“Stand back, all of you!”
Silas emerged from behind the heavy, crimson curtain to a mob of men and women, their dark faces set starkly against their white robes. The Guardian Deacons, come to preserve the memory of their faith.
Both of Pryce’s arms were outstretched, brandishing his and Silas’s confiscated weapons. Tulu was standing off to the side, his face registering a mixture of fear and apprehension at engaging the mob. Celeste was on the ground between both of their feet, leg bloodied, face ashen, barely stirring.
He glanced backward when Silas emerged, shouting,” Grey, you better do something about this crowd! Get them to back off if you want to see your woman alive. And get me my Ark!”
The scene made his pulse race forward, looking down at Celeste caused his stomach to sink.
He moved closer to Pryce, putting a hand on his shoulder. He said gently, but firmly, “It's over. Let's put the weapons down and leave. All they want is for us to leave their relic alone.”
“Damned if I leave,” he growled, waving his arms back and forth in front of the crowd. He glanced back at Silas. His face was frantic, twisted with fear and failure. He stammered, “Did you see it? The Ark? Is…Is it really here? Is it real?”
Silas didn’t know how much to share, especially after the Guardian’s warning.
“It’s not what you think. And it’s not going anywhere.”
Pryce pivoted his right arm toward Silas, aiming it at his face. He kept his left directed at the crowd. "Like hell it ain't."
There was the moment. Now or never.
With an open palm, Silas punched his right hand upward with quick force into Pryce’s forearm. The gun discharged, but then went soaring into the air before skittering across the base of the chapel.
Shock transformed into rage. Pryce swung the arm with the other gun around and lunged for Silas, catching him off guard. The two stumbled back against the facade of the chapel, Pryce pressing against Silas, breathing hard with nostrils flared.
Before Pryce could recover and raise his weapon, Silas kneed him in the groin. The man groaned and stumbled back, then raised his gun and fired twice. The shots exploded into the wall above Silas's head.
The crowd reacted to the shots by gasping and taking a few steps backward, content to let the two white men fight, not knowing which side they were on.
“Give it up, Pryce. The privilege of the Ark’s mystery was never yours anyway.”
“What the hell are you talking about? This was all my work. Mine!”
“Thanks to my find. You would never have made it this far, to begin with, had it not been for me," Silas said, goading the man. "That's right. Without that Ark scrolls, none of this would have happened. And now you have nothing to show for it. Not in Jerusalem, and definitely not here. Your goal of trying to launch the Islamic End Times and undermine the story of Christ's sacrifice is finished. You failed, Pryce!"
The man screamed with the passion of a zealot and lunged for Silas again. But this time he was ready.
He stepped to the side and used Pryce's momentum to plow him into the side of the chapel, head first. Pryce squeezed off two shots in the frantic change of circumstances, but lost the weapon when Silas grabbed his left arm and slammed it against his leg, breaking it in one fell swoop.
Pryce cried out and recoiled in pain, stumbling back. He righted himself then took a step back, but had miscalculated his position.
The man wobbled, then tumbled backward down the stairs to the base of the chapel. And at the feet of Guardian Deacons.
At once a pure white tidal wave came crashing forward into Pryce’s fallen body. It coagulated around him, consuming him with force, and kicking him into submission. Pryce was screaming, as much in agony and fear as he was in defeat. The crowd then picked the man up and carried him down the dirt pathway off the chapel grounds and out of sight.
Keeping the mystery of the Ark and the sacredness of the new covenant intact.
Silas raced to Celeste’s side. Her leg was wet with blood. She had gone ashen gray from the blood loss. Her breathing was labored.
He immediately stripped his shirt off, then he bunched it up and pressed it against her thigh. He held it firm to stanch the flow of blood.
“Stay with me, Celeste. Everything’s going to be alright. Help is on the way.” He lifted her body onto his lap, cradling her in his arms.
This felt like Iraq all over again when his buddy Colton was blown to smithereens by a roadside bomb. He had landed on Silas after his left side was blown off. He had similarly cradled the man as he breathed his last breaths, reassuring him that everything would be fine. That help was on the way. It had eventually come, but it was too late; he was far too gone to save.
