The distance to the wall behind Hill and Borders was a matter of feet, easily covered with a few good strides. Hill, with Borders's assistance, crashed into the dead bricks. The impact caused an avalanche of red dust which burst forth like a sandstorm. The heavy humidity forced the dust towards the ground, but not before it attacked their eyes and their lungs. Hill's hold on Borders broke as the two men began coughing and rubbing their eyes, trying to clear out the grit, trying to regain their vision.
The cell phone fell from Hill's pocket, skidding across the glass floor, and falling over the edge, dropping at the feet of the wary men below. They looked up, catching sight of the scuffle. Jeopardy reached back behind her shoulder to grasp the handle of a knife, but before she could throw it, a shot rang out. It sunk into a rotted wall as Hill ran for the ladder. What had been the perfect opportunity for Lady Brenda and Jeopardy to escape, quickly became a memory.
As Hill scurried down the ladder, the two terrorists continued firing, disintegrating the posts and walls. It increased the thickness of the dust, impairing vision. The dust weighted down by humidity, spread out past the glass floor, falling towards the terrorists. As it touched the level below, it began to form a whirlwind, rotating in a slow circle. It grew in size and intensity, its height ascending and wideness expanding. The two terrorists attempted to back away, but the defaced wall hindered them pressing against their backs.
The whirlwind increased in size, its spirals scraping the decomposing walls, adding the debris and dust to its mass. The front of the cloud began to change color, from brown to a faint shade of white, overlaid with a red cross. The terrorists pressed against the wall, the wind screaming in their ears, a sound of death. The massive dust cloud thickened, taking the form of a man. A face and arms came into view. The left arm held a large shield, emblazoned with a red cross. The right arm held a sword.
The two men screamed, their faces pressed against the wall that held the bones of St. Peter. A nightmare, a fiend from their bedtime stories, a crusader, stood before them. They prayed to Allah, who didn't listen. The sword raised above them, coming down, stopping the screams of one of the men. By now, Hill was at the bottom of the ladder. Eyes wide, he stared at the apparition. He watched in horror, as one of the men fell to the floor, his throat spewing life's essence. Bringing up his Glock, he fired at the swirling dust, the round spiraling through unabated, striking the terrorist on the other side. Fearing for his life, he grabbed the cell phone from the clay and raced down one of the darkened passageways.
On the level above, the air choked and blinded Borders and the two women. They held one hand over their mouths and with the other tried to shield their eyes. They were unaware of the conflict below. The whirlwind ceased as quickly as it had started, and the dust, laden with particles of moisture, sagged to the floor. They rubbed their eyes, the grit removed by tears. Licking their lips, they spit out the grime, the centuries-old dust, possibly laden with unknown contagion. The dust, encased with moisture, obscured their view of the scene below and the eternal crusader. Borders let out a brutal cough, his throat again constricted with dust. Behind him, he heard the hacking of the two women, trying to clear their lungs. He looked back and saw them both on their knees. Hill was nowhere in sight. The dust gradually dissipated enough making it possible for him to see beyond the glass floor to the space below.
Down there, the dust had yet to settle. It still filled the air, obscuring sight. Through the haze, Borders captured a faint glimpse of two bodies on the floor and a small green light that seemed to float. The bomb. Hill must have set the device and was now nowhere in sight. Borders staggered to the edge of the glass floor and held on to a decaying wall frame. The knowledge of the bomb invaded his brain. He knew he had to disarm it, and wondered if there was enough time. He convinced himself that Hill would not detonate the device until he, himself, was clear.
The ladder was still in place, an aluminum stairway to heaven or hell. Borders grabbed hold of the metal frame, knowing this was his only chance. He had no idea when the bomb would detonate. He had no idea how long ago Hill had left or how far away, he would be by now. He felt sure the bomb would not go off until Hill himself was safely out of harm's way. He moved down, on the moisturized rungs - his feet trying desperately to hang on, where unseen forces wanted him to slip.
At this level, the dust was still thick, again denying his eyes their full vision. He made his way to the faint green glow, the light warning him that the bomb could go off at any second. The detonator wires hung down, their innocent look backed by death. Borders stepped forward, and with each hand took hold of the two small metal rods, slowly pulling them from the blocks of C-4.
