The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  “Monsignor Gianicomo,” he returned.

  “With all due respect, Monsignor Gianicomo, what is it you’re trying to tell me?” Job turned away from the lion and met the monsignor’s eyes with a steely gaze. “Please.”

  “As agents of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, it is our sworn and noble duty to maintain all that is confidential and holy from the truth of the Shroud of Turin to the reality of the Third Secret. It is also our duty to know about the Vatican Knights and provide assistance when necessary.”

  Job was taken aback but refused to show it, his features unmoving. He was led to believe that the Vatican Knights were deeply entrenched as a black op group known only by the Society of Seven—a complement made up of the pope’s six closest allegiances, with Pius serving as the seventh and supreme member.

  But surprisingly enough, this wasn’t the case.

  The monsignor, however, could still decipher the warrior’s thoughts. “We have always known about the Vatican Knights,” he added. “Loyalty above all else, except Honor. It is also the creed of the SIV.”

  Job stood. And the man took a step back.

  “You said the pope has asked for my services.”

  The man nodded. “He and Cardinal Vessucci have asked us to find you.”

  “And how did you find me?”

  “We triangulated your position through the GPS in your cell phone,” he said.

  Job winced. Of course! It was such a simple method with today’s technology.

  And then with a calm but unmitigated authority in his voice, he said, “In the services of my pontiff, I gladly surrender my sabbatical.”

  The monsignor offered a smile, showing rolls of ruler-straight teeth. “Thank you, Job.”

  “Now tell me what it is that my services are needed for.”

  As they headed back to Job’s hostel, Job was flanked by the clergy as they walked across the covered bridges that spanned the waterways, Monsignor Gianicomo gesticulated fervently as he waved his hands with a conductor’s enthusiasm to affect his points.

  He spoke of Kimball when he was a member of the Pieces of Eight with the American government, and whose members were now being killed off by someone who was levels above any assassin they had ever seen before.

  —Kimball can handle himself—

  —Not this time. The assassin made it clear he could have killed him easily but chose to wait—

  Job listened intently, the features of his face going from stoic to concern; the way his brows above the bridge of his nose dipped sharply downward and the way he began to chew the inner side of his cheek—always a nervous habit.

  But still:

  —Kimball is Kimball; a Vatican Elite—

  —That may be so. But he may also be out of his league and needs your help—

  —That goes without question. But Kimball Hayden is never out of his league—

  —Let’s hope so. Because right now he’s all alone—

  They spoke further of Job’s position to back Kimball up to better the odds, and how they were on the search for Ezekiel and Joshua to aid the supreme Knight in his hunt.

  —Kimball had to take this fight elsewhere before the assassin could bring his fight to the Vatican—

  —Do we have an idea as to who he is?—

  —Nothing—

  —With all your resources?—

  —Whoever this man is, he’s nothing less than a phantom—

  A pause, and then in a tone of deference:

  —So is Kimball—

  The men continued onward toward the hostel, the once beautiful day no longer as severe cloud cover began to move in and threatened to open riotously.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The moment Kimball landed he rented a vehicle and, after purchasing a map, charted a course to the Hardwick brothers’ store. After parking his rented car in a fenced-in lot that charged by the hour, Kimball grabbed the manila envelope on the seat beside him and made his way down streets lined with brick-row houses.

  Trash filled the gutters as rogue curs lapped at the filthy stream of water meandering its way toward the sewage grates; and neighborhood toughs, all wearing colors unique to their gang affiliation, sat along the steps of residences shouting out in an undisciplined manner. But when Kimball walked by they spoke not a word, their eyes focusing on the band of the cleric’s collar. And then all of a sudden they would slip into their second skin, becoming disciplined and quiet, as if the presence of the priest was deterrent enough for wayward behavior.

  Kimball passed by poorly kept storefronts until he came across a building reminiscent of a warehouse, the cinderblock walls were laden with pictures of colorful urban murals. Above the door was a sign that was cheap in its design: HARDWICKS’ ARMY & NAVY SUPPLIES.

  Standing on the sidewalk across the way, Kimball drew in air with a long pull, filled his lungs to capacity with stale air, and then released it with an equally long sigh.

  The Hardwick Boys, he thought, they were the last of a unique band of brothers.

  Now, after all these years, he could only wonder how they would welcome him back into their fold believing he died so long ago when, in fact, he absconded from service.

  Would they view him with the same disappointment as Hawk?

  Stepping off the sidewalk, he was about to find out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When the Cessna landed the assassin stated to the pilot another monosyllable word: ‘Thanks,’ then collected his gear and melded with the crowd in the terminal, disappearing from the pilot’s life hoping to be nothing more than a memory soon to be faded or forgotten.

  After securing transport, he made a quick trip to Baltimore to challenge the Hardwick brothers, and took vigil on an abandoned rooftop across the street from the surplus store. Earlier he had seen one of the Hardwick’s enter the store, the man moving with all the pomp and circumstance of an aristocrat. The way he held his chin in a self-aggrandizing manner or the way he walked with a hitch in his gait, were clearly gestures that this particular Hardwick thought he was well above everyone else on the urban jungle food chain.

