by Jones, Rick
A three-bladed star slice through the air, point over point, like a wheel rolling, the edges so sharp they could be heard cutting a swath through the air as it made its way towards the target point. With marked precision the star hit the barrel of Grenier’s weapon and knocked it from his hand, the weapon skating off into darkness.
Grenier looked at his open hand in astonishment, fingers flexing, undamaged. And then he turned toward the darkness, the absolute darkness, his one-time friend and ally now holding something far more dangerous.
From its depth something came forward, a figure that was blacker than black.
“Not so tough without your gun, are you?” The Caucasian’s voice was mild.
“Tough enough,” he answered, and then he withdrew a long-bladed knife from his sheath and drew back toward the mouth of the alleyway, toward the light.
The Caucasian moved closer, his features marginally visible in the feeble lighting.
Grenier held the knife tight. “Who are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“You think you can take me?”
“What I’m going to take, Mr. Grenier, is your life.” The Caucasian removed the silver cylinder from his pocket, held it up in display, and then depressed the button, the pick shooting upward.
“You’re kidding, right? You plan to take me out with an ice pick?”
“What I plan to do, Mr. Grenier, is to kill you with this. And then I’m going to use it to leave a message for the remaining members of the Pieces of Eight.”
Grenier nodded as the sudden enlightenment of the assassin’s presence became all too clear. “So that’s what this is all about, the Pieces of Eight. You’re here as the mop-up man for the government to cover up past political transgressions, is that it? After all this time?”
The Caucasian began to spin the cylinder skilfully between his fingers as easily as a majorette spins a baton, the motion truly aesthetic in its performance. “Mr. Grenier, this will be a quick kill. I promise.”
The corners of Grenier’s lips curled slightly into the beginnings of malicious amusement. “You’re cocky, kid. I’ll give you that much. Maybe even a little overconfident thinking you can take me down.” The former assassin began to move his blade in circular motions. “You have no clue as to what I can do to you with this KA-BAR, do you?”
“Your skills, Mr. Grenier, don’t even begin to parallel mine.”
“You are cocky. But I like that in a soldier, even if you are a green-ear compared to me.”
“Please, Mr. Grenier, I will make this quick and painless.”
“Yeah, well, unlike you, kid, I’m going to make this quite painful for you . . . But not before you tell me what I want to know.”
Both men began to circle one other, both grossly intent as they drew a bead on the other while waiting for the opportune moment to make the kill strike.
“So tell me, whose little boy are you?”
The Caucasian did not answer.
Talk was over.
And the time to kill was now.
In a move so deft, so swift and so clean, the Shape advanced on Grenier with the speed of a wraith, the point of the pick zeroing in.
And as promised, the former assassin’s death was quick and painless as the pick found its mark with a single piercing.
#
At the mouth of the alleyway a crowd gathered.
Filipinos spoke in agitated tones, pointing, Arruti cutting his way through the crowd while stuffing his firearm in his waistband, then pulling out the tail of his shirt to conceal the weapon.
When he forced his way to the front of the crowd his stomach clinched into a slick fist, a feeling he hadn’t felt since he was a newbie drawing blood from the throats of his enemies while conducting his first mission.
Laying face down on the pavement was Grenier in prone position. The blood from a hidden wound spread outward around his head in a perfect halo, slowly, the fluid as black as tar and as thick as molasses in the quasi-shadows. His shirt was torn and parted. And carved into the flesh of his back was a poorly scribed S, something that looked like the insignia lightning bolt drawn from Himmler’s SS, the Schutzstaffel. The single engraved bolt was cut into the skin from the scapula to the small of his back. But this mark was not engraved by a Neo-Nazi.
This was just a crudely drawn S created in haste.
Pulling back into the crowd with his head on a swivel, Arruti waded through the masses and raced back to the comfort of his safe-house.
At least there he would have the advantage over the assassin, should the assassin decide to follow.
CHAPTER SIX
Arruti was feeling every bit of his forty-five years of age, the run back to the safe-house a harsh one given the humidity of the Philippines. Regardless of the fact that he was still in excellent shape, he realistically knew he could not fight the clock forever.
With his soaked shirt clinging to his skin, Arruti leaned against the wall of his one-bedroom apartment and waited for calm. As his chest heaved and pitched in controlled breathing to slow the pace of his rapid heartbeat, he also bore the heavy burden of the loss of a close friend.
After pulling his gun from his waistband and placing it on the counter, he then went to the window and slightly parted the drapes.
Nothing below, nothing above—the streets were often empty in this part of Cotabato.
After letting the curtains fall back into place he went to the ice box and pulled out a soda, yanking the tab clean. However, when he closed the door he saw the photos attached to the door. The initial shock caused him to drop the can, the soda spilling everywhere on the yellowed and cracked tile.
The added photos were centered among three of his personalized photos. One of him and Grenier smiling as they held their weapons high in a display of macho attitude, and two with him and Grenier standing alongside a smiling and legless Walker, who sat in his wheelchair. It was a small collage of a Band of Brothers.
