by Rick Jones
“I’m alive.”
Leviticus and Isaiah sat down. Then Leviticus pointed to Kimball’s wounded shoulder, and then he apologized.
“Sorry for what?” asked Kimball.
“I didn’t get the shot in on time.”
Kimball didn’t know what he was talking about.
When Leviticus saw the questioning look on Kimball’s face, he said, “The guy who shot you had a trigger-finger reaction when my bullet struck him. His discharge hit you in the shoulder.”
“He was aiming at my head.”
“So you remember?”
“I remember that part. At least I owe you a thanks for knocking him off his mark. And the guy he was with? Sayed?”
“After the triggerman went down, Sayed took off with his driver and headed north.”
Kimball closed his eyes and could see Sayed in his mind’s eye, and the scar that ran laterally along his face.
Kimball opened his eyes.
Then from Isaiah: “Kimball.” The deeply somber measure of his voice was unmistakable. “Not sure if you’ve heard since the base has been showing restricted programming, mostly from Turkish stations.”
“About?”
There was a pause. “Sister Kelly didn’t say?” asked Leviticus.
“No. She just said that my superiors—I’m thinking she meant you two, but I don’t know if she was yanking my chain or not—had something to say to me.”
Leviticus eased forward. “This isn’t going to be easy to say,” he began. “But while we were on the mission to extract you and the team . . . ISIS marched against the Vatican in a well-coordinated strike.”
Kimball’s face fell. He’d been lucid for at least three hours and no one—nurses, doctors or anyone else—said a word. “And?”
“The first wave took out the checkpoint. The second wave took out the Gendarmerie. The third wave took soft targets at the Basilica as a distraction. And the fourth, the foot soldiers, disabled the barracks of the Swiss Guard and stormed the Apostolic Palace.”
Kimball, in great and with great effort, leaned forward from the pillows. “Bonasero?”
The faces of the Vatican Knights remained neutral, which was answer enough for Kimball. But it was Leviticus who spoke. “He was buried in the pontifical chamber beneath the Basilica within days of his death. Cardinal Antimone was named as the supreme pontiff, taking the name of John Paul the Third. Unfortunately several cardinals from the Pontifical Commission and the State Council were also lost. Though the Church was devastated, we are rebuilding.”
Kimball fell back feeling an incredible pang and the sting of tears. He loved Bonasero more than he loved his own biological father, and shared with this man this incredible umbilical tie. Bonasero had always believed in Kimball when Kimball never believed in himself.
“I’m so sorry,” said Isaiah. “I know you and Bonasero were very close.”
“It was more than that,” Kimball managed. Much more.
But Cardinal Antimone, now the pontiff, though in support of the Vatican Knights and one to have little patience with Kimball, now ruled the unit. He was also one that Kimball often butted heads with. Kimball was wired differently and often did things Antimone wouldn’t understand or agree with, whether or not Kimball accomplished the means. Kimball always had his ways of doing things and sometimes not in the full agreement of the Church. Antimone would try to reel him in. And Kimball would refuse and stretch the limits. Then after a moment of thought Kimball considered that a change might be necessary, perhaps a little time away to decompress.
“I need time,” he said flatly.
“We understand,” said Leviticus. “And so does Pope John Paul the Third.”
Kimball closed his eyes once again. Pope John Paul the Third. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around that. Then: “I might not come back,” he said, opening his eyes but staring at nothing in particular.
“Kimball.” Leviticus edged slightly forward in his seat. “Churches and mosques are burning all over the world as tensions between religions rise. People are getting killed over what god they pray to. The United States, the United Kingdom, places you think you would be safe. And though things have settled a bit, the Vatican is still under a threat protocol.”
“Right now,” said Kimball, “I don’t think I can do this anymore. You knock evil down only for it to rise somewhere else. I’m tired of putting out fires.”
