by Rick Jones
“We’ll need to move,” said the voice of the Navigator, from behind. “The NSA will soon discover that their system has been tapped into, and they will follow the trace.”
Although Ezekiel heard, he did not respond. He had already made up his mind that he would burn the lodge down to sanitize the area.
“Did you hear me?” said the Navigator.
Ezekiel never took his eyes off the screen. “I did, sir.”
“And there’s another matter.”
This time Ezekiel turned away from the monitor and confronted the man with a neutralized look, one of indifference. When their eyes met he found himself pinned down by the stare of Abraham Obadiah. “And that would be?”
Obadiah crossed his arms. “We’re missing a vial.”
“I know,” stated Ezekiel, turning back to the screen. “It’s in my possession. Call it compensation for Bensenville.”
“The vial needs to be contained under the strictest measures,” Obadiah quickly managed. “Failure to adhere to certain conditions may result in our own quick demise, if not careful.”
One corner of Ezekiel’s lips lifted into a sardonic grin. “You really want to live forever?”
“As long as I can.”
“Then you picked the wrong job.”
Obadiah circled the chair behind Ezekiel. “Risks can be minimized.”
Ezekiel sighed through his nose, reached out, and shut off the monitor. He swiveled in his chair to face Obadiah. “You have ten vials to complete your agenda,” he told him flatly. “I have one to complete mine.”
Abraham Obadiah gave a perceptible nod of approval. “You seek the great white whale of Kimball Hayden,” he finally said.
“We both share an interest in his death. All I need to do is find him. And I will.”
Kimball had become a thorn in both their sides, each man wanting him dead for very different reasons. But their goals were strikingly similar in that they needed Kimball dead so that future threats would be taken away.
“The vial is yours,” Obadiah said after thoughtful hesitation. “Find the target and use it well.”
“I will,” he returned softly, as if it was a given. He then turned his attention back to the blank screens. “What’s going on with the current op regarding the Omega Strain?”
“The principals in the Dearborn Group received a communique from my people stating that you succeeded in your mission, but the three you were with had lost their lives in the exchange. They also reported that the asset had been secured and ready to proffer to the clergy within the mosque, who will then pass it on to their Iranian contacts.”
“Is this true? Your people are really going to conspire with terrorists?”
“Not in the way that you think,” said Obadiah. “Remember. I am Lohamah Psichlogit. You know what I do. You know what my team does. We’re all about deception. The principals in the mosque have already relayed transmissions to their contacts in Iran claiming that their man—which was you—had secured the strain. And once they’ve obtained it, then they will transfer the strain to their Canadian contacts, where it’ll then make its way toward Tehran. The developments of this blowback have already garnered the desired results.”
“How so?”
“Transmissions have already begun between the Dearborn and Canadian factions. And those same transmissions have been intercepted by the NSA and CIA. From what my team can determine, the Canadian entourage has spoken of three possible target sites that was proposed earlier by Tehran: Tel Aviv, New York City, and Washington D.C.”
“You think Tehran will follow through?”
Obadiah shook his head in the negative. “They’ll never get their hands on the strain. No. The strain will be sent to Israel where it will be broken down to its finest components. Until then, momentum against Iranian interests will build with the accusing finger being pointed at Iran’s political body that they now committed an act of terrorism on American soil, and stole a coveted strain considered to be a WMD. Now with intercepted transmissions supporting that factions within Iran’s borders are willing to use the strain against the United States and Israel, then the United States will finally support Israel in the flying of sorties into Iranian territory to eradicate the threat. That means all nuclear facilities and known biological labs. And we can do this with the support of the United States and lack of reprimand from the U.N.”
For years Israel has been begging the U.S. for the right to protect their sovereignty by invading Iran and taking out their nuclear facilities. Now it appears that Obadiah’s red herring by using the strain as the political carrot-on-the-stick as the means to level Iran. With the worldwide view believing that Iran was now an antagonistic nation, support for retaliation would shift on a global scale. And Israel would act to neutralize the situation, even though a situation never truly existed.
Everything was falling in place for Abraham Obadiah and the Lohamah Psichlogit.
Obadiah then spoke in a quick clip: “It’s time to move,” he said. He then removed a suppressor-fitted firearm from his shoulder holster and held it aloft, he mouth of the gun’s barrel pointed ceilingward. “I’ll deal with the innkeeper and the two patrons. In the meantime, I need you to sanitize the area so that nothing can be traced back to the team. There’s no doubt that the assumption from the intel agencies is that you will most likely head north to Michigan to meet with the faction. So we’ll move south into Mexico.”
Ezekiel understood by nodding.
“Very Good.” With the weapon still in his hand, Obadiah left the room to extinguish any possible threats that could identify him and Ezekiel.
