by Rick Jones
His speculation was quickly answered when the shadow beneath the door moved from left to right, from the living room into the bedroom.
Kimball moved forward with his weapon leveled.
The door.
The Vatican Knight pressed his ear to it.
He listened.
Nothing.
Then the wood from the door splintered as three gunshots hammered through, the rounds so close to Kimball’s head he could hear their waspy hums as they zipped by. When Kimball fell back, the entire door exploded outward into broken shards of wood as a large man charged through the obstacle and bull-rushed Kimball. As big as Kimball was, his attacker was even larger by comparison, a ‘roid monster who gripped Kimball by the throat with a massive hand and pinned him against the wall.
When Kimball tried to bring his weapon up, the ‘roid monster repelled his gun hand to the side with a slap, the weapon going off, the shot an errant one. Then the assassin responded by leveling his gun to an area between Kimball’s eyes, the weapon so close, in fact, that Kimball could see its boring, and then he knocked the killer’s hand away his throat with a sweeping blow from his own hand, then ducked, the ‘roid’s gun firing off and smashing a fist-sized hole in the wall where Kimball’s head had been a half second before.
Kimball quickly came up with his weapon hand, but the large man was uncannily quick and fast, his motions fluid and skilled from years of practice. The assassin came across with an elbow strike that hit Kimball square on the temple, causing the Vatican Knight to stumble and fall back. Just as the larger man brought his weapon around for a shot to center mass, Kimball threw a kick that struck the man’s weapon and knocked it free from the killer’s grasp, the weapon taking flight and sailing over the bannister three flights below.
The attacker, however, was on Kimball in a moment that was too fast to calculate, grabbed Kimball’s gun wrist with a vise-like grip, then squeezed until the twin bones felt as if they were about break. Kimball brought up a knee and struck the assassin in the groin, a vicious blow.
But the man reacted as if he hardly felt anything at all, the blow more of a nuisance rather than something injurious or crippling. Then he torqued Kimball’s arm over his head and twisted his wrist, hard, forcing Kimball to release the firearm which fell to the floor. The larger man kicked the weapon out of reach, the gun skating off into the shadows.
“You ain’t so tough, Hayden,” said the assassin.
Kimball quickly launched his head forward with a head-butt, the impact striking the assassin so hard his eyes began to roll into sheer whites. Kimball took the opportunity as soon as he saw the man’s knees begin to buckle, by coming across with a series of straight punches, one right after another, blow after blow, the big man stumbling back but not falling. Then Kimball came across with a pair of kicks, one to the abdomen and one to the chin, a move that rocked his assailant. Still, the big man wouldn’t go down.
When Kimball went to finish him off, the assassin discovered his second wind. His eyes no longer showing slivers of white. They were instead dark and fierce and full of murderous intent. And then he moved on Kimball with a fist raised for a pile-driving punch and a predator’s smile, the moment one of closure and finality. As he drove his fist downward, as his body led with momentum, Kimball intercepted the blow by deflecting the downward arc with his forearm, let the man’s great weight carry him forward, and grabbed the man in a full-nelson.
The assassin cried out in rage as Kimball began to apply pressure to the back of the man’s head, and began to force it forward to a breaking point somewhere within the spinal column.
The large man fought back, but couldn’t find an opening to escape the hold, so he pounded himself and Kimball against the wall, the impact driving the Vatican Knight into the drywall and collapsing it to the shape of his back, a wide indent. Over and over he smashed Kimball against the wall studs and beams. But Kimball’s grip didn’t lessen as the bones in the assassin’s neck began to feel the strain and pressure of snapping clean.
Then the assassin lurched toward the bannister with his face a shade of crimson, the man maneuvering desperately to save his life. It was a three-story drop. And Kimball realized that the assassin was going to attempt to flip him over the edge.
Just as they neared the railing, Kimball released his hold and aided the man’s forward progress with a straight kick to the small of the killer’s back, the power behind the thrust sending the man over the bannister.