“Kimball,” Isaiah piped in, “you can never truly defeat evil. But it can be contained. That’s what we do. That’s all we’ve ever done.”
Kimball raised his hand and waved them off in dismissal. “Please,” he said. “I need to be alone with this.”
“Will you be all right?” asked Leviticus.
“In time.”
“We need to get back to the Vatican,” said Isaiah. “Do you need time away?”
“I do. Yes.”
“How much?” asked Leviticus.
“Not sure.”
Kimball’s answers were dry and noncommittal, which meant one thing to Leviticus: Kimball may never return at all.
Leviticus stood and placed a hand on Kimball’s good shoulder. “No matter what you decide,” he said, “you take care of yourself.”
Kimball feigned them the slightest smile. “Thanks, guys. I hope you understand.”
“I’ll tell the pontiff that your return is up in the air.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as they left Kimball considered his future. Maybe it was time to break away, he considered. Maybe it was time to raise a family and have a house surrounded by a white picket fence.
Maybe.
Now that Bonasero was gone, his friend and lifeline, he no longer had that safety net to fall on whenever he stumbled.
And then he thought of tiny Yara—that beautiful little girl with the wonderful gleam for life in her eyes.
Kimball fought the rage that was bubbling underneath. And then he was divided between what he wanted in life and what he had to do. And what he had to ‘do’ outweighed what he ‘wanted’ by a large margin. There was still a wrong out there that he had to right.
No matter how much he wanted to walk away and start life anew and settle down, he couldn’t.
Kimball Hayden just wasn’t wired that way.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Vatican City
Two Weeks Later
Located inside of St. Peter’s Basilica was the sarcophagus of Bonasero Vessucci, with the burial monument having carved reliefs of cherubs and angels leading the way for a heaven-bound journey. And chiseled along the bottom of the stone tomb was a mantra in Latin: Fides Supra Omnes Nisi Honestas. Loyalty Above All Else, Except Honor. It was the code of the Vatican Knights.
Kimball was alone as he knelt before the burial chamber. The arm to his wounded shoulder was in a sling. And when he walked he did so with a cane because the bones in his back, though mended, remained a little stiff, nonetheless.
He said no prayers, nor did he offer any thoughts that bore any pious weight to them. He simply spoke, in his mind, to a man he had come to love as a father. So he mourned. And often, when he believed he could hear Bonasero’s voice in his mind, a tear would slip from the corner of his eye and trickle slowly down his cheek.
This is not the end, Kimball thought. But a new beginning between a father and son, an awakening. You have given me the tools to walk on my own. Now let’s see how far I can go.
You will stumble, my son. But now it’s time to pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and move on in a direction you see fit. You no longer need me there to catch you when you fall, Kimball. So it’s time to move from the cradle and into the world.
I need you.
No, Kimball. Believe in yourself. Whenever you feel alone, be assured that I will always be by your side. When moments appear to be at its darkest, remember that I will always be by your side. And if things become grave, then I shall carry you. But from here on in, Kimball, you must lead the way and find the Light y
ou desperately seek on your terms.
I need you, he repeated in his mind.
No, Kimball. What you need is the determination to beat the personal demons that hold you back.
For hours this went on, a silent conversation between father and son. Tears were shed. Kimball’s heart became heavy. But he also felt a sweeping warmth that consumed him with a certain kind of inner peace, a rare moment in Kimball’s life. But it was always something Bonasero could always do; to give him peace, no matter how temporary.
At the end of the session Kimball promised Bonasero that there would be many more. He would visit often and divulge his secrets, asking for guidance when he knew that that road had ended abruptly.
Turning away and leaving the chamber, Kimball knew he was about to step beyond his limits, again, for which Pope John Paul III would not fully understand or agree with. But in Kimball’s mind certain things could not go without. And it would be his first decision without Bonasero, a decision that would lead him from the Light and closer to the Darkness.
Already he was stumbling.
