The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021)

by Rick Jones

  Isaiah, who was normally a man of calm reserve, found himself struggling for composure.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  30 Miles North of Rome

  Kimball Hayden had driven the route that had been programmed into the vehicle’s GPS system. The monitor showed the thread of road that led to the Monte Soratte mountain ridge with his car a red dot that moved in a northbound direction. On the passenger seat was the hexagon-shaped device. The red button was now blinking, telling Kimball that it was now operating in tracking mode.

  Soon, he would be at Monte Soratte range, a vast and isolated location where a body could be buried and never discovered. After speaking with the woman with the rough voice, he knew that his skillset would most likely have to be employed against a team of elite commandos.

  The Nocturnal Saints would be well-equipped and ready, whereas he would have to go into battle with nothing more than his bare hands and feet—though these, too, were formidable weapons. At the moment, however, Kimball knew that the NS team had the advantage since they knew the terrain and were more than likely to possess high-end weapons. They would also be seasoned in the ways of Navy SEALS, Deltas, or other special operation groups.

  But Kimball had a weapon of his own, that of a swelling Darkness that began to bubble, boil and rise, and something that was markedly dangerous and unyielding when in combat mode. He would come to punish and steal. And he would do so with the savageness of a warrior who believed himself to be the last man standing and the last of his kind. There would be no Light in his actions, no mercy. And he was good knowing that as long as he was able to save the life of the woman he loved, then he would be good with an afterlife consumed by an eternity of damning Darkness.

  He would no longer stand along that fine line that was known as the Gray. Nor would he work from the Dark in order to serve the Light. Kimball Hayden had made his choice of taking no prisoners, since consequences had to be handed out for the egregious act of harming a solitary hair on Shari Cohen’s beloved crown. He would become the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse, he considered. Famine, War, Pestilence and Death all rolled into one.

  As the vehicle started its climb towards the ridgeline, he promised himself that he would not stop his rampage until his last breath had been spent, should his wounds of engagement prove mortal. Whether in pain or reduced by crippling agony, he would move mountains to get at Shari because she was everything to him. Life was nothing without her.

  . . . I kill people, he thought . . .

  . . . It’s what I do . . .

  . . . It’s what I’m good at . . .

  Kimball drove on.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Piazza del Risorgimento

  Rome, Italy

  Vatican City was a stone’s throw away from police cruiser #336 as members of the bomb-squad unit were discussing ways to neutralize the unit. After receiving intel from the Mossad and the CIA regarding the WMDs that had been seized from the Man from Paris and the man from Munich, there didn’t appear to be any tripwires or booby traps that would set them off prematurely. With that being communicated, however, it did not take into consideration that a tripwire mechanism could be activated once the unit was in countdown mode, which the False Prophet was, in countdown mode.

  After a bomb-squad member—who was heavily clad in padded gear which was something Isaiah and Nehemiah couldn’t wrap their heads around since it was a nuclear device—undid the clasps and carefully lifted the lid to expose digital numbers that were in full display as red numerals counting down.

  . . . 00:43:58 . . .

  . . . 00:43:57 . . .

  . . . 00:43:56 . . .

  “Less than forty-five minutes,” Isaiah commented to everyone standing by the vehicle. Then into his lip mic, he said: “Comm Center, this is Isaiah. Do you read?”

  “Go.” It was Father Auciello.

  “We’ve confirmed the unit to be active,” he told him. “The timer is showing less than forty-five minutes. As of this moment, it’s unclear whether the device possesses tripwire capabilities while in this method of operation. Any clarification from the Mossad or the CIA regarding such possibilities?”

  “That’s negative,” the priest responded. “The agencies have not completed their product examinations of Satan and the Antichrist. There are still some apparent ‘safeguards’ that are not fully understood by the investigative teams, as they try to navigate through the systems.”

