The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  Sergeant William ‘Bill’ McEachern. Served two tours of duty, both in Fallujah. He was a highly decorated veteran who earned several ribbons and two Purple Hearts, having operated in the region as an Army Ranger. Most of his history had been redacted from the files. If they needed to know more, then they would have to start hacking into the Pentagon records, which would take time to get through the firewalls, as well as to draw the suspicion and ire of the establishment should the SIV be tagged as the breaching violator.

  So the SIV hacked into other venues, those of the public stage such as the DMV, social media, information they could build a profile with. After serving his tours, the man simply left the military ranks for civilian life. No wife. No children. The man was a registered Republican. Drove a Mazda with no apparent violations showing up on his record. Had no criminal record. Both parents were deceased. Was a practicing Catholic. And he held two jobs, one as a construction worker and the other as a part-time bartender, with both locations listed, with all taxes promptly paid.

  At first the information passed them by with no obvious red flag. But then Father Essex noted something that was more than just coincidence. He examined the file once again, then confirmed his findings with Father Auciello, who concurred with Father Essex’s conclusion.

  They made the call to Kimball.

  “Yeah,” Kimball said on his end, his voice sounding very distant.

  “We’ve got the results of the files you sent us,” said Father Auciello.

  “And?”

  “Sergeant William ‘Bill’ McEachern. An Army Ranger. Well skilled with many practices. Highly decorated.” Then Father Auciello outlined everything there was to know about McEachern until he came to a final point. “Father Essex was going over the information when he noticed something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The man’s employment.”

  “Something of value?”

  “Something of interest, for sure.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. McEachern works full-time as a construction worker and part-time as a bartender.”

  “OK.”

  “His position as a bartender is from an establishment called The Senate House.”

  Kimball immediately made the connection. The Senate House was a swanky bar in Anacostia, something they had talked about previously regarding the call from Sister Maria Elefante to Washington, D.C. Though the number could not be traced because the files had been completely deleted from the phone company’s computerized system, they did a reverse tracking and discovered that new numbers had been created on the same day. One phone number, however, was created soon after the discussion with Sister Elefante, according to Vatican records, minutes after the call concluded. That was enough time for the trace to be wiped away and for a new number to be created in the database of the phone company. And that new number belonged to The Senate House, which was a landline.

  “This can’t be a coincidence,” said Kimball.

  “In the United States, however,” said Father Auciello, “this would not be enough probable cause to seek a warrant.”

  “Of course not,” said Kimball. “But it’s definitely worth looking into.”

  “Kimball, be careful. If The Senate House is their base of operation, then the advantage belongs to them. You’d be on their territory. And I can’t imagine that being a good thing.”

  “We need answers,” said Kimball. “And we need them quick.”

  “With all due respect, Kimball, diplomacy has never been your forte.”

  “I’m not looking to be diplomatic, Father. I’m looking to right things. And sometimes diplomacy has little effect against some.”

  Then an audible click sounded loudly through the speakers of the SIV chamber.

  Kimball Hayden had severed the call.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Anacostia, Washington, D.C.

  “I thought you said we were well prepared for the operation,” stated the woman with the husky voice. “Instead, we have two dead to show for our efforts.” Everyone was sitting inside the Dark Chamber with a single lamp burning in the center of the table, the weak luminosity unable to reach the edges. Four files sat on the table. Two, however, were opened to show the photos of Cardinal Bishop and Kimball Hayden.

  “Nine men,” she added with a touch of anger. “Several from special forces who believed in our cause. People who were supposed to get in, perform the mission, and get out. Everything was supposed to happen like clockwork.” “It was,” stated the man with the simian brow. But he sounded congested as if he was suffering from a cold, when the truth was that he was suffering from the effects of a broken nose.

  “What happened?” she asked. “It was nine against four.” Then louder: “There were nine of you!”

  The man with the simian brow nodded from within the shadows, the operator a silhouette sitting around the table like everyone else. “No doubt we underestimated our enemies,” he finally said. “And for that I make no excuses.”

  “I told you that before going in,” she answered. “These are Vatican Knights! They are the best of the best of the best. You were supposed to overcome this with larger numbers and better skill sets.”

  “I’ve been fighting battles for a third of my life,” stated the big man in the shadows. “And I’ve been in the hottest zones on the planet fighting maniacs who place zero value on their lives and fought with reckless abandon. But this group—” he paused for a moment. “They fought like no other that I’ve ever encountered before. Even as I went up against opposing Special Forces units in Afghanistan, in Iraq. This team was superior in every possible way imaginable.”

  The dark shape of the gravelly-voiced woman eased back into her seat and remained silent for a long moment. Then she finally said, “They’re Vatican Knights. And I warned you of this. And because of the failures of your team, we’re now looking at a far more dangerous quest just to survive this outcome. They have two bodies in their possession with societal ties. The Vatican Knights, the FBI, and Vatican Intelligence will work in collusion to trace their identities, and will question everyone who were associated with them.”

