by Rick Jones
But the doors never opened.
And nothing existed but a hollowness that was starting to ring true.
Kimball Hayden was forever lost.
“You now lead the Vatican Knights, Leviticus. The team is yours to command. Kimball trusted you, you know that. Guide them well. As he had faith in you, I too have faith in your abilities to keep me safe. If a threat exists beyond these palace walls, I know you’ll neutralize the danger before it has a chance to spring itself. Keep me safe.”
Leviticus nodded. “You know I could never fill Kimball’s shoes.”
“I doubt anyone could. Kimball was unique, Leviticus. As you are. We’re all different in our own way.”
“Yeah, but Kimball was . . . special in his way. I have boundaries. He never did.”
“Like I said, Leviticus, we’re all different in our own way. Just lead the Vatican Knights with loyalty above all else, except honor. And God will help you with the rest, as long as your conviction remains steady.”
Leviticus nodded, got to his feet, and brought a closed fist to cover his heart. It was the salute of the Vatican Knights. “Loyalty above all else,” he said, “except honor.”
Bonasero smiled, though lightly because Kimball wasn’t too far from his thoughts.
When Leviticus left, Bonasero went back to reading the papal reports but his attention was lost to him. After setting the papers aside, he stared at the chamber doors for a substantial length of time.
He hoped.
And he prayed.
But Kimball Hayden never appeared.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Seven Weeks Later
Beneath the Remains of the Lost Cathedral
Gunter Wilhelm was in the throes of agony as his mind started to drift and forget those around him. He was dying quickly now, his sickness consuming him whole as every nerve-ending in his body became a tabernacle of pain. His incontinence was expected as his bladder and bowels released, the stink of the man worse than the decaying carcass of rotting flesh.
Simon was inside the chamber alongside Braun and Albrecht, who looked down on Gunter Wilhelm with all the study and care of watching grass grow. They had seen death numerous times, had become muted to its effects.
So they waited.
And they watched Gunter as he tore feebly at his garments and at his cowl, trying to strip himself clean. He wallowed in torment and cried out. Blood, urine and fecal matter vacated organs that purged the last of the man’s sickness like an exorcism. When there was little left to vacate and the man marinated in his accumulated filth, he raised a clawed hand out to something only he could see—something that was apparently awful.
His eyes appeared fixed to an imaginary point that hovered in the air above him, something that caused him great distress. Then he cried out with nonsensical syllables as he attempted to fight off something imaginary with feeble blows of his twisted hands.
Then his eyes flared and his spine arced, with his final breath escaping his lungs with a long sigh.
As Gunter Wilhelm lay there unmoving, no one standing in observation had moved.
Then Albrecht conveyed a simple order to Simon with no emotion: “See that the body is burned,” he told him. Albrecht then went to the coveted drawer inside Gunter’s chamber, removed the shawl of the Nazi flag, and draped it over his shoulders as if Gunter’s passing suddenly allowed him the privilege to do so. Then to Simon and Hermann Braun, he said, “The mantle now belongs to us.” He was looking at Braun when he spoke. Then he settled his eyes on Simon. “Then to you.”
Albrecht stood before the fractured mirror, which gave off somewhat of a funhouse appearance as Albrecht examined himself and the flag upon his shoulders. He appeared old as his skin hung in loose folds with deep seams lining his features. His eyes drooped with the aged look of growing fatigue. And his body was no longer strong and robust. Even beneath the cowl he could tell that he had wasted away to a skeletal framework.
Soon he would join Gunter as would Braun, the last of a dying breed.
Then he turned away from the mirror and stood beside the corpse that was once Gunter Wilhelm, now a shell, and tolerated the stench. His eyes were wide with terror and his mouth agape as if to utter a final scream, only to have it silenced upon the moment of death.
Albrecht cocked his head in study. What did you see? he asked himself rhetorically. What is it that awaits us on the other side, if anything at all?
Of course when he received no answer, he left the chamber with the flag adorning his shoulders and Braun on his heels.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Seventeen Weeks Later
Beneath the Ruins of the Lost Cathedral
There was a city beneath the cathedral. Over the past few centuries the jungle growth had reclaimed its territory by covering everything that was once above ground below it. Foundations of steppe pyramids, temples, annexes and causeways would need to be excavated for the sake of history. But for the moment it remained as the habitat of those who possessed no wills of their own, which included Kimball Hayden, who was being washed in one of the subterranean chambers with extreme methods.
His wrists and ankles were bound by chains that stretched across the room to mooring plates attached to opposing walls. His body was stretched out like the Vesuvius Man, with his arms and legs spread wide while suspended.
There were several stages to the brainwashing technique beginning with sleep deprivation to weaken the condition of the mind in order to apply extreme guilt to one’s current mental state, such as to who they were, and then ascribing a new set of rules.
In Kimball’s case, however, they wanted to tune him back into the killing machine he once was for the American government. An assassin who once killed with the cold fortitude of a machine and thought nothing of those he killed, no matter the age or gender of the target.
