by Jones, Rick
But he could not find Dog or the assassin through the lens.
Worse, everything went quiet.
He panned the scope to the left, to the right: Nothing.
The mound where they engaged in battle was now empty.
Hawk quickly turned toward the porch. By the rocker was the assault weapon he left behind in his rush to grab the advantage on the hillside, the MP-5.
Damn!
The CheyTac M200 was excellent as a sniper rifle, but in battle the assault weapon was the key to survival. And with the MP-5 on the porch he might as well have been miles away. There was no doubt that he had missed his mark; therefore, he was now in the crosshairs.
He then lowered his NV monocular and searched the landscape.
There was nothing but the soft swaying of sage and brush, as the wind continued to march in from the west.
Where are you?
The sound of the wind soughing through the land began to pick up, the song a continuing sigh of gentle whispers.
“You are ‘The Ghost,’” he told himself. You can do this.
Hawk tossed the CheyTac aside and methodically removed the Bowie, the long blade sliding neatly from its sheath. Hunkering down, Hawk, ‘The Ghost,’ closed his eyes and called upon the spirits. Although it had been awhile he was confident that the skill of his people was something inborn. Taking down ‘The Ghost’ was like trying to catch a wispy comma of smoke within the clench of a hand, which is impossible. And Hawk believed himself to be that smoke. He would use stealth as his tool, locate the assassin, and drive the blade across his throat.
After all, he was an elitist on his land and knew every nuance about it, which gave him the advantage.
Low to the surface of the sand, using the NVG as an aid and with the Bowie in his hand casting glints of light whenever the mirror polish of the blade reflected the cold moonlight from the east, Hawk went to find his quarry.
#
The last thing the assassin saw before the impact was the canine’s long teeth. As the dog was taking flight the assassin’s world seemed to move with the slowness of a bad dream. He noted its teeth, long and dangerously keen, and the fury within its eyes.
Just before the moment of collision the assassin heard what he thought was the waspy hum of a bullet missing wide, and then the impact that struck him like a hammer and sending him to his backside, the knife in his hand taking flight.
The assassin held the dog at bay, at least for the moment, watching the silvery threads of drool cascading down from its jaws, snapping—could smell its fetid breath as the gnashing teeth drew closer to the assassin’s throat.
The knife!
Where . . . is . . . the . . . knife?
With one hand on the dog, the assassin reached blindly to his right, his hand scrabbling through the sand like an arachnid searching for the blade, the hilt, a stone.
There. In the sand. Was that a glint of steel?
The assassin reached out, stretched his arm, his fingers flexing for the purchase of the handle.
Dog’s teeth were closing in on the throat—inches away now, closer, the grazing of teeth against flesh.
The hand found something solid, the end of the knife’s hilt, his fingers grazing the tip, but just out of grasp.
The German Shepherd’s teeth touched the assassin’s throat, the skin parting, but barely, the blood now beading, then flowing.
Dog was now going wild with blood lust.
The tip of the handle—the hilt—was now within his grasp.
The dog, in frenzy, reared his head back for the final blow.
But the assassin brought the blade out and up.
#
Hawk quickly learned that no man can fight age. Nor was the trait of skillful hunting something merely inbred, but something that must be maintained with constant practice. Since the man had aged without the benefit of rehearsal that would have kept his skills honed, the Native American could feel his confidence wane as quickly as his endurance.
Sweat trickled down the Indian’s brow, down his cheeks, the wind doing little to cool his flesh as his heart palpitated in his chest, the rhythm threatening to misfire. And Hawk chastised himself for letting himself go.
Lightning was beginning to flash in strobe fashion, the subsequent roll of thunder shaking the granules beneath his feet. The storm was obviously upon him; a strong wind brewing.
As the sky flared with incredible brightness, the Indian was again blinded. In frustration he removed the NVG and tossed them, relying now on the skill of Apache stealth.
Hunkering low, the wind buffeting him so that his braided ponytail flagged behind him like the whipping mane of a horse, Hawk approached the position where Dog and the assassin converged.
But there was nothing but the footprints of a skirmish, which were quickly disappearing as the wind began to erase away all telltale signs by rolling sand and dust over the tracks.
The Indian then scanned the area with his head on a swivel.
There was nothing but the wind that was beginning to sough like a nocturnal howl, the wail of a banshee.
Above him the moon was being eclipsed by scudding clouds, the thunderheads from the west now beginning to stake their claim.
And then another brilliant flash, another staircase of lightning as the world lit up long enough for Hawk to recognize a shape about fifty meters to the south—that of a man?
The Indian got low and drew a bead. When a subsequent bolt crossed the sky, it provided him with enough of a lighted glimpse to see it was a man in a Ghillie suit.
The Apache toyed with the knife by tossing it from hand to hand, feeling its weight, its heft, its power.
Slowly, he approached the assassin from behind, careful not to attract attention.
Thirty meters away.
His temples throbbed with blood lust while his heart hammered deep inside his chest with the beat of a drum roll.
Twenty meters away.
