by Rick Jones
Grabbing the edge of the photo and pulling it free, Kimball unfolded the yellowed snapshot and examined it. Frederic Becher was handsome in his youth, he considered, a seventeen-year-old kid who’d been baptized in fire because he’d been groomed to hate a group of people from the early onset of life, for no reason at all.
The girl in the photo, though thin, was beautiful. In fact, he thought she carried a lot of similarities to Shari Cohen, a woman he was secretly devoted to, who had the same angular features and widow’s peak. Though they wouldn’t pass for twins, they did appear to be close enough to be sisters, even though they were separated by more than seventy years.
His Ayana, he recalled Becher saying time and again. A woman he hadn’t seen since the fall of Auschwitz in ’44. Yet he maintained a fixation that never wavered, his love for her paramount. And his image, though he carried some kind of rifle, one could see the sparkle in his eyes. To those who didn’t know, they would subjectively state that the shine was the zeal of killing Jews with impunity. But Kimball knew the truth. That shine in Becher’s eyes were the sparks of unadulterated love for the woman standing before him in banded garments, with the girl holding the same luster in her eyes, though her face spoke differently. Here was a one-of-a-kind photo; A Nazi and a Jew in love when times strictly forbade it.
Then Kimball looked at Becher’s face. There was neither a smile nor grimace, the man not true to his word that he would offer one or the other upon his passing to let Kimball know if he had seen the Darkness or the Light.
“I was hoping for the best,” Kimball commented softly. “But there’s nothing, is there? Not for people like you and me.” And then he thought: You were right about sinners and saints. Sometimes you have to be both to make things right. But in the end…maybe it’s not enough.
After folding the photo, he tucked it back inside Becher’s pocket, gave the pocket a slight pat, then got to his feet. Drops of blood fell to the floor, the Vatican Knight bleeding out by the inches.
“You’ll get your burial as promised,” he told the old man. “Light or no Light, you deserve your spot beneath the basilica.”
Then Kimball slid the door aside and stepped into the corridor, where he spotted Che and Ma coming at him from the rear cars.
Kimball gripped the knife taken from Tang and looked at it. Then he looked at the Koreans coming his way, both armed. Leave it to a Vatican Knight to come to a gunfight with a knife, thought Kimball.
But he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Che and Ma had seen the priest back out of the roomette and enter the corridor with a knife in his hand. He was a large man, tall and massive in breadth along the shoulders, his frame speaking volumes that he kept himself fit and would not be an easy takedown.
As soon as their eyes made contact, Kimball took flight towards the forward cars.
Ma lifted his weapon and sent off a volley of gunfire, the rounds stitching across the walls and shattering glass. Though the Vatican Knight ducked in instinct against the reports of gunfire, not a single round found its mark.
Kimball was through the door of the other car and gone.
The moment Ma lowered his weapon he swore, damning himself for not hitting his target.
“Relax,” said Che. “There’s nowhere for him to go and he has a knife. We have these.” He raised his MP7.
Then they moved ahead to the forward cars, albeit with a great measure of caution.
* * *
Kimball Hayden ducked beneath the surrounding gunfire while bullet holes magically appeared along the surrounding walls, some missing him by inches. When he reached the door of the next car, the door’s window pane shattered from a gunshot, the chips of glass nicking Kimball’s flesh as he shut the door behind him.
Then he rushed forward knowing that he was running out of terrain, going from car to car with the exercise one of futility, if he didn’t take a stand soon. So when he reached the platform that divided C-Car from B-Car, he climbed the rungs of the ladder, laid down on the rooftop, gripped the knife with one hand while gripping the rooftop rail with the other, and waited as the dynamic forces of the wind pounded him, the train speeding along the tracks at 140 kilometers per hour.
* * *
It was like following a trail of breadcrumbs, thought Che. The blood spots marking the priest’s path through the cars, the man obviously injured, though it didn’t appear to be too bad considering the way he moved through the cars. Nevertheless, Che knew that he could not be complacent against a Vatican Knight, knowing they possessed skill sets that were boundless.
Cautiously, with Ma beside Che and their weapons raised to eye, they moved through the cars and followed the trail of blood drops.
When they reached D-Car, Ma said, “The man’s a coward. He’s obviously running towards the engine compartment. And then what?”
“A Vatican Knight always has a plan, Ma.”
“You sound like you admire these people.”
“Hardly. As a high-end operative of Office 35, I know better. They’re a very dangerous group when they need to be. Do not become complacent.”
Ma remained quiet as they pressed on through the cars, the two-man unit eventually coming to the platform that separated C-Car from B-Car. Che looked through the divide’s pane of glass and saw the blood on the landing. Slowly, like all the doors behind them, he slid it along its tracks. The sound of the train traveling over the rails were more pronounced, the clack-clack, clack-clack of the wheels riding the rails louder in the open space of the platform.
…clack-clack, clack-clack…
…clack-clack, clack-clack…
Slowly, Che reached for the door handle of the partition that opened into the next car. But as his hand grabbed the handle, he noticed that the blood trail had vanished. The floor of B-Car was clean. The trail had ended here, on this platform.
