeth the Lord,’” Stan replied, well aware that in the eleventh century, the Muslim infidels had attempted to destroy the tomb of Jesus; the reprisal was long overdue. “Gunny, do you know what the word
Islam
means?”

“No, sir. Can’t say that I do.”

“It means ‘submit.’”

As always happened when he pondered the true meaning of the infidel’s faith, Stan felt a hot rage surge upward from the base of his spine, his temples pounding with the force of his hatred.

“As God is my witness, I will never be conquered by those people. Never.”

“I hear ya, sir!” Braxton banged his balled fist against the steering wheel. “We’ll teach those ragheads a lesson! Every last one of ’em!”

Pleased with his subordinate’s exuberance—the Lord always looked with favor upon those who executed their duty with a glad heart—Stan slammed shut the passenger door. In the back of the truck, all nine of his men were present and accounted for. The Ark would be well guarded. To a man, they would unflinchingly lay down their lives to protect the holy relic. Although it was doubtful that they would encounter any resistance. The Englishman had readily admitted that British intelligence was ignorant of their plans. And according to the yacht’s captain, the voyage from Haifa had been uneventful.

Soon, in God’s name, he would prevail. Then, on the battle-fields of that most holy of lands, he would triumph. The Ark of the Covenant was the key to victory. As it had been in the days of old when it was used to bring down the walls of mighty Jericho.
And so it shall come to pass.
The prophecies of Ezekiel were a roadmap to success.

With the last obstacle removed, nothing could stop him. Not the peaceniks. Not the left-wing secularists who railed against religion. Not the passive wusses at the UN. Not even the stalwart Englishman who had proved such a formidable foe.

Respect for one’s enemy, however, only went so far; Stan was well aware that there was a special hell for men like Caedmon Aisquith and his degenerate harlot. Soon they would discover that God’s fire was inextinguishable. The flames of hell burned eternally bright.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw a shadow approach. The shadow belonged to Rostov, his communications expert. He rolled down the window on the truck.

“What is it?”

An anxious glint in his eyes, the other man said, “We’ve got a problem, sir. Gallagher isn’t answering his cell.”

The muscles in Stan’s belly painfully tightened. He took a deep breath, striving for a calm he didn’t feel.

As he silently begged for divine guidance, he envisioned in his mind’s eye the Tree of Life, not seen since the expulsion from Eden, blossoming atop the Temple Mount.

Blessed with that calming vision, he turned to his communications expert. “Get in the back.” He then turned to his trusted subordinate. “We’re gonna find ’em and run ’em down.”

“Yes, sir!”

Ignoring the vibrating mobile phone clipped to his waistband, Caedmon urged Edie to keep moving; the convoy truck was no more than thirty meters ahead of them.

“Maybe you should answer it,” Edie whispered, clearly unnerved by the incoming call. “Otherwise they’ll know something’s up.”

Well aware that the end result would be the same regardless of whether he answered the mobile, Caedmon made no reply as they continued to creep along at a quick but cautious pace.

A few moments later they approached the stone watchtower. The wood-planked door stood wide open; MacFarlane’s men hadn’t bothered with locking up before they departed the premises.

Time being a commodity in short supply, Caedmon yanked Edie into the building’s protective shadow, where the two of them huddled close. He peered around the corner, verifying that the truck was still parked on the other side of the tower.

“I want you to go inside and, if at all possible, lock yourself into a room. Then I want you to use Gallagher’s mobile to ring the authorities. Understood?” When she nodded, he handed her the now-silent mobile phone. “Tell them that you’re an American tourist and that you were earlier abducted from your hotel room. Make no mention of the Ark of the Covenant.”

“What about you?”

“I am off to slay the dragon,” he deadpanned. As he spoke, he checked the clip on the Glock. Sixteen rounds.
Thank God.
He only needed three bullets. One to blow out a tire on the convoy truck. One to take out Stanford MacFarlane. And a third bullet to fell the behemoth.

Hit those three targets, and chaos would ensue.

With chaos, all of MacFarlane’s well-laid plans would come to a crashing halt. The dreams of a madman finally put to rest.

He motioned to the door of the watchtower. “In you go.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he interjected, placing a hand over her mouth. With the other hand, he gently pushed her through the open doorway. Then, hoping she would heed his command, he pulled the door shut.

His right arm cocked at the elbow, the Glock clutched in his hand, Caedmon wended his way around the perimeter of the tower; his plan was to approach the truck from the front rather than the rear, enabling him to take out the cab passenger, the driver, and one of the front tires. In that order. And in quick succession.

