Isaiah led the Vatican Knights through the chilling dampness of the tunnels as they moved with a wordless understanding forged from years of relentless training. A hand signal here, a shift in weight there – all conveying urgency and purpose.
As the air grew increasingly stagnant from idle turbines that were no longer forcing an airflow, the team came to a tunnel that split into two paths, one veering east and the other west. Isaiah, raising a balled fist to hold the unit up, then launched into a series of communicative hand gestures. Samuel was to follow Isaiah’s lead and move east; Nehemiah was to follow Jeremiah in the west-wing tunnel.
After giving each other a thumbs up of acknowledgment, in the shadows they went, the Vatican Knights disappearing like the alpha predators they were.
* * *
As the wheels of the golf cart's tires whispered over the concrete, Colbert maneuvered the vehicle in the direction of the east-wing tunnel that was a click away, or just over a half mile. Sitting beside him was Eclaire, who was wearing a single earbud firmly nestled in his ear.
Then over Eclaire’s earbud, a crackling from Jonah’s comm mic from base command inside the main area, "Two hostiles," his voice crackled. "East-wing tunnel, half-click out."
“Copy that,” Eclaire returned.
Colbert, without a word, eased his foot off the accelerator. The cart glided to a silent stop, the sudden quiet broken only by the dripping of water from an overhead pipe.
With practiced efficiency honed from countless missions, they checked their weapons for function ability, the metallic clicks snapping in the stillness. Then they left the abandoned cart behind, creeping towards the tunnel opening with movements of caution.
Reaching the mouth of the east-wing tunnel, Eclaire pressed the button on his earbud communicator. "Base," he spoke in an urgent measure, his words barely a whisper. "Kill the lights to the east corridor. We'll approach the hostiles using cover."
When the bank of wall lights lit from low wattage bulbs went off, darkness engulfed the tunnel entrance. With the familiar weight of their weapons offering a huge comfort, Eclaire and Colbert, now silhouettes against the darkness, entered the corridor with their senses on high alert. Inhaling air that was still thick and heavy with dust, Eclaire and Colbert moved down the hallway with their hushed steps muddling the line between hunter and hunted.
* * *
Subterranean Comm Center
"Two hostiles," Jonah informed Eclaire. "East-wing tunnel, half-click out."
“Copy that.”
A moment later, Eclaire’s voice sounded once again over the comm. “Base . . . Kill the lights to the east corridor. We'll approach the hostiles using cover.”
The tech looked at Jonah, their eyes pinning each other. After a beat, Jonah said, “Do it.”
The tech, typing in commands, hit the ENTER button, turning off the lights to that particular hallway.
Jonah, however, felt uncomfortable since the Vatican Knights used the shadows with unmatched expertise. Though he had to believe in the skill sets of his team who were equally as accomplished at using the shadows as they were, he couldn't help but remember the risks. Having been a Vatican Knight himself, he knew that the Vatican Knights prided themselves on using shadows to better serve the Light.
Spoken under his breath, Jonah murmured, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
* * *
Jenson and Diamanti ventured to the point of the west-wing tunnel. When Jenson hit his earbud to link up with the comm center, it was Jonah who responded. Like Eclaire, Jenson demanded that the lights to the west-wing be turned off. Less than thirty seconds later, the lights were killed, the dark tunnel their domain.
With their assault rifles raised and leveled, Jenson hugged the left wall, Diamanti the right, and in perfect unison, they moved into shadows that were as black as pitch.
* * *
That left the central tunnel. Demerol and Uncango would use it to come up behind the Vatican Knights, pinning them in the middle. With Colbert and Eclaire in the east and Jenson and Diamante in the west, the Knights would be hemmed in with nowhere to go.
On paper, the plan looked inescapable for the Vatican Knights.
But schemes, especially on paper, rarely worked out as planned.
* * *
In the stifling darkness, Eclaire crouched low with his hand hovering near the rough wood of a crate. With his ears straining, he was able to pick up the faint hum of a generator running somewhere deep within the abandoned bunker. Beside him, Colbert mirrored his pose, the man also listening, his movements silent.
They had infiltrated the supply area with practiced ease. Here, in this forgotten corner, crates upon crates were stacked precariously containing deactivated weapons – remnants of a time when bullets and bombs reigned supreme.
In the shadows, Eclaire shifted, a near-silent command to Colbert as they moved in sync, their steps light and precise despite the obstacles of surrounding crates. Nor did they speak as Eclaire drifted left with his fingers brushing the worn metal of a deactivated missile launcher. Memories, cold and clinical, flickered in his mind – specifications, blast radius, outdated technology rendered obsolete by smart weapons. Then he pushed on; the silence broken only by the rasp of his boot striking a loose crate lid lying on the concrete, the cover skidding a few inches. In the hushed shadows, the sound of it sliding across the concrete floor was dramatically amplified.
Both Eclaire and Colbert came to an abrupt stop.
What followed was a subsequent silence.
But it wouldn’t last long.