That’s when Che whipped around and aimed his MP7 toward the roofline, with Ma following his lead.
But it was too late.
* * *
Even with the pounding of the wind against his ears and the sound of the wheels upon the rails, Kimball heard the door of C-Car slide back on its rails and saw, from his vantage point, he saw two people enter the platform.
As soon as the one in the lead placed a hand on the door’s handle that led into the next car, the man suddenly froze as if to reconsider his position. That’s when Kimball realized they’d been following his blood trail, which ended on this particular landing. Then the man who took lead began to pivot on the balls of his feet to direct his aim to the roofline. That’s when Kimball held tight to the rooftop railing and swung himself outward over the train’s side like an ape-man clinging to a vine, his body arcing toward the platform with his legs extended, and struck Che and Ma with a well-connected foot to each of their faces, the impacts driving both men to the floor with their weapons going off with errant gunfire that hit nothing of value.
Kimball struck the landing with both feet, lost his balance momentarily, then regained himself as he threw a kick at Ma, the sole of his military boot striking the man hard in the face and shattering his nose. Ma fell back along the landing and nearly off the platform. But he whipped his hands out and grabbed the rails before he went over. The Korean, however, lost his MP7 to the gorge as he quickly recovered despite the injury.
And Che was just as fast as he redirected the barrel of his weapon. But Kimball saw the threat and responded by throwing a side kick that sent Che against the partition, the brutal impact of Che’s backside shattering the glass pane to the door of B-Car.
That was when Ma threw a series of lightning fast strikes to Kimball, the Korean striking with blurred hammer-blows that were barely visible to the naked eye, hands and fists pummeling Kimball towards the edge of the platform, strike after strike, blow after blow, Kimball now losing ground as he dropped his knife, the space between him and the landing’s edge diminishing, and then the deep drop of the ravine.
Hitching a deep breath and filling his lungs, Kimball reached for his inner reserves and countered with strikes of his own, his arms and hands deflecting Ma’s blows. In time his actions became fluid as he went into the learned motions that had been brought on by years of training. Then he started to regain his ground by pushing Ma back, the Vatican Knight swinging his arms to block and deflect. Then he threw a series of straight jabs that connected, with the blows snapping Ma’s head back as Kimball took control.
Now Ma was backpedaling, the powers of his blows becoming weak and lackluster, the man now drained physically as Kimball struck him repeatedly with each punch landing. Then with both hands, Kimball grabbed Kwan Ma by the composite shields that lined his shoulders, lifted the man off his feet, raised him high, walked to the edge of the landing, and without any semblance of emotion or regret, tossed the Korean into the gorge. Ma was pinwheeling his arms in flight, as he screamed the entire length of the chasm’s drop.
Then he turned his attention to Che, who was beginning to shake off the cobwebs while getting to his feet, the internal stars not entirely gone. Kimball saw the moment of opportunity and took it, the Vatican Knight closing the gap, grabbing the barrel of Che’s weapon, and wrenching it free. But Che reacted, nonetheless, grabbing the weapon and fighting for its possession, the two man moving about the platform in a drunken tango.
Then Che came up with a series of knee strikes—left-right-left-right-left-right—with the man appearing as if he was running in place, when he was actually performing well-designed blows to Kimball’s midsection. When his left knee struck the point of Kimball’s wound, Kimball’s hold began to relinquish.
…left-right-left-right-left-right…
Che continued to use his knees as weapons, striking the Vatican Knight where he knew the man to be his weakest.
But Kimball fought against the pain and found his leverage. When Che struck with his left leg, Kimball hooked his arm underneath Che’s thigh, lifted the man, and smashed him into the wall, ending Che’s reign. Then with his right elbow, Kimball struck Che several times in the face. But Che brought his weapon up, deflected the course of Kimball’s blows, and rammed the body of the MP7 against Kimball’s face, the strike causing Kimball to release his hold.
When Che landed on the platform like a cat, Kimball once again grabbed for the assault weapon, found it, and held on with a powerful one-handed grip. With his free hand he shot a straight-forward jab that landed squarely on Che’s chin, the impact snapping the man’s head back, hard, a well-landed punch that caused Che’s eyes to show slivers of white, a blow that nearly sent the man unconscious.
When Kimball reared back for a second thrust forward, Che brought a knee up and struck Kimball in the groin, the act bringing Kimball’s rule to a quick and sudden end, as the Vatican Knight fell to his knees with a hand between his legs.
Che, with gun in hand, appeared winded as he walked up to Kimball and placed the point of the weapon against the back of Kimball’s head.
“I saw by the uniform of the other that he was a Vatican Knight, as you are.”
Kimball continued to grit against his pain with clenched teeth and eyes squeezed shut.
“I’ve heard many things about your group,” Che continued. “That you’re supposed to fight like no other. And that your skill sets are above and beyond anybody else’s. But I say it’s a myth. An untruth.”
Kimball saw the knife close to his hand on the platform. Keep talking.
“Do you know who I am?” Che asked him.
Kimball didn’t respond.
“My name is Yeong Che. And I’m a leading member of Office Thirty-Five from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. And there are no better warriors, Vatican Knight.”
