The Bridge of Bones (Vatican Knights)

by Rick Jones

  Božanović had closed his eyes, and waited.

  Then came a volley of loud gunfire. Numerous shots cracked the air in rapid succession. The smell of gunpowder was everywhere, as Božanović opened his eyes to see a contingent team of Croats moving forward with their weapons raised. The team of Serbs was dead, dying, or writhing in misery against the broken pavement.

  Božanović didn’t hesitate. He got to his feet, grabbed a weapon, and summarily executed those who remained alive, with the exception of the Serb leader, who lay there with a hip wound, the man gritting his teeth against the pain.

  Božanović grabbed the man’s knife and held it before the man’s eyes in the same manner of display the Serb had used. He showcased its magnificent point and the sharp running edge of its blade.

  You think you know pain? he had asked the Serb, and then he kicked the man at the point of his injury, the man screaming at length. I’ll show you pain.

  The young Croat got to a bent knee and with the knife he began to cut away at the fabric of the Serb’s uniform, exposing the man’s legs. Božanović then motioned for his team to hold the officer down, each man grabbing a limb, arms and legs, so that the soldier could not move.

  He held the knife up long enough to see terror detonate in the man’s eyes.

  Then: This is pain.

  Božanović brought the edge of the knife against the man’s upper thigh, from left to right, and then he began to draw the blade downward, filleting the man. The skin curled up like shaved wood from thigh to knee, a piece he then cut off and summarily discarded to the side, as food for the curs that ran the streets at night.

  The Serb fought with futility against his attackers as he looked at the wound, at the fiber of muscle now showing, screaming louder than Božanović thought any man could ever scream.

  Božanović had smiled, the blade his new friend, one that returned to him his power of invincibility. Once again he had the choice as to who lived or died. And certainly the Serb had sealed his fate, as blood dripped copiously from Božanović’s wound and onto the soldier’s uniform.

  The Croat then peeled back a second strip from the man’s leg, then a third, the man in such white-hot agony that he passed out. But Božanović would not be denied. He had his team remove the man to a broken-down safe house, where the Serb slipped in and out of consciousness, only to awaken to the smiling and ravaged face of a Croat who never seemed to sleep. The face was poorly stitched, a fieldwork practice by an unskilled hand that gave Božanović somewhat of Frankensteinian appearance in its display. It was something that was horribly twisted and evil about the face, with its downcast eye and upturned lip, his mouth forever in a constant sneer.

  After a startling moment of recognition for the Serb, that it was Božanović who stood over him with the knife on display again, Božanović would then run the edge of the blade along the man’s torso, stripping him clean, until the Serb finally died from his wounds three days later.

  It was then that Božanović established himself as one to be feared, a man who articulated his power by posting communication through others, using their bodies as the canvases on which he sent his messages. The knife now served as the paintbrush that provided the broad strokes of his personal and artistic meaning.

  And he never surrendered that knife, having used it over and over again, until he had perfected his craft, becoming a Picasso in his field.

  These thoughts, these images, drove him to become stronger and richer and more powerful—to become omnipotent and omniscient at the same time. This was his dream. This was his goal.

  So he strove for greater heights in 1995, when Croatia won its independence, by becoming a ‘cleanup man’ working for the Croatian mafia. His determination and perseverance eventually caught the attention of mob leaders who saw reckless propensity within Božanović’s makeup, and deemed him a perfect asset when it came to getting specific messages across—especially with the blade of a knife.

  In Croatia, the mob was a single unit split between three families, who had become the major kingpins in Afghani heroin trafficking, human trafficking, and money laundering. They also had strong ties to the Italian Mafia and the IRA. Within three years inside the organization, Božanović had his hand in every jar, profiting from every vice. He killed with impunity, whenever someone skimmed from mafia profits.

  He became admired, and then feared, eventually becoming exalted as an elite killer within the hierarchy. Whenever jobs of major importance needed to be performed or when trails of bodies needed to be left behind to send messages, Jadran Božanović was the taskmaster to make it happen. He had become so ruthless in his dealings that his misshapen face eventually mirrored his blackened soul, the man becoming corrupt from the surface of his flesh to the essence of his inner soul.

  He was evil personified.

  As he sat in the van watching over his new prospects, Božanović issued a terse order to the passenger sitting beside him. “Follow them,” he said. “Learn what you can. If they’re tourists, I want to know.”

  “Yes, sir.” The passenger exited the van and closed the door behind him.

  Other than recruiting victims through others, surveillance was also crucial to the industry. They often chose those from other countries, who had no umbilical ties to the area. The inability to speak the language and the unfamiliarity of the locale often delayed any progress target’s families had with local law enforcement, and prevented an immediate search.

  Through the passenger-side window that was open, Božanović spoke. “I have another matter to attend to,” he told his companion. “Find out where they’re staying, then contact me. I’ll send a team to maintain a perimeter. When the time is right, we’ll act.”

  The Croat nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do not lose them.”

