by Rick Jones
“That goes for both sides,” she told him. “Kimball is just as adept, if not more so, in adjusting to his surroundings and to his situations. In fact, one might say that he’s rather unique at it.”
“The sinner is a man like any other. And I’ll prove that to you when I lay him down by your side to bleed out at your feet.”
Shari remained silent. Somehow, this man’s voice, even masked, held something powerfully cold and sinister about it.
“Now,” Mannix said, “I will find the sinner. And then we shall see who bows to who.”
Backpedaling from the candles’ radiance and settling beyond the dark veil that divided light from dark, Shari could see the spectral lights of his NVG lenses. And then they were gone, the dual set of lights suddenly winking off.
Shari Cohen was now alone inside this cold and feebly lit chamber.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Piazza del Risorgimento
Rome, Italy
With less than twenty-seven minutes remaining on the timer, an Airbus H155 with an air speed capable of hitting 200 miles per hour was one of the fastest transport helicopters in the world. With a capacity load to carry thirteen people, which did not include the one- or two-man crew necessary to fly it, the craft was more than ample to achieve the means.
As the aircraft began its descent into the plaza, the heavy wash of the rotors was so great that dust kicked off the bricks. Once the chopper landed, its rotors continued to rotate at blinding speeds. While the helicopter continued to idle, the pilot quickly exited the chopper, opened the bay door, then made his way to an awaiting vehicle that was being driven by the field commander.
As soon as the pilot entered the vehicle, the field commander gave a thumbs up to the Vatican Knights, and yelled, “Good look!” Without waiting for a response, the field commander put the car into gear and sped away with its lights swinging furiously inside the lightbar.
Isaiah pointed to the helicopter and, yelling above the sounds of the rotors, asked Nehemiah, “What do you know about it?”
“Good chopper! An H155 with a top speed of two hundred miles per hour!”
Isaiah performed a quick math problem inside his head. The coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea was twenty-three miles away. At two hundred miles per hour, it would take approximately seven minutes to reach the shoreline; another five to allow the field commander time to draw distance; and with airspace time considered, perhaps another fifteen minutes, that would take them roughly fifty miles from the coastline. Return time, however, had too many variables to consider, such as blast radius and the ensuing concussive blasts that would surely knock the aircraft from the sky.
As Isaiah monitored the five-minute countdown necessary for the commander and the chopper pilot to draw distance that was considered safe, he scanned the plaza. It appeared as an apocalyptic wasteland that resonated with a horrible emptiness. Once healthy with crowds that gave the area life, they were now gone with perhaps the vacancy a precursor of what was to come. The only indication that everything had not been entirely abandoned were the loose wrappings or empty Styrofoam cups that swirled and floated about with the aid of the rotors’ turning.
Looking at the suitcase and then at his watch, Isaiah said to Nehemiah, “You ready?”
Nehemiah nodded.
“If its rigged,” added Isaiah, “then you have to believe it’ll be quick! Neither one of us will feel a thing.”
When it was believed that everybody within the vicinity of Vatican City had been evacuated to a safer proximity once the five minutes were up—with the exception of the few brave souls still remaining inside the Vatican—Isaiah and Nehemiah teamed up to remove the suitcase from the trunk.
With each grabbing an end of the unit, Isaiah said, “On three! … One! … Two! … Three!”
In unison, they lifted the False Prophet and held it as though waiting for the inevitable, which never happened and was cause for a collected sigh of relief.
“Now,” said Isaiah, “keep it level! Once it’s inside the bay, hopefully we’ll be golden! You ready?”
Nehemiah nodded. “Let’s do it!”
Together, as though they were carrying a holy relic rather than a weapon of mass destruction, they ambled sideways to the chopper’s bay and placed the device onto the floor. Even at forty-plus pounds due to the lead shields that lined the sides, Isaiah strapped the unit tight to keep it from shifting during flight.
Once Nehemiah took his rightful seat, he took inventory of the control panel and reacquainted himself with the familiarity of the knobs and toggle switches. Then powering up the rotors enough for the aircraft to lift, Nehemiah elevated the craft to hover over the landscape.
Isaiah, who kept the bay door open, watched as the cobblestones of the plaza fell away from him as the helicopter rose. Below the chopper, stray wrappers and trash debris continued to wander aimlessly across the empty square. The streets of Rome that surrounded the Vatican City appeared strangely lifeless, which once again invoked images of an apocalyptic after-age of a place now sanitized of all life. The only vestiges that life had ever existed were the free-standing buildings that housed no life at all.
Then as the chopper banked to the west, Isaiah saw the lit-up splendor that was Vatican City within its throng of lights. He noted the cobblestone landing of St. Peter’s Square and the emptiness of a city that was landlocked by Rome, which appeared just as dead as the neighboring Roman streets. Then he saw the Old and New Gardens as the chopper drifted higher and further away. But what caused his heart to sink deep was the pinnacle that was St. Peter’s Dome and the cross that stood upon its spire as the symbol of hope and faith and spirituality. Here, all were welcomed. Here, all would be granted the Light of His love. And here . . . the joy of His word had been spread.
