by Rick Jones
Lights out.
Joshua heard the flash bang and realized that the Croats were making an approach on Shari.
With his weapon raised at eye level, the Knight used the scope as his primary surveillance tool. He moved silently from a recess in the living area and ventured back to the hallway. At the corner of the wall, where the room met the hallway, Joshua removed a mirror from his pocket. He curved the neck to which it was attached, and angled the instrument so that he could view the length of the hallway from his position around the bend.
There was a body on the floor, a boneless heap. Blood was spattered on the wall. Other than that, the hall was vacant. After returning the mirror to its pocket, Joshua raised his weapon to eye level and began to maneuver down the hallway.
But someone had come up from behind.
The Vatican Knight quickly swung around with his weapon to draw a bead. But the man deflected the gun off target, as a volley of shots from Joshua’s weapon went off in quick succession, the bullets drilling holes in the walls and floor in a series of cacophonous staccato bursts.
…tat…tat…tat…tat…tat…tat…tat…
The glass of picture frames and the pictures inside them were decimated. The moulding along the walls and ceiling were pulverized. And the once immaculate floorboards of the finest wood splintered into dangerous-looking shards.
As the intruder brought his weapon up, Joshua kicked it aside, the weapon now sliding across the floor, the man’s hands now grabbing Joshua’s firearm, with each man trying to wrench it free from the other’s grasp. In an awkward ballet, they moved about the room trying to gain control of the MP5. The men twisted and turned, each one grunting with their efforts to maintain control. And then Joshua came up with a series of knee strikes to the man’s thigh and groin, connecting. The Croat released his hold and went down to a knee.
Just as Joshua brought his weapon around, the point of a knife punched through the front of his vest. Another man had come up from behind him to run his blade through.
Viscous strands of blood seeped out from between Joshua’s lips, and his eyes widened with the stark reality that the pain was a simple prelude to his life ending. Then, he fell to one knee and then to the other, with a hand reaching imploringly outward toward something only he could see. The man behind him withdrew the knife from his back, stepped around and wiped the blade clean against Joshua’s shirt. With a shove from his foot, the man knocked Joshua to the floor, where he lay unmoving.
Antun was breathing heavily, his face a mess, his groin in worse shape. And he nodded his appreciation to Capeka. As good a soldier as Antun was, he had been easily bested by the priest lying dead before them. “You have the woman?” he uttered. The pain was evident in his voice.
“I do.”
“And what about the rest?”
“There is no one else,” he said. “It was just the woman and the priest.”
Antun tried to straighten up. But the pain had yet to subside, making it, for the moment, impossible to do so. “We need to move,” he finally said.
“What about the bodies?”
“There’s no time to sanitize the unit. We need to go.”
Capeka quickly picked up Shari in a fireman’s carry, and along with Antun, who moved with a marginal limp, they exited the residence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Gary drove by the moment a man laid Shari down in the rear of a van and slid the door shut. He had gotten a good view, which drew the attention and scowl of the man’s partner. But it was dark inside Gary’s vehicle, so the Croats could not identify him, as he continued on to a stand of trees about a kilometer down the road, where he shut off his headlights and parked.
From his position, he could see the windows of the residence lit.
Where is Joshua?
But he knew the answer, since Joshua would never have allowed a hostile faction take Shari without a fight.
He began to rake a hand nervously through his hair.
Now what?
As the van pulled out of its spot, Gary watched it go in a direction that was opposite of where he was parked.
Immediately shifting into reverse and keeping his lights off, Gary put the car into DRIVE and followed the van.
The food was getting cold beside him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
By the time the Vatican Knights arrived at the rue Barbet-de-Jouy, it was apparent that the residence had been breached by hostiles, the apartment in total chaos.
Kimball was the first to set foot inside, with Isaiah, Leviticus, and Jeremiah taking up the rear.
Bullet holes were everywhere. Vases and ceramics and wall hangings lay shattered upon a wooden floor that was splintered and severely damaged. The walls were riddled with punctures. The elaborate moldings destroyed. Tufts of stuffing bled through the fabric of couches and chairs that had been penetrated by gunshots.
Kimball raised a fist and then pointed for Jeremiah and Isaiah to take the opposite hallway. Leviticus was to follow Kimball. And since their firearms had run dry, each man carried his knife in a tight-knuckled grip, ready to strike and slash.
Kimball and Leviticus moved silently through the room, their footfalls nonexistent as far as noise went. And then they took the curve of the hallway, where they found Joshua lying on the floor. Next to him lay the body of a Croatian. Their blood was beginning to pool and mingle along the tile.
Kimball remained at the ready-state as he stared at Joshua, reminding himself that the entire operation had become a complete disaster, with one failure coming right after another. And Joshua was just another testament to this. Kimball then went to a knee and placed a hand over the young man’s heart, remembering when Joshua had been trying to find his way.
