Crosses to Bear (Vatican Knights Book 6)

by Rick Jones

  Kimball took caution looking from tunnel to tunnel, their maws steeped in darkness, knowing that the Tanakas were there, somewhere. And waiting.

  He stopped about twenty feet away from Ferret, appraising him. “Are you Weasel?”

  Ferret sighed. “It’s Ferret,” he told him, sounding irritated. “My name . . . is Ferret.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Why are you here, hotshot? You think you can take me on? You think you can beat the Community?”

  “I have a question for you,” Kimball stated.

  “OK.”

  “How you answer it determines whether or not you live or die.”

  “Really.” Ferret’s smiled broadened, hardly believing this man’s audacity. “Ask away.”

  “It’s the same question I asked your friend with the bad wing.”

  “I heard his cries all the way down here,” Ferret returned, maintaining his cocky grin. “Apparently he gave you the wrong answer.” Ferret got up from his chair and circled around it until he was behind the recliner, then leaned his forearms over the top of the chair’s back. His smile petered away, leaving a hard look of intimidation. “Ask.”

  Kimball took another step forward, then asked, “Why do good people like Sister Abigail always seem to have their lives cut short, when maggots like you just go on and on?”

  Ferret looked at him quizzically. “That’s it? That’s your question?”

  Kimball remained silent.

  “Fine,” said Ferret. “People like Sister Abigail and anyone like her is weak. We take from people like her because we can. But in this case, we used her to get to you because you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t go away. Unfortunately, my boys got a little carried away.” There wasn’t the slightest hint of remorse when he spoke, only the measure of a man who thought he was entitled. “So tell me . . . did I give you the right answer? Are you going to spare my life?” Now he was mocking Kimball, the edge of his mouth curved with arrogant derision.

  Kimball reached down by his sides and slowly undid the snaps to his knives, first unsnapping the left, and then the right. Grabbing the handles, he then removed the Ka-Bars from their sheaths and held the knives out by his side in exhibition.

  Kimball knew that Ferret was using the chair as a shield, as thin and useless as it was. But he also knew that the Tanakas where in the shadows ready to attack the moment he would advance against Ferret. So they had to be close.

  Real close.

  When Kimball stepped into the middle of the arena surrounded by the lanterns, the light shed enough luminosity to reveal that Kimball had blisters on his forearms and neck, second-degree burns. And parts of his clothing had been eaten away by the flames, revealing greasy, soot-laden skin.

  When Kimball stood in the room’s center with the knives out by his side, he said, “Wrong answer.”

  Ferret smiled. “I figured as much,” he said. “But it really didn’t matter how I answered, did it? You already had your mind made up. But if you think that you’re going to use those knives on me, think again. I have it within my means to bring you to your knees . . . and watch you die from that position.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  Kimball flexed his fingers to better his grip. “That’s not going to happen,” Kimball returned. “Not in this lifetime. You want to know why?”

  Ferret stood there, treating the question as rhetorical.

  “There’s not a force on this planet that can bring me to my knees or stop me from what I’m about to do to you. No force at all. Not even them.” Kimball inclined his chin towards the darkness of the connecting tunnels, obviously referring to the Tanakas.

  Ferret stood idle for a long moment, staring in appraisal as the corners of his lips shifted with nervous tics. Then in a voice that was even and low, Ferret stated, “We shall see.”

  From dark passages opposite Ferret’s chair, the Tanakas emerged from the tunnels ready for battle. They were shirtless, for maneuverability. And Kimball could tell that these men were seasoned combatants. Their bodies were cut with every fiber and muscle band showcasing lean regimental tightness, with little to no body fat. And what this promised was quickness.

  Their faces betrayed nothing—no emotions, no thoughts, nothing that would give Kimball the benefit as to their plan of attack. But the moment they spread out to flank him, Kimball realized their strategy. As one challenged him from the front, the other would attack from behind. It was the oldest technique in the world. And one that Kimball warded off many times in the past.

