by Rick Jones
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At the halfway point they came upon a second gruesome marker, this time with the carving against a stone wall of the same god sacrificing of another human being. The victim appeared to be sprawled out on a stone altar with a hole in his chest, while the sun god clutched a heart in his fist. The organ was draining drips of blood as the god looked skyward as if in homage.
“Cute,” commented Leviticus.
“This halfway,” Pasqual told them. “I go no further. You go from here.” The guide removed a small paper from his pocket, one that appeared as old and thin as fragile parchment, and carefully unfolded it. It was like an old treasure map, but without the bounty where X marked the spot—only the crude drawing of a temple.
Pasqual noted another marker along the way that was in a straight line from their position, an easy find. Then he handed Kimball the machete. “You come to third marker soon. You can’t miss. Very, very big. Now you on your own. So you follow map. Map takes you to Huecuvus. But in there.” He pointed to the thick wall of greenery. “Are the Evil Spirits. They watch. They wait. They kill. You have blessing from God. Maybe. They have blessing from Devil. For sure.”
Kimball took the map, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. “Thank you, Pasqual.”
The guide nodded and returned down the path from which they came.
“Well,” Kimball said in general to everyone, “let’s find that third marker.” Utilizing the machete, Kimball began to hack his way through the thickness with the carving of the sun god at his back.
#
When Pasqual returned to the van, Father Corvecci was leaning against his Citroën waiting with folded arms. “Pasqual,” he said, smiling. “You were successful, yes?”
Pasqual removed his hat before speaking to the priest. “Sí, Padre. Sí. I show them the way. To the markers as you requested. I do God’s work. Sí?”
“Yes, Pasqual,” he said, patting the man on his back, the shirt wet with sweat. “You did God’s work. Thank you.”
“Anything more, Padre?”
“No, Pasqual. You set them right. All I ask is that you say nothing more about this.”
“No-no, Padre. Pasqual say nothing.”
Father Corvecci smiled. “It’s all part of God’s plan,” he told him.
Then Father Corvecci looked into the jungle.
It’s now in God’s hands.
Then his smile widened, showing predatory rows of teeth.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The jungle had come alive with shadows and shapes that moved skillfully through familiar terrain that had become second nature to them, knowing every stem, branch or leafy outcropping the same way a blind man would know the layout of his home and move about it as if fully sighted.
They were soundless and quiet, the shadows and shapes moving with feline grace and stealth as they positioned themselves for the hunt. Those of logic called them pumas, blacks leopards of the jungle. Those of superstition, however, called them Huecuvus or Evil Spirits.
They were the Guardians of the Temple.
The Keepers of the Gates.
And no one who challenged them had ever returned to tell the tale.
So they watched.
They waited.
And those of Huecuvus could smell the contest coming.
It would be a contest they would never forget.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
All the Vatican Knights took their call signs from the Old and New Testaments. There was Samuel and Jeremiah, Daniel and Hosea, Joel and Nahum, all seasoned warriors who had expertise in jungle warfare, having worked missions in the southern part of the Philippines to rescue kidnapped priests from extremist groups.
After years of growing up behind Vatican walls, these men had developed into a band of brothers groomed to be the Crusaders of a new age. They had been trained by the best in the world and had mastered much more than the martial arts. They also studied a variety of philosophies, from Aristotle to Epicurus, with an emphasis on the works of St. Thomas Aquinas. Art also had its place in their education; they developed insight into the subtleties and symbolism of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. For a Vatican Knight, it was believed that development of the mind was equally as important as development of the body. In review of each man’s character, they fought alongside each other as if they had been connected by an umbilical tie.
And as a Vatican Knight they served the Church under the credo of ‘Loyalty above all else, except Honor.’ Words that had become a part of their personal institution as a man, as a savior for those who cannot protect themselves, and as a servant of God.
How Phinehas and Mordecai had lost their ways was above them—inconceivable, in fact. Their core values were so deeply seated it was a wonder how they could be uprooted and their souls completely lost.
Now here they were—brother against brother.
Warrior against warrior.
Knight against Knight.
And Kimball led the way.
They had gone approximately seven kilometers in by following small markers cited on the map that kept them on track, things like stone totems. One in particular held the sculpture of a swastika as its cap.
Leviticus pointed to the carving. “Another marker?”
Kimball nodded. No. “Pasqual said it was something big. Very big. The carved markings along the way were much larger than this,” he said. “But at least we’re on the right track.”
The Vatican Knights pressed ahead with Kimball cutting a swatch through the thicket. Less than a kilometer east of the swastika they found the third marker. And as Pasqual said, it was large.
Very large.
The silver of its body glinted with a mirror polish against rays of sunlight that filtered down through the treetops. A gleaming portion of twisted metal reached toward the jungle’s canopy, with vines and thorny brambles bound to it as if to keep it tethered to the ground. And its markings, the red and green stripes—though the colors had faded—were significant.
“The third marker,” Leviticus commented as he and the rest of the Vatican Knights got to bended knees and scoped their immediate surroundings.