The plan was brazen. Reckless, even. But it was the only option left to him. Under no circumstance could he permit MacFarlane to leave the isle alive. Too much was at stake. Too many lives in the balance.

Suppressing the innate fear that arises in any life-and-death situation, he ventured forth. The truck was no more than twenty meters away, just beyond the curve of the building.

Suddenly, he heard the roar of an engine. Blinked at the near-blinding beam of a headlight. The truck was on the move.

He fought the instinctive urge to fire his weapon.

He needed a clean shot. If he botched it, all would be lost.

Knowing he had but seconds to launch his attack, he charged out of the shadows, coming at the truck from an angle to avoid being caught in the headlights. He refused to entertain the thought that in the contest between man and machine, machine almost inevitably won.

Arms locked in a firing position, he found his first target—Stanford MacFarlane—took aim, and fired.

“Shag it!” he muttered; the Glock had jammed. He pulled back the slide on the top of the pistol.

Suddenly, the clatter of machine-gun fire erupted all around him.

Caught in a corona of bullets, he quickly chambered a round, shock and anger hitting him in equal measure.

A heartbeat later, shock instantly mutated into fear as he saw a shaky shaft of green light being aimed at the truck’s windshield.

“Jesusfuckingchrist! I can’t see!” Boyd Braxton hollered, raising his arms to stave off the green light beam. “I can’t see a damn—”

The truck swerved. Jerking to the right. Then the left. A few seconds later, it began to lose speed.

“Put your foot on the gas pedal!” Stan yelled over the top of his gunnery sergeant’s foul-mouthed screams. “We
must
fulfill the prophecy! Do not give in to your fears!”

Averting his head from the burning light, Stan leaned over the top of his gunny and grabbed the steering wheel, knowing that fear was the tool of the devil. Fear was what he’d felt that long-ago night in Beirut. When his best friend, his comrades, his CO were ripped to shreds by an Islamist’s bomb. When he stood shaking in the bomb’s aftermath, snot driveling from his nose, piss puddling at his feet. Afraid to grab his weapon and take action. Afraid to do anything other than drop to his knees and beg God’s mercy.

That was when the angels came to him. Gabriel and Michael. The same two angels who adorned the lid of the Ark. They took his fear from him, asking only that he take up the Lord’s fight.

And every day since, he had done just that.

This day would be no different.

For he knew no fear.

He had complete and certain faith in the sanctity of his mission.

The same faith that had led Abraham and Moses in their darkest hour. The same faith that had compelled David to face his mighty nemesis Goliath.

Those were words to live by. Words to die by.

“The battle for the Temple will soon be upon us! Praise be to the Lord!” he joyfully shouted, retaking control of the truck, steering it straight toward the green beam of light.

Caedmon ran full speed toward the pencil-thin, erratic green glow.

“Turn it off!” he shouted, able to see that MacFarlane had taken control of the careening vehicle. Able to see that he was steering the truck directly toward the source of the light beam.

Edie turned her head in his direction. With her curly hair wildly blowing all about her, she looked like one of the Furies in pursuit of the wicked among them.

Her expression resolute, she shook her head, refusing to move out of the path of the oncoming convoy truck.

He pumped his legs and arms all the faster, afraid he wouldn’t reach her in time. Afraid she would meet her end in a most hideous fashion.
Afraid.

He only had a few seconds, the whole of the world reduced to his pounding heart, the
rat-a-tat-tat
of automatic-weapon fire, the roar of the powerful engine.

She was just a few feet away.

He could save—

In the next instant, he was airborne, diving toward her, his arms and legs stretched taut.

His heart in his throat, Caedmon plowed into Edie with a thudding impact, knocking her off her feet and out of the truck’s pathway. The laser light knocked from her hands, its beam frenetically arced through the night sky before harmlessly plummeting to earth. Limbs tangled together, the two of them rolled across the rocky terrain, the inhospitable surface providing no leaf or blade of grass to soften the impact.

With no time to inquire as to injuries, he rolled to his knees. His finger on the trigger of the Glock, his arms locked in a firing position, he prayed that he had successfully cleared the jam.

The truck now moving away from him, he took aim at the rear tires, permitting himself one deep, calming breath before he fired six shots in quick succession.

His aim true, he hit the new targets, blowing out both rear driver’s-side tires, the truck abruptly fishtailing, wildly swaying from side to side as Stanford MacFarlane lost control of the mammoth two-and-a-half-ton vehicle. As the truck headed toward the steep cliff that overlooked the sea.