The assassin didn’t yell during his freefall. There was only the sound of him crash-landing on a coffee table below that, ironically, cushioned his fall as it collapsed beneath his weight.
When Kimball looked over the railing, he saw the large man trying to balance on his feet while trying to shake the fog from his head.
After the large man regained himself, he looked up at Kimball.
For a moment their eyes locked with neither man knowing what the other was thinking.
Then the assassin exited the retreat center, the man trying his best to walk off a limp.
Chapter Fifteen
Ripper had sustained a gash across his forehead and a few abrasions. But considering he took a rather substantial fall, he was lucky not to have broken a bone or two, or worse.
“Why was he there?” Ripper asked Cooper.
Cooper was emotionally muted when he spoke. “Daphne failed his targeted killing.”
“Daphne’s down?”
Cooper nodded.
“We lost Dodge, too,” said Ripper. “Hayden took him out at the retreat center. As for Cosmo . . .” He let the last sentence hang because he didn’t know the status of his teammate.
“Report’s coming in from authorities that Cosmo was found dead in an alleyway. Gunshot wound to the head. And I can pretty much guess as to who it was that put it there.” Then Cooper pointed to Ripper’s thigh. “Your leg?”
Ripper continued to rub his left thigh. “Sore. But manageable.”
Cooper nodded, then asked: “Were you able to achieve the means?”
Ripper removed a passport from his pocket with a bear-like hand, and handed it over to Cooper.
Cooper opened the passport. The photo inside was definitely Kimball Hayden, though a little older. Apparently he was going by the name of Jason Wilfork. And the date of his birth—like his name—was just as fictitious.
Cooper held up the visa. “He can’t get off the island,” he said. “And the priests inside the retreat center?”
“Dealt with.”
Cooper turned to the remaining SAD operative in the room besides Ripper, a man by the name of Dillinger, or Dill, who was managing a laptop computer and an Ismarsat BGAN satellite terminal, which was a mobile workstation that as long as it had a line-of-sight to one of the three geostationary satellites to receive a feed from, then the team would have global coverage on a secured line. “Dill,” Cooper began, “send a transmission to the principal at Langley. Inform him there’s been a glitch in the targeted killing and we’re down three men. I’ll stand by for the response from Central Command.”
Dillinger transmitted a message of ‘U.T1.M.TKM.IC.D3’ over the BGAN’s secured line.
Chapter Sixteen
Lab of the Image Analysis Unit
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Deputy Director Hartlin was working at his computer when his phone received an encrypted text.
U.T1.M.TKM.IC.D3
To anyone else this would mean nothing, the series of symbols pieced together without logic as all codes should be. But to Hartlin it was very clear: U.T1.M.TKM.IC.D3 = Urgent. Team One. Malta. Targeted Killing Missed. Immediate Contact. Down Three Men.
The deputy director shook his head disbelievingly. How is it possible for an elite unit to botch the killing of a single man? he thought.
Hartlin immediately shut down his personal terminals and headed for the CIA’s Image Analysis Unit, which was the nerve-center of global intel activity.
&nbs
p; The lab’s interior walls were lined with banks of visual monitors capable of zooming in on a subject with precise clarity from any security or CCTV camera in the world. The floor was tiered with TS programmers and state-of-the-art consoles and servers that were heavily secured.
“Patch me through to the Malta BGAN,” Hartlin ordered as he fixed his Bluetooth assembly around his ear.
After a few clicks from the keyboard operator, the center screen flared to life with the Skyped image of Cooper.
“Talk to me,” said Hartlin.
“We lost Dodge and Daphne. And intercepted reports from local authorities suggest that Cosmo’s body was found close to Hayden’s last known location with a bullet to his head.”
“Which means that Hayden is armed, making him ten times more dangerous. He’s proving himself to be quite skillful at the game of survival. Where was his last location?”
