by Rick Jones
“Got in late last night,” he answered. “Just as the rain started to come.”
Kimball knew this to be a lie. He’d seen O’Malley the day before standing in the shadows next to St. John’s Co-Cathedral without his collar, watching. “That’s odd,” he said.
The young priest looked his way. “Odd?”
“Yeah. Odd. You must be a magician,” Kimball stated evenly.
O’Malley leaned forward. “I’m sorry. What?”
“A magician,” Kimball emphasized. “To be in two places at once.” Kimball pointed to a dark recess next to the church. “Yesterday I saw you standing there in the shadows keeping surveillance on me. The question is: why?”
“Excuse me?”
Kimball could sense the man buckling. “It was you. You were watching me. I saw you.”
The priest remained expressionless as he eased back into his chair. “All right,” he said. Then he removed the cleric’s band from his collar and tossed it on the table. “So you made me. Obviously I’m not a priest and you’re not Jason Wilfork. My name is not O’Malley. And your name is Kimball Hayden. We both know that. But what you don’t know is that I’m holding a suppressed Sig Sauer under the table. You know the routine; two to center mass and one to the head.”
“I think maybe you’re mistaken as to who I am,” said Kimball.
“Am I?” With his free hand Daphne, his real name, removed a small photo from his breast pocket and tossed it on the table before Kimball. It was an old picture, but one that Kimball recognized. It was his U.S. ID photo, one from a classified record.
“I’m guessing you’re a U.S. government assassin,” Kimball finally stated. “I’m going to say from the Special Activities Division, since the photo you provided is from a Pentagon file?”
Daphne remained silent. His right hand under the table.
Then from Daphne. “You’re a little older and maybe a little wiser, but I needed to make confirmation and deliver a message to you.”
“A message? From who?”
“A certain political principal.”
“Does this political principal have a name? I’d like to know the name of the person I’m going to kill.”
“You don’t need to know who’s sanctioning this hit.”
Kimball sat still, though his features never betrayed an emotion while his mind continued to work.
The assassin’s expression remained just as flat as Kimball’s, when he spoke. “I will say this,” he began. “For whatever reason, this particular principal feels like he owes you a debt of gratitude for your services to your country. It wasn’t expressed to me why you’re to be held in such high regard. Nor do I care. Orders are issued, I accept them, and I simply follow through.”
Kimball looked at the assassin and noted that his right hand remained under the table, while the fingers of his left hand drummed in measure with the falling rain.
Then from Kimball: “And the message from this principal.”
The assassin looked upon Kimball with unfeeling eyes. “You were a great asset to the team, which is much appreciated . . . But you should have stayed dead.”
Then it dawned on Kimball like an epiphany with the thought hitting him like a blunt force. He’d been tagged by leading senators in the United States that were in league with a certain Joint Chief—now deceased—who sanctioned black-operations that were strictly off the grid, with the president of the United States on a need-to-know basis. But since Kimball was considered killed during a mission which had recently been discovered not to be the case, new wounds had opened up and old threats began to hemorrhage. Kimball knew America’s darkest secrets and the amoral operations that motivated them for the sake of achievement. Should certain truths be known of his black-tasked missions, he would then become a grave threat to the security of the nation. And because of this he had been tagged as a ‘targeted killing,’ which was a premeditated killing of an individual by a state organization outside a judicial procedure or battlefield. Kimball was to be eradicated and buried deep underneath a cairn of lies, in order to keep these national secrets safe. One such secret was the sanctioned killing of a United States senator by his own hand.
“So how’d they find me?” he asked Daphne. “How’d they know I was still alive?”
“My understanding is that they saw you recently in a photo. In New York, I believe. With the pope. Fancy company you keep.” Then Daphne shrugged. “As to how they found you in Malta, I’m guessing through the proper means of cyber-programming.”
Kimball nodded. “VisageWare.”
“Assuming. Once they discovered you were very much alive.”
“You know nothing about me,” Kimball stated pointblank. “You don’t know what I’m capable of . . . And you certainly don’t know my particular skill sets. If you did, you would have shot me long ago.”
“Hey, Cowboy, I’m the one holding the gun here.”
“And you think that gives you the license of power over me?”
Daphne gave him a one-sided smile that was as thin as a fishhook. “I know you’re a very dangerous man who knows too much. You’re a threat, Hayden. And my job,” he expressed with emphasis, “is to neutralize the threat . . . And that happens to be you.”
Kimball nodded. Message received.
Now I have a little message of my own, he told himself.
The assassin appeared to intuit Kimball’s thoughts and realized that the one-time assassin for the American government wasn’t going down without a fight. Here was a man who wasn’t driven by self-preservation or the will to survive. Nor would he respond with desperate acts to save himself knowing that death was an arm’s length away. In fact, Daphne’s target was wired to react with the fortitude of a machine, cold and unfeeling.
