by Jones, Rick
“Time’s up, I’m afraid,” said the Monsignor. “Next week we’ll take up where we left off, with Ezekiel.”
“There’s not much to say about him other than he turned out to be one of the best in the league of the Vatican Knights.”
“Not about him as a person, but what his redemption means on a psychological level.”
Kimball stood and offered his hand, but the Monsignor refused it, smiling congenially. “You almost crushed my hand the last time. I don’t have to be slapped twice to learn my lesson.”
As Kimball lowered his hand a feeble knock sounded off the thick wooden door that was pieced together with black iron bands and rivets, an ersatz design of medieval times.
When the Monsignor opened the door in invitation, a bishop stood at the threshold with his hands hidden beneath the sleeves.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Monsignor, but the pontiff has requested the presence of Mr. Hayden. He said it was quite urgent and that he was to be summoned to the pontiff’s chamber.”
“That’s quite all right,” he returned. “We just finished our session.”
The Monsignor held the door wide and gestured his hand in a way of showing Kimball the way out. “Next week, Kimball, and I know I say this all the time but you continue to do this anyway, but please don’t be late.”
“I’ll be here at the top of the hour, Doc.”
The Monsignor sighed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The pope’s chamber was laden with veined-marble flooring that shined like the surface of ice, and scarlet drapes with scalloped edges and gold fringe covered the floor-to-ceiling windows. Polished brass sconces surrounded six-foot portraits of past popes, the gallery lining the walls in the chronological order they served the Church. The chamber held the sizeable dimensions of a ballroom that served as the nerve center of papal activity.
After Kimball entered the room, the enormous wooden doors closed behind him with mechanical slowness. His footfalls echoed throughout with the poor acoustics as he neared the pontiff’s desk, which bore the ornate carvings of angels and cherubs on the mahogany panels.
Sitting in a button-studded chair made of Corinthian leather sat Pope Pius. Beside him stood Cardinal Vessucci, wearing the normal vestments of the simar with scarlet trim and a scarlet biretta. The cardinal appeared to be holding photos, obviously engaging the pope of the matter in hand before Kimball entered the chamber.
Pope Pius fell back in his chair and gestured for Kimball to take one of the two chairs before his desk. “I’m glad you could make it, Kimball. My deepest apology for interrupting your session with the monsignor, but the situation requires your immediate presence.”
Kimball sat down. “We were done anyway. How can I be of service, Your Holiness?”
Pius turned to the cardinal, a cue to Vessucci to take over. The cardinal then handed three 8x10 glossies to Kimball. “We just received these from Vatican Intelligence,” he told him.
Having diplomatic relationships with more than ninety percent of the world’s countries, the Vatican’s Intelligence Service, the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, better known as the SIV, was created to counter early 19th century efforts to subvert the power of the Vatican. So the Church saw the need in creating an “unofficial” security agency to solve problems by conceiving a system of confidential communication and information gathering. But with the growing threat of extremist groups, the SIV had grown to a major organization since the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II.
As Kimball examined the photos his shoulders began to soften and slump. “I know these people,” he said. “They were a part of my old unit, the Pieces of Eight.”
He inspected the glossies further, noting the dead faces, the whites of their eyes holding at half mast.
“The photos you’re holding were taken in makeshift morgues in the Philippines. These, however,” he handed Kimball three additional photos, “were taken at the scene where the bodies were found.”
The bodies were facedown, unrecognizable, their shirts ripped and parted, a letter carved into each man’s back. He also noted that Walker was tied to the legs of a table, his own legs missing.
“Somebody cut off Walker’s legs?”
“No. Mr. Walker was apparently—for lack of a better term—a mercenary who lost them in an IED attack in Iraq. Misters Grenier and Arruti, however, where operating a military agency in the southern Philippines while looking after Walker, who remained in Manila.”
“A band of brothers,” he whispered. And then he took notice of the carvings. “Symbols?”
“Letters,” Vessucci immediately stated.
