by Rick Jones
Realizing that life could be cut short at any moment for a number of different reasons, she decided to be closer to Kimball. Being an ocean apart at times was hard with the ‘long-distance relationship’ having its challenges. Now she would be within arm’s length of him.
Standing on the deck that overlooked the lake while watching the mallards swim serenely along the surface, she remembered all the wonderful times there. She recalled the moments when her children were swimming and laughing and playing in the shallows. Their voices, even now, sounding gleefully in her head, though the laughter sounded distant and tinny as though fading with time.
Time moves on, she considered, bringing new hopes, new dreams, and a new frontier. After her family had been terminated by a domestic terrorist, Kimball had come in to save her in ways he could not even begin to imagine. After the burial and the sitting Shivas of her husband and children, she had never felt so hollow with her soul little more than a darkened void. But Kimball had become her savior that wore the cleric’s collar of a priest and proffered her a Light to fill the Darkness. All she needed was unconditional love to move along.
While observing the scenery, she smiled dreamily as though her sights were set on something that only she could imagine, a place of contentment where Kimball Hayden was the focus of her thoughts. Her knight, her savior, had worn the collar of a pious man, though he was not a priest, but someone who walked through Darkness to serve the Light. Yet she knew that this man’s heart was also the seat of his emotions. He could sometimes show the greatest heights of decency or vacillate into something that was entirely savage and dangerous. And it was within this area between the Darkness and the Light that he felt most comfortable, she considered, this Between area that was the Gray. But she knew that he would always be her Light and she would be his.
Her glowing smile dimmed a bit when she saw the FOR-SALE sign in the front yard. Whatever memories she had acquired here would always remain in her heart and soul; this she knew. Now it was time to let go of the past to begin a new life.
In Rome.
With Kimball.
With so many years ahead of them.
A hand landed softly on her shoulder as Kimball joined her on the deck. And then she fell into his embrace with the two overlooking a lake that could have been captured on a postcard. It was that magnificent.
“Rome is a bit different than here,” he told her.
“It’s a beautiful city, I know. I’ve been there before.”
“Still, it’s a world away.”
“But one I’ll come to adore as long as you’re with me.”
Soon caught up within his own memories, Kimball dialed up the day when Shari erected a white-picket fence around the cabin because it fit his utopian image of the American Dream—that of the suburban house with a fenced-in yard, a barbecue, a dog, children, a lifestyle that was entirely fenced in as his own private paradise. Then he realized that these fantasies did not make the dream. His dream was rather simple and something that could be seen with the naked eye instead of the mind’s eye. Shari was everything that made his life perfect and ideal. It wasn’t the house or the enclosed yard that would contain what he believed would protect him from the hazards of the outside world. All he managed to do was to replace his emotional barriers by erecting another he believed would make him happy. He thought the picket fence would hold back all outside interference, troublesome influences, and hardships. But the world didn’t operate like that and never had. All the fencing did was create another prison for Kimball with the pickets the bars. When he realized this, he took the pickets down piece by piece and burned them in a fire. And from this action came a certain liberation.
He finally felt . . .
. . . Free.
And this was something Shari realized as well, this containment. She understood that Kimball's reason for tearing down the fence was because underneath there was something about him that could not be tamed or caged, but that he would always be something with unbridled ferocity.
As they overlooked the picturesque lake, they were excited that a new life was about to begin in a foreign land with foreign people dictated by a foreign culture. To Kimball, the Vatican had always been his residence and his poorly lit chamber was his place of personal darkness and comfort, with the shadows keeping him company.
Shari, who would become a fixed principal inside the American Embassy in Rome, found herself both exhilarated and nervous at the same time. Together, as with all relationships, sacrifices would have to be made. Kimball would have to learn to live far from the comforting darkness of his chamber to be with her inside the festive tone of their newfound living arrangement—that of sharing the light that she was accustomed to.
Time would only tell as they stood together within these personal thoughts knowing that the challenges between them would be overcome with minimal shifts to their lifestyle. But there would be outside challenges beyond their control—challenges from sources that are fanned by the evils of Darkness. Terrorism, war, sacrifices in the name of one god or another, mayhem, political skirmishes causing tens of thousands to flee their native lands, atrocities abounding without restrictions—all would eventually come into play. And in the wake of these travesties, Kimball Hayden would continue to walk the Gray to better serve the Light. Only this time, Shari Cohen would rule by his side wielding the metaphorical Blessed Sword and Shield that would be granted to her by the power of the Ethereal Light.
Together, neither could wait for what was about to come their way.
But then again, one should always choose carefully for what they wish for.