Years ago when Kimball was in Hyde Park, in London, listening to a political incumbent standing upon the podium and voicing his strategies to garner the support and backing of the people, he suddenly felt the tickle of small hands trying to lift his wallet. In a nimble motion, he reached out and grabbed the child by the forearm after taking two strides. It was here that Kimball looked deeply into the young boy’s eyes and saw so many things. He saw fear and abandonment and the anger of being left alone. And he also saw the boy’s need for help—a silent plea deep within him that confirmed how badly he wanted to be rescued.
So for a long time they sat on a bench, looking into each other’s eyes, both learning from the other without speaking a single word.
Kimball had seen the child’s need to be rescued, just as the boy had seen the man’s very same need.
Then after an hour, with the incumbent gone from the podium, Kimball stood and offered the boy his hand. And the boy took it. His small hand was eclipsed by the larger one, and Kimball had walked with him in silence, knowing what he had to do.
He had taken the child to a strange land filled with colonnades and an Egyptian obelisk, a land of holiness, where the shadows of a church fell upon you to bless your soul with a feeling that was extraordinarily peaceful.
It was a magical place.
Yet the boy could see in the man’s eyes that he had yet to be blessed by this magic, that his soul was in constant turmoil, and that the shadow of the church had yet to set upon him this power of almighty peace.
And as the boy grew to be a man, he would often find himself standing within the shadow of St. Peter’s, praying for the man who had become his savior, and for God to provide him with the salvation he so deeply needed.
Years later, as the boy learned the ways of the Vatican Knights, becoming schooled and learned, as he became skilled with the weaponry of martial arts and tutored in the philosophies of good and kind men, he always saw the pain in his savior’s eyes.
I want to help you.
Kimball never forgot that look, the one that told him that Joshua would stand beside him within the shadow of the church until its magic finally found its way to the core of Kimball’s soul.
But Kimball never stood beside Joshua within the shadow
of the Church.
Nor had he been there when Joshua went down by the hand of their enemy.
It all came down to the end, when he realized that not only had he failed himself, but he’d also failed the boy.
Kimball could feel an uncontainable rage birthing, something with a very ugly head that was beginning to crown. And with all the control he could muster, he closed his eyes and clamped his teeth until the muscles in the back of his jaw went firm.
When a marginal calm began to work over him like a mild narcotic, he opened his eyes and moved forward, stepping over the bodies.
He and Leviticus checked all the rooms along the corridor, finding them empty.
When Isaiah and Jeremiah rounded the corner of the same hallway, Isaiah said, “It’s clear. There’s a tango downed in the kitchen, as well.”
Kimball sheathed his knife, as did the rest of the Knights.
“Shari’s gone,” he said evenly. “And so is Gary.”
Kimball went to the kitchen, which was beginning to flood from the broken faucet. He checked the Croatian for ID, while Isaiah checked the man lying on the floor of the hallway. Neither possessed credentials. No surprise there. And then he spoke to Leviticus with obvious weight to his tone: “Contact the SIV,” he told him. “Tell them to send a unit to pick up Joshua and Samuel.”
“And what are we going to do about Shari and Gary?” asked Isaiah.
“We’ll find them.” But Kimball sounded completely defeated, and everyone knew it. He was leaving out one crucial matter: with 360 degrees of direction, he didn’t know which way to turn.
Kimball had finally run out of options.
The remnants of the flash bang lay on the floor along with Shari’s Glock, which nestled against the baseboard of the wall. No doubt a battle had taken place here with Shari ending up on the losing side.
Her cell phone was on the desk beside the computer; the screen had gone black because of dormancy. A nearby scratchpad had the words ‘reciprocity,’ ‘serial,’ and ‘sadistic’ written on it. Apparently she was developing Božanović’s psychological profile when she had been interrupted.
When Kimball moved the mouse, the computer screen illuminated with her last download. They were the dossiers of the last two commanders who had compromised two of Božanović’s operations. One was from Interpol, the other from a London-based force. Both men were found dead in their residences with their flesh peeled and stripped away, the macabre display the signature handiwork of Jadran Božanović—even though Božanović could never be tied to either killing. But all the hallmarks were there.
And both men had died within a period of four to five weeks after the compromise.
Kimball looked at Shari’s notes again.
Reciprocity. Serial. Sadistic.
These were the three ingredients that made up a madman.
Kimball fell into the seat and sighed.
Shari was gone. And so was Gary. What had begun as a solvable endeavor had now turned into a complete and colossal disaster. Not only had they lost the chance of acquiring the whereabouts of the targets, but Shari and Gary had gone missing, as well.
He closed his eyes.
Just as he had failed Joshua, he now felt that he had failed Shari.
Perhaps Pope Pius was right, he considered. Maybe he was too emotionally compromised. Acting out, instead of thinking things through—pushing and shoving his way to get a quick answer, since time was a critical factor.
Not only had he lost Shari in his efforts, he also lost the right to make a family whole.
He opened his eyes, looked at her cell phone, picked it up, and turned it over in his hand numerous times to study it.
“Kimball.” It was Leviticus.