Kimball grabbed the knife with the flash of a serpent’s strike, came around quickly, knocked the barrel of Che’s gun aside, and drove the knife deep into the North Korean, the blade digging deep just beneath the Kevlar vest, and twisted.
Che’s eyes flared with surprise as Kimball got to his feet. Then the Vatican Knight twisted the blade again, mincing Che’s innards. After the third twist, the one that caused Che to cough up blood, Kimball leaned into him until they were literally eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose.
“Well, Yeong Che of Office Thirty-Five from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea,” said Kimball, “you keep believing that if it makes you happy.”
And then with a final twist, Che expended a final breath from his lungs, a long sigh that sounded like air escaping a tire while his eyes took on that faraway look. After Kimball removed the knife, he lowered Che to the platform, and then he sat on his backside with his back against the partition, the Vatican Knight exhausted.
Then he brought a hand to his wound which came away bloodied. He was bleeding out faster, he considered. And growing weaker. But there was much to do. The train was a runaway, a rogue spirit with a life of its own with no means of stopping. If he could not stop the train and it remained on course to Rome, the Aeronautica Milatare would go forward with the strike.
Kimball, struggling to his feet with a bloodied hand to his side, went to find Ásbjörn Bosshart.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Ásbjörn Bosshart was not a violent man or a man of insubordination, but a person who always obeyed the laws that had been mandated by those in authority, especially if they brandished assault weapons. When he was told not to leave the roomette by one of the Koreans, he did exactly as he was told and remained in his seat.
When the door to his roomette opened, he was mildly surprised to see a priest standing in the doorway. It was obvious to him that the man had been injured, his clothes to one side wet from the waist down. Not only did he appear to be bleeding out, but the color of his face that was once the color of tanned leather had blanched to a gray-like pallor with dark rings forming around his eyes.
Bosshart saw the cleric collar around the large man’s neck as the priest leaned against the doorjamb to his roomette, obviously using it as a crutch.
“Are you Ásbjörn Bosshart?” the priest asked him.
Bosshart nodded. “Yes, Father.”
Kimball corrected him right away. “I’m not a priest,” he told him.
Then the large man stepped inside the roomette and fell into the seat opposite the scientist, his knees buckling as he fell onto the bench, his breathing somewhat labored as he kept a hand to his side, the color of red prominent.
“You’re the scientist who appropriated the particles of antimatter from The CERN.” This was a statement, not a question. But Bosshart answered as if it was.
“Unfortunately, I had no choice or say in the matter. None at all. They took my wife and child and threatened to kill them if I didn’t comply.”
Kimball held up a bloody palm and patted the air, telling Bosshart that he wasn’t judging him for his actions. “I know it has a powerful explosive yield,” said Kimball. “What was your role in all this?”
Bosshart shrugged. “I thought there was supposed to be a transfer in Rome,” he said. “My family for the particles.”
“But they were trying to extract you. Why?”
“I was researching the use of the particles for applications of becoming a fuel source, one with boundless limits of energy. It also had a destructive power that was incomprehensible to imagine, but a power I had stabilized. But the stability of the product goes only too far. I imagine they were trying to remove me in order to manage a covert program, most likely to convert the energy into a useable form of a weapon.”
Kimball agreed, then added. “A weapon of mass destruction.”
Bosshart reached a hand out to the inj
ured man. “You don’t look well, Father.”
“I’m not a priest,” Kimball reiterated. Then fighting off a grimace that came and went, he asked, “The particles, where are they?”
Bosshart pointed to the roomette across the way. “I saw the man in possession of the canister go inside the room across the way,” he answered. “He never came out with it. So I can only assume.”
“Find it,” Kimball told him. “And keep it safe.”
Bosshart nodded fervently, the man clearly afraid. “I was told not to move…Or they’ll kill me.”
“They’re not going to kill anyone,” said Kimball. “I’ve seen to that.”
Bosshart looked at the wound of the man who claimed not to be a priest and made the assumption that this man had taken these men out, though he paid a high price for doing so. “Did you kill them?” he asked Kimball.
“I did what I thought was necessary. So what I need you to do, Bosshart, is to find that canister and keep it safe. Can you do that?”
Bosshart looked through the open door and into the corridor, as wind whipped about from the incredible gash in the hull.
Now it was Kimball’s turn to make assumptions. “They’re gone,” he told him. “All of them. So you’re safe.”
Bosshart, however, didn’t look any less relieved.
Then Kimball asked, “Do you have a cellphone?”
Bosshart nodded. “No. Just a tablet. But you need a comparative one to make a one-on-one communication on the other end.”
That wouldn’t do for Kimball. “I need a cellphone,” he said.
“Somebody onboard will have one. I’m sure they’ve been using them once we exited the Dead Zone.”
Kimball agreed as he labored to his feet. Then: “Find the canister, Bosshart, and keep it safe. But first, how stable are the elements?”
“Stable enough,” he answered. “But it is what it is. Antimatter is still a powder keg. It can still detonate should the effects of what’s stabilizing them become compromised…Such as the containment gel. If the canister is managed too roughly, it can still go off. It needs to be handled with the utmost care.”