Targeted Killing

by Rick Jones

  Chapter Eight

  Valletta, Malta

  On the following day in Valletta, a man believed to be Kimball Hayden was spotted exiting from a retreat center not too far from St. John’s Co-Cathedral. His head hung low, as always, with his eyes fixed on the ground so as not to give anyone a good look.

  The day was sunny, though the forecast called for torrential rains for that evening and on the following day. However, by the look of the uniform blue sky, Kimball thought otherwise because it was too fine of a day.

  He had taken to the streets that milled with tourists. If nothing else, Kimball thought, it was an absolutely stunning city situated not too far from Sicily or Italy. If his services were ever needed at the Vatican, he could be back within hours.

  Across the street from the majestic St. John’s Co-Cathedral was a small eatery, the Kantina Café, where he took a seat at a table on the stone patio and ordered a latte. At this time every day he would sit and watch and wonder about life, his thoughts always drifting to places in his mind where Bonasero Vessucci and Shari Cohen often became the centerpieces of his thoughts. One was gone while the other barely clung to life.

  For hours he would sit and think without interruption, the waiter a quasi-companion who offered brief questions regarding his welfare, such as “are you good?” or “more latte?” But when Kimball finally had his fill, he would simply place a hand over the cup and smile.

  Then faithfully, every day since he had arrived in Malta and at a predetermined time, Kimball would place a phone call to the States. The calls were short-lived, however, usually not more than a few minutes. Then when his time was up and he had said all that could be said, Kimball would set the phone on the table with a look of grave concern. Since the news never changed regarding the state of Shari Cohen, his hopes were dashed after every call.

  Then Hayden would let his eyes drift to his cup and lose himself in thought, wondering if his prayers would ever be answered. So far, considered the man in the shadows, they have yet to be.

  Then the Vatican Knight looked up as if on cue and looked directly at the man standing in the shadows across the street by the church, with his stare driving the man deeper into the darkness and out of sight.

  Kimball returned to his latte as if nothing was out of the ordinary, by running a fingertip around the rim of the cup, and his thoughts consuming him.

  Moments later he rose from his seat, grabbed the phone, then gazed up at the Cross sitting sentinel on top of the church’s magnificent spire. After a long moment he turned and walked away, sensing that someone had been watching him from the shadows.

  He just didn’t know why.

  But he knew that he would soon get his answers.

  #

  Daphne had received word from his constituencies that the man believed to be Kimball Hayden was spotted through VisageWare sitting at the Kantina Café across from St. John’s Co-Cathedral. So Daphne set up surveillance next to the church, whereas Ripper staked a sidewalk claim in front of a clothing store approximately thirty yards to the south.

  “You got him?” Ripper said over his earbud and mouthpiece.

  Through his own device, Daphne said: “Yeah. I got him.”

  On that note, Kimball seemed to look through the veil of darkness and right at Daphne, who slipped deeper into the shadows.

  “What?” asked Ripper.

  “I think he made me.”

  “Relax. He can’t see you. Not from where he’s sitting.”

  “Target located,” said Daphne. “Plans for eradication and sanitation now in motion. Rip, stay close to the target. Do not tip your hand that you’re watching. Use due caution until command approves direction of dispatch.”

  “Copy.”

  When the Vatican Knight eventually rose to his feet and gazed at the Cross seated upon the spire, he left the café with Ripper following behind.

  Daphne went off to brief Cooper as to the confirmed identity of the target. Now a plan of operation had to be implemented. Whatever Kimball Hayden had become over time was about to be wiped away and his trail completely sanitized, because the Special Activities Division was doing what they did best: they were getting their ducks in a row. But Kimball Hayden was like a marksman at a shooting gallery, the man capable of knocking those ducks over one shot at a time, with preternatural ease. And because he was a man with very special talents, the SAD would quickly discover that Kimball Hayden was a targeted killing who would never surrender his life without a challenge.

  In fact, he would bring his war to the CIA and to everyone involved.

  #

  Kimball held an uneasy sense that he had been surveyed from the shadows thrown by the tall spires of St. John’s Co-Cathedral. It was just an idle shape, something blacker than black that watched and studied him through unseen eyes for reasons unknown.

  And then the shape was gone, the man drifting back into darker shadows, disappearing but not completely, the man still there, somewhere, watching and hiding.

  Periodically Kimball would look over his shoulder, the Knight unable to shake off the sense that he was not alone. Behind him people milled about, but nobody looked suspicious or appeared out of line. It was, after all, Malta, and everyone who walked the streets seemed like tourists who belonged by wearing wild-colored shirts and khaki shorts.

  Still.

  An uneasy twinge.

  When Kimball made it to the retreat center, he gave a final look of the area. Sighting nothing out of the ordinary that would raise the hackles of a dog sensing great danger, he entered the building and closed the ornate door behind him.

  #

  Ripper was a behemoth of a man whose sloping forehead and simian-like brows suggested that these traits were brought on by chemical evolution rather than ancestral inheritance, his power and muscle mass brought on by daily doses of steroids. But he was a soldier with important skill sets and fighting techniques, with his strength an obvious asset in hand-to-hand combat.