  They were twins, obviously, with one a mirror image of the other. The one to his left held a Kama in each hand, small Japanese scythes with ten-inch handles and seven-inch steel blades. The one to his right held a Japanese Sai in each hand. The weapons were three-pointed and prong-shaped metal batons with two curved tines called yoku projecting from the handle, and a long prong in the center.

  Kimball’s eyes shifted to his left, to his right, then back to the left, studying their approach.

  The Tanakas then went into an act of showmanship, twirling the Sais and Kamas with skill and ease, the blades and prongs cutting through the air in hisses and whispers.

  And then the Tanaka with the Kamas leapt forward, crying out in Japanese tradition as he swung the sickles with coordinated effort, swinging his right hand diagonally while bringing his left hand across in a horizontal sweep.

  Kimball jumped away from the blows and pitched to his left, knowing that the second Tanaka was coming up from behind, and brought his Ka-Bars up to deflect the stabs from the Sais. He hit the prongs with his blades, casting sparks, the Sais ricocheting and missing their mark of Kimball’s backside.

  Kimball came up with leg and thrust it forward, hitting the Sais Tanaka squarely in the chest and sending the man across the floor, his breath lost to him as a Sai escaped his grip and skated freely into the shadows beyond the fringe of the lanterns’ light, leaving him with one.

  Kimball rotated immediately around, a quick pivot on the balls of his feet, just as the blade of the Kama came down and scored his shirt, tearing it from shoulder to navel. Kimball responded by coming across with his right-handed Ka-Bar and knocking it aside, then coming across with his left hand and driving the point of his knife across the right forearm his attacker, slicing the skin deep to cripple the arm. As his attacker pulled back in reaction of self-preservation, the man whistling in pain, Kimball went after him with both arms swinging—left, right, left, right—leaving Tanaka to fend for himself with a single Kama, the blade of the sickle repelling attacks while his damaged arm hung by his side as if greatly weighted, the Kama in that hand useless.

  Kimball moved quickly, ferociously, his hands moving with blinding speed knowing that the other Tanaka would not be downed for too long. So he sped up the pace, hitting and striking the blade of his opponent’s Kama, driving sparks on impact, the embers flaring, then dying, the space between the fighters a showcase of floating cinders as metal continued to strike metal.

  In an effort borne of desperation, the Kama Tanaka raised his weapon high to bring it across in an arc to detach Kimball’s head from his body, but by doing so he greatly exposed himself. As the sickle lifted high over Kama Tanaka’s head, Kimball struck with a power jab and sent the point of his knife deep into Tanaka’s chest, the center of body mass, killing the man instantly. Kama Tanaka dropped his weapons and leaned into Kimball, his body going boneless in his grasp. This is for Sister Abigail, he thought, and twisted the blade, even though the action was moot.

  The second Tanaka, after getting to his feet with a hand against his chest, cried out in a fusion of anger and agony after seeing his brother in Kimball’s grasp with his head falling limp at the shoulders.

  In command of his skills, the Sai Tanaka went after Kimball stabbing at the air with calculated moves. Kimball lifted the dead Tanaka and cast his body at his brother, the moment allowing Kimball to readdress the situation while the thrown body disrupted the S
ai Tanaka’s balance, who quickly gathered himself after tossing his brother’s body aside and charged Kimball.

  Kimball reasserted himself, ground his feet, and raised his Ka-Bars in defense. The Sai attacker came at him screaming, yelling, the veins in his neck sticking out like cords, his eyes ablaze with undeniable fury as he stabbed and jabbed at Kimball with lightning reaction. Kimball danced with the movement of the blows, hitting and redirecting the sharp-ended prongs before they could do any real damage.

  And then Kimball began to retaliate.

  He moved his arms and hands in designed choreography, striking the prongs and casting them aside, only for Tanaka to realign his position and strike again, the form of a seasoned killer. Kimball continued to hammer away with blow after blow, strike after strike. But Tanaka was fast on his feet, and even faster with his arms.