With his hand holding down the False Prophet and his eyes remaining fixed on the place he loved most, Isaiah believed that time was not on their side. They had less than twenty-two minutes of which they needed seven to get to the coast, and even more to draw a safe distance to deny any possible repercussions of the detonation.
Swallowing to rid his throat of that sour lump that had cropped inside while becoming overcome with emotion, Isaiah was able to regain himself. He had lived a good life, a wonderful life, and a life that had meaning and fullness. He had protected those who could not protect themselves. He saved the lives of good men, women and children, which in itself was reward enough. And he did so for the church and as a Vatican Knight, an honor bestowed on very few.
As the H155 chopper drew distance, Vatican City became a glimmer of lights along the landscape.
And then it was gone.
Leaning back, Isaiah openly prayed and wished for an afterlife that would be as rewarding as his corporeal one. With his words carrying through the bay and into the cockpit, Nehemiah joined in with their words uniting to become a single voice.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Monte Soratte Bunker
30 Miles North of Rome
The Monte Soratte Bunker had been closed for nearly six weeks due to renovations. It was truly massive with a number of hallways appearing to run off under the hills, the entire system an enormous web of connecting channels. However, and due to the makeover of Mussolini’s one-time sanctuary for his Fascist regime, maintenance lights had been situated every 100 feet with the illumination, at best, paltry. But they were set up in a particular fashion with the light stalks assembled and placed as though they were marking a specific trail through specific tunnels. What Kimball was looking at was a designed route with a specific purpose.
The Vatican Knight moved quietly along the corridors in search of Shari Cohen. In his hand was his assault rifle and against his thigh was the sheathed knife, the man ready for battle. Continuing to follow the standing stems of lights that were facing the center of a long hallway, Kimball moved as though he was gliding over the surface instead of walking upon it—the man graceful and silent as rolling smoke.
Kimball remained close to the wall and remained deathly still.
Something was hiding behind the wall of darkness, a predator, something that was lying in wait and extremely patient. Even from a distance of fifty feet, Kimball believed he could faintly hear the sound of its beating heart—those calm and even drumbeat measures.
Then came the sound of something powering up, the whirring of an upcycling system.
Two green lights, like fireflies, hovered close together and suddenly appeared in the darkness.
The NVG mask.
Then came the sound of footsteps as something approached, the slow click-click-click of footfalls echoing off the walls.
A man emerged from the shadows to stand along the border that divided the light from the darkness. He was a large man who had well-developed muscles, wide shoulders and a barrel chest. If not for the shorter height difference of an inch or two, he’d be a perfect facsimile of Kimball Hayden.
The operator took another step into the pale light. His face was representative of a human skull with the exception of the glowing green eyes and the circular, silver-dollar-sized mouthpiece. His Kevlar vest also had the designs of the skeletal anatomy, that of painted-on ribs and a spinal column. And he also wore the composite shin and forearm guards as well. In his hands and directed at Kimball was the point of his assault weapon. “Sinner,” was all he said, his voice having a metallic sound to it.
Kimball slowly began to backstep towards a cutoff that was approximately ten feet behind him. “And you would be?” he asked.
The operative remained silent for a moment before asking, “And the rest of my team?”
“The same that’s going to happen to you if you don’t get out of my way.” Kimball reached the opening of the tunnel and slipped behind the wall with only his head visible.
“Look at us,” said Mannix. “Two elite warriors meeting head-to-head, yes?”
“If you say so.”
“A Vatican Knight against a Delta.” Mannix took another step forward with his gun directed at Kimball, which was the outline of a silhouetted head peeking out from behind cover. “I’m impressed that you’ve made it this far. Pushing your way through the lines of defenses, especially when those defenses were made up of ex-SEALs and an ex-Army Ranger, it speaks heavily of your skillset.”
“We can both walk away from this,” Kimball told him as his words echoed off the corridor walls. “All I ask is that you hand over Shari Cohen.”
“You broke the rules, Sinner. You were supposed to surrender yourself willingly and be judged accordingly. Cutting a swath through my teammates only adds to your continued wrongdoing. What you did was to take down the soldiers of God. And because of your transgression, the woman, as promised, was executed. And that falls on you Vatican Knight.”
Kimball fell back behind the wall. His breath was coming in labored hitches and pulls as though he was hyperventilating. He was a man who always exemplified grace under pressure. But as reality started to sink in, he began to second guess himself by questioning his methods. He was driven and perhaps even blinded by his love for Shari with his thoughts to rescue her shortsighted. He envisioned himself as a crusader whose moral compass could not be bent or broken, with his chivalry the uncontested valor of folklore. As a Vatican Knight he’d been mythicized as something that was both demonic and angelic, depending on which side you were on. And perhaps, he thought, he believed too much in himself with vanity his most egregious sin.
Did I kill her?
Was I remiss in my thinking?
