Guardian of Faith: Orson Kincaid Series, #3

By William Staub

Orson Kincaid had achieved his spiritual goal and was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. His plans were to start his own security business, teach college part-time, and settle into a quiet lifestyle without any kind of violence. But that plan gets interrupted when two studeents come to him, desperate for his help. They had just joined the same church he attended but there was a problem. They had both been raised Muslim in the Middle East and their families were not happy with their transition - to say the least!

 

This is the third Orson Kincaid book William Staub has written. William is also a member of the LDS church. Although is also a raised member of the LDS church. Although raised in the church, he joined the US Army after graduation from high school and never left, giving the Army 52 years of his life before he hung up his Kevlar. He is still married to the wife of his youth and together, they have four children, seven grandchildren and three great-grandchildren-at last count. He retired to St. Augustine, Florida with his wife where they both take life at a slower pace-except for when he writes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William C Staub
• Release date: Apr 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224785322

William Staub

William Staub (Dusty) has been writing for more than thirty years and enjoys the cathartic release he gets from diving into a good story with a flawed hero. He retired from military service in the US Army in 1993 and took a job teaching high school in inner-city Baltimore, Maryland for the next thirteen years. Then he returned to the Army as a civilian employee and taught young soldiers for ten years. He gave the Army fifty years of his life and felt that it was time to leave the defense of our nation to the younger generation. William Staub has been happily married for the past forty-nine years to a true southern belle. He has four grown children and seven grandchildren. They live in a beautiful small home on a quiet waterfront in northeast Florida with their two boxers and four-wheel-drive Jeep.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

ONE YEAR AGO

This is your patriarch. I need your assistance. The voice was aging and weak, but Babach remembered when that voice commanded millions and they obeyed instantly, as if the command came from Allah himself—praise be to his name.

Yes, your highness? came the immediate response. I am ready to serve, as always. I and all my resources are yours to command. He knew he would receive many blessings in Paradise for the labors he would soon consent to perform. He pulled the phone away from his face and swallowed hard before returning it to his ear.

The voice coughed. I am not long for this mortal life, my friend. This shell of a body is giving out on me. He stopped to cough again. Please excuse me.

Oh, nothing to excuse, your majesty.

Do you still have an action division among your many resources?

His majesty was referring to the paramilitary teams Babach had built up to protect his petroleum assets. They had never been greater or brought in more revenue than they did now. Protection for those assets did not come cheap, but it had paid off in large dividends because of those competitors he had convinced to look elsewhere for their avenues of growth. What he did not have on-hand, he could raise within just a couple of days, when necessary.

Yes, your m-majesty. He stumbled, briefly, remembering how his majesty had similar resources of a complete nation at his command. They are still at your disposal. What is it you wish?

I am soon going to die, and I want to greet Allah with a clear conscience, knowing I have done all I can to magnify his kingdom and eliminate the infidels before I die.

Of course, your majesty. But you have already done so much.

Yes, yes. But my dreams of late have been troublesome and indicate there is more for me to do before I pass away.

Anything! Anything at all, your majesty. Babach owed much of his immense fortune to this influential world leader of Islam.

In my dreams, I have seen multitudes of faithful believers leaving the mosques, leaving the faith of their youth and giving their allegiances to various Christian faiths around the world.

Yes, your majesty. I have also read of such in the news and seen as much on Western media. It is indeed troubling. How do your dreams tell you to handle this problem?

"We need to give the world a lesson they will not forget. A lesson that tells of how much Allah is displeased by those who rebel against him—especially moving to such fallen faiths as Christianity."

Babach caught his breath in his throat, realizing where this conversation was going. Y-yes, your majesty? He left the question hanging, refusing to assume the coming request.

How does the Koran tell us we should handle the wickedness of those who turn their backs on Islam?

It says they must be stoned as an example, so others will not even consider leaving the fold.

Yes. We need to send the world a message before we have a religious crisis of immigration out of our control.

There are so many around the world and even more we do not yet know of. Where would I start?

Start with the Great Satan. That is where the greatest news coverage will come from. The traitors believe they are safe from the wrath of Allah, and it must not be so.

Yes, your majesty. Do you have a timeline in mind for such retribution?

As soon as you can muster competent warriors of the greatest faith, loyalty, and highest quality of training.

Majesty, it may take me several months to identify and train teams to operate at peak effectiveness. Will that be sufficient for you to witness before you pass away?

