by Rick Jones
“Less resistance if I keep you this way,” he answered. “It just makes my job so much easier.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Reinard took a few steps closer, took his hands out of his pockets, and got to a knee beside Beauchamp. “You broke the cardinal rule,” he said evenly.
Beauchamp’s eyes flared. He knew exactly what Reinard was talking about. “Look,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“We all have choices. You just decided to make the wrong one.” He leaned in. “The choice you made, Monsieur Beauchamp, compromised one of Božanović’s laundering facilities. More so, Tolimir is dead as a result of your loose lips.”
“They were going to kill me,” he lied. “They had a knife to my throat, saying that if I didn’t talk, then they would end my life.”
Reinard nodded, as if he understood the man’s predicament. “You want to know something?” he asked rhetorically. “I always found you to be…what’s the word?” His eyes drifted upward as if the answer was printed on the ceiling. “Arrogant,” Reinard finally said, looking back at him. “I always found you annoyingly…arrogant. So I’m not surprised that it has come to this. You always boasted. But when it came right down to standing tall at a moment you needed to, you fell short by popping off at the mouth, didn’t you?”
Beauchamp’s lips moved in mute protest.
“Yeah. I thought so,” said Reinard. He then reached into his pocket, grabbed a pair of tight-fitting gloves, and tugged them on, his fingers flexing until the gloves were securely fit.
“What are you going to do?” asked Beauchamp, his voice riddled with tension. He then began to wrestle with the handcuffs, a futile attempt that was driven by self-preservation. “You’re my partner, for God’s sake!”
“And in a few minutes, I’ll be your ex-partner.”
Reinard reached a gloved hand behind him, lifted the tail of his sports coat, and removed a knife that had been parked in a sheath behind the small of his back. He held it up in display, to show Beauchamp the finer points of its craftsmanship, such as the keen edge and razor-sharp point. “Not the best knife, where knives are concerned, but still a magnificent tool. Don’t you agree?”
“Please…”
“You did this to yourself,” Reinard told him. “You knew the rules and you accepted to play by them at all costs. Now the cost, in your case, is that Božanović wants your hide. And I’m not talking figuratively, either. You know how he is about making statements and the power behind them.”
Beauchamp’s bladder finally let go.
But Reinard ignored the sudden stench of uric acid. Instead, he twirled the knife in his hand—back and forth, back and forth—with malicious amusement.
“I’m not as good as Božanović about this kind of stuff,” said Reinard. “But you know what they say about how practice makes perfect, right?”
Beauchamp started to scream, causing Reinard to clamp a hand over his mouth.
“Shh-shh-shh-shh,” he said. “Let’s not go disturbing the neighbors now.”
Tears began to stream down Beauchamp’s face.
“I’ll tell you what? How about if I cut your throat first, put you out of your misery, and then cut you up the way Božanović wants me to? I’ll tell him you were alive throughout the entire ordeal. I’ll lie to him, how about that? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? And, of course, you won’t be around to tell him differently.”
Beauchamp shook his head. He didn’t want anything to happen to him at any level.
“No? No. You don’t like that idea?”
Beauchamp shook his head vehemently. No-no-no! It’s not that! I don’t want you to do anything to me at all!
“Well, if you don’t like my proposal…”
Beauchamp’s voice was muffled beneath the gloved hand. He wanted to implore Reinard with his best oratory efforts and make a case to live. But Reinard disallowed that by pressing his hand so hard against Beauchamp’s jaw bone, he thought the man was going to push it right through the back of his skull.
Please!
“I’m sorry, partner. But rules are rules. And if I don’t follow through with this, then it’ll be my turn at the end of someone else’s blade. You know that.”
Beauchamp blinked back the tears and closed his eyes.
He waited.
Then Reinard brought the blade to his partner.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Božanović’s Tier-One unit asked the concierge at the desk of the Hotel de La Motte Picquet, in a not so friendly manner, as to the whereabouts of the Americans. The concierge—like everyone else in the hotel, since the kidnapping was much talked about and hardly a maintained secret—knew exactly who they were talking about. He had told them of the comings and goings of the archbishop from the rue Barbet-de-Jouy in the 7th arrondissement. And that they had checked out with the archbishop, who had offered them residence.
The unit leader then gave specific mention to the concierge that he was not to speak to anyone about their visit, about the questions asked, or the insightful answers he gave them. In other words, they never existed. If the concierge decided otherwise, then he was told in no uncertain terms that he would wind up at the bottom of the Seine with his throat cut.
As soon as the team left the Hotel de La Motte Picquet, the team leader got on the cell phone and called Božanović.
“They checked out,” he said. “The concierge stated that they were held up under the authority of the Vatican at the rue Barbet-de-Jouy. Do you know of this place?”
“Yeah. It’s a residential block of houses usually for Vatican dignitaries. Find out which one they’re in, and then do what you’ve been tasked to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Božanović hung up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The surviving Knights had seized one of the vehicles in the stronghold’s parking lot and followed Kimball’s route. The van eventually arrived at the scene of Tolimir’s misfortune.
