by Rick Jones
When they reached the area where the Vatican Knights were just standing, they were astounded. The area was vacant. And the distant wall was pitted and pocked with dozens of bullet holes of different sizes.
“That’s impossible,” said one of the Rangers. “They were right here.”
There was another flash of lightning, a broad stroke.
The hallway flared with an illumination that was as bright as the Ethereal Light.
Behind them stood the Vatican Knights.
Team leader saw their existing shadows along the floor when the lightning flared, as did the Rangers. They pivoted simultaneously with their weapons swinging around in a half-circle and their fingers ready to pull the triggers. But the Vatican Knights responded quickly with defensive counteractions. As the points of the MP7s maneuvered to turn against them, the Vatican Knights deflected the barrels away just as the weapons went off with volleys of gunfire, the hallway once again lighting up with staccato bursts of light from the muzzle flashes.
The units converged on one another. The Vatican Knights against a contingent force of Army Rangers. All skilled operatives in warfare.
The Vatican Knights grabbed the weapons and held them close so that the mouths of the barrels pointed elsewhere, as the teams maneuvered about in drunken tangos for control. The MP-7s continued to go off, the rounds going ceilingward until the magazines were empty and nothing sounded but a series of dry clicks.
When the weapons became useless, then the Vatican Knights went into a series of straight blows and roundhouse kicks. But the Rangers were seasoned fighters and warded off the strikes comfortably and threw strikes of their own, with quick forward jabs and elbow thrusts.
Kimball Hayden took on team leader who stood an inch or two taller, and was perhaps twenty pounds heavier in muscle. The two squared off as they ground the balls of their feet against the floor, and prepped themselves for a launch against the other. And then they attacked within an instant of time almost too fast for the eye to see. They converged on one another throwing fists and elbows, knees and kicks. Both were equally adept at deflecting. And both were just as capable of landing punches. Team leader threw a series of knuckle punches to the area of Kimball’s throat to crush his windpipe, but the Vatican Knight knocked the blows away easily. Then as team leader threw his massive arm forward, Kimball hooked his arm around it to immobilize it, and countered with a succession of blows to the man’s face until an audible crack sounded off. Team leader’s nose was now bending badly to one side.
Then team leader threw a knee into Kimball’s midsection, which ultimately broke Kimball’s hold. The massive man then ducked low, reached up to grab Kimball by the shirt, pulled the Vatican Knight over his shoulders, and then he hoisted Kimball off his feet and placed him into a fireman’s carry. Like a power lifter raising the bar, team leader raised Kimball over his head as far as his arms could reach skyward, and ran to a cabinet that showcased the retired garments of past clerics in homage, and tossed him into the glass unit. Kimball’s body smashed through the cabinet and shattered the glass.
As the Vatican Knight fell to the ground with glass shards falling around him, team leader reached down and grabbed Kimball once again, held him upright against the wall, and threw a series of midriff blows. Kimball could feel the air getting knocked free from his lungs as the blows exorcised his strength. As the boundaries of his sight became dark circles that started to edge inward, Kimball balled his fist and retaliated. He thrust his right hand forward with blinding speed, the strikes coming at team leader as blurs, the movements surprising him. Team leader stumbled back against the hammering blows. Then he almost lost his balance before regaining it, only to have Kimball follow up with team leader’s own tactic of placing the man across his shoulders, then lifting his enemy off the floor, and pressing the man high above his head with team leader’s mind still in a fog from the strikes, and moving to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kimball’s pace was slow at first, then it picked up momentum, his steps gathering speed. The window came closer, the wooden framework that secured the small panes becoming more pronounced. When team leader saw the window and the streetlamps, he knew what was about to happen.
He raised his hands to shield his face.
Then Kimball thrust the man through the window, the sound of the glass breaking like a crescendo, loud and clear, as team leader’s body punched its way through to the outside world where he found himself pinwheeling through space until he struck the soft earth below, the impact nevertheless knocking the wind out of him.
Then Kimball turned to see Isaiah taking on his own opponent, no doubt a skilled warrior from the way he counterbalanced and defended himself. But Isaiah was the Vatican Knights’ master of the martial arts.
The soldier threw a chain of jabs and blows and knee thrusts, all of which were easily deflected by Isaiah. When the Ranger became winded to the point that his thrusts were losing power, Isaiah moved into action. The Vatican Knight struck out with backhands and fingertip-jabs, the pinpoint hits remarkably fast, the attack a stunning choreograph of fluid motions that were incapable of being defended against. The Ranger took blow after blow, hard strikes that were capable of knocking down most men. But the Ranger showed an incredible resilience against the attack, though he was beginning to lose his footing. As the Ranger fell back while Isaiah continued to rain blow after blow, and just as the man’s eyes began to roll back into slivers of white, the Ranger turned and wobbled his way to the broken window like a drunkard with no sense of real balance, and fell to the ground below, an easy retreat.
That left one warrior, a man who was being circled by Jeremiah and Elijah. But this warrior had a pair of combat knives in his hand. As he maneuvered the weapons in his hands as a means to distract the attention of the Vatican Knights, both Knights kept their focus on the prey.
