by Jones, Rick
Pope Gregory tossed the cover of the comforter back and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge until the soles of his feet touched down against marble flooring.
With the passing of Pope Pius XIII, Gregory had succeeded him, serving six months at the Papal Throne. Under his leadership conservatism reigned, pulling away from Pius’s more liberal stance to bend to the will of the masses for reform in a world that was ever-changing. But Gregory believed that the people should bend to the will of God rather than God bending to the will of men. So the pendulum began to swing back to a more conservative position, once again raising the ire within the Catholic citizenry.
Although he had drawn criticism from within the ranks, he was also lauded by those within the College as one not to back away from adversity, no matter how loud the voices may cry.
Getting to his feet, Pope Gregory’s world shifted, the shadows elongating and coming alive, reaching out and then pulling back, the products of a sick mind. At first he wobbled, took time to correct himself, then made his way toward the veranda with a buffeting wind blowing the hairs back from his scalp like the whipping mane of a horse.
A few hours ago he was as robust as Atlas who carried the religious world upon his squared shoulders. But now he was amazingly weak with barely enough strength to lift a hand.
His stomach also burned like magma moving in slow passage. And then his entire body became a tabernacle of pain as he hitched in his stride and tumbled toward a column by the veranda door, using it as a crutch, and looked out into the night.
Beneath the light of the gibbous moon with the obelisk and the Colonade standing sentinel beneath its gaze, with nothing but cold, blue shadows stretching out across the bricks of the plaza below, Pope Gregory marveled at the beauty of the country he had come to reign.
As he stood there his pain intensified as if something serpentine wended its way through his guts the moment he started toward the edge of the veranda in a stumbling gait with a hand across his abdomen, and the other stretched out for the guardrail.
With breaths coming in short gasps and his lungs laboring to pull in enough oxygen to keep him conscious, Gregory continued to admire the land that his papalship brought him. For six months he ruled as best he could under the servitude of God. And for six months he believed that such servitude should have been rewarded with an exceptionally long time to rule the Papal Throne. Six months was not even a blink of time within the cosmic eye, he considered.
“I know you’re there,” he said, his breaths coming with far greater difficulty.
But there was neither answer nor moving shadows. Nor was there the sound of a pin dropping or the hint of a possible footfall.
“In the eyes of God, do you truly believe that He will condone what you are about to do?”
The slight rush of a breeze passed through his ears, a sweet melody to calm and soothe. And he closed his eyes, waiting.
“God will not favor you,” he said. “No matter what you do as a member of the Church, He will only favor you in the end with the fiery lakes of Hell.”
The pontiff stood at the edge of the veranda with a hand against the rail and a forearm across his stomach, and then he began to teeter back and forth threatening to spill over to the pavement below.
“With the fiery lakes of Hell,” he whispered. And then his eyes flared the moment he felt a hand on his back and a push hard enough to send him over the edge. The old man began to pinwheel his arms while turning to face his executor, his feet losing purchase and going airborne as he slipped over the railing, the pavement hurling up at him at an impossible speed, the edge of the veranda dwindling away and becoming smaller. The moon was spinning, its face becoming a sad memorial denoting the end of the old man’s life.
And then he struck the bricks, hard, the impact sounding like a melon striking the pavement during a moment of dead silence.
Yet the pontiff survived with the smell of copper permeating the air and blood fanning out in all directions.
Coughing, with blood spraying out from broken lungs, with his eyes skyward, he thought he saw the shadow of someone staring down at him from the veranda. He was unmoving and still, and seemed to be wearing vestments. And then he pulled away, gone, leaving as silently as he entered.
As the pontiff focused on the point of the veranda, as his life slowly leeched away from his body, his vision began to implode at the edges with his sight turning black, then purple, and then the subsequent flashes of sunburst light leading to Ethereal Illumination.
With a broken hand twisted by the impact, the pontiff raised it to the Glory of the Light only he could see, smiled, and allowed himself to pass.
#
Boston, Massachusetts, The Archdiocese of Boston
For the past six months Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci served the Diocese of Boston after his loss for the papal selection, having been criticized, then subsequently ostracized, for sitting in as lead counsel of a clandestine group of cardinal’s known as the Society of Seven. They, along with Pope Pius, recognized the fact that times had become volatile and the Church, having diplomatic ties with ninety percent of the countries worldwide, had become a viable target. In order to protect its sovereignty, its interest, and the welfare of its citizenry, Cardinal Vessucci spearheaded a covert group of elite commandos known as the Vatican Knights.
Their missions were normally in hotspots around the world, using tactics and methods to achieve the means—techniques that were often brutal when there were no other options available. In the course of their duties people died, but many more lived, usually the innocent or those who could not protect themselves.
But Pope Gregory refused to see their necessity in a world growing cancerous every day and quickly disbanded the Knights. His subsequent move was to scatter the members of the Society of Seven to every corner of the globe with Vessucci ending up in the United States.
