Crosses to Bear (Vatican Knights Book 6)

by Rick Jones

  He sat in the economy class, a tight squeeze for a man so large, with his knees pressed against the chair in front of him. And the wide breadth of his shoulders left little comfort for the two men sitting on either side.

  When the plane lifted and leveled off, Kimball reclined the chair but found little relief. Worse, the flight to Rome was going to be a long one with a layover in Boston, then once again in Spain.

  So he closed his eyes and meditated, breathing slowly through his nostrils.

  In his mind’s eye he saw Sister Abigail and recalled the way she smiled at him from beneath the overhang of her wimple, and the way her dimples deepened when she did so.

  Then he gnashed his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work.

  She was a beautiful girl, a woman. One who was filled with glorious dreams and goals—only to have them snuffed away because he refused to relent to the likes of the Community.

  He opened his eyes.

  And he asked Sister Abigail to forgive him as tears began to well.

  When she spoke to him about a life beyond the walls of the church and possibly sharing a life with him, he was beyond delighted. For nights he would lay on a cot inside a shelter and draw wonderful images in his mind. He saw them together as a couple, smiling, the two dancing within the light of sunshine as the world around them appeared with vibrant colors. Flowers bloomed in riots of red and orange and yellow. Blades of grass were as brightly lit as the grasses running along Irish hills. The sky was a perfect blue. And the surface of the lake behind them sparkled like tinsel and glass.

  It was a beautiful mindscape.

  He closed his eyes once again.

  And the images were gone.

  What he saw behind his closed lids was darkness that was complete and absolute—the absence of color.

  And then he heard the long and steady whine of a flat line.

  Sister Abigail had died.

  And so did the dreams and images of what might have been.

  I’m so sorry, Abby.

  For the first time in his life he knew he had a chance at something beyond savagery and war. He had the opportunity to live life with some semblance of normalcy—with a home and family to call his own. And never again feel the fever pitch of a hunter.

  But war and violence was all he knew. Anything beyond that was alien to him.

  . . . I kill people . . .

  . . . It’s what I do . . .

  . . . It’s what I’m good at . . .

  He may never know peace ever again.

  Kimball sighed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When Kimball arrived at the Madrid-Barajas Airport several hours later, he learned that his connecting flight to Rome had, at first, been delayed, then eventually cancelled, with the next flight due out early the next morning.

  Taking a room at a nearby hotel, Kimball found solace at the hotel’s bar and lounge.

  He sat there toying with a shot glass filled with whisky, his mind working as he ran a fingertip unknowingly over the rim of the glass.

  In hindsight, he realized that Sister Abigail was correct when she told him that unless he returned to face the man who was more a father to him than his own dad, then he would for the rest of his life regret not doing so. So here he was, in a bar, a day away from going back to the only life he had ever known, that of a warrior. But what anguished him more than anything was the thought of bringing shame to the Vatican when he surrendered the collar and the objectives of the mission by turning from savior to assassin, when he went after Jadran Božanović in an attempt to kill him. Which was not part of the church’s agenda.

  But Božanović was a vile man with vile means. His only vision in life was to destroy the lives of young women and children, and subject them to the highest bidder in a global sex trade.

  The Vatican wanted the worldwide courts to handle him.

  But Kimball wanted to handle him in his own way—where the rules of justice dominated over the rules of law.

  And in the end he meted out his sense of justice when he believed that justice was needed more than the law.

  Jadran Božanović was dead.

  He brought the shot glass to his lips and downed the alcohol. Then he beckoned and gestured to the bartender for another.

  But the Vatican would see it differently. They would see it as murder, which would tie Kimball to his old roots as a one-time assassin for the American government, a man who at the time was without compassion or conscience. And because of this he would see the pain in Bonasero’s eyes the moment they saw each other. And should he see the shame and disappointment seaming the old man’s face, it would truly be a cross too heavy for him to bear.

  But if he didn’t keep his promise to Sister Abigail, then he would be doing her a disservice, and he would feel dishonored.

  When the second shot was set before him, Kimball stared at it for along moment before picking it up and downing it.

  After paying his bill, he returned to his room where he undressed, shut off the lights, and went to bed.

  And he would dream.

  He was standing within the shadows of St. Peter’s Church, looking up at the elegant design and architecture. He was nothing more than a shape, a silhouette—something unmoving until called to the quest.

  People milled about him as he stood as still as a Grecian statue, no one paying any attention to him. As time passed, however, he could hear cries calling out to God for salvation, the sky around him erupting with the sounds of torment. So when he turned away from the face of St. Peter’s he did so with the slowness of a bad dream.

  In front of him masses of people lay on the brick of the Square, their arms reaching skyward. The people dying, suffering.

  And in this dream he began to walk away from the church and out of the shadows. And as he walked along the corpses, he could hear the whispers of those still clinging to what little life they had left.

  . . . He is the priest who is not a priest . . .

  . . . And he walks from the shadows of the Church to make the world right again . . .