In a moment that was less than a blink of an eye, Kimball upended the table and forced it at the assassin, the table knocking the man backward and to the ground. As soon as the killer raised his weapon to search for its mark, Kimball grabbed the man’s wrist and torqued it hard, the action causing the weapon to go off three times in quick succession, the reports muted by the suppressor.
Kimball then grabbed the man by the throat, hoisted him to his feet, and then he snapped the man’s wrist, the bones breaking as the gun dropped to the bricks. Barking a cry in agony, the man looked at Kimball with venomous eyes.
The make-believe priest then came up with a knee and struck Kimball in the groin, the strike effective as Kimball released his quarry and fell to his knees. The assassin quickly drew back, measured the moment, and quickly responded with a roundhouse kick that connected with Kimball’s temple, the impact sending the Vatican Knight sprawling to the ground.
The assassin was quick and efficient, even with a damaged wrist. Then the killer reached behind him, removed a knife from a hidden sheath, and held it before Kimball as if to showcase its lethal abilities, the blade wickedly keen and sharp.
A moment later he drove himself at Kimball who was now on his feet, the Vatican Knight dodging and juking from the arcs and sweeps, the blade cutting close.
Then the assassin came across with a horizontal strike, the blade slicing neatly along Kimball’s forearm and drawing blood. Kimball winced and backpedaled, the Vatican Knight drawing distance while considering his next move against the assassin’s advancement. The killer pressed forward with the mirror-polish of the knife’s blade now coated with Kimball’s blood. His moves were clean and fluid, all the actions of a man who’d been rigorously trained over the years.
The blade came across from right to left, left to right, the swipes driving Kimball back as he sought for an opening, an advantage, but the assassin provided him with little. Then Daphne started with well-designed sweeps and cuts, the knife slicing the air with marginal sounds of whooshes.
And then Kimball responded by ducking low and swinging his leg around, the action cutting Daphne’s feet out from under him. The assassin went airborne in a moment that seemed to move with the slowness of a bad dream, his
legs going upward and skyward, the knife red against the steel. And then his backside struck the surface, the air knocked from his lungs as he laid there trying to focus. But Kimball was kneeling over him, his shape a black mass that blotted out the backdrop of the slate-gray sky.
The assassin brought the blade up, the point of its tip glinting, the knife a gutter. When he tried to bring it up and across, Kimball’s hand was there to intercept the blow. He grabbed the man’s wrist, came down with an elbow strike to the assassin’s face, the knife loosening from the killer’s grasp. And then Kimball took the knife into his own hand and drove it deep into Daphne’s chest with a move that was fluid.
The eyes of the false priest flared, his pain becoming acute, and then his head fell back to the surface of the bricks with his mouth moving in mute protest. After his mouth bubbled red to create a blood goatee, Daphne was able to manage weakly, “You’ll never get off this island alive, Cowboy . . . Not in a million years.”
Kimball didn’t bother to question the assassin further, as he kept to a knee on the pavement and watched Daphne’s life abandon him.
#
Kimball searched the man’s coat, finding only a cellphone but no ID, which was typical of a professional killer. Grabbing the suppressed weapon and the knife, Kimball got to his feet and noticed that a crowd of three had gathered in the rain—witnesses who had seen two men appearing as priests combat one another until one was left standing.
As Kimball hastened from the scene, he looked over his shoulder and to the image of Christ upon the cross sitting on top of the spire.
Jesus continued to weep.
Still.
#
A second operative bolted from the shadows next to the church after he had seen Daphne go down. Even though his Sig Sauer was leveled directly at Kimball, the Vatican Knight was too far away for an accurate shot.
The second man, who was serving as Daphne’s backup, saw three people gather in the rain, all witnesses. As Kimball Hayden continued to take flight, the operative maneuvered behind the onlookers and in quick succession fired off three rounds, one bullet each to the back of their heads, with their bodies dropping to the pavement like stones.
As soon as he removed all witnesses from the equation, he immediately gave chase.
#
Kimball ran through the tapering rain and down the narrow streets of Valletta knowing that he was being tracked by a second assassin, until he found a recessed doorway in an alleyway where he took refuge. With time minimal and the need to take immediate advantage, Kimball removed Daphne’s cellphone from his pocket and keyed the ‘on’ button. As soon as the phone lit up, Kimball recognized the single app on the screen. In order to remain under the radar, operatives would load this app in order to encrypt all messages that would be impossible to convert code into ordinary language. Nevertheless, this particular phone was key to locating the chief handler.
Kimball looked up. The alley remained clear but not for long, since the second assassin was closing the gap and would soon round the bend. Time was becoming critical, down to seconds.
With the cellphone in its current condition, Kimball knew it was lethal to possess because it would drive the assassin right to him. So before the Special Activities Division could take inventory as to what was missing from the downed operative, from Daphne, Kimball had to disable the GPS unit that was implanted inside all smart phones.
The second assassin was closing fast, his rushing footfalls becoming more pronounced with each passing moment.
Kimball quickly removed the phone’s backside and the main battery. Beneath the main battery was a second battery, a small lithium-type cell used mostly in wristwatches, only this particular feature had fiber-like wires attached to it like antennae. After removing it, he dropped the unit to the ground, crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, then reassembled the phone. Now he couldn’t be traced.
