by Jones, Rick
For a long moment he stared at the images, at the young faces, and then he remembered the camaraderie they shared together as an elite force, and their shared arrogance that they were too good to take down because they were unstoppable.
Now the arrogance had come back to bite them, and ironically.
There was somebody out there that was better, stronger, faster, and far more deadly. And he was taking his team down with seemingly little effort.
For a lengthy moment Kimball stared at the photo, the team who posed in front of a camera so many years ago. A photo that now had three surviving members. With his marker he circled the face of the soldier next to Hawk, the person next in line and most likely within the assassin’s sights. Jeff Hardwick.
After laying the glossy down, Kimball glanced at his watch. It would be another two hours before he would touchdown in Annapolis. And perhaps another thirty minutes to Baltimore, once he rented a vehicle.
And then he wondered one thing: Was the assassin one step behind or one step ahead?
Either way, he was about to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Baltimore, Maryland
Jeff Hardwick always killed with impunity because he could. Having been a member of the Pieces of Eight—a black-op unit from the Force Elite—a one-time government wetwork team, he and his brother had found life difficult. At first, when he was given his release for younger, more athletic super soldiers when age became a factor, he was sent off with a pension, an atta-boy pat on the back, and the following parting words: Oh, and by the way, if you disclose any information regarding the Pieces of Eight or the Force Elite, expect to be buried inside a pauper’s grave moments after the divulging words leave your lips.
Nice! Especially from a government you served well and without question.
Nevertheless, with his little government stipend which was pooled with his brother’s, they amassed enough to purchase an army/navy store in downtown Baltimore. At first they struggled by taking over a business that was floundering, trying to rebuild it from the ground up with potential connections in the military field, such as mercenaries in need of special hardware.
The first year was a struggle, most deals falling through until they were contacted by old teammates—Walker, Grenier and Arruti—who established their own militant organization for hire in third-world nations by governments with first-world money.
They had become their sole arms’ connection, profiting beyond imagination by supplying items such as claymores, sentry turrets or RPG’s—basically illegal wares of all types.
So within a year the store had become nothing less than a front for selling illegal arms.
And the Hardwick brothers flourished.
Now with padded bank accounts in the Caymans, and with vast sums across countries such as Belize, Brazil and Costa Rica, Jeff and Stanley Hardwick relished in the fact that there was a profitable market for just about everything.
And their market was destruction.
Walking beneath an overcast sky that was uniform gray, with his collar hiked up against a mild wind coming from the east, Jeff Hardwick walked as if he owned the sidewalk, the city, the world. With his lofty chin held high he moved with the authority of a man who believed that rules weren’t made for him, and everyone else should step aside as he passed them by. It was also this mindset of self-anointing shared by his brother, Stanley, who was eleven months older.
With a conservative haircut and regimental gym-build, the man looked years younger. He was lean with broad shoulders, thick thighs and massive biceps, much like his brother who was a physical facsimile. Neither brother was to be messed with on a one-on-one situation. To mess with one Hardwick brother was to mess with both. And it was this reputation throughout the streets of Baltimore that allowed them to bend the rules without impunity and rule by fear.
If organized crime had a title or name associated with it, it was ‘Hardwick.’
Walking east for a stretch before turning south, Jeff moved into an area hardly considered a decent neighborhood. There were aged store fronts with barred windows and cracked glass that were pieced together with strips of duct tape. Fruit vendors kept their produce beneath canopies that were torn at the edges and wagged with the course of a slight breeze. And drug-addled punks often hung out in the mouths of alleyways and street corners, sometimes congregating at the base of stone stairwells that led into apartments infested with vermin, rats and roaches. But whenever a Hardwick walked by chatter always ceased, as if in homage, until the man walked by.
Grabbing a key ring from his pocket, Jeff inserted a key into the lock and twisted, the bolt drawing back, and then he opened the door, entering.
The foyer immediately lit up from a light with a motion sensor, which revealed a second door that appeared stronger and firmer, that of cast iron. On the wall was a keypad. He quickly typed in a code—eight characters—and disabled the alarm. Once done he typed in a second set of codes, this time twelve characters, and the keypad mechanically pushed outward from the wall and tilted downward to reveal an optical scan. Placing his eyes against the lenses, the computer read the orb sequence calibrated to read the uniqueness of the Hardwick brothers roadmap of eyes, and confirmed his identity. No one else held the right to enter, especially when there was well over a million dollars of illegal arms stashed away in the lower vault.
After scanning his eyes, a massive bolt from the door automatically pulled back and the door swung open with mechanical slowness.
The store was dark, no windows, old uniforms and military helmets lined shelves that were heavy and laden with dust. Shadows remained unmoving with some shadows and shapes darker than others. And when he turned on the lights everything seemed bleak and gray and still, a coating of dust usurping everything.
After all, everything on this level was a prop and nothing ever moved. Everything of value was down below.
Tossing the keys on a glass countertop that was so dusty the items within the casing could hardly be discernable, Jeff Hardwick checked his answering machine by dialing in another code for retrieval.