The three additional photos were somewhat vulgar in display. One was of Walker lying on a table, tethered, his life having already bled out with the letter ‘I’ carved into his back. The other was of Grenier, a stilled photo capturing the bolt of the ‘S’ that was sliced into his flesh. The last photo was an old black-and-white glossy of his old unit, the Pieces of Eight. Walker and Grenier had been circled in red marker, the letter ‘I’ within Walker’s circle, the letter ‘S’ in Grenier’s. His face was also circled, but no letter filled its emptiness.
Yet.
Arruti quickly pivoted on the balls of his feet and reached for his weapon on the counter. But the weapon had been broken down. The magazine had been ejected from the weapon and lay on the countertop, the ammo lined up in a perfect roll. The barrel’s slide had been separated from its grip and lay on the counter as well, side by side, the weapon now independent pieces rendered inoperable. Oddly enough, the disassembly work was accomplished within a few feet away from him in absolute silence, and all within moments.
How is that even possible?
Behind the counter stood the assassin, watching, his face betraying zero emotion, the face of a killer.
“How did you get in here?”
“Does it matter, Mr. Arruti?”
“No, I guess not.”
In a sudden burst of speed that caught the assassin off guard, Arruti circled the counter and extended his leg in a kick that caught the assassin’s chest, sending the man in flight until he came crashing down onto a coffee table, smashing it, papers and magazines flying everywhere as the assassin rolled onto his hands and knees in an effort to quickly gain his feet.
“You think you can just walk into my home and take me out?”
When Arruti charged the assassin was ready.
This time, when Arruti threw a sidekick to catch the killer in the temple, the assassin trapped his leg, held it, then threw a quick knuckle jab to Arruti’s groin, sending Arruti to a bended knee.
The assassin then committed to an aeronautical assault.
From his stance he took to the air in a gymnast’s somersault, his body spinning in a clockwise motion in midair with his leg cutting downward like a guillotine and catching Arruti on the shoulder, snapping the collar bone and rendering the man’s arm useless. In a follow-up motion, the assassin came up and over with his opposite leg and connected with the other shoulder, the bone snapping with an audible crack.
As white-hot pain coursed through Arruti, he clenched his teeth and fell to both knees, his shoulders hanging in awkward angles, both arms totally useless. “You son of a bitch!”
The assassin calmly took to the couch, rubbing his chest. “There comes a time, Mr. Arruti, when a man’s life must come to an end. I will give you a moment to reflect upon yours before it’s taken away.”
“Who are you?”
“Who I am is of no importance.”
Arruti appeared spent. “Then tell me why.”
“All I’ll say, Mr. Arruti, is that you have exactly one minute to make peace with your god for all the transgressions you committed in the your life.”
“What are you talking about?”
The assassin leaned forward. “I’m talking about your roll in the Pieces of Eight.”
“Ah, an assassin coming to kill an assassin. Seems a little hypocritical with what you’re about to do, don’t you think?”
The assassin reached into the cargo pocket of his pants and pulled out a silver cylinder. Depressing the button, a pick shot outward and upward. “You have forty-five seconds, Mr. Arruti. If you believe in God, then you may want to start asking Him for forgiveness.”
“What I want to ask is this: On whose behalf are you doing this for? A senator? A past president, maybe?”
“Thirty seconds, Mr. Arruti.”
“You’re good. I’ll give you that.”
“You’re wasting time.”
“It’s my time to waste.”
“Twenty seconds.”
Arruti swallowed, his eyes beginning to dart from side to side searching for an avenue of escape as self-preservation began to kick in.
“Pray, Mr. Arruti, it’ll give you comfort in your final moments. You now have fifteen seconds.”
“Look. I have money. I’ll just go away. Whoever you work for will never have to know, right?”
“Wrong. Ten seconds.”
Arruti sighed in resignation. “No god will forgive me for the things I’ve done.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that twenty-three years ago.”
At the last second of the countdown the pick found its mark, killing Arruti instantly.
The assassin was true to his word.
Raising the tail of the dead man’s shirt and exposing the back, the assassin then sliced a crude C into the man’s flesh.
His work in the Philippines was complete.
CHAPTER SEVEN
One Week Later
Kimball Hayden sat in Monsignor Giammacio’s office, another tedious session, sitting quietly as the Monsignor sat across from him with a cigarette in his hand.
“And we were making such promising strides on your last visit.”
“Look, Padre, I’m not much of a talker. I never was. Things like this make me feel awkward.”
“Kimball, we have twenty minutes left. I suggest we make the most of it. Would you like me to lead, then?”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
The Monsignor tapped the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. “In your last session it was clear that you seek salvation for past actions. Yet you seem to believe that no matter what you do, you do in vain. No matter how hard you seek the Light, the Light will not be there for you on the Day of Judgment. Is this correct?”
“Look, Padre—”
“Am I right, Kimball?”
