Vatican Knights

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by Jones, Rick


  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The wrapped body of Dark Lord was taken to the archdiocese where church authorities would give it a private service and burial.

  People like Shady Tippet had no family ties or connections that adversary groups could associate him with. The man had no identity, no background, and no history; nothing that could bind him to the human race.

  This was also the case with Kimball Hayden before he united with the Vatican Knights. Per protocol, Kimball was nonexistent to the outside world. But when he laid Tippet’s body to rest on a slab within the sub-basement of the archdiocese, he gave the man identity by recalling events they had shared as companions.

  He remembered the times they laughed, and joked—and killed. He even recalled the moment he saved Shady Tippet’s life in Palestinian territory, only to take it away almost seventeen years later in the den of a brownstone apartment. How ironic was that? How much more twisted could fate be?

  Bowing his head in respect while placing his hand on the breastplate of Shady’s Kevlar, Kimball prayed in hushed tones. When finished, he left the chamber in a solemn mood wondering how many more of his old group he would have to kill.

  #

  Six Miles Northwest of Mesquite, Nevada

  September 26, Early Afternoon

  A band of coyotes moved in crisscross fashion looking for mice, voles or ground squirrels beneath a hot Mojave Desert sun. In their wake, as the sun felt white hot against their coats, a battery of heat waves shimmered off the desert floor.

  The temperature was unbearably hot, the air oppressive, the climate in general inhospitable as the earth gave off scents that caught the coyotes’ acute sense of smell, drawing them closer to the unmistakable odor of carrion that no doubt cured over time.

  The single sexed pack moved back and forth, searching, then pawing, trying to gauge the location of the carcass detected by their olfactory senses. The smell appeared to be rising from several locations, confusing them, and then they collectively realized there was more than one source of meat. So they dispersed into small groups, each unit wending and following a scented trail.

  To the east, next to a rocky embankment stemming from the ground like a half shell, the smell of carrion radiated strongest from a point where the soil appeared recently tilled.

  Being natural burrow diggers, the coyotes began to dig and paw at the sand, kicking up clouds of choking dust and digging to a depth of nearly two feet before they uncovered a bounty of meat.

  Hands, paired together by flex-cuffs, the flesh having aged and gone tender, proved to be a ripe harvest as one of the coyotes began to yip and bay, announcing its find.

  Before the day was over, however, five more bodies would be unearthed and the coyotes would gorge themselves with the true Soldiers of Islam.

  #

  When Shari met her husband, it was in a small bedroom inside the rectory located next to the archdiocese. He was wearing a cast and slept in a high-back chair in quarters too tight, too cramped, yet simple. Lying asleep on a twin-size bed were her daughters, still wearing pajamas, and both huddled together in a tangle that only children could sleep through, as their arms and legs crisscrossed each other as they slept. The adornments were simple—a crucifix hung over a characterless bureau; a watercolor depiction of Christ holding a lamb hung over the bed, his face kind and gentle; and a single window provided a view of a wonderfully bright flowered garden in the center of the courtyard.

  When the sun finally crested the horizon, a priest came for Shari and escorted her to the neighboring archdiocese and to the cardinal’s chambers next door. The room was large and well decorated with scarlet drapes that swept down from the highest reaches of the windows and touched the floor, the scalloped bottoms lined with gold tassels. In the room’s center sat a desk so large, so magnificently rich in style, Shari knew it was top dollar. Standing along the walls was a gallery of busts supporting casts of past popes.

  Kimball sat in one of the two leather chairs before the cardinal’s desk wearing a neatly pressed cleric’s shirt and Roman collar, and gave her a nod of acknowledgment when she entered the chamber.

  On the opposite side of the room the cardinal was washing his hands at a gold-plated wash basin, the sleeves of his robe rolled up as he cupped his hands in the water for his daily cleansing. After his morning ritual of purification, he wiped his hands dry with an embroidered cloth and approached Shari with his hands offered in greeting. “And how are you, my dear woman?”

