by Rick Jones
CROSSES TO BEAR
Rick Jones
© 2014 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ALSO BY RICK JONES:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Bridge of Bones
Crosses to Bear
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden
The Menagerie
The Thrones of Eden
Familiar Stranger
PROLOGUE
Paris, France. Eighteen Months Ago
The Day after the Election of Pope Gregory XVII
Ezekiel sat at an outdoor eatery with a small cup of latte before him. In his hands was the Le Parisien, a Parisian newspaper.
After escaping Necropolis all bloodied and fatigued, he was able to find his way to a hack doctor who healed his wounds for a nominal fee on top of an upfront charge to keep him quiet. But when the doctor hinted that he would renege out of the deal unless Ezekiel came up with more of the original sums agreed upon, Ezekiel grabbed a scalpel and threw it across the room, impaling a cockroach that was scaling the wall.
Point made!
After that the doctor said nothing more and attended to the assassin.
Once Ezekiel was able to travel, he made his way to France and kept a very low profile.
Now, almost three months to the day after the battle inside Necropolis, Ezekiel’s heart grew heavy inside his chest.
On the front page of Le Parisien was a glorified obituary regarding the death of Amerigo Anzalone, Pope Pius XIII. It covered the man’s life, such as his rise to the papal throne and his final days as a servant to Christians around the world.
How I must have disappointed him in the end, he thought. How deeply saddened he must have been. He had respected the pontiff on so many levels that he hoped that Pius, at least in the end, had forgiven him for his betrayal against the Church as a Vatican Knight.
Please forgive me.
He lowered the newspaper slowly to the white-clothed tabletop and watched the pigeons gather close to his feet—the birds pecking, eating, and cooing.
And then the birds took flight with their wings beating in sudden panic, the world around him becoming a wall of feathers. And then they were gone.
In their place stood a well-built man of fair complexion, raven hair, and a wedge of pink scarring beneath his chin. “Disgusting creatures, don’t you think? I believe you Americans refer to them as ‘rats with wings.’”
Ezekiel just stared at the man who pointed to an empty chair at the table opposite Ezekiel. “May I?”
“Do I know you?”
The man took the seat without waiting for Ezekiel’s invite. “In a way I believe you do,” the man said.
Really. How so?
As the waiter approached the man waved him off, crossed his legs in leisure, and cupped his hands over a knee. “We’ve never met face to face, but I’m sure you’ve heard of me,” he told him. “In your circle you would know me as Abraham Obadiah.”
Ezekiel started to reach for a weapon.
Obadiah immediately raised his hand as a statement to Ezekiel to stay his action. “Don’t,” he said evenly. “Do you really think I would sit at this table without the proper resources backing me up?”
“I’d kill you before they had time to react.”
“I hardly doubt it,” he returned. “Look at your chest.”
Ezekiel found three red spots from laser sightings directed to the center of his body mass, all kill shots. But he couldn’t spot the assassins in hiding.
Ezekiel could feel his anger stewing. A few years ago this man sitting before him was responsible for the kidnapping of Pope Pius and the executions of several bishops within the Holy See. Of Obadiah’s entire team, which included military elitists, he was the only one to escape after the Vatican Knights defeated them in close combat.
“Why are you here?”
Obadiah stared at him briefly before digging a photo out of his pocket and placing it on top of the open pages of the Le Parisien. The photo was aged, but still in excellent condition, not grainy. It was a photo of a much younger Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci. Beside him stood a man wearing black fatigue pants, a military beret, boots, and a cleric’s shirt with a Roman Catholic collar. It was an earlier moment when Kimball had become a Knight.
“When the blood relative of a superior American senator is taken in by the State of the Vatican, it draws attention.” Obadiah tapped the photo. “This was taken a day after papers were filed for your release into their custody with no questions asked by state agencies. The people I work for take notice of things like that.”
“What’s your point?”
He pointed to Kimball. “This man,” he said. “Who is he?”
“Why?”
The man’s tapping became more adamant. “Who . . . is . . . he?”
The two squared off against one another with hardened gazes. Then with measured calm, Ezekiel said, “His name is Kimball Hayden.”
Obadiah fell back into his seat. “Kimball Hayden,” he uttered distantly. He now had a name. “And what does Kimball Hayden do?”
“Why do you want to know?” Ezekiel asked harshly.
Obadiah leaned forward. “Let’s just say that my team keeps an eye on things globally for the welfare of humankind.”
Ezekiel smirked. “Espionage,” he said. “The word at the time of the pope’s kidnapping was that you worked for Mossad.”
“You can believe whatever you want,” he returned. “If that was the ‘word,’ then that was the ‘word.’” The man leaned further forward, as if in close counsel. “Now tell me, who is this Kimball Hayden? And what was his interest toward you, the only surviving relative of a powerful American senator?”
