The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

  The Golgotha Pursuit

  By

  Rick Jones

  © 2016 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: rick@rickjonz.com

  Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at:

  www.rickjonz.com

  ALSO BY RICK JONES:

  Vatican Knights Series

  Stand Alone Novels

  The Vatican Knights

  Familiar Stranger

  Shepherd One

  The Valley

  The Iscariot Agenda

  Mausoleum 2069

  Pandora's Ark

  The Bridge of Bones

  Hunter Series

  Crosses to Bear

  Night of the Hunter

  The Lost Cathedral

  Dark Advent

  Cabal

  The Golgotha Pursuit

  The Eden Series

  The Crypts of Eden

  The Menagerie

  The Thrones of Eden

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  Jerusalem

  September 14, 326 A.D.

  Helena, the mother of Constantine and the First Lady of the Empire, stands along the rim of an excavation site with the sun shrouded by a thin veil of clouds. Its light is dimmed and muted. Yet when the clouds part briefly, the sun sends down a Biblical beam into the pit for which Helena believes is a divine sign from God.

  After Helena ordered the pagan temple that once sat upon Golgotha razed, her laborers began to dig upon the site where she believed the cross on which Jesus had been crucified lay buried beneath the sands.

  Digging was glacially slow. But on September 14, 326 A.D., a digger struck something solid approximately 10 meters down. With careful sweeps of his hand he moved aside the dry earth to reveal the surface of wood. The plane of its geometry was level like the face of a writing tablet, though the wood had splintered along its edges. The inscribed letters upon its surface had faded over time, but the inscription could still be read:

  INRI

  Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdaeorvm. Translation: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

  As the digging continued, a cross was uncovered along with two others.

  Once the crosses had been unearthed, Helena then ordered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to be built on the hill of the Savior’s execution on Golgotha, with remnants of the True Cross to be stored inside the church where it would reside for nearly seventeen hundred years.

  On June 26th, 2016, the residency of the True Cross would forever change.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Three Years Ago

  Oliver Beckett was sitting at the Au Bon Pain with his legs crossed in leisure while nursing a cup of Earl Grey tea. The bulky pages of the Boston Globe sat along the edge of the table, the newspaper neatly folded. He was splendidly polished and refined looking, like most English gentlemen of wealth, who sat with a certain rigidity as part of his pose. Though he hailed from London, he shared time between his numerous estates not only throughout the United Kingdom, but those in Paris and Barcelona and on the island of Malta.

  His demeanor was always even regardless of the levels of stress. In his mind he was the absolute point of the people’s adoration. Whether it be politics or religion or as an entertainer, Oliver Beckett believed himself to be the pinnacle above all else, since everything began and ended with him; life, death, and everything else in between. There was nobody more self-centered, and no one closer to being a god.

  He had amassed his fortune as a supplier of arms and weaponry. Selling weapons on the market was just as much of a certainty of making a profit since war and killing had been the backbone of man’s existence. And because of this, Oliver Beckett had chosen his trade wisely. There would always be a market for his goods.

  The day was almost perfect with the exception of a couple of renegade clouds passing overhead. It was warm and humid. But Beckett never seemed to perspire, and that’s what refined gentlemen like him do: they perspire, but they never sweat. Hot or cold, the man always looked comfortable in his designer suits.

  Ten minutes after Beckett’s arrival to the Au Bon Pain, a short man showed up and took the seat opposite the Brit. He appeared nervous and impatient, the man looking as if he wanted the moment over before it had a chance to begin. The nametag he was wearing read Calvin Locke. He was the chief engineer and weapons designer for SystemTek in charge of devising state-of-the-art weaponry for the U.S. government and its military divisions. It was obviou
s to Beckett that the engineer was tense and uncomfortable.

  “Relax, Mr. Locke,” said Beckett. His English accent had a regal appeal to it, that of a well-educated man. He placed a hand on the Globe as it rested close to the table’s edge.

  “Let’s get this over with,” said Locke.