“At the retreat center. That’s where we lost Dodge. But Ripper made it out all right, though he’s a little banged up.”
“How banged up?”
“Manageable.”
Hartlin snapped his fingers to a controller, then asked him to activate VisageWare in Valletta. Suddenly a bank of monitors revealing several places within the Malta capital appeared against the wall. The few who were in camera range had their faces analyzed, the programming marking certain facial landmarks with a series of lines and dots for confirmation. Kimball Hayden, however, was not among them.
“Keep searching,” Hartlin stated to the keyboardist. Then to Cooper: “So that leaves you, Dill and Ripper. Was Ripper able to sanitize the residing location?”
Cooper nodded onscreen. “We have Hayden’s ID. So getting off the island will be difficult, if not impossible. There were three priests there as well, all neutralized, so there’s no one who can identify Hayden to local authorities. We’ll find him, Hart. We’ll get the matter closed.”
“No,” said Hartlin. “You won’t. You had your chance, Coop. Right now I’m pulling a team from Turkey. I need you to stay close to GBAN and use the FRSP to locate him. Hayden knows he’s being targeted and probably knows that we’re looking for him through FRSP. Do not engage this man. Find him. And stay on him until the second unit arrives.”
“Understood. But with the amount of cameras in Valletta, VisageWare has its limitations. All Hayden has to do is avoid the scope of the camera’s capability. A suggestion on that point, if I can?”
“Go ahead.”
“With Hayden being such a high-priority target, I’m suggesting a mobile-range view using God’s Eye.” God’s Eye was the term given to satellite imagery. Inside the Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, Nevada, is a specialized theater that monitors and controls unmanned aerial vehicles known as drones, and are commonly used as surveillance and intelligence gathering tools. However, the vehicles were currently over Syria and Afghanistan, and could not be moved.
“That’s a negative. Drones are active and cannot be altered from their present coordinates. We’re going old-school on this one. In the meantime, focus on ‘Incite.’ The operation is now time-critical. We’ve developed red-herring chat rooms with information being generated to fit the narrative of ISIS commanders. Global intel agencies are already trailing and logging these messages.”
“Another suggestion, if I may?”
“Go.”
“Recommending support of the NGA.”
The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency was a key support agency for CIA operations that provided real-time imagery above theaters of operation, which was often used to locate hostile forces.
“That’s also a negative,” Hartlin responded. “It’s beyond the scope of our operation.”
“Understood.”
“Have you contacted the field agent regarding ‘Incite’?”
CIA field agents were the non-combatants and less glorified than the SAD. They weren’t the cloak-and-dagger-hiding-in-the-shadows operatives that were romanticized theatrically. They were the trade surveyors who dealt with in-theater acquisitions, analysis, strategies and synthesis, by using the computer as their weapon of choice.
Cooper nodded. “The field operative has given us the time and locations to plant the devices,” he answered. “Three separate locations at the height of the festival for positive effect.”
“Stay on top of it.” Then after a beat from Hartlin, the man seguing: “The second unit will be there in a few hours. It’ll be Deveraux’s team. If Hayden shows himself, maintain a visual but do not engage.”
“Hart . . . my team can take Hayden. All I ask—”
“Half your team is gone,” Hartlin returned. “’Incite’ is now on the clock. You need to concentrate on that. Hayden’s not going anywhere since he doesn’t have the means to get off the island. By the time he figures a way off, the second team will finalize the targeted killing phase.”
The muscles in the back of Cooper’s jaw worked, the man slightly incensed. “Understood.”
“And, Coop.”
“Yeah.”
“He knows you’re hunting him. And there’s nothing more dangerous than a skilled player who knows he’s being hunted. Keep your eyes open at all times. When VisageWare gets a confirmation on Hayden, we’ll send you a joint feed so that you can monitor his actions. Once Deveraux arrives, you’re to direct his team directly to the target.”
On screen, Cooper nodded.
