by Rick Jones
Two guards were posted before decorative glass doors that lead to the first-level suites. Kimball took careful aim with his red-dot scope, drew a bead, and pulled the trigger, the double spits from his weapon perfect head shots. Matter sprayed against the glass in Jackson Pollock designs. The sliding doors, however, took the rounds with quarter-sized holes in the glass. The panes maintained stability from the exit shots, refusing to shatter, with the bullets splintering the ornate wood carvings inside.
Kimball winced at this, knowing that if the glass didn’t hold, then the noise of its explosion would have alerted everyone on board.
Leviticus gave him a knowing stare: Careful!
Kimball nodded.
They moved forward, stepping over the bodies, and sliding the doors open.
The first-floor salon was warm and inviting, and highly elaborate in its setting. Couches and chairs were upholstered in leather. The polish and sheen of the bar resonated with the most expensive wood, and a bank of 42” inch TVs were lined side by side to make one huge screen against the far wall.
So this is what children’s souls can buy. Kimball was livid.
From the opposite side, Isaiah and Jeremiah silently entered the room.
Kimball raised his hand and pointed to what appeared to be the rails of a spiral staircase that led to the lower level.
They approached.
And voices speaking in Croatian could be heard. But the tones were distant.
Kimball took point with the mouth of his weapon at eye level. Leviticus followed with Isaiah and Jeremiah pulling up the rear.
The voices were getting louder.
At the bottom of the staircase was a hallway that curved slightly inward from their position toward the bow of the yacht’s interior. Kimball motioned with his hand by forming it into a pistol with his thumb raised and the forefinger pointed forward, and the remaining three fingers folded into the palm. With multiple flexes of his thumb, which symbolized a trigger, and pointing to the adjacent side, Isaiah and Jeremiah acknowledged Kimball’s signal that he wanted them to flank the Croats from the opposing side with weapons ready to respond.
They hunkered low, making themselves smaller targets, and maneuvering into position.
With a great measure of prudence, they moved along the corridors and closed the gap between themselves and the Croats.
Then there was a peaked laughter that was quickly followed by a bloodcurdling scream.
CHAPTER FORTY
The foolish husband had raised his head in time to see the sharpness of Božanović’s blade edging its way closer to his flesh. The Croat smiled in malicious amusement as his scar pulled at the corner of his lip and drew it higher in an obscene way.
“Ch-ch-ch-ch,” said Božanović, as if to calm the man a moment before the slice. “Like I told your wife, you should have left well enough alone.”
As he inched the knife closer, his sneer became more pronounced. This was going to be a moment that he would relish.
Suddenly the men beside him fell, their bodies going to the ground as lifeless heaps—blood fanning out beneath them in near-perfect circles against the floor. Božanović snapped his head up in time to see the Vatican Knights descend the stairway with the tips of their suppressors leading the way.
His men had been downed by perfect kill shots. And Božanović couldn’t help but be impressed by the pinpoint accuracy, as he backed away from Gary and closer to the salon’s rear door.
“Don’t move, Božanović.” It was their leader, who leveled his weapon to the point of the Croatian’s cold heart.
By Shari’s in-depth description, he knew these men to be Vatican Knights, and this one to be Kimball Hayden.
Božanović tilted his head and offered a wanton smile when he saw that each man was wearing a Roman Catholic collar. “So it’s true.”
“What’s that?” said Kimball.
“Are you the leader?”
“Maybe.”
Božanović nodded his head. “You are the one.”
“The one what?”
Isaiah and Jeremiah worked their way carefully to Gary and untied him.
“Have you ever heard of what we Croatians call urbana legenda?”
“No. Should I have?”
The Croatian’s smile broadened. “Every culture has them,” he said, backing away with his knife moving in figure eights, a movement of distraction. “American’s call it urban legends.”
“That’s nice. Now stop moving, Božanović. I have some loving I want to give you regarding a few people.”
But Božanović ignored him. “These urbana legenda were once called urban myths. But the word ‘myth’ usually alleges that the story is false.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“A few years ago, a new urbana legenda grew within the circle of people I deal with, the men talking as if this particular urbana legenda was more legend than myth. It speaks of a man who walks from the shadows of the Vatican to help those who cannot help themselves. He is considered to be an angel to some and a demon to others. He is called the priest who is not a priest. Have you heard of such an urbana legenda?”
“Again, should I have?”
The Croatian chortled when looking at Kimball and his collar. “No, I guess not,” he said. “It is after all—what, a myth?”
“If you don’t stop moving, Božanović, I’ll put a bullet in each leg if it’ll keep you from taking one more step.”
But it was too late. The Croat had inched his way to the rear exit and shot a hand out, hitting the light switch by the opening. When the fluorescents winked off, Jeremiah raised his weapon and pulled the trigger, sending forth a volley of shots, the muzzle flashes illuminating the room with staccato bursts of light. Božanović ducked as two bullets tugged and grazed his clothing, near misses, and he rolled through the exit where he quickly gained his feet and disappeared into the shadows.
