by Rick Jones
The wall clock sounded louder than normal, the time ticking off with every stroke of the second hand.
…Tick…Tick…Tick…
And then it occurred to him that he would have to move quicker than he wanted to ensure that the goods got to their destination. He did not want a follow up to the Aleksandra debacle. So he decided to err on the side of caution and move his departure up by one day. Of course, he would lose some profit, since the number of products abducted and loaded would be smaller, which soured him deeply. But in the long run, he would own every transit route, every Bridge of Bones, that ran from Europe to North Africa and the Middle East.
He would be king.
The clock continued to tick steadily.
…Tick…Tick…Tick…
So much so that it grated on his nerves.
…Tick…Tick…Tick…
In unconcealed rage, he lifted the heavy bowl and tossed it with supreme accuracy, hitting the clock and smashing it.
Gruel and juices cascaded slowly down along the wall.
But at least it was quiet.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Under the advice of the Father Auciello, Gary and Shari were checked out of the Hotel de La Motte Picquet and moved into a small apartment that was completely under the sponsorship of the Church.
The residence was small and tight, with the furniture in basic French motif. The wall hangings were markedly avant-garde. And the color schemes of the walls were soft and muted to lend an air of serenity. But no matter how delicate the hues were or how much they tried to lend to a peaceful setting, tensions remained critically high, now that the room had been converted to the nerve center of all activity.
Monitors tied directly to the SIV were situated throughout the area, as two Jesuit priests manned the consoles.
The Vatican Knights were breaking armaments down then piecing them back together, making sure the weapons were fully functional and without defects.
And Kimball, who was oblivious that he had been under keen observation from the corner of Shari’s eye, was unknowingly offering her a profile view of his powerful jaw line and aquiline nose, while typing away at the PC’s keyboard.
When she first saw him standing in the doorway of the hotel suite, she felt her heart skip a beat inside her chest. Other than a few lines on his face that had deepened over time, he remained the same. And then she took inventory of the wide breadth of his shoulders and the deep shine of his cerulean blue eyes. And yes, the way he walked with confidence did not escape her, either.
She closed her eyes.
And she remembered the past.
He had come to her in the middle of the night, when assassins quietly invaded her home. They were trying to kill her, because she was getting too close to the truth with regard to who had kidnapped the pope. She’d begun to point an accusing finger at those sitting upon Capitol Hill. In the rarest form of a fighter with a particular set of skills that Shari believed that no man could ever possess, he took out her assassins with brutal efficiency. He was quick and fluid, with a choreography to his movements that were poetically indescribable. And in the end, as these killers lay dead by his feet, as his eyes had connected with hers from across the room. She had looked upon Kimball Hayden from that point on as her savior.
She then recalled his scent whenever she stood close, that compelling aroma so unique that it drew her to him with the pull of unexplainable desire. She then looked deeply into his eyes and beyond the starkness of their bright blue colors only to see the true darkness underneath. Here was a man who had murdered women and children, his conscience constantly warring between good and evil, as the burdens of guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders—if not also in the depths of his soul. Salvation, that star-point glitter of hope, always seemed to be something beyond the scope of his grasp.
As she got to know Kimball and got over the hump of what he used to be, she realized that he was like a little boy, lost in a grown-up world.
And she had loved him.
When her relationship with Gary had been strained and the passion between them had appeared to have run its course, she began to gravitate toward Kimball. And in her heart, she knew that Kimball had felt for her as well. Perhaps he even loved her. But in the end, when Pope Pius was rescued, she saw Kimball as a man of brutality and Gary a man of gentle spirit. She had returned to her husband, knowing that he was what she had wanted all along.
Kimball would remain a lost soul.
And for years, her conscience had been in a constant feud with itself, believing that she had left Kimball out in the cold.
Yet here he was—again, her savior. He was a man capable of extreme violence, and he was coming to the call once again.
She looked out the window and at the Notre Dame Cathedral. The day was moving steadily along, as late afternoon shadows from the cathedral’s towers were beginning to lengthen along the grounds of the plaza. And because little progress had been made, she tried to temper her patience, since every moment of inert response time was a moment closer to never seeing her daughters again.
She closed her eyes, trying to suppress her emotions.
But the act was completely ineffective, as her mind’s voice continued to narrate the disturbing facts of human trafficking with the cold fortitude of a machine. The echoing measure of her tone had no emotion, as it recited in detail the facts that more than 2.5 million people were in forced labor at any given time, with 1.2 million children trafficked every year. Forty-three percent of those were forced for commercial sexual exploitation, of which ninety-eight percent were female. And thirty-two percent of those victims were utilized for economic reasons, of which fifty-six percent were women. More than 170 countries were affected by human trafficking—either as a source, as a transit route (a Bridge of Bones), or as a destination. The United States was ranked among the latter.
These were the cold, hard details. But they were facts drilled into her head as lead negotiator for the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, because it was a necessity to know them. She never thought that she would ever become a part of those statistics.
