by Rick Jones
“I don’t see where we have any other choice. Do you?”
He didn’t. Kimball was right. The only choice they had was no choice at all. “I can stitch it up to stem the bleeding. But it won’t be a good job by any means.”
“I don’t care if you put a band-aid on it. Just get me ready.”
It took all of five minutes to close the wound, a superficial job at best. When Leviticus tied off the last stitch, Kimball tried to maneuver his arm, wincing as the pain suddenly became electric.
“You have no strength in that arm, do you?”
“I’ve got some.”
“You know what I mean, Kimball.”
“I’ll be fine, Leviticus. So stop henpecking me to death and help me with my gear.”
In an armory just west of the residence, they equipped themselves with domed helmets, with a formation of gadgetry marching up one side and down the other, an assemblage of night-vision goggles and thermal ware. Their ensembles were completely ‘Robocop,’ with specially designed composite shin and forearm guards.
Just as Leviticus was aiding Kimball with his bulletproof vest, they received word from the archbishop that a call was coming in from Father Auciello at the SIV.
“Patch it through,” Kimball told him.
“Kimball.”
“Yeah, Gino. Go ahead.”
“The signal is completely stationary.”
“Where at?”
“Same place. At the docks.”
Kimball nodded. “We’re about to move on this,” he told him. “ETA will be about fifteen minutes.”
“Good enough. And Kimball?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry about Samuel and Joshua. I just heard.”
“Yeah. Me too. But no one is going to be sorrier more than Božanović, once he gets a load of me. You take care, Gino. Out.”
The communication was severed.
And the Knights were on the move.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Gary quietly made his way on board.
The deck had a top-quality varnish to it—the woodwork glazed to a fine polish. And the rails and brass trimming had all the glimmer and shine expected of a thirty-nine million dollar yacht.
As he moved cautiously down the deck, the ship barely moved under his feet.
And then he heard voices speaking in Croatian. He could identify the difficult twists and curls of pronunciation, even though he didn’t speak the language.
When he had heard enough, he pressed on, not knowing what his next move would be. The man was driven to move along by the instinct to save his wife and his children, his courage born of a father’s willingness to make his family whole without thinking of the dangers or consequences involved.
As he stood on the deck, he took a glance down a stairwell that led to the lower level. The lid of the trunk was open, the trunk itself empty. They had taken Shari somewhere deep inside the boat.
Then there was a tapping against Gary’s shoulder. When he turned, he saw two Croats standing there with suppressed Uzis in their hands. They had snuck up behind him, which told Gary that he had been surveyed the moment he boarded.
With a grin of malice from the man on the right and speaking words Gary could not understand, he raised his weapon and brought it across, catching Gary square in the temple and sending him into darkness.
By the time Shari came to, Jadran Božanović was sitting in a swivel chair with a stemmed glass of liqueur in his hand. As her eyes began to focus, she recognized the man immediately, her sight tracing the diagonal track of his scar.
“Ms. Cohen,” he said, his English perfect. “I’m impressed with your mother’s instinct to seek out your children, no matter the cost. I applaud you.”
“Where’re my babies?” she stated with venom.
“They’re fine. For now.” He took a sip, pulled the glass back. “Would you like to see them?”
Her heart skipped a beat in her chest. She couldn’t answer.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He reached over and tapped the intercom button on the phone. “Bring them in.” Then to Shari, he said, “You have two minutes.”
He had pre-planned this meeting, Shari considered. Her children were already at the door waiting for their mother to wake.
When they saw each other, the world seemed to hitch and stagnate, then it stopped as nothing seemed to move at all, including the air around her, which seemed to hang inside the room as a heavy pall.
When she raised her arms the world was suddenly in motion, as her children raced across the room and fell into her embrace. Hugs and kisses were shared, with Shari tracing the back of her palm over the washed-out faces of her daughters, feeling the sharp edges of their cheekbones from slight weight loss, and seeing the once dazzling color of their eyes diminished to a dimmer hue. They were breaking down by the inches.
Two minutes later Božanović was true to his word.
Two Croats entered the room and wrenched her children away, the girls screaming nonsensical words at the top of their lungs. When Shari tried to get to her feet to act as champion, one of the Croats kicked her forcefully to the floor.
And like that, the children were gone, leaving Shari on the ground in a fetal position, sobbing.
“Get up,” he finally said.
She ignored him.
“I said…get…up.”
She slowly complied by getting into a sitting position. “You bastard.”
He scoffed at this. “Is that the best you can do? Call me a bastard? You don’t think I’ve been called worse?”
She could tell that he was relishing the moment. “Please release my children.”
“Your children,” he said, taking another sip of liqueur, “will grow up to be whores. And you—” He cut himself off when she broke. “And you,” he continued, “although a little too aged to fetch top Euro, will still bring in a good amount as a laborer.”
