by Rick Jones
This brought some light laughter from nearby patrons, who were seated approximately ten feet away.
“They’ll be fine,” Kimball answered.
“Whatever.” The bartender then turned away and placed the bottle on the shelf beneath the mirror.
“I couldn’t help notice the nasty shiners you got. You must have come up against the wrong guy,” said Kimball.
The bartender wheeled quickly around on his feet, the man’s face a mask of deep-rooted hostility. “I walked into a door, which is no business of yours anyway.
Now drink up and get the hell out of here.”
“But I’ve questions to ask. You’re a bartender. You’re supposed to listen to my issues and give me advice.”
“You want advice?” said the big man. “I’ll give you advice. Drink up and get the hell out of here.”
Kimball feigned a smile. “Not the answer I was looking for.”
“I don’t care what you’re looking for. Drink up…and get out. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Kimball nodded. Then he pointed to the shot glasses that were lined up neatly in front of him. “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he said. “And if I don’t get the answers I want by the time I finish the last glass—let’s just say that things around here won’t be all that pleasant.”
“Meaning what?”
Kimball raised the first glass and held it close to his lips. “Question one,” he said. “Are you Hydra?”
The large man stared at Kimball with expressionless features before saying, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Kimball downed the whisky, then he placed the shot glass upside down on the bar top. Four glasses to go. Kimball raised the second glass and brought it to his lips. “Are you Hydra?” he repeated.
The large man with the circles around his eyes took in a deep rush of air through his nostrils, then sighed through his nostrils. “We can play this game all day, Padre. You’re only going to get the same answers.”
Kimball downed the shot and placed the empty glass upside down and next to the other. As soon as Kimball picked up the third glass that was when he heard multiple chairs behind him pull away from the tables. Looking in the mirror behind the bartender, he could see the reflection of the twelve men in the bar getting to their feet and removing their dress coats, their ties, then they began to roll the sleeves up to their elbows. By the looks of them they were well-built, those who visited the gym often. These were not simply professionals who tugged a briefcase here and there, or those who sat at conference tables discussing pie charts of a company’s profitability or loss. These men had the look of trained killers.Kimball raised the third glass in the big man’s direction. “All right,” he said. “Let’s move on to question number two, then: who was the target in last night’s raid against the archdiocese?”
The large man clenched his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work.
The two man stared at each other with neither willing to break the connection. When a man behind Kimball began to approach him from behind, the large man held up a massive paw of a hand to stop him, then waved him off.
Kimball continued to hold up the shot glass with the line of sight between them unbreakable, the moment becoming a contest of wills.
Then Kimball asked, “Who was the target in last night’s raid against the archdiocese?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kimball downed the shot, then slammed the glass down on the countertop, the empty glass now sitting beside the others, the glass upside down. “That’s three.”
“I can count.”
“Can you subtract? That means that there’s two left. Two questions.”
“And then what?”
“Like I said before: things around here won’t be all that pleasant, if I don’t get what I want.”
The large man leaned toward Kimball and beckoned him into close council with his finger, until their faces were inches apart. Then in a measure that was just above a whisper, the large man asked, “Did you take a good look around when you walked in here?”
Kimball nodded. “Twelve men. All with the appearances of being trained on some military level.”
“That’s right, Padre. A dozen men who used to be Special Forces. And you think you and your three little pissants can come in here and start throwing your weight around? I’m kind of disappointed in your stupidity.”
“Actually,” said Kimball. “I like the odds.” Kimball eased away from the big man and grabbed the fourth shot glass. “OK,” he said, raising the glass towards the bartender. “Let’s try this again. And let’s try it with a doozy of a question, shall we?” The look from Kimball’s cerulean blue eyes were radiantly harsh. “Is the Senate House the home base of the Nocturnal Saints?”
The large man began to ball his fists, which didn’t go unnoticed by Kimball.
Apparently he had struck a chord.
When no answer came, Kimball downed the fourth glass and like the others, set it upside down on the bar top next to the others, leaving one glass full. Kimball grabbed the final glass, raised it, and then he asked in an even tone: “Is the Senate House…the home base…of the Nocturnal Saints?”
When no answer came, Kimball downed the glass, slammed it beside the others, pushed away from the bar, and got to his feet. “You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance. I did.” Kimball removed his beret and set it on the counter.
“So now what?” the bartender asked him. “You want more of last night, is that it?”
“I mopped the floor with you then, and I’ll mop the floor with you now.”
The big man smiled. “You got lucky, Hayden. But you’re on our territory now.”
Kimball started his forward move, which prompted the behemoth to start his jump over the bar so that he could get at the Vatican Knight.
But someone called out from behind them, a voice that was husky. “Enough!”
When Kimball turned he saw a woman standing about fifteen feet away, all five foot two inches of her, with a spaghetti tangle of broken blood vessels along her nose that gave her a perpetual appearance of intoxication.
“I said enough.” Then she walked to the opposite end of the bar, took a seat, and gestured for Kimball to take his seat, which he did.
