by Jones, Rick
“Your friend, Ian McMullen, was found dead not too long ago. I was able to intercept those photos a few hours ago from the County Coroner’s Office.”
The cleric drove out of the garage and onto Swenson, making his way toward Tropicana.
Kimball, with photos in hand, showed little emotion. “Same MO for death?” he finally asked.
“It appears to be. It’s some kind of pick-like device, like an awl or something. But we’re not quite sure as to what the mechanism really is. But the strike is a single blow to the head area
—a kill shot that’s instantaneous.”
Kimball examined the picture wondering if the photo really was McMullen. The man lying prone seemed wasted with the outline of his ribs pressing against the skin of his backside. The knolls of his spine appeared too prominent, the man too skinny. Even thinner than the man he examined in the photos of the dossier.
“Are you sure this is McMullen?” he asked.
“It’s him all right. The alcohol ate him down to nothing.”
Kimball sighed and looked out the window as they went west on Tropicana. The Pieces of Eight were dwindling at a rapid pace. Only half the team remained.
Then from Father Sebastian, “We believe the assassin is still in the area since McMullen has been determined to be dead not more than four hours.”
“A man can be anywhere in four hours.”
And this was true, which is why Father Sebastian remained quiet.
“By the way, where are you taking me?”
“To a parish on the west side of town,” he answered. “You’ll be safe there.”
“Actually, I’ll need to get to New Mexico as soon as possible. Can you arrange that?”
“I can. But you need rest.”
“What I need is to get to New Mexico to reach The Ghost before the assassin does. If he maintains one step ahead of me at all times, then there will be no one left.”
“It’s late. Ticketing kiosks and flights won’t reopen for another few hours. The red-eye flights are already gone.”
“Then rent me a car.”
“With all due respect, you’d have to drive through Arizona and half way through New Mexico. It would take you longer to drive to your destination than to wait for ticketing to reopen and fly.”
Kimball drew a mental image in his mind of the map of the US. Sebastian was right. New Mexico, especially Albuquerque, was far from Las Vegas. By flight it was nothing. The moment the plane leveled off, then it would be time to descend. Kimball just couldn’t stand the lapse between now and then.
“Perhaps you should rest.”
It was a good notion, but Kimball was too hyped up.
He looked out the window and at the lights that made up the Las Vegas Strip. His eyes took on a hypnotic gaze. Out there, he considered, was the man who killed his friends. Out there, in the blaze of neon glory, was the man who was targeting him with the presumption to take him out.
The lights were incredible.
“Perhaps you should rest,” Father Sebastian repeated.
But how could he? Wondering if the killer was within the city limits of Las Vegas, or if he already had a leg up and was on his way to kill The Ghost.
“Just get me a flight as soon as possible. And have a car waiting for me when I get there. I’ll need it to get to the reservation.”
Father Sebastian nodded. “I understand.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rome
Pope Pius rested comfortably at Gemelli Polyclinic, his bed raised so he could better view the television. Beside him sitting in a chair was Cardinal Vessucci.
“Bonasero.” The pope reached out to him with a bony and frail hand, and Vessucci grabbed it with ease. “You’re a good friend and favored by the College to succeed me—”
“Let’s not talk about this, Your Holiness.”
“Bonasero, death is only a new beginning. It’s a way of life.”
“Of course it is, but yours is far from over.”
Pius smiled, becoming passive. And then: “I’ve lived a good life, my friend. But we both know that I’m in the twilight of my existence. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that. I know just as you do.” The pontiff sighed and laid his head against the pillow, their hands still clutching. “It’s time to see my Heavenly Father,” he added.
“Amerigo—” The cardinal cut himself off.
“Bonasero, you’re my good friend and the College favors you to succeed me. You have the tools to win the masses, and the gift to give hope when hope is needed the most. Use them wisely.”
The cardinal relented. “If I should succeed you, if the College of the Cardinals deems me fit to sit upon the papal throne, then I will not disappoint.”
The pope smiled. “I know that.” And then the pontiff fell into a severe coughing fit, more blood, his face growing crimson. Red flecks ended up on the back of Pius’s liver-spotted hand, which the cardinal wiped clean with a tissue.
Within moments the pontiff eased back into a calm repose with a hand to his chest as his breathing fell into a more rhythmic, a more normal pattern.
“On my passing,” he told the cardinal, catching his breath, “you’ll need to fill the vacant seat within the Society of Seven. There are those who are too conservative to see the need for the Vatican Knights. But there are those who recognize the Church’s right to protect its sovereignty, its interests and the welfare of its citizenry. Choose wisely, Bonasero, to avoid an insurrection by conservative factions within the Vatican, those who are most politically minded.”
The cardinal nodded in agreement. “The secrets of the Knights will be well kept and held to the Society of Seven. There are many within who recognize the right of the Church to protect itself. So don’t worry, Amerigo. I’ll find someone to fill the void without a setback.”
“What about the status of the Vatican Knights?”
“Isaiah and Leviticus are meeting with marginal resistance and no collateral damage, but far from being relieved of duty to aid Kimball. We still haven’t found those on sabbatical.”
