The Lost Cathedral (The Vatican Knights series Book 7)

by Rick Jones

  Kimball Hayden was on the hunt.

  #

  His name within the order was Kristof, a German name, though he was not German at all but a mongrel of sorts, with mixed blood, which is why he served in such a capacity as a watchdog and treated as such.

  As a tactic to the enemy to appear in greater numbers by moving about and showing glimpses of themselves in different parts of the landscape, Kristof was on the move, the man careful not to show too much of himself.

  Large fans of leaves and branches from tropical brush obscured much of the area. But Kristof knew the jungle well—had lived in these cathedral outskirts for years as a lower caste member serving the order. This was his home. And in terms of a cliché, he knew this part of the terrain like the back of his hand.

  He was quiet. Silent. His footfalls barely making a measureable sound as they landed.

  Then he stopped.

  Like dogs he and those like him had the honed skills of an added perception, a sixth sense.

  He was not alone.

  He narrowed his eyes to better study his surroundings, but saw no movement.

  Silence.

  He stepped forward, cautiously, the machete tight within his grasp.

  He turned his head, slowly, and carefully perused his surroundings. Somewhere a bird cried out, a toucan by the sound of it, which caused Kristof to look up.

  A mistake.

  A large man wearing a uniform that blended perfectly with the background setting stood before him with a knife in each hand, pinning Kristof with a stare of cold indifference. This man had come from nowhere and closed in with preternatural silence. Like a phantom.

  “Where are they?” the large man asked in a measure just above a whisper. “Where’re the cardinals?”

  The moment Kristof’s mind finally realized the reality of the moment and started to raise his machete, the large man quickly countered with a sweeping arc across the hooded man’s throat, the sudden flash of the blade ripping open a horrible second mouth.

  By the time Kristof went to his knees with a hand to his throat, the man was already gone.

  #

  Cloaked figures wearing ragged cowls moved carefully about, keeping true to their tactics. Some moved as one, others moved in pairs.

  East of the fuselage a duo wearing badly soiled cowls were staying low, their attention drawn to those pinned close to the plane. Their concerns were similar, each wondering why there was no effort on the part of their enemy to advance.

  One even pointed with the tip of his machete at the intruders, first indicating the two in the makeshift perches, then to the others by the debris. In the end they came to a matching conclusion: one was missing from the fold.

  Internal radars went up, their senses alerted. As they gathered to move a large man in camo attire stood over them with a knife in each hand. One of the blades was painted a recognizable shade of red, a color seen too often by the victims of the order.

  The pair wearing the cowls quickly got to their feet to engage this man, who was fast and graceful in movement, his hands coming up in well-practiced moves to deflect the blades of the machetes, the action throwing both men off balance. In a subsequent move the large man struck quickly, first driving the knife across the first man’s throat and then piercing center mass with a forward strike to the heart, killing him instantly. Then he struck the second man with a series of fatal jabs that hit specific points of the body, killing him just as quickly before either man had a chance to utter a single sound.

  Before either man hit the ground—as was the way when Kristof met his fate when he went to his knees in his fading moments—the large man was gone, having been swallowed by the jungle.

  #

  Though Kimball didn’t know it there were only three left. But he remained cautious, believing there were more. Much more.

  On many occasions he had worked jungle warfare before, and became an elite regarding guerilla tactics by mastering every technique that could be learned. He was quiet and stealthy with somewhat of a practiced feline grace to his movements. And when he moved through the jungle terrain he was phantomlike, a vague mist that could not be seen until it was too late.

  From what he could tell, these people were nothing more than scarecrows to keep the legend alive and people at bay. Their skill sets as warriors were nearly nonexistent, like children who had been given a loaded gun and told to guard the gates.

  Yet when he looked into their eyes he saw a strange vacancy, a detachment similar to the look in Phinehas’s eyes. These people were supporting an evil by a will that was apparently not of their own. At least in Kimball’s mind this order, at best, was a cult who stole away, created, and nurtured new and disturbing psyches. This order, like all cults, were preying on people seeking a new and better way of life—perhaps one of devout purpose—only to be swept up into a dark and demented way of living, for which they were ingrained to believe that nothing existed outside the order. And those whose wills had been stunted and rebuilt to believe that the price of progress is destruction, at least to Kimball, were the most dangerous.

  And these people were not to be taken lightly.

  Kimball moved silently along and often stopped to listen. When his senses told him to press on he did. And he did so with the intent of taking down one Evil Spirit at a time.

  #

  The rest of the watchdog order felt something disturbing in the air. They had not seen glimpses of their brethren on the west side. All movement had stopped which was against tactical protocol. It was a way of signaling to one another that everything remained copasetic. Once all movement stopped, a red flag was raised since inactivity for any length of time was against procedure.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  What they didn’t realize at the moment was something very dangerous was coming their way.

  #

  While making his sweep Kimball came upon a shape east of his position. The mass crouched low to the ground, the dark figure wearing a wasted, moth-holed cowl. When Kimball approached the form, it remained as still as a stone sculpture.

  He knows I’m here.