And though he loved the Church, he missed his soldiers just as much, knowing everyday for the past six months that the Church had been left open and naked. How many people lost their lives when they could have been saved? he wondered. And he asked himself this question just before he recited his ritual prayers to start the day, wondering if the Knights had been forced to leave their calling.
Just as he was about to get into bed there was a knock on his door, a soft tapping.
“Just a moment.”
When he opened the door a bishop was standing there, his face grim.
“Yes, Bishop.”
“I’m afraid I’ve received some rather terrible news that I must pass on to you.”
The cardinal opened the door wider as a gesture to allow the bishop to enter, but the man remained standing at the threshold. “We’ve just received word that the pope has passed.”
Vessucci’s jaw dropped.
“It appears that he met with a horrible accident and fell off the balcony. He was pronounced dead prior to being sent to Gemelli.”
Vessucci was genuinely stunned. The pontiff had only been in office for six months. More so, he was so physically fit that he was set to rule for at least two more decades, perhaps longer. “When?”
“About two hours ago,” he said. “It’s about to be announced to the world. But before it is,” he handed Vessucci a piece of paper, “your presence is required at the Vatican.”
Vessucci stared at the paper for a long moment, before lifting his hand to receive it. “Thank you,” he whispered, then closed the door softly. Without looking at the paper he knew what it was: a request to band with the College of Cardinals and prepare for another Conclave. He didn’t even look at the writing. He gingerly placed the paper on the nightstand and stared out into space.
He had come close to winning the seat six months ago, having a strong camp but not enough to defeat the two camps that joined together to trump his. This time around, however, his chance for the Papal Throne was well within his reach.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, gathered his wits, and began to pack his bags for Vatican City.
CHAPTER FOUR
Las Vegas, Nevada, Downtown Area
Six months ago when the Vatican Knights were disbanded, Kimball Hayden became a wayward son in a society he rejected long ago. From the onset as a young man trying to make a name for himself in the power halls of the White House, he became a political assassin leading a CIA wetwork team tagged by the brass as the “man without a conscience,” since killing had become a polished skill possessed by few others on this planet.
For years he reveled in his own ego, each killing becoming a building block to his own monumental legend that grew every time he drew a blade across the throat of an insurgent or put a bullet in a man’s brain. When it came to killing, there was no one more consistent or dependable than Kimball Hayden.
Until one day while on a mission in the Middle East where he had an epiphany after being forced to kill two shepherd boys who threatened to compromise his position. After burying them beneath the desert sand, he laid there the entire night staring up at the sky, at the sparkling pinprick lights that made up the constellations, and wondered if there truly was a God.
On the following morning as the sun rose, he made a conscious decision to abscond from American service and disappeared, the Pentagon believing he had been killed in action, and posthumously awarded him the accustomed accolades as an empty coffin was buried at Arlington as a symbol of the warrior’s testament to duty.
But regardless of how courageously symbolic he was to others, should American forces ever discover that he was still alive, especially knowing the black secrets he possessed regarding past administrations, which included the sanctioned killing of a United States senator, then his accolades would have no meaning, and he would be targeted with extreme prejudice to ensure that all past misjudgments on the part of the political body would remain secret.
And this is why he never returned.
But then his life took another turn.
During the moment his coffin was being laid to rest in D.C., he was sitting in a small bar in Venice, Italy, watching the images on TV play out as American forces and its allies moved in on Saddam Hussein to free Kuwait. It was here that a cardinal of the Church took a seat in a booth opposite him without permission, and offered him a chance at redemption by serving as a Vatican Knight.
When Kimball questioned him about this knighthood, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stated that only a man of true integrity who can hold loyalty above all else, except honor; a man who truly believes in the sovereignty of the Vatican and holds to protect its interests and the welfare of its citizenry; and a man who is truly repentant for past actions of a dark nature, is a man who could be made whole in the eyes of God.
Kimball had finally found his home within the auspices of the Church.
And for years he plied his very particular set of skills to save lives across the globe with a team of the world’s best warriors, the Vatican Knights.
But the passing of Pope Pius gave rise to Pope Gregory, who in turn disbanded the group as an affront to God.
Not only was Kimball without a country, but he was now without a church. And there wasn’t much call for a man with his skill set with the exception of mercenary work, which he wanted nothing to do with. So he returned to the states under a different name, someone who had a simple dream of working an honest job.
The man who used to be Kimball Hayden was now James Joseph Doetsch, better known as J.J. Doetsch. With a new identity to keep him under the radar, Kimball Hayden was now a porter picking up trash off casino floors. Since it was an honest job, then he was fine.
Over the months he maintained his incredible physique and exercised at every opportunity. He also practiced religiously with his knives, going through a set routine similar to Tai Chi. If nothing else, Kimball Hayden remained very deadly.
“Yo, J.J.”
Kimball, pulling a trash bag from a barrel on the casino floor, his hands wrapped in latex gloves, stopped and looked at the floor manager who was beckoning him with a bird-like hand.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Come here. Got something I want to pass along.”