  After trailing Kimball from a distance and observing him enter the retreat center, it had become quite clear that Kimball Hayden had registered under an assumed name to stay off the grid, just as Cooper had suspected.

  Now with live confirmation and location verified, this time tomorrow Kimball Hayden would be terminated, the threat neutralized, and America would once again be safe from the tyrannies of its enemies, thought Ripper, while smiling with marginal humor at this.

  On the third floor of the retreat center, Ripper saw the louvered shutters of a window open. Kimball Hayden looked skyward, obviously noting the incoming clouds from the west, then disappeared inside.

  I know where you are, Ripper told himself.

  After dialing Cooper and confirming Kimball Hayden’s whereabouts, he was told to return to base.

  They had all they needed to know in order to perform the mission at optimum standards.

  This time tomorrow a plan would be in place—one that would be flawless, quick and efficient.

  And though plans always looked good on paper . . .

  . . . very rarely did they work as designed.

  Chapter Nine

  Hart Senate Building

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Rhames picked up his encrypted line on the first ring. “Go.”

  It was Deputy Director Hartlin. “We have live confirmation on the subject and location verified. Mission plan’s a go for the targeted killing.”

  “Very good. When is the moment of action?”

  “Tomorrow. It’ll be a quick strike once your message has been delivered to the target. After the hit, any and all evidence of his existence will be completely erased and sanitized. And then we move on to finalize ‘Incite.’”

  “Everything’s moving along quite well. But make sure that Cooper and his team have their wits about them when dealing with Hayden. He’s not to be taken lightly. When you think you have the man down on his knees or have the advantage, that’s when he’s most dangerous.”

  “They
know this.”

  “Now tell me about ‘Incite.’”

  “Locations for explosive placements have been assessed by the field operator, which he believes will cause positive damage to the masses during the festival. False chat lines have also been created with messages to serve as red herrings to international intel agencies, who may be following the course of discussion. Our team has devised a method of redirecting these generated messages to the IP addresses of ISIS members, making it appear as if these messages were created from their location and PCs. Once they’re confirmed as the locations of origin, then accusing fingers can start to point.”

  “Nice,” said the senator. “Very nice. We have time on ‘Incite.’ But Kimball Hayden is a top priority. He has no history or background . . . But he does have the truth.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Did you have any luck hacking into the Vatican’s mainframe for information regarding Hayden?”

  “We tried. But we can’t get through the firewalls and defenses. Once we realized that the SIV was trying to track us down, we rerouted and got out of there.”

  “It matters not, anyway. We already know that Hayden’s alive and his whereabouts. Tomorrow he dies. And tomorrow night I’ll be able to sleep comfortably.” After a beat: “Call me the moment of his termination. I don’t care what time it is.”

  “Of course.”

  Senator Rhames hung up the phone.

  PART TWO

  LAZARUS

  Chapter Ten

  Valletta, Malta

  Following Day

  Three months after the Golgotha Pursuit

  Valletta, the capital of Malta, boasts baroque designs from the 16th century, with the architectural gem of the St. John’s Co-Cathedral serving as one of the city’s most majestic points of interest. Directly across from the church in St John’s Square was the Kantina Café, a small eatery that served anything from pasta to prawns, though the menu changed daily for variety.

  Kimball Hayden sat on the veranda beneath a patio umbrella nursing a cup of coffee, something he had done religiously for the past two weeks. It was late afternoon and the clouds had broken wide, the rain falling so hard that the cellist ended his gig and ran for the dryer clime of the restaurant’s interior.

  Though Kimball sat beneath the patio umbrella appearing detached from his surroundings as raindrops pelted the canvas like a drum roll, he was well aware of everything that was going on around him.

  For the past several months Kimball’s world had spun out of control from a series of horrific events. ISIS had marched upon the Vatican with the end result being the loss of Bonasero Vessucci, Kimball’s biggest supporter in his life. The old man always made sure that Kimball kept his legs underneath him—which were wobbly at best—whenever he stumbled. And as Kimball became a son to Bonasero over time, he also became the gleam in the old man’s eye. In the early stages of their friendship, Kimball was like a child taking his first steps from the cradle as the Vatican Knight started to venture away from the Gray and toward the Light. But now he carried a deep hollow inside him, a painful emptiness like a starving hunger knowing that Bonasero’s strength and support was forever gone. Will I continue to stumble and fall with no safety-net to catch me? Kimball could only wonder as he watched the ribbon-like wisps of steam rise from his cup.

  Kimball closed his eyes and listened to the rain drum against the patio umbrella, the beat quick and having no true rhythm. When he finally opened his eyes, he fixed them on the symbol of the cross that stood high on the spire of the church across the street.

  The symbol of Christ was dripping from the rain, the image weeping as if He was bringing upon Himself all of Kimball’s pains with absorption, and then releasing them as a form of catharsis through tears. But Kimball felt no such cleansing as his mind wandered to another pain that cut as deep as the loss of Bonasero Vessucci.

