by Rick Jones
Shari didn’t have to go to the window. She could see right through the sheer drapery that hung downward from the rods and could see her husband getting into the Escalade. Then the moment struck her as if she had been splashed with a bucket of cold water, harsh and brutal.
She didn’t run to the window but to the door, opened it and stood on the stoop with the phone down by her side. Her face became a mask of someone who had the sudden awareness of knowing that something terrible was about to happen, something gravely horrible.
Just as Gary and the kids were waving good-bye, the hood and roof of the vehicle erupted into a blossoming fireball that boiled skyward. The Escalade took flight, seemed to hang in the air for a brief moment, and then came down hard on all four wheels. Metal burned as did bone and tissue.
Dropping the phone, Shari tried to cry out to her family, to her children, feeling and sensing the heat of the flames against her skin as she reached a hand out to them.
In the distance at the mouth of the street that led into the cul-de-sac, Shari never noticed the vehicle that was making a three-point turn to leave the area.
#
He had told her to go to the window. Instead she went to the porch, giving her a ringside seat.
Even better, thought Mohammad.
As soon as she was about to cry out to her family, Mohammad depressed the button on the remote. The Escalade had gone up far better than he had planned, the fire and smoke, the consuming effect devouring the life of her family.
Hiking the corner of his mouth into a satisfying grin, Mohammad Allawi started his vehicle, made a three-point turn, and casually drove away without any sense of urgency. He acted as if nothing had happened at all.
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER SIX
Church of the Holy Sepulchre
The Old City of Jerusalem
There were three of them. Assassins. And they worked within the shadows. On a night where the moon was in its slimmest phase, it shed little light over the landscape that surrounded the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
They moved with feline softness and grace, making no sound as they approached the entryway of the church. Taking lead was an expert at double-edged weaponry, the one they called the Man-of-Many-Blades. He was a skilled practitioner at throwing and finding his mark, the knife often embedding deep in a man’s throat or rupturing the heart when striking center mass. His throw was almost always lethal, the blades traversing the air as soft whispers moments before impact, and then biting deep.
The other two carried unsuppressed assault weapons, AK-47s. The plan was for the Man-of-Many-Blades to silently cut a swath through the church and to the level below, where a most coveted prize awaited in the vault that was reputed to be above the tomb of Jesus Christ. But the value of the relic meant little to these men. The true value came in what they could barter for in return, which was state-of-the-art weaponry.
The night was quiet and violence in this part of the region was nonexistent. But all assassins had a purpose, which meant that lives were meaningless and posed as mere obstacles, and that achieving the means meant everything.
They moved along the grounds of the Calvary, the site of the church, and into the courtyard that led to the doors of the Current Church. The doors were closed, which was expected, and two Muslim guards maintained their posts by the Stone of the Unction just beyond the gates.
Atwa, the Man-of-Many-Blades, removed two throwing knives that were sharpened to surgical precision, and with the tip of one blade, he began to softly scratch the surface of the medieval door.
Moments later a latch was being thrown back, the metal rod retracting from the hold of its circular socket, the door opening. Light from burning candles within spilled into the courtyard, their feeble glows alighting on a figure dressed in black, his face covered with black fabric with the exception of raven-colored eyes. If there was one thing that Atwa could always count on it was human complacency. People always seemed to let their guard down when life became too safe and routine. And for these guards it was a fatal mistake.
Before the guard could respond, the Man-of-Many-Blades came across with a sweeping arc and sliced the man’s throat, from side to side until the lips of his wounds looked like a horrible second mouth. As the guard fell back with his hands to his neck, as arterial red bled profusely through the divides between the gaps of his fingers, Atwa cast the second blade with speed and accuracy, the knife catching the second guard in his right eye and penetrating deep, the point piercing the brain. The second guard snapped his head back, dropped his weapon, arced his spine a moment before falling backward, and then he hit the floor, hard, by the Adam Chapel. The first guard went to his knees and gagged with a horrible wetness, his eyes flaring. And then he reached a bloody hand out to Atwa.
Atwa stood within the feeble glow of candles burning in pious homage, removed a third blade, leaned over to the guard, who was Muslim, spoke Arabic, then put the man out of his misery by driving the point of the knife deep through the man’s temple. When Atwa withdrew the knife from the man’s skull, it sounded off with a sickening wet sound as if he was pulling the knife from a ripe and juicy melon.
Without saying a word, Atwa gestured and directed his team to task now that they had breached the interior. They raced quietly past the Nails of the Cross Altar, through the opening of the Crucifixion Altar, then they charged passed the Derision Chapel, and into the Saint Helena Chapel. Though they had studied the layout in-depth, they were still in awe of the church’s magnificence. At the far end, situated inside a two-story recess that was arched-shaped, stood the statue of St. Helena. But the moment of study was brief as they took to the stairway to the statue’s left, and descended to the area known as Golgotha’s Rock, the site of Christ’s crucifixion.
The tunnel was poorly lit by candles, and the smell of melting tallow seemed to be everywhere.
