by Rick Jones
Shari’s sight started to swim and turn purple along the edges. As her sight began to slide into tunnel vision and into a pinpoint light, the last thing she saw and remembered was the human skull who inhaled and exhaled with metallic breaths.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Rome, Italy
The Bangladeshi could feel the noose tightening. He was driving on Via delle Carrozze, which was not too far from the Spanish Steps, believing he could set the False Prophet closer to Vatican City by placing the device in symbolic locations like the Basilica of SS, a basilica that contained religious artworks. He also considered such venues as the Chiesa di Santa Maria del Divino Amore and the Chiesa di San Nicola dei Prefetti. But these sites had been overwhelmed with security forces who continued to expand their search outward from the origin point of Vatican City. These actions of enlarging the search area were forcing the Bangladeshi to a vicinity well beyond the effective range of the False Prophet.
Continuing east past the Piazza Barberini, he ended up at the Church of Saint Cletus which was a twenty-minute drive from Vatican City. But he needed to go west and not east, which was impossible due to an ever-expanding perimeter.
As he let his vehicle idle along the curbside while trying to find a solution, and sometimes, if one waits long enough, an opportunity will present itself as though by divine intervention.
The Bangladeshi spotted a police officer approximately fifty yards away. He was sitting inside his FIAT which had Polizia stenciled along its side in big, bold letters. Apparently, he had ticketed a driver and was finishing up with the process of inputting the data into the dashboard terminal.
Ratcheting his vehicle into gear, the Bangladeshi drove to the FIAT and parked twenty feet behind. The officer was still typing the information into the dash monitor with his attention entirely consumed by what he was doing.
Reaching into the glove compartment, the Bangladeshi removed a fully loaded Glock. And then, after reaching into his shirt pocket, he removed a suppressor and firmly screwed it into the threading of the weapon’s barrel.
The Bangladeshi checked the rearview and side mirrors. The street was nearly vacant with few people milling about. Getting out of the vehicle, the Bangladeshi secured the suppressed weapon in the waistband behind him, then calmly made his way to the police cruiser.
With the brim of his hat hanging low enough to hide a majority of his features, the Bangladeshi rapped his knuckles lightly on the officer’s window. The officer, taking notice, lowered the pane.
“Something I can help you with?” he asked in Italian.
The Bangladeshi’s smile was warm and welcoming as he showed the fine rows of his teeth. Then in flawless Italian, he said, “Officer, I appear to be lost and was wondering if you could provide me with the proper directions. It appears that many of the streets have either been cordoned off or redirected for detour.”
“Where exactly are you heading?”
“To the Basilica Papale di Santa Maria Maggiore.”
The officer winced in a way that was apologetic. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that. But all streets west of here have been closed off due—”
. . . Phfttt . . .
It was a muffled shot from the Glock. The officer, as he stared at the Bangladeshi with stark confusion, made clicking noises in the back of his throat as the gunshot wound to his forehead released a ribbon of slow-curling smoke. Within two seconds, however, the officer’s head and shoulders slumped as life escaped him.
The Bangladeshi quickly opened the door, shoved the dead officer into the opposite seat, returned to his vehicle to grab the laptop and the False Prophet, then returned to the police sedan. With the deceased officer appearing as though he was surprised by his own mortality, the Bangladeshi drove the FIAT east with every intention of returning west towards Vatican City.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Kimball’s Chamber
The Vatican, Vatican City
After ending his call with Shari, he could tell by the tenor of her voice that she was overly concerned. For him, there would be no escaping since his allegiance was to the church and his devotion written in stone.
After performing a search of the Old Gardens alongside Isaiah and Nehemiah and discovering nothing, Kimball returned to his chamber. Having been greeted by the Medieval door to his quarters along with the acid etchings of Latin above the doorway: Pietas Maxime Praeter Honestatem, which translated to ‘Loyalty Above All Else Except Honor,’ Kimball stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The room was midnight dark. But what caught his attention was the green blinking light on his cot. When he approached his bed, he saw a hexagon-shaped device as thick as a hockey puck lying on the sheet. The device fit within the palm of his hand. In the center of the unit was the blinking button that begged to be pressed. Kimball had seen this before, this hexagon-shaped device. It was a recorder and a tracker with the magnetic backside strong enough to cling firmly to the underbelly of moving vehicles for tracking. What such a device was doing inside his chamber had boggled him.
The button continued to blink.
Using his thumb, Kimball pressed the button, which stopped blinking and turned red. From the unit came the recording of a metallic voice, one that had been purposely disguised. The button at the center of the hexagon recorder continued to flare an angry red.
To the Vatican Knight that is Kimball Hayden, began the preamble. We have the woman. We have Shari Cohen. If you do not follow my instructions with full accuracy, the woman will undergo severe consequences due to your failure to follow through. If you call upon your team of Vatican Knights, then she dies. If you contact law enforcement, she dies. If you in any way decide to do anything other than what we tell you, she dies.
Kimball could feel his heart skip inside his chest.