  “And you believe they’ll come here?” Simian Brow asked her.

  “Of course.”

  “Other than to question us, they would have nothing. The protocol is to deny everything.”

  “But we would always be on their radar, even if we did.”

  The woman reached forward and grabbed the file of Kimball Hayden from beneath the cone of light and studied the photo, thinking that Hayden was a good-looking man who had an unbridled passion to conquer and destroy until there was nothing left but dust blowing in the wind. “The mission is not yet complete,” she stated. Then she shoved the file away with the photo slipping from the folder and onto the table. “I want Kimball Hayden dead. He has the face of an angel but the soul of Evil incarnate. He fights with the power of Darkness. We fight with the power of Light. And he will not stop his pursuit unless we stop him first. It’s just the nature of the beast. And that is the nature of Kimball Hayden.” “We have more people,” said another man, one who had a much slender silhouette than the man with the simian brow. “People who are just as skilled. Special Forces.”

  “And risk another outcome like last night? And so close after the first failed assault? No way. They’ll be waiting for sure. And the results will be the same.”

  “So what do you want us to do?” asked Simian Brow.

  “Outside of Hayden and the cardinal,” she answered, “we have two other targets. Priests within the circle of the hunting ground. Two heathens who deserve to be judged by God and sent to the Stygian Darkness where they belong…We’ll deal with the Vatican Knights when appropriate. And we’ll use all our resources to do so.”

  “Understood.”

  “Until then,” she said, “business as usual. Make preparations to target the remaining priests before the Vatican Knights have a chance to close in.”

  The man i
n the shadow nodded. “I will.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, D.C.

  The first thing Shari did when she entered her office was to contact the Washington Metro Police Department and ask for the lead detective who was responsible for Detectives Danny Parcells and Cecil Cooper. However, due to Parcells being discovered at the crime scene with the belief that his role was to commit harm to others, the lead detective wasn’t at liberty to discuss matters since an internal investigation was underway. He did, however, state that Cecil Cooper was a no-call, no-show for work, which was not only against procedure but unusual as well.

  When Shari asked if a personal contact was made at his home, the lead detective stated ‘yes,’ and that the residence was empty. Again, a case into Cooper’s disappearance was ongoing as well, so little more could be discussed outside of what was already brought up.

  Then she asked about Darce Earl, who was at work, but was on the field working a case.

  Understanding, Shari thanked the man and hung up.

  Cooper was no doubt a part of the system, if not a part of the assault team who visited the archdiocese. Parcells was dead. Cooper was missing. And both men were surveying the archdiocese on the arrival of the Vatican Knights at Dulles, meaning they had prior knowledge of their arrival. Darce Earl, however, appeared to be left out of the ring. Though he did have ties since he was Parcells’ and Cooper’s superior. But he also worked under the man she just spoke with. Shari fell back into her seat. She knew internal investigations by IPO were thorough and time consuming, meaning that the investigation could take as long as several months in order to come to a definable conclusion. But if the Nocturnal Saints were involved, if their tentacles reached to high-end operatives within the system, then the investigation could linger for years, even at the insistence of the FBI to quicken the pace with threats of intrusion from the Attorney General to see this happen. But who’s to say that they didn’t have members in the Bureau, as well. She then contacted the Coroner’s Office and spoke with the examiner, a close friend, who confirmed the names of the deceased: Daniel Parcells and William McEachern. He gave her their birth dates and social security numbers for precise identification. After hanging up and severing the tie, she went into the NCIC system, which was to identify those with criminal records, and came up empty with McEachern. She didn’t bother with Parcells since he was an officer of the law, and therefore would not be in the system. Then she went into other search venues that were at her fingertips, finding nothing. McEachern was a ghost. If she wanted to find out more about the man, then she would have to file paperwork to those who worked the more classified databases. So began the march through red tape to get the process going, also a time-consuming matter until the documents were signed off by the Attorney General.

  As her fingers began to fill in the blanks of the onscreen paperwork, her cellphone rang.

  It was Kimball Hayden.

  * * *

  “We learned McEachern’s background and abilities,” he told her, “through Vatican Intelligence.”

  “You hacked into systems?”

  “We had no choice, Shari. Too many cogs moving inside the machine to spit out the right answer, meaning it takes time, something we do not have.”

  Shari agreed.

  “McEachern was a former Army Ranger,” he told her. “Very skilled. Very lethal. This man knew what he was doing when we confronted him. This group, the Nocturnal Saints, have the tools in their arsenal to see matters done on a high level of military sophistication.”

  “I’ve tried to get answers regarding Parcells, too. But OPI is doing an internal, meaning that everything’s being done behind closed doors.”

  “And the guy he was with?”

  “Cooper? It appears that he’s missing in action.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Look, Shari, the Nocturnal Saints are feeling threatened, I’m sure. So they may come out of the woodwork to slow things down within Metro and the Bureau, if their reach is that long.”

  “It could be,” she said.