They continued to circle the last Ranger with a knife in their hands as well.
“Put down the weapon,” Jeremiah told him.
The Ranger ignored him.
“Put…down…the weapon.”
The Ranger’s response was to grip his weapons tighter.
Then Jeremiah and Elijah closed in, they circled, the area growing smaller and smaller with every rotation.
“Last chance. Drop the knife.”
Instead of waiting for the Vatican Knights to close in on him, the Ranger attacked Elijah on his right, the fighter swinging both knives as if he was no novice to double-edged weaponry. He came across with horizontal and diagonal slashes, the swiftness of the swipes cutting the air with whooshing sounds. Elijah, having only one knife, defended the blows that had knocked him backwards, one knife against two, the blades hitting with such abrasive force that sparks coughed up with every hit of metal against metal. Then the Ranger turned quickly on his feet, knowing that the other would enter the combat as soon as his back was turned. Jeremiah was almost on top of him. So the Ranger threw back at him with designed motions of his own. The knives in his hands moved in circular gestures, like a martial artist does when he waves his hands in wax-on, wax-off motions simultaneously. And then he attacked with full force and cried out with rage as he descended upon Jeremiah, his movements exceedingly quick. Jeremiah fell back but slipped on a piece of broken glass from the shattered casing, his foot going out from under him as he fell to the floor.
One knife against two.
The attacker was raging, his face a twisted mask as he descended with the points of his knives coming downward in flashing arcs.
And then the Ranger grunted as he fell to his knees with a confused look. For a moment their eyes locked. And then the Ranger’s eyes looked through Jeremiah as if to fixate on a point only he could see, before falling to the side.
A knife was sticking out of his back, the throw from Elijah a perfect shot.
Elijah stepped forward. “He left me with no other choice,” he stated in a measure that sounded apologetic. Taking a life, even as a Vatican Knight, was avoided at all costs unless the
re was no other option available.
Removing the knife with a pull that sounded wet, he wiped the blade against the Ranger’s clothing, sheathed his weapon, and fell back.
Kimball was standing by the broken window as rain pelted him. The ground below was empty. There were two body-like imprints on the wet grass with footprints leading away.
Tonight, Kimball thought, the Nocturnal Saints had lost in their endeavor to overwhelm. And with this type of military sophistication at their disposal, he also knew that they would not fail again.
In their attempt, however, they left behind something of value: two traceable bodies. And each body would have a traceable connection.
The Vatican Knights had no time to waste.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Archdiocese
Temple Hills Section, Washington, D.C.
The lights of police cruisers lit up the area in the colors of red and blue. The vicinity had also been cordoned off with police personnel maintaining a perimeter and keeping the media at bay.
It turned out that the Nocturnal Saints never did find Cardinal Bishop, who was found inside his chamber after Kimball checked on his welfare right after the attack. Sister Godwin, however, didn’t fare as well and was taken to Medstar Georgetown University Hospital with a concussion, but was expected to have a full recovery.
With the perimeter already established upon Shari Cohen’s arrival, she badged one of the on-scene officers and was allowed to pass. After walking down the main hallway that was milling with Metro detectives, she came upon Kimball and his team of Vatican Knights, along with Cardinal Bishop, who carried somewhat of a wan and nervous look about him. Unlike the Vatican Knights who treated the attack as routine, Cardinal Bishop needed the aid of a fine whisky.
The moment Shari confronted Kimball, she placed a hand along his forearm.
“I came as soon as I got the call,” she told him. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“They came suddenly,” he answered.
“The Nocturnal Saints?”
“Who else could it be?”
“I understand there were two bodies left behind?”
He nodded. “Got a moment?” he asked. “I think you might be interested in one of them.”
They walked along the corridor, took a turn, and made their way to an adjoining hallway that housed the sleeping chambers. Inside one of the rooms lay the first of Kimball’s victims, the one who had a knife driven through his heart. CSI officials were scoping the area for trace elements as the man continued to lay in a supine position with his eyes at half-mast. The face, however, despite the black grease, was identifiable.
“You recognize him?” Kimball asked her.
She did. “It’s Danny Parcells,” she answered.
Kimball nodded. “I didn’t recognize him without his glasses, not at first. It finally occurred to me when I came back after the archdiocese, it was clear that I’d seen him before. He was one of the two officers who’d been watching us on the day of our arrival from the airport.” He turned to her. “Makes me think about the guy he was with.”
“Cecil Cooper.”
“I wonder if he was involved in tonight’s little raid, too.”
Shari’s mind continued to roll in a hundred different directions. Now it made sense why Parcells and Cooper were maintaining surveillance. It had nothing to do with jurisdictional cooperation with Metro or to glean facts as to the direction of the investigation. Danny Parcells, and most likely Cecil Cooper, were acting as the eyes and ears of the Nocturnal Saints. But then another question surfaced, one that was more disturbing. What was Darce’s contribution in this, if any? Was he informed by his constituency that Parcells and Cooper would act as surveying operators because the matter was still under their jurisdiction? Or was there another, and more nefarious, involvement?
