Moral Imperative Read Online Free PDF Page B

priest held it.
    “Are you well, son?” asked the priest, pushing into the room.
    Paulos had stood there, wobbling, a pistol hanging in one hand. The priest wasn’t shocked. He only nodded.
    “Give me the gun.”
    For some reason he’d done as the priest had asked, handing the weapon over. The priest had set the pistol on a side table.
    “Come. Help me usher Mr. Granger to the afterlife and then we will talk.”
    Again he listened, even allowing the priest to help him get cleaned up. They’d walked into the Granger suite and Paulos had watched as the priest blessed the dying man, a strange look of serenity lighting the old man’s eyes.
    Father Paulos remembered that look as he marched toward the approaching horde. He didn’t hate them. He pitied them. But that would not keep him from protecting his flock.
    Someone fired three warning shots not five feet from where he stepped. He kept walking.
    “Stay where you are, priest,” came the call, the word priest said like a vile curse.
    Father Paulos felt the light fill him, his body tingled. He began to sing, lifting his weapon and firing a three round burst at his attackers. Then another. There were shouts and they returned fire.
    A bullet hit him in the thigh, making the priest stumble. He willed the pain away, singing to God all the louder, joy blazing in his eyes. Something told him the others had gotten away safely. He could rest easy.
    Suddenly the flare of a high powered light illuminated the lone priest, almost as if God was opening the gates of heaven. Father Paulos knew what was coming but didn’t flinch. He continued his song as the rounds ripped through his body, his life blood pouring from the fatal wounds. As he fell to the ground, the blackness swallowing him, he said a silent prayer for Hasan, that he finally listen to his heart and become a leader for his people.
     
     

Chapter 8
    Camp Cavalier
    Charlottesville, Virginia
    9:28am, August 13 th
     
    Cal watched as the Bulgarians moved through SSI’s elaborate live fire range. They were good. A bit brutish for his taste, but still good. He doubted any of the three, and especially Stojan Valko, felt any pain. He’d probably give the giant MSgt Trent a run for his money.
    Someone blew an air horn, marking the end of the allotted time. The range officer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
    Cal made his way over to where the others were prepping. They’d started just after 7am, taking turns as teams of three. He’d gone through two times with Daniel and Gaucho, then once with Daniel and Trent. There’d been some grumbling about Cal’s four man team, but Cal had ignored it. It was his operation and he knew there would be bitching regardless. A leader’s job was to facilitate his commander’s intent; in this case it was the president’s intent.
    Besides, both of his groupings were as fast if not faster than all but the Japanese. The unassuming Takumi Kokubu was a master of swift movement and pinpoint accuracy. Like a ninja. He’d risen more than a few steps in Cal’s estimation. He wondered how the de-weaponized Post World War II Japanese had been able to train such elite warriors.
    As he watched the Bulgarians exit the range, Cal noticed blood on Valko’s face. It must’ve been from when the ballsy bastard ran headfirst through a locked plywood door.
    “You okay?” Cal asked, motioning to his cheek.
    Valko reached up and wiped his face with his hand. He licked some of the blood off of his fingers and walked past Cal without saying a word. Cal chuckled. There was always one hardhead in the bunch. As luck would have it, Cal had more than his share in the testosterone mix of alpha males.
    The Brit, Gene Kreyling, had started it off. Despite the fact that Cal had deferred to the others on how they approached the range time, even letting opposing teams reset the configuration at will, the Brit couldn’t help but complain about the arrangement.
    “Not the way we do it