Several months, yes. A year, I think not. Please take the reins from me in this matter, as the guardian of faith, until this undertaking is complete. Then I will stand proud before Allah for his judgment.

Yes, your majesty. I will start immediately at assembling what you desire.

"Identify yourself to them as Patriarch so they will know you speak with my authority, although nothing of this conversation should ever be spoken after we disengage today. Do you understand?"

Yes, your majesty. Praise be to Allah. Alla-hu akhbar!

SIX MONTHS AGO

Eight candidates now stood before him, poised with empty hands, in an uncluttered room without furnishings or windows, and with only one door. Two knives lay in the middle of the floor, duct taped in place. The eight candidates each jockeyed for position to put a wall at their back. The most fortunate got the corners of the room, which gave them a greater feeling of security for the upcoming battle.

Each of them had a presence on the dark web. They had all been trained by their respective nations, hardened by actual combat, and had subsequently turned rogue, then criminal. They had each gone into hiding to avoid arrest, conviction, and imprisonment. Each of them had been vetted and found suitable for the position, knowing there was but one slot. When they arrived, they found other applicants had also come. Only when they received their briefing did they discover just one of them would survive the day. The Patriarch had allowed two of them to back out but had sent an emissary to kill them after leaving the building. The remaining eight had agreed to the conditions, totally believing they would be the one to survive.

Cameras watched from each corner of the ceiling and recorded their movements from all directions using special night vision lenses, so nothing went unobserved. The Patriarch wanted to know more than just the results. He believed the process of successfully struggling revealed the heart of the one he would accept as worthy of protecting his granddaughter.

When the lights go out, your trial will begin, announced a smooth female voice over a loudspeaker.

The deadbolt on the only door clicked into place.

Darkness suddenly crashed all around them. The initial silence was deafening but lasted mere seconds before all eight candidates raced to the room’s center for the only two weapons.

The sounds of bodies clashing, grunts of pain and mortal struggle, and duct tape being ripped from the floor gave life to the darkness prior to taking life from the group.

One man slid feet first to the center of the floor, kicking the secured knives out of the grasping hands of the others. Quickly gaining both blades, he hurled one of them upward so that it stuck on the ceiling with a dull thud. He scurried to the nearest corner, stabbing, slashing, kicking, and pummeling whoever considered that patch of real estate their safe haven. He kicked the dead body in front of him and left it as a barrier for others to trip over before getting to him.

He silently waited, controlling his breathing, and remaining quiet, while the others slaughtered each other with bare hands and feet. No one else encroached on his space. He heard the sounds of killing, the groans of strenuous effort, and the whine and final breath of life as he had all too often experienced as a soldier on close-quarter battlefields. When the groans of the wounded stopped and the gasping of survivors came under control, he slowly made his way to the room’s center in a low crouch. He encountered several bodies along the way and deftly moved around them, knife in one hand, remaining soundless.

After several minutes, a voice near him shouted, I survived! I am the last. All the others are...

Before the candidate could finish his victory statement, the man with the knife zeroed in on his voice came up behind him and slit his throat.

He let the body fall in place and waited for any other victors.

After several more minutes, the lights blazed, and the door opened.

You are the sole survivor. Dress and clean yourself to meet with the Patriarch in one hour.

There were technicians, staffers, and retired general officers from the military of multiple nations standing around as he exited the room. He was a bloody mess. But, without exception, each person dipped their chin or bowed at the waist as he passed, recognizing him as the chosen one.

When his day came, he would become the richest man in the world, and all would submit to him again. It felt good.

The temptation to turn around and gaze back inside the chamber he had just left was great. Those men had been his brothers from different mothers. If the test had ended in any other way, it would have been one of them walking into a glorious future instead of him. He wanted to honor them, but his lust for power overwhelmed the useless emotion of remorse. He did not regret what he had done but reveled in his victory.

He had passed all the tests and solved all the problems thrown at him. Next, he would stand before his Patriarch for his assignment. He had proven himself the most ruthless, the most intelligent and cunning of the candidates. The earned position was an elite one that responded only to the commands of the Patriarch himself and to no others.

After a shower and change of clothing, he stood before his Patriarch—and great uncle.

Your physical acumen and shrewd use of your intelligence have helped you overcome your competitors for this position, nephew. Congratulations.

Thank you, uncle. What lies in my immediate future?

