The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021) by Rick Jones (good novels to read .TXT) 📗

removed his suppressed sidearm from his shoulder holster. He looked at the ornate door, which was glossy white with gold painted trimmings. Then he turned his attention to the door that led into the neighboring suite, perhaps an escape route.

Nothing but absolute silence, which in itself was as blaring as an orchestra reaching its crescendo note.

The Man from Munich moved quietly to the door with both hands on his firearm, which was directed at the entryway. Footfall after silent footfall, the man was as stealthy as a legitimate assassin whose senses were heightening with each step forward.

Then he stopped.

And he listened.

He now knew that he wasn’t alone in this world anymore.

Alpha predators loomed close by to dominate and destroy the threat he had become, things that were greater, stronger, faster and far more vicious than he.

The Man from Munich looked at his gun, a suppressed Glock, perhaps a peashooter in the scheme of things to come.

And then with the slowness of a bad dream, this white glossy door with gold trim exploded inward from the result of a battering ram smashing the locking mechanism with ease. Splinters of wood flew inward, the shards dangerously pointed. And then the doorknob bounced and skated across the floor until it ended up at Munich’s feet. The courier quickly aligned his sight and looked for a target to lock on to, but found nothing, even as he set off a volley of muted shots.

. . . Phfttt . . .

. . . Phfttt . . .

. . . Phfttt . . .

. . . Phfttt . . .

Then he saw a hand toss something inside a room, something metallic, a pipelike device that hit and bounced across the floor. A flashbang.

The Man from Munich turned away in time as the flashbang went off. The room became as bright as a supernova. The concussive waves helped carry the Man from Munich over the bed as he dove for cover.

Men clad in special forces attire moved inside wearing Kevlar vest and helmets with face shields. They also carried suppressed-tipped automatic weapons that were at eye level with the points turning and searching for a target.

The world belonging to the Man from Munich was caught within a haze and was slow moving, the effects of the flashbang dulling his senses. At the moment, his brain could only process the shape shifting of his enemies, these blackened forms who quickly invaded his space with the fever of the hunt deep within their hearts.

The Man from Munich raised his weapon as a last-ditch effort of self-preservation. But his actions appeared too slow and weighted, his arm all of a sudden much heavier than he could have ever imagined.

Then came the piercings of his flesh as round after round penetrated his skin. To the Man from Munich, they felt like the multiple stabbings from the points of hot knitting needles, the pain sharp and localized before the agony started to spread across his torso with white-hot pain. As witness to his own suffering, the Man from Munich saw the muzzle flashes of their firing weapons and felt the multiple stings of the bullets’ impacts. Then he could sense the closing of the CHAPTER that had been his life.

Laying on the floor staring ceilingward, and with the sounds of his own slowing breath, the Man from Munich began to see the faces gather above him with a single voice sounding as though it was coming from the deep base of a hollow well. The Man from Munich, however, could not understand the voice or what it was asking of him.

. . . breathing . . .

. . . breathing . . .

. . . breathing . . .

And then the edges of Munich’s sight began to turn purple, and then black, with the outer walls closing to a pinpoint dot of vision. Even as he tried to cling to life and tried to jumpstart his will to live, his body was succumbing to a trauma that was too great to overcome.

. . . breathing . . .

. . . breathing . . .

. . . breath—

And just like that, the Man from Munich was gone.

* * *

“Maxwell Gruber.” This was more of a statement than a question as the team leader of the FBI Task Force stood over the Man from Munich with the point of his weapon directed at Gruber’s center mass. But Gruber appeared disconnected as the light in his eyes began to fade.

As blood beneath the Man from Munich fanned out across the floor beneath him, the task force leader watched Gruber expel his final breath with a long sigh to vacate his lungs. Once it had been established that the Man from Munich had checked out for good, the task force leader went to the suitcase that was lying on the bed. On the suitcase’s aluminum shell that was lined with lead shielding was an oval shape with protruding horns emblazoned in red, the symbol regarded as Satan. Once opened, they saw the shields and the keypads meant to upcycle the unit.

“Close the lid,” he told one of his operatives. Then, stepping aside, he hit his earbud to open communications. “Direct Leader One to Comm Center, do you read?”

“We copy, Direct Leader One.”

“The tango has been neutralized and the package appropriated and rendered safe. I repeat: the tango has been neutralized and the package appropriated and rendered safe.”

“Comm Center copies that, Direct Leader One.”

Tapping his earbud to cancel the communication, the task force leader looked at the body of Max Gruber. He was well dressed, the man wearing a suit, tie and shirt, though his shirt, once blue, was saturated with blood and marked with a number of holes. His body would be removed in a light-weight plastic bag, then burned as a means to erase his existence.

Once again turning his attention to Satan who sat upon the bed, the task force leader knew of its history as part of the Unholy Trinity. Now that