Nothing.
Jeff, nor his brother Stan, had heard from Grenier or Arruti in over a week, which was cause for concern knowing they had something going on in the Philippines with a high-priority need for goods and wares.
Hanging up the phone that was specially built to encrypt all incoming calls and deflect all others not recognized by the computer, Jeff pulled out his cell phone and called his brother.
When Stan answered, he said one thing: “The vendor inquiring about the uniforms never called back.”
And it was cryptically understood: The firm of Grenier and Arruti, for whatever reason, had put current purchases on hold.
Something’s wasn’t right.
“I see,” he returned evenly. And without adding anything further, he hung up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vatican City
There is a chamber beneath the Basilica that is the nerve center of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the SIV. It is encased behind walls of bomb-resistant glass, the room itself a marvel of engineering with the entire wall a massive screen TV that can be enabled to be a singular screen, or divided up into multiple screens for multiple purposes. Computer consoles lined multi-tiered levels like a motion picture theater, the rear levels slightly elevated so that the patrons sitting in front can view the mega-screen without obstructing those behind them. The staff manning the consoles or pouring over data were uniformly dressed in black dress pants and tie, a white shirt, and a scarlet dress jacket bearing the emblem of the Vatican on the pocket; the crossed keys of Simon Peter—one silver, one gold—situated beneath the papal crown.
With diplomatic ties to more than ninety percent of the nations worldwide, the Vatican had a ringside seat.
As Cardinal Vessucci made his way down the winding stone staircase, hiking up the hem of his cassock while descending, his mind was stewing with many thoughts. He was about to lose his friend to
cancer, leaving a vacancy upon the papal throne for which he, and two others, were considered the forerunners in a brewing campaign between conservative parties. Pius had already voiced his desire as to his successor. But the cardinal knew that every election was motivated by political machinations rather than the wishes of the incumbent.
When he reached the bottom stair he could see the glass partition of the SIV Center. The video wall opposite the computer consoles gave view to a collage of moving images, mostly of the Middle East, others in the hotspots of the Philippines and Brazil.
As he walked the length of the corridor he came to a thick glass door, the framework of the glass panel bordered by titanium edging. After giving a perceptible wave of his hand to the SIV agent on the other side, the man waved back in acknowledgement and began to type a series of numbers on a keypad. When the sequence was completed, the door opened and a rush of cool air escaped the chamber. The moment he stepped inside, the glass door closed behind him with a whoosh that sounded like escaping steam. It was the sound of the chamber being sealed.
His other moving concern beside the impending death of his long-time friend was the welfare of his long-time brother in spirit, Kimball Hayden. After learning that the assassin could have killed Kimball, he was greatly disturbed.
He had never questioned the particular set of skills Kimball possessed. But now he had to wonder if the game had finally passed him by. Was Kimball out of his league?
This time—maybe.
Usually the pressures of corporeal life were handled with the power of prayer and faith— the combination putting him at ease in the same manner of self-meditating. But his apprehension could not be mollified to any degree. And he knew it never would be until an assembled team of Knights could be sent to support him. Especially since Kimball’s old team of highly skilled warriors were dropping in the clichéd term of proverbial flies.
Would the Vatican Knights fare any better?
The cardinal wasn’t entirely confident, since this assassin was unlike any other.
All he could do was pray and hope.
As the cardinal stood gazing up at the myriad pictures on the big-screen monitor, the assistant director of the SIV approached him.
“Afternoon, Cardinal Vessucci.” The man was small and wispy looking, the collar of his jacket too wide for such a pencil-thin neck. And his face was as slender as the blade of a hatchet. But when he spoke his voice sounded as smooth as flowing honey. It was the voice of someone who could soothe the masses in the face of tragedy.
“My friend Carmello, how are you today?”
The assistant director looked at the video monitor and gestured with a sweep of his bony-thin hand towards the screen. “Busy,” he said. “The world never sleeps.”
“I see that.”
“But as big as this planet is, nothing is impossible to find with today’s technology.”
“You found the Knights on sabbatical?” he stated this with a tone full of hope.
“Not all,” said the assistant director. “But we did find Job.”
“Where?”
The assistant director went to the nearest console with Vessucci at his heels. After typing in a set code, a portion of the screen in the northeast corner of the giant monitor began to take on the landscape images of a satellite feed. Mountains, valleys and snow-capped peaks; rivers, lakes and pools of blue water everywhere—the pristine image of Lake Lucerne, Switzerland.
“We were able to center in on the GPS coordinates of his cell phone, after you provided us with his number. A very simple tool, actually. Based on the number we were able to zero in almost immediately to his point.”
“Have you found Joshua or Ezekiel?”
The assistant director shook his head. “We’re still working on it,” he said. “Neither seems to have a cell phone, laptop, or anything electronic that we could singularly set our sights on. It could be that they have yet to engage their devices.”
