by Jones, Rick
He found himself alone and unwanted, however, just another mouth to feed in an already famished world. So he migrated to the north through hot winds and an unforgiving sun, his mind falling into delirious bouts of fog and images.
Sometimes he imagined the worried faces of his parents as they beckoned him with ghostly hands to follow a certain path. But when his body could push no more, the environment having sapped him dry, he surrendered to the elements and took to the earth.
Two days later when he awoke he knew he was in heaven. The angels surrounding him were smiling and wore habits. Around their necks they wore chains bearing the symbol of the Catholic crucifix that was as gold and as bright as the emblazoned sun. When Christian sat up his eyes searched for his parents, who had led him to this wondrous place that smelled of clove and burning candle wax.
“You’ll be fine, my child. You were lucky that a missionary found you,” said one of the angels. Her face was aged and tanned, her eyes sparkled with alertness. “You came from such a long way, so God must have something very special in store for you.”
“Where are my parents?” he asked, the pitch of his tone that of pubescent.
“I’m afraid you were alone.”
Christian shook his head vehemently. “I saw them. They showed me the way.”
But when his mind sobered, he came to realize that his parents were truly gone, and that God had used them as vessels to save his life.
As he grew to manhood during his tenure at the mission, the boy’s body took on an athletic tone. His hunger for knowledge became as urgent as his need for sustenance. This caught the eye of a stranger who came from a faraway land called the Vatican. After holding counsel with the heads of the mission, he recruited the boy.
The stranger’s name was Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci.
Christian, upon learning his fate, cried and refused to leave the only true slice of heaven he had ever known. “To do this is a great honor,” said Father Hernandez, who held the boy in the clutches of a strong embrace. Even the Father was choking back tears. “On the day you came to us we always said that God had a purpose for you. And now that time has come, my son. You must go with the cardinal who is a messenger of God and fulfill your destiny. You are special.”
Christian left the mission behind, never to see or hear from the angels and orphans again.
Now, at such an early hour, Christian—Isaiah—was on the front lines of the most important and noble battle of his life. He was a Vatican Knight.
And Kimball watched him, wanting desperately to know how Christian found faith in such hardship, when Kimball held little after growing up in privilege. Reason would indicate that it should have been the other way around—that those of good standing would have faith and be thankful for their bounties, whereas the disadvantaged would hold none.
But Isaiah was lost in his own world, listening through his headphones and hearing what sounded like the slight passing of air through a seashell.
#
Leviticus was in the vault of the Sacred Hearts Church working at the computer terminal. Highly adept at his craft, he also had the unethical dexterity to tap and hack into programs and networks to obtain information without leaving a trail.
After loading the Keystroke Logger, he expertly moved his fingers across the keyboard and began to draw data from Shari Cohen’s PC. By logging the sequence of keystrokes that enabled her access to certain sites, Leviticus was able to obtain her password, which afforded him entry into restricted areas of information.
Numbers and symbols relating to computer vernacular came and went as the PC spoke to other networks along the information highway, pulled data from files established in ISP address records, then left a bogus trail in its wake. By the time the hacked parties learned of the breach, the trail would lead the tracking experts to a desktop computer located in a library at a prestigious California college. It was a wonderful red herring on the part of Leviticus, which was also a part of the game he enjoyed too much, almost impishly so.
After establishing the link to Shari’s PC, he realized she was live with booted information regarding the Soldiers of Islam. And with all the ingenuity of a practiced hacker, he downloaded the data.
But it the information was coming in much too slowly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Along with Omega Team, Judas stood in the shadows provided by the copse of trees in the park across from Cohen’s brownstone. Each man was dressed in tactical gear except Judas, who wore his wide-brimmed fedora and long coat. The tails of his jacket moved slightly in a course of faint breeze.
Judas turned to Dark Lord, the lead for the three-man unit of Omega Team. The commando appeared without emotion, a killing machine waiting to act without question or reservation.
“You know your duties,” said Judas. “And I don’t want you going in there like a bunch of ball-swinging commandos, either. Get the CD, take out Cohen, and get the hell out of there. It’s that simple—one-two-three. Now go.”
#
Kimball saw movement, a mere motion from the outermost range of his peripheral vision. At first it was brief, then nothing, then movement once again as living shadows stayed close to the darkness and made their way to the brownstone. From his point of view he saw only two, but his mindset knew there were more. After telling Isaiah to stay behind and maintain watch for other insurgents, Kimball was out of the van and sliding toward the brownstone as quietly as the shifting shapes around him.
#
It had taken Dark Lord a moment to work his way into the Cohen residence. Moving silently across the room, he withdrew his knife and used the point of the blade to push the door open. Shari was asleep at the desk with the pages of encrypted code on the monitor.
It can’t be this simple, he considered. It just can’t be. Dark Lord seemed contrite in his thinking because of the lack of opposition, especially from someone like Cohen who was held in such high regard from the political elders. It’s like stealing candy from a baby.
Slowly and prudently, he entered the den, knife in hand, with the stealth of a learned assassin, and moved in for the quick kill.
