Crosses to Bear (Vatican Knights Book 6)

by Rick Jones

  To Kimball’s left a fire burned inside a drum.

  And about thirty feet in front of him five people lined up pounding spike-tipped 2x4s against their palms in obvious intimidation, their chins raised and defiant, their legs slightly parted.

  Kimball moved cautiously to his left, pocketed his flashlight, and then moved to his right, the man pacing as his eyes never left his opponents while sizing them up.

  Left. Right. Left. Right.

  . . . clap . . . clap . . . clap . . .

  Nobody said a word.

  . . . clap . . . clap . . . clap . . .

  And then Kimball stood behind the barrel where the flames suddenly shot up in flares and licks, the light casting ghoulish lines and shadows upon a face that seemed demented with rage. And his eyes mirrored the color of the flames—that of red and yellow and orange.

  He stood there, watching, as the flames seemed to take on a life of their own with fiery tendrils moving upward and then outward, as if embracing the man instead of repelling him.

  And soon the beating of the cudgels against palms became out of rhythm.

  . . . clap . . . clap-clap-clap . . . clap . . . clap-clap . . .

  Until the clapping stopped all together.

  They stood there with the 2x4s by their sides, waiting.

  And then Kimball kicked the barrel, tipping it over and allowing the flames to crawl quickly across the floor, creating a massive wall of fire that stretch from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, the flames crackling and snapping loudly, angrily. Which drove the men back with an arm raised in defense, the feeling of the heat sensational.

  And Kimball was nowhere to be seen, the man hidden behind the veil of fire.

  “Where is he?” asked the heavy-set cudgel bearer, the one standing in the center of the line with his hand patting the air as if to quell the fire.

  From behind the wall of flames an image began to emerge, something that was blacker than black. It was something silhouetted against the fire, something with no contours or shape, but a black mass pulled free from the wall. It stood there in silence as teardrops of fire fell from its clothing and to the ground by its feet, the flames eventually winking and dying out.

  In its hand were two knives, Ka-Bars, its arms out by its side, ready.

  And then it closed the gap between itself and its opponents.

  As it neared them it became less of a silhouette and more what it truly was: a man. Kimball’s face and clothes were lightly scorched with smudges and ash covering him from head to toe, with slight burn holes in his clothing. Yet his cleric’s collar remained intact.

  As he edged closer he noted the looks on their faces, the awe, and realized that he had notched a psychological victory, the advantage going to him.

  In a moment too quick for anyone to respond in defense, Kimball kicked out with his foot, the boot heel landing squarely against the heavy-set man’s jaw, driving the mandible up and back, his facial feature becoming oddly distorted as an audible crunch filled the air.

  The man fell back, hard, landing against the concrete in mock crucifixion with his eyes rolling up into whites.

  The others stood around dumbfounded, the action so fast it caught them off guard.

  And then Kimball went to work.

  With the cold fortitude of a machine, he went right through.

  Kimball came forward with his Ka-Bar and caught the kid at the shoulder. The point drove through muscle and tissue until the blade ripped through his backside. Not a fatal wound by any means, but not superficial, either. He then retracted the knife just a quickly, the force of its sliding through damaged flesh sounded as if the blade was slicing through a melon.

  The kid delayed his scream until the pain finally registered moments later, his shouting then becoming the catalyst to bring the others back the reality of the moment.

  All of a sudden the spiked cudgels began to swing, the bats arcing, some horizontally and some vertically, the fighters swinging for the fences.

  The kid went to the ground with a hand to his shoulder, defeated, and lay alongside the heavy-set man with the disfigured face, who was also out for the count.

  So that left three men that Kimball had to contend with, as he backed away from the blows, ducking and juking.

  These people were not soldiers, he decided. There were no coordinated skill sets involved, no real balance to their efforts. They were simple street thugs who just wailed away.

  The brute to his right came at him with the spiked cudgel coming down at him in a diagonal sweep. So Kimball raised his knife and chopped at it, the move deflecting the 2x4 and sending the cudgel wide, the spikes striking the concrete and chipping it badly.

