by Rick Jones
He sat there detailing the times he had killed, and the moments he did so without remorse as a killer for the United States government. He was a wetboy who had been stripped of his humanity without even knowing that he had been so. And it wasn’t until the moment of an epiphany after he killed two boys who were about to compromise his mission that he had seen the true nature of what he had become: a monster.
He was once truly lost. Like Phinehas. Like Mordecai. And probably all the rest.
It’s easy to lose your humanity, he told himself. It’s easy to be made blind.
He closed his eyes.
Since he had been enlisted to serve as a Vatican Knight, Kimball Hayden had sought the light of redemption and forgiveness. Whenever he took a step forward toward salvation, he always ended up doing something that would send him two steps back in the direction of damnation. For Kimball Hayden, there was a fine line between law and justice, between right and wrong. And because he moved by the guidance of a stunted conscience that was governed by a purpose to correct all that was wrong by any means necessary, he had no boundaries. If he was ever to find the Light, then he would have to force upon himself restraint.
But that was an impossibility.
When the plane hit a mild bump he opened his eyes and looked out the window. The ocean below flickered against the sunlight like tinsel and glass, and the water broke in areas with a frothy whiteness as waves curled and rolled.
Remember, he told himself. These Knights are your brethren. And they are the reflection of what you once were. Become their savior. Become their salvation.
Become.
Kimball sighed. He could only control so much. This he knew. He also knew that salvation came to those who wanted it most. And somehow, he didn’t think these Knights wanted to be saved at all.
In the distance where the line of the ocean and the sky met along the horizon, he could see clouds brewing, black and gray and full of turmoil. It was a perfect statement to what he was thinking:
A storm was coming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Apostolic Palace
Darkness that was complete and absolute.
The long walk to the Light.
The fluttering of eyes.
The ceiling.
The sound of a respirator.
Walls covered with tapestries.
And then pain that was minimized by medication.
“Your Holiness.” The voice was remote and tinny, as if it was calling out to him from a great distance.
Bonasero’s eyes began to focus as his surroundings became clearly definable.
Standing over him was Isaiah. “Your Holiness.”
The pontiff looked at his hand, which was in the light grasp of the Vatican Knight’s.
“Your Holiness,” Isaiah said again. “Can you hear me?”
Bonasero blinked his eyes. Yes.
Then there were more people by his bedside, a physician and a nurse.
The last thing he remembered was that he was making his route inside the pope mobile through St. Peter’s Square, when a man stepped in front of the vehicle and took aim with a firearm. He recalled the muzzle flashes and pops as the weapon went off, then the sudden and painful blossom in his chest, and the white-hot pain that consumed him before darkness spilled over him.
But what he remembered most of all—just as the assassin was raising the pistol—was the vacant look on the face of a man he recognized. The hair, the eyes, the features—everything was the same when he last saw Phinehas depart on Shepherd One three years ago.
Then in that split moment before the bullet’s impact, he thought himself to be wrong.
Phinehas was a Vatican Knight.
But in his heart he knew his eyes did not deceive him.
Phinehas had tried to kill him.
The question was why?
He closed his eyes and could see Phinehas quite clearly, could see the slow motion of the man raising his arm, his weapon, and he could see the bullet spinning from the gun’s barrel as it made its quick trajectory, all with a terrible slowness.
Why?
He would soon get his answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
La Pedrera Airport, Colombia
The flight had been long. With fueling stops in Miami and Mexico City, the entire flight took nearly fourteen hours. After taxiing across the tarmac and to the terminal, Kimball and his team exited the airport and headed for a hotel that had reserved rooms.
It was late—nighttime late, with the city starting to wind down. For as far as Kimball could see from his balcony, lights shone and glittered over the landscape like a cache of diamonds spread over black velvet.
He closed his eyes as a light breeze caressed his skin, soft and cool, the wind’s current causing a lock of his hair to wave lightly across his forehead. His team had been briefed, the maps to the site poured over. Now it was time to rest, which was crucial.
But Kimball was wired, so sleep eluded him as it always did before a mission.
By daybreak his team of Vatican Knights would assemble for a final briefing and go over battle procedures that would leave nothing to failure. But plans always worked best on paper, never on the field. What could never be devised for in any skirmish, at least to Kimball, was how to deal with the human element, which could never be predicted with certainty.
When Kimball returned to his room he turned on the television which showed late-night TV, all in Spanish. After shutting off the tube he set the remote aside, pulled the chain to the night lamp, and sat in quasi-darkness. The only light was that of silvery slices that filtered through the seams of the blinds that covered the sliding glass doors to the balcony.
But Kimball was used to darkness, had dwelled there for most of his life and had bathed within this absence of light for as long as he could remember.
Now he was the fulcrum between sinner and saint, always vacillating between right and wrong as he searched for salvation. And like sleep, redemption dodged him just as well and was always beyond arm’s reach.