Pius sighed. “And have you heard from Kimball?”
“No. But he did land safely in Las Vegas where he was met by SIV who informed him of Mr. McMullen’s fate. From what I understand he’s now on his way to the next perceived target.”
A man of Lincolnesque statute, tall and lanky with wispy limbs beneath his medical coat, entered the room wearing a feigned, if not uneasy, smile. As he stood at the foot of the pontiff’s bed the man rung his hands nervously.
With an encompassing smile magical enough to sooth the man, the pope put the doctor at ease. “And how are you today, Doctor Simonelli? Blessed, I hope?”
“Your Eminence—” The man took a step closer, the pretend smile gone. “Your Eminence, I’m afraid I have some rather disturbing news regarding your condition.” The physician hesitated for a brief moment, the lapse of time, however, seemingly long and surreal. “I’m afraid you have cancer.”
“Advanced?”
“Yes, Your Holiness, I’m afraid so. The cancer has metastasized to tissues to both lungs and neighboring organs. You’re at stage four, in fact.”
“Stage four?”
“I’m afraid it’s terminal.”
There was another pregnant pause, the moment awkward.
And then: “How long?”
“I’d say anywhere from three to six months. It all depends upon how your body responds to chemo and radiation.”
“There’ll be neither,” he said. “I’ll simply let nature take its course.”
“But, Your Holiness—”
Pius raised a halting hand. “No, Bonasero, God is calling me home. There is no need to prolong the inevitable.”
“Are you in any pain?” asked the doctor.
“No, just tired. I thought I was just overworking myself.”
“If you want, Pontiff, I can prescribe morphine.”
“There’s no need, Doctor.” He turned to the cardinal. “I’ll need
around-the-clock care until I can perform no longer. You’re the secretary of state, so I’ll need to groom you to cover my duties until my passing. From then the Cardinal Camerlengo will take over the duties upon the moment I die, and continue those duties until a successor is chosen.”
The cardinal nodded sadly. “Of course, Your Holiness.”
The pope laid his head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I’m going home.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The assassin had no idea that Kimball Hayden had just driven within fifty feet of his location as he holed himself up inside a cheap franchise motel along Tropicana. Behind the drawn drapes the assassin sat on the edge of the bed going over aged dossiers of the Pieces of Eight. The dossiers of Walker, Arruti and Grenier were closed out, the files bound by an elastic band and sitting on the nightstand between twin beds. The five remaining dossiers sat on his lap. The profile of McMullen was open, the aged photos yellowing at the edges, the detailed information regarding the one-time government assassin spelled out in seventeen pages.
Taking the photo of the Pieces of Eight in pose, the assassin traced a finger over the face of McMullen where the letter ‘A’ was scribed within his circled head.
I-S-C-A, the top row was now complete.
And there was no doubt that those on the bottom row would soon coalesce into a fighting force and strike up a plan for self-preservation, with Kimball as their lead.
But they would be fighting blindly, he considered, the core members not knowing who they were up against—how many or how little—with every sound or moving shadow a possible threat.
The assassin then closed the folder and slipped it beneath the band with the other closed files, then placed the active files on the bed beside him.
The first to fall would be the Indian from New Mexico, he mulled, the one they called The Ghost. And then the brothers who were by nature passionately reckless, with Kimball to be the last to feel the bite of his pick.
The man got to his feet, went to the window, and parted the drapes. The lights of the Las Vegas Strip were truly magnificent; the city the bedrock of dreams of becoming wealthy beyond imagination usually going unfulfilled. It was a place created on romantic illusions of penthouse living, caviar snacks and champagne brunches, only for the city to spit you out in the end once it bled you dry.
It was a cruel place that took McMullen by the inches. He just finalized the inevitable.
Returning to the bed, the assassin picked up the final folder and peeled back the cover. Inside was an old photo of Kimball Hayden, very young, a stoic pose, the man without remorse or contrition. It was the photo of a killer.
The assassin traced a finger over the picture. “After I take those around you and there is no one left, I will take your life before your soul has a chance to find the salvation it so badly seeks
. . . I will send you to Hell where you belong.”
Closing his eyes, his breathing finding the even rhythm of meditation, the assassin shut the file and found himself at peace.
#
Kimball Hayden had flown into Albuquerque and rented a car. His eyes were weighted, his entire body fatigued with more than thirty hours of going without sleep. But he pressed on towards the Mescalero Apache Nation.
Around him the land was made up of multiple color blends in shades of reds and pinks and mauve. The buttes, the rocky rises, all lined with the strata lines formed millennia ago, lent somewhat of a primal, prehistoric look to the terrain. Sage and desert flora dotted the landscape. And the sand was the color of Mississippi mud, red with alluvia lines formed by the push of hot winds rather than the force of running water.
The flight to New Mexico was minimal in time expense. The drive, however, was time consuming.
By mid afternoon he had found the cut off leading to the reservation. But according to the dossier, Victor Hawk’s ranch was on the border between his people and the people he lived with, the White man.