CHAPTER TWO
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
The woman was short by the conventional standards of height at five-one, but she was a giant amongst men. Over the years she had assumed many names but a single title, that as the ruling member of a Catholic extremist group known as the Nocturnal Saints. Conservatism was everything to the organization, whereas liberalism was a profane word and—even more so—an obscene faith. They fully believed that men should always bend to the will of God, and never should God bend to the will of man. In the past they had killed wayward priests whose sins were considered too great for redemption. Other times they had made examples of those who spoke about liberation from the old ways to fully convert to the rising reforms of the Catholic church, which had been locked in tradition for centuries. The new mantra was becoming: Adapt, change and accept. But this was what the Nocturnal Saints believed was a ‘breaking away’ from the norms of moral custom and a fracturing from true faith. With enough changes, if not constrained, then Catholicism would no longer be the religion or faith handed down by Christ. What the Nocturnal Saints had become over the centuries was an organization that refuted any liberal aspects beyond aged conventions. They became intolerant of views beyond the written and established word within religious tomes. Different outlooks were considered dangerous and needed to be dealt with, often with violence. And those who desired to speak out with Lutheranism terms that were in condemnation of the church, they would forever disappear.
They were a strict and combative order, and an organization that lacked any tolerance outside of the ancient teachings of the Holy Roman Catholic church. To do so only brought their wrath upon those who dared to contest them.
A few years back when subjects of the church were being summarily executed for their sins, the Vatican Knights were called in to investigate and neutralize the threat. In the end, the Nocturnal Saints never stood a chance against such an elite force and were easily dispatched. After her team had been beaten down, the woman went into a self-imposed exile to a country that was hot and steamy. And Rio de Janeiro, at least by her judgement, was a city filled with wanton souls with loose morals, which was surprising since Brazil’s Catholic population numbered well over a hundred million people. Apparently, Catholicism was beginning to lose its foothold in some regions, she thought. Would the rest of the world follow?
Unlike most of the villagers, the woman, Antle, lived inside a small hut without modern-day amenities. Electricity was all but a forgotten luxury, the woman reading by candlelight. The bathroom was a latrine set within a briar patch that needed to be trimmed back. And as for the cooking of meats and the boiling of water, she utilized a firepit and a rolling spit. Though she dismissed those who wanted to befriend her, she imposed upon herself the title of ‘pariah.’ And because of this self-retreat, some had labeled her as a Macumba priestess, which was likened to a voodoo witch. But the rumors were quickly put to rest when she became a common attendee at the St. Francis of Assisi Church, and even less time for the priests to realize that she was deeply devoted to God. But as soon as mass ended, the woman would return to her hut deep within the jungle. But if her idea was to be secreted away from prying eyes, it was the worst kept secret in Brazil, since everyone knew of the white woman with blond hair who lived as a recluse deep in the rainforest.
As the hot days grew into the night with the cicadas humming in bothersome choruses, the woman who went by the fictitious name of Jennifer Antle had received communication from an altar boy three hours before midnight. He had traveled far by bicycle with a flashlight attached to his handlebars to light the way, the pathways as black as pitch. And as this errand boy who was sent by a priest knocked quietly on her door, she appeared unfazed when she accepted the rolled-up parchment that he had given her. The boy then bowed his head while stating something in Portuguese, perhaps an apology, she thought, for disturbing her at such a late hour. Once he completed his request for forgiveness, the child got onto his bike and fled the scene as though he was motivated by fear. Apparently in some circles, the label of a Macumba priestess still held.
As the woman stood on the bowed porch watching the cone of the boy’s flashlight dim and fade until it disappeared completely, she eventually returned to her natty sofa inside the hut, unrolled the parchment, and held it over the glow of nearby candles. It was an invitation from an old friend, someone who held the same beliefs and intolerances in the name of old-time traditions.
After reading the note a number of times, the woman put the scroll to the candle’s flame and watched it burn. Thereafter, she tossed the burning roll into the firepit, where it turned to ashes.
The scroll contained command orders calling the woman, once again, to duty in the name of her Lord.
Tomorrow, she would get on a flight to Rome to meet an old friend, and together they would conspire to kill a man who was considered to be an enemy of the church.
Sitting on the sofa whose open seams bled with foam, she watched the fire in the pit burn.
CHAPTER THREE
Zurich, Switzerland
Julian Bosshart was the lead investigator of Zurich’s Kriminalpolizei, which was a German-speaking cantonal division of Switzerland that conducted investigations of criminal activity. He was tall and slender with a thick mane of hair and was well dressed. His suit was top shelf with pants that had razor-sharp creases. But his most striking feature was his unibrow, which was as luscious and thick as a chevron moustache.
Standing beside him was Udo Hess, his second in command, with the two appraising four bodies that had been discovered behind Abesh Faruk’s estate. A forensics team was working the area to collect trace evidence, though it was proving to be a daunting task due to the wild undergrowth and the hanging capes of vines.
The bodies had been discovered by a realtor after she found that the lock to the estate had been compromised and, upon further inspection, found that one of the display cases had been moved to reveal an underground channel, something that was not on the architectural schematic. With curiosity commanding her, the realtor followed the corridor to an unkempt thicket fifty yards behind the mansion. The only traces discovered outside of the bodies was that the knee-high hedges had been tamped down, most likely from a truck.
