The Iscariot Agenda (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  Jeff sheathed the knife and beckoned his brother from the shadows. “Nice job, man.”

  Stanley smiled as he made his way forward. “I never had a doubt.”

  “What are you talking about? You were nervous he was gonna pull the trigger, weren’t you?”

  “Like I said, I never had a doubt. You were moving up on this guy like a cat.”

  After the brothers’ fist bumped each other they turned to the body, the wound glistening in the darkness like black tar.

  “Kinda like old times, isn’t it?” asked Stan.

  “Certainly gets the blood going. I almost forgot what it was like.”

  Kimball came forward. He purposely remained far from the scene but kept a keen eye to see how it would play out. “I hope you two animals are happy with yourselves.”

  Jeff turned to him. “You know what I like about you, Hayden?”

  “No. What?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” He squared off with Kimball, the six-inch height difference between them evident. “Your holier-than-thou attitude is getting on my nerves.” Then: “You’re not the same man, Kimball. One time you would have been bathing in this guy’s blood after you gutted him . . . What happened to you?”

  Kimball remained silent. But his mind answered for him. It’s all about salvation.

  After a short lapse of time Stan stepped forward, grabbed his brother’s arm, and began to usher him away. “We gotta get out of here,” he said.

  Jeff allowed himself to be led and Kimball followed, the men picking their pace up into a jog, then to a sprint, and made their way back to the truck leaving five people dead in their wake.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Vatican City

  Job was dressed in faded jeans that blossomed over the high ankle edges of military issued boots, a black cleric shirt, and Roman Catholic collar. His hair was set in a buzz cut and his sunglasses held an amber-colored tint to the lenses. In his hand was his duffel bag. Embroidered across the fabric was the emblem of the Vatican Knights, a coat of arms of a Silver Cross Pattée set against a blue background. The colors were significant in which the silver represented peace and sincerity, and blue the traits of truth and loyalty. Standing alongside the coat of arms were two heraldic lions rising from their hind legs with their forepaws against the shield, stabilizing it. The implication of the lions was a symbolic representation of bravery, strength, ferocity and valor. It was also the symbol worn on their battle attire.

  When Job exited the terminal, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci was waiting for him by the loading curb beside the papal limousine wearing a conservative-style robe that was black with red buttons and scarlet piping. On his head sat a red zucchetto.

  When the men saw each other they gave off genuine smiles and, after Job dropped his bag, fell into each other’s embrace.

  “It’s good to have you back, Job,” said the cardinal, drawing back. “I’m terribly sorry that you had to be called back from sabbatical so soon.”

  “That’s quite all right,” he said, and then he picked up his bag and rounded the vehicle to the open trunk. The limo driver was standing there with his hands held behind the small of his back, a light smile on his face, then stood back as he allowed Job to toss his duffel bag into the cargo bay. When the driver closed the trunk, Job and the cardinal found their rightful seats and settled in.

  The car pulled away from the curb, the ride as smooth as sliding over the surface of glass as the limo made its way to the main artery.

  Job leaned forward, still wearing his sunglasses. “You said Kimball was in trouble?”

  The cardinal nodded. “You know where Kimball comes from, don’t you? You know of his background?”

  He nodded. “He was an assassin,” he said straightforwardly.

  “Apparently his old team is being terminated by an assassin and we have no idea who he is at this time. The SIV has no information as to who this killer is or why he’s doing what he’s doing. The only thing we do know is that whoever is doing this is going down the list and killing them in order. On the backs of each victim he carves a single letter, spelling the name Iscariot.”

  “The betrayer of Christ. But why?”

  The cardinal shrugged. “We think—Kimball thinks—that U.S. political factions may be involved in this to cover up past digressions. But the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano cannot find anything to support this.”

  “Their government is very good at keeping secrets close to the vest.”