The large man behind the counter eased away as well.
“It’s all right, Carmine,” she told the bartender. “I’ll take it from here.” She turned to Kimball. “I know why you’re here, Kimball Hayden,” she said. “We all do. Quicker than I anticipated, however.”
Kimball nodded. “Are you the one they call Hydra?”
“Hydra is not one person. Hydra, like Greek legend, has its meaning that if you cut off the head of a serpent, then two others grow in its place. The definition of Hydra means that we are many. But if you need to know my name, it’s Jennifer Antle.”
“Well, Ms. Antle, you know why we’re here.”
“To neutralize what can’t be neutralized, Mr. Hayden. The Vatican Knights are warriors. They do not act as investigators in missions with the FBI or with anyone else. The Vatican has its own agendas, we know this. But the direction of the church’s leadership has gone astray.”
“I appreciate your candidness,” he stated with a measure of sarcasm.
“What I tell you matters not,” she returned quickly. “Because what I say will never leave this room.” Then she gestured for the two men closest to the door to lock it, which they did by driving the two top latches into the top part of the doorjamb, and the two lower latches into the floor, locking them in. And then they stood sentinel by the door, one of them being Cecil Cooper, once Danny Parcells’ partner, with the two looking like superior combatants when need be.
“Really?” Kimball asked her.
“Yeah. Really. And I don’t care who you are, Mr. Hayden. I don’t care if you’re this supposed legend who steps out of the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica to make the world right again. I
don’t care if you’re considered to be an angel to some and a demon to others. And I don’t care about all the embellished verses that were created to celebrate what others believe you to be. All I know is that you’re a man who bleeds like all men. And a man who damned his soul long ago to the Eternal Lakes of Fire. Your moment of judgment for the sins of your past has finally caught up with you.” She got up from the stool, turned in the opposite direction, and began to walk away. Over her shoulder she said: “You and your team, Mr. Hayden, will never leave this place alive.”
And then she was gone, the woman disappearing into a stairwell.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
After Shari Cohen left the J. Edgar Hoover Building, it wasn’t too long before she found herself caught in standstill traffic. Apparently three vehicles were involved in a collision that plugged up two of the three lanes, with cars maneuvering to get into the single lane that was open. The result was a lack of courtesy and a myriad of heated exchanges between drivers. With horns blasting, traffic moved at a glacial pace.
Shari grabbed her cellphone and dialed Kimball’s number.
But the call went directly to his voicemail.
She hung up and redialed.
The result was the same; right to his voicemail.
Whatever phone calls went to Kimball Hayden apparently died on his end.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Senate House
Anacostia, Washington, D.C.
Jennifer Antle took the stairwell to the lower level of the establishment. People milled about the shadows trying to gather evidence for immediate withdrawal. The poorly lit table sat in the room’s center. Against the far wall stood a bank of monitors that showed the tavern from four different angles. Antle stepped into the shadows. “We have to move people. Those are Vatican Knights upstairs, which means that it won’t take long for the feds to move in on their parade.” Then she clapped her hands together as if to say ‘chop-chop.’ And those around her galvanized themselves to remove documents from filing cabinets, and to download flash drives. Then Antle intercepted the man who was going from person to person issuing commands. “We still have time,” she told him. “When the feds eventually have what they need to infiltrate the premise, we’ll have bugged out by then. So I want this place sanitized. I don’t even want a speck of dust left behind.”
“Understood,” said the male. Then he pointed to the monitors. “I don’t like the feel of this,” he told her. “Not after last night. I can’t believe they zeroed in that quickly.”
“Which is why we’re evacuating the premise. The Bureau is still tied to the laws of the land. The Vatican Knights are tied to the laws of God. But the team will handle them readily.”
“That’s what we said about the archdiocese. You even said yourself that the Vatican Knights were not to be taken lightly.”
“And I meant what I said. But now they’re on our territory. And they were foolish enough to walk right into the lion’s den with a lot of hungry lions waiting to rip them apart.”
The man stood idle, but Antle could tell by his body-English that he had something to say.
Then she said, “What.”
The man hesitated before speaking. “I was there last night,” he told her. “I saw what they were capable of.”
She pointed to the screens and to the four different angles of the room upstairs. “Twelve against four,” she said. “All in one arena. There are no shadows for the Vatican Knights to work with. Just skill set against skill set.” She then faced him. “This game was won when the Vatican Knights stepped into this establishment. Now clear the comm center and meet me at the disembarkation point.
There’re things I need to do before we depart and rebuild from another point. And tell the others to leave behind all their worldly possessions. There’s a greater journey we must now take.”
The man in the shadows nodded. “I will.”
Then Jennifer Antle started to back away. “Tonight,” she said, “meet me at the disembarkation point at o-nineteen-hours.”
“O-nineteen-hours,” he repeated.
“With all the secured information.”
“Of course.”
Then she turned and walked away, the woman disappearing.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Inside The Senate House
Anacostia, Washington, D.C.
