by Rick Jones
Kimball raised his hands. “My name is Kimball Hayden,” he said. “I’ve come to see Bonasero Vessucci.”
“Most people would take known routes to get to his chamber,” said one of the guards, a man who was young and lean. “Not the hidden channels behind the walls.”
“I know how this looks—”
“Not too well.”
“Look—”
“Release him,” came a voice beyond the wall of defenders. “And put down your arms.”
As they holstered their weapons they also parted to give Bonasero Vessucci a wide berth as he walked his way through the gauntlet. Never once did he allow his eyes to wander from Kimball as he stared at him with absorption.
When he finally reached the much taller man, Bonasero stood approximately a meter away in full vestment. His face did not betray his emotions. In fact, it didn’t relay any emotion at all, the man remaining stoic.
He noted the burns on Kimball’s face, saw the beginnings of scabs forming to heal old wounds. Then: “You look . . . good.” The tone of his voice was completely flat.
Kimball responded by reaching into his pocket and removing his cleric’s collar. He then held it in his open palm, revealing it to Bonasero. It was badly soiled and dirty, with deep creases. “I kept this on me at all times,” he said as an offering. “It was always my greatest treasure.”
Pope Pius reached a hand out and gently stroked the collar. And then he grabbed Kimball by the forearm and pulled him into a hug.
The old man wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Livorno, Italy
Just after sunset, Ezekiel idled the craft approximately 1000 meters from the shoreline of Livorno, found a small-engine raft on board for emergencies, scuttled the boat, and then headed for shore.
City lights paved the way in the darkness. When he arrived along the beach he shut off the engine, got his land-legs, and quickly made his way inland, where he was able to hotwire a car and drive it to Rome.
The streets and highways appeared endless in such darkness, the roads bending and winding with curves not seen until the last moment, causing him to lower his speed, which he didn’t want to do.
As the hours passed, fatigue was not even a factor. He drove himself by sheer hatred for Kimball Hayden, his mentor—he the protégé. After Kimball assassinated his grandfather, the illustrious Senator Joseph Cartwright, he took it upon himself to raise Ezekiel as a Vatican Knight, not realizing that Ezekiel was astute enough, even at five, to realize that Kimball was the killer behind the makeup.
As a child he learned to fight with fake knives and wooden katanas, honing his skills as a warrior to fight and defend. He also studied tomes and eclectic philosophies from such men as Aristotle, Epicurus and Thomas Aquinas. The self-appraisal of masterful pieces of art also had their place in the teachings, with certain works serving to develop insight and to interpret the artistic subtleties of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. For a Vatican Knight it was believed that the development of the mind was equally as important as the body, the two coalescing into a combination that fashioned men of impervious will, staunch character, and the mindset that loyalty was above all else, with the exception of honor.
But Ezekiel held his anger in check, always learning and developing into a warrior bent on waging a personal war against the man who killed his only living relative, and orphaned him to a world that seemed brutally unfair.
When he became of age, when he bested the skills of others with his own particular set of skills, he developed the Iscariot Agenda. He exacted revenge on those who served as Kimball’s team on the night of the assassination, killing his teammates one by one. They were the only family Kimball had ever known beyond the Vatican Knights. And by taking them the same way that Kimball took away his grandfather, by assassination, he had broken the Vatican Knight down by rendering him powerless to save their lives.
But when it came time to take out Kimball, Kimball was altogether different. He was nursing a rage of his own, one that mirrored Ezekiel’s. When they combated they did so with the intent to kill the other as an act of catharsis, to cleanse the soul of the pain that each inflicted on the other.
In the end he was badly injured, as was Kimball.
And in the end he had gone rogue and taken flight, only to fall into the comradeship of Abraham Obadiah, another archenemy who had been wronged by Kimball Hayden.
Now he was returning with the blackest heart to settle a score.
No matter how good or fast or deadly Kimball was, he would not be able to conquer a virus that was a billionth of his size.
Ezekiel drove on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Inside the Papal Chamber
“Why?” it was a simple question from Pope Pius as he sat in his chair looking across the desk at Kimball, who sat there looking like a hulking child being admonished.
Kimball sighed. “I knew the moment I took off the collar in Paris to seek out Jadran Božanović for my own purpose . . . and for neglecting the protocols of our mission. It’s not what the Vatican Knights are about.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Kimball. Why didn’t you contact me? Why didn’t you contact Leviticus or Isaiah? Despite the decision you made regarding Božanović in Paris, we’re still family. Are we not?”
“We are. And that’s the reason why.”
Bonasero cocked his head inquisitively, prompting Kimball to continue.
“The moment I took off the collar, I knew I was letting my anger control me. I felt like I rejected the ways of the church rather than the weakness of my emotions. I wanted Božanović dead. I wanted justice, not law . . . I felt like I abandoned you. And when matters settled, I was ashamed because I betrayed your trust in me. I couldn’t handle that. So I thought it best that you, everyone, believed me gone. I thought it to be the best. But it took the reasoning of a good woman to make me see differently.”