The Patriarch studied his own manicured nails while considering his answer. After several seconds, he looked up at his nephew. My granddaughter has elected to go to the United States for her college education. She will be there for four years. You must become her shadow and protect her from the corruptive influences of the Great Satan.

How do I do that, your highness?

That is up to you. But you must never allow her to know your mission—or neither of you will ever return home.

Yes, sir. I understand.

"No, you don’t," spat the older man.

I have no sons or grandsons to inherit everything my family has built. He threw his hands into the air and let them fall onto his lap with a slapping sound. "Go figure. Four wives and sixteen daughters, but no sons. If you complete this assignment, I will write you into my will as a full son with only a few stipulations that will take care of my harem and granddaughters after my death. But the CEO and chairman of the board position will be yours. He stopped and stared deeply into the eyes of his new heir apparent. That will come to a net worth of just over forty-two billion US dollars, as of yesterday."

The old man chuckled and rolled his eyes. "But more about my granddaughter. She is my eldest. Her example must set the tone for her sisters, who will follow later, after she graduates. So, she must remain healthy, safe. She must also avoid risky activities and the corruption of her soul, so plentiful in America." He spat the last word from his mouth as if it tasted bitter.

Aaliyah is a headstrong young woman and protecting her may not be a simple task. You must remain close enough to render such protection, but without her knowledge of your presence, your purpose, or your status within my petroleum empire.

The younger man bowed his head and mentally began planning how to get close enough to protect the young lady. With only those two stipulations—protecting her and not allowing her to know he was doing so—left few options for him. He smiled as he decided which one he would select.

CHAPTER 2

PRESENT DAY

Orson Kincaid strode through the gymnasium, ten minutes early for his first self-defense class. He wanted to make a good impression on his students and on Arizona State University’s Dean of the College of Health Solutions. The Health Solutions College had given him half a gymnasium with minimum seating but maximum space for the physical nature of his instruction. He was happy to see the university had already covered the floor with maroon-and-gold heavy-duty padding, although he did not anticipate teaching his students any moves that would require padding for their safety. But he believed it would give the students more confidence throughout the semester.

He was holding his class in the Wrestling Training Facility. The biggest joke on campus was when the students texted about the WTF building as an expression of dismay to explain their bumps and bruises.

The WTF building sat smack-dab in the middle of ASU jockdom. All the ASU athletes of all the individual and team sports classes used the same locker rooms and showers. Located in the northeast part of the Tempe campus, the building was in between the golf course, football training fields, and baseball stadium.

The main gymnasium was divided into several smaller gymnasiums, where more sports or classes could take place at the same time without endangering any of the students. Designs on the maroon-and-gold padded floors included the letters ASU, the full name of the university, and the pitchfork logo the university had used since 2011. The WTF facility was distinguished from other gymnasiums on campus by having the wrestling competition circle in the center of each part of the gym. Although Kincaid was not training his students for competition, the presence of the circle would help him separate his student partnerships so they would not accidentally hurt themselves, their partners, or other students in class.

He would not normally have minded all the jocks constantly around him, but occasionally, a few of the young men from various sports would claim their martial art sport or method of fighting was superior to all the others. Of course, this claim alone might not cause any ruckus, but when they argued in loud voices in a locker room already oozing with testosterone from amped up students using the same facilities, it raised the potential for an incident. That was what Kincaid wanted to avoid.

Along one gymnasium wall, a hallway with one-inch thick glass-clad polycarbonate allowed anyone walking by to stop and watch whatever activity was going on. That hallway included the offices of several sports directors. Kincaid knew the dean’s office was out there somewhere, but he wasn’t eager to find out which of the solid oak doors led to his director’s workstation because of the unpleasant experiences he’d had in his high school principal’s office years ago.

Now Kincaid just wanted to shower, change, and go to his class before anyone had time to recognize him as a new instructor. Nations having a martial art of their own, like Japan, Korea, Brazil, or China, did not sponsor self-Defense classes. To the students of a formal martial art discipline, it meant Kincaid required no certification to be an instructor. He was not a master or a self-defense black belt. However, he had earned black belts in Taekwondo and Kungfu and had used his skills in combat on more occasions than he wanted to admit. Usually, martial arts jocks considered teachers of self-defense classes to be weak, undisciplined, and, by nature, afraid of serious students of any real martial art.