  The cardinal nodded. And then: “A majority of his team is dead, all of them killed off by this assassin. And Kimball is running out of options. I need you to prepare yourself, Job. Ezekiel and Joshua will be ending their sabbaticals and returning shortly. If Kimball can get through the next few days, then I want you three to back him up.”

  “How’s he holding up?”

  The cardinal shook his head and managed a look of concern. “Besides him,” he began, “he’s working alongside two brothers who are as ruthless as Kimball is with his skilled techniques. Nevertheless, I would feel much better knowing that he had the backup of the Vatican Knights, instead.”

  The cardinal fell back into his seat and stared out the window, his eyes staring at nothing in particular, the world passing by in a blur. It was quite possible that Kimball could neutralize the situation, he considered. But if he couldn’t, then there was no doubt in Vessucci’s mind that Kimball would have to return to the safety of the papal confines.

  And if this should happen, then he would most likely bring this war to the Vatican.

  Fighting for calm to quell the mounting anxiety, Cardinal Vessucci closed his eyes and began to pray.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  While the sun had risen in Rome, it was still early morning in Washington D.C. as Kimball and the Hardwick brothers ran down the street toward the pickup. Their pace was quick and silent as a feline that moved with predatory grace. And whenever possible they moved within shadows, using the darkness as their ally.

  When they reached the truck they quickly surveyed their surroundings, sighting nothing.

  The night was still.

  Kimball stood by the cab, his eyes filled with subdued rage. He knew he had to be careful because if he took on one Hardwick, then he would eventually be taking on two Hardwicks, a battle he might not be able to win.

  Kimball lashed out; his tone evenly measured but nevertheless held a hint of resentment. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.”

  “And how was it supposed to go?” said Stan. “Were we supposed to walk in, question the dude, then walk away? We’re operators, Kimball. That’s all we ever were. We move in, make a statement, and get out.”

  “And killing Senator Shore,” added Jeff, “is a message to whoever is out there taking out the Pieces of Eight that we know who’s involved, and that all actions are to cease and desist.”

  “We know nothing,” Kimball shot back. “When he saw me he was genuinely surprised. Don’t you think the assassin would have told him that I was still alive?”

  “Politicians are born actors. Of course he knew you were alive.”

  “He had no idea.”

  Jeff placed his hand on the truck’s handle. “You’re wrong, Kimball. Shore was behind everything because he’s the only one—the only one—who has any reason to fear the Pieces of Eight unless, of course, you have someone else in mind. If you do, then my brother and I will be more than happy to listen to whatever it is you have to say. So tell us, do you have someone else in mind, someone who wants us dead?”

  Kimball had to admit that he didn’t, and that Shore surely fit the bill as a candidate who had everything to lose by the existence of the surviving members and what they knew. But there was nothing about him—his body language, the facial tics or the way he spoke—that served as telltale signs that he knew anything at all, besides ignorance.

  “What’s the matter, Kimball?” asked Stan. “You got no answer?”

  “He’s got no answer,” said
Jeff. “Because he knows we’re right. Ain’t that right, Kimball?”

  Kimball ground his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work.

  Jeff smiled. “I thought so.”

  When Jeff popped the door open of the pickup Kimball observed something wedged beneath the windshield wiper of something that looked like a flyer. “Wait a minute,” he said. He removed the item except it wasn’t a flyer at all, but a photograph. It was a print of the Pieces of Eight. However, this one had been amended. Unlike the other photos this one held an additional circle, another victim, the face circled in red with the letter “I” in it.

  It was the face of Stanley Hardwick.

  And then everything clicked.

  They were not alone.

  Kimball wheeled around immediately, motioning his hand for Stan to drop to the ground.

  Too late.

  Nobody heard the shot or saw the muzzle flash.

  Stan went rigid, his back arcing slightly as he balled his fists against the impact to the center of his forehead. His eyes darted momentarily, as if taking in the final moments of his life, then fell backward as stiffly as a plank of wood.

  Jeff and Kimball took to the ground, searching.

  Nothing.