In the subsequent moments, Kimball got into the van, his face and clothes dusted with soot. In the rear of the van was the bullet-riddled body of Samuel. His arms had been crossed over his chest in gentle repose.
As the van took the roads smoothly and the city lights passed by in a blur, Kimball had eyes only for Samuel. Slowly, he placed his palm against Samuel’s forehead and felt a certain coldness starting to take root. And when he saw the dead Knight’s eyes at half-mast and showing nothing but slivers of white, Kimball closed them.
He then fell back until he was sitting against the van’s side wall. He traced his fingers against his chest wound, the tips coming away slick with blood.
This mission had been an abysmal failure. Samuel was dead and the one man who could have led him to Božanović was also dead. More so, Božanović’s network was more powerful than he could have imagined.
He closed his eyes and listened to the motor of the van as if it was a lullaby, the engine running smooth and even.
As team leader, he had to lay the blame on himself. His skills of diplomacy were woefully lacking. But the moment he stepped inside the room, he had known that Tolimir was not going to be amenable to any level of negotiating. But to get at Tolimir, he’d had to go through the man’s team. And time was running critically low. So he’d had no choice but to take action that would leave Tolimir as the last man standing. And that he achieved. What he didn’t count on, however, was Tolimir going up in flames. And with him, the answers as to where Shari’s children were being housed.
He sighed.
And then he opened his eyes to look at Samuel.
Like all Knights who had fallen in battle, he would be transported to the Vatican, where services would be held. Then he would be entombed in a place of honor within the necropolis, beneath the Basilica.
Samuel had earned it.
“What do we do?” asked Isaiah. His voice sounded distant, almost like a whisper coming from the depths of a tunnel. “Kimball?”
&
nbsp; We do the only thing that’s left to us.
“We return to base camp,” he finally said. “And go from there.”
But the between-the-lines interpretation was that they had run out of options and now had to rely on chance.
And their window was closing.
All Kimball could do to keep himself from punching a hole through the side panel of the van in frustration was to believe that there was a solution to everything.
He had to have faith.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Tier-One team arrived at the rue Barbet-de-Jouy less than ten minutes after Božanović called. There were four of them, all elite assassins specifically tasked to terminate all targets of compromise, without leaving behind a measure of trace evidence. They were quick and neat and efficient, a unit of seasoned killers who reacted like a collective of one mind, one soul, one body.
The quarters located at the rue Barbet-de-Jouy, was a small tenement with three separate residences attached together like brick-row housing. Two of the residences were lights out, both vacant. The one in the middle, however, had lights on.
The four assassins stood in the shadows across the way, watching intently as the team leader scoped the residence with a handheld night-vision monocular.
In the window with the light of the room serving as a backdrop, clearly stood the silhouette of a man.
The team leader, a man named Antun, zoomed in, working the lens. The image began to take on clarity until he could tell that it was a man wearing a beret and a cleric’s collar, a priest.
He lowered the monocular. “There’s one tango in view, but I don’t see the parents.” He then spoke of a plan of action. “Capeka and Grgur will go to the rear of the tenement to set up a perimeter. Once you get confirmation…” he tapped his lip microphone, “that Mihovil and I have breached the front, then you are to enter, flank out, and take down those we drive to the rear of the house. Božanović wants the woman alive. Is that clear?”
There was a chorus of “yes.”
Antun nodded. “Then ready up.”
Joshua stood by the window looking out into the night. In the distance, the spires and towers of the Notre Dame Cathedral were spotlighted as the area’s marquee architectural feature, a stunning display of lights showcasing a spectacular design.
He then noted the time from the wall clock hanging above the fireplace mantel.
8:31 P.M.
Since he still hadn’t heard from Kimball or from anyone on the team, concerns were beginning to rise, questions beginning to surface. The Vatican Knights were an elite and efficient group that were quick to respond.
Something’s wrong.
He fell back from the window and ventured down the thin hallway. Shari was sitting at her computer, typing, the door to her room slightly ajar to offer him a view.
He grabbed his MP5 off the dresser of a neighboring room, and quietly surveyed the rest of the living area.
The house was empty.
But something continued to nag at him in the same way a dog raises its hackles when sensing great danger.
Something wicked was closing in.
So he raised his weapon.
And he waited.
As Antun and Mihovil were quietly working the front locks to the residence, Capeka and Grgur were in the back, setting up a perimeter. All entrances to the house were now completely covered.
Mihovil was on a knee working the picks cleanly in the lock. Tumblers moved with the faintest of noise, the nearly imperceptible clicks inching them closer to a breach of the residence. With every play of Mihovil’s lock picks, Antun ground his feet to the floor and braced himself with his suppressor-tipped weapon pointed forward.
He would kill the priest immediately. And with Mihovil by his side, they would secure the area and drive whoever remained standing into the kill zone of their teammates in the back.