It was taking longer than expected, over four months, the man’s will buried deep beneath a hard exterior that was obviously difficult to crack. His body had healed and healed quickly. No problems there.
But Braun and Albrecht had to question the methods used by the programmers.
Kimball’s nude body continued to hang suspended by the chains. His head was lowered until the point of his chin nearly grazed his chest. He was obviously out of it.
“Why is it taking so long?” Albrecht asked the programmer curtly.
The programmer was an imp of a man who was quick with nervous gestures, such as tics that constantly altered the features of his face, especially when he spoke. “Washing is not an exact science. Never was. Never will be.” The man darted about and adjusted the volume of the speaker that was playing: One law, one rule, and one religion. “Yes, yes,” he said. “All is different.”
The volume rose, causing Albrecht to raise his voice. “It’s been seventeen weeks.”
“He’ll be part of the collective,” the diminutive man responded. “One law, one rule, and one religion. Takes time, yes. Takes time.”
“Seventeen weeks!” Albrecht shouted.
“Not so long,” the man said. “The Vatican Knights took fifteen to break. Then another six to become a part of the whole.”
Albrecht looked at Kimball Hayden, who looked horribly beaten. His body had oil-like stains on it as if he’d been working as a grease monkey. His hair was in wild tangles. It was obvious the man hadn’t bathed since his capture, and was beginning to smell like an animal.
“Are you at least close?” Albrecht asked.
“Yes, yes. Very close. You’ll see. He’ll be the man he once was. A killer of the highest order. No conscience. No compassion. Only a duty to serve the order.”
Albrecht nodded in appreciation. He liked what he just heard. “See it done,” he told the programmer. “There’s an agenda that needs to be fulfilled. A man lives who shouldn’t”
“Yes, yes. A man lives who shouldn’t. A man lives who shouldn’t. Nor will he once this man,” he pointed to Kimball, “returns to the darkness where he once ca
me from. Yes, yes.”
Albrecht gave the programmer a sidelong glance, considering the man odd. But the programmer knew and conducted his skills well, tuning those of staunch will into feeble-minded disciples. Phinehas had informed the Luminaries as to who this Kimball Hayden was and where he came from, the information telling and precious. A killer with no remorse. All the programmer had to do was resurrect what already existed underneath the man’s brutal exterior and bring it forward.
Kimball looked wasted, the man hanging as if life was leaving him by the inches.
“He will live to see this through?” Albrecht asked, not sure.
“Oh, yes. Yes, he will. You’ll see.”
Albrecht nodded. Carry on.
Then he left the chamber that smelled of animal.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Twenty-Five Weeks Later
Beneath the Ruins of the Lost Cathedral
Nearly six months later Kimball had been fully absorbed as a member of the order, becoming a part of the collective. He was exactly as they wanted him to be: a man with no conscience or compassion, as well as a man with no respect for leniency or sense of mercy.
He wore a robe, a hooded cowl, and stood before Albrecht and Braun in the Chamber of the Luminaries. The middle chair upon the stage remained vacant, though a Nazi flag was spread over the seat in proxy of its former leader. Braun and Albrecht sat in their respectful chairs that flanked the middle throne. And Simon stood to the side brandishing a Luger, which he held with the barrel pointed to the floor but quick to raise, if necessary.
“Repeat the law of the order,” ordered Hermann Braun.
Kimball looked at Simon and the pistol he held, then faced the remaining two Luminaries. “One law, one rule, and one religion.” And he said this as if it was common knowledge that no one should ever forget.
“And your pledge?” asked Albrecht.
“That I give myself wholly to the Order of Fallen Angels. We are One. And One is All.”
“And your name?” asked Braun.
Kimball’s face could not be seen beneath his hood, his features masked by darkness. But his voice emanated quite clearly from the depths beneath the covering. “My name is Jaric,” he told them softly. “We are One . . . And One is All.”
“And you’ve been informed of your agenda, yes?” Albrecht asked.
Kimball nodded. “To kill Franz Kleimer-Schmidt.”
“Good. Very good,” Albrecht responded like a father praising his son. Albrecht stood from his chair and descended the stage, as did Braun, then placed a hand on Kimball’s shoulder and began to redirect him out of the chamber, with Braun and Simon remaining close by. And dutifully so, Kimball allowed himself to be ushered along due to his obedient nature.
“You will be part of the primary unit,” said Albrecht, “with Simon serving as team leader. I believe Simon has already informed you that a second team is already inside Vatican City awaiting your assistance.”
“He’s informed me, yes.”
“Security remains tight, Jaric. So do what you do best. Breach the stronghold of the Apostolic Palace and kill Franz Kleimer-Schmidt.”
Kimball remained duly quiet.
“Your plane leaves tonight from La Pedrera Airport where Father Corvecci will see you and Simon to your gates. Once inside Vatican City Simon will contact Team Two, who will position themselves as backup.”
“Backup?”
“Ask no more questions, Jaric. Follow Simon as you would follow me.”
“Yes, Your Luminary.”
Albrecht then allowed Kimball to continue on while he hung back and waited for Simon to catch up. When Simon did catch up the two men walked side by side with Kimball ten meters ahead of them.