After appraising the bodies objectively, the obvious conclusion by Bosshart was that these men had been executed. “One to center mass and one to the head,” he commented. “The markings of a professional hit.”
Hess nodded in agreement.
Earlier, forensics had taken digital photos of the victims that were electronically channeled to central command for identification. Within minutes, all four had been identified through facial recognition software. They were low-level thieves and petty criminals who often sold their services to earn an illegitimate payday.
“My guess,” said Hess, “is that they were hired mules to move whatever it was that was hidden beneath the house and loaded onto a vehicle.” He pointed to the crushed shrubbery and at the partial threading of tire tracks imprinted in the soil. “My second guess is that whoever did this did so to guarantee that whatever it was they loaded onto the truck would remain a secret. Whoever’s responsible for this simply used these people. When their services were no longer needed, he killed them.”
“Yeah. Makes sense. The professional-style hit is telling.”
“No links. No witnesses. Nothing. But what concerns me most is that we’re talking about a secret stockpile that may have been hidden inside this chamber that belonged to Abesh Faruk, who we both know was a major arms dealer who profited from terrorist acts.”
Another nod from Bosshart, who then added, “Since the room was not on the blueprints, it obviously means that someone close to Faruk knew about the area. Someone he trusted.” He turned to Hess. “I can’t imagine that Faruk’s orbit was sizeable in any way, given his broad circle of enemies. People like him are surrounded by armed personnel due to his distrust of outsiders, which proved him right in the end with his assassination.”
Hess stepped closer to the bodies whose flesh had become ashen and mottled. Eyes had dulled over with a glaze to them, and bloated tongues were beginning to push themselves through slightly parted lips. As a confirmation of the process of death, flies began to alight on their flesh in what was the first and natural stage of breaking down the carcass.
“Then that’s what we do,” Bosshart said as he continued to stare at the bodies. “We dig deep into Faruk’s biographical records and see who he was in league with—maybe come up with a person or two of interest.”
“We’ll need to move fast and set our sights on a viable target before the assassin has a chance to utilize whatever it was that he came back for,” Hess returned. “We both know that whatever it is that’s now in his possession is not good. And we also have to conclude that he seized a potential weapon with a specific purpose in mind.”
Bosshart sighed through his nostrils. A hidden weapon was also a hidden treasure to some, usually WMDs that could have a colossal death toll attached to it when applied. Their task was to investigate the scene of the murders, not to explore the dimensions of possible terrorist activity, which this could possibly be. That paygrade of examination belonged to the Counter Terrorism Group, or the CTG, which is a unified counterterrorist organization from thirty European countries that was founded in 2001. Of those thirty nations, twenty-seven belonged to the European Union, which also included Switzerland. People like Hess and Bosshart always did the preliminary work. But the heavy lifting belonged to those within the CTG. Once the rudimentary information had been gathered and bucked up to the CTG operatives, Hess and Bosshart would become mere afterthoughts.
In the days to come, they would contact the CTG of their findings—that an object or objects of interest had been removed from an undiscovered chamber belonging to an arms dealer—with four men having been killed in the process in what was believed to be a matter of ‘tying up loose ends.’ Since Faruk Abesh was believed to have provided weaponry to extremist organizations, it could also be determined that said object, or objects, could also be tied to possible terrorist activity.
Knowing their stations in the scheme of things, Hess and Bosshart had followed the chain of command to get the ball rolling. They had dug deep and had come up with a single name, a Bangladeshi, that of Amal Purakayastha. The rest of Faru
k’s team, however, had been terminated along with Faruk on the day of his assassination months ago. Purakayastha, however, remained at large and was deemed to have been a confidant of Faruk and someone who had a glaring backstory. Since the Bangladeshi’s background was that of a killer for hire, he became the primary person of interest who had more than a dozen confirmed kills to his name as a hired gun.
With the information of Purakayastha’s biographical history having been provided to the operators of the CTG, the case would immediately be considered as a potential terrorist operation with WMD probabilities attached. Finding the assassin would soon become paramount within the organization. Purakayastha would not only become a figure for discovery, but due to his lethal abilities and extremist ties, he had been labeled as a targeted killing, meaning that he was to be terminated with extreme prejudice in order to neutralize all current and future threats that Purakayastha could advance.
There would be no court proceedings at The Hague.
There would be no deportations or under-the-spotlight interrogations.
The man was a viable threat to the security of all nations; therefore, his death had all been legitimized. ‘Shoot now and ask no questions later.’
Now that Amal Purakayastha was within the sights of CTG technicians, locating him would prove difficult, if not impossible. For the man who was an elite terrorist that was about to set off a likely campaign of mass destruction, he was also a man of many faces. Like all chameleons, Amal Purakayastha, who now walked in league with the Unholy Trinity, would blend in with his background to become entirely invisible. And from the confines of the shadows, he would open up his Pandora’s Box to unleash the horrors of three demons—that of Satan, the Antichrist, and the False Prophet.