The final click of the lock was the loudest. And with a turn of his hand, the knob turned, too.
The breach was made.
With guns readied, they entered the residence.
Antun thought the residence to be much too quiet, which raised a red flag.
They slowly progressed through the rooms, Antun on the left side of the residence, Mihovil on the right, with the points of their weapons raised and their heads turning as if on a swivel.
With the tip of his weapon, Antun pushed the doors wide, the hinges protesting with a marginal squeal, then he led with the point of his weapon ready to strike down the first target.
But all the rooms were empty.
What happened to the priest?
When Antun finally reached the kitchen area at the rear of the house, he found Mihovil sitting at the kitchen table with his chin resting against his chest. The man was unmoving.
What the hell is this?
“Mihovil,” he whispered.
The assassin remained unresponsive.
“Mihovil.” When Antun reached out and grabbed his companion by the shoulder, Mihovil’s head fell to the side and hung at an awkward position. His neck had been broken and he’d been seated at the table.
Now Antun knew he was completely exposed.
When he pivoted to get a 360-degree view of his surroundings, the priest was on top of him and smashed the butt-end of his weapon against Antun’s face, crushing the blade of his nose flat. As the Croat fell back, his finger engaged the trigger, the silent bursts stitching up along the wall and across the ceiling, causing plaster to rain down.
The moment Antun hit the floor; the back door was kicked in.
And all hell broke loose.
Bullets strafed across the kitchen, the impacts splintering the wood of the cabinets and smashing ceramic cups and plates, pieces flying everywhere. Glass shattered and the faucet handle was completely blown off its mounting, sending a steady stream of water ceilingward.
The priest quickly ducked out of view and into the hallway, the bullets following the course of his wake.
Capeka gave pursuit while Grgur helped Antun to his feet, his face bloodied.
When Capeka turned the corner, the hallway was empty, so caution prevailed as he took tentative steps and lowered his lip mic. “Antun? Antun?”
Antun lowered his mic. His mind was still cloudy. “Yeah.”
“He’s gone,” he whispered.
“He’s not gone. He’s here…somewhere.” He then pushed Grgur in the direction of the hallway to press upon him the point that he needed to help Capeka with his search for the priest. “Find him. And find the woman. If you find anyone else…you know what to do.”
“Aye.”
Capeka and Grgur sidled up to one another; their weapons leveled, and they began to move along the corridor.
Antun shook his head until the blurred vision cleared. He looked down at Mihovil, who sat there in a too-loose position with his limbs flaccid by his sides, then Antun took to the opposite side of the residence.
They were closing in.
Shari heard the multiple muted firings of bullets in the kitchen, and immediately recognized the fact that the residence had been compromised. She opened the drawer of her desk, grabbed her Glock, shut off the light, and took a Weaver stance in the back of the room, where the shadows were darkest.
She looked out the window.
Two stories up.
But at least it was a route.
Where are you, Joshua?
Her door began to slide open, the light of the hallway pushing back the shadows of the room until her cover was gone.
So she leveled the Glock and began to pull the trigger.
Grgur used the tip of his weapon to nudge a door open at the end of the hallway. The room was dark. But the hall’s light washed through the shadows and lit up the woman. The Croat immediately tried to center the point of his weapon to the target, but a bullet pierced his forehead and punched a hole through the back of his skull, pulp and gore splashing the back wall and parts of Capeka, who fell backward out of the line of fire
.
For a seemingly long and impossible moment, Grgur stood there, as if his brain was trying to catch up and register that he was dead. Then his legs and knees began to buckle, and then the rest gave way, the man finally falling to the floor.
That whore-of-a-bitch is armed!
Capeka lowered his lip mic. “Antun, I found the woman. She’s armed. And Grgur has been terminated. I repeat: Grgur has been terminated.”
Antun was infuriated. Božanović would not be pleased, since the entire operation had turned into something well beyond a sanitation project. Bodies were lying around. The residence was shot up. And trace evidence would most likely be found and linked to their squad.
“We have two minutes to accomplish the means,” he told him. “Use the flash.”
“Copy that.”
Capeka reached into the pocket of his bulletproof tactical vest and pulled out a pipe approximately the size of a tube of toothpaste. In Croatian, he yelled something out to Shari, something she wouldn’t understand, which was subsequently followed by the tube rolling along the room’s floor.
Shari’s eyes widened when she recognized the flash bang and tried to duck away. But it was too late, the bang going off with a flash of blinding light as the accompanying concussive wave knocked her to the floor. Suddenly her world became a collection of double and triple images. Nothing appeared centered and everything seemed to move with a life of its own. The world became animated in an odd sort of way. Her desk and chair rippled and waved, going from a double image to four images. And her landscape had gone from vivid colors to black and white.
As the internal stars began to clear and the images began to turn back to normalcy, she looked up to see the Croat standing over her. His mouth was moving, but she could hear nothing. Then with the slowness of a bad dream, and for which there was nothing she could do to counter his action, the Croat raised the end of his weapon and brought it down.