Ezekiel did not draw close to Obadiah. Instead, he tented his hands together and placed them over the photo. “He is a Vatican Knight,” he told him. “As I was.”
Obadiah fell back once again. “A Vatican Knight?”
He nodded. “The Vatican has its own team of elite commandos,” he returned. “It was the Vatican Knights who took down your team the day the pontiff was freed . . . And it was Kimball Hayden who led the team.”
Obadiah raised his arm and showing off a ragged scar. “He did this to me.”
“He should have killed you.”
“But he didn’t.” A pause, then: “Tell me. Why his interest in you?”
Ezekiel maintained a look of hard determination. “To become a Vatican Knight you must be without family, someone who is orphaned. From a young age you are trained to be learned and skilled in combat.”
“Fascinating,” he murmured. “Taking pages directly from Spartan legacy by rearing a child to become an elite soldier. And he somehow saw these latent skills within you as a young boy? That’s why he took you in?”
He shook his head ‘no.’ “It was because he murdered my grandfath
er.”
“While working under the auspices of the Church?”
“No. At that time he was an assassin for the United States government. He was ordered to terminate my grandfather.”
Obadiah’s eyes suddenly detonated with the shock of surprise. This type of information was incredibly damaging—the murder of an all-powerful political figure sanctioned by major principals within the White House. “And your role?”
“I was chosen by Hayden because of his own personal reasons.”
Obadiah smiled. “For redemption,” he said. “He raised you for his own redemption.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“The man has a conscience that cannot be pacified, so he serves the Vatican in order to achieve salvation. But for him to believe that saving you after he destroyed your life was a way for him to make amends.”
He nodded.
“Then you were nothing more to him than his own personal puppet?”
Ezekiel looked down at the photo. “He tried to save me.”
“Sure he did.” Obadiah removed several photos from his jacket pocket and spread them over the tabletop. They were postmortem shots of the members from the Pieces of Eight. “I’m impressed with your handiwork,” he told him. “Our intelligence knew about the Pieces of Eight, but we could not determine who these people were or what their role was. But when we were informed that they were being terminated, our sources had to find out why ex-GI officials were being eradicated, whether the reason was political or otherwise.” He tossed another picture on top of the others, this one taken through the lens with NG capability. It was a photo of Ezekiel leaving the ranch house moments after he killed Hawk. And then another photo was laid down by Obadiah, this one showing Ezekiel on the rooftop with a sniper rifle moments before he shot one of the Hardwick brothers with pinpoint accuracy.
“And then we realized that this had no political implication behind it at all—that this was nothing more than a personal vendetta.” Obadiah tossed a third photo down, this one of Kimball Hayden taken from a distance. “It was this man that you wanted dead, wasn’t it?”
Ezekiel stared at the photo, but said nothing.
“When I saw this photo I recognized him right away. I knew it was the man at the depository who freed the pontiff and took out my team. I never thought I’d ever see him again.” Obadiah picked up the photo and examined it. “Kimball Hayden was a member of the notorious kill squad the Pieces of Eight, and now serves as a warrior for the Church. Talk about extremes.”
“What do you want, Obadiah?”
“My own redemption,” he quickly told him. “When I realized that this man, for whatever reason, was being targeted by the grandson of a once powerful senator, that’s when I saw the opportunity for my own salvation. So I waited, hoping that you would fulfill your goal of terminating Kimball Hayden from both our lives.” He laid the photo down and sighed. “But you failed.”
“I have not forfeited my goals,” he told him. “Kimball Hayden is one of the best in the world at what he does.”
Obadiah rubbed the scar on his arm. No one knew better regarding that statement than he did.
“He’ll be waiting for me, which will make my agenda more difficult to achieve.”
Obadiah stopped rubbing his old wound. “And that is why I’m here,” he stated. “It appears that Kimball Hayden has become our white whale. So I would like to offer you a proposal.”
“A proposal?”
“Work with my group,” he simply said. “Kimball Hayden may become a liability in future ventures. Therefore, he must be taken out of the equation. Against one of us, the odds are even; but against two, then the odds are skewed in our favor.”
“Why would I want to join league with a man who tried to assassinate the pope?”
“What I did was purely business with political aspirations behind the motive. But in the end, when I realized the mission was over, I was the one who cut the bonds of the pontiff’s chains and set him free. I may be a fanatic in my duties to my organization, but I also recognize the fact that if the journey is over, then it’s over. There was no point in killing the pope.”
“But your team tried.”
“And they suffered the ultimate cost at the hands of Kimball Hayden and the Vatican Knights.” He held up his arm, the scar still ugly and purple. “Including myself.”
“Looks like a small price to pay considering that others had paid with their lives.”
“True. But he hampered my skills somewhat. But nevertheless, I’m still skilled.”
The men measured each other carefully from across the table for a long moment.