Following is a list of demands added to the already mentioned conditions. You are to leave Vatican City upon the end of this recording. There will be a vehicle waiting for you at the Pantheon, license plate number DH 730NB. The keys are inside an envelope under the front seat. Keep the tracker with you. Inside the sedan you will find that the GPS unit has been programmed to a set of coordinates. Follow them. Bring no weapons, especially your KABARS, which you seem especially fond of.
The mention of Kimball’s weapon of choice suggested that the operation was being conducted by an enemy who knew him well, meaning that this person was a professional. And most likely, someone who was not alone.
The distance from your location to the location programmed into the GPS has a drive time of thirty minutes. Be advised that the moment you pressed the button, an alert signal was communicated to our device. You have one hour to reach our location. Failing to do so, then Shari Cohen dies.
It was like a punch to the gut to Kimball, a direct blow that left him breathless. Had Shari been abducted by a terrorist cell inside of Rome? But Kimball dismissed this. The voice, though disguised, carried no foreign inflection whatsoever, the pronunciations crisp. In fact, it sounded very American.
While looking at the red light of the button, Kimball suddenly realized what the Voice had told him and what it meant—that he would soon find himself standing at a crossroad.
. . . And there will come a time, Kimball, where you will have to decide between the love of the woman you covet, or the safety of the church which has provided you a chance at redemption.
Kimball closed his eyes and fully understood. It was a warning. He would have to choose between serving either the church or leave the grounds to save Shari Cohen.
One has given you love, the other the opportunity to seek the Light. Now you must choose between the two. Do you forsake the Light for the love of the woman? Or do you sacrifice the love of the woman in order to continue your journey to seek the Light?
Standing at a crossroads never appeared darker.
Grabbing his cellphone, Kimball immediately dialed Shari’s number.
On the other end a w
oman answered, but it was not the voice of Shari Cohen. It was a gravelly voice that was rough and prickly. And when the woman spoke, Kimball Hayden knew exactly who he was talking to.
* * *
The moment Jennifer Antle saw Kimball’s name light up on the screen of Shari’s cellphone, she answered. “Vatican Knight,” she said, “it took you long enough.”
There was a pause on Kimball’s end. Then: “I know you.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Shari has nothing to do with this.”
“She has everything to do with this,” Antle returned. “She’s an advocate to the one who is a godless man who wears the clothing of a priest. She sees the darkness within you, yet she turns a blind eye to the corruption which has become your very base and an anchor for which you will work from . . . in order to destroy the church from within.”
“You’re out of your mind. You and the entire Nocturnal Saints organization. Apparently, nobody’s redeemable in your eyes, no matter what. You simply erase away lives because you believe that the answer to alternative ideas is punishment through radicalism, that it’s the panacea to maintaining the old tenets through measures of fear and violence. You may be half a world away from the Middle East, but your ideology is a shared one. You’re just a different variety of people with the same attitude: you tolerate nothing outside of your own philosophies. But in the end, it’s still terrorism.”
The woman gave a breathy laugh over the line. “Not only is the woman you covet blind,” she finally said, “so is the one who lives within Satan’s shadow to become the speaker of lies. You think you’re doing God’s work when you have killed innocent women and children? Is that what you honestly believe? That God would condone such actions? Perhaps, Vatican Knight, you should take examination of your past and come to a proper conclusion, yes? Perhaps you should stop speaking the lies that everything can be justified, no matter how heinous the act, believing that it was always God’s will.”
Now it was Kimball’s turn to hesitate on the other end of the line. “I’ve done horrible things I’m not proud of. But I’ve been open about my past and I have been spending a lifetime trying to redeem myself.”
“And how’s that going for you? I understand that you’ve fallen to drink, which is another sin. Perhaps a sin on top of many sins, yes?”
“If you know so much about me, then you’d know that I gave up drinking some time ago.”
“Being sober is admirable, but there’s nothing you can do to resurrect the innocent lives you have taken long ago to achieve the means. Nothing.”
“A night doesn’t go by where I don’t see their faces or hear their moans. Not one. I’ll be plagued by their images for the rest of my life, believe me.”
“I see,” she said gruffly. “So, your conscience is getting the best of you, is it? You do the devil’s work and yet he rewards you with horrific images. It only bolsters what I have said. You do the devil’s bidding, and yet you’re too blind to see that you’re under the command of the Dark Angel.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Kimball told her. “You’re so possessed by your ideology that you’ve become blind to reality.”
“It’s a matter of perspective,” she responded, “which you’re entitled to up until your Day of Judgment. But in the end, God knows the truth.”
There was another pause between the two.
Then from Kimball: “Tell me, is this an act of vengeance for what happened in D.C. when I took out your cell? Or are you here under the command of somebody else? Is that why you’re not disguising your voice like the recorder you left behind? You want me to know who’s behind this?”
“The recorder was done by someone else, a handler who does not want to be recognized. But me, I have nothing to hide.”
“I see.”
“You see nothing.”
“I see the writing on the wall.”
“Now you’re a prophet?”
“Let’s say that I’m not blind.” Antle worked the muscles in the back of her jaw.