* * *
In the shadows where nocturnal creatures lie in wait, two figures clad in the obsidian armor of the Vatican Knights pressed themselves against a stack of crates. The air held a commanding silence as they waited for their quarry to make a misstep. For Isaiah and Samuel, patience was both a silent vigil and the perfect virtue to possess as a hunter.
Then across from them in the maze of crates, they felt a shift in air pressure, faint but unmistakable, as two figures, barely a whisper in the darkness, reacted with a startled flinch. The element of surprise that Eclaire and Colbert tried so hard to cultivate had vanished within the harsh echo of a dislodged crate lid that slid across the floor, the sound as clamorous as a deafening trumpet sounding out in the pitch darkness.
Isaiah and Samuel rose in unison, their movements a blur of practiced efficiency despite the darkness, then separated with each man moving toward a specific target.
* * *
Colbert’s muscles coiled tight as he crouched amongst the crates. His breaths were shallow, and his heartbeat slowed, both the hallmarks of a warrior in control. The darkness was his friend, an adage that had been implanted in his mind long ago. The shadows—always keep them close—for they are your shield. Without sight, even the most honed reflexes become dulled. And when one sense becomes dulled, then another must be enhanced—like hearing, the ability to pick up the most perceptible sound and to home in on it; or perhaps the sense of touch, such as to feel a footstep planting itself on a nearby floorboard that conducts its vibrations from point A to point B; or the sense of smell where the chemicals inside a glass of water could be detected from across the room. Without sight, other senses had to become hyper-aware of their surroundings and the things that lurked within them. That was what Colbert was taught as an officer of the Irish Defense Forces Special Forces Unit.
In the shadows, he traced fingers over the familiar ridges of his assault rifle, the cold metal a grounding force in his anticipation of taking the enemy, knowing in his heart that it was approaching. Then Colbert squeezed his eyes shut and pictured the warehouse in his mind's eye. Each crate became a looming presence, every corner a potential hiding place. Time became distorted with each tick of his internal clock an eternity punctuated by the measured beat of his heart. He strained to hear, anything – the rustle of clothing, the exhale of a held breath, the telltale click of a weapon being readied. But there was nothing, only the sense of his unseen enemy growing heavier with each passing moment, nearing, the hostile’s grace that of a feline. The air hung thickly over him like a pall, a hovering menace, the former commando intuiting that his enemy was just beyond his reach.
It was closing, this he knew, the operative gripping his weapon in a white-knuckled hold.
I know you’re there.
His eyes remained closed as his ears, his sense of smell, and the feel of the earth beneath his feet, all became supersensitive. And yet, nothing registered outside of his instinct, which did not betray him. Something was there, watching and waiting, perhaps for the opportune moment to strike, this he knew.
He stood as still as a Grecian statue with his senses and instincts in overdrive.
I know you’re—
A pair of hands reached out from the darkness, two tendrils that were blacker than black with a hand planting itself on the forehead of Colbert’s helmet, the other cupping his chin, and then a violent twist, Colbert’s neck snapping with an audible crack that echoed throughout the chamber.
After Colbert fell immediately to the ground as a boneless heap, the hands disappeared into the shadows.
* * *
The rough wood of the old crate pressed into Eclaire's back as sweat slicked his skin as a result of the dampness of the depository. Every muscle in his body was taut, a hunter's coil against the unidentified predator stalking him and Colbert. And then, a sound. A sickening crack that echoed hollowly through the darkness.
As a sour lump lodged inside Eclaire's throat, he realized with a chilling clarity that the snap wasn't Colbert's doing. It was the sound of his neck twisting, of life being snuffed out in an instant. His unseen enemy, a phantom in the darkness, had moved with a predator's grace.
He drew a slow, deliberate breath, forcing his senses to hyperdrive. The whisper of moving fabric, the faintest shift in weight on the uneven floorboards – anything. But he heard nothing, felt nothing, the world around him seemingly dead.
Reaching up, he tapped his earbud and whispered, “Base command.”
“Go,” it was Jonah.
“Colbert’s down.”
“What?”
“Colbert . . . is . . . down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty much.”
“Pretty much. What does that mean?”
“Turn on the lights.”
There was a pause.
Then from Eclaire in a strained whisper, “Turn . . . on . . . the . . . li—”
A hand clapped over Eclaire’s mouth, the act catching the former DGSE operative by surprise as his eyes flared wide as the blade of a knife crossed his throat and cut deep, the man now gagging in his blood as he fell to his knees, dropping his weapon. With his hands grasping his throat, he tried desperately to hold the lips of his wound together, that horrible second mouth that bled copiously. Then he started to gag with a sickening wet sound, a gurgle, and then he coughed a mist of red.
“Eclaire!”
Eclaire tried to answer, but he couldn’t, his wet noises were nothing but nonsensical sounds.
“Eclaire!”
And then he fell forward with his helmet smashing hard against concrete floor, the man now lying in his own pool of blood that spread outwardly beneath him in a perfect halo.
“Eclaire!”
There was no response.
* * *
“Base Command.”
“Go.” Jonah said.
