The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  Jeff smiled and waved his weapon the same way a friend would greet a close associate because he was happy to see them. But the action was committed simply out of cruel enjoyment.

  “Why are you here?” asked the senator. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why are you killing off the Pieces of Eight?” asked Jeff.

  The senator gave him a questioning look.

  “I’m not killing anyone,” he stated. “You people are nothing but a dark part of my history that I just want to forget.”

  “Exactly,” said Jeff. “And what better way to do this other than by assassination?”

  “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Really?” Stan pulled out a folded photograph, a copy, from one of his cargo pockets and tossed it to the senator. “Open it,” he said.

  The senator’s hands shook as he picked up the photo and peeled it open. It was a print of the old unit, the Pieces of Eight, posing when they were in their prime. There was Walker and Arruti, faces he never wanted to see again, Kimball and that crazy drunken Irishman. What was his name? And of course there was Grenier and Hawk and the Hardwicks. They were young and brash and full of the piss and vinegar of true warriors who romanced thoughts that they were the meanest bastards to ever walk the planet. The thing was, they were and they knew it.

  The senator examined the photo, the memories of when he was a part of the presidential circle flooding back. He could recall with cloudless detail the moments he conferred with the president regarding missions as to who was to live or die, or where to send them in order to kill for the good of all nations by preserving and justifying our nation’s right to operate not only as the policeman of the world, but as judge, jury and executioner, as well. The Pieces of Eight had served them admirably.

  Scrutinizing the photo with what could have been construed as scientific examination, the senator became aware of the faces circled in red marker and the letters within: I-S-C-A-R. And then he traced a finger over their images with a soft touch.

  “That’s right,” said Stan. “They’re all gone, you son of a bitch.”

  “You think I had something to do with this?”

  “Who else?”

  “For what possible reason?”

  Jeff looked the senator square in the eyes, both firing off solid gazes of determination. “Several years ago you supported the act to assassinate a U.S. senator, yes?”

  Senator Shore quickly glanced at his wife, who managed a look of surprise.

  Jeff pressed the point of his suppressor against the woman’s temple, causing her to mewl. “The one thing I don’t have, Senator, is patience. So answer my question. Several years ago you supported the act to assassinate a U.S. senator, yes?”

  The senator looked over at his wife who lay there as a wide-eyed doe while waiting for his delayed response. Then finally: “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

  She closed her tear-filled eyes and turned away from him.

  “Senator, were you keeping deep, dark secrets from the old lady here? Not good.” Jeff clicked his tongue in mock chastisement. “You naughty, naughty senator.”

  “For chrissakes, Hardwick, Senator Cartwright was a monster who didn’t know his limitations. That man eventually got to the point where he thought he was more powerful than the president and was willing to bring the man down, along with anyone else who stood in the senator’s way. The process of democracy meant nothing to the man. It was either follow him to the end or fall where you stand. The man ended careers through blackmail rather than tact political lobbying.”

  “Senator, I didn’t ask you why you thought the action to be justified. I simply asked you if you were a factor on deciding whether or not the senator should have been assassinated. And the answer—justified or not—is yes. You conspired and sanctioned the assassination of a powerful political figure serving within the United States Senate.”

  To the senator’s left his wife began to sob uncontrollably.

  “Honey?” When the senator reached for her she shunned him, shrugging her shoulder away from his touch. “I’m sorry.” And then he confronted Jeff with a firm tone. “Get to the point.”

  “It’s a simple equation, Senator, and not a very hard trail to follow.”

  “Your . . . point?”

  “I’m getting there,” he said. And then: “Right now you’re the leading candidate in the polls to succeed President Burroughs as the new Commander-in-Chief, yes?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I don’t say so. The polls say so. You have a double-digit lead over your next opponent and the leader of the opposing party is very weak.”

  “So.”

  Stanley snatched the photo from the senator’s hand. “So, the skeleton inside your closet about you conspiring against Senator Cartwright and sanctioning his assassination would doom your run as the next president of the United States.”

  “Nuts like you come out of the woodwork everyday,” he said. “People like you—those within the Pieces—never had a background or even existed per say. You’d just be cast off as doomsayers and idiots. No one would believe you.”

  “That doesn’t detract from the fact that we’re still a threat, yes?”

  “So you think in order to cover up my past oversights that I need to destroy the source, is that it?”

  “Bingo.” Stan tossed the photo back at the senator. “And there’s the source: the Pieces of Eight. The group you sent to murder a United States senator.”

  Shore examined the photo. “And what are the letters all about?”

  “You tell us,” said Jeff. “It’s your game. Apparently you’re spelling the name Iscariot.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said the senator, and then tossed the photo toward the foot of the bed.

  “Iscariot,” said Stan. “The betrayer of Christ.”

  “I know who Iscariot is. I just don’t understand the concept of the lettering in the photo.”

  “Neither do we, but apparently you’re not going to give it up and tell us why, are you?”

  “There’s nothing to give up. I have nothing to do with anybody within the Pieces of Eight getting killed.”

