James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (26 page)

What else?

He grinned ear to ear.
Right of return for Palestinians.
He personally could care less about the Palestinians, an invented people, who none of the Arab states wanted. But, they were a thorn in the side of the Jews, and with there being millions of them in permanent refugee camps, their return to Israel would mean the eventual extinction of that country, by birthrate alone.

But, the Israeli’s would never allow it under any circumstances. And there was nobody within Israel who cared about the bones he was about to possess.

Closing of Guantanamo?

His head bobbed. “That one’s definitely possible,” he muttered to himself.

“Sir!”

He frowned then turned on his heel.

“What?”

“Something’s happening outside.”

“What?”

“They’ve cleared everyone from outside the square—”

“So? We expected that.”

“—and now hundreds are leaving, voluntarily.”

“What?” Hassan strode toward the exit. “Voluntarily?”

“Yes, sir, through openings in the new fence they put up.”

Hassan walked outside, and saw the crowd had moved to the ring formed by the colonnades, and the border between the Vatican and Italy.

This won’t do.

He motioned for the others to join him.

“They”—he pointed at the crowd—“are our cover. We can’t lose our cover.” He thought for a moment then smiled. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do.”

Rear Exit

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

Dawson stood at the door, cleared of the chains and sundry furniture that had been blocking it. He nodded to one of the Swiss Guards, who raised a radio.

“Now.”

The lights began to shut off outside, and within moments, the entire complex was cloaked in darkness.

“Overseer, report.”

“Hostiles converging on your location now. Several armed,” said Mickey, today’s Overseer with his new spotter, Jagger. Dawson couldn’t help but smile at Niner’s Mickey Jagger jokes, especially with Jagger’s huge lips and Mickey’s massive ears.

“We’re exiting with fifteen, I repeat fifteen. Engage hostiles, report when clear.”

“Engaging.”

Dawson pushed the door open slightly, and could hear the footfalls outside echo between the building and the chapel behind the palace they now occupied. He flipped his night vision goggles down and immediately dozens of shapes, an eerie green, were racing toward him. He had visions of Zombie paintball, something he had recently tried with several of the guys.

It was a blast to say the least.

But this was real. Real guns. Real lives. And what he found disheartening, was that most of these men who were rioting, were normal, average guys, who yesterday were probably going about their daily lives at work, with their families and friends, but some strange twist of fate had them fired up into participating in something that may have never occurred to them to take part in if thought of without the emotion, the fervor, with which they were now gripped.

Mob mentality.

It was human inclination to run toward the crowd, to see what was going on, and once in the midst, to participate. Once the adrenaline began to flow, once the heart began to pump harder, it was difficult to not get caught up in the crowd. Even when the crowd turned violent, the average person, law abiding, pious to the core, could find themselves rushing forward, throwing rocks, screaming at the police, grappling with the riot squad, kicking the squad car, looting from the store.

It was primal.

It was human nature.

It was inexcusable.

But how many can honestly say they hadn’t felt the surge at a football game. Hadn’t wanted to punch in Apollo Creed’s face, knock out Ivan Drago, and be Rambo as he killed an impossible number of Vietnamese and Soviet troops.

Once you were drawn into the narrative, whether it was fiction or real life, you wanted to be part of it, you wanted to participate, and sometimes it was beyond your control, and in the heat of the moment, sometimes it was extremely difficult to step back and ask yourself, “What am I doing? Why am I here?” And to make the even more difficult decision. “I’m leaving.”

And tonight, many innocent people, caught up in a fervor, driven not only by the mob, but fueled with a religious dogma hammered into them since youth, would die. People who just yesterday might have served up a shawarma with a smile to the same Catholic they now wanted to kill, whose children might play with those of the Vatican staff. It was depressing.

And now more were about to die.

He spotted one with a weapon, probably a SIG SG 550 assault rifle taken from one of the security staff. Suddenly the target stopped racing forward, and blew backward, a bright green hole in the center of his chest. The body skidded across the pavement almost a dozen feet, then came to a rest.