After returning the phone to his pocket, he waited for the challenge he knew was coming his way.
PART THREE
DEAD MAN RUNNING
Chapter Thirteen
Valletta, Malta
His name was Benito Cosmo. And he was a paramilitary operator of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. After watching Kimball Hayden’s skill set when taking down Daphne, he quickly gave chase through the streets of Valletta endeavoring to take Hayden down after Daphne had failed.
The rain was hard and pelting, the streets glistening like ice as Kimball Hayden ran west before turning right down a narrow lane that was flanked by three-story buildings.
Cosmo closed the gap with his finger applying pressure on the trigger. All he needed was a minimal squeeze.
When he rounded the bend his target was nowhere to be seen.
But he knew his target was close by.
#
Kimball had found refuge inside the recess of one of the doorways leading into a residence. Under the slate-gray sky it was steeped in dark shadows, a place he felt most comfortable.
And he waited.
He knew he was being trailed, knew that assassins within the Special Activities Division never worked alone. There were always those who were standing by to deal the killing blow should the first operative fail to do so, the routine a considered failsafe.
In his escape, Kimball had seen this second operative give chase with a weapon in his hand. After Kimball rounded the bend and took cover, he quickly dismantled Daphne’s phone and removed the transponder unit, taking away anyone’s advantage of locating him, including the assassin who followed, then waited.
When Daphne’s backup rounded the bend and realized that Hayden was nowhere to be seen, he remained cautious. He moved down the lane with his head on a swivel, searching for Hayden with his gun-hand swinging from left to right, then right to left.
Kimball hung back in the shadows, his arm slowly rising with his own suppressed weapon.
The assassin was coming into range, the man edging closer one slow step at a time.
Kimball aimed.
The assassin stopped, perhaps sensing danger but unable to pinpoint its origin.
Kimball drew a bead.
The killer moved slowly forward, searching. When Cosmo maneuvered and saw a shape standing within the shadows of a doorway, his eyes flared when he realized that he had walked directly into Hayden’s line of fire.
Suddenly a bullet-hole appeared magically in the center of the assassin’s forehead, the man quickly falling to the pavement as a boneless heap.
As soon as the would-be killer hit the ground, Kimball Hayden was already on the move.
Chapter Fourteen
Kimball’s hair was soaking wet and clung to his scalp as he ran to the retreat center as fast as he could. He knew this was a mission to sanitize every measure of his existence through team effort. And the retreat center was a key location because his false passport to get out of the country, as well as the priests who could identify him to local authorities, all had to be erased.
The SAD would hunt Kimball down before he became the focus of an investigation by the Malta authorities, which was something the United States government could not afford. All witnesses, even those of divine calling who could prove Kimball’s existence, paperwork and passports, even those created with false identities, had to be destroyed.
Up ahead was the retreat center, its doors and windows closed against the rain.
As soon as he reached the front door he grabbed the knob, turned the handle slowly, then pushed the door wide so that it glided open, and stood to the side should a round or two come his way.
None did.
He entered the lobby area, which was a small room decorated with a few rubber plants to give it character, and some wall-hangings of past popes.
He closed the door softly behind him, the bolt catching with a marginal click.
And then he stood idle in the center of the room with the suppressed weapon he had taken off Daphne, and took everything in with his six senses.
The interior of the retreat center had a sepulchral feel to it; the absolute silence, the complete stillness, neither of which was a good sign.
Then he took the steps to the second level.
Just beyond the foot of the stairs on the upper tier, a priest was laying along the floor with a perfect kill shot to the center of his forehead. The man had bled profusely on the tiled floor, the blood the color of burgundy.
Above him, on the third level where his room was, came a minor shuffling across the floor.
Kimball stepped over the body and took the staircase leading to the top level.
More noise. Though it was only perceptible to the keenest ear.
Kimball kept to the shadows by the wall as he made his way down the corridor towards his room.
His door was closed.
Then he saw the shadow of someone pass by the crack beneath the door, a glimpse of moving darkness.
Kimball held back, deciding on his next move.
Then from behind, a footfall, almost soundless. Kimball wheeled around and threw up a forearm that deflected the assassin’s gun-hand toward the ceiling, the suppressed weapon going off with two successive shots.
. . . Phfttt . . .
. . . Phfttt . . .
Dust motes of ceiling plaster rained down on them as Kimball grabbed the assassin’s arm, wrenched it, and then he brought his own firearm up, dug the barrel’s point against the assailant’s abdomen, and pulled the trigger several times, the rounds punching through the man’s backside and lodging against the far wall.
As the killer slid forward into Kimball’s grasp, Kimball laid the man quietly to the floor while keeping an eye on the door at the far end of the hallway.
There were no more shadows moving along the open seam beneath the door, no more telltale signs that anyone was inside the room. So Kimball had to wonder if the second assailant had heard the muffled shots.