  Isaiah closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. This was not what he wanted to hear. It was unclear if the unit had a built-in triggering system that might be enabled as soon as the system powered up—maybe as something as simple as closing the lid to press hidden springs.

  . . . 00:43:13 . . .

  . . . 00:43:12 . . .

  . . . 00:43:11 . . .

  And then from Isaiah: “Father, you may want to remove the pontiff from the city. It’s best to be careful at this point.”

  “Copy that, Isaiah. But the pontiff has already stated that he’s not about to go anywhere, since he fully believes that divine intervention will prevail.”

  “Let’s hope that he’s right,” he returned. And then: “Out.”

  Looking at the surrounding faces that appeared to lack confidence but were also mired in hope, Isaiah then regarded the towering wall that separated the Piazza del Risorgimento from Vatican City. A weapon of mass destruction was ticking down to zero hour and to the moment that would render the city to a kingdom of flames. The blast would be super-heated, and death would be instant and painless. But Isaiah worried about Catholicism in the aftermath. Would it cease to exist? Or would it resurrect itself from the ashes like the Phoenix to become a leading and healing faith once again?

  He, along with Nehemiah, the Polizia di Stato, and members from the bomb squad, realized that the ‘necessary caution’ taken was also time consuming, and time was not a luxury.

  Looking at the timer and wondering if it did have a hair-trigger temper once the suitcase was moved or toyed with, Isaiah noted the countdown.

  . . . 00:42:43 . . .

  . . . 00:42:42 . . .

  . . . 00:42:41 . . .

  Visibly, the Vatican Knight delivered a deep and deflated sigh.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Monte Soratte Range

  30 Miles North of Rome

  When Kimball Hayden arrived near the programmed location with his headlights cutting a wide swath through the darkness, he came to a full stop about 600 yards short from the GPS coordinates, and stared through the windshield as the car idled. As the twin beams penetrated deep, Kimball sat as though he was mesmerized by something only he could see, when, in fact, he was merely deliberating his next move. He sat as still as a corpse, though his mind actively wandered. To simply walk into the lion’s den was not an option, since the act itself would be like walking to the gallows. Up until this moment after giving the hexagon-shaped tracker a sidelong glance, he had been cooperative by not possessing any weapons or communicating his circumstances to the Vatican Knights or to law enforcement. But he did this for one reason: someone had to place the hexagon device on his cot at the direction of another—perhaps by a bishop or a cardinal or a member of the Swiss Guard—those who were the eyes of the church and had keen ears to listen. Kimball had been restricted to believing that his every move was being surveyed and his every word monitored. Here, however, under the cover of darkness, he was entirely within his element.

  Here, Kimball Hayden was king.

  Slowly reaching for the key in the ignition, the Vatican Knight cut off the engine and killed the lights.

  And once again, he became one with the shadows.

  * * *

  Antle was watching the screen of her laptop and the red dot that was Kimball Hayden as he neared their position. Looking at her watch, she made note that the Vatican Knight had made it to the bunker within the timeframe given and with moments to spare.

  When the dot on the screen s
topped moving, the woman hit the button to her earbud and lip mic, then gruffly stated, “Our guest of honor has arrived. Please see to it that he’s escorted with the utmost caution, since he’s a consummate threat.”

  “He’s been given his instructions,” Stallworth returned over her earbud. “He knows the consequences.”

  “Take nothing for granted,” she responded. “If you still think he’ll get on bended knees to plead for his life and the life of the woman, think again.”

  “He’d be a fool if he doesn’t comply.”