He was about to grab her hair and force her head back to expose her open throat when Shari’s husband ran into the den and slammed himself against the intruder’s back, causing the knife to fall from Dark Lord’s hand, driving him to the floor. The surprised assassin immediately maneuvered to gain advantage and grabbed Gary’s wrist. With a deft and sudden move, a simple flick of his hand, he snapped the twin bones in Gary’s arm, causing white-hot agony to race along its length and to his shoulder.
Having yet to register the magnitude of danger, Shari snapped her eyes wide. But it wasn’t until Gary’s cry of absolute pain that she propelled herself into action. While both men battled for position in a drunken tango, Shari reached out and hit the assassin on the back of his head, only to receive a savage backhanded blow that sent her across the table and knocking the PC to the floor, smashing its outer casing.
In the heat of panic she tried to get to her feet, failed, her sight dizzy from the blow. Dark Lord thrust a left fist into Gary’s abdomen, a stinging blow, and then a right cross to his chin. For a moment Gary seemed detached, his conscious mind suspended between darkness and light, and then his eyes rolled up into his head as he hit the floor as a boneless heap.
In an quick move, Dark Lord swept up the knife and exhibited the chrome polish of the blade and sharpness of its tip. “It’ll be painless,” he told her, then began his approach. “And just so you know, there are worse ways of dying than bleeding out.”
Through the haze of her sight, she noted that the assassin was not alone. Two shadows joined alongside him, each brandishing a knife.
Shari crawled to her husband and held him close, tears coursing her cheeks as she thought of her children. “Please, don’t hurt my babies,” she pleaded.
Dark Lord placed the blade of the knife within inches of her throat and smiled maliciously through the opening of his mas
k, as if to indicate he was doing this for simple gratification. “First I’ll take you, then the hubby, and then the kiddies. How’s that?”
Weeping uncontrollably, Shari pulled an unconscious Gary close to her.
With a quick move, Dark Lord grabbed her hair and pulled her head back to expose the soft tissue of her throat.
Slowly and deliberately, he raised the blade for the final cut.
#
Washington, D.C.
September 26. Early Morning
Donning familiar and comfortable black fatigues, Abraham Obadiah changed his game face back to Team Leader, then drove northbound on Route 1, toward the Massachusetts border. The truck moved smoothly, hitting the occasional pothole. But his trip went without incident.
At 0245, a coordinated effort was scheduled by Judas and Omega Team to assassinate Shari Cohen. Knowing Omega Team was always punctual in their endeavors, Obadiah considered the matter closed, and that Agent Cohen was no longer a part of the equation. The constituents from Russia and Venezuela would be happy to hear that damage control had succeeded, and that Cohen would no longer be a troubling factor.
Now that he had quelled the suspicions of his foreign liaisons, there would be no reason for Obadiah to return to D.C. until after the death of Pope Pius. Within a few hours he would assassinate a member of the Holy See, and remind the world that the list of people leading to the pope was getting shorter. And with every death, with every symbolic assassination of faith, came dwindling hope.
Believing Ms. Cohen was no longer among the living, Team Leader drove on.
#
Judas stood within the grove of trees, the collar of his jacket hiked against the cold, the vapor of his breath an indicator of a chilly night.
From the corner of his eye he saw movement. A single man, larger than most men, moved past him beyond the trees with the grace of a feline—smooth and sleek with the purpose to make a kill.
“Well, well, well,” whispered Judas. “And whose little boy are you?”
It had become obvious that Cohen was under surveillance from someone outside his circle. And then he realized he had no way to warn his team. No matter, he thought. It was still three against one.
#
Dark Lord held the knife blade at the point of its zenith for the final downswing, a macabre display to incite paralytic terror. “This is for looking in places you shouldn’t have,” he said. Just as the blade fell toward the openness of Shari’s throat, Dark Lord and his two companions were sent sprawling across the room. The rear assault hit like a hammer blow. But each man got his feet at once. And with athletic grace and practiced agility, they spun toward their attacker. Their knives poised to kill.
A lone man, impossibly tall and broad shouldered, black-faced with streaks of grease paint, stood between the Cohens and Dark Lord’s commandos. Around his neck he wore the starched white collar of a priest. His chest was protected by a black tactical vest that held the emblem of the crest and silver Pattée.
Omega Team did what was natural; they banded together in a refined area and converged on their target, a priest, an unlikely savior.
In response measured in milliseconds, Kimball withdrew knives from sheaths attached to each thigh and stirred one of the black-bladed commando knives about in an act of distraction, first in circular motions, then in figure eights, a practice that kept the attention of his opponents from focusing on the second blade, the strike weapon.
Omega Team moved slowly into the danger zone, close enough to engage, to slash, to kill the priest knowing when and where to strike.
Circling, Dark Lord studied this man, his opponent, and noted similarities of a man he once knew and coveted as a mentor and leader—the build, the height, the breadth of the man’s shoulders, all reminiscent of a hero in the judgment of the Pentagon brass. And then he looked into the man’s cerulean blue eyes and the gold flexes that peppered the irises like glitter. For a brief moment his chest grew cold, the reality surreal and sobering at the same time. And then realization set in. There was only one man who held such remarkable eyes.