  Božanović started the van. And with his down-turned eye that sparked evil incarnate, he gave the man a hard stare a moment before he set the vehicle in gear and sped off, leaving his foot soldier behind.

  For hours the man trailed the family: the mother, the father, and the proposed targets of the two girls. First they went to a sidewalk café and ate. And then as the day grew late they headed back to their hotel on the Rue Cler.

  The foot soldier tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible as he entered the lobby moments after the family, maintaining distance, and keeping a eye on them from behind the dark lenses of his glasses. After the family entered the elevator, the man contacted Božanović via cell phone. The conversation was short, the answers between them clipped.

  Jadran Božanović now knew where his prospects were.

  Though the foot soldier could not see Božanović, he knew the Croat was smiling due to the Euro signs floating about his mind’s eye. It was always about the money.

  Once the children were taken, once Parisian officials finally galvanized themselves to locate them, the trail of the young foreigners would have grown so cold that they would never be seen again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shari Cohen and her family were staying at the Hotel de La Motte Picquet on the Rue Cler, the area a well renowned marketplace in Paris.

  The night had grown late and the girls were in bed in the adjoining suite.

  Gary looked exhausted, with gray half moons under his eyes as he slipped beneath the covers next to Shari. “The girls are away,” he said. “Off to la-la land.”

  She sidled up beside him and traced the tips of her fingers in circles over his chest. “You look tired,” she said.

  “Tired isn’t the word. I’m exhausted. It was a long day.”

  “I think the girls are having fun,” she added.

  “They are. Steph is just being difficult. I know that. I keep telling myself that it’s just a phase. But she’s starting to warm up a bit.”

  “We have to be patient,” she told him. “It’s part of being a parent.”

  Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “Kids,” was all he said. He turned to her, his eyes laced with red st
itching from fatigue. “I want to ask you something.”

  She shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “The girls are getting older now—you know, teenagers starting to spend time away. So I was wondering, since being a stay-at-home dad is no longer as useful, about doing something different.”

  “Like what?”

  He turned his eyes turned toward the ceiling and looked at the wonderful carvings of celestial beings and angels. “I want to go back to work,” he told her. “I think it’s time.”

  She continued to trace her fingers in circular patterns over his chest. “If that’s what you want to do, go ahead. I agree. The girls are fledglings, starting to spread their wings.”

  He turned back to her. “I want to go back to the CIA,” he told her squarely.

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Prior to the kids being born, Gary was a Company man who had harbored many secrets with his high security clearance. His hours were long, the job stressful. But he had been happy.

  “If that’s what you want to do, then do it. You know I won’t hold you back.”

  Shari clearly understood his position, because she was the FBI’s leading Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) responder in D.C., who was called to negotiate in extreme cases—especially those of high-profile. One such case took place several years ago, when she had orchestrated the release of Pope Pius from domestic forces that had ties to Capitol Hill, a secret she was never to divulge.

  Though the hours were also long and her job obviously stressful, she was like her husband in the sense that she was quite happy.

  “I want to work,” he said. “It’s time.”

  She tapped her fingers steadily against his chest. “If that’s what you want to do, Gary Molin, then do it.”

  He smiled. “I was talking to Dennis about three weeks ago,” he said. “I’ll have to go through training at Langley again, which is no big deal. It’ll last about six weeks to get me current.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” she told him.

  He turned and kissed her forehead. “So, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow then?”

  “Well, the girls want to do the marketplace alone, which is a negatory. And then we’re off to the Louvre. And if time permits, off we go to the Notre Dame Cathedral.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Tell that to the girls.”

  He chortled. Not his department.

  She leaned closer and kissed him, Gary returning her response with a passionate kiss of his own, which, in turn, led to incredible lovemaking.

  Outside their windows the City of Lights continued to burn.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jadran Božanović lay in his hammock surrounded by spartan fixtures, a small table with two chairs, a refrigerator that hummed with a waspy drone, and a TV that had four workable channels. As he lay there, he became fixated with the spinning revolutions of the fan blades above him, one wobbling because it was loose.

  He’d left his foot soldier behind to deal with the surveillance of the new assets, because he had to clean up a situation. He needed to stage a punitive matter before others, due to what had happened onboard the Aleksandra two months ago. Even though the operation had been compromised, fourteen people died during the custody of their caretakers, his caretakers. He groomed these people to watch over his profits. They had failed in their endeavors to keep those profits alive, which was unacceptable. Though the entire batch of profits were lost due to invading forces, fourteen people still lost their lives to poor handling procedures, prior to the auction. A combined financial loss close to two million Euros, had they lived long enough to stand upon the blocks. Statements had to be made: Do not allow my assets to die!

  He raised his hands to the air as he lay there, turning his arms over and examining them. His hands and forearms were bloodied up to the elbows, the blood having dried over time to a scarlet, deep-brown color, the man wearing the stains like a badge.