  He thought about Shari Cohen.

  Three months ago she had taken a bullet from a sniper which cost her a part of her lung. Since then she’d been in a coma with her life trapped inside a blackness where time had no meaning, no beginning or end—nothing but unmoving darkness with no promise of light.

  Kimball looked at his watch. It was almost time.

  Then he looked at the image of Christ on top of the spire and wondered if He had died for the sins of Kimball Hayden, for which there were many. Now if He could weave a miracle and bring Shari Cohen back from the depths, Kimball would forever be grateful knowing that damnation would still wait for him in the end, despite his failed journey of searching for the Light.

  I carry too many sins upon my shoulders.

  The rain continued to fall.

  The Man upon the cross continued to weep.

  And Kimball continued to escape quietly from a world spinning out of control.

  Across the street and standing within a dark recess by the church, stood a man with the collar of his jacket hiked up and the brim of his hat lowered. For the past two days this man watched Kimball with the stillness of a Grecian statue.

  After giving this man cautious consideration, Kimball flipped open his cellphone and dialed a quick-call number with a single punch of his fingertip, while at the same time fixing a keen eye on the man standing in the shadows.

  The man in the shadows continued to watch him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Medstar Washington Hospital Center

  Washington, D.C.

  Father Amato Damelio was sitting at Shari Cohen’s bedside reading a magazine when the call came through on his cellphone. Setting the magazine aside and checking the window of the incoming call, he then flipped open the phone and answered it. “Good morning, Mr. Hayden. Or should I say good afternoon since you’re in Malta?”

  “We’ll go with your time,” said Kimball. “How is she?”

  The priest looked at Shari who was as pale and gray as the underbelly of a fish. “The same,” he answered. “No reaction or response to stimuli. The nurse comes in twice a day to flex and exercise her limbs to keep them from atrophying.”

  “If you will, Father, please put the phone to her ear and give me a moment.”

  “Of course.” Father Damelio did as requested—like he did every day for the past three months—and placed the phone next to Shari’s ear.

  “Hey, Kiddo.” There was a thickness in Kimball’s voice, his raw emotion threatening to break free if not for his strength to choke back a sob. “I know you can hear me. I know you want to say something but you can’t . . . I just want you to know that I’ve been thinking about you.”

  Kimball sounded off with a weighted sigh as he tried to maintain composure that was beginning to abandon him.

  “You’re strong, Shari. Stronger than I could ever be. So you can do this. And I’ll do this right along with you. All I ask is that you fight . . . All I ask is that you come back.” Kimball’s voice started to crack. “Please come back to me.”

  His moment was up.

  Then from Father Damelio, who brought the phone to his ear: “Mr. Hayden?”

  There was a lapse of silence on Kimball’s end.

  “Are you there, Mr. Hayden?”

  Finally. “I’m right here, Father.”

  “The nurses are here to care for Ms. Cohen. Will you be calling tomorrow at the same time?”

  “Same time every day . . . Until she comes back,” he answered with marked sadness.

  “Very well, then. Tomorrow at the same time . . . I’ll be here as always.”

  And then the line was severed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Valletta, Malta

  Kimball stared at the phone in his hand while trying to force the sour lump in his throat back down to his gullet where it belonged. Every day he would call. And every day would be the same. He would talk. She would listen. The conversation always brief and one-sided.

  With his eyes becoming glassy because he was viscerally moved, he returned the phone to his pocket and looked at the cross upon the spire. All I
ask is a miracle, he said to himself. All I ask is for You to bring her back to me. If You do this, then I will be beholden to the church until the day I die . . . Redemption or not.

  It continued to rain, and hard, the image of Christ weeping in silence.

  “Afternoon.” A shape that was silhouetted against the backdrop stood before Kimball. It was the man who was standing by the church with his hiked collar and tipped brim, which concealed most of his features. As soon as the man took a step into the gray light, Kimball noticed that he was wearing a cleric’s collar. A priest.

  The man pointed to the empty chair at the table. “May I?”

  Before Kimball could tell the priest that he wanted to be alone, the man pulled out the chair and sat in it before the invitation, or the lack of one, could be extended. Lowering the collar of his jacket and removing his hat, the priest pointed to Kimball’s collar, which was a part of the Vatican Knight’s attire. “I see you’re a priest,” he stated intuitively. “You practice at St. John’s Co-Cathedral?” The young cleric jabbed a thumb in the direction of the church behind him.

  Kimball nodded. “I’m not a priest,” he said. “I work for the Vatican. But not in the capacity you think.”

  “And what capacity would that be, if I may ask?”

  “I work security.”

  “Security.” The young priest, maybe late twenties, stuck out his hand for a quick shake. “Shawn O’Malley,” he said.

  Kimball took the hand and gave it a pump. “Jason Wilfork,” he lied.

  The man who called himself O’Malley leaned back into his seat. “Miserable day,” he stated. “Hope it gets better since I’m only here for a week. So I’d like to see a little sun.”

  Kimball remained nearly aloof of the priest’s presence. Then: “How long have you been here?” he finally asked him.