  So Kimball stopped, and listened.

  Silence.

  This figure was not alone. Kimball could sense it—could feel it. So he looked to his left, slowly, then to his right. Then he bit down hard, clenching his teeth. He allowed himself drawn in until the shape’s teammates flanked him; a sophomoric mistake.

  Then from his left a cloaked figure rushed him with the blade of his machete held high. The man’s eyes were red and rheumy with bloodlust, and flared with bestial savageness. When the man charged he prematurely cried out in triumphant as the machete’s blade started its downward arc toward Kimball’s skull. In response Kimball countered with his Ka-Bar, deflecting the blow with a quick sweep. Metal connected and sparks flew. The moment the figure raised his hand for a subsequent blow, Kimball came around with his second knife and drove the point deep into the man’s temple. For a moment before the attacker died he appeared contrite as he stood there. His features were no longer tense or untamed, but fell slack with the looseness of a rubber mask the same time his eyes rolled steadily upward into their sockets a moment before he fell.

  Then the blade of a machete scored Kimball’s shoulder, tearing fabric and skin. Kimball felt the quick raking of the blade and fell to his backside. The pain was white-hot and his shoulder was on fire. Worst of all, he was now vulnerable as he lay there looking up into the red, raw eyes that were completely saturated with savage lust. The machete was held high over the aggressor’s head, and a single blow was about to come down and exorcise Kimball’s life from his body.

  It seemed surreal to Kimball with everything moving with disjointed slowness. Nothing appeared real.

  The moment the blade started its downward trajectory, two holes punched through the front of the man’s cowl—exit wounds. Holes the size of peaches exploded from the man’s chest, causing blood and gore to spray the surrounding palms and leave
s. The man jiggled briefly as if he’d been charged with electrical volts instead of ammo rounds, then fell to the ground, hard.

  Leviticus stood over the dead man. A ribbon of smoke was rising from the mouth of the weapon’s barrel. “You looked like you needed a little help,” he said. Then he saw the wound on Kimball’s shoulder. “You all right?”

  Kimball quickly got to his feet—his shoulder the last of his concern—and looked past Leviticus. The third assailant was running away from them through the brush in a northeasterly direction. Kimball pointed to the escapee. “Don’t take him down,” Kimball stated. “See where he goes.”

  Leviticus nodded and gave chase.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The man in the cowl ran until his lungs burned and a painful stitch surfaced against his side. When he reached the stone steps of the temple—of this lost cathedral—he lay there catching his breath. He was the last of his kind. The watchdogs and scarecrows who’d been discarded and beaten back by a man who was the color of the jungle.

  And he wasn’t alone, either. There were others like him, all predators. And predators always tracked their prey.

  He quickly narrowed his eyes and inspected the area behind him, searching for something within the jungle. But nothing moved or made a sound. Yet he sensed something was there. Hiding, waiting and watching. It wasn’t a shadow or a shape. Nor was it an Evil Spirit or a hideous entity cloaked in dark capes or cowls. It was more like a mist, something that could not be captured or contained.

  Suddenly he was chilled to the bone. He knew within that jungle wall the eyes of a hunter watched his every move.

  Almost whining in his attempt to flee the cloaked man stumbled, fell, got to his feet, gave one last quick look at the jungle, then ran inside the cathedral.

  Less than a minute later a large leaf moved, then a second leaf. And then nothing.

  Whatever had been watching from the jungle blind was now gone.

  Evaporated.

  Like mist that cannot be captured or contained.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Kimball was sitting on a large rock next to the fuselage when Leviticus returned. He was getting his shoulder field-stitched by Jeremiah—no local anesthesia or numbing agent, just a simple needle, catgut, butterfly stitches and disinfectant. Even minor wounds could turn gangrenous in the jungle.

  The rest of the Vatican Knights had set a perimeter, watching and listening.

  “How bad?” Leviticus asked Jeremiah, regarding Kimball’s wound.

  “He’ll live,” Jeremiah said, applying the last butterfly stitch. “Though it’s more than just superficial.”

  Kimball shrugged his shirt back on and buttoned it. “You followed?”

  Leviticus nodded. Then he pointed to the direction where the chase commenced. “You’ll find your cathedral about six kilometers in,” he said. “Straight line all the way.”

  “Which means that we need to find an alternative route since they’ll be waiting for us.”

  “Exactly.”

  Kimball stood and flexed his arm. Other than minor pain and a little tightness, he had full function of his arm and shoulder. “We’ll branch off at the halfway point, go east, and come in through the sides,” he said. Then: “Anything else?”

  Leviticus nodded. “Nothing. The cathedral is fairly sizeable. But the entire area looked like a dead zone.”

  Kimball weighed this for a moment. “There has to be more than what we see on the surface,” he finally said. “We’ll find them. We’ll find them and bring ‘em home.”

  Leviticus awaited his next orders which finally came. The team was to break perimeter and assemble. After they had gathered, they headed for the cathedral.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The Chamber of the Luminaries

  The Evil Spirit knelt before the Luminaries with his head bowed in submission.

  “How many were there?” asked Albrecht Krause.