  Shari had seen the cardinal on television many times, and found herself to be in awe of his presence. “I’m fine. Thank you.” She allowed the man to close his cool hands over hers.

  “I’m glad you and your family are all right.”

  “If it wasn’t for this man,” she said, glancing at Kimball, “I wouldn’t be here—my family wouldn’t be here.”

  The cardinal escorted her to a high-back chair beside Kimball, then rounded his desk to take his own seat. “Ms. Cohen, obviously you know who I am.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I must ask a favor of you. You must assure me that what we say here remains in this room. No one can ever know the secret of Kimball and the Vatican Knights.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Then let me say this: The Vatican Knights are a very special group of people. And sometimes in order to accomplish their duty, they have to use methods that seem—well, brutal. Now I’m sorry you had to bear witness to such aggression earlier this morning, but if the Vatican Knights could have accomplished the task at hand without violence, they would have done so.”

  “I’m not judging the Vatican, Cardinal, or its methods. Believe me.”

  “My point, Ms. Cohen, is if the media should ever gain knowledge that the Vatican was sending forth its own group to handle insurgent factions, then the media would most likely paint us in the most unfavorable light, which we cannot afford.”

  Shari nodded understanding.

  “The bottom line, my dear, is that the Vatican does not judge; it simply acts when it has to. Unfortunately, killing sometimes becomes a necessity.” And then he shot her the disclaimer. “It’s not up to the Vatican on whether or not someone lives or dies. We can only assume that it’s God’s will. Therefore, we will do whatever it takes to bring the pontiff back alive and well. Please understand this, Ms. Cohen. The pope is truly a good man who preaches freedom and tranquility in all its forms. But until all men are like him, we often have no choice but to engage in methods not consistent with the teachings of the Church to achieve the means.”

  “Cardinal, not only do you have my solemn word on this matter . . . but also my gratitude.”

  “Then what I’m about to say to you now, my dear, is this: We hold steadfast to our alliances and never betray our allegiances.” He leaned forward in his chair. “For the moment you are one of us and for that we say, Loyalty above all else, except Honor. It is the credo the Vatican Knights live by.”

  Suddenly she felt an overwhelming sense of commitment. Even when she took the Oath of Honor as a peace officer, she never felt allegiance surge through her as now. In a strange way she felt an obligation unlike any other, an inexplicable sense of oneness that created a sour lump at the base of her throat. “I feel . . . honored.”

  “No, my dear, we are the honored ones.” Cardinal Medeiros leaned back into his chair. “So we will follow your lead.”

  Kimball stood, his height towering over the cardinal’s desk. “I know I’m cutting matters here,” he said, “but we have work to do.” With that he took to his knee, placed a closed fist over his heart, and said, “Loyalty above all else, except Honor.”

  “May God be with you both,” replied the cardinal.

  In a matter of moments Kimball and Shari were in a sedan on their way to the Sacred Hearts Church, where Leviticus was working his magic trying to decode the encryptions on the CD taken from the damaged PC.

  #

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Bishop
Angelo was terrified of his own mortality. Worse, he was afraid of how he would appear before God knowing that God could look inside someone and see the smallest imperceptible detail of any man no matter how much he tried to hide or deny the truth about himself. And that truth, at least for Bishop Angelo, was that he was struggling with his faith in God.

  After he prayed and waited for something in return, the answer was always silence. And then he would weep because He was not there to comfort him; therefore, a sense of abandonment washed over him. After toiling to find his faith, he instead found himself feeling hopelessly lost and alone in the company of his brothers who were chained to the same wall as he. He had been reduced to nothing more than a frightened shell of a man who was certain that his fate was paved with the same dark intentions as the governor’s.

  Looking over at the governor’s empty mattress, Bishop Angelo closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, then exhaled with an equally long sigh. “Have you prayed to the Lord, Giacomo?”

  Bishop Antimonni didn’t bother to face him, his eyes fixed on a guard leaning against the opposite wall holding an MP-5 that bore an attached suppressor that was as long as the weapon itself. “Of course,” he finally answered.