  “And if that’s the case, then they’ll try to ratchet things up a bit. That’s why we have to respond quickly—to get the edge before they do with a quick strike.”

  “A quick strike?”

  “The only red flag we came up with McEachern was his part-time employment with The Senate House, as a bartender.”

  Then Kimball went into depth with Shari about Sister Elefante’s call to D.C., and that the line she called was an irretrievable number that had been erased from the phone company’s records before the trace could be completed, only for a new one to emerge minutes later. The timing was considered highly coincidental, and was something the Nocturnal Saints would have done to sanitize their trail. In addition, the new number had been traced to a landline in Anacostia, with the tagged location The Senate House, which was a high-end tavern where McEachern happened to be employed on a part-time basis.

  “That’s not enough to manufacture a warrant,” she told him. “There’s no proof that the irretrievable number that cannot be reestablished by the phone company belonged to The Senate House to begin with. There are no phone records from the Vatican to confirm this, or where Sister Elefante’s call ended up. There are no phone records from the D.C. company to confirm this, either. There’s no probable cause to obtain a warrant.”

  “Shari, you know as well as I do that I don’t need a warrant.”

  “In this country, Kimball, you absolutely do.”

  “There’s no law that says I can’t go into a tavern and enjoy a little drink now and then.”

  “Kimball, what are you planning to do?”

  “I think I’ll enjoy the sites and see what The Senate House has to offer. And I mean that quite literally.”

  “Kimball, we have ways of doing things here.”

  “And so do I.” With that Kimball closed the call.

  Shari, who was fuming as she stared at her cellphone, immediately checked her weapon, a Glock 9 mm, holstered it, and then she raced out of her office and to her vehicle.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Anacostia, Washington, D.C.

  The Senate House was an upscale establishment in Anacostia with a colonial-style front with columns and faux window shutters. The doors were French, however, with antique brass knockers that were added as part of the décor. To the eye it appeared like an exclusive residence that had no markings to indicate otherwise. Other than the GPS giving the coordinates, The Senate House was most likely a private club that was open to members, or to patrons who had been endorsed by members.

  The day was like any other recent day; wet and gray. And the rain was coming down hard and fast. But the Vatican Knights appeared oblivious to it as they stood in front of the establishment wearing their powder-blue berets that bore the insignia of the Vatican Knights, their leather long-coats whose tails flagged against the course of a wind, and their cleric bands which shone brightly through their black collars.

  “Looks like a house to me,” said Jeremiah.

  “Yeah, it does,” said Kimball. “But it’s located in a commercial area where residences are not allowed. So it looks like an invitation to me.”

  When Kimball took a step towards the doors of The Senate House, the Vatican Knights followed. “Keep your eyes on everything that moves,” he told them. “If things go sideways, you know what to do.”

  Kimball opened the doors and stepped inside, which immediately stilled the tongues of the patrons. Kimball stood just inside the doorway as all eyes centered on him. The tail of his long coat dripped rain water on the floor while his eyes measured those within the room, all men. Then from the bartender, who was a large man with a prognathous jaw and simian brow, said, “This is a private club.”

  Kimball looked at the man and noted the two dark rings circling his eyes, the telltale signs of recently having his nose broken.

&n
bsp; “Did you hear what I said,” the big man told him. “You have to be a member.”

  Kimball ignored him as he stepped into the room, which was elegant with the stylized ceiling having been supported by a myriad of Roman columns. The tables were high-end and made of wrought-iron to give them somewhat of an antique look. And the flooring was entirely of polished veined marble. Behind Kimball followed the rest of the Vatican Knights, who branched off with each individual moving to a corner of the room so that each man had a full view of the establishment.

  Kimball went to the bar and noted the high-gloss finish of the bar top, nodded his appreciation of the work, and took a seat.

  The apelike-looking bartender behind the bar placed his massively large hands on the bar top, and leaned forward until their faces were a foot apart. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said the place was for members only.”

  “I heard you,” Kimball said. “But the day’s a little raw, if you know what I mean. Just looking to warm my bones with a few shots.”

  The large man pinned him with a hard look.

  “Please,” Kimball added. “And then I’ll be on my way.”

  After the large man hesitated for a moment, he said, “This one time. And then you’re gone.”

  “Excellent. Five shots, please. And if you’ll line the shot glasses in a row, I’d appreciate it.”

  The big man gave a one-sided smile. “This is an exclusive club, Padre. Each shot is eight dollars apiece. And I hear that priests are on a tight budget.”

  “Then you heard wrong.” Kimball removed two twenties from his pocket and tossed them on top of the bar.

  The large man’s smile vanished. Leaving the money where Kimball left it, the bartender grabbed five shot glasses, lined them up before Kimball, and then asked him what he wanted. After Kimball told him that he had an affinity for cinnamon whisky, the bartender obliged by pouring the cheapest brand that was on the shelf, and filled each glass to capacity. “And what about your three friends,” the bartender asked him. “Perhaps a glass of milk for each of them?”