by Rick Jones
As the hours moved along at a seemingly glacial pace, Peter Savange, throughout the day, attempted to contact Mitchell Doherty, his Chief Editor. It wasn’t until five that evening when the pained voice of Mitchell Doherty’s wife answered. There was no doubt in Peter Savange’s mind that she was severely distraught. “Sylvia, what’s the matter? Are you all right?” After choking back a few sobs and giving off a few broken words, she was finally able to recover enough to maintain a legitimate conversation. “I’m sorry, Peter,” she said. “Sylvia, I need to speak to Mitchell. Is he there? I tried his work number but—” A racking cry cut him off, a wail. “Sylvia?” “He’s gone, Peter. Mitch . . . he committed suicide. This morning. Took my valium. All of them. No one knew . . . He showed no signs.” Savange slowly lowered the motel phone from his ear. The woman’s wailing could still be heard over the receiver, the caterwauling. And then he let the phone fall to the carpeted floor that smelled of mold. “My God,” he said out loud to himself. And then he thought: They killed him after I sent my retraction. They’re killing everyone involved . . . Everyone. Whoever ‘they’ were, he knew that they were tied to Senator Rhames. What a story that would have made, he considered. What a story, indeed. Then he considered involving others with journalistic clout, those who would gladly accept the role as political spoiler. But he also realized that he’d be putting them within the crosshairs as well. Whoever this group was, whoever drove their reigns, certainly had the power to grind their enemies out of existence beneath their thumbs. As soon as the sun went down, Peter Savange felt marginally safe within the shadows of night as he headed for the bus station. What he didn’t know was that he was sharing those same shadows with another who stalked him with silence and feline grace.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kimball Hayden was sitting in his apartment. The drapes had been drawn and the lights were off, immersing him within the shadows where he was most comfortable. The only light came from the screen of his television, with the wan of light casting a bluish gray. Though the news was spelling out in detail Iraq’s incursion of Kuwait, Kimball’s thoughts lay elsewhere. Senator Rhames was his superior, a man who, to some capacity, guided the nation for the betterment of its people. Yet his leadership had come under attack from those who uncovered his immoral behaviors, the ruse no doubt a scandalous venture with the actors no less innocent. But the girl, he considered, a child who was on the cusp of becoming a woman, had she been blinded by her mother’s direction? Did she not see the immorality of her actions, that it was criminal? Or was she led to believe otherwise by her charge the same way that Kimball was led by Senator Rhames? In the end, was I doing the right thing? I want you to know, Kimball, that you did the right thing. The senator’s voice rang clear and true inside his head. Then closing his eyes, Kimball could envision the girl sleeping in her bed with the face of an angel. As he raised his weapon and took aim, he erased that beautiful image with a simple pull of the trigger, the bullet smashing her face so that the dollar-sized wound between her eyes had a sphincter look to it. I want you to know, Kimball, that you did the right thing. Did I? And then the image faded into a sweet and merciful darkness, a place to hide in. But the senator’s voice continued to sound off in his head as if he was speaking from the opposite end of a long tunnel. Can you right the wrongs that have been created? Kimball grimaced. He was now confused between what others considered to be the difference between right and wrong. Is killing a child ever a proper thing to do? Once again, he heard the senator’s voice which had a campaign vigor behind it, a candidate’s vigor: Can you right the wrongs that have been created?
When the phone rang beside him, he opened his eyes. He then allowed the phone to ring four more times before he picked it up. “Yes.” “The subject made one phone call from his room, to Mitchell Doherty’s wife.” “Did he mention anything to her?” “No. He apparently had no idea about Mitchell Doherty. He simply dropped the call.” “And he called no one else?” “Nobody. I don’t believe there’s anyone else within his circle, no one he shared personal information with, and no one else we’ll have to deal with. If there were, he would have contacted them by now. He’s alone, Kimball, and he’s running scared.” “Yeah, I agree. If there was anyone else involved that we didn’t know about, he would have fished them out for us. Savange is the last of his little cabal and the final loose end.” After a quiet lapse, he added: “You know what to do, Arruti. Tie everything up and call it a night.” “Copy that.”