  “If you insist.” Beckett reached down to his side, grabbed a small laptop, placed it on the table, opened the lid, booted it, typed in a series of commands, and brought up a gallery of photos. “Before I show you these, Mr. Locke, you need to give me what I asked for.” Beckett held out his hand. “The drive, please.”

  “Oh, no. First things first. You need to show me that they’re all right.”

  Beckett didn’t waver. “The drive, please.”

  “My family.”

  They pinned each other with stares for a long moment, a standoff. Finally, Beckett conceded his position. “Very well, Mr. Locke.” He turned the laptop around so that the screen was facing Locke, whose chin suddenly took on a gelatinous quiver to it while his eyes began to well with tears.

  On the screen was a series of photos of his wife and daughter. Both were bound by handcuffs. Duct tape had been stretched across their mouths. And those looks of paralytic horror, the way the whites of their eyes spoke volumes of terror that was complete and absolute–at least to Beckett–was priceless.

  Beckett flexed his fingers over his open palm, a signal to Locke to hand over the thumb drive. Which he did, but reluctantly so.

  “Now release my family as promised?”

  “Of course, Mr. Locke. A deal’s a deal.”

  Beckett turned the laptop so that the screen faced him, inserted the thumb drive into its appropriate slot, and downloaded the images. Within seconds the schematic to the M600 SR Squad-Level Precision Guided 5.56 Service Rifle surfaced on the screen. The thrill of a shiver ran along Beckett’s spine like a cold finger. Here was the weapon that would revolutionize ground warfare.

  Beckett faced off with Locke. “And this schematic, is it the prototype? … Or is it the version of the weapon in its completion?”

  “Both,” Locke returned. “It works. The precision-guiding system has been perfected.”

  “Nice,” said Beckett. “Very nice.”

  “Now my family.”

  Beckett closed the hood to the laptop and offered Locke a neutral look. “The Department of Defense will know that you downloaded the images from your PC. Eventually they’ll track it to you. And certainly questions as to ‘why’ by certain high-end principals will be raised.”

  “I completely sanitized my trail,” he said. “No one will ever find out. Believe me.”

  “They will,” said Beckett. “No matter what you think you know about hiding your cyber footsteps, the DOD has the ability and talents to discover the source of the download. And that, Mr. Locke, is you. So I must admit that you’ve become quite a loose end.”

  “I gave you what you wanted,” said Locke. “Now give me my family.”

  Beckett feigned a marginal smile. “I wish that was possible,” he answered. “I really do.”

  Locke gave him a quizzical look. What?

  Locke was so absorbed with the images on the laptop, he never saw Beckett reach for the suppressed weapon hidden inside the newspaper, until the moment he directed it at Locke. “I’m afraid that your wife and daughter are no longer amongst us. And by that I mean the living. I took care of that little problem this morning … So like I said, Mr. Locke, I can’t afford any loose ends. Loose ends aren’t good for business, you know.”

  Locke could see the dark eye of the firearm’s barrel peeking out from the folds of the newspaper.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Locke,” said Beckett. “And thank you for everything.”

  The weapon went off as muted spits, two shots to center mass. Locke reacted violently against the impacts, the man convulsing, but the body quickly settled as Locke’s chin slowly lowered to such a level that it nearly touched his chest.

  The area was empty so late in the afternoon on such a day that was hot and humid.

  Locke had demanded a meeting in a public forum, which Beckett agreed to. But Beckett chose an area that would have provided him with an opportunity of a day-time strike. No eyes to see, no witnesses to bear testimony. It had all gone down as Beckett expected.

  Beckett got to his feet, the man casual in his movements, slow and deliberate, grabbed the laptop, and then he did something peculiar. He ran his finely manicured fingers through Locke’s hair. “Do say hello to your wife and daughter for me, will you?”