As the voice faded, she then filled her lungs with a slow pull of air through her nostrils, held it for a long moment, then released it with an equally long sigh. It did nothing to alleviate the stress.
The only way she knew to get rid of the tension was to be a body in constant motion.
In less than ten strides, she was across the room and looking over Kimball’s shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He didn’t turn to acknowledge her. Instead, he tapped the tip of his forefinger against the monitor’s screen. “This is the architectural arrangement of Beauchamp’s residence from the outside,” he said. “I’m sizing it up for entry and escape routes, and committing to memory the design of its exterior.”
“Kimball.”
“Yeah.”
“When you go on the hunt, when you go looking for Beauchamp, I’m coming with you.”
His finger slowly fell away from the screen. “You know I can’t allow that.”
“You will allow that,” she returned. “You know I’m field capable.”
“I know you are. But that’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
He hesitated a moment before speaking. “If you go into a situation emotionally compromised, then you could end up compromising the entire mission. And you know as well as I do that focusing entirely on the task at hand is essential.”
“Kimball, I spent my entire career ‘focusing on the task at hand.’ And right now, my focus is entirely on saving my children.”
“Shari—” he allowed his words to trail off, as he fell back into his seat. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Getting hurt, Kimball, is a risk we accept when doing our job,” she told him. She then rounded the couch until she was in direct eye contact with him. She pulled his hand close and tightened her grip over his. “I know you don’t want me to get hurt. I don’t
want to get hurt, either. But I need to be out there looking for my babies, who are at this moment very scared and very confused. They’re probably wondering where their mother is—why she’s not coming for them. And I want my face to be the first thing they see, when that door opens and I’m standing there waiting to bring them home.” Her voice began to crack. “Can you understand that, Kimball? Can you?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Then tell me.”
“You’re good at what you do, Shari. You really are. But you’re not a skilled field operative like we are.” And I don’t want to lose you.
“You know I have the skills.”
There was no denying that she was practiced in her field. But this was different. Jadran Božanović was a lethal competitor with a large crew to back him up.
His features softened. “Shari, my skills and the skills of the Vatican Knights may not be enough on this one.”
“You know what I can do. You know my performance capabilities in the field. I would never compromise the mission by putting my children at risk. You know this.”
He looked at her for the longest moment, considering the fact that she had proven herself to be a huge asset in the past. Without her assistance they would have failed. “If I remember correctly, I believe your weapon of choice is what—the Glock?”
“Your memory’s quite good.”
Welcome to the team.
Everyone had been given their assignments.
For the moment, Shari was to stay behind with Joshua and work exclusively with the SIV in creating a psychological profile on Jadran Božanović. If Kimball was going to do battle, then he wanted to know the enemy better than he knew himself, predicting Božanović’s every move, if possible.
Gary would serve as an asset as well, given his background with the CIA, where his duties had included breaking through high-end firewalls and hacking into databases of appropriate information from insurgent countries. At the moment, Gary was pulling up the interior architectural layout of Beauchamp’s residence. On the screen was the floor plan and the exit and entry ways, everything Kimball would need to commit to memory in order to move about the structure with a sense of familiarity.
“Once we move on this, there’ll be no slowing down,” said Kimball. In his hand he was sizing up his KA-BAR—the flat-black blade wickedly sharp and keen—a moment before he slid the knife neatly into its sheath. “We get in, get what we need, and move to the next target. I don’t think I need to tell anyone inside this room that time is limited, right?” Then to Shari: “I want to know everything there is to know about Božanović. Especially his patterns and what he’s most likely to do in the future. Once I find out the details from Beauchamp, Gary, I want you to zero in on the target site, by hacking into any cameras that are available. Big Brother is everywhere. Can you do that?”
“Two things: if I have the coordinates and if there’re cameras posted at the scene,” Gary replied.
“Good. You’re my eyes and ears on this operation.” He turned to Shari, and when he did, he could not help that feeling of guardianship over her. Her face in some places was swollen and bruised, flaws against the most beautiful flesh he had ever seen. To lose her would be devastating. But knowing that he had been the one to endorse her membership to the front lines would crush him beyond any care for redemption, should she be mortally wounded. “After you get what I need about Božanović, so that I know what I’m up against, and after I get what I need from Beauchamp, I’ll contact you.”
“And what if Beauchamp doesn’t cooperate?”
“Trust me,” he said, patting his sheath. “He’ll have no choice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Inspector Beauchamp was beginning to feel the pressure from his superiors, most notably from his capitaine, even after giving the man a substantial amount of Euros to help slow the pace of the investigation down to a glacial crawl. At first, the answer was understood without inquiry, as the money was being passed from one hand to the next: I will turn a blind eye for three days, but no more. And then le capitaine had tucked the money in his shirt pocket and sealed the deal with a quick wink of his eye.