  Kimball grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him to his left, wheeling the man around just in time to catch the downward stroke of the man to his left, the nails of the cudgel driving deep into his comrade’s flesh. The man in Kimball’s grasp suddenly fell limp, his muscles growing flaccid as life began to escape him. The last thing he saw before he expelled his final breath, was the cleric’s collar around Kimball’s throat. As soon as he expired, Kimball cast the man’s body aside and went after the assailant, who was now without a weapon because he was unable to wrench it free from his comrade’s back.

  Kimball grabbed the man by the throat, then stabbed him multiple times in body zones with strikes meant to cripple and maim, not kill. When the man was rendered incapacitated, Kimball released him to the floor, the man mewling in pain.

  That left one.

  Kimball sheathed his knives, grabbed a spiked 2x4 off the ground, began to slap the flat side against his palm, and circled the last man, who was sweating profusely in the basking glow of the fire.

  Kimball moved to his left and then to his right, his opponent mirroring his moves.

  The flames continued to crackle.

  And then the thug attacked, swinging horizontally from one side to the next, screaming in rage. Kimball pulled back on every swing, feeling the heat of the fire against his back. But when the attacker went up, then down with the cudgel, Kimball stepped aside and allowed the man’s momentum to carry him off balance and into the flames.

  The man went into the fire, the flames lapping at his clothes and setting him on fire. The man got to his feet, screaming, as white-hot pain consumed him fully, the man racing around the chamber with his body lit, then caroming off the surrounding walls, arms waving. Then he fell to the floor, a flaming mass, burning a stink that Kimball had recognized as burning flesh, something you never forget.

  As soon as the man lay unmoving, Kimball pressed on.

  #

  “He’s here,” said Slim-Bar.

  “Who?” asked Ferret.

  “The malignant gorilla who did this to me,” he said, attempting to raise his sling-covered arm, which caused him to wince.

  Ferret stood from his worn recliner. Standing on both sides of him were the Tanaka’s, their faces steeped with emotionless neutrality. “The big guy from Saint Viator’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ferret was surprised to hear this. A man with the nads to confront him and the Community on his turf. How stupid was that?

  “He managed to get by the old man’s team. The kid told me that he took them out the same way he took my guys out.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

  Ferret knew that the old man worked by ambushing their prey, his people using the darkness as an ally to sneak up and pounce, taking at will what did not belong to him. It was a tactic that never failed in the past.

  Until now.

  And this concerned Ferret deeply. Who is this guy?

  “And the team at the chamber?” Ferret asked.

  This brought a cocky smirk to the corner of Slim-Bar’s lip, which was often good news to Ferret. “They’re waiting for him,” he said. “There’s no way he’s getting through that flock.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “Make doubly sure,” he added
. “I want you to bring me this guy’s head and place it at my feet.”

  The smirk was suddenly gone. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Seriously. I need to know if this guy is still on the move.”

  Slim-Bar sighed. “I’ll be back in about twenty,” he said. And then he turned and slipped into the shadows.

  Ferret watched after him. As soon as he disappeared he turned to the Tanakas. “Get ready, boys. This guy may be something after all.”

  The Tanakas remained as still as Bernini statues.

  #

  Slim-Bar was concerned because he didn’t hear sounds of jubilation. In fact, he heard nothing at all. What hit him hard, however, was an assault to the senses, a wafting of burnt flesh and the ash-laden aftermath of a once smoldering fire.

  When he rounded the bend of the tunnel that led into the chamber, he saw small fires from still-burning debris light the area with underworld effect, the glowing flames shedding enough light to reveal tendrils of smoke rising from a charred corpse, with the blackened flesh around its mouth pulled back as if on the onset of mocking laughter.

  Another lay dead with a 2x4 firmly entrenched in his back—the man having one eye open as if to spy a glimpse of the pathway Death was leading him a moment before he died.