“If Parcells is involved with the Nocturnal Saints,” Kimball said, “it makes me wonder how many more there are inside Metro who are connected to the Nocturnal Saints as well.”
Shari Cohen was thinking the same thing, wondering how large their net was cast.
“Who were they after?” she asked him. “Who was their target?”
Kimball thought of Cardinal Bishop, about his tie with the My Lai incident. But he thought it prudent to keep a matter of trust between him and the cardinal sacred, since Kimball was the first man to receive the man’s confession. But then there could have been another, he considered. Kimball Hayden’s past was filled with carnage and butchery as well, which also could have put a bullseye on his back. “Unsure,” he finally answered, which was the truth. Whether the targeted
killing was the cardinal or himself remained a question.
“And the other body?” she asked him.
“Him I didn’t recognize,” he answered. “But I can tell you that he was well-skilled in combat. No doubt a seasoned special-ops soldier by the way he responded with his maneuvers. And by that I mean with high-end military sophistication.”
“And the others involved?”
“All skilled by the looks of it. They were headed by a big guy. Huge, in fact. Taller than me. Wider. Looked more like a gorilla than a man. Built like one, too.”
Shari found this hard to believe since Kimball stood six-six and weighed in the vicinity of 260 pounds of muscle on top of muscle.
“Do you know how many were involved?”
“We’re guessing anywhere between seven and nine,” he said.
Shari nodded. And once again she repeated: “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“So am I.”
“And the cardinal?”
“He’ll be fine,” he said. “Sister Godwin received a concussion in the assault. For some reason they spared her life.”
“That’s because Sister Godwin, at least from the profile of the Nocturnal Saints, may have been viewed as a godly being of worth; someone who was not a threat to the ideology of traditional Catholicism. But she would have compromised their position if she wasn’t removed from the equation. So I guess a knock on the head was the next best thing. And since this group is extremely thorough in their actions and if they wanted to kill her, they would have.”
Kimball agreed.
Then from Shari who looked at the body of Danny Parcells: “Now we have something to work with. A starting point.”
Kimball nodded. “You can begin by learning the identity of the second guy as well. Find out what his background was. What branch of service he served in. Any disgruntlements. Missions. Anything you can find about him that may tie him to the Nocturnal Saints.” And then after a brief pause, he added. “And find Cooper.
He knows something, if not everything.”
But Shari went one better. She thought of Darce Earl as well, and wondered if he was able to shed some light on the situation.
“The coroner will get an order to expedite the second body,” she said. “We can file the order through the assistant director.”
“How soon for the ID?”
“It all depends,” she told him. “If he was a special operator for the armed services, his ID may be buried for security reasons.”
“But the feds can get around that, right?”
“It all depends,” she said. “If he was too deep, then we’ll get nothing. But if he left the ranks because his tenure was up, we’ll find out, though it may take time.”
“Time, Shari, is a luxury we don’t have. With Parcells lying on the floor, that tells me that the reach of the Nocturnal Saints is extensive. Their touch has reached the ranks of Metro…And maybe the level of the Bureau as well.”
In other words, she thought, who do you trust?
“I’ll be on top of the coroner’s report,” she finally said. “I’ll follow through with the push of the assistant director. But if I really have to push for answers, I’ll go right to the director.”
That would be some pushing, thought Kimball. It also sounded like a lot of red tape, too, which meant that the process may be time-consuming
.
“I can get the SIV involved as well,” he said. Then he held his hand out to her.
“May I borrow your cell?”
She handed it to him. “Why?”
“Facial recognition,” was all he said.
They left the room and made their way to the second body, which was covered with a sheet. When Kimball asked the CSI examiners if they had completed the processing, which they did and stated that they were waiting upon the body’s removal by the coroner’s office, Kimball lifted the sheet, turned the body in such a way that the man’s face was facing to the side instead of against the floor, and took a few photographs for facial recognition forensics. Once done, he sent the photographs to a certain file, then sent the file directly to the lab of Vatican Intelligence where VisageWare would process the landmarks on the man’s face to confirm his identity.
Then he handed the phone back to Shari. “Done,” he said.
“What’s done?”
“The way to cut through all the red tape,” he said. “This guy’s identity is out there somewhere. And my people will find him.”
“I hope so,” she said. “Because whoever they were after, Kimball, they will not stop until they achieve the means.”
And Kimball wondered as to who the target really was. It had never dawned on him that he and the cardinal were jointly designated as the targeted killings.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Office of the SIV (Vatican Intelligence)
Vatican City
Photographic files had come into the agency through a secured line from Kimball Hayden. It was a close-up of a deceased man wearing a black face, the features and points were clear, the photos crisp. Tagged with these files was a message from Kimball: Identify and get back to me. Time critical. The message was simple and to the point, which was typical Kimball Hayden fashion.
After downloading the images into the VisageWare programming, the facial images on the screen against the far wall began to scroll as the program tried to match certain landmarks of the face. After five hours of searching, they had a match that was valued at 100%.
