Isaiah and Samuel crouched behind a stack of wooden crates inside a dimly lit tunnel, their keen senses straining for any sound. This tunnel, they realized, would eventually lead them straight to the nerve center of Jonah’s comm center. They also knew that their path wouldn't be clear, either.
Their suspicions were confirmed when a guttural voice sliced through the silence. "Looks like we got ourselves some company, Uncango," it said. Two figures materialized from the shadows at the other end of the tunnel - Demerol, a hulking mercenary with a shaved head, and Uncango, a wiry man with a cruel glint in his eyes, both brandishing assault rifles. “We knew you were coming,” Demerol said, his voice echoing off the surrounding walls. “We saw you coming a mile away. Though, coming through the back door—I have to say that none of us saw that coming. Doesn’t matter though. You’re here, we’re here. I think it’s time to wrap this up, don’t you?”
The subsequent silence that followed stretched, punctuated only by the drip of condensation. Then, without warning, Uncango opened fire. The deafening crack echoed in the confined space as a shard of wood sheared off the crate inches from Isaiah's head. The Vatican Knight flinched, but Isaiah remained steady.
A torrent of bullets erupted from Demerol and Uncango's rifles, stitching across the crates that offered meager cover for the Vatican Knights. Isaiah and Samuel, utilizing the sporadic pauses in the enemy's fire, darted from crate to crate, moving steadily closer. Their own shots were measured, each one aimed for a vital point.
As the rattle of gunfire filled the air, Demerol and Uncango grunted in frustration when their weapons went dry. As they fumbled with ejecting spent magazines and slamming new ones in place, it was a brief window of opportunity for Samuel who took careful aim, focusing on the sliver of Uncango's forehead visible between the crate and his helmet, and pulled the trigger. A single, precise shot rang out.
Uncango's eyes widened in surprise, a crimson stain blooming on his forehead. He crumpled to the floor, lifeless. Demerol, momentarily stunned, turned his weapon on the crates, the hail of bullets splintering wood and showering the Vatican Knights with debris.
But Demerol couldn't sustain the onslaught for long. His magazine ran empty once again, and his assault rifle fell silent. With a measure of anger, he tossed the useless weapon aside and drew a gleaming knife. Moving away from the crates and standing defiant in the center of the tunnel, he cried out, "So, here we are—me without a gun, you with plenty of ammo and the means to gun me down in cold blood, which I know is not only against your protocols but a sin in the eyes of God . . . But you know I cannot let you pass. In my eyes,” Demerol added, “that gives you one choice; to take me on as a man, mano-y-mano.” He held up the knife, it’s blade reflecting a glint of light from a nearby lightbulb that glowed dimly.
Isaiah met Demerol’s gaze and knew that the commando was clinging to his sense of honor. "Tell you what," Isaiah said, his voice echoing. "This place holds nothing for you. My battle, the battle of the Vatican Knights, is with another."
“God will not allow you to defeat Jonah. You know that, don’t you? You are in alliance with a pope who is blind to the conservative manners of the righteous. But you’re too blind to see this.”
Isaiah set aside his assault rifle and made his way to the center of the corridor where he removed his knife from its sheath and moved within Demerol’s strike range. “And I suppose the Black Monk has enlightened you to see beyond the righteous virtues of other men only to see within them sin, if what they believe goes against the Black Monk’s philosophy, is that it?” he asked.
Demerol looked at the knife in his hand. Then: “Let’s just get this over with,” he said. Then he lunged forward, the knife flashing in the dim light.
Isaiah sidestepped the attack with practiced ease. The ensuing fight was a blur of motion. Demerol fought with raw aggression, but Isaiah was an expert in double-edged weaponry. He parried Demerol's blows, his own movements precise and controlled. Finally, with a swift maneuver, he disarmed Demerol and sent the knife clattering across the floor.
Demerol stared at Isaiah with awe. The Vatican Knight had been toying with him, like a master against an apprentice, even when Demerol had been considered a master himself. Then Demerol, raising his chin in defiance and nodding as if to say, ‘all right for you,’ retrieved his knife. “Lucky break for you that was. Believe me when I say it won’t happen again.”
“Walk away,” Isaiah told him. “It’s that simple.”
“Not so simple for a soldier who places honor well above cowardice. You have your code, I have mine.” Then Demerol attacked again, this time with astonishing speed and practiced moves that were well-honed. He slashed his knife at Isaiah with a series of thrusts and sweeping slashes, the blade cutting the air with sounds of whispers.
Back and forth from left to right, then up and down and then across, Demerol missing. Then he stepped in and drove the blade horizontally, slashing Isaiah’s vest, then came right up to notch a groove in Isaiah’s face plate. Feeling emboldened, Demerol pushed forward, his knife flashing in the dim light, back and forth, diagonally, the sweeps blurs to most men’s eyes. But Isaiah held his own, deflecting the strikes as steel clashed against steel.
And then Isaiah made a pivotal move. On the balls of his feet, he rotated and with a spinning hook kick, his boot connected with Demerol’s temple. The move was performed with such precision and speed, that the back of his boot fractured the bones of Demerol’s temple and drove the shards into his brain, killing him.
Demerol fell as something boneless, the man dead before he hit the concrete.
Isaiah, retrieving his assault weapon, ran the final leg of the tunnel along with Samuel.