  “And did you receive an answer?”

  “He may have given one,” he said. “I only need to be patient to find out what it is.”

  “In other words, if you are to be executed, then His answer was ‘no.’”

  Bishop Antimonni gave him a gingerly smile before closing his eyes. It was as if he was drifting off to someplace wonderful. “No, my friend. If I am to be executed, all I pray for is that I be welcomed into His glory.”

  It was not the answer Bishop Angelo expected. “Are you not afraid?”

  Antimonni opened his eyes and nodded. “Of course I am. But my faith keeps me going and gives me hope. As it should you. If God wants me to appear before Him in Judgment, then that is His will for which I have no control. What I do have control over, however, is my faith.”

  Bishop Angelo made a cursory examination of all the faces of the bishops and was quick in judgment to note that their repose, at least for the moment, appeared meditatively calm. “I’m afraid,” he finally admitted. “God forgive me, but I’m so afraid.”

  Bishop Antimonni turned to him, then laid a hand on Bishop Angelo’s forearm, the links of his chain rattling in a ghoulish chime. “Being afraid is good,” he told him. “It reminds us of who we are. For without fear, we would either be foolish or disillusioned, of which we are neither.”

  He then gazed along the dark hallway, then at the guard posted across from them. “When the soldiers finally come,” he whispered, “that is when we seek our faith and prepare ourselves for Glory. But faith does not carry us to false courage. Every man here bound to this wall is terribly frightened. But we never lose sight of our commitment to God, because the moment we lose our faith, is the moment we lose sight of who and what we are.”

  The back of Bishop Angelo’s head fell back against the wall, his eyes looking ceiling-ward, searching. “I’m ashamed of myself,” he said. “I’m afraid I‘ve lost my faith.”

  “We all question our faith, Angelo. There isn’t a man here who hasn’t.”

  Angelo lifted his hand and the trailing links of chain. “Faith or not, we need to do something to get out of here. Prayer alone will not save us.”

  “And what do you expect us to do, Angelo? Tear these chains from the wall, and then take on armed guards?”

  Bishop Angelo began to visibly shake. “We just can’t sit here and let them murder us one by one.”

  “Then pray, Angelo. Pray for divine intervention.”

  “I have. And I’m afraid that His answer is ‘no.’”

  “Then find as much comfort you can in your faith. If you cannot do that, then seek it out.”

  Angelo let his head fall until his chin touched his chest, his point to help them lost. His faith lost. “Why hasn’t God answered my prayers?”

  “Perhaps He has, my friend. Only you don’t know it yet.”

  From the darkness came footfalls, and Bishop Angelo saw Team Leader bearing down on them from the stairwell at the end of the hallway with purpose in his stride and his firearm firmly gripped in his hand.

  “No,” he whispered gravely. “I don’t think He did.”

  #

  After Team Leader parked the cargo truck beneath the trees behind the abandoned building, he entered the building knowing his presence would set off the alarms. Once the rats cleared and gave him a wide berth, Team Leader stood within eyeshot of the cameras until an ID confirmation was made by those manning the monitors on the third floor. Once done, the bolting mechanisms slid free and he entered the stairwell.

  Boa, Kodiak and King Snake were on the top landing standing sentinel. Their weapons and bandoliers were festooning across their chests, their manner casual. Sidewinder was at the end of the hallway keeping watch over the bishops with his MP5.

  “So how’d it go?” asked Boa.

  Team Leader removed his pistol and installed a pneumatically snapped-on silencer that reduced the decibel count of the report to a loud spit. “Our associates appear somewhat worried at the moment,” he finally answered. “And for good reason.”

  Boa didn’t question the man further. There was no doubt in his mind that Team Leader was irritated.

  Walking with urgency to the row of mattresses, Team Leader stood before the bishops of the Holy See. With his weapon held against his body, he then used it to point out Bishop Angelo. The mouth of the barrel seemed as wide as a viper’s deadly yaw as Angelo cast his eyes away in submission. “Take this one and set him before the camera,” he said.