  It was also the ‘Hardwick’ myth that the assassin was willing to dispel with the aid of his pick.

  As the day wore on he took mental notes from the rooftop, as well as to draw the outlay of the streets. He noted entry and exit routes, vantage points from high and level surfaces, and charted a means of escape from several locations.

  The assassin was planning well.

  Within two hours of his arrival and approximately ninety minutes after Hardwick entered the store, the assassin caught the glimpse of a man walking with a purpose. The man was large and well built, and he wore a cleric’s shirt with the pristine white band of the Roman Catholic collar. He also wore black fatigues with cargo pockets and high-ankle military footwear. On the pocket of his shirt was the emblem of a silver Pattée within a blue shield supported by lions: The symbol of the Vatican Knights.

  Kimball Hayden!

  The assassin watched from a safe distance surprised that ‘the priest who is not a priest’ was less aware of his surroundings, given the fact that he knew he was a targeted man. However, the assassin also knew that Kimball was untouchable until the Hardwick brothers were terminated.

  For a long moment he watched the Knight stand across the street from the surplus store, Hayden appearing lost in some type of self debate before stepping off the curb and making his way to the front of the mural-laden store. A manila envelope was in his hand.

  No doubt the dossiers, the assassin considered.

  Now the game would become harder, he thought, the competition much higher. But the odds of three to one deterred him little. He took out Hawk, The Ghost, with little effort, the old man’s skills obviously eroded over time. But the Hardwicks looked fit and ready to fight at the drop of a hat. And there was no doubt to the skills of Kimball Hayden. Without reservation the confrontation between these three just ratcheted up several notches to a much higher degree
of difficulty.

  This time Kimball would be waiting.

  And so would the Hardwick brothers.

  From his perch the assassin watched Kimball make his way across the street and to the establishment’s front door. After another moment of hesitation Kimball reached up and pushed the button.

  Even from his position the assassin could hear Kimball being buzzed in.

  He was that close.

  #

  Jeff Hardwick could hardly believe his ears when the door buzzer sounded off. The army/navy surplus was widely known in the ‘streets’ to be a front and not truly an outlet for goods sold at all.

  Curious!

  Through the spycam, Hardwick could clearly see the image of a large man. In his hand was a folder of some kind, perhaps an envelope. His first thought was a mail drop-off that had to be signed for. But with closer examination he saw the cleric’s collar. The man’s face, however, remained obscured since he kept his eyes downward.

  A priest?

  When Hardwick reached beneath the counter he did so for two reasons: one, to hit the buzzer to allow the man in; and two, to ready himself with a Glock, in case something wasn’t quite copasetic.

  He took the weapon and placed it within the waistband of his pants, covered it with the tail of his shirt, and buzzed the man in.

  #

  The man looked anything but cherubic, Jeff Hardwick thought. He had broad shoulders and a tapered waist, along with the angular and chiseled features of an athlete rather than a preacher. The edges of his eyes looked as hard as flint with the promise that a single spark could ignite something extremely volatile within. And when he walked he did so with the type of authority neither of the Hardwick brothers could match, no matter how hard they tried.

  This man moved like a seasoned warrior.

  Hardwick slowly eased his hand behind him and found the familiar curve of the pistol’s grip. “Something I can do for you?” he asked.

  The large man moved closer. “Has it been that long that you don’t even recognize me?”

  Hardwick cocked his head to one side and closed his eyes into narrow slits, focusing. Like taking a splash of ice cold water to his face his eyes suddenly flared with recognition, the whites the size of communion wafers. He slowly lowered his hand from behind and found a place on the countertop, as if to steady him.

  “Kimball?”

  The Knight nodded. “It’s been a long time, Jeff.”

  Hardwick stepped around the filthy glass casing, his eyes remaining fixed. “You’re supposed to be dead—in Iraq. We held a ceremony for you.”

  “Can’t believe everything you hear, right?”

  “What happened?”

  Kimball stared for a long moment before placing the manila envelope on top of the glass counter. “I ran,” he said simply. “I couldn’t do the job anymore.”

  The muscles in the back of Hardwick’s jaw flexed. And Kimball could see something seething inside him.

  “You ran.” It was not a question, but a statement of aversion. “You of all people,’ he said with contempt, “the biggest swinging dick in the unit, a coward?”

  “It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “You ran! Runners are cowards!”

  “Jeff—”

  “Kimball Hayden, the man without conscience, the killing machine we all wanted to be, a coward.”

  Kimball sighed. This was not going to be easy.

  “Why are you here? And what the hell is that around your neck? Now I know you didn’t get all religious on me,” he said. “God abandoned you like He did us for the choices we made as members of the Pieces of Eight. You think you’re going to be absolved of your sins by masquerading as a priest?”

  “I’m not a priest.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up,” he said sarcastically. “To think you were a hypocrite as well as a coward.”

  “I didn’t come here to ask you for acceptance.”

  “Then why are you here? And why are you wearing that damned collar if you’re not a priest?”

  Kimball raised a finger and brushed it lightly across the band. “I’m an emissary of the Church,” he answered.