He sighed through his nose, his nostrils flaring.
Self-disgust.
He could always beat anything external, could conquer and defeat foes with model efficiency. But he failed himself internally, the man always struggling and failing to find himself, which left a hollowness that needed to be filled with Light.
So he sat in quasi-darkness and waited in the chair with the stillness of a statue.
Deliverance did not come.
It has to be earned.
Tomorrow he and his team would journey to the lost cathedral. And there they would find the truth behind the Order of Fallen Angels—why they had sent good men to kill an even greater man.
And if there was one thing Kimball knew and knew well, it was that the hardest of all truths always cut deep and stung where it hurt the most.
The answer he was about to receive—the truth that would cut directly to the bone—would be one he never expected.
But that was life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Gendarmerie Station
The Following Morning
For the past three years sleep did not come easy to Phinehas. The whispers kept him awake for the most part. So when the guards entered Phinehas’ cell to apply leg- and belly chains, Phinehas appeared as fresh as someone who had slept for several hours.
After he was fitted he’d been ushered out the rear of the Gendarmerie building to an awaiting van. The rear doors were open. Inside sat two armed guards who were wearing Kevlar vests and carried Uzi–sized weapons—firearms that were small and compact. After Phinehas was aided into the van, a third guard in gear followed and took a seat beside Phinehas. The Vatican Knight was flanked by two officers with the third sitting directly across from him.
Phinehas pinned the guard sitting before him with a stare, both men not willing to yield to the other. The guard was large and possessed raw-boned features such as an angular jaw and a thick neck. And despite th
e Kevlar he was wearing, he was obviously a man of broad shoulders and chest.
The men sitting on both sides of him were lean and well built.
Phinehas checked the chains.
Maneuverability was minimal.
And the quarters were tight.
His eyes shifted in his head, taking in the area space with complete absorption.
Then his mind began to play out a scenario.
As the van backed up and started its warning chime that the vehicle was in reverse, Phinehas knew that the length of the transport was seven miles. Certainly not a great distance nor a whole lot of time to act.
When the van began its forward course he closed his eyes.
He calmed his breathing, tuned in to total concentration, then he opened his eyes with a flare to them.
He kicked both legs out, a straight-forward shot to the large man in front of him with both heels striking the point of the man’s chin and driving the jawbone deep, causing the mandibular joints to punch through the flesh just below the guard’s ears, killing him instantly.
With a left elbow strike he hit the guard to his left, registering a blow to the guard’s nose, which sent a shard of bone into the man’s brain, killing him before he had time to realize the quickness of the prisoner’s move.
In a subsequent motion he came across with his right elbow. But the guard was already on the move and brought the point of his assault weapon up. Phinehas knocked the mouth of the barrel’s gun away, the short burst striking the body armor of the dead man sitting across from them.
Phinehas came up with his elbow—one, two, three times---causing the guard’s eyes to roll up into his head until nothing but whites showed. Then he placed the guard’s head within the crook of his armpit, pinched the man’s head between his bicep and side like a vise, and managed a powerful twist, snapping the man’s neck.
After the ammo burst inside the cab, the van started to slow and pull over. Phinehas picked up the assault weapon, directed it to the driver’s side, and strafed the area as holes punched through the metal. Phinehas could tell that he had struck his mark. The van appeared to be drifting slowly off course. And then it hit an obstruction. A parked car by the sound of it, the impact of metal against metal.
Grabbing the guard’s keys, Phinehas undid the locks and chains, grabbed an assault weapon, opened the doors, and then he was gone—the man disappearing into the streets of Rome.
From beginning to end the entire event took less than sixty seconds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“My name is Kimball Hayden.” Kimball held his hand out to a priest who regarded him carefully, if not suspiciously. Kimball looked far from a clergyman wearing military BDU’s and military issued boots; from the waist up a cleric’s shirt and collar.
The priest took his hand. “Father Corvecci,” he said, taking a seat at the small table Kimball was sitting at.
They were sitting outside a bar in a small village far from the city, with the bar having a bamboo front and a thatched overhang. Kimball was nursing a perspiring glass of a pale ale.
“You are the emissary from the Vatican?” the priest questioned.
“I am.” Kimball brought the glass to his lips and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. Setting the glass aside, Kimball quickly sized up the priest who was small and slight with dark hair and even darker eyes. His skin was the color of tanned leather.
“I was informed to meet you here. Something about a mission to Huecuvus?”
“That’s right,” said Kimball. “I need to know as much as I can about this cathedral.”
“It’s actually a temple,” he responded with a clip. English was obviously his second language. “It’s believed to be more than—”
“I’m not interested in its history,” Kimball interjected. “I need to know about the spirits that are alleged to exist around this particular site.”
The priest nodded his head. “There are no spirits,” he told him. “It’s simple folklore. Nothing more.”