  Boa stared at the bishop who refused to look him in the eyes. After a moment of appraisal, Boa spoke in a tone that held a hint of sarcasm. “I guess you’re the lucky man of the day.”

  With Kodiak forcing a struggling bishop to his feet, Angelo shouted nonsensical words of protest and fought a futile battle against a much larger man by rapping his fists against Kodiak’s Kevlar. Without hesitation, Kodiak struck the bishop with a well-placed blow that knocked him senseless, his cries evolving to guttural sounds as the bishop went boneless. To the Force Elite it was strikingly comical to watch. For the bishops, however, they pulled their knees up into acute angles and embraced their legs, each man terrified of his fate.

  After removing the manacle from the bishop’s wrist, Kodiak half-dragged, half-carried the semi-conscious man along the hallway.

  With the bishop’s head cast forward and his eyes at half-mast, a fine thread of his own spit lengthened with every foot he was dragged toward the killing chamber.

  The mere action of rendering the bishop impotent enabled Team Leader to study the four remaining bishops of the Holy See, who remained submissive as Bishop Angelo was led into shadows so deep and profound, there would be no returning, and another mattress would lay empty. At the very moment Angelo was led away, Team Leader studied the bishops and determined that they all possessed faith in an afterlife that promised incalculable peace. But they were also undoubtedly afraid to reach for it due to the only avenue to obtain it, which was by dying.

  In a moment of loathing, Team Leader viewed them as hypocrites and cowards. Nevertheless, he would look each man in the eye just before the killing moment to see if any regained the blind faith incumbent upon men of the cloth.

  As Kodiak led the bishop down the hallway, Team Leader’s trigger finger began to itch. Not in a physical sense, but in a manner of contained excitement. In a few minutes he was about to write another historical chapter for the cause, using the blood of an innocent man as the ink to chronicle the event that would alter history. This he was sure of.

  Leaving his station by the bishops of the Holy See, Team Leader followed Kodiak into darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Six Miles Northwest of Mesquite, Nevada

  September 27, Morning

  He had been riding hi
s dirt bike for nearly three hours. The rooster tail plumes of sand kicking up from behind his wheels left the area in a constant haze in which the ring of mountains surrounding him were hardly perceptible.

  Jo-Jo Michaels, only thirteen, demonstrated skill and dexterity in maneuvering his dirt bike over the rough terrain. He guided his machine through the natural moguls and dips with the ease of someone twice his age and experience. But today in the midst of roiling dust clouds he struck a hidden mound, lost his balance, and tumbled off his bike which settled in an explosion of dust and sand.

  After getting to his feet and trying in vain to brush the loose grains from his clothing, the dust began to settle. When it did, Jo-Jo froze with mind-numbing terror when he realized that the makeshift mogul was actually the half-gnawed torso of a man covered with a fine layer of the valley’s dust.

  Later that day five more bodies would be found, half-eaten, baked and exposed to the elements for weeks, their carcasses riddled by gunfire and found by scavengers who would leave just enough for CSI to determine their identities.

  #

  The ethereal brightness of the Vault, and the antiseptic whiteness of the floor, walls and ceiling, definitely cast something divine about the room. To Shari it seemed as if it was created to resemble the surreal world of the afterlife. But the black tactical outfits of the Vatican Knights provided contrast to the earthbound surroundings, making it less dreamlike, more real, less heavenly.

  She was intrigued the moment she had entered the Sacred Hearts Church, and her intrigue was heightened by the wall that when engaged by the play of stones, slid aside to reveal the Vault. Once inside she was fascinated, yet disturbed by the display of weaponry behind the glass casings. Somehow the arsenal seemed blasphemous, the weapons magnificent in design and engineering, but assuredly deadly in intent. And since most were created for a special purpose, Shari couldn’t even begin to conceive some of the principles of their operation. They seemed too fantastic to be functional.

 

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