  The hide of the man’s cowl carried the stink of animal and filth, permeating the area with a vulgar odor. “We counted eight, Your Luminary.”

  “And the rest of your kind?” asked Gunter. The man appeared ill and sickly. His face was leaner, longer, the tone of his flesh now appearing discolored even within the glow of the torches’ flames.

  “Dead,” the cloaked man responded.

  “All?”

  “Five,” he said. “I’m the last.” The man in the cowl never raised his head, his eyes cast to the floor. Then he spoke, not knowing if he was adding too much to the discussion. But he felt the need to justify his team’s failure. “There was this man,” he finally said. “A big guy.” Then he pointed to his neck. “He was wearing a collar like Father Corvecci.”

  Phinehas was standing to the side along with Simon. Both men kept their distance from the cloaked man, but it wasn’t far enough. The stench he gave off was absolutely commanding.

  “A cleric’s collar?” asked Phinehas.

  The man in the cowl nodded.

  “Kimball Hayden,” Phinehas said with cold reserve. “He’s here on a search-and-rescue mission looking for the cardinals and the Knights.”

  “Then we shall welcome him, yes?” said Gunter.

  Phinehas said, “You don’t understand. Kimball Hayden is not only a Vatican Knight, he is the Vatican Knight. And he leads a team of seven.”

  “We also have our own little group. Don’t we, Phinehas?” Gunter sounded extremely tired.

  “I remember little of anyone else. But I do remember that Kimball Hayden is different. From what I can recall from memory, he moves in a direction not of the church’s choosing.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Hermann Braun.

  “He views justice much differently than the Church.”

  “So he will kill as a means of his justice. Is that what you’re saying?” asked Albrecht. Then he scoffed. “We’re not afraid to die for our cause.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Phinehas. “Because Kimball Hayden won’t be afraid to kill you.”

  The smug look on Albrecht’s face quickly melted away.

  “They’re coming,” said Gunter. “That much we know. And when they get here they will not like what they find.” The sickly old man started to groan—another painful flare-up in his groin. He knew his bladder was about to give, his state of incontinency just another symptom of a man who had lost his quality of life. Then to Phinehas: “And your team, are they good quality men?”

  “They used to be Vatican Knights. They know how to fight.”

  “Do you think you can stop them?”

  Phinehas remained quiet.

  Then from Gunter: “Phinehas, I asked you a question. Do you think you can stop them?”

  Phinehas remained impassive as ever. “We are five. They are eight.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “We are five. They are eight,” he repeated.

  “You’re not exactly striking a chord of confidence,” said Hermann Braun. “Five against eight. We have more. We have members of the order willing to provide aid. So it’s many against eight.”

  “Members of the order are not Vatican Knights,” Phinehas returned.

  Gunter grunted as his bladder released. The pain was awful, like scorching fire passing through his private region. There was more blood than urine, and something else, something diseased, a malignancy, perhaps the cancer enhancing the stench. The area around Gunter’s sandaled feet was stained with fluid that glistened like tar in the dim light.

  Nobody said a word.

  When the moment passed Gunter said, “I’m a dying man and Death steadily approaches. I will never live to see my ambitions come to light. But I expect them to be pursued at all costs.” He grimaced as another bout of pain hit him. When it passed he continued. “Phinehas, assemble your team and lead them. What these Vatican Knights seek they will not find here. At least not in the way they expect. They want their cardinals—they can have them. They want their Vatican Knights—not unt
il they all fight to the death.” The old man leaned forward in his chair. “But I am intrigued about this man Kimball Hayden. I want you to bring him to me. Kill the others. But bring Hayden to me.”

  Phinehas cocked his head questioningly. “With all due respect, Your Luminary, taking any of the Vatican Knights down will not be an easy task. Certainly not when they’re armed and geared for a fight. Especially Kimball Hayden.”

  “Do as I ask, Phinehas. Prepare your team and give me what I want. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

  Phinehas bowed his head. “Yes, Your Luminary.”

  Gunter waved his hand dismissively at Phinehas. “Be gone.”

  After Phinehas left the chamber, Gunter redirected his attention to the man wearing the cowl. “Not only have you failed in your duties,” he told him. “But in your panic you probably led them here to this cathedral.”

  “I only wanted to inform you, Your Luminary.”

  “Yes, of course you did.” Gunter labored to his feet. “Problem is you’re no longer of any use to me as a failure.” Once again Gunter Wilhelm made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

  Simon responded quickly by removing a pistol from his cowl, aimed it to the back of the man’s head, and pulled the trigger.

  #

  Phinehas was walking down the torch-lit hallway that had a medieval cast to it. There were others like him, those who remembered little but enough to know that going against Kimball Hayden and a team of Vatican Knights was suicidal. Yet he felt no fear or apprehension, only the need to follow through with Gunter Wilhelm’s wishes.

  Everything, after all, was for the cause.

  At the end of the hallway the sound of a single gunshot resonated off the walls.

  Phinehas maintained an even gait, the fired round doing little to startle him. At least that stench will finally be gone, he thought.