  Two lay on the floor unmoving: one was bleeding out, while the other lay there with a face that was so badly disproportionate that the jawbone threatened to punch through the skin.

  The only one on the move was the kid, who crawled along the floor on his forearms crying.

  The only thing missing in all this, thought Slim-Bar, with the orange cast of flames and the dark shadows cast by them, was the scent of satanic brimstone.

  He walked over to the kid, went to his knee, and with his good arm flipped the kid onto his back, which elicited a curdling scream of agony. “Shh-shh-shh-shh,” Slim-Bar said, bringing his forefinger to his lips. Then he pointed to the burnt cadaver. “Please tell me that that’s the guy from Saint Viator’s.”

  The kid nodded his head. No!

  “What happened?”

  A pool of blood was forming beneath the kid from a puncture wound in the backside. “I need help,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Yeah-yeah, whatever.” Slim-Bar lowered him to the floor and looked around. Then: “Where did he go?”

  “Please—”

  “Where . . . did . . . he . . . go?”

  The kid raised a feeble arm toward the tunnel Slim-Bar had just come from.

  “That’s impossible,” he told the kid. “I just came from there. I didn’t see him.”

  Then it dawned on Slim-Bar that the tunnel had many shadows, many hiding places. And it was here that the kid’s eyes suddenly flared in warning, causing Slim-Bar to turn.

  A massive figure that was blacker than black stood over him, its features silhouetted against the backdrop of flames.

  And then it reached for him with a clawed hand.

  Slim-Bar screamed.

  #

  Kimball grabbed Slim-Bar by the throat and pulled him close. “Remember me?” Kimball asked.

  Vaguely, Slim-Bar told himself. The man inside Saint Viator’s on the night he broke into the donation box had certain resemblances. But this guy was marginally different. Besides his skin being smudged with soot and ash, the likeness in appearance was still there. What was different, however, were the telltale signs of rage and anger that glowered in his eyes, something bespeaking horribly wicked things underneath.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” Slim-Bar whined.

  Kimball hoisted the man off his feet and held him aloft, causing Slim-Bar to choke and gag. With his good hand, Slim-Bar slapped at Kimball’s arm with useless attempts to free himself.

  “How many more of you are out there?” he asked Slim-Bar, tightening his grip around his throat.

  Slim-Bar pointed to the floor, the gesture telling Kimball to lower him to the ground, which he did. As Slim-Bar sat there rubbing a hand across his throat and gasping for oxygen that was lost to him, Kimball reached down and grabbed his bad arm, causing Slim-Bar to react with a bark of pain.

  “Enough,” Kimball said. “Now tell me: how many more of you are out there? I will not ask again.”

  Slim-Bar did a quick calculation. Over the past few days this faux priest had systematically crippled his team, Bulldog’s team, the old man’s ambush party, and, looking around, the cudgel team, leaving Ferret and the Tanakas, with the Tanakas the last bastion of Ferret’s defense.

  “Too many for you to deal with,” he lied. “Do you have any idea how many—”

  Kimball grabbed the man’s arm and wrenched it, hard, the sudden torqueing action threatening to pull the arm free from its socket. Slim-Bar screamed, his voice echoing down the corridors.

  “How . . . many? And if you lie to me one more time.” He gave a slight twist as an example, a taste of what was to come should he be deceitful, the action raising another cry. “Shut your pie hole. I barely touched you.” Then: “Now, how many?”

  Slim-Bar raised a hand in defeat. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “How . . . many?”

  “If I tell you the truth, man, will you let me go?”

  Kimball twisted the man’s arm. “You’re going to tell me the truth anyway.”

  Slim-Bar screamed in agony, the pain too great. “All right!” he hollered. “All right! Back off! I’ll tell you.”

  Kimball relinquished his grip, but slightly. “Talk.”

  “You’ve taken mostly everyone out,” Slim-Bar told him. “Those left in the Community are mostly spectators or ticket seekers.”

  “Ticket seekers?”

  “Yeah. Those who go out at night and check the slots for change people didn’t cash out.”