Dark Lord stopped his advance. The other two followed, as if attached to an umbilical tie in which their hesitation was simultaneous.
“Kimball?” he said almost too softly. “Kimball Hayden?”
Kimball’s eyes flared. Recognition came on his part as well. At one time he and Dark Lord worked closely together in covert operations as an unholy alliance.
“Word is . . . is that you’re dead.” Dark Lord lowered the point of his knife, but not enough to appease Kimball, who kept his weapon at the ready. “So what’s this about?”
Kimball said nothing.
Dark Lord’s lips curled visibly. “It’s about redemption, isn’t it? Goddammit, Kimball Hayden has gone religious. Look at that collar.” Dark Lord’s smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. The tone of his voice suddenly took on a level of managed anger. “This isn’t your fight, Hayden. Now get the hell out of the way before you get hurt by the big boys.”
Kimball stepped closer, his attractor blade continuing to slice deliberate figure-eight patterns through the air. Hesitation flickered in Dark Lord’s eyes.
“Don’t do this,” warned Kimball. “You know you’re no match for me.”
“Still the same old cocky son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you, Hayden? Think your two blades can match our three? I don’t think so.”
Dark Lord inched closer, his actions matched by his two imitators. “Last time, Hayden. Get out of the way and let us do our job.”
“I’m not going to let you hurt these people.”
“Then you’re crazier than I thought.” Dark Lord suddenly struck.
The commandos of Omega Team struck out and slashed with killing blows, but Kimball met their strikes with blinding speed, deflecting the knifes, the contact coughing up sparks as the blades pounded against each other as metal struck metal. Shari’s mouth dropped in amazement as she watched her champion ward off deadly blows with fluid effort.
With uncanny skill Kimball’s motions became faster, his circular motions repelling the blows that seemed to come faster and with far more brutal force. By inches he pushed back the Omega Team, who was losing ground, the strikes coming to the point where everyone’s arm was moving in blurs and blinding revolutions. Sparks radiated in numerous pinpricks of flame before dying out. And then came an opening.
With surgical precision Kimball drove the edge of his blade across the bicep of a commando, severing the muscle. The man screamed in agony, took a knee, then tumbled out of the battle line and was gone, disappearing into the hallway and into the night.
As the fight waged on Kimball seemed to pick up steam rather than lose it. His motions were deft, and with purpose. The odds of two blades warring against two appeared to favor Kimball as he pushed his opponents back to the far wall. They were running out of room.
In another motion Kimball bent down to a lower point of gravity, and made a horizontal slash just above the patella of the commando standing to the right of Dark Lord, nearly severing the muscle that attached the upper and lower leg. With a banshee-like wail the commando moved surprisingly well on his good leg, dove through the study window, and landed on a parked car below. His weight caved in the roof and shattered the windshield; then, after rolling off the vehicle and getting to his feet, he half ran, half limped for the cover of trees.
#
Judas watched from the shadows across the street as a dark figure smashed through the second story pane of the brownstone in a spray of glittering glass and landed on a parked car, caving in the roof and shattering the windshield. The man rolled off the vehicle, got to one foot, and hobbled toward the copse of trees. Moments later Judas watched a second man run through the front door of the brownstone holding his arm. The wounded commando crossed the street and merged with the shadows beneath the trees.
#
Dark Lord was backed against the wall, his will to complete the battle ingrained from years of tough mental
training. To surrender would be a cowardice brand against his moniker, losing the respect from his peers.
“Put the knife down,” said Kimball.
“Not on your life.”
“Then I’ll make this a fair fight.”
Without taking his eyes off Dark Lord, Kimball returned one of the knives back into its sheath.
Dark Lord sized Kimball for an opening, the man circling, then found what seemed to be an opportunity and tried to cut the man with a sweeping horizontal arc across Kimball’s abdomen, before Kimball could realize that he had been gutted. But Kimball grabbed the attacker’s wrist, forced the man’s arm over his head, exposed the armpit, and drove the sharpened point of his nine-inch blade deep into the unprotected area, until the pommels of the knife could go no further.
Staggering, Dark Lord reached for the weapon’s hilt, gave minimal effort to withdraw the knife, found it impossible to do so, and fell to his knees coughing blood from a perforated lung. “I knew this day would come,” he managed. “But I didn’t think it would be by your hand.” He fell onto his side with his eyes taking on a detached gaze.
After dropping to a knee, Kimball pulled Dark Lord close to him.
“Why these people?” he asked.
Dark Lord’s gaze shifted to the smashed PC lying on the floor beside him, and extended his hand. “For the truth,” he said. And then he was gone, his hand falling to the floor as a blood bubble burst from the corner of his lips, his eyes fixing on a point of no importance as he expelled his final breath.
In homage Kimball held him for a long moment, somewhat saddened by old memories, before laying the assassin gently to the floor.
“You knew him?”
Without facing Shari, he answered her evenly. “At one time,” he told her. After taking a deep breath, Kimball jerked the knife free from Dark Lord’s body and sheathed the weapon.