“Then why do the locals refer to it as Huecuvus? The Evil Spirits.”
“The people here come from old-time traditions where stories are passed down from generation to generation. Sometimes ways are hard to surrender. Here, village elders often use tales of boogeymen as scarecrows to steer their children on the right path. And it’s these tales that turn into urban legends.”
“All legends have a foundation of truth,” said Kimball.
“Sometimes. But in the case of Huecuvus, these so-called Evil Spirits have been seen by villagers as shadows and shapes moving within the jungle, these creatures always watching, always whispering. But as men of education, you and I both know that there are logical reasons behind the myths.”
“And in the case of Huecuvus?”
“We’re talking about the jungle here,” said the priest. “These shadows, these shapes, they’re nothing more than pumas moving within the brush. The jungle is filled with them. They move in near silence through the thicket, only showing glimpses of themselves through the leaves.”
“So you don’t believe in these spirits?”
“Of course not. Like I said: these are Christian people who do not readily surrender old traditions or stories, even when they take God into their hearts.”
“Yet people allegedly disappeared when they got too close to Huecuvus.”
“Allegedly. But there have been no reports of people missing due to Huecuvus. Only false rumors. Fathers leave their families for other women. Children disappear for new adventures outside the villages, to see a world beyond their own. Huecuvus is simply an answer to those who don’t know the whereabouts of a loved one. And they do this because not knowing what happened to them is far more painful. What Huecuvus provides is closure, at least in their minds. Then they come to me for assurance that their loved ones are at peace. And so they pray for their welfare. And they pray for peace of mind.”
“So you don’t believe that there’s anything to Huecuvus.”
“There’s nothing out there but the jungle element, which is harsh and constantly brutal.” When a waiter came by to take an order form the priest, Father Corvecci kindly dismissed him with a faint wave of his hand. Kimball, however, wanted another of the bar’s finest brew.
“May I ask you something?” Father Corvecci asked him.
Kimball looked at him without answering.
“Why the interest in the temple?” Corvecci asked anyway. “Why the legends that surround it?”
“Father, I believe you were told by Vatican officials that the nature of the matter was reserved to those heading the mission, yes? And that you were only to provide answers regarding the task, not questions.” Kimball could see that the priest was taken aback by this. “Father Corvecci, it’s nothing personal. It’s simply the wish of the Vatican to keep as much of this a secret as possible. The less who know, the better off everyone is. Believe me.”
When the new glass of ale arrived, Kimball accepted it and placed it in front of him.
Father Corvecci looked at Kimball as if drinking was a social abomination.
“Something the matter, Father?”
The priest shook his head. No. Then: “I understand you need someone who can get you there, yes?”
Kimball nodded. “My team can get into Brazil undetected. What I need is someone to get us to this lost cathedral.”
“This temple is not easy to discover. It’s even more difficult to find a guide that will lead you there,” Father Corvecci said. “But I found a guide who will take you ten kilometers in, then he walks away. He won’t go any further. So you’ll have to make the last ten kilometers on your own.”
Kimball knew that jungle growth was fast growing, often masking trails within days, which would force them to hack new ones. And in Brazil, ten kilometers, or six miles, could be time consuming. More so, it would be exhausting as well. There were no landings for choppers, the canopy too dense. Nor would signals, GPS or satellite, be able to penetra
te the crowded leaves above. But Kimball had navigated through jungles before, especially in the southern tip of the Philippines.
“His name is Pasqual,” said the priest. “A good Christian who believes he’s doing God a service by leading you to the cathedral. But even the folklore of Huecuvus is not enough for Pasqual to take you in all the way, whether he believes God is with him or not. At the halfway point he’ll give you a list of certain landmarks that will guide you to Huecuvus. If you miss one, it will not be so easy to find your way back. The jungles of Brazil have a way of claiming the lives of those who don’t realize how vicious the jungle can be.”
“We’re adept,” Kimball returned.
“Of that I have no doubt. But nothing in the jungle ever comes easy.” The priest got up from his seat and stood away from the table. “Pasqual will meet you here at six o’clock in the morning. You will have transport, yes?”
“Yes.”
“He will show you the way across the border undetected. Once across, the vehicle will have to be abandoned as you begin your journey to Huecuvus.” Father Corvecci gave Kimball the sign of the cross and spoke a blessing, in Spanish. Then in English: “Go with God.”
After Corvecci disappeared into the crowd, Kimball looked up to see the church’s bell tower in the distance, a long walk in the heat and humidity. But, he considered, Corvecci was used to such treks in such clime.
Studying his ale and the cap of foam, Kimball believed that these shadows and shapes were more than just pumas, at least giving credence to a portion of the legend. Evil Spirits? No, of course not. Pumas? To a degree, certainly. Members of the Order of Fallen Angels, perhaps keeping a watchful eye on their territory? He would soon find out.
Then he raised his glass and drank from it.