C. Palov - Ark of Fire

Edie furtively scanned the area, terrified that the scuffle, which lasted only a few seconds, had been observed.

Mercifully, she heard no alarm being issued; MacFarlane’s men were still clambering into the back of the truck.

“Is he . . . ?” She jutted her chin at the man sprawled on the other side of the limestone slab.

Caedmon tersely shook his head. “But pray the bastard doesn’t awake any time soon.”

Taking her by the elbow, Caedmon quickly shepherded her toward the convoy truck. Not only did they keep to the shadows, but they kept a low profile, both of them hunched at the waist.

About fifty yards from the truck, Caedmon yanked her behind a scraggly clump of dried vegetation.

“Our objective, our only objective, is to prevent the Ark from being loaded onto that yacht in the bay. If that happens, it will be lost forever. I mean this, love . . . no heroics.” As he spoke, he lightly grasped her by the chin.

“Do you think we’ve actually got a chance?”

“So long as our escape from the hapless Gallagher goes undetected. Their success is not yet a fait accompli.”

“If they do find Gallagher, they’re gonna turn on us like a pack of wolves.”

Still holding her by the chin, Caedmon stared at her. Taking a deep breath, he said, “The bloodletting, if it comes, will be voracious. And altogether pitiless.”

CHAPTER 90

“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.’”

Submit or die.

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.

And the serpent will be cast into the bottomless pit . . . so that he should deceive the nations no more till the thousand years were finished.

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!”

CHAPTER 91

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.

Stay safe, love.

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.