Crosses to Bear (Vatican Knights Book 6)

by Rick Jones

Father Donavan grabbed Kimball by the arm and held him up, the men now staring at each other. “Seth, don’t make that cross you bear any heavier than it has to be. If you don’t control your anger, then your anger will control you.”

  Kimball stared him for a long moment thinking: Anger, control away.

  But then his features softened. “Father, Sister Abigail wanted a life away from Saint Viator’s.”

  “I know that, Seth. We’ve talked in the past about her leaving the order. I knew she had her own struggles. And when a person questions the reasons behind what they’re doing, then there’s obvious doubt that what they’re doing may not be right for them. Sister Abigail, no matter her decision, would always have a special place in God’s heart.”

  Kimball sighed. “We talked as well,” he confided. “You know that Seth is not my real name. I made that clear. And finally, after all this time, I was about to tell Abby that my feelings for her were deep.”

  “She knew that, Seth. And I know that her feelings for you were just as deep. In fact, you might have been the catalyst that made her realize that she wanted something beyond what the church could give her—a family. And you were the hope to make it come true.”

  “Some hope I turned out to be,” he stated with self-disgust and self-loathing. “The woman I cared so much about didn’t even know my name. My real name.”

  “She knows it now. Believe me.”

  Kimball turned and began to storm his way out of the trauma center. “Seth, please, you will only get yourself hurt if you take on the Community. Don’t do this.”

  “My name’s not Seth,” he said. “It’s Kimball . . . Kimball Hayden. At least you deserve that much.”

  The name struck a chord with Father Donavan, causing the man to stumble in his gait. He had heard the name as an attachment to urban legend, of a divine and mythical figure who aided the church by helping those who could not help themselves.

  “Kimball,” whispered Father Donavan.

  Although Kimball heard him, he dismissed the call.

  Then louder: “Kimball!”

  Just as Kimball was about to round the bend of the hallway, Father Donavan called out one last time. “To the priest who is not a priest!” he cried.

  This caught Kimball so off guard that he stopped on a dime and quickly pivoted on the balls of his feet, until he was facing Father Donavan. “What did you just say?”

  Father Donavan began to make his way down the hallway towards Kimball. Pressed tightly to his chest was the Bible. “I said, the priest who is not a priest.” When Father Donavan reached Kimball, he stared up into the man’s smoldering eyes. “Over the past few years a legend that speaks of a priest who is not a priest has begun to surface. They say in times of trouble a man walks from the shadows of the Saint Peter’s Church to make the world right again. It is further said that this priest who is not a priest is considered to be an angel by some . . . and a demon to others. And this name Kimball Hayden is somehow linked to this urban fantasy.” Father Donavan noted the stunned look on Kimball’s face. “Yes,” he continued, “even here at this small church I have heard of him.”

  Kimball started to turn away. “You’re talking in circles, man.”

  “Am I? Would you be telling that to Sister Abigail if she was standing here instead of me?”

  Kimball could feel his anger register. But Father Donavan was right. All he wanted was the truth, which was something he couldn’t give to Sister Abigail until it was too late. He returned to father Donavan. “I’m just a man,” he said softly. “I’m not a legend. I’m just a man.”

  “Kimball.” Father Donavan placed a gentle hand onto Kimball’s forearm and gripped it surprisingly hard. “Kimball, I don’t know who you are, but you knew exactly what I was talking about when I called you ‘the priest who is not a priest.’ Whoever you are, whatever it is that you do, please be careful. Both Sister Abigail and God hold you deep in their hearts.”

  Kimball did not respond. In fact, he looked skyward at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling and wondered if this was truly the case. Was Abby looking down upon him favorably? He wanted to believe so.

  “I’ve got things to do,” Kimball finally said, then turning. This time he did not look back at Father Donavan when he called his name.

  In fact, he would never lay eyes on the kindly priest ever again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The number showing up on Yitzhak’s screen was 00239, a number associated with masked calls from satellite phones. He answered. “Yes.”