  “An emissary? I’m afraid that’s a ten-dollar word to me.”

  “It means agent or representative of the Vatican.”

  “The Vatican?” Hardwick couldn’t help himself as he stared at the man, and then at the collar, noting the genuine cast of truth radiating from the man’s blue eyes the same way a battery of heat shimmers off the desert floor. And then he noted the incongruous wear of black military pants and combat footwear. “From the waist up you’re a priest,” he said. “But from the waist down you’re dressed as a soldier.” Hardwick hesitated, and then: “What exactly do you do as an emissary from the Church?”

  “Whatever needs to be done,” he answered.

  “Are you here to save my soul? Is that—like—a priority in the eyes of God or something?” His smile took on something mischievous and cruel, something maliciously twisted. “Are you here to save the Hardwick boys?”

  He pushed the envelope across the glass surface of the countertop towards Hardwick. “In a way I guess you can say that,” he said. “But not in the way you think.”

  He opened the folder. Inside were a bundle of photos, black and white glossies. Lying on top was a photo of a legless Walker tied to a wooden table with the letter ‘I’ carved into his back.

  “Let’s start with this one, shall we?” said kimball. “But first I think you’ll need to contact your brother.”

  Hardwick’s jaw began to fall, his features slowly descending into awe.

  “Call your brother,” Kimball stated firmly. “Now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Stanley Hardwick was just as amazed as his brother, and filled with the same inbred disdain for any measure of cowardice, as he stared at Kimball from across the counter, his hardcore features twisted into a leer and his arms folded defensively across his chest. “I should kick your ass.”

  “You could try, but you wouldn’t get too far.”

  “My brother tells me you’re a priest of some kind.”

  “An emissary,” he corrected. “Or is that a ten-dollar word to you as well?”

  “I know what it means.”

  Stanley looked at the collar and gave off a chortle that sounded more like a single, snide bark of condescending amusement. “Here we are mourning your loss while you were sipping cognac in Italy.” He shook his head. “You cowardly son of a bitch.”

  Jeff Hardwick pulled up next to his brother. They looked so much alike, thought Kimball. Not exactly twins, but close to it—same features and physiques with bully-like mindsets that were perhaps more of a learned trait rather than a genetic one.

  “All right,” said Jeff, “you’re here, so now what?”

  Stanley remained fixed with a hard stare as he remained unmoving behind the counter.

  Sliding out the first photo, Kimball pointed out that Walker, the first of the Pieces of Eight to be targeted and killed by an unknown assassin, then continued with Arruti and Grenier in the posed sequence of the photo starting from the top row from left to right, then the bottom row, once again in the sequential order from left to right.

  Stanley Hardwick seemed less hardened and more sober to the situation.

  “We run an operation,” he told Kimball, “of selling hard-to-find wares.”

  “You mean illegal weapons.”

  Stanley held his hands out as a gesture to emphasize the store in general. “You think we actually opened this place up to sell this crap? Of course not. Our profit comes from selling arms. We were Arruti’s and Grenier’s top suppliers.”

  Jeff Hardwick picked up the photos of Walker, Arruti and Grenier and held them in his hand like the splayed cards of a poker hand. “Now we know why they haven’t contacted us,” he said.

  “How did you get these?” asked Stanley.

  “Through contacts.”

  “I know that. Are you
doing this through the Church?”

  Kimball remained silent as Jeff put down the photos and picked up the glossy of Victor Hawk, AKA ‘The Ghost,’ lying face down in red clay. The letter ‘R’ was carved into his back. “There ain’t anybody good enough on this planet to take out The Ghost,” he said.

  “Apparently there is,” Kimball returned. “He could have killed me too, but he didn’t.”

  “That would have been no big loss,” commented Stanley.

  Kimball could almost feel the venom flowing from Stan Hardwick’s lips.

  “The Ghost was old, brother—lost his edge. That’s what happens when you don’t train consistently. You lose your edge.”

  “Really?” Jeff held up the photos of Arruti and Grenier. “Then what about these two?” he stated rhetorically. “We know they didn’t lose their edge. They were still at the top of their game and we both know that.”

  Stan Hardwick refused to look at the photos. Instead, he kept his steely eyes on Kimball.

  “This man, this assassin,” began Kimball, “is targeting us for whatever reason. He killed five skilled soldiers in such simple fashion it’s hard to believe that it’s just one man doing so.”

  “And you’re sure it’s just one man?”

  “There was only one set of prints at Hawk’s ranch.”

  “That only means to me that it took one guy to take out Hawk.” Then: “Look, Hawk was nothing special. Not anymore. He let himself get fat and his skills suffered for it . . . He became nothing more than an old man living off the memories of a time long faded. A boy scout could have taken him out.”

  Kimball could hardly dispute the claim, since one set of footprints could have meant that the assassin performed the mission solo. But assassin teams usually worked in unison with team concept essential to the movement of completing the task successfully. Man power was always critical in order to keep a solitary out of the crosshairs. If this assassin had backup, he found no evidence.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m sure it’s just one man. You know the rule: No one works rogue unless you are rogue.”