Hawk turned the knife over in his hand, rolling it until he got a white-knuckled grip on the leather-laced handle.
Ten meters away.
Another stroke of lightning, a dazzling display of inconstant lighting as the Indian closed in, hunkering, the point of the Bowie ready to rent flesh.
Before him stood the man in the Ghillie suit, oblivious to the Indian’s approach.
I am one with the Earth. I am ‘The Ghost.’ At first you see nothing but jungle . . .
He raised the knife in a fashion to stab and drive the blade through.
Five meters away.
. . . then the flicker of a shape . . .
The fabric of the Ghillie suit wavered likes blades of grass in a soft breeze. The assassin had his back to him.
And then the Indian struck, the blade biting deep through flesh, the sound reminiscent of driving a knife through a melon.
. . . And then you were dead.
#
The assassin watched from behind the sandstone rise as the Indian approached from the north. He was turning a knife over in his hand, the steel glinting against the rays of a disappearing moon.
Then in a deft move the Indian drove the blade through his intended target.
The assassin did not betray a single emotion as the Bowie found its mark.
#
Hawk could feel the resistance of the blade driving through flesh again and again and again, the man in the Ghillie suit maintaining his feet.
Impossible!
More stabs, then hacking, the Bowie used like a Roman gladius—the blade slicing, cutting and slashing.
Hawk stood back, observing, his chest heaving and pitching from lack of exercise, his power diminished.
The Ghillie suit fell away, revealing a small saguaro about six feet high, the trunk badly chopped.
Hawk looked at the knife, saw the juice of the cacti on its blade, then turned back to the saguaro, his face registering an uncertainty.
And then he felt an awful stab in the back of his neck—white-hot pain�
��as the point of a throwing star found its mark, crippling him, the large man falling to the sand as a boneless heap. At first his entire body became a tabernacle of pain, of jabs and darting pins and needles, which was subsequently followed by a wave of fire that swept throughout his entirety.
The Indian gritted his teeth but refused to cry out. In his blurred vision he could see the assassin work against the wind toward him.
The Indian could only move his eyes, but not enough to catch a glimpse of the assassin’s face.
“Did you really think you still had an edge after all these years?” asked the assassin. His voice was smooth and hypnotically melodic. “Is that why you did it alone? To prove to yourself that you could still be ‘The Ghost’ after all these years?”
Hawk grunted, caught himself, and let the pain ride without uttering another groan.
“You’re paralyzed,” the assassin said. His voice was steady and even, a voice without care. “The blade damaged the column bad enough to destroy the nerves. However . . .” The assassin let his words trail as he produced a silver cylinder. With a quick depression of the button a pick shot forward. “I can mercifully end the pain and send you off to the land of your ancestors. Or,” the assassin leaned closer, “you can spend the rest of your life as a quadriplegic for the next twenty years until your body atrophies to a pathetic skeleton.”
Hawk clenched his jaw in response, the disdain apparent.
“Your call, Mr. Hawk. Or, if you like, I will make the decision for you.”
The Indian looked skyward, the repose of his face becoming stoic and unmoving.
“I see,” said the assassin, who then grabbed the Bowie from the sand. “I’ll need this,” he added. And then he placed his hands beneath the large Native American and flipped him onto his stomach. Sweeping the braided ponytail aside, the assassin removed the star and laid the point of the pick against the base of the man’s skull, the tip indenting the flesh. “May the spirits have mercy on your soul,” he said.
And then he punched the weapon home.
#
Standing in the doorway of Kimball’s room, the assassin held something in his hands. Slowly, as Kimball slept with his chest rising and falling in even rhythm, the man crept silently into the room.
Through the NV monocular he appropriated from Hawk everything appeared green and definable.
Kimball was laying on his side with his knees drawn up and his arms in a manner of self embrace.
The assassin moved closer, his footfalls so silent no one would have known the man was there, even if awake.
Kimball shifted, moving a leg.
And the assassin stilled.
A moment later, when Kimball found his comfort point, the killer moved forward careful not to awaken the sleeping giant, and placed the item in his hands on the night table beside the bed.
Through the NV monocular the assassin watched Kimball, his head tilting from left to right as if studying a living cryptogram.
And then he began to retreat, the assassin backpedaling slowly, softly, always maintaining a keen eye on Kimball as he slept.
And then like a wisp of smoke caught within the current of a breeze, he was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vatican City
Pope Pius lay in bed propped up by a myriad of pillows examining documents through glasses that hung precariously on the tip of his nose. Papers lay scattered across his comforter. And the glow of the mid-afternoon sun rained in through the panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
There was a slight knocking on the door. “Come in.”
Bonasero Vessucci entered the pope’s chamber, softly closed the door behind him, and stood next to his friend’s bed. “Are you comfortable, Amerigo?”
The pope removed the glasses and held the stem between his thumb and forefinger. “As good as expected,” he answered. “No matter how much I sleep, I’m always tired.” He quickly noted the concern on the cardinal’s face. “What is it, Bonasero?”