  “I’ve been informed that Mossad, by your direction, has classified me as a rogue.”

  Yitzhak recognized the voice immediately, and thought it uncanny that Obadiah was looking right into the camera as if they were having a face-to-face. “And you’re surprised by this?”

  “You know that I would never turn rogue.”

  “All I know, Abraham, is that your mission is incomplete. You walked off the grid.”

  “I did not go off the grid. I went offline. There’s a difference between the two. And my actions were never questioned before because it was always for the good of Israel.”

  “That may have been true in the past. But this time it’s different. And you know it. You walked away without the proper authority from Mossad with a deadly pathogen designated for strict containment in a bio-lab.”

  Obadiah hesitated because Yitzhak was right. He didn’t just overstep his boundaries by the inches—this maneuver was a colossal leap in both protocol and bad judgment. “I can make this right,” he finally said.

  “Where are you?”

  “You know where I am. I know you’re looking right at me.”

  “Agents will be there within twenty minutes.”

  “I can make this right.”

  “It never should have gotten this far.”

  “You know that I am not in possession of the vial.”

  “I know. I also know that Ezekiel has it. But it is also my understanding that you allowed him to possess it without any challenge from you, which means that you approved the mishandling in order to fill an agenda that is equally your own as well as his. Am I correct?”

  True, he thought.

  “And that agenda is hardly in the interest of Israel,” added Yitzhak.

  On screen, Obadiah looked at his right arm, his dominant arm, and lifted it as if to weigh it. A few years ago while on an operation in the United States which involved the kidnapping of the pope, he experienced firsthand what it was like to combat a Vatican Knight by taking on Kimball Hayden. The ultimate result was the loss of his right arm with all the pins and rods needed to make it whole gain. However, the efficiency and quick mobility of that arm was forever lost, so he no longer was an elite fighter—that title was snatched away from him by Kimball Hayden.

  Sadly enough, Yitzhak knew all this as he watched Obadiah raise and stretch his arm, then flex it with obvious pain. A once great man, Yitzhak thought, had been reduced to a marginal field hand.

  Obadiah looked back at the camera. “I can make this right,” he reiterated.

  “How?”

  “The plane is boarding as we speak, so your team will not arrive here in time. But you do know where we are going, I assume.”

  “Rome.”

  Obadiah nodded. “Have a team meet us there. And let the principals know that I’m coming in.”

  “You do understand, Abraham, that there will be consequences coming down the road, yes?”

  Abraham remained silent on his end.

  “I’m sorry, Abraham,” Yitzhak said with genuine sorrow. “You deserve better. But your actions left us no choice.”

  On screen, Abraham Obadiah remained as still as a Grecian statue for a long moment before speaking. Then: “I understand.”

  Yitzhak could hear the pain in his voice. “Don’t let Ezekiel know that an extermination team will be waiting in Rome.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Make sure that you keep that vial safe.” A moment afte
r speaking the final word, Yitzhak closed communication by terminating the call.

  #

  When the speaker announced that their flight was boarding, Ezekiel looked up and found Obadiah standing in the middle of the terminal aisle talking on the phone. At first he appeared agitated, the man looking at the mounted cameras and then ducking away from their view by casting his eyes downward, only to turn his attention to a specific camera as if he was in counsel with it, speaking.

  Ezekiel quickly noticed Obadiah’s body-English as it went from extreme tightness to the softness of defeat, his shoulders dropping.

  Something wasn’t right, he thought.

  And just as that thought hinged on his mind, he received a text over his cell phone: IN/PROTO:TER.

  Laying the paper aside, Ezekiel stood and walked up behind Obadiah, who was standing there looking at a phone that had long been disconnected by the receiving caller. “Is everything all right?”

  Obadiah turned. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Few seconds. I came to get you.” He pointed to the gate. “They’re beginning to board for Rome.”

  Obadiah looked beyond Ezekiel to see people lining up at the gate.