“A woman?” Bonasero sounded impressed, happy even. He was glad that Kimball was starting to find interests outside of war.
But Kimball’s face remained dour. “Sister Abigail from Saint Viator’s, a small church in Las Vegas. A most incredible person. One that I will never be.”
“You’re wrong, Kimball. It’s clear to me that she saw in you what we all see: a man who struggles to see the good he has within himself. What you did in Paris was wrong—to break away from protocol. That’s your choice. And you did the right thing by removing your collar, acknowledging what you decided to do had no bearing on the church. But that decision was of your own free will. And our path to damnation or salvation is paved by the decisions we make. Nevertheless, Kimball, there is a light in you. And Sister Abigail merely pointed the way. I must thank her.”
“I’m afraid you can’t.”
“Why not?”
Kimball’s face worked, fighting back emotions. “She was murdered.”
Bonasero fell back in his chair, stunned.
“By animals who were no different than Jadran Božanović,” Kimball added.
“And these animals?”
“I chose justice.”
There was a long period of silence between them, something that made Kimball quite uncomfortable. Such lapses never happened between them before.
“I will contact Saint Viator’s through my liaisons in the Holy See and pay the respects that are due her,” the pope finally said.
“I’d like to add, Bonasero, that if there were more people like her, then there would be no need for the likes of me.”
“You sell yourself short. You always have.”
“I am what I am, Bonasero. I’m not wired the way you want me to be, no matter how hard I try.”
“I want you to name the three prime directives,” the pope said.
“What?”
“Name the three prime directives of the Vatican Knights.”
Kimball shrugged: OK, no problem. “Protect the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry.”
“That’s right. On the night you sought justice against Jadran Božanović, did you succeed?”
“No.”
“In fact, Jadran Božanović was found dead at the doorstep of Shari Cohen’s home in Washington D.C. Did you have anything to do with that?”
“Yes.”
“Božanović had a history of hunting down those who wronged him. And Shari was on his list. You knew that didn’t you?”
“Yes. Shari and I talked about it.”
“On the night Božanović paid his visit to Shari, he thought you were dead, didn’t he? Like we all did.”
“Yes. It was just a matter of time before Božanović finally showed himself. I thought it best that the world believed me dead. Being dead gave me an advantage because no one would be looking over their shoulder for a dead man.”
“I understand.”
“And I liked being dead, Bonasero. I liked the peace that came with it, even if it was temporary.”
“You found peace at Saint Viator’s?”
“I did.”
“Was Sister Abigail the reason why?”
“Mostly.”
“And when she passed . . .” The pontiff’s words were leading.
“I made a promise to her.”
“That being?”
“That I would come home to see the man who was more of a father to me than my own dad.”
Kimball could see Bonasero’s face register the deep sentiment of love that came with that statement, such as the wobble of his chin, the quiver of his mouth, and the welling of tears within his eyes. “Sometimes when we pray to God, we ask him to answer our prayers—sometimes He says yes, other times no. But He has surely answered my prayer that you come home safe.”
“Am I home?”
“Kimball, when you handled Jadran Božanović, did you not do so under the final prime directive as a Vatican Knight?”
Kimball thought about this for a moment. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. He took out Božanović because he was a vile and despicable man who ran the Bridge of Bones operation, that of smuggling people across the globe in a human trafficking scheme. He looked at it as eradicating not only the trade, but the person manning it—a simple kill job. But he did not kill Božanović in Paris. He killed him in Washington D.C. when Božanović tried to kill Shari Cohen to settle a personal score. And by doing so he didn’t realize that he was actually protecting the welfare of the citizenry, which Shari was as a member of the papal circle.
“When I killed Božanović,” he finally said, “I didn’t do it with the third directive in mind, Bonasero. I did it to serve justice.”
“Kimball, you knew that Božanović would eventually return to do Shari Cohen harm, yes?”
“Of course.”
“And that was why you were there. To see that no harm came to her or her family.” The pope leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and placed them on the desktop. “Kimball, no matter what the reason may be as to why you did what you did, don’t you think that God recognizes the fact that men of good standing can take charge by protecting those who cannot protect themselves?”
“I couldn’t protect Sister Abigail.”
“You did your best, Kimball. You can’t always save the world or everyone in it. But you can make a difference. What happened to Sister Abigail happened for a reason. Please find peace in knowing that she is in a better place. And for whatever reason God embraced her, He did so with purpose.”
Kimball knew the purpose: Sister Abigail was an organ donor who ultimately saved the lives of two people through impeccable timing, a mother and a child who had no knowledge that the other existed. And Abby had saved them both, giving them a new lease when their lives were hanging on by gossamer strands.
And then Kimball repeated himself: “Am I home, Bonasero.”
The pope leaned back, opened the drawer of his desk, grabbed something inside, and laid it on the desktop. It was a cleric’s collar, one that was white and pristine and without mark or blemish.
“Now, Kimball, give me the old one.”