With the detonators removed, he lowered his head, letting out a great sigh of relief, his breath blowing out a small cloud of dust. Looking up towards the glass floor, he saw Lady Brenda and Jeopardy, wide-eyed, staring down at him. Their dusted faces showed their feelings.
Borders looked down at the two terrorists. One had a slit throat, the other, a bullet wound to the chest. Both, very much dead. He wondered if this was Hill's – or the ENIGMA's way of taking care of non-essential members. Perhaps they had failed in some way. He was also puzzled why Hill hadn't shot both of them. He climbed the ladder and on reaching the top, hugged both women.
Hill walked down the steps of St. Peters, a half smile fashioned on his lips. For a few minutes, he believed he had seen a Crusader. Then, his mind pulled him back to reality, focusing his senses back in the present. It was the dust, the ancient spawn causing his hallucinations, forcing his eyes to see phantoms. He shook his head – that lapse had caused him to shoot one of his men. He remembered the other man on the ground, probably overcome by dust. He then focused on the bomb - he needed a few more minutes.
He hurried past the Egyptian obelisk in St. Peter's Square, his feet, rushed, his mind racing. Sweat dribbled from his forehead. Tourists pressed in on him, slowing him down, forcing him to veer, both right and left. He only needed a few more feet, just past the concrete barriers, the border between the Vatican and Rome. His hand, clutching the trigger in his pocket, felt humid and cold.
Once past the barrier, he moved to the left, in the direction of the Mission. He looked back at the Vatican one final time, stamping on his mind its final seconds. Turning back, he pulled his head down into his collar and squeezed the remote trigger. He waited for the explosion. He squeezed the trigger again. Nothing.
"Borders," he said aloud. His throat tightened into a hard knot.
A few people stared at him, wondering if he was deranged, seeking a cure. He kept to the left, moving past food wagons, vendors, and beggars. His cell phone rang. He pressed it to his ear.
"You failed," were the first words he heard.
"It was Borders," he said, speaking in a defeated arrogance, anxious to pass the blame.
"You should have killed him days ago," the voice said.
"The women interfered," complained Hill.
The man voiced the solution.
"You should have killed them too."
"I have to get out of here," said Hill, speaking into a dead line.
Fear welled up in his stomach, spreading to his face. They were blaming him. The ENIGMA had only one solution for failure. He needed to disappear immediately, lay low for a while. He hurried towards the Mission, now only two blocks away. He elbowed his way through the crowds, tourists wandering without rhyme or reason, ignoring sidewalk rules.
At the Mission door, he pressed the bell, the sound alone seeming to express agitation. Not pleased with the tardiness, he pressed it again, holding his finger down longer. Suddenly, the door sprung open, held back by Father Joseph, standing, with a crutch under one arm. Hill rushed past him, ignoring any greeting gesture.
In his room, he hastily packed. A knock on the door made him freeze, but just as quickly, he relaxed. Assassins don't knock. He opened the door to see the little priest again - his hands clutching a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"You look like you need a drink," he said, elevating the bottle and two glasses.
Hill looked at the temptation. His eyes focused on the golden liquid. He knew he needed something to calm him down, help him think straight. He smiled.
"Come in Father," he said.
The priest entered the room and placed the bottle and two glasses on the night table. Opening the bottle, he poured out two shots, offering one to the Hill, watching his face react to the much-needed alcohol. Hill tossed back the drink in one gulp and held out his glass for a refill. The priest again poured the liquid. Hill took a sip and sat on the edge of the bed.
"I'm getting tired," he said, as his voice began to slur.
His eyes closed and sunk into perpetual darkness. Father Luke took the two glasses and the bottle, walked to the washroom, and poured their contents down the drain.
Borders, Lady Brenda, and Jeopardy remained in Rome for two more days. Answers had to be given, Cardinals to be placated. Although Jeopardy no longer wanted revenge, there was still grief to reconcile with, and memories to be filed away in drawers of reality, not fantasy. They said good-bye at the airport. There were no hugs and kisses. A search for Hill had proved fruitless, as Borders knew it would. The traitor was long gone, only God knew where, but like a bad penny, he was likely to show up again.
A few weeks later, he received a message from Lady Brenda on behalf of M-I5. It was in reference to a bombing that had recently occurred on the London Transit system. His recent activity with terrorists might give them some insight. She had enclosed a photo. The man, his face hidden from view, wore a white Panama hat.