  “But I need to hit the restroom first,” Ezekiel told him.

  Obadiah gave him an incredulous look. “Now? Do so on the plane.”

  Ezekiel nodded. “Bladder won’t wait.”

  “We’ll miss the flight.”

  “No we won’t.”

  Obadiah took a quick glance at the sewn area of Ezekiel’s coat that secured the biohazard tube, then back to Ezekiel. And Ezekiel knew that there was no way that Obadiah would allow him to traipse off with the tube without Obadiah wanting to keep a watchful eye on him. And certainly not after he decided to surrender himself and the virus over to Israel.

  A shame, he thought. He could have used Obadiah’s help. Killing Kimball Hayden alone had just made his mission much more difficult.

  “I’m coming with you,” Obadiah said.

  “Why? You want to hold it while I go?”

  “Don’t get cute,” Obadiah returned.

  They made their way to the closest bathroom looking at the signs which were marked in Spanish as well as universal symbols, male and female. Walking inside, Ezekiel took to a stall and closed the door, whereas Obadiah fronted a urinal.

  Ezekiel quietly and carefully removed his jacket, placed it on a hook, and then he unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt and rolled them to his elbows. He could hear people clearing out as they rushed to meet their scheduled flight. Obadiah, on the other hand, just got through washing his hands and was wiping them dry. Ezekiel could hear his very movement.

  Opening the stall’s door and heading for the sink as if to wash his hands, Obadiah noticed that he was without his coat. “You fool,” he said. “You left—”

  Ezekiel swiftly came across with a horizontal strike with his right hand, the back of his fist striking Obadiah on the chin, causing him to stumble back as he no doubt saw internal stars. In a subsequent move Ezekiel rotated his body and threw a kick. But Obadiah recovered quickly, the one-time Israeli commando coming up with both arms and crossing them into an X, the arms deflecting the blow.

  And then Obadiah took charge.

  The commando lashed out with straight jabs, powerful jabs, his arms moving like pistons as shot after shot landed with remarkable precision and speed, which caught Ezekiel off-guard. If Obadiah was once considered to be a master of hand-to-hand combat before the injury to his arm, he thought, he couldn’t even begin to imagine how good Obadiah was before the damage.

  Blow after blow and punch after punch, Ezekiel was being driven across the bathroom to the tiles against the wall. Once his backside could go no further, Obadiah came around with the heel of his foot in a level kick. But Ezekiel ducked and fell to the side as Obadiah’s foot hit the tile with such impact that they broke and fell free, the broken pieces skating across the floor.

  Ezekiel rolled into fighting stance, his arms raised as Obadiah squared off and took a stance of his own.

  And then they converged throwing blows at blinding speeds, both men punching and deflecting, their arms moving in blurs, each wailing upon each other with Ezekiel first pushing Obadiah back, then Obadiah turning the tide by taking new ground.

  They went back and forth, gaining and losing position, each man looking for an opportunity. But it was Obadiah who found one first as he ducked down and swung his leg across the floor, the move cutting Ezekiel’s legs out from under him.

  As Ezekiel went airborne, Obadiah quickly got to a standing position and shot his leg out with a straight kick, the strike connecting with Ezekiel’s in-flight body and sending it through the air and into the urinals, hard.

  The moment Ezekiel hit the outcroppings, his pain became vastly enormous as the porcelain cracked against the impact. Once he fell to the floor he lay there struggling to get to his feet, the man crawling on his elbows while his surroundings began to grow purple at the periphery of his vision.

  But Obadiah was quickly on top of him and turned Ezekiel onto his back, the Israeli’s hands now reaching for Ezekiel’s throat while he clenched his teeth with combat tension, the muscles in the back of Obadiah’s jaw rock-hard as he stared down at the former Vatican Knight.