  When Kimball awoke the following morning he would remember the dream vividly, associating the images to the urban legend about the priest who was not a priest emerging from the shadows of the church to save the world. He was sure that someone could explain it away as something Freudian.

  But it was so much more than that.

  It was a premonition.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Chamber of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano (The SIV)

  The Vatican’s Intelligence Agency

  Vatican City

  Next Day

  SIV Director Gino Auciello was handed a manila envelope regarding a passport strike coming out of McCarran Airport in Las Vegas, Nevada. Inside it was information regarding a name associated with someone presumed deceased, that of Kimball Hayden. So when the computer techs who specialized in cyber-safecracking hacked into the airport systems, they were able to bring up camera stills taken at the passport station the moment the Vatican sanctioned passport was scanned. The downloaded image was clear and crisp, the photo unadulterated.

  What Auciello was looking at was a photo of Kimball Hayden.

  A breath hitched in his chest.

  Gathering the manila envelope, he quickly made his way to the pontiff’s chamber.

  #

  Inside the Papal Chamber

  When Pope Pius XIV saw the photo without explanation from Auciello, his face went into a series of facial tics, the man’s emotions obviously at war with one another. He held the still up. “And you say this is not an old photo?”

  “No, Your Holiness. We received a real-time strike approximately sixteen hours ago. It took that long for our techs to confirm the data you have there in your hand . . . There’s no doubt about it. The man in that picture is Kimball Hayden.”

  Bonasero Vessucci lay the photo on the desktop and leaned back in his chair. Then he turned to look out the balcony windows fa
cing St. Peter’s Square, his eyes fixed to nothing in particular as he sat there trying to understand why Kimball never reached out to him or any of his brethren. Why did he let the Vatican believe he was dead? And in this he found no answer, only questions.

  But in the end as he waded through his inner feelings, he eventually settled on jubilation, not anger, realizing that Kimball was very much alive.

  Bonasero looked at the photo once again. “Where was this taken?”

  “At McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. Terminal Two. He was getting on a flight to Rome with a layover on Madrid.”

  “Rome,” the pontiff whispered. Then he closed his eyes.

  He’s coming home.

  “Where is he now?” asked Bonasero.

  “We’re not sure,” returned Auciello. “His flight to Rome was cancelled. But we’re assuming he spent the night in Madrid, since a hotel stay was charged to the Vatican account last night with the name on the passport matching the name on the hotel ledger. But he checked out.”

  “He could be here within hours then,” Bonasero stated.

  Auciello agreed. “We could sure use his help to shore up the perimeter.”

  “Still no information regarding Ezekiel’s whereabouts?”

  “No, Your Holiness. He’s definitely running beneath the radar, which is not a good sign. He could be a million miles away . . . or he could be at our doorstep.”

  Bonasero’s mind started to wander, his gaze focusing on a distant wall.

  Come home, Kimball. Come home before it’s too late.

  He would get his wish.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Mediterranean Sea

  Northeast of Corsica

  The boat’s name was The Sea Breeze, a small fishing vessel with a crew of four. When Ezekiel chartered the vessel for Italy with the promise of ‘half now’ and the other half to be paid in full at the disembarkation point, the captain readily agreed since the amount agreed upon was nothing short of a financial windfall. A trip taking less than two days and netting a years’ worth of work was nothing less than a bonanza.

  And though the stranger did have enough to cover ‘half,’ there were suspicions amongst the crew. Ezekiel only spoke when spoken to, nothing more. He offered no smiles, or any sense of warmth or companionship. When others were topside, then he’d be below decks. If they were below decks then he’d be topside, alienating himself.

  Then on the second day when the captain questioned Ezekiel as to how the balance was going to be paid, Ezekiel merely made the comment: “It will be.” But this was not answer enough, since Ezekiel never spoke about radioing ahead to his contacts. How were they to get the balance? So when the captain brought up the matter, he could tell that he was drawing the ire of his passenger.

  “Have I not paid you half?” said Ezekiel.

  “You have with the promise of more. But how is it to be paid since you have not contacted people to meet us at the rendezvous point?”

  “Do we have a rendezvous point?”

  The captain nodded.

  “Then show me. I’ll be happy to contact my people once we’ve established a time and location for disembarkation.”

  The captain took the lead as he guided Ezekiel to the pilot house. Once inside he closed the door behind them, then led him to a navigational table in the center of the pilot house. Another person, a teenager, perhaps eighteen, was manning the helm.

  The surface of the table was a frosted, Plexiglas plate with fluorescent lights underneath to cast light upward. On top of the table was a map of the Mediterranean Sea with lines and markings running through it made by colored grease pens.

  The captain grabbed a red marker and drew an ‘X’ to a point northeast of Corsica, and close to Italy’s shoreline. “This is where we are,” the captain informed him in accented English.

  “We’re further along than what I expected. We’re making good time.”

  “That’s because we have calm seas and a backwind that favors us.”

  “Very good. And where exactly will we be stopping?”

  The captain marked another spot on the coast of Italy, then drew a straight line from point A to B, with B being the town of Livorno. “Not far.”