But scores had to be settled.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Three Months Later
Deir ez-Zor, Syria
The city of Deir ez-Zor was not under the complete control of the Islamic State, but it was a support zone for the fundamentalist group. With the moon hanging in its gibbous phase, Sayed was inside his desert-stone hut eating alongside three new recruits who were romancing the ideas of becoming one with Allah under this new regime.
The area around Sayed’s lips were greasy with the food he was eating, with small bits and pieces clinging to his beard that was made up of minute loops of curly hair. “Allah is the Light,” he told the recruits. “And the Qur’an is the road map to his Light. You are now soldiers of Islam, and a mighty war is being waged.” He scooped another serving of stringy meat into his mouth before going on. And when he spoke, he did so while chewing his food. “You will behead somebody,” he told them as if it was a necessary rite-of-passage to belong. “A non-believer or anyone who speaks against Allah.”
The recruits listened and nodded, each one clinging to Sayed’s every word.
Suddenly there was a muted noise in the adjoining room. Then a thud.
Sayed raised his head and called out to his associate. “Mahdi?”
Silence.
“Mahdi?”
Just as Sayed pushed away from the table and was about to stand, a large figure appeared within the doorframe. In his hand was a pistol that had an attached suppressor that was as long as the firearm’s barrel. A ribbon of smoke was curling from the weapon’s mouth.
Sayed’s mouth fell, showing food not yet swallowed, whereas the three recruits remained idle in their chairs.
The large man, swathed in black cloth that covered his face with the exception of his eyes, pointed his weapon in a way that suggested to Sayed that he should return to his seat, which Sayed did.
“What is this? Who are you? Where is Mahdi?”
The large man entered the room and sat at the opposite end of the table where he could keep all four within his sights.
“I said, where is—”
“Shut up,” the man cut Sayed off in Arabic.
The man was overwhelmingly large at the shoulders. And his eyes were blue, which was not normally in the DNA code of most Syrian people.
“Who are you?” Sayed asked.
The man looked at the recruits, then at Sayed. “I’m here because you’re unfinished business to me,” he answered.
Sayed could tell that Arabic was not this man’s primary language, but passable.
“You’re not Arab, are you?” asked Sayed. “French? British? American?”
“All of the above,” said Kimball. “Does it matter since you’re at war with everyone?”
“Not everyone. Just the non-believers.”
“And these three?” Kimball pointed his weapon at the recruits, letting Sayed know that he was asking about them.
“New soldiers of the Islamic State.” When he said this his chin was raised in defiance.
Kimball appraised them carefully. He could see the hatred already within their eyes, that burning desire of having zero tolerance for those whose beliefs differed from theirs, and that killing with impunity was a granted privilege under the Islamic State. But they were young, with each recruit appearing in their late teens or early twenties. “Soldiers?” he asked. But it was more of a statement to himself rather than a posed question to Sayed.
But Sayed answered nonetheless. “They are.”
Kimball’s weapon went off in quick succession.
. . . Phfft . . .
. . . Phfft . . .
. . . Phfft . . .
Three loud spits.
Two of the recruits had fallen over the table where blood from head wounds fanned across the tabletop. The third recruit lay on the floor with a bullet hole to his forehead and his eyes at half-mast. Sayed, however, continued to sit at the opposite end of the table looking from one recruit to the next, then to Kimball.
Kimball pointed his gun directly at Sayed. “Now your twisted little army is three men short,” he said.
Sayed’s mouth began to work in mute protest, eyes ogling.
Then Kimball removed a small bottle from his shirt pocket that was stopped by a cork that was no larger than a man’s pinky nail, and placed it on the table.
Sayed appeared confused by this empty bottle.
“There was this little girl,” began Kimball, “whose name was Yara. She was this pretty little thing with the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. The prettiest smile. So full of life. Then one day in the desert you took that away from her.”