At the end of the tunnel was a doorway, a vault. Inside, a priceless treasure.
Atwa placed a hand over the massive door that was made of thick wood pieced together by black steel bands and rivets. Without saying a word, Atwa backed away and pointed to the black steel lock that had a keyhole that no doubt needed a massive-sized key to open it. The second assassin closed in, reached inside his black garment, and produced a small wad of C-4 explosive. He packed it like Play-Doh, molding the plastic from one cupped palm to the other in order to shape it like a ball, and then he slapped the piece against the lock. After plugging in the nonel detonators, he then initiated the fuses and stood back, and allowed for the delay to catch up and ignite the explosive. Suddenly the steel lock and pieces of the door exploded outward with wood and metal skating across the floor. The area shook. The noise was loud. And time came down to a precious few moments.
When the smoke began to clear they saw the prize situated on an altar at the opposite end of the room. The walls and the altar which the relic sat upon glimmered with the purest gold. The glow seemed almost ethereal, the surrounding light radiating outward like a halo that had a life of its own. The third assassin quickly grabbed the item from its mount, wrapped it in black cloth, and nodded to Atwa: let’s move.
They left just as quickly as they had entered the subterranean chamber. Only this time they would be met by the priests who had been alerted by the blast. Atwa grabbed a blade in each hand, took point, and raced for the landing of the Calvary with his team in tow.
A priest was coming down the stairway wearing his priestly vestments. And Atwa’s aim was true. The knife traversed across the space between them in the time it takes a man to blink an eye, and settled deep in the cleric’s throat. The priest stumbled, glanced off the stone wall, and began his long tumble down the stairwell.
Atwa and his team gave the priest enough of a berth for the man to roll past, then moved on. At the top of the stairway they saw the approach of two more priests who made their way cautiously due to raising the hems of
their garments, while hastening to Atwa’s position.
Atwa was quick, very quick. Two more blades, two more lives snuffed out.
And then the team ran toward the exit doors uncontested.
Within seconds they found comfort within the shadows of the night.
And in Old Jerusalem, when the last incident of violence was nothing but a vague possibility to most, a new story of violence began. It would start with the theft of a precious relic, one that rivaled the likes of the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail, and perhaps one of the greatest treasures of all.
The story would start with the True Cross, the remnants of wood upon which Jesus Christ had lost his life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Inside the Papal Office
Vatican City
After the well-coordinated attacks by ISIS forces against the Vatican, which ultimately took the life of Pope Pius XIV and many of the papal council, rebuilding the papal throne was not about to wither and simply fall away into oblivion. A resurrection was had. The apartments within the Apostolic Palace were reconstructed along with the halls of the barracks belonging to the Swiss Guard, as well as the Gendarmerie Station.
Life moved quickly along with as much normalcy as possible. But it was difficult. Angers rose across the globe inciting riots and hatreds against mosques and churches. Burnings and arsons became the norm. People were killed for their beliefs.
And then came an appeal from the newly elected pope, Pope John Paul the Third, who begged for forgiveness and to allow God, whether it be the god of Christians or Muslims or Jews or any other denomination, to enter your hearts and see the Light. For God is One to All since He has many faces … but only one voice.
Burnings began to slow, though not completely. As did the killings and murders of Christians and Muslims, though, again, not completely. But angers were beginning to quell, enough so that law enforcement and the military could finally gain control and manage the masses.
Time passed.
And the church now saw a need beyond the Swiss Guard to shore up their defenses. The Vatican Knights were no longer a covert group, the announcement coming from the Holy See stating that in such times, even the Vatican and those who govern it has the right to fully protect themselves. And this was agreeable by the court of public opinion.
And though there was a need to heighten security, it was also understood that the borders would be left wide open and without walls since all were welcome. And everyone was accepted. The Vatican would continue to extend its arms in invitation.
Sitting at his papal desk Pope John Paul III, or cardinal Antimone, the one-time leading cardinal of the Curia, graciously offered Monsignor Dom Giammacio a seat in front of his desk. “Please,” he told him, gesturing to the chair.
The monsignor took it, wishing for a cigarette.
Since there is no true directive regarding doctor-patient privilege at the Vatican, though it is understood that such privilege is to be recognized as a courtesy, the monsignor was nevertheless obligated to speak to the pope on certain issues. This was due to the string of allegations conducted by pedophile priests. But said allegations would not be a topic of today’s discussions. Instead, the topic would center on Kimball Hayden.
The pontiff sighed through his nostrils. “How is he?”
The monsignor nodded. “He’s angry. And I’m not sure where his focus truly lies.”
When Kimball returned from his mission in Syria after rescuing refugees from the hands of an ISIS warlord and nearly losing his life in the process, it was then, while lying in a hospital bed, that ISIS had marched on Vatican City in a well-coordinated attack which took the life of Bonasero Vessucci, and leaving Kimball racked with grief. Many lives had been lost that day. Too many, in fact. And it was on that day that ISIS won the battle but not the war.