CHAPTER TEN
Saint Viator’s
Las Vegas, NV
The adage ‘if darkness is your ally, then don’t turn on the lights’ had any meaning about stealth, it didn’t seem to bother the four men walking along South Casino Center Drive and lighting up their smokes, the match-lit flames proposing their identities as they eventually reached the doors of Saint Viator’s. It was here that they quieted down and searched the roadway, seeing nothing but the occasional empty cab pass by at this late hour. After they finished their cigarettes, one of the four men removed a leverage bar from the lining of his jacket, crammed the thin edge between the crooks of the doorjamb, and began to jimmy the blade until the door started to give, the wood creaking, then snapping. And then the door finally swung open to reveal nothing but dark shadows.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” the thief commented while pocketing the metal bar and stepping inside the foyer, which smelled of fresh paint.
The depths of the interior was as absolute as pitch with the exception of the glow from a nearby streetlamp that filtered in through the doorway, casting a pale light that reached across the floor to the opposite wall where the donation box sat fixed to its ornamental pedestal.
“Ooooeeeee,” said the Slim-Bar Thief, running his fingers over the donation box. “They just make’m prettier, don’t they?”
The other three sidled up beside him. And one said, “And we just keep on knocking them down.”
The Slim-Bar Thief traced his fingertips over the ornament of the cross on the face of the box, then over the beveled edges. “Unlike the other boxes, this one’s put together pretty well.” He checked the slit created for the drop off of money, wiggled his fingers in the hole, then laughed, the man quickly making an obscene remark about a certain part of the female anatomy.
“I don’t think I like what you just said.” A large man moved away from the shadows and into the vague light of the foyer. He was tall and broad of shoulder. And something menacing seemed to ooze from every fiber and pore of this man like something tangible, like a cold chill that ran up the length of someone’s spine. But it was more than that. This man who would offer himself as savior of Saint Viator’s, was also a man capable of great violence.
He stepped closer to the foursome, who were beginning to fan out.
“I don’t think I like what you said,” he
repeated. “This is a house of worship.”
The Slim-Bar Thief smiled. “And I’ve come to worship this here box,” he said, rubbing his hand over its surface and bringing a round of good-humored laughter from the others. Then: “Do you think if I rub this here doe-knee-ay-shun box long enough, that the good genie within will give me the money inside?”
“I know that if you don’t take your hand off that box and keep it off, then this genie right here”—he said, jabbing his massive chest with the point of his thumb—“is going to make sure that you wished you had.”
The thief stood to his full height. In the dim and faded light Kimball saw that he was the tallest of the four, but thinner and leaner with rows of rotted and stained teeth. The man walked away from the box and swaggered up to Kimball, who knew that the man was simply motivated by his own sense of bravado knowing that he had a posse of three men behind him.
With his own finger, the man jabbed Kimball hard in the chest and left it there for emphasis. Even though the man could not see the heated glare coming from Kimball’s eyes, he nevertheless felt pinned by the man’s gaze. “Now you listen here, you mother—”
That was all Kimball allowed the man to say as the former Vatican Knight grabbed the thief’s hand and torqued it, causing the wrist to twist in an unnatural way which brought the man to his knees. As soon as the others took galvanizing steps forward, Kimball raised his free hand and patted the air, telling them to stop, which they did. “Stay right where you are,” he told them.
“Let him go,” said the smallest, his tone not so confident.
And Kimball scoffed at this. “I don’t think I will,” he said. And to stress his point, he twisted the thief’s wrist further, causing the man to cry out in pain. “Now you listen to me. All of you. If I ever, and I mean ever, catch any of you coming back here again, then I will hunt you down, I will find you, and I will personally see to it that none of you will stand to see another day again. Is that clear?”
A man from Kimball’s left edged closer. Unlike the others, this one appeared cocky.
“Are you kidding me, man? Seriously? There are four of us and one of you.”
“I don’t think you want to go there with me?”
“I think maybe we do.”
Kimball released the Slim-Bar Thief and shoved him away, leaving the man to lay on the floor in a fetal position cradling his wrist.
When Kimball stood before the man with his chest and shoulders squared, and his fists clenched, the man’s cocky attitude seemed to evaporate.
Kimball took a menacing step forward. “Is there something you want to say to me? Perhaps a point you want to get across.”
The man nodded. “I don’t think you understand the situation here,” the second thief told him. “You see, the money in that box over there belongs to us. So we’re going to take it. And if you step in the way, then you’re going to feel a whole lot of hurt.”
“Is that so?” said Kimball.
“Yeah, that’s—”
Kimball lashed out with a leg kick, the movement so quick, so fast, with power and momentum behind the force, that it drove the man off his feet and against the wall. The impact was so hard that the thief left an impression of his backside in the drywall as he slid to the floor unconscious.
That left three with the Slim-Bar Thief now getting to his feet. And Kimball could see the man reaching for the leverage bar hidden in his coat, a weapon.
“Bad mistake, man. You have no idea who you’re messing with,” stated the Slim-Bar Thief, who held the tool the same way one would hold a hatchet.
Kimball nodded at the man’s foolishness. “If you’re talking about you three little pansies, then I don’t think I have too much to worry about. But I will say this: grab your friend over there and leave. I will not ask you again.”
The Slim-Bar Thief responded by closing the gap between them and swinging the bar. The metal rod swung in a diagonal arc, missing its target. Then he swung the bar with a horizontal back sweep, cutting nothing but air as Kimball ducked beneath his swing.
