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only cause was to line his pockets with blood money. But since Judas’s
presence was deemed a necessity for the advancement of the cause, he held his
tongue.
     “Did you tell them?” said Judas,
his voice dripping with malice. “Did you tell them that they’re about to die?”
    “What we do, Judas, we do without
malevolence, which you seem to have forgotten.”
    “What we do,” he returned, “we do
for money. Now get on with it.”
    The muscles in Team Leader’s jaw
began to work. Judas was a major player, the one who opened the door and made
the cause possible. But Team Leader was not accustomed to taking orders from a
man whose only motivations in promoting the cause were financially based. To
Team Leader, Judas was nothing but a whore. 
    However, Judas was right. He
needed to move this along.
    The last standing member of the
president’s detail, a man by the name of Cross, was guided into the room with a
Bullpup pressed to the base of his skull.
    “The area’s secured,” stated the
commando holding the Bullpup. “Their entire defense force has been eliminated.”
    Judas stood, ran a finger along
the brim of his fedora in greeting, and addressed Special Agent Cross with
playful sarcasm. His features were recognizable for the first time in the blue
light. “Top of the morning to you,” he said.
    Cross turned away. His face, his
eyes, everything about his manner professed disbelief that a man he knew,
respected, and idolized could have maneuvered this team.
    Team Leader looked at Cross. “So
you know Judas.”
    Cross looked at him. The strength
of his chin, the determination evident in the way it stood out, was a signature
of stoicism. Even if it was forced, it was an action Team Leader admired.
    “Judas,” Cross said, as if in quiet
examination. “It fits.”
    Judas’s face remained partially
hidden by the brim of his hat. “Fits? Perhaps,” he said. “But unlike the real
Judas who did it for thirty pieces of silver, I’m doing it for ten million
dollars, and I’m sure you would, too, David, if you had the chance.”
    “You’re wrong.”
    Judas clapped a hand on the
agent’s shoulder and addressed him again, sarcasm dripping and bleeding like a
hemorrhage. “Just so you know where I stand,” he told him, “I’ll be at your
funeral telling your wife what a good man you were, how much you’ll be missed,
and then maybe—just maybe—I’ll sleep with her to help her fill that sudden and
horrible gap in her life. So what do you think about that, huh? Sound good?”
    Judas couldn’t help the malice.
“Have a good death, David. It’s a stop we all have to make some day.” Still
wearing a smile of dark humor, Judas left the room with all the ease of taking
a stroll through the park, his hands buried deep within the pockets of his long
coat.
    His lack of respect for his fellow
agents only confirmed the hatred Team Leader felt for Judas—a man without
honor.
    Facing Agent Cross with a neutral
expression, Team Leader addressed him. “Your team, Special Agent Cross, was so
complacent there wasn’t much sport to it. Judas or no Judas, your protection of
the pope was lax. Your team would never have been so poorly trained under my
command.”
    Team Leader turned to the commando
holding the Bullpup to Cross’s head and held a hand out. “His weapon, please.”
    The commando removed a Glock from
his waistband and gave it to Team Leader.
    “Nevertheless,” said Team Leader,
turning the weapon over in his hand to check the weight. “Since you are the
only one left alive in your unit, I’m going to make you an American hero.”
    Team Leader examined the mouth of
the barrel before removing a suppressor from his cargo pocket and screwing the
device into the Glock.
    “I’m sure your family will be
extremely proud of you,” he said in accented English. “And I’m sure you’ll be
awarded something posthumous for your efforts in taking down two known
terrorists. I think Americans love that sort