When the call was severed, Kimball felt a headache forming at the base of his skull, which began to work its way forward. It was going to be a long night, this he knew. But his life was about to become weighted by the ghosts who had begun to track him through his thoughts with whispering sorrows, beginning with the girl he had just murdered for Senator Rhames. In the shadows with her puckered and damaged face, he could sense her nearby, could hear her soft whispers asking ‘why.’ Over a lifetime as he killed for the ‘good’ of the nation or the Church, the voices would grow to a cacophony that would drive him to near madness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Peter Savange had never felt so vulnerable or frightened. He knew he was a child in an adult’s game, a simple dwarf who sat amongst giants. And the only tools at his disposal was the pittance of money he had in his pocket to make his escape. $470 would not take him far without additional assistance, this he concluded. After spending $161 for a one-way ticket to Albuquerque, that left him with $309; the funds going fast. In less than a day he was already down forty percent. And he did not want to use the ATM again, knowing that he’d be leaving behind a paper trail for the assassins to follow. They used me and now they want me dead . . . There’s no way I’m going to make this easy for them. After getting on the bus inside the terminal, he read the departure clock: it was 11:53 P.M. In seven minutes, the bus would leave. Yet the vehicle was nearly empty except for an older woman who was with her son, who appeared to be in his fifties; a young couple; and the bus driver, who was pouring over a manifest.
Within the next seven minutes three more passengers boarded the bus and settled in, a heavy-set man, a female college student, and a well-dressed businessman who wore a fedora and carried an expensive looking briefcase. Feeling ill-at-ease, Peter Savange tried to swallow the bitter lump that was forming at the base of his throat, while surveying his surroundings. The heavyset man leaned his head forward to read a tabloid. The college student had immersed herself with a book and began to mark passages with a highlighter. The older woman and her son spoke softly to one another, their tones in library whispers. The businessman was sitting low in his seat in the rear with his arms folded and his face covered by his fedora, trying to sleep. And the young couple, perhaps Georgetown students? he wondered, remained quiet. As the minute hand hit twelve, the driver closed the door and announced the next stop, which was New Orleans. When the bus finally left the terminal, only then did Peter Savange feel a measure of comfort, though it was not as overwhelming as he wished it to be. Still, he sensed that he was outrunning the mysterious posse that would no doubt give chase.
* * *
As the bus continued its southwesterly route towards New Orleans, everyone was beginning to wind down at the early morning hour and started to drift off to sleep. But in the back, the well-dressed man who wore the fedora lifted his hat and took inventory. Including himself and the bus driver, there were nine people. Sitting on the seat beside him was his briefcase. After placing it on his lap, the well-dressed man carefully undid the clasps so as not to disturb anyone. He quietly opened the case which housed a 9 mm that was firmly seated within cutout foam. Also tucked away in its separate cutout was a 32-round high capacity IMI magazine. Removing the Uzi and the ammo casing from the briefcase, the well-dressed man seated the magazine, slammed the unit home, then racked the weapon.
* * *
The audible click was not a unique sound to Peter Savange. He had been on the range many times for recreation, had fired many handguns. And since Washingto
n, D.C. had a law banning firearms, he never sought to purchase one. But the clicking and ratcheting was something he knew all too well. It was the sound of loading a weapon. Savange knew where it was coming from, knew who held the weapon. Standing and wheeling to confront the well-dressed man, Peter Savange lifted his hand with his palm out and fingers splayed in self-preservation, as if to ward off the coming shots. With eyes that exploded wide to reveal mostly white than color, he yelled, “NOOOOO!” Others became startled by the shout, some springing to alertness. The well-dressed man wore the impeccable clothing of someone who was well paid, the suit a high-end brand. His fedora had capped the man’s stoic and angular features, which did not outline in detail his reasons for committing the action, but that he was doing so with the cold fortitude of a machine. The well-dressed man leveled his weapon and pulled the trigger. Two of Peter Savange’s warding fingers did nothing to stop the bullets as they sheared off the digits before impacting against his neck, face and chest, the bullets riddling him with electrical-type charges that caused his body to jolt, dance, and fall to the floor between the seats.
The well-dressed man took to the aisle and began to maneuver ahead while panning his weapon from left to right, then right to left. Windows became wet with the drippings of blood and gore as lives were snuffed. The heavy-set man, the three college students, the elderly woman and her son, all taken down by a flurry of gunfire. As the bus driver started to maneuver towards the breakdown lane, the well-dressed man redirected the Uzi at the driver and pulled the trigger. The back of the driver’s seat exploded, causing tufts of foam to take flight as rounds peppered the chair. And then the driver slumped forward against the wheel with her foot off the pedal, the bus now in a free glide.