Her head snapped up. What?
“You should have left well enough alone,” he said. “If you had, then you wouldn’t be here right now… And neither would your husband.”
“Gary…”
“Is that his name?”
She got to her feet, feeling dizzy as her world continued to waver like a drunk-buzz.
“There’s nothing you can do,” he told her. “There’s nothing that anyone can do. Not the Embassy. Not the Vatican. Not even the police. There is…no one.” The corners of his lips curled into a grin of wicked delight. He looked as if he thought there was nothing better than to break a person down mentally.
He threw the carrot out before the horse. “Would you like to see your girls again?”
“Please.”
“Then tell me about these priests…these men…who attacked my establishment tonight.”
Kimball.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. They took out an entire team. Most of them severely injured, with some of them salvageable and some not so. But these priests, so I’m told, fight like no other, especially this one man—big, very big. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“You lie, yes?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Would you know him better if I threatened the lives of your children?”
“Please don’t.”
“This isn’t a rhetorical question. Would you know him better if I threatened the lives of your children?”
“I don’t know him!”
Frustrated, Božanović hit the intercom button once again. “Bring in the youngest,” he said.
Terry was shoved into the room, the young lady putting up more than just a fight, her legs kicking wildly as she tried to wrestle her way out of the man’s hold.
Božanović removed the knife from his sheath and used it as a pointer. “Put her here,” he said, pointing to the area in front of his feet. The moment she was thrust upon the floor, Božanović grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back to expose
the openness of her throat, and placed the edge of the blade across her flesh. “I would strongly suggest that you remain still.”
Terry didn’t move.
In the background, Shari was screaming, as the Croatian enforcer kept her at bay.
“If you don’t shut up,” Božanović told her, “I will kill her.”
Shari, her face stained with the tracks of tears, became silent.
“That’s much better,” he said. “Now I want you to tell me all…about…the priests.”
Having no choice, Shari spoke in earnest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Vatican Knights were traveling in a cube van procured by the archdiocese; the vehicle itself was black to blend with the cover of darkness.
It moved westbound toward the docks, with Jeremiah at the wheel. In the rear sat what was left of the team—Kimball and his two lieutenants, Leviticus and Isaiah. They were four in total. A number that was insubstantial when going up against Božanović and his seasoned unit.
They would be outmanned, outgunned, and without a doubt, overrun by forces trained to take no one alive.
The van took the bumps in the road easily, the ride smooth, as Kimball sat back with his eyes focused on the opposite wall, on a point only he could see. His eyes were narrowed and intense, his mind going a million miles per second with thoughts and insights, of plans and strategies. The man was pitting the pros against the cons until a good and viable approach against Božanović eventually favored his team.
They had been here before, in the Philippines and in South America, in Eastern Bloc countries and in places of insurgent uprisings, the Vatican Knights were always outmanned but always rising to the occasion.
This time was different. He had already lost a third of his team, and they had yet to lay eyes on Božanović.
Kimball wiped a hand over his face, as if to erase away the tension of his appearance, his eyes once again returning to razor sharpness.
He thought about Joshua, remembering the youthful face of a child in need. And he could recall that face maturing, as the evolution of the boy’s jaw line became sharper and stronger, the intelligence in his eyes then hungering for the knowledge of the philosophies. And he could see that appetite of learning fashion the boy into a man of goodwill and strength that went well beyond the power of his body.
Kimball mourned for him just like he mourned for Samuel, who was one of Bonasero Vessucci’s discoveries, long before Bonasero had become Pope Pius XIV. Samuel and Joshua grew together as brothers of faith, believing that they could make a difference in the world by protecting those who could not protect themselves.
And now they were gone. The two would be buried within the crypts beneath the Basilica in homage for their services to the Church.
Kimball’s teeth clamped so tightly that the muscles in the back of his jaw worked continuously. Losing a third of his team before complete engagement with the enemy was unacceptable.
“Are you all right?” The question came from Leviticus, who’d been observing Kimball along the way.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied. Just…fine.
From the van’s front cabin, Jeremiah called back through the chained window. “We’re approaching our destination,” he said. “ETA is two minutes.”
Everyone immediately responded by putting down their face shields, and they did a last-minute examination of their MP5s.
When the van pulled to a stop, the rear doors opened and the Knights stepped out into the shadows. Approximately 80 meters away stood Les Vedettes de Paris docks.
To their left was Gary Molin’s car, a Renault.
It was empty.
Shari Cohen had told Božanović everything he wanted to know, what he needed to know. She told him about Kimball and his team of Vatican Knights. She told him their purpose of coming to Paris was to help look for the children he stole. She told of the unbelievable skill sets they possessed, and in the end, once the smoke settled, Božanović’s unit would lay dead at the feet of the Knights, which caused the Croat to scoff with the arrogance of his disposition.