Jeremiah held back on the trigger as the smell of gunpowder permeated the air. “I went for the legs,” he shouted. “But I don’t think I hit him.” After taking several steps, he hit the switch.
Božanović was nowhere to be seen. And Jeremiah was right in his assumption about missing the man. There wasn’t even a trace of blood left in Božanović’s wake, no trail to follow.
“Jeremiah, get Gary out of here. Isaiah and Leviticus, you two follow me.”
Gary was all but exhausted. Dried blood, bruised lumps and a swollen eye rendered his face close to something unrecognizable. Sweeping an arm underneath and then above Gary’s shoulder, Jeremiah was able to walk him toward their point of entry at the ship’s stern. Over his shoulder as he was being led away, Gary called out to Kimball: “Get…Shari. She’s here…somewhere.”
Kimball acknowledged him, then quickly galvanized into action, with Isaiah and Leviticus close behind.
During the pursuit, Kimball had come to the conclusion that the advantage now belonged to Božanović, who knew the ship’s layout and was most likely alerting his people to ready for battle.
In a few moments, they would swarm like locusts to a feast.
And before the hour was up, Kimball knew that the entire ship would be nothing more than a den of carnage.
The Vatican Knights pressed on.
The ship’s third level had been gutted and remodeled to serve Jadran Božanović’s needs.
The walls dividing the numerous salons and suites had been modified into three areas: a large holding cell, an interrogation room, and a specifically designed escape route. The engine room in the stern remained untouched.
Božanović took the spiral staircase to the lowest tier, which ended up in the hallway between the ship’s engines and the holding cell. From where he stood, he could feel intense heat coming from the direction of the propulsion room, and he heard the high-pitched whine of the engines running at full throttle.
He looked ceilingward, as if he could bypass all the visual obstacles and look directly into the fly bridge three levels up. H
e wondered why the pilot was keeping the ship’s engines throttled to maximum.
The heat was beginning to waft down the corridor and toward the bow.
Footsteps sounded above him, the Knights now in pursuit.
Božanović ran toward the bow, where he came upon a metal hatch leading to the holding cell. To the left and right of that room were two corridors. He took to the right side, running, and bypassed the interrogation room in the same manner, by taking the hallway on the right that led to the specifically designed escape route.
When he reached the final room of the deck, he opened the hatchway door and entered the room.
Božanović smiled. He had planned for every contingency.
Even the Vatican Knights couldn’t track him through here.
Kimball and company made their way to the bottom tier, where the heat was building to a high degree. Behind them was the engine room. In front of them was a room flanked by corridors.
“Which way?” asked Isaiah.
“You and Leviticus check the stern and clear it. If Božanović isn’t there, then we move forward toward the bow and push him into a corner.”
“Copy that.”
With weapons raised, Isaiah and Leviticus moved toward the ship’s rear, the heat becoming increasingly elevated.
“Something’s not right,” Isaiah commented. “It shouldn’t be this hot.”
When they reached the propulsion room moments later, they could feel the heat radiating from the seams around the hatchway. Leviticus reached out and touched the door, which was warm to the touch. Draping his weapon over his shoulder, he then grabbed the wheel and turned it, the hatch opening.
A battery of immense heat greeted them. The engines had been running at full capacity for far too long; they were overheating. Nevertheless, the men canvassed the area by checking every niche and recess, for whatever cubbyhole in which Božanović could possibly hide or through which he could escape.
But they found nothing.
The room was clear.
And then the engines took to an unhealthy whine, the system beginning to labor under its docked position.
They quickly exited the room. If Božanović was on this ship, then he was somewhere toward the bow, where Kimball was keeping surveillance.
The hatchway door leading to the bow appeared odd and incongruous in such a luxurious setting. Whereas everything on the upper levels appeared state-of-the-art and steeped with the most expensive accoutrements that money could buy, this doorway seemed old and rustic, like something from an old submarine that had been mothballed.
Kimball raised his weapon and moved forward with great caution, one slow step at a time, until he came upon the door’s wheel. He gripped the wheel and turned it, the latches pulling away from their sockets and unlocking the door.
With his MP5 aimed forward, he pulled the door open to reveal a room that was as black as pitch. A tidal stench of human waste, vomit, and uric acid rolled at him with such an overpowering wave, it knocked him back a few steps.
He then lowered his face shield, clicked on the night-vision mode, and entered a room that was no longer black, but the color of phosphorous green.
As he stepped over the room’s threshold, his heart sank to his gut.
Dozens of children and young adults, all cringing and cowering into masses against the walls, remained silent and unmoving, trying to be as invisible as they could possibly be in the setting of darkness.
And Kimball felt for them.
In their faces, in their eyes, even through the darkness and with the aid of the night vision, he could see their hurt and pain, and the need to be rescued. It was the same look he had seen in the eyes of Joshua that one day in Hyde Park.
To his right was a light switch. After shutting off his night-vision system, he flipped the room’s switch. The children immediately pressed themselves against other bodies that were already pressed against the wall. It was like roaches scurrying for darkness after having been exposed to the light, but there was nowhere for the children to go.