And then he tried to justify his actions, which was the easiest thing any man could do no matter how heinous an act he committed, telling himself that he knew the odds going into this. If he had surrendered himself into the hands of the Nocturnal Saints as they requested, then he and Shari would have been tried and found guilty of past sins, and therefore, summarily executed. Still, his mind continued to war with a multitude of other emotions regarding her loss. There was anger and fear of being without her, as well as a sudden vacuum that would never be filled with the emptiness too hollow and too great. And there was sadness and denial and refusal to accept her loss, even as he knew the truth that she was gone.
“Sinner,” said the metallic voice. “I can show you her body, if you like.”
Kimball continued to labor with his breathing while his mind spun chaotically with a myriad of thoughts.
“Sinner?”
Kimball's stomach started to coil into a slick fist as rage and fury took over. Nothing else no longer mattered: his life, the church, his future. Everything had been stolen from him the moment he learned of Shari Cohen’s death. Now, as he stood within the shadows of his faith, that which divided the Darkness from the Light while living precariously within the Gray, Kimball Hayden had given himself fully to the Shadows.
With his right and dominant hand, he swung the point of his weapon around the wall’s corner and at the operative, then pulled the trigger. The area lit up with muzzle flashes of bright light. Over the suppressed spits of gunfire, Kimball’s scream could be heard as something that was primal and savage, the cry a throwback to less civilized times.
As bullets stitched along the floor and across the neighboring walls that surrounded Mannix, the operative stood his ground and returned gunfire. Rounds continued to skip along the surrounding surfaces close to Mannix, while Mannix’s return volley was taking out silver-dollar-sized chips of stone from walls close to Kimball.
The Vatican Knight popped his head behind cover as the barrage continued. Stone pieces around him broke away as chalky puffs of dust from the bullets’ impacts, the deep wounds in the walls telling him that Mannix’s weapon was a higher caliber with more power.
When there was a sound of dry clicks, Kimball realized that his attacker’s weapon had run dry. But he was an ex-Delta, meaning that he could unseat and reseat a new magazine within a blink of an eye.
Within that imperceptibly small moment of granted time, Kimball redirected his aim and fired off his weapon. Bullets struck Mannix along his dragon-skin armor, all perfect hits. Yet the former Delta responded as though they had little effect as he reloaded another magazine and returned fire, once again driving Kimball behind the wall for cover.
“You’re no match for me, Sinner! I wear the shielded garments of God!”
More gunfire.
More staccato bursts of light.
And then there was a second moment of dry clicks, which was followed by the unseating and reseating of an ammo magazine in a time that was too small to measure, with the operative well trained and fluid.
Kimball returned fire with his rounds striking the composite shields and the armored vest with at least one bullet skipping off the skeleton mask—at least by the way Mannix’s head snapped back—only for the ex-Delta to promptly readjust and continue the firefight.
Kimball’s weapon was for the most part ineffective. Yet it was the only weapon he had outside of his knife, which did him no good in this situation. So, the Vatican Knight kept firing off rounds that continuously found their marks, though the spent ammo bounced off the Nocturnal Saint with the seeming effectiveness of BB pellets.
And then it was Kimball’s turn to hear the dreaded clicks of his empty weapon. Worse, he had no backup magazines.
As the surrounding stone continued to be chipped away at Kimball’s location, a series of clicks echoed throughout the subterranean corridor. This time, however, Kimball did not hear the immediate ejection and insertion of a magazine. All he heard was silence. Mannix was out of ammo. If he had been supplied, Kimball knew that any good soldier would have instantly fed his weapon ammo.
Kimball exited from t
he shadows and stood within the center of the dimly lit hallway, the two now holding each other with measuring stares.
Mannix tossed his weapon aside with the hand that bore the gold ring of the Nocturnal Saints. Kimball responded in kind by tossing his assault rifle to the floor.
“Well, Sinner,” Mannix finally said. “I was to bring you before the Council of the One, so that justice could be handed down. Obviously, you’re not going to agree with that arrangement.”
Kimball stood with his chest heaving and pitching, as though he had just finished running a marathon.
Mannix removed his combat knife from his sheath. It was also a move that Kimball mirrored.
Now they stood like gunslingers who were squaring off, except they were armed with KABARs and not six-shooters.
“My job,” Mannix started with his metallic voice, “is to bring you before the One. Not my choice, of course, but she leads. And as soldiers, we both know that we always listen to the chain of command.”
“Where’s Shari?”
“Does it matter at this point?”
“Where is she?! I want to see her!”
“Then drop your knife, and I’ll take you to her.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll find her myself. If she’s dead as you say she is, then time is no longer an issue, is it?”
Mannix said: “Drop the knife. If you don’t, then you leave me no choice. I’ll run mine through you, which would piss off the One.”
“I know the One. I’ve dealt with her before.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
“Then you know the outcome of that meeting in D.C.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Then, if you continue to contest me, you’ll probably end up as they did.”
“I believe you think too much of yourself.”
“I’m losing patience. Where is she!”
“I’m not changing my position, Sinner. If you want me to take you to the body of the woman, then drop your knife. It’s that simple.”
