by Rick Jones
By the time she was able to reach the pontiff’s bedside, his heart monitor was sounding off with an even whine.
Pope Clement XV had flatlined.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Three Days Later
Sana'a, Yemen
Ahmed Jaziri was a chameleon who put on a different veneer daily by attaching different lengths and colors of false beards to disguise his features. In fact, he had a walk-in closet filled with artificial beards the same way that women stocked up on wigs. When it was fashionable for Arab men to be bearded, Ahmed Jaziri had that fresh-scrubbed look of a man in his late twenties, clean and smooth, which had surprised the Bangladeshi.
As Jaziri entered his home office in Sana'a, he was surprised to see the Bangladeshi sitting in his seat behind his desk while operating his computer.
The Bangladeshi lifted his eyes enough to look over the monitor to consider Jaziri. “You have surprised even me, Ahmed,” he told him, “after I saw your collection of beards to mask your identity. I never imagined that the financier of so many activities in the name of Allah was not much older than a child. Bravo.” When the Bangladeshi’s eyes returned to the screen, his face lit up from the casting light. “I see that you’ve already placed a bounty on my head. Two hundred fifty million Yemini rial, about a million dollars in American currency. I don’t know whether to feel undervalued . . . or appreciative of the amount of the bounty.” The Bangladeshi eased back into the seat.
Jaziri crossed the floor awkwardly on his club foot and stood before his desk. His face carried a hint of anger at the Bangladeshi’s presence, with one side of his lip curling into a sneer. “You come into my house and violate my privacy.”
“And here I am thinking that we were the best of friends.”
“Get out of my seat.”
“How long after the appropriation of the Antichrist did you place a bounty on me? A minute? Two minutes?”
“I have been candid with you, Bangladeshi, from the moment the deal was struck, until the moment of your first, second, and even your third failure. I have never lied to you.” Jaziri leaned forward enough to press his knuckles against the desktop, and said, “Now, get out of my seat and leave my home. I won’t ask you again.”
That was when the Bangladeshi brandished a suppressed pistol and placed it on the desk with a thud. His hand remained on the weapon for the quick draw, if necessary. “Or . . . what?” he asked in challenge.
Jaziri’s jaw muscles started to work. “Are you threatening me, Bangladeshi?”
“Well, the way I see it, my head on a platter is worth two hundred fifty million Yemini rial, a lot of money. But, if word gets out that the banker who was financing the hit was unable to make payment, then the job goes away. Mercenaries like to get paid for their efforts. There are no freebies in their line of work. Once the bankroll is removed, the job magically disappears as does the interest behind the act to kill. Funny how that works.”
Ahmed Jaziri looked at the gun, swallowed, then he fixed a hard gaze on the Bangladeshi. “So now what? You’re going to kill me?”
“Since you put out the bounty with the promise of a financial windfall upon verification of my passing, could you blame me?”
Jaziri remained silent.
The Bangladeshi proffered a rare but victorious smile. “Your death will cancel all outstanding contracts, don’t you agree?”
Still, Jaziri refused to talk.
“I’ll make this quick, Ahmed . . . I promise.” The Bangladeshi raised his firearm and pressed the trigger three times in quick succession, all muted spits.
. . . Phffft . . .
. . . Phffft . . .
. . . Phffft . . .
One to the head and two to center mass, the trademark strikes of a professional assassin.
After the Bangladeshi took photos of Jaziri’s body on his cellphone, he uploaded the images onto the link Jaziri used to solicit the targeted killing of the Bangladeshi, then he hit the ‘SEND’ button.
Smiling, the Bangladeshi felt at ease knowing that no one would be willing to work for free.
EPILOGUE
In the aftermath of the Pope Clement’s passing, a new pope was elected to the papacy. Cardinal Salvatore Leoni had been elevated to the position and would rule justly and without the Machiavellian ambition of his predecessor. But what lent an air to his openness was his embracement of Kimball Hayden, even after he was apprised of Kimball’s past as an assassin by those who sat upon the council of the Society of Seven. The new pope’s response: Everyone deserves a second chance because there’s freedom in forgiveness.
In Brazil where a hut stands along the borders of a small village, a woman sits and stares at a finger that once adorned a ruby-faced ring. She sees the thin, white stripe at the base of her finger, the flesh pale in absence of the ring’s band. And she remembered the man who allowed her to live, a Vatican Knight, who told her that everyone deserved ‘second chances.’ So, she sits and reflects about a future without the ring while smoking a cigarette.
In the United States Embassy in Rome, Shari Cohen is working in cooperation with a myriad of intelligence agencies across the globe to intercede and stop acts of terrorism, her job demanding since there would never be a shortage of insane or despicable acts, usually in the name of one god or another.
In Paris, the Bangladeshi once again goes under the knife to restructure the contours of his face where he would heal, and then fool, the facial-recognition hunters as he walked freely through the streets without fear of capture in search of his next mission.
Upon the authority of the new pope, Kimball Hayden is reunited with his team. And once again and under new leadership, the Society of Seven has been reinstated to decide upon future missions with Kimball as the undisputed leader.
In places like Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv and the United Kingdom, after Italy presented the False Prophet to its allied principals of the U.K.’s Atomic Weapons Establishment, or the AWE, which is a research facility near Reading in Berkshire, all the suitcases had been broken down with the one-kiloton spheres having been cannibalized, and then reintroduced into more conventional weaponry systems.
And sitting inside of a rickety shed, the Goliath Chamber lies abandoned and will forever remain empty of its horrors as dust and cobwebs gather to weave around it. If one listens carefully, they might just hear the whispers of breezes that sound like ghostly sighs that carry through the abandoned shelter that hides it.
THE END
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chap
ter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Epilogue