Because there was one major problem: Nobody knew where they were.
When she gave all that was to give, when she had spoken until her voice went dry, Božanović stood and released Shari’s daughter to her, allowing mother and child to embrace.
For a long moment he watched them, saw the indescribable love between mother and daughter, wondering if he would have grown to be someone different if such a mother’s love was there to comfort him. But that opportunity had been taken away from him on the day he saw his mother executed in the streets of Vukovar all those years ago.
After casting these thoughts aside, he hit the intercom button and told the pilot to ‘start the engines,’ and that he wanted to be on his way to the English Channel within the half hour.
If the Vatican Knights were out there, he wanted to be gone.
Without saying another word, Jadran Božanović went to check on his team.
Gary was tied to a chair, somewhere on the second deck below the ship’s fly bridge. His face was bloodied and one eye was swollen shut. Beneath his chair was a plastic sheet, to keep the blood off the carpet. And standing in front of him was a Croat who boasted meaty fists like hammers. Behind him stood two additional members of the Croat’s team, each man armed with a rifle.
“You board this boat, why?” The question was a simple one. But getting through the man’s thick accent and then piecing the words together to make sense was difficult for Gary. So when he gave a response that had nothing to do with what the Croat had asked, because he simply misunderstood what was being said, the Croat would then lose control and strike Gary with a flurry of blows, pummeling him to near unconsciousness.
“You will answer my questions, yes? You board this boat, why?”
Gary spit out a wad of blood onto the plastic sheet, trying his best to send the spit onto the carpet, but he missed.
This invited more punches.
At the end of the strikes, Gary was nearly incapable of raising his head, his chin now resting against his chest. Strands of blood ran from between his lips and from his nostrils.
The Croatian fell back a step to examine the American. “I said ‘why?’”
“Because he is the father of two of our products,” said Božanović, stepping into the salon. “He is the husband of the woman Capeka brought on board. Now the family is whole.” Božanović took a few steps forward, hooked a finger beneath Gary’s chin, and raised his head. He then turned the head one way, and then the other. “You do nice work, Angulu.”
The Croat beamed with the praise. “Thank you, Jadran.”
“But let me show you how it’s really done.” He removed his knife from its sheath and held it steady before Gary’s face. “There’s no closer shave than actually flaying off a man’s skin, is there?”
This brought a round of laughter from his teammates.
And Jadran Božanović brought the blade forward.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Through the Renault’s window, they could see Gary’s cell phone sitting on the seat.
“Why didn’t he take it with him?” asked Jeremiah.
Kimball knew exactly why. “Because he’s former CIA,” he said. “He knew about geolocation tracking. That’s why he left it in the car, hoping that we’d follow the footprint. He didn’t take it with him, because if he got caught or captured, then the phone would have been destroyed.”
Good boy, Gary.
There were six boats docked. Five were river boats for tourists of the ‘City at Night’ river runs. The sixth was a yacht, sleek and impressive looking, and much larger than the other boats.
Kimball raised a hand to his helmet and toggled a switch, causing his visor to switch to night-vision mode with the face shield serving as a high-tech lens. He zoomed in to the fly bridge.
There were three men. One was the pilot, who was initiating the ship’s engines, which in turn caused the twin screws to
churn the water behind the stern into a frothy and creamy mix. The other two looked on with submachine guns festooned across their shoulders and backs.
Kimball switched off the night vision. “That’s it boys.” Then to Leviticus: “What do you think?”
“Three levels that I can see. The ship’s about—what, sixty meters? Say one hundred eighty feet, maybe a little more. And with three decks—that’s a whole lot of ship.”
“There are three on top, which gives them the vantage point of the high ground. We need to take them out immediately. Then we move to the lower decks, with Leviticus and me moving on the starboard side, and Isaiah and Jeremiah working portside. We move methodically with our heads on a swivel. And keep your mikes open. I want both teams keeping each other apprised of their position and movement at all times. Is that clear?”
When it was, Kimball placed a closed fist over his heart, as did the rest of the Vatican Knights. It was their salute. “Loyalty above all else,” he said, “except honor.” Hoo-wah!
They began to move stealthily toward the boat with their weapons raised at eye level.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The guards and the pilot standing on the fly bridge never knew what hit them, as well-placed bullets found marks on their foreheads, the holes emitting ribbons of smoke as the men went to the bridge’s floor, hard. The pilot looked stunned right up to the moment he was struck with two shots to the center of body mass, both to the heart, the double impacts driving his body onto the levers and pushing them forward, causing the propulsion system to max out. The screws were now turning at full throttle, while the ship was still moored.
Once the fly bridge was cleared and the vantage point taken away, the teams moved in unison, canvassing the ship from the stern to the bow.
Kimball and Leviticus moved along the starboard side—the right side—with Isaiah and Jeremiah moving parallel to them down the port side.