And then, from Obadiah, “Do we have an alliance, Mr. Cartwright?”
“I go by Ezekiel.”
Obadiah smiled, and then lifted his hand as an offering. “Fine,” he said. “Then do we have an alliance, Ezekiel? Shall we hunt the white whale together?”
Ezekiel looked at the proffered hand, then at Obadiah, noting stoicism on his face.
The former Knight lifted his hand and joined it with Obadiah’s to form a new alliance. Then: “Are you Mossad?”
Obadiah smiled. “Perhaps,” he returned. He then waved his free hand and the three red dots disappeared from the center of Ezekiel’s chest. He fell back into his seat bearing all the smugness of achieving a great victory. “I will train you. And then I will give you guidance. In a year’s time, maybe longer, I’ll need you to return to the United States. More specifically, to Texas.”
“For what?”
“There’s new technology being created deep inside a chamber, a very powerful weapon. And I want it.”
“So get it.”
“If it was only that easy,” he said. “But it’s not. I need someone with your very particular skills to manage my team. Someone who has hutzpah. Training will be long and difficult, but I have confidence in your abilities.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“All the resources you need to bring down Kimball Hayden. And I promise you, Ezekiel, this time you will not fail.”
A preamble of a smile started to make its way at the corner of Ezekiel’s lips.
He was in.
CHAPTER ONE
One Year after the Death of Pope Gregory XVII
One Year into the Reign of Pope Pius XIV
The Jesus Saves Mission
Las Vegas, NV
The large man sat at the table staring at the image of Christ that had been burnt onto his toast. Sitting around him were people just like him, those who were lost and lonely without hope. People whose faces were so drained they appeared as loose as rubber masks.
For a long moment he stared at the profile of the Messiah who wore what appeared to be the pointed outcroppings of a thorn crown. The image was stark and well defined. And for the past four months that he'd thumbed his way across the landscape with nothing but a soiled backpack and few possessions, the image of Christ seemed to be everywhere. He had taken note of every cross and church spire; every photo, print and watercolor painting of Jesus that adorned the walls of diners and motel rooms. He even leafed through the pages of the Gideon Bible, taking in the words with absorption. Wherever he looked, wherever he went, the Messiah seemed to be looking at him with eyes that were imploringly sad.
After sighing through his nose, he laid the toast on the Styrofoam plate.
“Are you going to eat that?" asked the person to his left, pointing at the slice. The man was wispy thin and frail looking, with eyes that held somewhat of a gel-like thickness to them. It was the look of a drunkard.
The large man pushed the plate in the direction of the homeless person. "It's yours,” he told him. Enjoy.
The wispy-thin man didn't even hesitate, nor did he thank the man. He simply grabbed the plate and without hesitation ate the bread, giving no consideration to the image on the toast. When he was done he clapped his hands free of crumbs, stood, and without acknowledging the large man, left the table and moved through the aisles
of the mission’s dining area with little to no economy to his gait. Along with him went the aromatic hint of alcohol, the scent trailing until there was no scent at all.
In a former life his name was Kimball Hayden. But in this life he was known as Seth, a man who had no past and lived only for the present, and certainly had no definable future.
A few months ago he had conducted his last mission as a Vatican Knight by seeking justice rather than to follow the accordance of the law, pious or otherwise. Against the doctrine of the church and the code of the Vatican Knights, he killed a man. And by this action Kimball had chosen damnation over salvation, ensuring condemnation in the eyes of Pope Pius.
He closed his eyes and bit back the sour lump in his throat. The only family he had come to know, those whom he had come to love, he had left behind letting everyone believe that he had been killed in the final assault against Jadran Božanović, a leading principal in a human-trafficking cartel.
When he felt a gentle hand settle upon his shoulder, Kimball started.
“I'm so sorry, Seth,” she said. “You were sitting here with your eyes closed. I just wanted to make sure that everything was all right.”
He thought Sister Abigail to be a stunningly beautiful woman whose pixie-like face was framed beneath the hood of her habit. He also thought her eyes to be soft and blue as the color of Jamaican water. Her nose had a slight upturn to it, giving her a spirited look that was enhanced by a beatific smile and ruler-straight teeth. She was young, he thought, perhaps in her late 20s, maybe early 30s, and definitely out of bounds.
"I'm fine," he said, offering her a flash of his own teeth that were brilliant and white, unlike most of the men she had seen at the mission. "I was just thinking, that's all."
Her smile widened. "I missed you," she told him. "I haven't seen you in the past few days."
"I've been busy," he lied, but not really. Kimball really was busy looking for an honest job, only to end up at a bar that served one-dollar beers. It was something he did not want her to know about, and was unwilling to put himself in a class of those he surrounded himself with, or those she dealt with on a daily basis. He simply wanted to be different in her eyes. Then: "Does the Father need my assistance at the church?"