“Or that they didn’t bring any along. They are, after all, on sabbatical. Getting away from the real world is what sabbatical is all about—for prayer and meditation.”
“We won’t give up,” he added. “If we found Job, then we can find the others. All it takes is determination and perseverance.”
Vessucci smiled and clapped a hand on the diminutive man’s shoulder. “That’s true, my friend. But I need you to find them as quickly as you can. The situation is quite dire.”
The cardinal looked back at the screen. It was uncanny, he thought, to look upon the earth with an almost omniscient point of view. And then: “Have you contacted Job yet?”
“Not yet. But we have agents on the way to inform him of his need here at the Vatican.”
“Do you know where he is exactly?”
“Yes, Cardinal. By our coordinates, he’s somewhere close to the Lion of Lucerne.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lake Lucerne, Switzerland
The Lion of Lucerne is a sculpted monument of a mortally-wounded lion carved into the side of a stone face commemorating the Swiss Guards who were massacred in 1792 during the French Revolution when revolutionaries stormed the Tuileries Palace in Paris during the August Insurrection. When fighting broke out unexpectedly after the Royal Family had been escorted from the Palace to take refuge with the Legislative Assembly, the Swiss Guards ran low on ammunition and were soon overwhelmed by greater numbers with hundreds killed and many more massacred after their surrender. An estimated two hundred more died in prison of their wounds, or were killed during the September Massacres that followed. So in 1821, with the designing aid of Bertel Thorvaldsen, and the stone engraving completed by Lukas Ahorn, the sculpture had become a symbolic feature to the courage and testament of the Swiss Guards.
And Job was proud to have served within their ranks before becoming a Vatican Knight.
Standing six one with 180 pounds of solid but sinewy muscle, Job was the only true Vatican Knight to hale from Switzerland, whereas others had come from other walks of life. At the age of ten his father, a judge in the Federal Court of Switzerland, sentenced a major figure in organized crime to life imprisonment for convictions ranging from racketeering to murder. As a result of his ruling, he was subsequently gunned down along with his wife and three children. Job, however, did not go without punishment as two of the assassin’s bullets scored a double shot with two rounds to his back. But before he bled out, Job, or Johannes, was discovered by a nanny who quickly contacted the authorities.
And though he lived through the trauma, it was later determined to be in the best interest of the child that he falsely be declared deceased by the media in order to protect him from future vendettas.
Then, as an orphan, he was tendered the opportunity to serve in the Vatican. At the age of eleven and less than five months after the death of his family, young Johannes began his three-year study to become an altar boy. But his studies were short-lived when he caught the eye of Cardinal Bonasero, who saw in him the proclivity to be someone possessing a very particular set of skills. After falling under the cardinal’s auspices, he was then directed to follow the tutelage of Kimball Hayden and to serve in the glory of the Church as a Vatican Knight. But as Johannes became a young man and having been born in Switzerland, he found another calling to serve in the Swiss Guard. And he was granted that privilege, only to be incorporated into one of the most skilled fighting fraternities in the world once his calling as a guard concluded.
And fighting had become a constant way of life—sometimes protecting the Church and its citizenry to the point of bone weariness. So as a measure against battle fatigue, a Vatican Knight was granted a short sabbatical to get away and commune with nature, with life, to explore his inner self through faith and God, and to find inner peace.
Right now, Johannes Eicher was in complete harmony as he sat beneath a cerulean blue sky on a bench facing the Lion of Lucerne, admiring the smooth contours and exceptional detail of the sculpture.
As he sat there a whisper of a
breeze brushed against his skin like a sigh, a gentle massage.
And nothing could be better.
“Brother Job?”
Job started. To be called Job within the circles of the Church was one thing. To be called Job in his township when his true name was Johannes Eicher was another. The covert moniker of a Vatican Knight is always kept sacred and close to the vest.
Two men dressed in dark, matching trench coats approached him, their hands deep in the pockets. Both sported clean haircuts and faces so smoothly shaven they appeared waxy. Around their necks they wore the pristine white bands of the cleric’s collar.
“I’m sorry,” said Job. “Do I know you?”
The taller of the two feigned a smile and pulled his credentials from his pocket, a flipside wallet, and showed Job his ID card.
The Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the SIV.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Brother Job,” the man said, “I know you’re on sabbatical, but the matter we bring you is of dire urgency.”
“I was assured by the pope that my time alone would not be interrupted. I have another five days.”
“But the message we bring you is from Pope Pius himself.”
Job leaned forward with his hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer, and eyed the Lion of Lucerne. “I know,” he said, deeply saddened. “He’s quite ill.”
“His illness is not the urgency we speak of.”
Job cocked his head. “Then why are you here?”
The smaller of the two took a step forward. “You know of us?” he asked. “About the SIV and what we do?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then you know we’re held to a higher standard when it comes to keeping the secrets of the Vatican.”
Job never took his eyes off the sculpture. “With all due respect . . .” He purposely let his words trail in a way to goad the SIV official to offer his name.