Kimball concurred. “Well,” he began, “at least we now know what happened to Shepherd One.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Apostolic Palace
Vatican City
Pope Pius, still in a weakened state, remained stable. He was beginning to take fluids on his own without Isaiah or a nurse holding the straw to his lips. His voice was stronger and more vibrant in cadence and tone. And his color was beginning to return to the hue of healthy flesh.
His mind, however, was consistently sharp and noted that Isaiah was unnaturally quiet. “Something bothers you, Isaiah. Speak your mind and release your burden.”
Isaiah knew of Phinehas’s escape from the Gendarmerie transport vehicle. What he didn’t inform Bonasero was that the man hadn’t yet been caught.
Bonasero encouraged him from his bed. “Isaiah.”
Isaiah placed a chair next to the bed and sat in the seat. “Your Holiness,” he started softly. “I’m concerned for your health.”
“You and the rest of the world. Now that we have that out of the way, what’s ailing you?”
“It’s about Phinehas,” he returned.
Astute as Bonasero was, he quickly intuited. “He’s escaped, hasn’t he?”
Isaiah nodded. “He killed four in the course of his actions.”
Bonasero’s face gave a couple of quick shifts and tics of warring discomfort. Not because Phinehas escaped, but because four lives had been taken in the process. Where had Phinehas gone so wrong?
“And he has not been caught,” the pope said as a statement rather than a question.
But Isaiah treated it as such by answering, regardless. “No, Your Holiness. His whereabouts remain unknown and he remains completely off radar.”
“And he’ll continue to be,” Bonasero returned. “Phinehas is—was—a Vatican Knight. He has unique skill se
ts to avert and divert, so he won’t be caught unless he means to be. And that would only be if he had to serve some type of agenda.”
“He may still be around to finish what he started.”
“Perhaps,” said Bonasero, who appeared much calmer than Isaiah expected. “But I am well protected and my faith is strong. If Phinehas marches upon this Palace, God will see to it as a means to take me into His embrace. Phinehas has failed once, as did Mordecai. So I believe that God has spared me for a reason. And I pray that He did.”
“You’re optimistic, seeing that it’s Phinehas who’s leading the attempt.”
“Phinehas has failed. Whether he stays or leaves to complete the task at hand is for him to decide. But I will not cower to the likes of Phinehas or Gunter Wilhelm again. The Light of God in me is much stronger than the Darkness that eclipses them.”
“You’re also well protected.” Isaiah smiled.
Bonasero smiled back. “That I am.” And then: “Have you heard from Kimball?”
“No. He’s being aided by Father Corvecci, who has informed his contact within the Holy See that Kimball’s team has successfully crossed into the Brazilian jungle. If all goes well, then the unit will rendezvous with Father Corvecci inside the village for mass extraction.”
“That’s if the cardinals and the Knights are still alive. Which I hope they are. This is a search-and-rescue mission. I hope Kimball keeps that in mind should he come across Gunter Wilhelm.”
“You know Kimball sees him as a threat.”
“I know,” said the pope. “That’s the problem. Kimball reacts to things beyond the nature and scope of the Vatican Knights.”
“He means well. He does what he does to protect you.”
“But it’s always at the cost of his soul . . . And that is a huge bargaining chip.”
Isaiah absorbed this. Bonasero was right: Kimball gambled with his own welfare, choosing justice over law when the Vatican chose law over justice.
“Let us both pray, Isaiah, that Kimball leads his team true . . . And by the grace of God.”
They grabbed each other’s hand, lowered their heads, and prayed.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Shepherd One lay mostly intact with the exception of the missing wheel assemblage, and damages to the wing and tailfin pieces. The plane was lying at an angle with the door openings facing a bit more skyward instead of being level with the ground. The escape chutes had obviously been deployed. But over the years the ramps had deflated and now hung downward from the hatchway thresholds like loose drapery.
Kimball used a series of hand gestures to Samuel and Jeremiah to climb the chutes and investigate the interior, clearing the plane of possible insurrectionists in hiding.
Jeremiah went to the chute in the plane’s front behind the cockpit, Samuel to the aft. Kimball posted his team and commanded them to center their weapons at the jungle line.
With the agility of primates, Jeremiah and Samuel climbed the chutes and hoisted themselves over the thresholds. After they repositioned the MP5s so the scopes were at eye level, they entered Shepherd One.
#
The cockpit was to Jeremiah’s left. The door was opened about a foot, giving him a partial view of the interior. With the point of his weapon Jeremiah forced the door wide, causing it to protest moderately on rusting hinges. Sitting in the co-pilot seat was a slightly clothed skeleton, the fabric of the uniform having been wasted away over time with the upper body leaning toward the yoke. Flesh was flaking from the co-pilot’s cocoa-colored bones with the fragility of ancient parchment. And strands of brown hair continued to cling gruesomely to the cap of the man’s skull. On the side of the man’s head was a small hole, no doubt a gunshot wound.
Jeremiah keyed his lip mic and whispered, “Kimball.”
“Go.”
“Got one in the cockpit. Co-pilot. Been dead a long time.”
“Copy that. Watch your back and make your way aft.”
“Copy.”
