She rolled over to the other side and dropped. With an amazed expression, Shoshana said, “So that’s why they call you Koko?”

Jennifer said, “There’s always a little truth in a callsign, Carrie.”

Shoshana grinned and took off running. Now inside the fabled Roman Forum, they had unimpeded access to reach the Colosseum. Beating the merchant of death to his destination.

92

Jacob stood, his ears ringing, the blood coating the teenagers in front of him and the screams filling the chamber. He shook his head and focused on the altar. The few unwounded Vatican prelates were slowly getting their wits about them. The security was in disarray, one staggering about, his face a bloody mess. Another was leaning over the Holy Father, pulling him to his feet. Alive.

Shocked, Jacob was momentarily immobilized at the sight. Devon and Carlos were split apart, their blood and body parts dripping down the marble pillars, and the pope lived. His two friends had sacrificed themselves for nothing. He couldn’t believe the injustice. No, no, no. A bloodlust rage filled him, blotting out everything but the desire to slaughter the target. His mission came into focus. He was to be the shahid.

He pushed a kid out of the way, staggering toward the altar. He slipped in Devon’s blood, but didn’t even register the fact. He gathered steam, charging toward the confusion.

He crossed a torn body wearing a suit, the man’s earpiece now askew, his eyes looking skyward, unseeing. He pulled the submachine gun from his grasp and kept going. He reached the Holy Father and put the barrel against the security man trying to help him to his feet. He pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded, and he dropped, collapsing on the floor like his skeleton had turned to Jell-O.

Jacob stared into the eyes of the pope and said, “Time to pay the piper.”

The Holy Father did nothing but look back at him, showing absolutely no fear.

Jacob heard a pounding of feet and saw an avalanche of security running toward him, all with weapons drawn. He reached the moment of decision. Kill the pope right now. Do the mission. Take the pain, just as he had in the past, when the Christian monsters had tortured him in the white house.

The lead man saw the situation and screamed at the others to halt. They did, in a ragged line, all weapons aimed at him. Jacob held the gun to the Holy Father’s head. He felt the tension in the trigger.

He pulled the Father’s head up, and all that he’d done and seen went through his mind. All that he wanted to be, and all that had been taken from him.

The Kurd he’d killed burst forth. His neck. The knife. Cutting through the tendons. The blood. The twitching. The absolute control over life and death.

Ringo had been right. That killing was different. It had been his introduction to hell, and now he was on an inexorable path to eat the brimstone. All because of his commitment to the Islamic State.

It was too late to stop the slide.

Remember Devon. Remember Carlos. Pull the trigger.

His life was decided. He started to squeeze, then paused.

Enough.

Devon and Carlos had chosen their path, but he didn’t have to follow. No way would he be a shahid. He wasn’t dying for the Islamic State. He wasn’t sacrificing himself for some sick bastards who burned people alive.

Fuck them.

He wasn’t dying at all. He jerked the Holy Father to his feet, snarling, “Tell them to back off.”

They stood, the security detail surrounding them watching in shock. The Holy Father was in disarray, his head now shorn of the famous papal attire, the blood from the men that protected him coating his official robes, but he was calm. He said, “Lower your weapons.”

The men did. Jacob jabbed the submachine gun against the pope’s back and said, “Walk.”

His Holiness looked at Jacob and said, “Where? Where are we to go? You can’t escape from in here. Look at the men. Look at the weapons. Give up.”

Jacob snarled, “Start moving.”

He hid behind the pope’s body and shouted, “Back the fuck up!”

The security men stumbled backward. At that moment, Jacob knew nobody was in charge. He was looking at a phalanx of individuals, all afraid to make a decision.

He pushed the Holy Father forward and turned in a circle, searching for what he’d seen on the Internet. The statue of Saint Longinus. The man who’d put the spear into Jesus Christ as he’d hung nailed to the cross.

He didn’t reflect on the irony of his search, only that the sculpture of Saint Longinus, carved into the pillar holding the dome aloft in Saint Peter’s Basilica, held the stairwell to the grottoes below. A means of escape.

He found it and said, “Get moving, old man. We’re leaving now.”

*   *   *

Walking at a brisk pace down Via dei Fori Imperiali, Omar saw the Colosseum ahead, the skyline it presented unmistakable. He checked his watch, and knew he was late. Doing the attack after the one in the Vatican would accomplish nothing. He began skipping forward, almost running, the duffel bag slapping his leg.

As he got closer, paralleling the Forum, he was accosted every step of the way by bloodsuckers looking to sell him tours. He brushed them off and kept moving. He saw the chaos around the road surrounding the Colosseum and began searching for the entrance. Looking for the means to kill the largest number possible.

He jogged forward, crossing the street, the ancient columns from the past towering above him, a creation he knew the Islamic State could never replicate.

They adhered to the same brutality the Roman Empire showcased in this very Colosseum, but that is where the similarities ended. There would be no grand architecture from the Islamic State. The duality of that thought caused him no angst. Creation of something profound wasn’t in his makeup. The caliph alone was all that mattered.

He walked toward the entrance, the duffel bag against his leg. He saw the line, behind a fence. He approached the gate, and found he could enter. The checkpoint processing tickets was deeper in. He passed by a uniformed guard that paid him no mind. He kept walking, the lines getting more robust, the target getting better.

He paused, not wanting to get too far in without a means of escape. He turned around, making sure he could still make it out after initiating the chemicals, and saw someone running toward him.

The woman he’d held under his knife.

93

I heard the screams start and knew we were either too late, or about to be the heroes. I hoped it was the latter. The man from the State Department seemed incapacitated, the explosions and shouting causing his mouth to open and close like a fish out of water. I grabbed him by the collar and said, “How do we get into the basilica without fighting the crowds? How do we get in?”

His eyes rolled left and right, looking for a way out of the disaster, following the people fleeing. I slapped him on the cheek. “Wake the fuck up! Get me in. Right now.”

He said, “The grotto. That will bypass everyone. It’ll put you into the heart of the basilica.”

I said, “Lead the way, but do it on the run.”

We took off, fighting through the throng in Saint Peter’s Square, most having no idea what had happened, but a few recognizing something was terribly wrong, causing panic in the others.

We went to the right of the facade and hit a security checkpoint, the guard manning it unsure of what was going on, but damn sure that nobody was getting past. My guide waved his badge, and was rebuffed. I pulled my weapon and said, “Let my team in. Someone’s trying to kill the pope.”