The cardinal sighed. “It appears someone at Gemelli leaked the fact to Il Messagero that you have cancer.” Il Messagero was the leading newspaper in Rome. “The conservatives in the College of the Cardinals are already gathering.”
“It’s nothing personal, my dear friend, you know that. It’s politics.”
“Right now, Giuseppe Angullo is politicking his way to be the next server of the pulpit.”
Pius waived a hand dismissively. “He won’t have the votes from the consensus party no matter how hard he tries to promote his platform. He is too much of a conservative not only to the constituency of the Church, but also to the citizenry of its followers. A good man he is, but if he refuses to bend, even if bending is a necessity with a changing world, then he chances the risk of losing the faith of a constituency. Even the Curia will recognize that.”
“True. But he has many supporters and is an ally to Cardinal Marcello, who also has a strong camp of followers. Together, Amerigo, they may conform into a single, large camp that would endorse Marcello to take over the post as the next pontiff. Il Messagero is reporting this to the people in the columns of the front page.”
Pius chewed on his lower lip, realizing where Vessucci was going. Marcello was a powerful cardinal with conservative constituents inside the Church that would never allow the right for the Vatican Knights to exist, deeming them too militant a faction even though there was a need for them. The Society of Seven would disband.
“If his following becomes too strong,” said the cardinal, “then the Knights will not have a following. I will not keep them active behind Marcello’s back, should he be elected.”
“And you shouldn’t,” he returned. “But you have a strong backing. But more importantly, you have my support. I will counter Marcello’s followers by calling them to counsel in solitary, if necessary, and garner their favor on your behalf. I will have them commit, as a favor to me.”
“It seems so political.”
“It’s been the way of the Church since its conception,” he said. “It’s what has kept Catholicism afloat for all these centuries. And right now it needs strong leadership. And I believe, Bonasero, with all my heart that you can take the Church on the right path in a world growing morally corrupt every day in a time when it needs us most. The Vatican Knights must be a staple to this Church until all men can lay down their swords and live in peace. But until that time we need people like Kimball and Leviticus to man the front lines when peace is no longer forethought in the minds of men.”
The cardinal leaned over and patted a pillow, an attempt to fluff it.
“We knew this day was coming,” the pope stated, smiling lightly. “Nobody lives forever, Bonasero, we know that. So the mantle will be passed to you. All I ask is that you hold it high and make God proud with the way you serve Him.”
Bonasero Vessucci nodded and smiled back, but the smile was weak and feigned.
“Now, about the Knights,” said the pontiff.
Vessucci nodded. “Leviticus and Isaiah are still tied up with their missions. So far, there are no casualties or collateral damage. They’ve also managed to pull innocents out of harm’s way, and are taking them to debarkation points where allied support will take them to safe zones.”
“That’s good,” said the pontiff. “Very good. And what about Kimball? Have we heard from him yet?”
“No. Not since the SIV aided him to get to his New Mexico contact.”
“Victor Hawk?”
“Yes. But Kimball hasn’t contacted us yet.”
“You look concerned.”
The cardinal nodded. “Kimball was supposed to contact me over an hour ago . . . But he hasn’t.”
The pope sighed, and then looked out the window—a beautiful day, sunny, birds taking flight against a perfect canvas of blue sky. The man had every right to be concerned, he thought, since it wasn’t like Kimball not to keep his contact times; unless, of course, he was unable to.
The pontiff closed his eyes. “Dear Lord,�
� he said.
It was all he could whisper.
#
“Again!”
The wavering light of the torches cast awkward shadows against the surrounding stone walls of the chamber that held no windows. The room was circular with a domed ceiling and a wraparound second tier that overlooked the area. In the center of the room Kimball was mentoring three of the youngest knights: Ezekiel, Job and Joshua, with Ezekiel being the eldest at thirteen and Job and Joshua twelve.
Kimball was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hands behind the small of his back as he watched the boys with strict examination, looking for minute imperfections in style as they went through the motions and techniques of aikido, a Japanese art form of self-defense.
While Joshua and Job employed locks and holds against each other by utilizing the principle of nonresistance to cause an opponent's momentum to work against them, aikido also emphasized the importance of achieving complete mental calm and control of one's own body to master an opponent's attack. There are no offensive moves. Yet while they seemed to be grasping the techniques with fluidity, Ezekiel floundered, the moves and locks mere puzzles to him as he looked awkward in his performances.
When Job attacked Joshua, Joshua grabbed Job by the hand, bent his wrist away from his body, and sent Job into a perfect somersault with the twelve-year-old landing hard on his side on the mat.
“Very good, Joshua. And you too, Job. Both of you did a nice job. Now hit the showers. The two of you are done for the day.”
Joshua and Job pumped their fists high into the air and headed off down the stone-walled corridor.
Ezekiel watched them go with hangdog eyes.
And Kimball took a knee beside him so that they were of equal height. “You want to be the best, don’t you?”
The boy remained silent. He had been training for years, but seen others progress faster—those who were younger and greener; those with the affinity to do what came to them naturally, whereas he struggled mightily.
And then: “I’ll never be as good as them,” he finally said. “I can barely tie my shoes.”