  And then Oliver Beckett disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Office of the Monsignor, the Vatican

  February 11th, 2016

  Four Months after the Death of Bonasero Vessucci (Pope Pius XIV)

  Monsignor Dom Giammacio sat in a winged-back chair of fine leather smoking a cigarette. Sitting across from him was Kimball Hayden, the most elite of the Vatican Knights. When Bonasero Vessucci reigned as pope, he requested that Kimball see the monsignor to deal with issues of his self-proposed feelings that he was beyond the reach of redemption. Now that Bonasero was no longer serving as the Bishop of Rome, Kimball had never felt so hollow. When he first attended these sessions, he did so after an appeal by the pontiff. Now he entered into counsel with the monsignor on a voluntary basis, trying to make sense of a life after Bonasero.

  “You say you feel empty,” said the monsignor. “Did you not feel empty when you stated that redemption was beyond your reach?”

  “This has got nothing to do with redemption,” said Kimball. “You know what this is about.”

  The monsignor nodded. “You miss him.” This was not a question, but a statement.

  “I do. Greatly. He was more of a father to me than my true father.”

  “So we have discussed.”

  “I’m at a crossroad here, Monsignor. I’m a Vatican Knight. We protect those who cannot protect themselves. I get that. But it’s endless. We knock down one evil only for another to rise.”

  “Evil cannot be defeated,” the monsignor said evenly. “It can only be contained. If you doubt your ability to continue on, if you begin to question your effectiveness to battle through this, then evil has won. Bonasero realized this and I'm sure, before he died, he knew that you would soldier on. But it must be within your heart to do so, Kimball. In the end the decision is yours to make, not Bonasero’s.”

  Kimball sighed through his nostrils as he appeared to mull this over. Then: “I’ve been thinking about having a family and a home away from the Vatican.”

  “Is this what you want?”

  Kimball shrugged. “I … just think about it.”

  “You have doubts about the future now that Bonasero is gone. Is your redemption no longer important to you?”

  Kimball turned to the monsignor. “I need direction.”

  “No, Kimball. Bonasero is gone. Now it’s time for you to stand on your own.”

  It was not the answer Kimball wanted to hear.

  Then from the monsignor: “Did that strike a chord with you when I said that you must stand alone?”

  “Bonasero understood me. He knew me.”

  “And now it is up to you to understand yourself.”

  Life was so much simpler when Bonasero stood by his side, Kimball thought. It was so much easier and far more linear. Now it had curves and dips.

  The monsignor leaned forward in his chair with a cigarette wedged between two fingers. A ribbon of smoke rose ceilingward. “In the end you must make a decision that’s best for you,” he said. “Not what Bonasero might have expected from you. His heavenly soul is now at rest. But I’m sure, Kimball, he looks over you wanting what’s best for you.”

  Kimball looked at him with an appearance that the monsignor could not read or intuit.

  Then the monsignor asked
: “Do you want to continue your journey to seek the Light of Redemption? I only ask this, Kimball, because of two reasons: Either you’ve come to journey’s end believing that God has finally embraced you, which is why you think of a life away from the Vatican. Or perhaps you’ve come to accept that He has forsaken you entirely, which means that you have surrendered to your fate of damnation.” The monsignor continued to drive his point. “You stand in the middle, Kimball, between the Darkness of the Light not knowing which way to turn. Bonasero is gone. He has shown you the path. Now it’s up to you to realize the direction he has pointed you in, and take the divine route you covet so much. You’ve earned the right. Take it not only in your mind … but also within your heart. Peace is there waiting for you.”

  Kimball started to bite his lower lip. “I can’t,” he finally said. “It’s not that simple. Not for me. I know I’m not there yet.”

  “You’re not where? At the point of self-forgiveness? Or at the point of God’s salvation?”

  “Both.”

  “Eventually you must make a decision, Kimball. You either move on from the Vatican feeling as a man never to receive redemption, or you seek it because it’s what you want to do. The answer lies within you. This is what Bonasero has been trying to teach you all along. This has always been the reason why he sent you here.”

  Stand or fall, this is what Kimball had to decide.

  Stand or fall.

  Kimball sat straight in his seat, rigid. “Since the day I found my mother lying dead in the hallway by the hands of a killer,” he began, “it was also the day I became wired differently from most. Light or Darkness I stand in the middle and probably will for the rest of my life. I live in the Gray, Monsignor. And inside the Gray I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. Only now I do it to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”