As soon as he showered, dressed, and stepped away from his locker, a wall of muscle and sinew dressed in a taekwondo dobok or fighting uniform seemed to block his way.

Well, hello, Mr. Kincaid, the six-foot-six brick building in front of him shouted for all to hear. I hear you’re going to teach the Self-Defense Class in this building. Is that right?

Kincaid knew what was coming, and he also knew there would be no way around the confrontation now or later, no matter what he did. He quickly decided on a psychological tactic and hoped it would not backfire on him.

Hello. May I help you? He spoke with a smile and a friendly voice, remembering how Joseph Smith had avoided confrontation frequently by doing so. This enormous chunk of a young man was at least eight inches taller, eighty pounds heavier, and maybe ten years younger than him. He wanted to avoid a fight if he could, so he offered a quick prayer in his mind before opening his mouth again.

Dear Father in Heaven, I would not fight this young man if he would allow me to pass. Please fill me with your spirit so I can know how you want me to handle this situation.

C’mon Stan. Show him what you’ve got, yelled one young man, wanting to see a fight.

That’s right, Pratt. Fight ‘im already, shouted another.

Wait a minute. Your name is Pratt? Stanford Pratt? Are you related to Dean Pratt? asked Kincaid.

This seemed to infuriate the brick wall, or so his scrunched up facial muscles and gritted teeth indicated. He’s my stepfather. What about it?

Why do you want to fight me so bad? Kincaid tossed his towel in the hamper at the exit. He did not want to turn his back on the big man—yet—so he started backing out of the locker room and into the gymnasium where his class would take place. The crowd allowed him to move backward without pushing him closer to a fistfight in the locker room. Perhaps they think I will run if given the chance.

Come on, Pratt. Take him out, whispered an angry voice in the growing crowd, trying to foment a fight.

Yeah, do it, Stan, another faceless voice encouraged, louder still.

Kincaid knew he was losing the initiative and needed to keep pressing if he was to get out of this without really hurting someone and without getting hurt himself. I see you’re a student of Korean martial arts. Right, Stan?

This question took Pratt by surprise, and he lost some of the tension in his shoulders. Korean Taekwondo. Why?

Excellent! Having earned your black belt means you’ve shown several years of dedication, you’re proficient in your sport, and have the maturity to be an assistant instructor. Right? Kincaid watched Stan’s eyes carefully to avoid poking the wrong spot. "Korea is a wonderful nation, and they have such fantastic classes for their martial arts students. Have you been to Korea, Stan?"

Pratt stuttered and sputtered. N-no. I-I study here. I’m a disciple of one of the world’s greatest teachers. Grandmaster Man-hee Han, he said, regaining his confidence as he named his grandmaster.

Oh, yes, I had the privilege of meeting Grandmaster Han during one of my visits to Korea, Kincaid said in a saddened voice.

"Grandmaster Han is dead!" Pratt shouted as a challenge, moving close enough for Kincaid to smell his breath.

Kincaid did not miss a beat. "Yes, now. I met him ten years ago, before he passed away." He stepped through the door, entering the gym with the padded floor. At the center of the wrestling circle, he stopped and held his ground.

You? You studied under Grandmaster Han? Stan asked, suddenly not as confident.

No. I didn’t have that privilege. He lectured to my military unit for three days, that was all, Kincaid added with a shrug.

So what? shouted one member of the agitating peanut gallery. This group seemed to want to see blood.

Let’s get this fight going, Stan, shouted another. You can take ‘im!

Kincaid looked around at the group. Then he looked out the windows and recognized the dean of the Health Solutions College—his boss and Stan’s father—standing and glaring at the growing mass of people through the glass window of his office. The dean did not make any gestures to indicate Kincaid should walk away from a fight; he also didn’t have his cell phone pasted to the side of his face, calling security guards to break up the growing mob. He simply observed. Kincaid assumed the dean wanted to see how he, as the new kid on the faculty, would handle this powder keg. Maybe he also hoped his son might learn something from this encounter.

Kincaid finally made his decision, one that would kill both birds with one stone. The time was right for starting the lesson. He suddenly turned his back on Stan Pratt, who instantly stepped forward and grabbed Kincaid’s elbow to spin him around. Both men were in the middle of a circle of students who had gathered to see a fight.