“Brief Jaric as you travel to Rome. Tell him of his mission, his purpose. Team Two is there to run interference, if necessary. If Jaric fails, they will not. But Jaric is instrumental to the mission’s success. Is this clear, Simon? Succeed where Phinehas and Mordecai had failed us in the past.”
Simon nodded. “You know the Vatican will not allow Jaric to walk through their doors without suspicion, since he’d been gone for far too long. Questions will be asked. Inquiries will be made by security teams.”
“Jaric is a wrecking machine who will draw the proper attention away from the second unit. He’s expendable as are the members of Team Two. You, however, are to return. Even if the others do not.”
“I understand, Your Luminary.”
“Make sure that you do.”
#
Kimball’s ears remained keen. As he walked several meters in front of Simon and Albrecht, he could hear the conversation between them and the murmurs that echoed of neighboring walls. He was the primary asset to carry out a vendetta that would score a victory for the order, which would mark them clearly as a radical group on an already long directory of terrorist factions. More so, he was apparently high on the list of becoming expendable.
Kimball—Jaric—continued along the corridor bearing no expression whatsoever.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The Vatican
Vatican City
Approximately six months after the assassination attempt on the life of Bonasero Vessucci, the Vatican’s Secretary of State returned power to the pope. Though Bonasero was cleared with a clean bill of health, his movements had been slowed by months of inactivity.
He had been through therapy and light-order exercises, making steady improvements over time. But despite his advancements, the muscles in his legs had atrophied somewhat and were difficult to redevelop, confining him to a wheelchair for at least two more months.
As he sat in his chamber, the doors leading to the balcony were open. The surrounding drapes billowed softly as a breeze blew in from the west. The sky was blue with few clouds. And though the Square milled about with tourists, he could hear nothing because his mind was focused elsewhere. He could see Kimball Hayden smiling in better days, and then on those rare occasions when Kimball broke into great laughter. He also recalled Kimball’s lost moments when the Vatican Knight believed that redemption was forever beyond his reach by choosing his particular brand of justice over law against those who deserved no better. In essence, he watched Kimball grow as a father would watch guardedly over his son. And the pain of losing a child, at least what the pontiff understood since he had no children of his own, was indescribable. The pain Bonasero felt, the deep and unsettling sense of loss and emptiness, was indeed great.
My boy, he thought. My son.
Then the memories faded and the sounds of St. Peters Square brought him back to the moment.
Later in the day he was to mark his first act as returning pope by holding a symposium with the cardinals inside the Sistine Chapel—a spiritual welcoming. There were no documents to read from, no speeches to prepare, it was simply a gathering to discuss important mission events.
He looked at the wall clock. It read 1:26 p.m. The symposium was slated for 4:30 p.m.
Then he closed his eyes and prayed, thanking God for seeing him through the violence that nearly took his life. Then he prayed in length over Kimball’s soul, begging God to accept Kimball as a man who leaned more to the Light instead of the Dark.
He prayed in earnest.
And he prayed until tears slid from the corners of his eyes.
On the wall the clock continued to tick.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Rome
Outside Vatican City
It was Father Corvecci who found out through the Holy See that the pope was planning a meeting with the cardinals inside the Sistine Chapel, then relayed the message to Albrecht. It was a grand opportunity to position a kill squad within the Vatican. So Braun and Albrecht sent two members of the order who were led to believe that they were fulfilling prophesy instead of performing an act of vendetta.
Their lives were insignificant, this they knew. The cause was everything, or so the whispers in their heads told them. They were situated in a hotel not too far from Va
tican City. Both men were thin and almost wasted in appearance. But the cardinal garments they carried inside their luggage would cover them like the cowls they wore in Brazil.
They removed the garments and spread them along the bed, the colors rich and vibrant. Alongside the robes were two vests loaded with bricks of Semtex and detonation units. With less than two hours before the pontiff’s symposium they got dressed, first putting on the vests, and then covering them with scarlet robes.
Security would be tight. But that matter would be handled by Team One, by Simon and Jaric. All they had to do was get close enough to bring the chapel down.
#
They had gone without sleep for more than twenty-four hours, but Jaric and Simon made it to Rome with little time to spare before the symposium. During the flight Jaric said little, only nodding his head on occasion to confirm that he understood the instructions that were being handed to him.
Security would be tight at the chapel. But Jaric’s skills were more than capable to whittle the group down to a manageable few, then work his way into the Sistine Chapel where he would confront the pope and take his life. The two acting cardinals would provide backup support, a failsafe to see the mission completed should Jaric somehow miscarry his assignment. At minimum Jaric would draw the attention of security teams, which would allow the false cardinals to move within the kill zone before the pontiff could be ushered away.
So timing had to be precise, if not perfect. The window of opportunity would be seconds.
Inside Vatican City, with time counting down to zero-hour, Simon and Jaric stood post a good distance away surveying the chapel. Simon was looking through a pair of binoculars. Jaric, a huge and imposing man who stood obediently by, wore a clean shirt and well-pressed pants looking very much like one of the locals.