“Are you sure? One looks like a lightning bolt and the other looks like a sideways V, like Greek runes or something.”
“At first glance—yes, but the SIV has concluded that they’re nothing more than crude carvings. It’s been determined that the bolt is actually an S, and the sideways V—as you put it— the letter C.” He handed Kimball another photo, this one of his old unit posing for the camera’s lens. Kimball was kneeling in the bottom roll, the last one on the right, his face maintaining the appearance of cold fortitude in a time that seemed so long ago. In the top roll the faces of the Pieces of Eight—Walker, Grenier and Arruti, who stood side-by-side from left to right—were circled in red marker, the letter ‘I’ in Walker’s circle, the letter ‘S’ in Grenier’s, the letter ‘C’ in Arruti’s.
“I-S-C. Whoever’s doing this is spelling out a message, that’s clear.”
“But what? And even more disturbing, why?” asked the pope.
Kimball traced the photo with a glancing trail of his finger over the fourth member, Ian McMullen, an Irishman who lived up to his stereotyped billing by loving his alcohol as much as he loved his AR-15. An empty circle was drawn around his face. “This guy isn’t very subtle, is he?”
“Kimball, these photos were sent to the SIV by whoever is doing this to these men. And he’s working toward the final member in the photo . . . And that’s you. Whoever sent it knows you’re here.”
“That’s impossible,” he said heatedly. “Everybody attached to that unit, including the United States government, believes I’m dead.”
“Apparently not,” said Pius. “Otherwise, there would be no reason for this murderer to be sending these photos here.”
Kimball considered this. Reasonably speaking, the pontiff was correct. “You’re right, but what concerns me is that Grenier and Arruti were sharp commandos. It’s hard to believe that one guy could take them on and beat them both.”
“Whether it is one or many, this has to be dealt with before he, or they, decides to bring their war to the Vatican.”
Cardinal Vessucci rounded the desk and sat on its edge, facing Kimball. “The problem, Kimball, is that Leviticus and his team are in Brazil, and Isaiah is in Colombia with his. Ezekiel, Job and Joshua are on their annual sabbaticals and won’t be back for another two weeks.”
“You’re telling me I’m on my own?”
“We’ll do whatever it takes to find Ezekiel, Job and Joshua. The SIV will find them.”
“That could take days.” He turned to the photo; saw the circled face of McMullen. “I already have a team,” he added.
The pope leaned forward. “You’re not talking about your old unit, are you?”
“Why not? There’re five left. That’s more than enough to accomplish the means.”
“Kimball, these men,” the cardinal pointed to the photos of the murdered men, “were mercenaries killing for the highest bidder. Are you sure you want to reconnect with the ways of old?”
“Let’s put it this way: Let’s see how far I’ve really come with a little temptation in my life. Let’s see if I really miss what I was . . . Or if I’m pleased with what I have become.”
“Kimball—”
The Knight immediately raised a halting hand. “Bonasero, please, this man” –He pointed to McMullen’s image—“saved my life on two occasi
ons. Obviously he’s next on the list, which means I have to get to him before they do. My time is limited.”
Pope Pius sighed. “I’m not comfortable with this, Kimball,” he said. “But I cannot allow someone’s life to hang in the balance under any circumstance. Nevertheless, I will have the SIV look into the whereabouts of the Knights on sabbatical and, once found, have them reconnoiter with your position as soon as possible.”
“Understood. But I’ll need to leave right away and re-team with my old unit. I just need the current dossiers of the remaining members. And I’ll need to know where they are.”
“The SIV will have the information available by the time you’re ready to leave,” said Vessucci.
Kimball stood. “I appreciate it.”
“And Kimball.” The pope rose, donning his full vestments. “This temptation you speak of about turning back to the ways of old once you return to those who chose to remain in darkness, I have all the faith that you will stay true.”
“Yeah, well, somebody has to, I guess.”
“Kimball,” the cardinal placed a gentle hand on Kimball’s shoulder. “Be careful, please. It’s hard to fight something that’s unknown, unseen, and uses the shadows as camouflage.”