No way was this situation going to be that situation. Celeste Bourne was not going to die.
He was having trouble breathing, his lungs feeling as if they were like water-logged sponges. His heart was pounding, his head filling with dizzying panic.
Where was the damn SEPIO extraction team?
She smiled at him weakly. "I guess today's the day I get to cash in my chips from having twice saved your life."
He chuckled, his throat catching with emotion. “Now we’re even.”
She swallowed hard and tried taking a breath, her face betraying her pain.
“It’s alright,” he reassured her. “You’re going to be alright. Just hold on a few more minutes.”
“Silas,” she interrupted. “I need you to promise me something.”
His eyes widened, his stomach dropped. Those were the word's Colton used right before he passed. He made Silas swear on the life of his future kids that he wouldn't quit until every one of the terrorists responsible for 9/11 were hunted down and gunned down. He hadn't known what to say, so he agreed. The man grinned with delight, before coughing up a handful of blood and passing on. It was the last memory he had of his wartime friend.
“Alright,” he said softly, his voice shaking from the memory and the moment.
“Promise me you’ll take my place.” She coughed, then winced with pain.
Thankfully there was no blood.
“What…what are you talking about?”
“If I die,” she said, struggling for breath. “If I die, take over my post. Lead SEPIO forward as director of operations.”
Celeste’s ask was preposterous on so many levels, not least of which was the thought of her dying in his arms
“Celeste,” he said, his voice low and cracking. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think about that. You’re not—”
“Listen to me!” Her strength of tone seemed to startle her as much as Silas. “Nous is growing in power and ambition. Rowan Radcliffe is a steady hand, but SEPIO is going to need someone with your passion for the vintage Christian faith, your special-ops know-how, and your academic chops with all things theological and historical and philosophical.” She stopped to catch a breath, then looked straight into Silas’s eyes. “The Project won’t survive unless you take over for me. I need to know it’s in good hands. Promise me, Silas. Promise me that if I…Promise me that you’ll take over for me…”
He had looked away as she was talking, then looked back at her when she trailed off. Her head had rolled back. Eyes were closed, mouth agape.
Fear gripped Silas’s belly like a vice.
No!
“Celeste?” Silas gently slapper her cheeks. “Celeste wake up.” He turned his ear toward her mouth.
Thank God she was still breathing! But she wasn’t going to hold on much longer.
Heavy thumping blades of a helicopter caught Silas’s attention. He looked up at the sky. Within a minute, the bird descended and landed on the front lawn, dust and leaves flying high.
Within minutes, three SEPIO operatives had run up the stairs to the chapel. One carrying an automatic rifle, the two others a yellow, plastic stretcher.
“What happened?” one of the medics asked.
“Shot in the leg. About an hour ago. She’s been losing blood all that time. My guess is it nicked the femoral artery. She’s been in and out of consciousness.”
He stepped to the side as they began to work on her. They immediately placed an oxygen mask around her face and hooked a set of wires to her chest. One of the men tore open a packet of some sort of solution. He removed Silas's shirt, now soaking with blood. Then he poured the packet of powder on her thigh. He took a fist-full of gauze and shoved it on the wound, then made quick work wrapping it with tape. The other man positioned the rescue stretcher near Celeste, then the other one grabbed her legs, and the two placed her in the plastic bed.
Silas stood to leave as the two operatives picked up Celeste.
The operative with the rifle said, “Sorry, buddy. But there isn’t any more room on the chopper.”
“Like hell there’s not! I’m not leaving her, I’m coming with.”
He started forward before the man pressed his hand firmly against his chest.
“No. You’re not. You did good, soldier. But now it’s our turn. A separate unit is on its way to extract you. Radcliffe can bring you up to speed on her condition if he chooses.”
Silas sighed and placed both hands on his head, trying to hold back the dam of emotion wanting to burst through as he watched Celeste being carried down the steps and into the chopper.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, you better keep her alive!