  He had two men imprisoned in the hull of an aged boat, which was docked at an old graveyard slated for ships. Their hands were tied by flex cuffs, the men weeping, each one knowing his fate. Božanović stood over them with a heavy audience surrounding them, a classroom in which he was the professor teaching an unforgettable lesson.

  The men wept and pleaded, as they made promises to conform, but Božanović felt no contrition or remorse. Removing his knife and holding it on display, he’d begun to carve the first man by stripping his flesh, the bands of skin coming off easily, simply rolling off his bones.

  He then did the face, the chest, and the abdomen, the man looking horribly mutilated by the time he died, a very slow death.

  The second man screamed for forgiveness before the blade had touched his skin, the tears streaming along his cheeks. With a smile of malicious amusement, Božanović had looked down upon his soldier, as if deliberating his fate, then telling him that his actions were irresponsible and that life was money.

  And then he’d proceeded to cut the man, stripping him clean, too, each cut a message to those watching that unreliability would not be tolerated. Božanović was all about messages. The knife his brush, the man’s body his canvas.

  When it was all done, Božanović had asked if there were any questions as to what he wanted in the future. And as expected, no one had had any. The message was quite clear: Money was optimum, and mistakes would not be tolerated.

  He allowed his arms to fall idly by his sides as he lay there. Above him the blades continued to rotate in slow revolutions, with one blade threatening to wobble free from its mounting.

  Tomorrow, before he went to work, he would wash his arms and clean himself. But for now he would sleep with the comfort of knowing that he was covered by the warmth of another man’s blood.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Rue Cler Marketplace

  Paris, France

  The Following Day

  Both Shari and Gary kept a watchful eye on their daughters but gave them enough distance to make themselves believe that they were independently shopping on their own.

  The girls giggled, feeling a sense of liberation. Here they were, two girls, shopping in a foreign land and buying items with Euros, each one feeling adult and mature.

  But they weren’t the only ones watching. Božanović’s man was tailing the family, the man watching the parents and the girls at the same time. The problem was, they were in a crowded marketplace and separated by a fair distance. So it was hard to observe everyone at the same time.

  Removing his cell phone, the man dialed a number already programmed into his phone.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re at the Rue Cler Marketplace,” he told Božanović. “It’s too crowded.”

  “I’ll send a team and a van. When the family leaves the marketplace, direct the handlers and have them follow. They’ll know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After hanging up and placing the phone in his shirt pocket, the man meandered about, looking at items while trying to keep a steady eye on the prize.

  The girls were ecstatic, buying French trinkets and baubles, things to adorn the shelves of their bedrooms when they got back home.

  Three hours later and finding themselves low on cash, they scouted their parents down and discovered that they were just a stone’s throw away.

  “Now what?” asked Stephanie. “We’re almost out of money.”

  “Well, we were thinking about taking a trip to the Louvre, and then to the Notre Dame Cathedral,” said Gary. “They’re very historic places, you know.”

  She rolled her eyes: Whatever.

  At this juncture, Gary had to smile. He just had to. Stephanie was no doubt enjoying herself, but she was so adamant about keeping up appearances by flexing her attitude muscles. He couldn’t hold back any longer and showed the fine whites of his teeth.

  “What?”

  He nodded. “Nothing.”

  In time, they got on a bus, with none of them wise to the fact that they were being trailed, a
s Božanović’s man took a seat in the rear and kept his eye on them.

  Once at the Louvre, the bus driver announced their arrival in three different languages: French, Italian, and English.

  They disembarked by the Grand Louvre Pyramids and entered the Sully Wing to the east.

  Božanović’s man kept pace, blending in with the crowd and coming so close to the girls that he could smell their perfumes.

  When he fell back, he got on the cell with Božanović. “We’re in the east wing of the Louvre,” he told him. “I heard them say that they had to meet the bus in four hours on the Cour Carrée et Pyramide du Louvre.”

  Božanović hesitated a moment on his end, then, “The Carousel will be busy with cars,” he finally said. “Too many witnesses.”

  “They also mentioned a trip to Notre Dame Cathedral afterward.”

  “Better. I‘ll send a team to the Cour Carrée within the hour and have them follow the bus to the cathedral. Once they arrive, we’ll act. Stay close, Tolimir. If there’s a change in plans before the team gets there, let me know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They will arrive in a black van, very nondescript. You know the routine.”

  “I do.”

  “They will call you when they arrive.”

  Before Tolimir could respond, Božanović had hung up.

  They could only appreciate so much art, so many statues and displays. They left the Louvre one hour before they were supposed to and began to tour the side streets.

  The day was sunny and warm, the overhead sky blue. But the canopy of trees along the sidewalks provided a wonderful shade.

  “Do you see him?” Gary said softly, almost under his breath.

  She nodded.

  They had first seen the man inside the Louvre by the Mona Lisa. He was hard looking, with a face that was deeply lined and craggy, his hair unkempt. He wore clothes that were not in tune with the tourists or the French, but someone who dressed outside the box. He wore faded jeans, military boots, and a well-worn jacket—hardly the artistic-looking type.