  Kimball rubbed his chin thoughtfully. During the interrogation he studied the senator with close examination and noted the man’s responses through micro-facial expressions. So far he could not find a crack in the senator’s argument for his defense, and believed him to be telling the truth.

  “As long as we exist, Senator,” said Jeff, “then we will remain a threat to your candidacy as long as we remain alive. Therefore, it makes sense to eliminate that threat, yes?”

  “Again, you guys never existed in the eyes of the proper government body. Even to this day only a few know of your existence—”

  “Which certainly narrows down the field of suspects greatly, don’t you agree?”

  “But you’re the only one who stands to lose quite a bit if news of this hits the media,” added Stan. “And you know how much the media loves fodder.”

  “Do I have to say this again? Something like this would be immediately disavowed by Bush and me, should it come to light.”

  “Nevertheless, Senator, you know as well as I do that negative press—no matter its insinuations—would be a candidacy killer for you, especially when your opponents cry out for an investigation . . . Don’t you agree?” asked Jeff. “As popular as you are, even you could not carry on through the backlash of negative press and survive.”

  “Seriously, after all these years, you think you’re a threat to me out of the blue? If that were the case, I would have acted against you long ago.”

  Neither of the Hardwick brothers could argue that point. It was strong, solid and viable. The man had grown to be a supreme statesman and now stood at the threshold of the presidency.

  “Still,” Stan finally said, “we pose a threat to no one but you, Senator.”

  “Apparently you’re wrong.”

  “No, Senato
r, we’re not.” Stan turned to his brother and met his gaze. And Kimball could almost see the symbiotic connection between the two brothers like arcing synapses from one point to the other, the communication between them unmistakable, the agreement of what they had to do quite clear.

  In unison the brothers simply nodded to one another and stood back, both aiming their weapons at the senator and his wife. It was time to take measures.

  With the slowness of a bad dream Kimball could not move fast enough as he reached out with a hand, not sure what he was going to do, and cried out. “No!”

  The brothers were oblivious to Kimball as they fired their weapons in rapid succession, the room lighting up with muzzle flashes as the bullets penetrated their targets, the senator and his wife taking the shots and jittering with multiple impacts, the opulent backboard and wall becoming a canvas of blood and gore.

  When it was over and the targets stilled, the room smelling like cordite, silence reigned.

  Kimball stood in disbelief not knowing why he was surprised at the outcome since the Hardwicks were involved. When he told them there was to be no killing, apparently they took it as a suggestion rather than a command.

  “I said no killing.”

  “Yeah, well, welcome to the food chain,” said Jeff. “Did you really expect that he would just let us walk away without retaliating in some form? What we did had to be done. You know that. And stop trying to be something you’re not, Kimball. You’re no priest. You’re going to Hell just like the rest of us.”

  Kimball stood immobilized and stared at the bodies. The senator and his wife had been efficiently riddled with bullets, the sounds of the weapons silenced by suppressors no louder than spits, and no cries of pain from either victim. Yet Kimball knew he had compromised their position by yelling out in gut reflex. He turned to Jeff who was glaring at him with fury.

  “Nice going,” Jeff told him. “Now we’re gonna have to fight our way out of here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The assassin had followed Kimball and the Hardwick brothers from Baltimore. He had placed a simple GPS device to the bottom of their truck, the system sending an image of the pickup to the screen of his monitor, which was secured to the dash of his rented vehicle. From a distance of three miles he could safely follow without being seen. And when the vehicle finally came to a stop close to Senator Shore’s residence, he couldn’t have been more elated.

  The Iscariot Agenda was going well.

  Parking the vehicle approximately a block away from where the Hardwick brothers parked their beefy pickup, the assassin found a vantage point on the slightly canted rooftop of a 24-karat home that had been foreclosed apparently for some time, at least by the appearance of the dead lawn and unkempt shrubbery. From his position he had a perfect view of the pickup. And through the scope of the CheyTac M200 he appropriated from Hawk, the vehicle seemed within a stone’s throw away.

  With precise handling he removed the additional pieces of the rifle from his backpack and began to assemble them, carefully snapping the sections together. Once completed, the assassin mounted the scope and checked the landscape through the lens, the world becoming a phosphorous green with objects becoming very clear and very detailed.

  After securing a suppressor to the rifle’s barrel, the assassin found the wide trunk of an oak tree and sighted the weapon to its center. Maintaining a shallow and steady breath, drawing the crosshairs of the scope to the center of the tree’s trunk, the assassin pulled the trigger, the gun barely sounding off.

  When splinters of wood exploded to the left of his intended target he recalibrated the scope and tried again, this time hitting his target dead on.

  Closing his eyes, the assassin took a deep breath and released it with a long sigh. Once he felt a meditating calm sweep over him, he removed a photo from the side pocket of his backpack and examined it. It was a Photostat copy of the Pieces of Eight, the photo marked with circles surrounding the faces of those now dead.