“Yeah.”
“We need to get moving.”
Get moving? To where?
“A unit has arrived. And a sanitation effort is under way.” After a long moment of silence, he said, “Kimball?”
Kimball ignored him as he cocked his head to one side, then left it there while looking at the phone, as if it was something alien. Everyone has one, he thought, including Gary. He then went through the phone’s menu until he came to the CONTACT section, and went through the set of choices, eventually coming to Gary’s number.
He immediately stood up and went through the items on the desktop, moving everything aside and lifting papers, books, and journals. And then he checked the drawers and all the shelves in the room.
Gary’s phone was missing.
“Kimball?”
After waving off Leviticus to stifle him, Kimball called Father Auciello at the SIV. Since the number was not recognized on their caller ID, he was forced to initiate a series of specified codes and numbers and keywords.
Once he was patched through to Auciello, Kimball’s words could hardly be understood because he was talking so fast.
“Kimball, slow down,” Auciello said on the other end.
“I have a phone number,” he told him. “I need you to geolocate its position, if you can.”
“Give me the number.”
Kimball did. “How long will this take?”
“It’s going to be a bit.”
“How long is a bit?
“Five, maybe ten minutes.”
“Good.” Kimball let the phone fall by his side as he directed a command to Leviticus. “Get the team to the armory and gear up,” he told him. “You’ve got five minutes.”
“You have something?”
“It’s not a lock,” he said. “But yeah, I’ve got something. It may be nothing or it may be everything. But I want the team ready, nevertheless. If this pans out, then we’re going to war.”
After Leviticus left the room, Kimball was kept on HOLD for another six minutes until Auciello finally returned.
“We got something,” he said.
Kimball placed the phone tightly to his ear. “Yeah. What?”
“It’s active and its moving west. You want me to dispatch you through?”
“No. That’s the last thing I want to do. If he’s still in possession of the phone and it rings, the kidnappers will disable it should they find it. Let the signal ride out to its final destination.”
“The signal,” Auciello said. “It’s stopped.”
“Where at?”
“He’s at Les Vedettes de Paris, docks just west of the Eiffel Tower.”
“That’s not too far.”
“This will only serve you if he’s in possession of the phone.”
“If not, then someone else has to be, right, since it’s on the move? And that someone is going to tell me where he got it from.”
“Be careful, Kimball. You’ve seen firsthand what Jadran Božanović is capable of doing, even when he’s not there. You’ve seen the wake he’s left behind.”
“Yeah, well, now he’s going to see what I’m capable of doing. And he’s going to see firsthand the wake I’m about to leave behind.”
“Kimball—”
Kimball didn’t want to listen anymore and hung up.
He then exited the residence, revving himself up emotionally. With or without the support of the Church, he knew he was going to cut a wide path of destruction right through Božanović’s operation until he cornered the Croatian himself.
He was not about to be denied.
Not this time.
Not ever.
This was for Joshua.
And he wasn’t about to fail him again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The van had pulled up to Les Vedettes de Paris docks, where the river boats were tied up along the Seine. In the mix was a 190-foot Hokulani yacht with an aluminum superstructure. It had a sleek and shimmering exterior, and a twin-screw propulsion system. The yacht sported three decks with the top two being luxury suites and rooms, the bottom the engineering and propulsion areas, with a 1200-square-foot salon at the level’s center. Of the river boats docked here, this particular one was unique, in that it did not cater to tourists. This was
a privately owned ship.
When the rear of the van door opened, a Croat jumped down and, with the help of another, he removed Shari from the vehicle in what was obviously a trunk.
From his vantage point approximately 250 feet away, Gary sat in his Renault with his mind spinning as to what action to take. Quietly, he exited the vehicle and watched the two men carry the trunk up the loading ramp.
Gary then reached for his phone. But it was completely useless since the only contact number he had was Shari’s. There was no way he could contact Kimball or any member of his team. And he didn’t dare try to call the DCPJ, fearing that his call might alert someone who would then contact Božanović. Such a call would only place his entire family in further jeopardy.
So that his phone wouldn’t chime due to an incoming call, Gary tossed it into the vehicle, and began to make his way toward the yacht without so much as a plan in mind, hoping that someone would be wise enough to realize that his phone was a beacon.
For now, he had no other choice but to wing it.
“That looks bad, Kimball.” Leviticus peeled back the fabric of his shirt to reveal the angry red lips of his wound, just above the left pectoral. “Take a whack from a knife, did you?”
He nodded. “From a machete.”
Leviticus winced at this, as if he had been the one who took the slicing blow. “Well, it did a number,” he told him. “It’s a deep laceration that’s going to need some serious work. It looks like the muscle’s torn almost to the point of complete severance. Can you navigate your left arm over your head?”
Kimball didn’t even try. “No.”
“How about rotating it?”
“I can move it some.”
“It’s not what I’m asking. Can you rota—”
“I can move it, Leviticus. I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be fine, Kimball, if you go into battle compromised.”