  Then in sweeping motion that was too quick for Obadiah to react, Ezekiel came up with both hands and slapped Obadiah over his ears, causing severe damage the Israeli’s eardrums. The pain was so agonizing that Obadiah immediately took his hands off of Ezekiel’s throat and brought them to his bleeding ears. In a quick turn of events, Ezekiel grabbed Obadiah by the front of his shirt, pulled him close, and brought his elbow across with an elbow strike, the blow knocking Obadiah completely off of him and to his left.

  Now it was Obadiah who struggled to his feet as Ezekiel regained himself and took to a standing position.

  With Obadiah still on the ground but able to get on his hands and knees, Ezekiel quickly moved in and took the Israeli’s head in a half-nelson clench, and began to twist.

  Faces turned red and veins stuck out in cords as Ezekiel and Obadiah fought against the push-and-pull effect of the applied torque. But Ezekiel had the positional advantage as he pulled, and Obadiah the disadvantage as he pushed against the force.

  In time Obadiah began to weaken which Ezekiel not only felt, but sensed. Then in one and final movement, Ezekiel gave a final jerk, one that filled the air with a bone-snapping crunch.

  Obadiah had gone limp in his hand, his one-time partner now dead.

  Dragging Obadiah into the stall and propping him on the toilet, the dead man’s head lolling loosely to one side, he put on his jacket, felt for the tube that was sewn in the lining of his jacket, and left, closing the stall door behind him.

  Knowing Mossad was sending a kill team to meet him at Rome’s airport, he would not be there to meet their acquaintance. Instead, he would rent a car and drive under the radar.

  Once in Rome, he would make his way into Vatican City and call out his demon of Kimball Hayden. Once done, he would release the pathogen killing Kimball and those who supported him over the years, no matter their station in the world of religion, high or low.

  Some would call him twisted or insane. But Ezekiel knew exactly what he was doing.

  While driving a rented vehicle, he dialed a number on his cell phone by hitting a single digit.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s done,” Ezekiel said. “Abraham Obadiah has been terminated.”

  “Excellent,” the voice returned. “Stay the course.”

  “He was a good soldier.”

  “At one time he was the best. But Abraham was beginning to lose his sense of judgment by doing what was best for him and not for us. But you, Ezekiel, are incredibly disciplined and an asset thus far. Obadiah was going offline far too much for the comfort of company administrators. He will be missed. And don’t worry about Rome, either. The forces there have been told to return since it was con
firmed that you did not make the flight. So your path is clear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ezekiel, once you enter Vatican City, make sure that your image is caught on camera. We need to use that image of the Fourth Man as necessary proof to win global support against those who are against the sovereignty of our nation. Once the world realizes that the destruction of the city was brought on by the Fourth Man, who is presumed to be a terrorist, then there will be no turning back.”

  “I understand.”

  “I also wanted to let you know that half the funds you requested to complete the mission has been delivered to your account. The balance will be transferred when the mission is completed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just keep us posted.”

  “Yes, sir. I most certainly will since we’re talking about a lot of money here.”

  “Your mercenary skills have been greatly appreciated, Ezekiel. Perhaps we could contact you for future operations?”

  Without saying anything more, Ezekiel hung up.

  #

  Yitzhak Paled stared at his cell phone. Ezekiel had followed through with every aspect of their designed plan. And for this he was highly pleased. Obadiah had chosen his associate well, he thought, one who was superiorly skilled at just about every facet of the game. But in the end it was also bitter sweet. The support for Obadiah had grown tedious with upper management, the man disappearing for days and weeks and sometimes months, all for the ‘alleged’ good of Israel, which may have been the truth. But no one knew for sure, the man had always been quiet about the secrets he kept, even from the principals. Eventually, his proclivity for roguish activities were brought to question by most, the thought of him going completely over as a double- or rogue agent was becoming quite considerable and their concerns justly magnified. Without discipline within the ranks, no matter the greatness behind the man, the agency would ultimately suffer if the situation was not corrected. And since the Lohamah Psichlogit could not afford such dissension, Abraham Obadiah had been labeled a disability.

  But even as a disability, Obadiah was still a necessity in the game.