“If it exists, then it can be found. They found me, didn’t they?”
“Be careful, Kimball,” said Pope Pius. “And may God be with you.”
Kimball nodded. I’m certainly going to need Him for this one, he considered. Not due to the danger to his welfare, but because of the dangers of falling back to the ways of old. Would he like the taste of taking a man’s life simply because he could, the same way an alcoholic needs a single taste to fall off the wagon? Or would he be able to remain guided, taking life only because he had to with killing as a final option?
After giving the cardinal a good-bye pat on the shoulder and kissing the Fisherman’s Ring on Pope Pius’s hand, Kimball made his way toward the massive chamber doors with his footfalls echoing throughout the room in haunting cadence.
CHAPTER NINE
The Vatican secured an immediate flight on Alitalia Airlines from Rome to Las Vegas, Nevada, with a stop in Boston for refueling. On his journey Kimball carried clothing and, in a secured panel of his luggage, dual KA-BAR commando knives. On his person he carried a false passport, which was provided to him by Vatican officials in order to protect his identity in the States, since he was an absconder presumed dead by the United States government. If it should be discovered that he was still alive and holding secrets regarding the reprehensible dealings of past presidential administrations—the murders, the in-house assassinations, the monolithic political cover-ups—Kimball would most likely end up at the wrong end of a Company man’s Glock and disappear forever.
Sitting alone in one of the two seats in the first-class row, Kimball sat in the aisle seat. An open manila envelope lay beside him in the other. In his hands were the dossiers of the surviving members of his old team. And Kimball had to wonder how detailed information was gathered so quickly by the SIV.
And then he looked up, his eyes starting with enlightenment: They have a file on me, he realized. All this information was already in my file.
Giving a sidelong glance for a cursory view outside the window, Kimball saw the choppy waves of the Atlantic below, the frothing mounds churning up specks of white against a plain of ocean blue, as the jumbo jet made its westbound trajectory to the United States at a clip of five hundred sixty miles per hour.
He checked his watch: another four hours to go before landing in Boston, then another six to Las Vegas; more than enough time to glean information from the book-thick dossiers.
Turning back to the folder in hand, he took note of the before-and-after photos of the next target, and then closed his eyes, biting softly on his lower lip.
What Ian McMullen had become from what he was could not be considered anything less than a fall from grace. In a photo taken within the last two years, according to its time stamp, the former commando appeared to be thirty pounds less with an aged and crestfallen face that looked thirty years older than what he really was. Obviously he had given himself totally to drink and had become a man who no longer possessed a soul, ambition or hope.
For years he’d been living from shelter to shelter in the hot, sweltering Las Vegas streets. The climate sapping his body dry the same way his past had sucked his will to press on.
Kimball opened his eyes and saw the earlier photo of a man with a strong jaw line, thick neck, and the red handlebar mustache bracketing Irish lips. What he saw was a man whose face had slimmed to hatchet thinness, now dirty and soiled, with unkempt hair mostly matted, and eyes that had gone from the color of bottle green to drab olive.
What Kimball was looking at was the photo of a vagrant who had no hope of returning to his former self as a top-of-the-line soldier, no matter how hard he fought. The man was too far gone in a battle he could not fight or win. And just like that, Kimball’s team had dwindled from four to three.
Placing the photo aside, Kimball picked up the presumed target after McMullen, a man by the name of Victor Hawk, a Native American Indian of the Mescalero Apache Nation in New Mexico. Apparently he returned to his people after his service to the American government, collecting a retired federal stipend and using his time to raise horses on a ranch just outside the reservation.
As a soldier the man was brutal, specializing in stealth kills by combining the immaculate expertise of his people and training of a soldier, then plying them as part of his skill set as an unseen assassin. With his unit branding him ‘The Ghost,’ it was said in larger-than-life form that Hawk’s target would see nothing but jungle, then a flicker, and then the target would be dead as the Apache drove a knife across his throat or a garrote around his neck.