But the Vatican’s secretary of state was applying pressure to the ranking staff of the DCPJ, causing people like le capitaine to reflect on his past deeds enough to make him wonder whether he had surrendered his soul to darkness. Suddenly finding religion, le capitaine returned every Euro to Beauchamp, hoping in part that this would redeem him in the eyes of God.
Beauchamp didn’t think so, knowing the moment his commanding officer had accepted the first Euro and then turned an eye toward indifference, was the day he had damned himself. And nobody, not even le capitaine, was exempt from the rules of humanity.
It was simply too late for them all.
As he sat inside one of France’s most eloquent restaurants, dining on high-end cuisine and a bottle of wine that was priced in the four-digit range, Beauchamp felt his world closing in. Sooner or later as the investigation by the Vatican continued to evolve, the truth that he had been one of Božanović’s key acolytes would come to surface. And in the end, he would become a pariah, bringing others down with him and cleansing a department that was rich with corruption.
Unlike le capitaine, he knew that salvation could not be bought…or at least bought back.
After he finished his meal and paid the bill, he went to get his car from the valet and drove home. Paris had always been a beautiful city, he thought. The lights, the reputation of love and romance, the poetic sound of its language, everything in his life had been perfect. He had money and lots of expensive toys due to his association with Jadran Božanović.
But was it worth it? he asked himself.
And then: How many lives have I destroyed to make my life what it is today?
He sighed. And then he thought about running. But Božanović had a reach that was extensively long. And the last thing Beauchamp wanted to become was one of Božanović’s statements, to become an artwork that only the Croat could create.
When he drove up to his house located in a twenty-four carat neighborhood outside of Paris proper, he rolled his vehicle into a three-car garage. The other two spots were taken up by cars no less than $80,000 each in American dollars, both sleek and luxurious.
From the attached garage he went into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. The room was large and well-equipped, with a grill-top stove and a range hood that was sheathed with strips of minted copper. The countertops were of veined marble, the edges beveled. And the refrigerator was a stainless steel unit built directly into the wall, with the surrounding cabinets fashioned by the most luxurious wood.
After tossing the keys on the countertop, he went to the refrigerator and grabbed himself a beer. He then went to the TV room, grabbed the remote, and tried to click on the 70” TV. It would not turn on.
“Now what?” he mumbled, slapping the remote.
From the darkness came a voice: “I took out the batteries.”
Beauchamp wheeled around with his hand going to his holster, his fingertips grazing the stock of his firearm when the lights suddenly turned on. A man was standing next to him, pressing a knife to his throat. Beauchamp’s reaching hand immediately froze in position.
“Put your hand down,” the man told him in English.
Beauchamp did as instructed by inching his hand cautiously down by his side. After the intruder grabbed Beauchamp’s firearm, he stepped back and returned the knife to its sheath.
Beauchamp looked around, confused. Sitting in a recliner at the opposite end of the room was a large man wearing a cleric’s shirt, Roman Catholic collar, military boots and a beret. Other men were positioned around the room as well, each man wearing the same uniform that was half pious and half military.
For a considerably long moment, Beauchamp’s eyes locked with those of the man in the seat, in macho posturing until his will finally gave under the man’s gaze. His shoulders then slumped with the crookedness of a
n Indian’s bow in defeat. “You’re from the Vatican?”
The man in the chair remained silent and unmoving.
“Is this how the Church does things? By breaking into a man’s home and then threatening him with violence?”
“You needed to be disarmed, so that no one would get hurt. But if you want to see my brand of violence, I’d be glad to demonstrate it for you.”
Beauchamp looked at the man next to him, with the knife. Then at all the rest. These men were not priests, he considered, not by a long shot. They had the seasoned look of skilled soldiers. “Who are you people?”
The man in the chair stood to his full height and made his way toward Beauchamp, who fell back a couple of paces to the much larger man, whose shirt stretched to capacity against a well-manicured physique. The priest’s eyes seemed to carry the spark of unbridled anger, a flash Beauchamp had seen many times before in the eyes of Jadran Božanović. These were the eyes of a killer.
The priest stood before Beauchamp the same way a man would look down upon a boy, the height advantage going to the intruder. With an edge to his tone, the man said, “Sit.”
Beauchamp immediately complied, taking a seat on a couch made of the finest leather.
The priest began to walk around the room, tracing his fingertips along the surfaces of the furniture and decorative precious metals, over the high-end fabrics and over the contours of expensive statues. “Tell me,” he said. “How does a man like you, who earns a fair salary as an inspector, own such luxuries that only a king can only afford? Hmm? Did you get all this by selling away the lives of innocent people? Maybe turning a blind eye every time a kid got kidnapped off the streets of Paris?” His fingers glanced over the frame of a very expensive painting, something with a purchase price in the mid-five figures.
Beauchamp pumped his chest out in false bravado. “What do you people want?”
The intruder rushed forward until he was so close to Beauchamp that he could guess what the man had eaten for dinner. “Answer my question,” he said with forced repose. “How does a man…like you…who earns a fair salary as an inspector…own luxuries that only a king can afford?”