Sayed was beginning to see the man for who he was, then he remembered the blue eyes and wide breadth of shoulders. This was the man they had chased through the desert landscape. This man was not CIA, MI6 or the Mossad. He was something much different.
“You’re the devil’s magician,” whispered Sayed. Then louder: “But I saw you killed.”
“What you saw was a bullet strike me after a trigger jerk. Then you ran like the coward you are after Ismail was taken out by a bullet.”
“How did you find me?”
“Let’s just say I had a little help from my friends.” Namely the SIV.
“Now you’re here to kill me, is that it?”
“I’m here to fulfill a promise,” he answered. “I told a good friend of mine that as long as I lived, then I would gather your last breath in a bottle.” Kimball tapped the bottle on the table with the point of his weapon, making a ching-ching-ching sound.
Sayed quickly took on the appearance of false bravado, but the slight tremble of his voice gave him away. He truly didn’t want to die and the measure of his tone spelled that out quite clearly. “If you kill me,” he started, “then I will surely see the Light of Allah.”
“Or Absence,” said Kimball.
Sayed seemed like he didn’t know what Kimball was talking about.
On that note Kimball set off two more rounds which caught Sayed at the shoulders where his arms meet the body, and rendered the man’s arms useless as Sayed fell back in the chair and landed hard on the floor.
Kimball was immediately on top of him. In his hand was the bottle. “You killed a young child who was kind and gentle and had a chance to become something you and I will never be. You took away the life of a young nun who loved these children as if they were her own. And it was your people, your fanatical cabal that stole away the life of an old man who was like a father to me—but more importantly, a great man of kindness to the world community. And now, as promised, your last breath, Sayed, belongs to me.”
Kimball brought the open end of the bottle to Sayed’s lips. But when Sayed tried to turn away Kimball struck him hard with his fist, causing Sayed to see internal stars. Then Kimball pinched the man’s nose close and applied pressure to the man’s mouth, suffocating him.
Sayed began to thrash
along the floor. But Kimball’s weight and power were too great. Slowly, and casually, the life force began to drain from Sayed’s body as his motions began to peter out. His legs stopped kicking. And his eyes started to roll up into his sockets until nothing showed but whites. The moment he sighed his last, Kimball removed the bottle from the man’s lips, removed a rolled piece of paper that was as yellow and stiff as old parchment, placed it inside the bottle, and then corked it.
Now he had something to proffer to the man who was behind all this.
Whether or not the message would be received by him depended upon the courier.
Kimball removed a small leather sachet from his pocket with the recipient’s name branded on the rawhide in Arabic, placed the bottle inside, drew the strings tight to close the pouch, and then he rested the leather satchel on Sayed’s chest. Inside the bottle was a message that was filled with promise, not prophecy.
Getting to his feet and measuring his handiwork, Kimball slid back into the shadows and disappeared.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Three Days Later
London, England
Sitting on a bench inside Hyde Park was one of Kimball’s most enjoyable pastimes. It was always quiet and peaceful with the exception of the few weirdos and cranks that got the soapboxes to spout off crazy ramblings that were more comical than serious. But on this day it was silent with mild weather and a blue sky.
He was not wearing the garments of a Vatican Knight, but a well-pressed shirt and jeans. In the past week life had thrown him enough of a curve to reevaluate his place in the scheme of things.
Bonasero was gone, a man he loved as deeply as a son could love his father. But Bonasero was so much more than that. Whenever Kimball stumbled Bonasero was always there to pick him up, brush him off, and tell him to press on. Cardinal Antimone, now Pope John Paul III, was not the type of man to serve as a stabilizing crutch in Kimball’s life.
I’m by myself, he told himself. I’m alone with no safety net. And with no one to catch me.
He thought about love and marriage and possibly having a family before it was too late. He thought about a life after the Vatican Knights, where he would work a 9 to 5 job and come home to a house that was surrounded by a picket fence and a manicured lawn. It would be a life after Bonasero Vessucci.