Kimball sat erect, unknowingly taking on a defensive position. “Um, well, yeah, I guess.”
“No matter what it is you do in the eyes of God to redeem yourself?”
Kimball leaned forward, his voice laced with frustration. “Look, I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”
“But we’ve discussed this matter already, haven’t we? The way you killed in order to save the life of the pope, the lives of the bishops within the Holy See. Did we not cover this in depth?”
“Padre, I killed two children.”
“And in seeking redemption for this action, have you not since saved the lives of other children?”
Kimball fell back into his chair and reflected.
Vatican Knights were chosen young, when they’re waifs and orphans with little promise of direction but possess the tools to excel in character and physical dexterity. To possess the tools of a warrior one who has to have the hunger to be learned and engage fully in academics and self-examination. To see one’s self is to see Loyalty above all else, except Honor.
At the Hilbert Institute, an academy for wayward boys too old for adoption, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stood beside Kimball and was dressed down from wearing cardinal attire by wearing a simple cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar. Kimball remained true to the Knights’ attire—wearing a cleric’s shirt, collar, black fatigues and boots.
Standing on an upper-tier walkway overlooking a basketball court, resting their elbows along the top of a railing, both held little interest in the ongoing game. What they locked onto was the player sitting on the bench, a third stringer, a child whose sneakers never touched the court.
“Picking a Knight, Kimball, takes an objective eye no matter how much you empathize with the child. This boy has no ambition, no skills, and according to the administrators, he’s so withdrawn from society he has no friends. And that is by his choosing.” He turns to Kimball. “He does not have the tools to take on the responsibilities of a Vatican Knight, come fifteen years from now.”
Kimball stood back in examination, sizing the child from a distance. The boy was gangly and pale and far more interested in drawing imaginary circles on the floor with the toe-end of his foot, than watching the game.
“What he needs is a mentor,” he finally said.
“What he needs is a miracle worker. There are far more children out there who hold the standards to become a Vatican Knight.”
Kimball leaned forward on the railing. “You know who this kid reminds me of?”
The cardinal smiled. “I suppose you’re going to say that he reminds you of yourself?”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say. And do you know the person who lent me a hand when I needed it the most?”
The cardinal nodded. “It was me.”
“In Venice. You knew all about me, all the horrible things I did. But you opened up anyway and let me in . . . That was the day I opened myself up for the first time to anyone.”
“But you possessed a very particular set of skills that was over and above everyone else.”
“Skills I had to learn. You have to remember, we all took awkward steps from the cradle when learning to walk, sometimes falling, then getting back up and doing it all over again until it became an involuntary act.”
“I don’t know, Kimball. I just don’t feel good about this one. And I’ve been choosing Knights for a long time.”
“If I’m to ever choose my own team and future teams, then you have to trust me. Otherwise, why am I here?”
“To learn and see in those who have what it takes to serve best on the pontiff’s behalf.”
Kimball sighed. “I can reach him.”
The cardinal turned back to the bench, to the child, who continued to draw imaginary circles with his foot. “Some people cannot be reached, Kimball, no matter how hard you try. And I’m saying this child is too far gone.”
“And I’m saying he’s not.”
There was a silent moment between them.
“Despite what I think,” said Vessucci, “you’re not going to budge, are you?”
Kimball nodded. “Not on this little guy. No. All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to be this mentor, his guide, and I gu
arantee you he will become one of the best Vatican Knights the pope could ever hope for.”
“That’s a lofty goal, Kimball, considering what you have to work with. It takes more than you realize to reach a child on an emotional and psychological level if they’re too far gone.”
“If nothing else, then we at least gave a child-in-need an opportunity for something better than what he has right now—and that isn’t much.”
It was something the cardinal couldn’t refute or deny. “Touché. But all I ask is this: Are you sure it has to be this one, when there are so many more with the same need for salvation?”
Kimball nodded and pointed at the child. “It has to be him.”
The cardinal saw the conviction in Kimball, the obsessive need for Kimball to commit to the boy, and then faced the child who sat alone. “Then we will call him . . . Ezekiel.”
“Kimball?” The Monsignor dashed his third cigarette out in the ashtray. “You’re basically saying that you tried to save this boy as—how shall we say—redemption for taking the lives of those boys in Iraq?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But your actions are.”
“If that’s the way you want to see it, then go for it.”
“Then tell me. Why this particular child when Cardinal Vessucci was so adamant against it?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Would you like to expound?”
“Expound?”
The Monsignor gestured with his hands. “To develop or explain more in detail.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?”
“Would you like to expound?”
“No.”
“Then tell me about Ezekiel, now that he’s a man.”
Kimball hesitated while the Monsignor reached for another smoke, and then. “I reached him as I knew I would, and he became solid.”
“Solid?”
Kimball moved his hands in mock gesture imitating the Monsignor. “To develop a person until he is pure, unadulterated, genuine.”
The Monsignor smiled. “Then why didn’t you just say that?”
Kimball returned the smile.