  The Asian came after Kimball with a flurry of jabs, which were easily cast aside. And then Kimball began to take control, driving Tanaka back.

  Even though Tanaka volleyed for position, he was losing the battle as Kimball forced the man against the wall with power and skill. Once Tanaka’s back was pressed against the concrete with nowhere to go, and his ability to escape all but gone, Kimball came across with both knives and sliced Tanaka’s wrists, crippling and causing Tanaka to drop his weapons.

  Kimball spoke through clenched teeth. “This is for Sister Abigail,” he told him, “who would be around today if people like you had died sooner.”

  Tanaka, out of breath, looked at the man’s collar, a cleric’s collar, all soiled. Then he looked at Kimball and, without saying a word, spit in his face.

  Kimball didn’t flinch. He simply took his Ka-Bar and drove it forward into the man’s heart, pushing the knife as if it was slowly passing through a cake of butter.

  And Tanaka screamed, that of agony, which made Kimball wonder if Sister Abigail sounded the same way when they brutalized her.

  When Tanaka slumped forward dead, Kimball removed his knife and let the man fall, hard, the man striking the concrete floor and smashing his teeth.

  When Kimball looked up, Ferret was disappearing into one of the tunnels.

  Kimball gave chase.

  #

  Ferret had never seen anything like the big guy before, one with his skills. As he raced down the corridor with lantern in hand, one alarming thought struck him: This man, whoever he was, is definitely no priest.

  Sweat began to trace along his brow and forehead, the man looking to his left, then to his right, raising the lamp to light the way.

  Behind him he could hear the footfalls of the large man drawing closer.

  Then: “Leave me alone!” he cried out, his voice cracking.

  But the footsteps grew louder as the distance between them drew shorter.

  As Ferret moved along finding his way, he came to realize that there were two sets of rules. There were the rules of the Community, laws he governed, and then there was Justice, which apparently drove the large man like a freight train. In his escape he whined and whimpered like a child, knowing that his fate would be the same as the Tanakas should the large man decide to hand out his brand of justice.

  Coming to a set of metal ladder rungs that led up to the street above, Ferret dropped the lantern and began to scale the steps. When he reached the top, there was a manhole cover blocking his path. So he plied his shoulder to the metal disk and began to force it upward.

  Just as he was making leeway, as the cover began to scrape along the pavement to the street above, as traffic could be heard zipping by, Kimball Hayden reached the ladder.

  His eyes were ignited, showing lots of white. And his flesh, just like his clothes, appeared weathered by licks of flame, the man having coming from the fires of hell. Hand over hand, foot over foot, he began to climb.

  “Leave me alone!” screamed Ferret, his pitch whiny. He pushed at the metal grate, making strides.

  And then Kimball stopped, freezing against the rungs as realization struck him hard with cognitive force. Sister Abigail would not approve of his actions or what he was about to do. And if she was truly looking down on him, he knew it would be with sorrowful eyes.

  As Ferret moved the cover aside to reveal the magnificent lights of the Las Vegas Strip, Kimball found himself at a crossroad deciding the differences between justice and law, and the dissatisfaction he would feel should he allow this man to go. But in his heart he knew it was something that Sister Abigail would want, especially from him.

  He looked up at Ferret, who smiled down at him with a smile of victory. In two seconds he would be gone, up and out of the hole, the Community nothing more than a past memory.

  When Ferret raised himself head and shoulders above the hole, Kimball could hear the sudden braking and scream of tires along the road, and then impact, a wet-sounding strike similar to a melon splashing upon the pavement.

  Kimball pressed himself close to the ladder rungs as Ferret wavered over him a moment before falling to the floor below, the body missing Kimball by inches on the way down, with his head so badly mutilated that Kimball could only classify him as FUBAR.

  As Ferret lay there with his anatomy from the neck up a pulpy mass of gore and tissue, Kimball examined the moment by wondering if justice had been served by a higher hand.

  Then, as people began to gather at the hole to look down, Kimball fell back into the shadows, becoming a part of them.