Taking the dirt road, his vehicle kicking up rooster-tail plumes of red earth in its wake, Kimball could see a ranch-style house in the distance and a barn that was surrounded by posts that corralled horses.
Leaning against the corral posting stood a large man. But Kimball was too far to see if it was Hawk.
What he could tell, however, was that the large man was looking right at him.
#
The Native American leaned his elbow against the corral posting and stood there in leisure, eyeing the vehicle that was making its way down the dirt road to his ranch. Next to him was a German shepherd. A growl rumbled in the back of its throat.
“Dog,” said the Indian, “hush.” But the shepherd continued his growling.
As the car neared the Indian stepped away from the posts and closer to the road’s end. He was tall and broad with the beginnings of a paunch. And beneath the ten-gallon hat he wore his raven hair was fashioned into a thick braid that went down to the small of his back. His eyes were dark, the edges surrounding them were deeply lined with crow’s feet from spending too much time beneath a sun that had ripened his skin to the color of tanned leather.
The shepherd matched him step by step, its growl hardly abating.
“Dog, I said hush.”
When the car drove up it was coated with dust. The windshield, however, was marginally clear after a mopping of the wipers. When the driver exited the vehicle he stood before Hawk with a briefcase in his hand. The first thing the Indian set his eyes on was the Roman Catholic collar, and then the cleric’s shirt, and military-styled pants and boot wear.
“Something I can help you with?”
The driver took a step closer. “It’s been a while, Hawk. You still go by Ghost?”
The Indian cocked his head, his mind working with recall. And then his jaw dropped as his eyes flared with incredulous disbelief. “Kimball?”
He smiled sheepishly. “How’s it going, big man?”
“You’re supposed to be dead. Died before the first war with Iraq.”
“Apparently I didn’t”
The dog began to growl.
“Is the dog friendly?”
“When he’s not hungry.”
The Indian walked closer, appraising Kimball, his eyes staring in wonder.
And then: “What happened?”
“Truthfully, Hawk, I just walked.”
The Indian tilted his head. “You absconded?”
Kimball nodded. “I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t continue to do all the horrible things we did. Not anymore.”
Hawk stood within a foot of Kimball. And after what seemed to be an awkward moment embraced him. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. On the word of your passing I prayed to the spirits for many nights on your behalf. And here you are many years later.” He pushed away and pointed to Kimball’s white collar. “And what is this? Are you a priest of your people now?”
“Hardly.”
“Then, why the collar?”
“It’s a long story, Hawk.”
“All I have is time. All I do is stand here all day and watch my Appaloosas roam the land.”
“They are beautiful,” he commented.
In the pen behind Hawk were six horses, all mottled with different patterns in different shades and sizes.
“But enough about my horses,” he said. “Why are you here?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As night fell the sky was filled with a multitude of pinprick lights, the constellations alive with the movement of starlit glitter. In the distance coyotes bayed at a moon in its gibbous phase, the canine language causing Dog to raise his head in the direction of the howl, but nothing more.
In the meantime, as a slight breeze blew in from the west, Kimball confided in Hawk the reason why he absconded prior to the first invasion of Iraq—about the two boys he killed to keep them from compromising his position. He told him about his epiphany and the opportunity of redemption given to him by the Church to seek the ‘Light’ of his inner self. But he
omitted the part about the Vatican Knights since they were a clandestine group, telling Hawk in mention that he served as a low-ranking emissary within the Church’s hierarchy.
While they sat on a wraparound porch in wicker chairs Hawk listened, once in awhile giving a perceptible nod of understanding as his eyes focused to a landscape that was the color of whey under the watchful face of a semi-full moon.
As Kimball spoke, he did so in a manner and tone that beseeched forgiveness from the Native American for absconding from his duties as a warrior. As a soldier of the Pieces of Eight, as an elite commando of the Force Elite, absconding was considered the most magnificent act of cowardice in the eyes of your brethren.
When he finished he sat back and remained quiet, waiting on a response from the Indian that never came.
And then: “It’s really peaceful here, Hawk. The way the stars shimmer, the quiet of the surroundings.”
“It’s the land of my ancestors,” he finally said. “It’s my home.”
Kimball sighed. “You’re disappointed?”
“You were an Elite,” he answered. “But if your inner spirit cannot commune with the spirits that show you a path you truly do not wish to take, then there is disharmony. Your inner spirit must find its place by following a journey that leads to inner peace. Without that, a man is never whole.” The Indian turned to Kimball. “I can tell you that you are still on your journey.”
“I am.”
“With age comes maturity and wisdom. And I am not without the mindset that we did horrible things, Kimball, things that should never have happened now that I have been wizened by the spirits of my ancestors.” The large Indian hesitated, staring out at the scenery. “On most nights the spirits show me the errors of what I was,” he said, “of the things I’ve done. And every night I see the faces of those I killed, the faces of those who are now the spirits who haunt me.” He turned back to Kimball to punch his point home. “But I never ran.”
Kimball nodded. “I didn’t come here to seek forgiveness, although it would be greatly appreciated. What we did, we did a long time ago. We need to move on.”