Now having aged with his face growing heavier and jowls beginning to form, with raven hair beginning to show streaks of silver and a belly beginning to show a paunch, Kimball could only wonder if anybody in his team remained in fighting condition.
Placing the photos aside he picked up the dossiers of last two members with a little more hope and optimism. Jeff and Stanley Hardwick, both crazy in a reckless sort of way because of their never wavering lust for danger and their constant need for an adrenaline rush, looked well-muscled and cut today, as they did years ago.
Known as the Brothers Grimm, one being a world-class sniper and the other a demolitions expert, they both exceeded in other areas of expertise including martial arts and double-edged weapons play. But they also had a proclivity for being insubordinate, the brothers often teaming up against other members due to their My-Way-Or-The-Highway mentality.
Currently the brothers ran an Army and Navy surplus store in Baltimore, and possessed a lengthy record of misdemeanor convictions for Drunk and Disorderly, Disorderly Conduct, and Obstruction of a Public Officer.
Kimball nodded. Some things never change.
Placing the materials aside, and then rubbing the fatigue from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Kimball attempted to formulate a plan. But how do you do that with a vagrant, an aging Indian, and two out-of-control maniacs who never really grew up?
More so, how do find someone who doesn’t have a face or name?
That’s easy: You let them find you.
After taking in a deep breath and then letting it out with an equally long sigh, Kimball picked up the photo of McMullen and considered this: When this assassin comes looking for you, I’ll be there.
The plane continued on its westward flight.
CHAPTER TEN
Las Vegas, Nevada
The Entertainment Capital of the World always lived up to its billing. Lights and glitter, hotels built as facsimiles to Paris, Monte Carlo, Hollywood and Egypt, others to Mandalay, New York City, and to the Greatest Show on Earth, the carnival setting of Circus Circus.
However, where there is light there is darkness. Just beyond the downtown section of The Experience on Freemont, and less than a mile away, were ho
meless shelters and soup kitchens.
Sidewalks were cluttered with makeshift shelters, the homeless, and individuals in need of psychotropic medications. Gutters were filled with trash and refuse, the surrounding buildings old and empty, like the people who surrounded them. In the background the skyline of downtown Las Vegas can be seen, such as the towers of Lady Luck, the Golden Nugget and Union Plaza.
On Owens Street a man exits from a soup kitchen whose walls are covered with gangland graffiti and heads east towards the Boulevard. He is wearing a moth-eaten overcoat, and though it’s unbearably hot, he wears it because it’s his prized possession. He wears fingerless gloves and grease-stained pants. His hair is long, matted, and in a wild tangle. And his face hangs with the looseness of a rubber mask that has yellowed with the sickness of a dying liver. To look at him no one would have guessed that he was once one of the deadliest warriors to have walked the planet.
Instead, Ian McMullen was now a vagrant in the twilight of his life.
After reaching the Boulevard, he turned toward the downtown area to secure a spot to panhandle enough change to buy a bottle of cheap wine.
After passing the streets of Washington and Bonanza with downtown in sight, McMullen could feel something that had long been latent, that feeling an animal gets when sensing great danger.
Stopping, and then turning, his body having arched to the shape of a question mark over time, McMullen took in the non-descript faces of tourists and locals, probing micro-expressions that may give them away as somebody on a potential hunt.
Scanning and appraising for that give-away tic, he cited nothing but people laughing and smiling, people lumped together in this city where sin reigns and morality nothing more than an afterthought.
McMullen chortled in self-chastisement. Not only was he aging exponentially, but he was becoming paranoid.
Standing in the crossway where Freemont and the Boulevard meet, with the sun having settled and the Vegas lights as dazzling as Paris along the Seine, McMullen began his nightly ritual by holding his hand out imploringly. “Please, can anyone spare change for a veteran . . . Change for a vet . . . Any amount will help.” And then he would recite it all over again, word per word, same pitch and tempo.