  And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Tarragona, Spain

  Ezekiel had driven to Tarragona, Spain, a small city with a population of 130,000 just south of Barcelona, parked his vehicle, and, promising a fisherman more than a year’s sum of wages, and hired a boat and its crew to take him across the Mediterranean to a port along the western seaboard of Italy, less than a two-day journey.

  As the boat pulled away from the dock, two cars pulled alongside Ezekiel’s rented vehicle and four casually-dressed men got out, the men lining up along the pier as the distance between Ezekiel and Paled’s team grew wider.

  He first noticed them up in Calatayud. The generic sedans screamed all the earmarks of Mossad vehicles: that of little ornamentation to give them character, as well as to bear the color of uniform black. When he made his mind to go east toward to Tarragona, they followed. When he took roads north instead of south, they followed. When he took routes and backtracked his way west instead of going east, they followed.

  It didn’t take Yitzhak Paled long to home in on his cell.

  And though they hung back, Ezekiel knew they would never let him out of their sight.

  They were a kill team.

  As soon as he released the pathogen on Vatican territory, he would then become their target to ensure that all secrets remained just that: secrets.

  His body would be discovered amongst the dead with his face broadcast all over the world as the “Fourth Man,’ a terrorist originating from Dearborn, Michigan—a man with no past, no known history, and no links other than the mosque he was borne from as an extremist.

  The Lohamah Psichlogit had played their hand well in covering their tracks.

  As soon as the virus was released and his subsequent termination, the public perception would have no choice but to point an accusing finger at the terrorist faction and its powerhouse conduit, Iran. Sanctions would be brought forth by the world courts, bombing raids to take out nuclear facilities would be accepted as justifiable, and Iran would be criticized as a country who had no right to possess such capabilities.

  Israel would win the battle of shaping the worldwide perception to suit their needs.

  A brilliant stroke on the part of Mossad, considered Ezekiel.

  He then brought his hand up to feel the outline of the tube sewn within his jacket. From there he raised his hand to his face and slowly, as Paled’s men looked on, began to peel away the facial prosthetics and dropped them into the sea. Since he opted to take a safer route by avoiding the borders of France and Italy by crossing the Mediterran
ean, he no longer deemed the prosthetics necessary.

  As the last piece was pulled free and the gummy adhesive removed, Ezekiel leaned against the boat’s railing and watched Paled’s men shrink to the size of pinhead dots, the docks of Tarragona fading into the distance.

  When the city disappeared and nothing existed but calm seas, Ezekiel went below deck.

  #

  Levi Eisen stood along the pier watching Ezekiel drift away. As soon as the boat disappeared along the edge of the seascape, he took out his cell phone and dialed a single digit while his kill team loitered around.

  On the third ring, Yitzhak Paled picked up. “Yeah.”

  “He’s on the sea,” Eisen simply stated. “He picked up a charter in Tarragona and is making his way across the Mediterranean.”

  “He’s bypassing the borders,” Yitzhak commented. “He’ll enter Italy under cover of darkness. Where did he pick you up?”

  “We think in Calatayud.”

  “Hold on.” After nearly two minutes Yitzhak was back on line. “We still have a reading on Ezekiel,” he said. “I’ll maneuver a team into an intercept position. In the meantime, work your way across the borders. I want the intercept team to have backup. I need this mission to run as flawless as possible.”

  “Understood.” Eisen severed the call and motioned his team back into their vehicles. Within minutes they were heading north towards the border of France.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  When Kimball Hayden passed through the passport station at McCarran Airport, he did so with marginal suspicion on the part of TSA officials. Not because of his passport, which was a perfect counterfeit with all the proper stamping that took all of twenty-four hours to recreate, but because his skin looked somewhat weather-beaten with blistered and peeling skin. On his neck wounds he had a protective coating of salve to heal. On his forearms were gauze strips, which he covered with the sleeves of his shirt. But since his passport bore the name of an alias when he travelled freely as a Vatican Knight, and since the funds were charged to a Vatican account without contest, there were no red flags.