  “So much for your concept of the assassin ceasing and desisting once the senator was taken out,” said Kimball. “Nice call.”

  “Shutup.” Jeff quickly crawled to his brother who laid there looking skyward, a bloodless hole in the middle of his forehead, the pared back flesh a blooming rose petal of pulp and gore as a thin ribbon of smoke rose upward from the opening.

  “In the truck,” ordered Kimball harshly. “Now.”

  Jeff looked at him, then back at his brother, then at the row of houses, growing angrier with each passing moment. He then cradled his brother’s head within his arms, feeling a sudden and total loss of separation he never knew existed. It was like the complete severance of a body part, something that could never be replaced or made whole.

  Stan Hardwick was gone forever.

  “Get . . . in . . . the . . . truck,” demanded Kimball.

  Jeff looked at him with a lost look, a sad look, then lowered his brother’s head, caressed his brother’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, and quickly got into the cab, keeping his head down.

  Kimball got into the driver’s side, his head low, drove the key home and turned the ignition, the truck roaring to life. In a fluid motion he shifted into gear and stepped on the gas, the truck’s wheels spinning, the rear end fishtailing as he pulled away from the curb and away from the area, the truck sliding into the turns as he went.

  In the rearview mirror Jeff saw the reflection of his brother lying in the street until the truck slid into its first turn.

  And then he was gone.

  #

  “How did he know where we were?” screamed Jeff, raking his fingers constantly through his hair. “How did he know? We weren’t followed! I made sure of that. There was no one behind us.”

  “You don’t have to see someone to follow them,” Kimball said.

  And Jeff understood. “GPS,” he said. “The son of a bitch placed a GPS somewhere on the truck.”

  “Bingo.”

  It would be the last word between them until they reached Baltimore.

  #

  When Kimball pulled into the alleyway behind the surplus store, he turned off the ignition and both men sat quietly.

  After a lapse of silence Kimball finally broke the ice. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said.

  “You ain’t sorry about Jack,” he returned. “You hated him as much as he hated you.”

  Kimball sighed. “It’ll take authorities awhile to determine who he is because he has no history or listed identity. Most likely someone will recognize a photo and trace him back here . . . Maybe.”

  “Does it matter? The guy’s dead.”

  “Look, Jeff—”

  “Save it, Kimball. I ain’t listening.”

  Jeff opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut behind him, shaking the truck. He then went to a steel door giving entrance to the shop, opened a metal box located next to the door with an ace key, tapped numbers on a keypad, and looked into the eyescan. When he was done the titanium bars went into motion and retracted, unlocking the door. Grabbing the handle, Jeff swung the door wide and entered the premise, leaving the door open as invitation for Kimball to follow.

  Unlike Jeff, Kimball exited the vehicle quietly and closed the door softly behind him. He stood there alone, examining his surroundings, the night silent despite the neighborhood, and wondered how long it would take for the assassin to make his presence known.

  Probably not long at all, he considered. And then he took up Jeff on his invite and entered the store.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Vatican City

  “Job has returned to us,” said Cardinal Vessucci, as he made his way across the papal chamber.

  Pope Pius looked drawn and pale, his features hanging more than usual. With a beckoning hand he called the cardinal over to a vacant chair next to his, a couple of snifters of cognac on the table between them. “How are you, my good friend?”

  Vessucci knew that the pontiff was dying by the inches; therefore, he refused to comment on the appearance of his physical state. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feel the pang of sorrow for his close friend. “I’m well, Amerigo. Thank you.” He took the seat next to the pope, a snifter of cognac already poured for him.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Pius, lifting the small glass. “Please, enjoy with me.”

  The cardinal lifted the glass, motioned it forward in salutation, and sipped from it before gingerly placing the glass back on the table. “We’ve yet to find Joshua and Ezekiel,” he told him. “And most likely we’ll simply have to wait until they return in a few days. So I’m sorry to say that Kimball will have to make do with what he has.”

  “Any news on his front?”