* * *
As the last of the muzzle flashes lit the bus’s interior in a blazing display of intermittent lighting, the bus veered sharply off the highway towards the shoulder, its speed decreasing rapidly as it drove into a copse of thin trees, the bus stopping. A moment later, the well-dressed man disembarked with his briefcase, and just as he reached the breakdown lane, he was met by a sedan. Getting inside the vehicle and tossing the briefcase in the backseat, the man removed his fedora and placed it on the dashboard in front of him. The driver, who got back onto the highway, simply asked, “And?” “The loose end was tied up and every witness was neutralized. The mission is now complete.” Neither man spoke a word for the rest of the way as they returned to home base.
* * *
His mother was caught beneath the conical beam of light which didn’t have a source to generate from. She was on her knees wailing with her hands to her face. And Kimball, in a darkness where he felt strangely contented, took tentative steps towards her knowing that the Shape that watched over her would be close by. Her wailing. Her screaming. Her white-hot agony seemed too much for her to bear, with her outlet of release futile. As Kimball neared, he could see from the periphery of his vision the Shape, who watched over his mother like a vulture waiting to feed upon her soul. I know who you are, Kimball said to him in a voice that echoed. I know what you want. She’s a good woman. You can’t have her. That’s where you’re wrong, my boy. Every day that your veins pulsate is a day her heart continues to rot away. She’s becoming black inside not by my doing, but by the doings of a son she gave birth to. All I have to do is sit back and wait. As her soul darkens over time from self-guilt and pain, when she is beyond the point of no return, all I have to do is to extend my hand for her to take and promise her a reprieve.
Your promises are nothing but lies.
Of course, Kimball, but that’s what I do. I lie in order to achieve the means. The Shape who stands beyond the fringe of light looks down at Kimball’s mother. She grows steadily worse because your actions act as a conduit to her conscience. She sees you through the lenses of eyes that are growing considerably darker by the day. Especially when her legacy is becoming defined by death and murder. You see, Kimball, I’m a mere spectator who observes from afar. It’s other factors that destroys the soul. I’m merely a collector. I know who you are. Of course, you do. You always have, Kimball. I’ve been a part of you for a long time now. And some day, when the time is right, we’ll meet again . . . Up close and personal. His mother, who slowly lifted her head skyward towards the light, removed her hands to reveal eyes so black they were vacuums. Ribbons of smoke emanated from them, nothing but winding tendrils. And then she turned to Kimball with a face that was ghastly white. It was the face of torture and suffering, a face that twisted into impossible shapes as her jaw line dropped to an impossible length. Mom? When Kimball tried to reach for her and extended a hand into the light, his flesh burned and became blistered, the pain forcing him to withdraw it quickly. What did you expect? the Shape asked him. The Light has rejected you because you’re not worthy of its grace. It rejects you as it has me for hundreds of thousands of years. You’re wrong. When Kimball attempted to reach for his mother once again, he suffered the same results, burnt flesh. Insanity, Kimball, is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. The Light has rejected you for the same reasons that darken your mother’s soul. What I’m doing I’m doing for good. Are you really? Yes? You really believe that orchestrating the deaths of others is truly a good cause?
In other words: Kill them all and let God sort them out, is that it? Perhaps you’re the right-hand man of God? The savior who believes that killing hundreds is the way to pave a better way of life for many in the long run? Ohhhh, how I’ve thought the same thing over the ages, Kimball, a constitution I still believe in. And yet here I am, still a minion of Darkness. But honestly, here is where I’m most comfortable. And as for you, Kimball, which you cannot deny, is also your comfort zone. His mother then released a high-pitched wail, a cry so magnificent that Kimball was sure that his ears would start to bleed. Keep believing in what you think is proper, Kimball, since every man believes that he is doing the right thing no matter how heinous his actions may be. Murder, atrocity, mayhem, especially when it’s done in the name of God, is the easiest thing for any man to justify in order to ease his conscience. With that said, Kimball, continue your ways of deciphering the difference between right from wrong. Surely if you remain on this path, we’ll no doubt shake hands inside the Valley of Darkness. Leave . . . my mother . . . alone. Even in the gloom, Kimball could see the Shadowman raise his hands and pat the air as if to tell him to calm down. As I stated before, Kimball, I’m merely a spectator. I’ll let you do the rest. In time when this is over and done with, be assured that like me . . . you will never be accepted by the Light. The phone rang. And when it did Kimball was mercifully awakened from sleep, the dream fading. After picking up the receiver, he said, “Yeah.” “The job is done,” came the voice. “Witnesses, involved subjects, all have been neutralized. We’re clear.” “Excellent,” Kimball told him. And then: “Take command for the next few days. I have to head north for a bit.” “Will do.” Putting the phone gingerly into its cradle, Kimball rolled over and went back to sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Vatican
Vatican City
Bonasero Vessucci was the leading member of the Society of Seven, a clandestine order who supervised an elite commando group known as the Vatican Knights. When the interests of the Church were in jeopardy, such as its sovereignty or the welfare of its citizenry, the Knights would be dispatched to protect the innocent when the innocent could not protect themselves. Kidnappings, threats to the Church and to its ministers, would all be solved by a shadow group of militants who had few rivals when it came to martial skillsets. For years he had developed this legion of soldiers, all who had been orphaned at an early age and given a direction to serve the Church either as a soldier or a minister, but never both. He had groomed them, taught them in ways of philosophies and educated them. They trained, they grew, and they became soldiers of moral integrity who sided with the teachings of the Light.