  “Two things: Kimball Hayden moves to his own thinking. And secondly, remember our primary goal. Hayden is the key target here, not the woman. If she dies prematurely, then we may miss our opportunity of dispatching Hayden, should he realize that there’s nothing more he can do to salvage the situation if the woman is removed. Her living to the last moment means everything to the operation. She is both the means of his approach and the vessel of his doom. This has to be done in accordance with him believing that he has a chance to liberate the woman. I want him to see the fear in her eyes the moment she’s put down. I want him to know that in the end, he was powerless to do anything to save her. All threats to kill the woman should he stray from the instructions given him were nothing more than tools to assure that he comes alone and weaponless. And now he’s here . . . as promised.” After a moment, she quickly added, “Retrieve him, Stallworth, and bring him to the bunker. Show him the woman. After you kill her, then take him out. Two to center mass and one to the head. The last thing I want is for Kimball Hayden to resurface another day like a rabid dog coming to clean house.”

  “Understood.”

  “For some reason, the vehicle fell short of the given coordinates,” she told him, “about six hundred yards.”

  “Yeah, I know. Bienemy and I watched the vehicle approach—saw the lights. And then they went off.”

  “Find him . . . And use caution. There’s nothing worse than fighting something that uses the dark to his advantage like a Vatican Knight.”

  “Copy that.”

  Antle tapped her earbud to kill the communication and watched the monitor of her laptop. The glow and throb of the red dot remained unmoving, suggesting that the vehicle remained short of its programmed GPS coordinates.

  Grabbing a cigarette, Antle lit it while watching the screen and wondering: What exactly are you up to, Kimball Hayden?

  She would soon get her answer.

  * * *

  Bienemy and Stallworth were experienced operators who practiced their skillsets in theaters of operation across the globe, especially in the Middle East where they had sharpened their abilities to near perfection.

  Moving through the thicket with silence and grace, the only thing that gave away their positions were the soft green glows of their NVG lenses which, while hovering in space, appeared like fireflies. When they neared the vehicle that had been driven by Kimball Hayden, neither man could see a driver behind the wheel.

  Stallworth signaled to Bienemy to check ahead while covering him with his assault weapon. Nodding, Bienemy left the brush area with the point of his rifle raised to eye level, moving forward.

  In the shallow light of a half moon, Bienemy reached the car. With his weapon directed at the windshield, and then at the side windows while carefully circling the vehicle, he thoroughly examined his locational sphere which included underneath the car and its immediate surroundings.

  Nothing.

  He continued to orbit the vehicle with his weapon raised and directed for a fast trigger pull. And then he opened the passenger-side door. Sitting on the passenger seat was the hexagon-shaped tracker with its light burning an angry red, but no Kimball.

  Bienemy tapped his earbud and whispered, “The target’s on foot and nowhere near the elected site.” After a long moment of silence, Bienemy said, “You copy that, Stallworth?”

  More silence, the lack of sound in itself oddly blaring.

  “Stallworth, do you read?”

  Silence.

  Bienemy, an ex-SEAL, scoped his surroundings through his NVG lenses. The landscape was lime green with every brush, tree and leaf discernable. He could see the slight movement of limbs stirred by the course of a light breeze, and the area where Stallworth had maintained his post, which was now vacant.

  “Stallworth?”

  Receiving no answer, Bienemy moved ahead with four of the five pounds necessary for the trigger pull.

  * * *

  Stallworth had moved from his position to give himself a better vantage point. With more of an advantageous and unobstructed view, he watched Bienemy round the vehicle with his weapon poised for a quick burst. Stallworth didn’t see the need for dramatics since he opted for the quick and simple kill the moment of Kimball Hayden’s arrival. But apparently, the Vatican Knight had intuited the blueprint of his assassination. And now he was using the shadows to move closer to the bunker that held Shari Cohen, while he and Bienemy wasted time in a fruitless search.

  With Mannix and McKinley watching the fort as the second line of defense, Stallworth was about to tap his earbud to communicate with base command when a pair of hands reached from behind, with one hand grabbing Stallworth’s mask by the chin while a second hand pressed against the back of the SEAL’s head. And in that moment of time as the ex-SEAL began to register his fate, he realized that he had been remiss. He should have been more aware and in tune with his surroundings—should have been a part of it. Instead, he realized his faux pas for believing that a Vatican Knight was little more than a fake practitioner when it came to warfare. He should have listened to the woman.