When the thief started screaming in aggravation on the return sweep, Kimball grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted it to render the man impotent of all movement, and then he lashed out and jabbed the man in the throat with his knuckles, a straight shot. The Slim-Bar Thief quickly dropped his weapon and fell to his knees with his hands clutching his throat. His eyes were wide, and he gagged, his throat damaged but not destroyed.
The other two men jumped at the opportunity to take Kimball down. But the former Knight was quick and seasoned, his skill set unmatched by street fighters. Raising his arms and stepping back to better position himself, he deflected the blows easily.
And then he took control.
Kimball applied his ability of combat as if it was an involuntary act, like breathing. He warded off the blows, then came across with a series of punches with the blade of his hand, the shots connecting in a series of well-placed strikes to the chin and nose area of both opponents, causing explosions and jettisons of blood as they fell back to compose themselves.
Unlike Kimball who seemed as fresh as the day was young, they appeared deeply winded.
And then they attacked Kimball in tandem with Kimball thinking that somewhere somebody was missing their village idiots. One came up to his left, the other on his right, both throwing wild punches.
Kimball redirected the blows until they punched themselves out, and then Kimball closed the count. With an elbow strike to the jaw line to the man on his left, the thief was launched from his feet, landed hard against the floor, and skated against the wall where he lay unconscious. The man on his right was not as lucky. Kimball went after him with a series of left- and right-handed chops, his arms like fast-acting pistons, driving and smashing the man to the far wall where he eventually slid down, also unconscious.
Behind Kimball Slim-Bar tried to crawl out of Saint Viator’s foyer and into the street. But Kimball grabbed the man by the ankle and dragged him back inside. “Leaving so soon? Just when we’re really getting to be pals.”
The Slim-Bar Thief turned on his back and waved his hands in surrender. No more, please.
And that was when the Slim-Bar Thief saw it.
In the dim light he could see the man wearing a cleric’s collar; however, it was badly soiled and dirty, as if it was sitting in the dust of charcoal. The man’s eyes were also intense and cast the glow of something very dangerous about him. And suddenly the thief’s skin crawled the same way the hackles of a dog rises when sensing great danger. Here was a priest. But something told him differently. He was looking at the priest who was not a priest.
“Please,” he stated, his voice sounding ragged and raw from the knuckle blow. “No more.”
“You are not to come back to this church,” stated Kimball. “Or to any other church. If you do, if I find out that you and your idiot friends here have taken so much as a drop of holy water, I meant exactly what I said. I will find you.”
“You don’t understand,” the man whined. “Ferret will never allow you or anyone else to stand in his way. Like I said: You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“What in the hell is a Ferret?”
“Not what. Who.”
“All right then. Who in the hell is Ferret?”
The Slim-Bar Thief managed a smile. “He’s gonna rip you apart, man, as soon as he finds out about you.”
“You think so, huh?”
“I know so.”
Kimball reached down and throttled the man’s throat, squeezing until the man’s face went crimson. The moment the thief started choking and gagging, Kimball let up. “Who’s Ferret? I’m not going to ask you again. And you know how I feel about repeating myself.” When the thief declined to answer, Kimball tightened his grip. “Is he the one orchestrating all these break-ins into Saint Viator’s?” But when the Slim-Bar Thief didn’t answer and began to squirm beneath Kimball’s weight, Kimball raised an open hand and held it high. “You know wh
at this is?” he asked, referring to his hand with a tilt of his chin. “It’s called a bitch slap. People like you who don’t deserved to be punched like a real man gets the alternative.” Kimball swung and connected with an open hand, the slap loud and harsh throughout the foyer.
The Slim-Bar Thief screamed.
“I can do this all day,” Kimball told him. “In fact, I’d enjoy it.” He raised his hand again for another strike. “Who . . . is . . . Ferret? And why is he breaking into Viator’s?”
The Slim-Bar Thief continued to squirm beneath Kimball.
“You are a dumb bastard, you know that?” Kimball struck the man again, a hard slap, raised his hand again, and gave him another.
The Slim-Bar Thief then raised his own hands in surrender. “All right! All right!” he cried. “Stop!”
“Ferret. Who is he? Where can I find him?”
“You won’t have to find him. He’ll find you.”
Kimball raised his open hand high above his head, setting himself for another strike.
The Slim-Bar Thief shouted: “He’s in the tunnels, man! He lives in the tunnels!”
Unlike New York City where the railway tunnels are alleged to be the warrens of the homeless, they are not. Las Vegas, however, does have underground tunnels that shelter those who have fallen upon hard times. In the 90’s when Las Vegas was going through its biggest boom, tunnels were created to channel waters in order to avoid flash floods, the valley’s deadliest killer, with miles of tunnels creating labyrinths beneath the Las Vegas Strip. Thousands of people are reputed to live there: thugs and bandits who have absconded from parole or probation, those who have lost their homes in the throes of the Great Recession, and those running from abusive spouses with their children in tow. It’s a world that’s dark and decadent with subterranean societies surviving on rules that border on Hammurabi’s Law, an eye for an eye.