The patrons began to branch off and circle the Vatican Knights, with three men per Knight. Two stood by the doors as sentinels. And the bartender stayed close to Kimball.
“What are you going to do now, hotshot?” asked the bartender, while managing a one-sided grin.
“What am I going to do?” Kimball responded. “I’m going to do what a Vatican Knight always does. I’m going to take down a terrorist faction who poses a threat to the church. That’s what I’m going to do.”
The big man’s smile faded. “A terrorist group? Is that what you think we are? Seriously?”
“I don’t care about the banner you wave or the cause of your conviction under whatever religion you use to promote some twisted agenda, including Catholicism.
But when you murder people for the sake of ideology, then you’re no different than a terrorist group.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. What you’ve been doing for centuries has to stop. The Vatican Knights weren’t around then to take down the regime,” Kimball took a step back. “But we are now.”
“Do you have any idea how large we are?”
“It doesn’t matter. It stops now.”
“We’ll never be stopped,” said the bartender. Then he reached under the bar, grabbed something from underneath, and placed a Bowie knife on the bar top with a loud thud. “But that’s not all,” he added. He reached under the bar again and produced a second knife, another Bowie, and set it alongside the other. “There’s a twin involved.” His one-sided grin returned. Kimball looked at the blades which looked more like short swords. Then he swept the tails of his long coat aside like a gunslinger, and showed his own set of blades that were sheathed to his thighs, a pair of Ka-Bar combat knives. “As law abiding citizens who understand the gun laws in D.C., I knew this.” The bartender looked at the Vatican Knights standing in the corners of the room, as if the moment was more of routine than tension, even as they were being circled.
Then to Kimball, the big man said, “You really think you can take us?”
The Vatican Knight remained silent.
“And your people?” asked Carmine. “They packing knives, too?”
More silence from Kimball.
“OK, then,” said the big man as he grabbed his pair of Bowies. “Let’s get this show started, shall we?”
Kimball undid the snaps to his sheaths and withdrew his Ka-Bars.
The Vatican Knights followed up by sweeping back the tails of their coats to remove their knives.
The patrons, though they were without knives, were far from being weaponless. They got into stances with their knees bent and hands raised. Then they ground the soles of their shoes against the floor to find a sweet spot to launch from. But the Vatican Knights mirrored their stances as they prepared themselves as well, with a knife in each hand.
The bartender leapt over the counter with ease with the knives in his massively large hands, and held them up and out to his sides like a gladiator.
Kimball waited as the large man approached.
Then Carmine stopped within the strike zone, the men within six feet of each other. “What I’m about to do to you,” he said softly but deeply, “is for Parcells and McEachern. So heads up, big guy. Because life is going to come at you fast.” Kimball egged him on. “And so does death.”
They sized each other up.
The tension was rising.
Heartbeats were hammering.
And blood coursed through veins at a rapid pace, the rush through their ears like the howl of a raging wind.
Kimball watched, waited, the moment of attack about to commence as he looked for sig
ns such as the white-knuckle hold of his enemy on the knives, or the spark in his eye that told him that the big man was amassing his energy. And then it happened. The large man launched himself forward, a towering wall of muscle who converged on Kimball with his hands swinging in arcs and diagonal sweeps, his motions fluid and designed, the man no doubt a skilled practitioner of double-edged weaponry.
He came at Kimball quick and hard, the powerful maneuvers pushing the Vatican Knight back to the room’s center, their actions moving faster and faster, the blades nothing but blurs as they cut through the air, slicing, searching, the edges looking to score flesh, to wound and cripple. But Kimball deflected the blows with well-designed defenses, his motions a display of elegance.
The blades struck. Metal against metal, which caused sparks to take flight, dance and die off. The big man lunged forward, cried out. And Kimball refuted blow after blow with his deflections, and waited for the big man to tire. But the man with the apelike appearance seemed endless in his stamina, the man still coming forward, and hard, with his arms moving faster and faster, like
pinwheels, his actions almost too fast for the human eye to comprehend.
And then Kimball fought back, refusing to lose any more ground. He began his own design of sweeps and arcs with his moves altering the large man’s scheme and his pattern. Kimball’s actions drove the big man off his game, the large man’s movements starting to appear stunted and disjointed, the Nocturnal Saint now on the run as the man backpedaling, as Kimball drove him back until he was almost against the bar, against the rail, their knives hitting, striking, sparking. Now the big man appeared winded as his eyes flared with alarm, his confidence waning. Then Kimball came across in a horizontal arc, the tip of his knife scoring a line across the big man’s abdomen, a deep groove, enough to rip the lining of his torso so that the rope of his bowel began to escape its confinement, the coils began to emerge, to spill, the big man confused as he dropped a knife in order to free a hand to catch his innards so that they remained packed inside. With a hand over the slash, and as a foul-smelling fluid bled through the gaps of his fingers, the man with the prognathous jaw and simian brow said, “God was supposed to watch over me. This wasn’t supposed to happen…I was doing His work.”