“Colbert’s down.”
“What?”
“Colbert . . . is . . . down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty much.”
“Pretty much. What does that mean?”
“Turn on the lights.”
Jonah leaned forward and stared at the blank screen; the warehouse section housing old World War II components was blacked out.
Then from Eclaire: “Turn . . . on . . . the . . . li—”
With Eclaire’s earbud still on, Jonah, along with the techs at the panel, could hear the subsequent struggle, and then the gagging, and the coughing.
“Eclaire!”
The choking, and the nonsensical vowels and the choppy sounding consonants that followed.
“Eclaire!”
Then came the abrupt ending of the signal as the helmet hit the concrete, causing the earbud to shatter.
“Eclaire!”
Silence.
“Turn on the lights,” Jonah told the tech.
The technician’s fingers typed in the commands and hit the ENTER button. On the screen, the lights inside the Old War Room winked on, one bank after another turning on in sequence. Though the lighting wasn’t the greatest, it was enough to shed enough illumination onto the bodies of Eclaire and Colbert.
“No,” Jonah said, raking his fingers through his hair. “No-no-no-no-no!” Jonah didn’t know why he was surprised, but he was. He had placed too much confidence in his unit, believing they could outwit and outmaneuver the Vatican Knights. But Isaiah’s team had full command of the situation by taking out two members of his mercenary team—Colbert and Eclaire, both who were classified as superior soldiers when operating in the dark. But being a Vatican Knight himself, Jonah chided himself because he should have known better. The Vatican Knights trained in the shadows for days on end, honing their senses until they became one with the darkness, something Kimball Hayden taught them.
When he stopped raking his fingers through his hair, he said evenly, “Turn on the lights to the facility.”
“All of them?”
“All of them. Apparently, my team’s expertise of operating in the dark is not what I was led to believe, at least not on the level of the Vatican Knights. By turning on the lights, we take away their advantage. There will be no shadows for them to hide in.”
“Yes, sir.”
After a few clicks on the keyboard and a tap on the ENTER button, the lights to the subterranean bunker lit up section by section.
* * *
Demerol and Uncango in the central tunnel, and Jenson and Diamanti in the west-wing tunnel, all appeared dumbfounded when the overhead lights blinked on, the tunnels now cast in quasi-gloom from aged bulbs working on low wattage.
Demerol was immediately on his earbud, as was Jenson, the two wanting to know ‘what’s going on.’
“What’s going on?” Jonah ripped into them. “You,” he said, calling out Demerol personally with Jenson listening in, “told me that your men could operate under any condition—cold, dark, heat, whatever. So, I hired the team leaders of their respective commands believing they were the best of the best. Now, I have two men lying dead in the east wing, meaning that the Vatican Knights have opened a gateway to march freely into the command center.”
“Are you saying Colbert and Eclaire—”
“Yes!” Jonah cut off Demerol. “Colbert and Eclaire are dead. I don’t even think they put up a fight by the looks of things—just two stiffs lying on the ground without them firing off a round. There are no shell casings to be found anywhere.” After a beat, Jonah calmed down and said, “But it’s my fault, as well. I should have known better. The Vatican Knights use the shadows like no other. And they train for days without food or water to develop that preternatural sense to operate in the dark. To compete against them from here on in, I took away their advantage by turning on the lights. No more cloaking shadows to hide behind. That means you’ll have to hit them straight on, mano-y-mano, with knives out and teeth bared.”
“I don’t see a problem with that,” said Jenson.
“I was proven wrong by believing in your talents that you could operate in the dark. Don't prove me wrong again by allowing me to continue believing your combat skills are more superior than the Vatican Knights.”
“No worries,” said Demerol.
But Jonah did worry. It was the first time he doubted the abilities of his troops while he foolishly underestimated the capabilities of the Vatican Knights.
“Demerol,” Jonah finally said, “what’s your twenty?”
“About a half click inside the central tunnel.”
“Return to Base Command,” Jonah ordered. “If the Vatican Knights broke through the east-wing team, that means they’re on their way to my point.” Jonah motioned to the tech to bring up camera images in the east-wing tunnels until they found two Vatican Knights, Isaiah and Samuel, moving in an eastbound direction to Base Command. And then: “Demerol.”
“Go.”
“Verified. I have two hostiles making their way to my position from the east tunnel, which means that there are two Vatican Knights elsewhere, most likely in the west-side tunnel. I need you and Uncango here to help secure the comm center. And Jenson?”
“Go.”
“Our visual monitors haven't picked up two of the hostiles, meaning that the Vatican Knights divided themselves into two two-man teams, one going east, the other west. It’s a common tactic they use to hem in the enemy I want you to locate them and take them down.”
“Copy that.”
Jonah cut off communication and, to the tech, ordered him to locate the two remaining Vatican Knights believed to be in the west-wing tunnels.
The tech, searching through a large number of monitors inside of a grand system, did just that. But it wouldn’t be easy since the Vatican Knights, along the way, were taking out the lights with their suppressed weapons, and taking back the advantage.