  Looking at the pickup truck, then back at the photo, and with Kimball and the Hardwick brothers currently engaged with the senator, the assassin knew he had more than enough time to set the stage for the next scene.

  #

  “No!”

  There was no doubt in the minds of the two Capitol police officers that they heard the same thing. The cry was loud and crisp and clear.

  From the first level they quickly galvanized into action and grabbed their MP5’s, the officers racking their weapons and heading for the semi-spiral staircase with the points of their weapons directed to kill.

  #

  Jeff, Stanley and Kimball heard the footfalls of the officers climbing the stairway. Having no choice, Kimball removed his firearm and racked the weapon, chambering a bullet. Jeff and Stanley moved quickly to the hallway, the stairway to their left—the officers getting closer. To the left of the stairwell was a recess whose inner wall bore the artwork of something avant-garde.

  “I got this,” Stan whispered.

  Stan went to the recess and hid behind the wall at the top of the stairwell. The Glock was in his right hand.

  When the forward officer crested the top step Stanley surprised him by darting out from the recess and came across with his left hand in a sweeping arc, the blow from the blade of his hand catching the officer in the throat, the clothesline strike causing the officer’s feet to go out from under him as the force sent the man hard to the floor.

  In fluid motion his gun hand came up and centered on the second officer, the man’s eyes going wide with the quick realization that his life was about to end as Stanley fired off three shots in quick succession, the bullets impacting the center of body mass with the striking force driving the man down the stairway, the body rolling to a stop at the bottom step, the man’s face contorted, his body a broken ruin.

  In a sweeping motion Stan came around with the weapon and centered it on the man lying on the floor, gagging, his lungs fighting for breath as his hands clutched his throat where he was struck with a chopping blow. Without hesitation Stanley fired off two additional rounds, the bullets striking the officer in the forehead, two hard punches, his blood fanning out beneath him like a halo.

  And just like that it was over.

  Both men had been killed within a period of three seconds.

  “Now that was a work of art,” commented Jeff.

  “We’re not done yet,” he said. “Don’t forget the guy with the MP5 outside.”

  Jeff held up his weapon, waved it and smiled. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Stan reciprocated with a smile of his own. “Then let’s go get him.”

  #

  Kimball was beside himself. The Hardwicks were caught up in their own blood lust. The killing was as much as an addictive drug with the brothers finding their fix with the pull of a trigger. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down, he thought. In and out with no one killed—the mission simply to determine who the assassin was behind the killings of the Pieces of Eight.

  In Kimball’s estimate, the senator had nothing to do with commissioning their demise. He was sure of it.

  The Hardwicks, however, concluded something differently.

  “Let’s just walk away from this,” he told them. “There’s no need to take out the guard.”

  Jeff faced him with a disconcerting look. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked him. “That white collar you normally wear choking off the blood to your brain or something? You’re turning into a pussy, Kimball. Keep with protocol and erase all elements of opposition.”

  “The guard won’t even know until we’re gone.”

  “If he sees the bodies, then he’ll call in reinforcements. We need time to draw distance between us and them.”

  Kimball knew he was right. That had always been the rule of thumb: Engage, destroy, and retreat. There was no platform he could truly debate from to quash the situation. Killing had always been their forte.

  Conceding to the will of the brothers, Kimball ha
d no choice but to follow, his position as team leader having been usurped by the Hardwicks.

  The killing would go on.

  #

  The remaining officer who covered the grounds received a command through his earpiece. It was a call for backup, the voice frantic. When he responded through his lip mike he did not receive a reply in return, the frequency going silent.

  The officer held his MP5 high, the weapon an extension of himself as he moved his head in a swivel, his world seen through the lens of the assault weapon.

  From behind came a noise; barely perceptible, but still there.

  He pivoted.

  Through the lens he saw nothing but the Italian cypresses swaying gracefully with the course of a light wind.

  Then more noise, this time from the right, no doubt the snap of a twig.

  Something was moving within the shadows.

  The officer pivoted, then with slow efficiency made his way toward the source of the sound.

  There it was, in the shadows, the silhouette of a man standing as still as a mannequin, waiting silently within a copse of trees.

  “You! Move forward with your hands on your head! Now!”

  The shape did not move.

  “I said now!”

  From behind, whispered words were spoken mere inches from the officer’s ears. “Maybe he doesn’t want to,” the voice said.

  The officer never heard the assassin sneak up on him. The man’s focus squarely of what was in front of him rather than keeping a peripheral awareness.

  The officer quickly pivoted, the point of the gun swinging around.

  Too late.

  His opponent quickly knocked the MP5 out of his hands and came across with the blade of a KA-BAR combat knife, cutting through the man’s neck with all the ease of slicing through a hot cake of butter.

  The man’s eyes widened, his neck becoming a second horrible mouth as he quickly bled out. Falling to his knees with his mortality slipping away, his head, although far from being severed, fell back like the cap of a Pez dispenser, the wide gash showing the plumbing of internal gore before falling back dead.