“Stay close to the monitor,” Hartlin added. “We’ll be sharing a communications link until ‘Operation Incite’ has been finalized.”
Another nod of confirmation from Cooper.
Then from Hartlin: “Out.”
The screen winked off. And then additional locations of Valletta popped up on the same screen, with VisageWare trying to locate Kimball Hayden.
So far . . . nada.
The man was a ghost.
“Contact Deveraux in Turkey. Tell him that his team is to be rerouted to Malta ASAP. Mission critical. I’ll send all the necessary information regarding the ‘targeted killing’ upon the moment of communication with Base Command.”
“Yes, sir,” said the keyboard operator. Orders were tapped into a secured line, a transmission laid. In less than two seconds the message had dashed through cyberspace and landed in Deveraux’s box. Two minutes after that, Deveraux responded: His team was on the way.
Within four minutes Deveraux had everything he needed, including the detailed biographical information of his targeted killing: a man by the name of Kimball Hayden.
Hartlin felt good as he stood on the floor. He was about to right a sinking ship. And Deveraux would be the means to see this done.
On screen, VisageWare continued its search.
But Kimball Hayden was nowhere in sight.
Chapter Seventeen
The moment the goliath vacated the retreat center, Kimball retrieved his firearm from the floor and entered his room. Lying in the middle of the room were two priests. Apparently they’d been marched into the area, ordered to their knees, and summarily executed with shots to the back of their heads.
The room smelled like copper. And since the carpet was saturated with blood, Kimball stepped over the bodies and went to his safe, which was open. His passport and money were gone, all the necessities he needed to leave the island with urgency.
Then Kimball swore as he slammed the safe’s door shut, though it didn’t lock. It simply snapped back to an open position.
He grabbed his cellphone and dialed VK Headquarters. Leviticus picked up.
“Leviticus?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Kimball. I’ve been made in Malta. I’ve been marked for a hit.”
“By whom?”
“The Special Activities Division.”
“The CIA?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”
“What happened?”
“I think I’ve been designated as a targeted killing,” Kimball told him. “The hitman had all the earmarks of the SAD. He made mention that a cert
ain principal appreciated what I did for my country, but I should have stayed dead. He said ‘principal,’ meaning one. Four senators were involved and a Joint Chief, who’s now gone, in dictating my missions, all of which were under the radar as black operations. Two of those senators are still in office. So the hit had to be sanctioned by one of them.”
“For what reason?”
Kimball hesitated at this point and closed his eyes. “Because of what I know and for the things I’ve done in the past for the U.S. government.” Terrible things. Awful things. Things I’m deeply ashamed of.
Everyone knew Kimball’s history: that he was an assassin who killed out of duty without question or a moral center.
“You know I killed women and children,” stated Kimball. “I killed anyone who got in my way or compromised my missions. I’ve killed people’s pets’ in front of them just to make a point. I’ve changed political courses through threats. And when those threats went ignored. . . I struck them down because I was told that it was the right thing to do; that it was for the good of the nation.”
Leviticus allowed Kimball to vent as a measure of catharsis, though he had heard this many times before.
“There’s one secret, Leviticus, they would do anything to keep safe,” Kimball added.
“You’re talking about the murder of Senator Cartwright.”
Kimball nodded, though Leviticus obviously couldn’t see this from his end. “I terminated him under the direction from members of the Senate. This has to be the reason why I’ve been targeted. They want me dead, Leviticus, to keep this particular secret safe. And to ensure this measure, they’ve killed the priests inside the retreat center to keep them from talking to local authorities. It’s all about the damage I could do to certain principals in the U.S. government. So they’ve started the movement to sanitize the situation.”
“How’d they find you?”
Kimball shrugged. “Not sure. My best guess is when I served as security for John Paul in New York a few weeks ago. Cameras were everywhere. Someone had to notice—perhaps caught enough of a glimpse to set off an inquiry. They thought I was dead . . . Now they know otherwise.”