During the afternoon which was overcast with slate-gray s
kies, he sat inside his office going over intel regarding a man who was considered hostile at every facet, a man who possessed absolutely no moral compass at all. To him killing was the norm—men, women and children—with no one outside of his scope. But there was something tantalizing about this man, a notion that refused to go away. As much as he tried to set aside this man’s biographical history, he always found himself gravitating back to this one person: Kimball Hayden. He could not understand this peculiar longing that drew him back time and time again to this one man, especially one who held all the earmarks of an assassin who killed without remorse. But since Vatican Intelligence was commissioned to bring up all people of interests across the globe, which included wetwork operators of question and terrorists, Kimball Hayden mysteriously and strangely stood out to him as a beacon. It was as if he was compelled by an unknown power for an unknown reason, which he had considered the reason to be behind his obsession. Like a magnet that draws metal shavings, Bonasero once again gravitated toward Kimball’s history, grabbed the file, and opened it. He was young, not too far from the military, with dark hair and stark blue eyes. His features were angular and sharp. And his skin had the tone of tanned leather. By historical accounts, Kimball Hayden’s mother had been murdered by those who wanted to send a message to Kimball, a mob hit. All they managed to do, however, was to raise a sleeping giant who wreaked havoc. With a mounting velocity of unbridled anger, Kimball Hayden had swept through the faction with uncontrolled fury. And because he was able to sanitize his tracks, local authorities pointed the accusing finger at one of Boston’s most notorious organized crime family who sought to expand their territory. During the year afterward, Kimball’s once strained relationship with his father had improved to fill the void that had been left behind after his mother’s death. The unfortunate climax to that improving bond, however, ended a year later when his father was taken from him by a fast-moving cancer. But during those special moments between father and son, Kimball excelled at football and his studies. Soon after his father passed, another vacuum had been created in Kimball’s life by his father’s absence, which muted his emotions. His mental state had become blunted and without emotion, the man turning cold. And whenever he operated, no matter the chore or the task, he did so with detached fortitude. After his father’s death he summarily joined the military, where he became an elite member of a special-ops league of soldiers. Into the second year of his stint, Kimball had been recruited by a black-ops arm of the Central Intelligence Agency and went deep undercover. However, it took Vatican Intelligence months to dig up Kimball’s background after weeks of hammering through firewalls, with the information painting a picture of a cold and calculated killer who operated with no boundaries and with impunity. He had killed men, women and children—some innocent, some not—with his cold detachment making him the perfect killing machine. Bonasero Vessucci narrowed his eyes to read further. The report went on to spell out Kimball’s missions in Russia and the Middle East, places where he was the actor in hunt of several targeted killings. His success rate was a phenomenal one hundred percent. Seven missions, seven hits, all on key figures that were political, as well as those who intimidated by use of unlawful violence against those in the pursuit of political goals. Terrorists. Bonasero eased back into his seat and wondered what it was about this man that he was so drawn to. By all accounts he was the ying to the Vatican Knights’ yang, a man whose morals was pinioned at the complete opposite end of the spectrum than his league of Knights. Yet there was something about him, something magnetic. Something Bonasero Vessucci took as a spiritual calling. Looking at the crucifix that hung on the wall of his office, Bonasero looked at the pained face of Jesus and asked, “Why this man?” Of course, he received no answer but an inclination, which may have been answer enough. This man, this assassin, was more than a man who appeared without principled guidance. Here was a man who could alter the difference between the Darkness and the Light by working in the Gray.