Often Kimball was found down below in the burial chamber having a one-sided conversation with the man he had considered to be more of a father to him than his real father. He showed him great love when his real father showed him little. And whenever Kimball stumbled, which was often, it was Bonasero’s hand that lifted the warrior back to his feet. Now the safety net that had been Bonasero Vessucci was forever gone.
Kimball was now alone.
And he was scared.
More so, he was angry as hell and made no bones about going after the man who was clearly responsible for the attack: a man by the name of Mabus.
“Are we losing him?” asked the pope.
The monsignor shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s hard to say with Kimball. You know how he is. When Bonasero was around he was more predictable. When Bonasero spoke, Kimball listened. Now that Bonasero’s gone, that leaves Kimball to follow his own path. But if he does, it will not be a path recommended by the church.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that Kimball’s anger will redirect him. He wants the man responsible for Bonasero’s death.”
“Again,” said the monsignor, “Kimball says, for now, that he will devote himself to the church. But there is a line, Your Holiness, and it changes you if you cross it. Kimball may have skirted it, he may even have walked along its length, but he never crossed it. Not yet. But if he does cross this line … it will change him, and they’ll be no turning back.”
Pope John Paul III seemed to mull this over for a moment. Then in a low-keyed tone, he said: “Please keep me posted. The church needs Kimball as much as Kimball needs the church. Let’s pray that his anger dims. If not …” He let his words hang.
The monsignor bowed his head. “I understand, Your Holiness.” And then he got to his feet and left the chamber dying for a smoke.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the Halls of the Vatican Knights
Vatican City
There is a fieldstone house by the Old Gardens, a building that is non-descript but also the home of the Vatican Knights. Not only does it serve as a barrack filled with small living quarters, it’s also a training area, a mess hall, and a ceremonial chamber to honor those who had fallen in battle.
The training area is a circular room capped with a small cupola that bears the mosaic images of cherubs and angels caught within a Biblical beam of light that shone down from parting clouds. On the floor was another design also created with mosaic tiles, that of the emblem of the Vatican Knights. The emblem was a silver Cross Pattée centered within a powder-blue shield, with two heraldic lions standing on their hind legs supporting that shield from either side. Surrounding the symbol in Latin script was Fides Supra Omnes Nisi Honestas. Loyalty Above All Else, Except Honor.
Kimball was sitting in the center of the chamber with Farid sitting opposite him, the boy he rescued several months earlier in Syria the day Bonasero Vessucci died inside the Vatican. Above them was a small window at the top of the cupola, which allowed a shaft of natural light to shine down on them. And Farid, a boy of ten, was perhaps the most wanted boy in the world since he was the son of Mabus, the man who planned the assault against Vatican City. The child had watched his father murder his mother, faulting her for birthing a coward in Farid. So he absconded from his father’s care and wound up inside a church, a Catholic church, which was blasphemy in the eyes of Allah and an insult to his father, and found comfort within the care of Sisters Patty and Kelly who reminded him of his mother, who was kind and caring and sweet and without a vicious bone in her body unlike his father, who was vicious and cruel and ruled by the point of his knife or by the edge of his blade. Taking a life in Mabus’s eyes was systematic and justifiable. But in the eyes of his mother, and in hushed tones to her son, she would tell him that there was no god that would condone the killing of another man, especially Allah. And this Farid took to heart.
Now, after several months under the care and guidance of the Vatican Knights, and with Mabus unaware as to where his son was, Kimball was able to slowly appraise the boy to see if he had the mettle and t
ools to become a Vatican Knight, but only if the boy chose this path.
But after two months Kimball could see that the boy, though he had his merits, could never be a Vatican Knight. In fact, he was more suited to becoming a cleric, either an imam khatib or a priest, with his choice of faith also his decision. Right now the child was under the protection of the Vatican from the man who spearheaded the drive to burn the church down to its foundation, an odd coincidence.
But at the moment Kimball was after something else. From the boy’s description of his father, Mabus could be and look like any Arab in the Middle East: a man with a black beard and skin the color of tanned leather, who stood approximately five-ten with a slim build and no outstanding feature that would set him apart from anyone else. No one knew what he looked like, the man smart by staying completely off the radar and working through couriers. Not even the CIA, MI6 or the SIV had any feasible intel–not even grainy photographs–which told Kimball that Mabus was a man of high intelligence who clearly understood that the key to survival was elusiveness. And since it was agreed by the Vatican to allow the boy to grow as a child with all the magical wonderments that came with being a child, they did not offer him to any of the intel agencies who would have whisked him away to mine him for information regarding his father. It was no life for a young boy, especially one who had no choice as to who he was or from whom he came from.
So Kimball took a different route, becoming a paternal figure to Farid the same way Bonasero Vessucci had become a mentor to Kimball.
“Can you tell me anything about your father?” Kimball asked him in broken Arabic.
Farid always laughed at Kimball’s faux pas when attempting to speak the language, but Kimball always got his message across.