  The cardinal nodded. “Just that he’s working in collusion with the Hardwick brothers.” Neither man commented on the savage characters of the Hardwicks after reading their dossiers proffered to them by the SIV. But most likely they were thinking the same thing: Kimball Hayden was not in a good place. The Hardwick brothers were as cruel and vile as the assassin who was hunting them. And both men had to wonder if Kimball would fall back into the mold of what he used to be, or grow into the man they wished him to be. “He’ll be fine,” the cardinal added without conviction.

  But the pope could see right through his friend with incredible insight and noted that the cardinal’s concern was equally as grave as his own. The pope feigned a smile. “I know,” he said, his conviction just as weak.

  “But I am concerned about one thing,” he added.

  The pope waited.

  “If Kimball does not conclude this matter in the States, then he’ll most likely bring this private war of his to the Vatican.”

  “Then we will be prepared,” said the pope. “If Kimball fails in his mission to neutralize the situation, then consider it a blessing that he has the ability to return to us at all.”

  “Still, a war is a war.” The cardinal reached for his cognac. “And there is another matter of concern, I’m afraid.”

  “You would be talking about the good cardinals Marcello and Angullo, yes?”

  Vessucci nodded, sipped from his glass. Then: “There are statements from very reliable sources that the good Cardinal Angullo is campaigning on behalf of Marcello in return for some kind of recompense, should Marcello be elected to the papal throne.”

  “Campaigning for the throne is one thing, Bonasero. Politicking for favors to obtain something on a personal level is something altogether different. Cardinal Marcello is well aware of this and will not fall into dark ambitions.”

  The cardinal leaned forward in his chair. “Good men are often blinded by ambition, Your Eminence. You know that. Now I’m not saying that Cardinal Marcello is corrupt—not at all. W
hat I am saying, however, is that any man who wants something bad enough will justify anything in order to accomplish his goal. And that includes setting aside morals for what he believes to be the better good for all.”

  “I’ve known Cardinal Marcello for many years,” he said. “As ambitious as he is, I truly believe that he would never devalue himself in any way.”

  “Devalue or not, that is why men are men; they make mistakes. And if the rumblings are true, if Angullo is truly persuading his camp to follow Marcello’s for the sake of personal enrichment, then the Vatican Knights will be no more should he be elected to the post.”

  Pius looked toward the windows and mulled this over. “Are you sure of your sources?”

  “Some are from Angullo’s own camp; people with concerns.”

  “Then perhaps I should speak with Cardinal Marcello about his misplaced ambitions, if this is the case.” The pontiff then laid his glass down on the tabletop and labored to his feet, then in a shuffling gait made his way toward the windows that overlooked St. Peter’s Square. “None of us can afford to lose our way,” he finally said, watching the masses moving along the Colonnade. “The Vatican Knights are a valued component to the safety of our citizenry abroad. Without the Knights, without Kimball, I wouldn’t be here myself, especially after what happened in the States and aboard Shepherd One. They are essential to the needs of the Church.”

  “But Marcello will not see it that way. And if he is elected to the throne . . .” He let his words trail.

  The pontiff nodded. “Send word that I want to see Cardinal Marcello immediately,” he said.

  Vessucci got to his feet, clasped his hands together in an attitude of prayer, then bowed his head. “I will do so immediately, Your Holiness.”

  And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Baltimore, Maryland.

  Kimball and Jeff Hardwick were in the sub-basement inside the Vault, the room well lit, the walls were pristine white and lined with rows of all kinds of weaponry. On the table in the room’s center was an olive-green duffel bag. Jeff was stuffing items inside, gearing himself for an immediate evacuation. He had packed minimal clothing items, toiletries, but his main goods were the weapons he had in storage. In the bag he placed a Desert Eagle, suppressors, plenty of ammunition, combat knives, throwing stars, and two other handguns, a Glock and a Smith and Wesson. Most importantly, he tossed in about a half dozen fake passports.