  The hands that gripped him gave a vicious jerk that snapped the bones of Stallworth’s neck like dry kindling. The crack, though audible, did not draw the attention of Bienemy, who was opening the car door to the passenger side.

  In the shadows, a shape that was blacker than black leaned over and stripped the Nocturnal Saint of his weapon, a suppressed assault rifle. But what he cherished most was the combat knife that had been strapped to Stallworth’s thigh. After removing the sheath and strapping apparatus, he quickly donned the weapon, removed the knife, and began to toy with it to get a feel of its heft and balance. Like a skilled majorette who twirled a baton with mastered efficiency, Kimball Hayden was just as talented. The knife twirled effortlessly between his fingers in blinding revolutions. Once he completed the maneuvers, Kimball slid the knife into its sheath the same way a gunslinger pockets his six-shooter, with fluid motion.

  Then he watched his quarry from afar.

  As the second operative drew back from the vehicle and hit his earpiece, Kimball knew he was trying to communicate with the man who was lying supine at his feet. When every attempt to connect with his associate had fallen short, that was when the operative started to approach Kimball’s position where, inside the shadows, the Vatican Knight waited.

  * * *

  When Bienemy moved into the thicket and saw that Stallworth was no longer standing post, his sense of danger heightened. Stallworth, like him, was a SEAL with the two coming from the same mold of experience and training. And Stallworth’s continuing silence was enough for Bienemy to ramp up his already heightened senses.

  Moving through the brush, Bienemy’s world was NVG green. He could determine the outlines of shrubbery and plants. He could see the gnarled and twisted branches of the olive trees. And he noted the packed grass where Stallworth once stood to provide Bienemy with cover.

  The ex-SEAL pivoted the tip of his weapon first to his left, and then to his right. He checked high and low with the NVG lenses of the Kevlar mask providing him with a clear view and advantage.

  Silence reigned and Stallworth was missing.

  The operator continued to move soundlessly through the brush with his footfalls touching down with the ability of not snapping a twig or crushing dried leaves. He was silent and casual as a cat that stalked its prey at night.

  Then he caught a pair
of fireflies alit on the floor of the thicket, the lights still and unmoving. Upon further examination, Bienemy realized that he was looking at the glowing NVG lights of Stallworth’s Kevlar mask. The man behind it, dead, his neck positioned at an odd angle.

  Bienemy scoped his area with swiftness by moving his weapon from left to right, and then from right to left, up and down, the examination a full 360-degrees with quick sweeps and arcs.

  Nothing.

  The surrounding brush remained uncannily silent.

  Bienemy took a few more steps with his assault weapon raised, his steps coming without sound.

  Then his senses kicked in—that of not being alone. Something was nearby watching and waiting for the precise moment to pounce, a master predator.

  But Bienemy saw nothing through his NVG lenses. The landscape was clear, and his surroundings were relatively meager with the exception of a few olive trees and knee-high shrubs.

  Still, a heaviness lingered like a pall that left the air thick and syrupy with danger.

  Where are you? Bienemy thought. I can feel you.

  But the military operative spotted nothing and no one. But he could detect a closing threat. It was something with a hunter’s passion while locking its eyes on Bienemy to place him within the crosshairs, with the moment of attack eminent.

  Bienemy spun to all directions of the compass, searching.

  Nothing.

  And just like that, as the hairs on his arms prickled, the ex-SEAL could feel the breath of his opponent pressing against the back of his neck with the even rhythm of his enemy’s breathing warm against his flesh.

  Bienemy pivoted on the balls of his feet, the man proving to be lightning fast as he brought around the point of his rifle. But something stood behind him, an obstacle, something that countered his quickness with great speed of its own. Even within his NVG advantage, his opponent moved with grace and speed as though darkness was his ally and companion, the man moving as if he could see as though the sun had been burning bright.