  “I’m talking about degenerates like you.”

  “Degen—owwwwww!”

  Kimball gave another twist.

  “All right, man! Stop! Just . . . stop!” After a pause, Slim-Bar spoke in hushed tones. “All right,” he whispered. “There’s Ferret and the Tanakas. That’s it. That’s all that’s left.”

  “Just the three of them?”

  “That’s it, man. I’m telling you the honest to God truth.”

  Kimball released him. “Which way?”

  Slim-Bar pointed at the tunnel he had just come from. “But you gotta problem,” he added.

  “Yeah. And what’s that?”

  Slim-Bar smiled. “You have to deal with the Tanakas. They’re not like the flunkies you’ve been dealing with. Not by a long shot. And they’re not like these idiots that you’ve laid out around me, either. They’re hardcore killers, man. They don’t even bat an eye when it comes to taking away a man’s life. You know where I’m coming from? You know what I’m saying to you?”

  Kimball knew exactly where Slim-Bar was coming from. He was talking about killers who performed their duties with the cold fortitude of machines. People considered to have no conscience or sense of morality. People who used to operate just like him. And that made them the most dangerous people on the planet, as far as Kimball was concerned.

  “Get up,” Kimball said.

  “Why?”

  “I said get up.”

  Slim-Bar did. “You gonna hurt me, man?”

  “The Tanakas, are they the ones who attacked Sister Abigail?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “You think so? Or you know so?”

  Slim-Bar gave off a sheepish look, one of being caught in a lie. “I know so,” he answered softly. “But it wasn’t meant to go that far. Honestly. They were only supposed to scare her only as a message to you. Not put her in the hospital. The Tanakas have their own way of doing things.”

  “She’s dead,” Kimball said flatly.

  Slim-Bar looked genuinely surprised. “What?”

  “She’s . . . dead.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know that.”

  “So I have one more question for you. One that will determine whether you live or die.”<
br />
  Slim-Bar’s mouth began to slowly open as if to sound off in mute protest. But Kimball beat him to the punch before he could utter a word.

  “Now tell me,” Kimball began. “Why do good people like Sister Abigail always seem to have their lives cut short, when maggots like you and Ferret just go on and on and on?”

  Slim-Bar started to stammer. “Ga-ga-ga—”

  “That’s your answer? Ga-ga-ga,” he parroted.

  “Please, man. I promise. I’m out. Just let me walk away.”

  “Walk away? You mean the same way that Sister Abigail was allowed to walk away?”

  Slim-Bar began to whine-cry. “Please, man—”

  Kimball closed in on him.

  And Slim-Bar screamed like he’d never screamed before, his voice carrying far and wide.

  #

  Ferret and the Tanakas heard Slim-Bar cry out. It was the wail of a man in excessive pain.

  And then there was silence.

  “Well,” said Ferret, as if unconcerned, “it appears that our boy from Saint Viator’s is coming to dinner.” He turned to the Tanakas. “Lessons to teach, my boys. Time to get ready.”

  The Tanakas disappeared into the shadows.

  And Ferret took his seat upon his recliner throne, the area lit up by several Brooklyn lanterns, and he waited.

  #

  Kimball moved steadily down the corridor as a man not to be denied. His gait was strong and steady, and his chin and chest were raised in defiance as he moved with swagger, his massive shoulders swinging from one side to the next.

  As he walked along the tunnel, light from street lamps filtered down though the grates, and the horns of city life and traffic could be heard. He was getting closer to the Tropicana and Las Vegas Boulevard underworld, the heart of the Community.

  When he took the final bend, he entered a huge space connected to several tunnels that led into this chamber, which served as a central point where water amassed, and then drained through the grated floor.

  The concrete walls were tapestries of graffiti, most in bold and fat letters marking the area as the sole territory of the Community. Lanterns lay everywhere, giving the room a silvery glow to it, and well lighted. On the opposite side of the room and cast in the spotlight glow, sat Ferret with one leg draped over the arm of the recliner in leisure. He was alone.