  “Livorno,” Ezekiel said, reading out loud. “That’s our disembarkation point?”

  “It is.” Then: “Now you call contacts, yes? You can use radio.” The captain pointed to the radio assemblage by the helmsman.

  “No need for the radio since I have a cell phone. Much easier that way now that I know where we’re going.”

  “Then you call, yes?”

  “How long before we arrive?”

  “Six, maybe seven hours. The sun will be down by then—just as you requested.”

  “Very good.” Ezekiel then walked over to the teenager manning the helm with his hands clasped behind the small of his back, ignoring the captain.

  “You call,” the captain called after him, his voice hinting at anger.

  Ezekiel raised a forefinger, as if to say ‘in a moment.’ “There’s plenty of time, Captain. Believe me. But first I must ask about this helm. It’s remarkable.”

  “It’s a helm.”

  “I know it is. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Like a navigational pilot that can be set to automatic?”

  The Captain took up beside Ezekiel and the helmsman. “Why you ask?”

  “I’m curious to know if a path can be programmed to take this boat all the way to Livorno.”

  “Of course it can.”

  “The same way you would dial an address into a GPS?”

  “Why you ask?”

  “If you can program the course, then why is the kid driving the boat?”

  “He’s a teenager. He likes to drive. Now you call contact.”

  Ezekiel turned to the captain with a hard face and eyes dark with controlled fury. Then, in a voice that was low and even, he said, “Captain, I’d like to thank you for your services.”

  “Then you call?”

  “No.”

  At first the captain appeared surprised, eyes flaring, and then he reared back in anger.

  But before the captain could respond violently, Ezekiel came across with the blade of his hand and hit him across the throat. The captain brought his hands up, gagged, and fell to his knees. Before the teenager could react, Ezekiel rammed the heel of his palm into his nose and forced a bone wedge deep into his brain, killing him instantly. As the body fell away from the helm, Ezekiel quickly grabbed the captain’s head and gave it a violent jerk, snapping his neck.

  After programming the boat’s auto-pilot to Livorno, which was already listed as a previous-point-of-interest, Ezekiel went to dispatch the other crewmates who were on the lower decks, and then he cast their bodies to the sea, erasing all witnesses.

  Returning to the pilot’s house, he sat in the helmsman’s chair and watched the calm seascape roll by. In a few hours he would be in Italy. A few hours after that, Vatican City.

  He raised his hand and felt the outline of the bio-tube stitched within the lining of his jacket.

  Even through the fabric, it was ice-cold to the touch.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Fiumicino Airport

  Rome, Italy

  When Kimball’s plane finally touched down at the Fiumicino Airport in Rome, he hailed a cab which took him to the outskirts of Vatican City. Closing the door behind him and seeing the cab pull away, he turned to face the city that never failed to take his breath away.

  He saw the Colonnades and the marquee monument of the Egyptian Obelisk. He also noted the collection of Bernini statues and the great dome of the St. Peter’s Basilica. Though he was away for a long time, he was glad to be back home.

  He removed his stained cleric’s collar from his shirt pocket and held it within the flat of his palm, staring at it. The collar had seen him through many trials, many tribulations. And it was his only tie to the Vatican and the only reminder of what he used to be: a man with a conscience.<
br />
  He folded his fingers over it, then placed it gently into his pocket as if it was a great treasure.

  For the better part of an hour he milled about, the volume of people much denser than the norm. Everywhere he looked he saw Vatican Security, all beefy agents wearing scarlet suit coats with the Vatican emblem on their breast pockets, and white shirts with black ties and matching pants. They were all wearing ear buds for communication.

  He also saw scanners lining the rooftops looking down into the Square with binoculars.

  Something was going on.

  He worked his way calmly through the masses, made his way into the Basilica, and walked along the vast space filled with sculptures which included Michelangelo’s Pieta, Bernini’s Cathedra and the Baldacchino, and the statue of St. Peter by Arnolfo di Cambio. But what made it truly special was the 10,000 square meters of mosaics.

  Knowing the church well, Kimball exited through the rear of the Basilica and headed for the ancient tunnels that ran beneath the city, the tunnels actually part of an ancient Roman civilization long before the rise of the Empire, the culture considered to be one with pagan roots.

  He took the corridors that were lined with bulbs. Then he eventually came to an old staircase that led to a nondescript building sitting next to the Old Gardens. Getting the door open was difficult, the hinges having rusted as they whined in protest as he forced it open. After exiting the fieldstone building, he then made his way toward the Apostolic Palace of the Vatican, the residence of Pope Pius XIV.

  Once inside, he skirted the main hallways that bypassed all secured locations, and found his way to the papal chamber through clandestine networks built into the palace centuries ago for the evacuation of the pontiff during wartime threats.

  Reaching the main hall where there was no sidestepping the security posted at the doorway of the papal chamber, Kimball quickly found himself surrounded by several members of the Swiss Guard. Though they were wearing uniforms that had changed little since 1506, they all brandished modern firearms. And the one thing they all shared other than being from Switzerland, they were all superior marksmen.