Kimball did. But he did so with reluctance, sliding the soiled one across the desktop until it was side by side with the clean one. In comparison they were the complete antithesis of the other, one so pure it almost gave off an aura, whereas the other was so stained it appeared decadent.
Kimball grabbed the clean one. It felt good in his hands. Yet he could not take his eyes off the old one, which had seen him through trying times.
Bonasero grabbed the soiled collar and swept it in his desk. Then looking at Kimball with a fatherly stare, one of paternal compassion, he nodded and said, “Yes, Kimball . . . You’re home.”
#
The moment Kimball opened the door to his chamber, an indescribable warmth washed over him. His room had been left the way he remembered, as if it was a shrine, with his bed unmade and military journals lying on the nightstand, on the left side of the room. On the right side of the room was a small votive rack whose candles had never been lit, and a podium that supported a Bible, a book he rarely opened.
He sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over the peeled back covers and along the sheets. He then picked up the military journals, leafed through them, and returned them to the top of the nightstand.
After the pontiff gave him a new collar for a new beginning, they spoke about the current concerns of the Vatican. He wanted to see Leviticus and Isaiah, the heads of the Vatican Knights. But Bonasero told him to rest, that there’d be moments of reunion later. Right now they were committed to tracking down Ezekiel, Kimball’s top protégé, because he was the Fourth Man in the appropriation of a deadly strain. Although his intentions were unknown, precautions had to be set into place since Ezekiel remained missing.
Understood.
Kimball lay on his bed—a cot, really—and stared at the stained-glass image of the Virgin Mary with her arms open to him in invitation. The sun’s rays were streaming through the colored glass, the warmth of the glow alighting on him.
He smiled gingerly.
And he closed his eyes.
Yes, he thought. It’s good to be home.
For the first time in a long while, Kimball fell into a blissful sleep.
#
In Kimball’s absence, Leviticus and Isaiah served as the leading lieutenants for the Vatican Knights. They were currently sitting council with SIV Director Gino Auciello in the SIV chamber beneath the Basilica.
When Auciello informed them that Kimball was alive, they appeared dumbfounded.
“Why?” asked Leviticus.
“Why did he fake his death?”
“Yeah. Why didn’t he contact us after he surfaced again in D.C.?”
“I believe Kimball had his reasons,” returned Auciello.
“I’m sure he did,” said Isaiah. “But we’re a brotherhood. He should have contacted us.”
“You know Kimball,” said Auciello. “On that boat in Paris, he removed his collar as a Vatican Knight to follow his own agenda. He went off the grid. Perhaps now, he seeks redemption once again.”
Everyone remained quiet as they watched the bank of monitors against the far wall. Each screen showed a different part of the world: the conflicts in northern Africa, the skirmishes in the Middle East, in Syria, and in the southern part of the Philippines.
And on none of these screens had Ezekiel ever appeared. He could have been a million miles away, or on their doorstep. But precautions were taken until one of two things happened: (A) Ezekiel’s whereabouts was verified, or (B) a town somewhere across the globe had fallen victim to the Omega Strain, which would confirm that the unaccounted vial was opened, and thereby eliminating any future threat. But so far, nothing. Ezekiel was a ghost.
Isaiah sighed. “Where’s Kimball now?” he asked.
“Resting,” returned Auciello, never taking his eyes off the screens.
“When can we see him?” asked Leviticus.
“Soon. When he awakens
, I suppose.”
There was a pregnant pause between them before Leviticus spoke once again. He continued to stare at the screens, watching all the turmoil going on in the world. “Well,” he began. “I will say this about Kimball. He couldn’t have come back at a better time.”
Auciello nodded. “I agree. But more so, there’s a reason for everything. And I believe Kimball is here by the grace of God. But what the reason is . . . only He knows.”
Thereafter they remained quiet as they watched the screens along the wall showcase the violence going on around the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
On the Outskirts of Vatican City
The Following Day
Ezekiel stood at the edge of Vatican City thoughtlessly fingering the tube beneath the lining of his jacket with his thumb and forefinger.
Once the Omega Strain was released, then the people milling about wouldn’t be treating the city as if it was a venue on a scenic tour, but as a tortuous hell-spot heavy with the cries of the dead and dying.
After ditching the car and spending a night inside an abandoned warehouse, he awoke early to set up surveillance less than a click away from Vatican City. Over the course of the morning, he noted the abundance of security and rooftop observers who were in constant communication with one another through lip mics.
He knew this was a procedural attempt to locate someone specific and not a basic operation of minimal defense.
His game just became more difficult, he considered, because he knew they were looking for him.
From the limits of the city and far from being seen by Vatican defenses, he knew that Paled’s men had been searching for him. So he removed the card from the phone, making it, and him, untraceable.
After replacing the card and keying up the cell phone, he knew that Paled would direct his team to the beacon spot. Though he knew that they would hang back in observance until the mission was completed, he would be gone by the time they homed in on the location. He would be gone. Forever.