Kimball stepped further into the room with the mouth of his weapon tilted toward the floor. He looked to his left and then to his right, seeing children sitting in their collective filth—their ages ranging from young teens to young adults. They were tired and scared, and their faces were fish-belly pale. Their bodies shivered as if they were mind-numbingly cold. But the room was exceedingly warm from all the body heat that had gathered—and there were no vents to aid in circulation.
They had given Kimball a wide berth as he walked down the middle of the room, the children parting like the waters of the Red Sea.
And a child, a young girl whose face was wan with gray half moons circling her eyes, saw the collar he was wearing, and got to her feet.
With small steps, and with her hand raised and her fingers extended, she approached the man with courage and caution.
Kimball stood there, waiting.
And when she was upon him, her fingertips reached up and grazed the band of his Roman Catholic collar.
Here was a priest.
In response, Kimball laid his hand on the crown of her head. She then grabbed his hand in hers, brought it to her cheek, and used it to caress her skin, as if it had the softness of velvet.
Other children began to follow her lead, each one wanting to touch this man, the tides of the Red Sea closing in as Kimball became the centerpiece of their attention. Hands grazed and touched him. And Kimball tried to reach out to every child, to touch them all, and to let them know that everything would be all right.
Dozens pressed inward from all sides, from all angles.
Suddenly everyone wanted to touch this savior.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The room was specifically designed for Jadran Božanović, the same way the pyramids had been designed for the pharaohs—with hidden walls and recesses and a few deterrents thrown in for good measure. The room was a maze, with corridors running into other corridors that often led to dead ends. Only Božanović knew the specific route. All others would get lost, which would give him time to escape, while his pursuers were locked in.
Before the first doorway was an intercom system, a small box. He pressed the button so that the message could be broadcasted throughout the entire ship. In Croatian, he said, “The ship has been breached. All hostile elements are in the lower decks. You are to terminate without prejudice. I repeat: You are to terminate without prejudice.” And then he released the button.
He knew that Kimball was drawing closer, and he considered the fact that the Vatican Knight thought that he was forcing Božanović into a corner, from which there would be no escape. But Božanović had the benefit of knowing the ship’s layout. Fighting on the territory of one’s homeland always provided the advantage. So, at least in his mind, the Vatican Knights didn’t have a chance.
So Božanović waited.
He wanted to play a game.
Isaiah and Leviticus stood in the doorway of the holding cell and watched the children gravitate toward Kimball as if he was a living oracle offering salvation.
In their assessment, they were amazed.
“Kimball.” It was Isaiah.
When the children turned they saw two men with guns. But they also saw the Roman Catholic collars. So they went to them as they did to Kimball, wanting to touch these angels. The Vatican Knights were overwhelmed with feelings, as they looked upon faces that hadn’t smiled in days or weeks, and could see the light of hope once again burning in their eyes.
“Leviticus, get the children to safety.”
This was going to be somewhat difficult since some of the children were still sluggish, in a drug-induced haze. More so, they had to deal with Božanović’s men.
“I can’t do this alone,” he said.
“Then wait for Isaiah to return after he and I check the fore. Gary said that Shari was here. It won’t take too long. Just keep your mic open and hold the position until we return.”
“Kimball.�
�
“Yeah.”
“Be careful up there. Shari may be to the fore…but so is Božanović.”
Kimball immediately understood the gist of Leviticus’s meaning: Let’s hope Božanović didn’t use her as artwork simply to make a point.
“I’ve got to move,” Kimball said with urgency. Then, after giving the gesture to follow, he said, “Isaiah!”
They exited the room through a door at the other end and entered a small hallway. Ten feet away was another hatch. Kimball turned the wheel, opened it, and found the room to be just as black as the holding cell. He entered the room alone. When he did he could hear something whimpering in the darkness.
It was the sound of a child in need.
The door opened slowly, allowing a shaft of light to stretch across the floor of the small room. When the girl looked up, she saw a massive shadow silhouetted against the backdrop of lighting. He was carrying a weapon.
When she saw the man and the firearm he carried, she curled into a fetal position against the wall and whimpered.
Suddenly the area’s overhead light went on, the man’s hand still on the switch.
For a moment she stared at the man’s face. And she remembered. He had come to her once before, in the past, to fight bad men who had come to kill her and her family. He had become her champion that night and their victor. And here he was again, her savior, a man who had changed little over the years, with continuing strength in his features and brewing sadness in his eyes.
“Hi, Stephanie,” he said. He held his hand out to her. “It’s time to go home.”
Kimball stepped into the room and flipped the switch to give light to the source of the cry.
The girl was young, and she was beautiful. And he could see the shared features of her mother from the color of her skin to the remarkable color of her eyes. She was scared and terrified, her body language conveying the need and want to be left alone. But when she saw him, when her sight drifted to the whiteness of his collar and then to his face, her fear immediately washed away at that moment of recognition.