“Look,” Kimball began, “I got the message. I’ll be there—wherever ‘there’ is. Shari Cohen has nothing to do with this, so don’t try to justify a reason that there is. We both know you’re using her as bait to entice me to an unknown location. I’m not stupid.”
“No weapons, Vatican Knight. And you’re to come alone. Remember the instructions that have been laid out. Notify the Vatican Knights, law enforcement, or anyone else for that matter, she dies.”
“That has been made abundantly clear to me,” Kimball countered. “Do I have your promise that she’ll be released upon my arrival?”
“You’re in no position to ask questions or make demands,” she told him. “If you don’t show within the window of time that was given you the moment you started the recorder, which is now down to fifty-three minutes, then she dies.”
Silence.
And then from Kimball: “I’ll be there.”
“Then you better get a move on,” she added with a triumphant pleasure. “According to my timer, you now have fifty-two minutes and time is obviously precious.” At that point, Antle severed the call.
Laying Shari’s cellphone aside, Antle turned to her left. Standing along the fringe of the room’s shadows all decked out in full riot gear and donning a skeletal mask was Mannix. In his grasp was an automatic weapon that was fully loaded, checked, and ready to go.
“He’s on his way,” she told him.
Mannix remained silent.
“But be careful,” she added. “I don’t trust him. He will come with a warrior’s heart to save the life of the woman he loves. To believe that he’ll grovel before you on his knees and plead for her life is not going to happen. If I were you, I’d expect a full-frontal assault. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a Vatican Knight, especially when that Vatican Knight is Kimball Hayden.”
Mannix, in his getup, remained silent.
Then from Antle: “He will come as a man provoked by rage. But more importantly, be prepared because he is also a man who kills simply because he’s good at it. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s been bred for.”
The field leader of the Nocturnal Saints military team remained unmoving and silent until he was finally turned away by a dismissive wave of Antle’s hand.
As soon as he was gone, Antle was alone in the gloom of her surroundings. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Kimball Hayden, a dark force in league with the devil, she believed, was on the move with the intent to kill and savage.
This she knew.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Vatican, Vatican City
Kimball Hayden had always been a man of calm collectedness. But he was also very human with real human emotions, most of which he wore upon his sleeves. Shari Cohen had been taken by the Nocturnal Saints, a Catholic extremist faction with an obvious cult mentality. They were dangerous, he considered, as any group he had ever dealt with, whether it had been in the Middle East or somewhere else. For him, one terrorist faction was as equal as any other. It simply wore a different face.
As he stared at the hexagon-shaped unit realizing that the clock was ticking on Shari Cohen’s life, he also knew that he had an obligation to the church as a Vatican Knight. His duty was to Vatican City where he was to uphold and protect the sovereignty of the State. And even though Kimball had found himself standing at a crossroads with few directions to take, his decision was quick and firm and with no other alternative.
With forty-nine minutes left on the timer, Kimball met with Isaiah and Nehemiah within the Hall of the Barracks, which was the central area the Vatican Knights held their ceremonies to either welcome a new Knight or to bury one, and spoke with them in confidence, though he was careful with his words.
Kimball appeared agitated as he addressed Isaiah, and something he could not hide. “I have to leave the Vatican,” he shared with him.
Isaiah knew everything about Kimball Hayd
en. He was never one to run from adversity, but someone who took it on directly with insane courage. And he was not the type who showed any level of cowardice since it had never been a part of his makeup.
“What’s wrong?” Isaiah asked him.
Nehemiah, who stood nearby, also waited for Kimball’s response.
“Believe me,” Kimball answered, “what I have to do I must. Otherwise, I wouldn’t leave your side or the Vatican.”
“I know that,” said Isaiah. “Which is why I’m asking you what’s wrong.”
“I can’t say. All I ask is that you trust me. The Bangladeshi won’t give up. He’ll find a way to get close.”
“Kimball,” Isaiah pressed him, “what’s . . . wrong? We’re brothers.”
Kimball placed a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “I know that. And believe me, Isaiah, my hands are tied on this matter and I’m not willing to risk a terrible outcome. I need you here at the Vatican along with Nehemiah. Keep the borders safe. And make sure that the Bangladeshi doesn’t breach the limits of the city. And please, as my brother . . . ask me no more questions.”
After a pause, Isaiah relented. “Be careful,” he told him evenly.
“I will.”
Without saying anything further, Kimball left the Chamber of the Vatican Knights and the Hall of the Barracks because he had an appointment to keep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Rome, Italy
The Bangladeshi found the officer’s clothing rather baggy with the sleeves and pant legs too short, the fitting poor but useable. On the collar were spots of blood, something the Bangladeshi could not hide. But the cruiser, a police-registered FIAT, was now under his command.
After driving east to stop and strip the officer of his clothing, the Bangladeshi disposed the body and returned westbound through the streets of Rome towards Vatican City. With the flashing and spinning lights within the cruiser’s lightbar, the Bangladeshi was able to pass through the lines after showing his ID card of the man he killed—without anyone actually giving the card a closer look—and was simply waved through as though flashing of the card was routine.