Jeremiah made his way down the aisle toward Samuel, who was sweeping his head left to right, right to left, with the red laser line of his weapon maneuvering swiftly from one side to the other.
Foam bled through tears and slits in the seats. Vines and thorny creepers claimed the walls and ceiling. Algae, black and green, discolored the panels. In an overhead compartment with the bin’s door in the up position, a boa constrictor as thick as a man’s thigh lay coiled within the recess. Its head was as large as a man’s hand, its eyes were dark and fathomless, but the snake remained disinterested as Jeremiah slowly crossed its path.
With Samuel making sweeps and edging toward Jeremiah, they finally met up at the plane’s center.
Jeremiah tapped his lip mic to open communication. “Shepherd One clear,” he said.
“Copy that. Take the vantage points at the entryways and scope the area. And stay low.”
“Why? Something up?”
There was a beat before Kimball finally answered. His voice came softly over the earbud. “I don’t think we’re alone,” he finally said. “There’s something in the brush. Take position and report.”
“Copy.” Jeremiah gestured for Samuel to take the opening at the rear of the plane, which he did. Jeremiah, getting to the prone position, belly-crawled toward the open doorway, and with the magnification of his weapon’s lens—and from an elevated height of nearly a dozen feet off the ground—began to scope the jungle’s surroundings.
Green. Nothing but green.
Then he saw them. Glimmers of darkness passing through the obstruction of the jungle’s thick and leafy entanglements. Shadows and shapes stood within the jungle’s thicket waiting and watching, with no true form or discernable figures to speak of.
And then they were gone. Like smoke. Dissipating into nothingness.
More shadows showed themselves, but not in their entireties. Never in their entireties. Only as blots of black mixed with green. They came closer, faded away, but circling.
Then they started to edge forward using the brush as blinds, then disappearing, again, the jungle their ally. Most disturbing was that they didn’t make a sound. Twigs didn’t snap. The extending arms of saplings moved little to give away their position.
Back into his lip mic, Jeremiah said, “Kimball, there’s movement all around us.”
“Confirm.”
“I can’t get a solid look.”
Then from Kimball: “Samuel?”
Over his earbud Jeremiah could hear the exchange between Samuel and Kimball. “Same,” reported Samuel. “Shadows and shapes moving with incredible stealth, then disappearing before I can confirm as to who or what they are.”
“Pumas?”
“Not unless they’re standing upright.”
“Maintain your positions and provide cover,” Kimball ordered.
Both Samuel and Jeremiah ‘copied’ and kept their weapons focused to the jungle.
In a few moments the ‘party’ was about to begin.
And Kimball Hayden was about to become the ‘life’ of it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
They had been a part of the jungle as much as the jungle had been a part of them. They moved within familiar terrain, becoming a part of it which gave them the advantage. Their cowls had the stink of animal hide rather than woolen fabric. Their flesh was naturally smudged with filth, giving them a feral appearance. And what was left of their conscience mind was completely governed by the whispers of the Luminaries.
There were only six of them. But their constant movements through the brush in random patterns made it appear much more than that. In their hands they held machetes capable of dismembering a limb with a single cut. And their eyes—which were red, raw and glazed with bloodlust—zeroed in on their prey.
They were the Gatekeepers of the Lost Cathedral who managed the perimeter with savage intent. Creatures’ weak of mind who were rendered completely soulless to serve a single purpose: to kill those who dare tread on hallowed ground belonging to the Orde
r of Fallen Angels.
They were the shadows and shapes of the Huecuvus, the Evil Spirits.
They were vile and fierce.
And as they waited and observed, they could hear the whispers in their heads telling them to show no mercy because mercy was a sign of weakness, a virtue contrary to everything the order had preached.
They handled their machetes with sweaty grips, their knuckles turning white with anticipation.
Then the whispers—the horrible whispers—telling them to be patient because their moment will come.
In the west the sun would soon settle with darkness to follow.
And darkness to most creatures, especially to these particular members of the order, would be a welcomed element in which they did their best work.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Kimball was hunkered down alongside the fuselage with his teammates, who maintained a steady line of defense. Samuel and Jeremiah maintained their posts, the elevated level of the plane serving as a sniper’s perch.
When Kimball handed off his MP5 to Leviticus, Leviticus clearly understood Kimball’s motive for doing so. Kimball always carried a Ka-Bar combat knife strapped to each leg, his weapon of choice since a knife never ran dry compared to a firearm. Kimball was also one of the best in the world in the mechanics of using double-edged weaponry in combat. The burst of an MP5 would give away his position. A knife, however, slides across a man’s throat and broadcasts no sound at all.
Staying low and with a knife gripped in each hand, Kimball told his team to maintain as he performed a recon mission. ‘Recon’ to Leviticus meant one thing: Kimball was going to neutralize any and all threats.
To Leviticus, Kimball said, “Keep their attention on you,” he whispered. “If they focus on you, then they won’t see me coming.”
Leviticus gave him a thumbs up.
Proffering a nod of reassurance to Leviticus that he would return, the Vatican Knight remained low, entered the brush, and blended in with his surroundings.