His companions stopped. Another, armed, raised his weapon to fire at no one in particular, and he too was blasted from where he stood, and smeared against a wall behind him.

The rest scattered.

“Cleared for exit.”

“Roger that.”

Dawson looked back at the mass of people, all armed, all in body armor, but seven of which weren’t his regular team. Two British cops, two archaeologists, two Swiss Guards, and one wounded civilian on a gurney.
This could turn into a real cluster fuck!

He shoved the door open and stepped outside into the crisp night air, angry yells filling it from the south where the two armed hostiles had just been taken out. But there were yells coming from other directions as well. All directions in fact.

He ran across the parking lot, followed by Atlas, Jimmy, Niner and Spock, who each took knees, covering both directions in the center of the pavement. Stucco and Casey then exited, carrying the injured Giasson, with the professors, Swiss Guards, and Red bringing up the rear. Dawson scanned ahead, not concerned with the flanks, knowing his men would cover those. A controlled burst from one of the team behind him ricocheted off pavement, probably simply discouraging anybody from getting too close. He glanced behind him and saw the gurney clear the pavement, the door of the darkened building already closed behind them.

Everybody advanced to the side of Saint Martha’s Chapel at the rear of the Governatorate Palace.

“How’s it looking, Overseer?”

“Still looking good, proceed another—hold on, I’ve got something, your three o’clock.”

Dawson looked, flipping his night vision back down. There was a group of men, about half a dozen, hiding behind an abandoned car, the engine long cold. Dawson pointed at his eyes, then toward the car. His men nodded in acknowledgement.

“Are they armed?”

“Absolutely three of them, not sure about the other two.”

“Thin the herd.”

“Roger that, thinning.”

Dawson peered through the darkness at the green glows flitting in and out of sight behind the car. A cracking sound ripped through the night, and one of the men skidded out from behind the vehicle, and into plain sight, his weapon clattering on the ground, past him.

He wasn’t moving, but a green glow rapidly spread across the pavement.

One of the men behind the car popped up and ran for the gun.

Dawson raised his weapon and fired a single shot.

The man dropped.

Another ripping sound, as if the end of a whip had snapped out across the darkness, sent another of their would-be attackers into the open, dead.

The remaining two jumped up and opened fire in their general direction. Bullets tore open the brick behind them as they all hit the ground. Dawson took aim and was about to squeeze the trigger when another shot from Overeer was fired, dropping both men in one shot.

“Nice shootin’, Overseer.”

“One for the books, BD.”

“Are we clear?”

“Give me a second.” Dawson waited. “Clear to proceed to next checkpoint.”

“Roger that.”

Everyone leapt to their feet, including a wincing Professor Palmer. She had been shot, just a graze, but had insisted on coming, and he hadn’t heard a moment’s complaint from her, and based upon his previous encounters, he never expected any. She was rock solid, dependable.
The kind of woman
you
need.
Dawson stowed the thought. He was a self-imposed bachelor. Many of the guys had wives, girlfriends, children, families, but not him. Sometimes it was lonely, but he never had to worry about anyone but his parents getting that visit from the Chaplain.
We regret to inform you that your son has died in a training accident.
What bullshit.

He rushed to a stand of thick trees, the same trees they had hid behind earlier, and within sight of the doors to the series of attached buildings leading to the Apostolic Palace, where their secret passageway would get them to safety.

A quick check behind him confirmed that the rest of the group had arrived safely, but as he looked at the rear doors they had exited earlier, his heart sank. There were dozens inside, apparently drawn by the gunfire.

“Looks like our exit is blocked,” he said.

Red came up beside him. “How many?” he asked as he flipped down his night vision goggles.

“Looks like about thirty give or take.”

“Hard to tell if they’re armed.”

“Some definitely are,” came Overseer’s voice over the comm. “At least six at my count, all mixed in with the others.”

“We’ve seen it before,” said Red. “When one with a weapon drops, another picks it up.”