Although he had no interest in fighting, when Stan spun him around, Kincaid instantly blocked the approaching fist with his forearm, then did the same with the second attempted punch with his other forearm, stopping the attack before it had even started. He stepped forward, turned his back on Stan again, and countered with an elbow to the solar plexus.

Stan gasped, doubling over at the waist, the elbow forcing the air from his lungs.

Kincaid looked at his watch. It was time for his class to begin. I apologize for causing your tardiness to your next class, Kincaid announced to the group. He took hold of one of Pratt’s wrists and twisted it. When you have disabled your opponent, you should not rely on him remaining incapacitated for long. He held up the twisted hand of his opponent for all the group to see. This move creates an armbar, which is difficult to break. You maintain it by keeping pressure on the hand in this manner, so your opponent cannot form a second attack.

Pratt regained his composure and attempted to grab Kincaid with his free hand several times, then launched several unsuccessful kicks, but the armbar kept him away with each move, every time he tried to regain the initiative.

When your opponent tries to resist your efforts to end the conflict, use his own momentum against him. As Pratt tried to strike at Kincaid again, he forced Pratt backward and flipped him over onto his stomach on the rubberized floor. The thunk of their hero’s body slamming onto the mat seemed to take all the energy out of the group. Kincaid stepped over the top of his quarry and sat on his back, keeping him on the floor.

I have just shown you applications of techniques from Taekwondo, Kung Fu, Aikido, and Tai Chi. If you need a written excuse from me, write me a note telling me which moves were associated with which martial art, and I will give you a pass to your next class. Kincaid stood and looked around him, realizing the group was already dispersing, uninterested in his offer. He released the previously adversarial student, stood, and extended a hand to help Stan Pratt to his feet.

Sorry I was so rough with you, Stan.

Stan took the extended hand and stood, rubbing his wrist. That was a pretty good one, Mr. Kincaid. Does your offer for a written excuse apply to me, too? My English prof is a real stickler. It was a more humble and friendlier young man now speaking with the university instructor.

Kincaid smiled and gave Stan a piece of paper from his notebook. Stan pulled out his own pen and started writing.

"Say, do you think I might take your class next semester?" Stan asked while writing.

"Sorry, my contract only guarantees me two classes this semester, unless the dean decides I’m doing a good job, and the class becomes popular enough to warrant more in the future."

"I think I might be able to influence that decision since I have an in with the dean," Stan replied with a grin.

Kincaid chuckled. We’ll see, he said. When he got the answers he wanted and finished writing out the late pass, Kincaid saw a smaller group of students standing against one wall. He said a cordial farewell to Stan and walked towards them. These were his students, and they must have seen and heard the results of the conflict. He smiled inside. What a great way to establish his bona fides for his first self-defense class!

While walking towards his students, Kincaid looked at where the dean had been standing. He saw the man smiling and shaking his head as he returned to his office. On the way over to one corner of the gym, Kincaid sensed the students following him with their eyes. This corner was his office and was the only office a first-year guest instructor warranted in the space-shortage facility. He felt lucky to have the corner and put down his things.

Kneeling to dig out his short stack of cue cards and an e-tablet from his backpack, he opened the tablet to look for his class roster. Scanning the roster, he saw seventeen students had enrolled for his class. Two of them had the same last name and were either brother-sister or husband-wife.

DAVISON, Aaliyah. It was a beautiful name, possibly Kuwaiti, Iraqi, or even Persian. However, her surname was most assuredly from her husband.      

DAVISON, Bobby. It was an American-sounding name. But why Bobby? Why not Robert?

Deciding to let the mystery slide for now, he greeted his class and checked their names on his roster for attendance. After he had accounted for all of them, he stood to his feet.

My name is Orson Kincaid. I am a new instructor on campus, but I have several years of real-world experience in self-defense. He looked around the room. Most of the students were young, possibly eighteen to twenty-two years old, many of whom were probably away from home for the first time. He locked eyes with one of the male students who seemed older than the others. The man may have been twenty-eight to thirty years old and stood within the intimate space of a female student. He wagered they were the married couple.

"This class is on personal self-defense. I will run a class in which everyone learns the techniques without getting injured. So, if you are here to show the rest of us how strong, fast, or sneaky you are, there’s the door." Kincaid motioned to the exit with a straight arm and an open hand, or knife hand gesture typical of military instructors.

He paused, looked around the group, and met the eyes of each student. When his gaze fell upon the older male student again, he held the gaze a second longer. The young