Kimball moved beside him, the height difference amazing as the little man with the doughy face looked up at Kimball the same way a small child looks up at his father.
“‘Member I told you about the gig my brother-in-law’s involved with? You know, the cage fighting thing?”
“Look, Louie—”
The smaller man raised his hands and began to pat the air. “Just hear me out,” he said.
Kimball did, but his body language, the grim twist of his mouth and arms crossed defensively across his chest, told the man he wasn’t going to be too receptive.
“Just hear me out,” he repeated. “That’s all I ask for, for chrissakes.”
“I’m listening.”
“You can get in a cage for five minutes—just five—and make yourself five grand tops.” He then stood back to appraise Kimball, his arms held out as if to showcase the large man to others. “Look at you. You’re a monster. Why in the hell are you wasting your time here for just over minimum when you can obviously work the circuit for so much more?”
“And I suppose you’d get a percentage of my take?”
Louie smiled. “Of course. As your manager, how does fifteen percent sound?”
Kimball shook his head and turned away.
“All right then. How about ten?”
“I’m not hearing you, Louie.”
The pudgy man moved beside him. “You’re wasting your talents, J.J. You always said the only thing you ever wanted was an honest job. Well here it is, sitting in our lap. It’s totally legit; the circuit has top-notch billing and everything you could ever ask for. And the bottom line, J.J., is that I see six, maybe seven figures a year once you hit the top.”
“Not interested.”
“You’d rather pull trash for the rest of your life?”
“Just temporary duty, that’s all.”
“I don’t get it. Why won’t you fight?”
Kimball looked him squarely in the eyes. “If I’m going to fight, Louie, there has to be a cause behind it.”
“Money ain’t cause enough?”
“For me? No.” He went back to emptying the cans, placing the bags in a rolling trash cart.
“Will you at least think about it?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” he said. “I’ll think about it along with other things.”
Louie smiled, his emotions uplifted with slight hope. “That’s great,” he said, his smile blossoming. “That’s really great! You just tell me when.”
How about never? Kimball returned the smile and kept his mouth shut.
“Got a gig coming up in two weeks,” he added. “You just let me know, J.J. You just let me know. I hate to stand by and see a man like you waste your life away, that’s all.”
Kimball’s smile slowly melted away.
Louie turned and began to walk away, calling out over his shoulder. “A guy’s gotta have purpose in his life, J.J. So I’m telling you that fighting is yours. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a warrior. Think about it.”
Kimball roughly tossed the trash in the bin and watched Louie disappear behind a bank of slot machines. He seemed to have prophetically hit the nail on the head. Was he fated to fight and do nothing more with his life? In a moment of self defeat, Kimball sighed. No matter how fast or how far he tried to run, Fate was always standing at every corner waiting to hand him the scepter of war.
He looked at his watch. Ninety minutes to quitting time.
He went back to work.
#
After clocking out Kimball took leisure and headed off to one of the neighboring casinos that offered a parfait glass of shrimp for a $1.99, and ate beneath the lighted canopy of the Freemont Street Experience. Music blared to the beat of the Rolling Stones and The Doors, as cartoon images played overhead. When the show was over, he placed the glass aside and headed east on Freemont where the neighborhood was severely depressed
with motels in disrepair and meth whores working for fixes. Homeless people gathered in small groups with shopping carts filled with treasures when people of comfort often considered them trash. Further east towards Boulder Highway, where the motels were sitting on the fulcrum point of becoming condemned but not quite there, was Kimball’s apartment. It was the only place he could afford on his wage without applying for government aid and possibly draw attention.
It was night, the air hot and dry. It was always hot. And the smell of the city was all around him. The sweat, the ozone, the smoke from tailpipes and the smog of big-city air all twisted into a terrible cocktail.
But it was home.
As he turned down an alleyway he noted a figure of a small man, perhaps a teenager, standing next to a Dumpster. The closer Kimball got to the shape; it would counter with steps to confront Kimball in the middle of the alleyway, ultimately coming face to face by the time their paths crossed.
“Something I can do for you?” Kimball’s sixth sense kicked in, meaning that they were not alone.
“Got any smokes, man?”
“Sorry. Don’t smoke.” When Kimball tried to sidestep him the man stepped in front of him, blocking him. Kimball could see that he was neither a teenager nor a man, but on the cusp, perhaps twenty and wasting away.
“What about money? You got money, don’t you?”
“How about you get out of my way? That way you and your friends won’t get hurt.”
From the shadows came movement. Three others, all in the same condition of being wasted and thinning on drugs, were positioning themselves so that Kimball was flanked on both sides with another behind and the punk in front.
“You don’t want to do this,” he told the kid. “Trust me. You really don’t.”
There was a snicker as a blade shot out from a stiletto in the punk’s hand. Another three followed in concert: …Chic! . . . Chic! . . . Chic! . . .
In Kimball’s mind it was an easy estimation of four knives total.
“Give me your wallet, dude.”
“The only way you’re getting my wallet,” he told him, “is if you come and take it.”