“Agreed,” said Dawson. “We have to treat them all as armed hostiles.”

“Sightseer, can you reposition to assist?”

“Already on our way, Bravo One,” came Wings’ voice over the comm. “ETA sixty seconds.”

“Overseer, how’s your field of fire?”

“I’ve got a clear view of the entrance with no obstructions.”

“When Sightseer is repositioned, I want both of you to take out anybody armed. We’ll advance on the position as soon as you’ve cleared some of them out. Proceed when ready.”

“Roger that,” said Overseer, echoed by Sightseer.

Dawson turned. “Atlas, Niner, Jimmy, you’re with me. We’re taking that entrance. Red, you hold this position until I signal the all clear. Fallback position is the Chapel, then the Governatorate Palace.”

Red nodded and fell back to monitor the rear as Atlas, Jimmy and Niner crawled up beside Dawson.

“Sightseer in position and ready.”

“Overseer ready.”

“Proceed,” said Dawson.

Glass shattered immediately, as two of the remaining windows were taken out, along with two targets inside. But it appeared the men inside were expecting this, and immediately began to spray the area with random fire, their attackers remaining unseen. Two more shots, and another two were down, and as Red had predicted, those unarmed quickly picked up the weapons, continuing to fire.

One of them pointed directly at the stand of trees they were hiding behind, and yelled something. Immediately the half dozen who were armed focused their fire on Dawson’s position.

“Hit the dirt!” yelled Dawson as he looked back to see Acton throw himself over the injured Giasson, and pulling his fiancée down behind the two of them.

Now that’s a brave man.

He, Atlas, Jimmy and Niner poured fire into the now windowless rear exit and into the marbled interior. Overseer and Sightseer continued firing from their most likely elevated positions, and within minutes, those that remained were on the run. Dawson watched as the last scrambled away, and he leapt to his feet.

“Let’s move!”

The motley crew rushed toward the entrance.

“Still clear,” said Overseer.

Dawson and Niner reached the entrance first, slamming a shoulder into either side of what was once a wall of windows. Jimmy and Atlas stepped inside, advancing through the hallways, toward the staircase they needed to take. The professors came next, on either side of the gurney carried by Stucco and Casey, then the two Vatican guards, followed by Red and Spock. Dawson entered the building, the marbled floor slick with blood and shattered glass, and rushed forward, toward the Apostolic Palace.

Moments later they entered the building and advanced on the staircase. As Acton began the climb, he grabbed Dawson’s shoulder. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

Dawson nodded. “You too, Professor.”

He turned away and repositioned himself near the front entrance to the building. “Overseer, Sightseer, reposition for secondary operation.”

“Roger that,” they echoed.

Dawson looked over at the stairwell, and saw Red at the bottom. They exchanged a quick, informal, two fingered salute, noncommissioned officers not saluting each other formally, then Red turned, racing up the steps, leaving Dawson, Atlas, Jimmy, Niner and the two Swiss Guards, alone in the lobby.

“Out of the fryin’ pan and into the fire?” asked Niner as he peered out the window.

“Let’s hope not,” replied Dawson.

But deep down, he had a strange feeling they all wouldn’t be coming back from this one. The numbers were simply stacked too high against them.

Piazza Pio XII Square

Rome, Italy

DC Vitale watched with a smile as hundreds of former rioters streamed out the gates, desperate to end their ordeal. They were most likely tired, hungry, scared, and with the adrenaline of the moment wearing off, many were probably questioning why they were there in the first place.

“Sir!”

Vitale turned and saw one of his men approaching, accompanied by what he assumed to be an Imam in full regalia.

“Sir, this is Imam Farouk Wahhab. He has agreed to address the crowds.”

Vitale extended his hand. “Thank you, sir, for agreeing to help us out.”

The man accepted Vitale’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “It is I who should thank you, for giving me an opportunity to correct a grave error I participated in.”

Vitale loosened his grip but Imam Farouk held on.