Vatican Knights

by Jones, Rick

  She cocked her head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. Why are you doing this?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  And then it came to her in a sudden rush. “You’re Yahweh, aren’t you? And you’re trying to start a war by using the pope as a catalyst.”

  Murdock’s lips curved into a wry grin, and in her honor his fingers tipped the brim of his fedora. “I’m impressed,” he said “You are perceptive. I am the catalyst. But I’m not Yahweh.”

  She looked past him, a miniscule glance, but Murdock picked up on it and shook his head.

  “Kimball Hayden?” he asked. “Is that who you’re looking for? Well, I’m afraid he has his hands quite full at the moment.”

  Shari was surprised by his insight.

  “Oh, yeah,” Murdock said, moving closer. “I know all about Kimball Hayden. Why he’s here is beyond me, though—a mystery actually. But I don’t think his presence is going to matter much since he’s out there and you’re in here.” He managed the weapon so its aim was directly in line with the cleft of her breasts and pulled the trigger in rapid succession. The bullets hit her with such fierce momentum that she was lifted off her feet, over the bed, and sent to the floor on the other side. It was a perfect strike. Then, tipping the brim of his fedora one last time, Murdock gave a cocky smile and said, “Good night, Gracie.”

  #

  Three loud reports came from within the mansion, the gunshots spaced in rapid succession. And all Kimball could think about was Shari’s welfare. If something happened to her, he knew he would never forgive himself for allowing her to go inside the house alone. But in his heart, he knew it was over.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Washington, D.C.

  September 28, Just After Midnight

  With the odor of cordite rich in the air, Shari rolled on her side and undid the strap securing her Glock in the pancake holster.

  She pulled the weapon and pointed it in the direction of Murdock’s approaching footfalls that seemed to fall with the slow and measured cadence of a man who thought he had all the time in the world. When he rounded the corner of the bed his mouth gaped in surprise, his hooded eyes informing her that he had made the critical mistake of thinking he had completed the job, thinking he had killed her on the first volley of gunfire.

  In recompense he tried to raise his weapon to finish the job, a headshot this time, but Shari squeezed off round after round. Bullets flew until her clip was empty, the hammer striking an empty chamber in a series of dry clicks until she realized she had exhausted her ammo.

  As she laid there, the air thick with roiling blue smoke, she could hear the vague sound of something shuffling along the floor, like a serpent slithering. After she ran her fingers across the three impact points along her body armor, she struggled to her feet and managed a wavering stance over a writhing Murdock, his kneecap ruined.

  #

  Kimball spun toward the brownstone. More shots. Ironically the reports rekindled his hope as he raced up the stairway and into the foyer, these last shots no doubt a response to the first barrage. He just hoped it was a defensive reaction from Shari.

  He entered the den following the odor of cordite and ran along the hall and into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, massaging the Kevlar vest with her hand, Shari offered Kimball a strained smile. It was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

  Murdock, screaming in agony, broke the spell between them. His long wailing cry pierced the brownstone and the night.

  #

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Team Leader sat with his back against the cold brick wall, his mind in deep thought when his satellite phone vibrated in his pocket. After switching ‘ON,’ he placed the cell to his ear. “Yes?”

  “They’re gone,” said Yahweh, his voice deeply riddled with agitation. “Omega Team is gone and Judas is in the custody of the FBI. This whole thing is out of control! Abort the cause. It’s done!”

  “I don’t think so. You knew there was the possibility of the stove in the kitchen getting too hot. Now you’re going to have to deal with it.”

  “I don’t think you understood what I just said. I said the cause is aborted!”

  “And you listen to me. I don’t care what your position is in this country. You were well aware of the risks and consequences before you agreed to go along with the movement.”

  “That’s because you assured me every contingency was thought out to the point where any and all matters could be curbed or adjusted to fit our needs.”

  “And they will be. Your panic is premature, I assure you.”

  “My panic—you listen to me, Obadiah, Omega Team is gone and Judas is a wealth of information to draw from, if he chooses to talk.”

  “Then the answer is simple,” he said. “Remove Judas from the equation. He’s been nothing but a boil anyway.”

  “To you everything has an answer. Well there’s no answer to this!”

  “Oh, but there is,” he said. “You have George Pappandopolous and Mr. Paxton waiting in the shadows as field backups. I suggest you utilize them since they have the clearance to approach Judas without suspicion.”

  Yahweh was silent.

  “You have no other choice,” said Team Leader. “The cause will go on with or without you. It’s up to you to mop up the mess, so I suggest you keep your wits and command yourself in the manner in which your position requires.”

  “My position requires the cause to succeed. But now that it’s been compromised, it’s time to abort and cover our tracks.”

  “Aborting the mission is not an option,” he insisted. “You fail to understand that I’m in a win-win situation. If they intend a search and destroy mission of this post, then the world will know that factions within the United States government was behind the taking of the pope, which the White House will want to keep secret. And since they’ll want to keep this matter undisclosed to the worldwide public, then we’ll continue with the cause. When I said there’ll be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations, then there will be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. We will follow this to the end.”

  As displeased as Yahweh was, he couldn’t find the courage of rebuttal.

  “Remember, Pappandopolous and Paxton are our last line of defense. Make sure they don’t fail.” Team Leader hung up the cell phone, looked at it briefly, then tossed it into the darkness. It was obvious to Team Leader that Yahweh was no longer a main player in the picture, his mettle dwindling like a sandcastle in the wind. Nevertheless, the cause would remain stalwart without his support.

  Within a minute the phone was ringing, its faceplate lighting up.

  Casually Team Leader stood and walked to the phone with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. He tilted his head to one side, as if in a manner to study, and then with the heel of his boot crushed the phone into shards of broken circuitry.

  As I said: There will be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. Your pope is as good as dead.

  Once the phone was completely disintegrated, Team Leader walked away feeling assured that the United States government wouldn’t try to compromise the cause for fear of media discovery. In truth, he knew the Americans would allow the cause to run its course and set the world metaphorically on fire by fueled passion rather than take the blame for the pope’s kidnapping. He truly was in a win-win situation.

  Team Leader turned and walked into deeper, darker shadows, his shape blending with the all-consuming pitch as his footfalls echoed in cadence until they dissipated into steady silence.

  #

  Once Kimball had established that Shari was all right, he began the task of doing what the Vatican Knights do best. Before the arrival of law enforcement, Kimball and the rest of the Knights policed the area, removing any evidence of the skirmish by placing the bodies in the back of the van. The Force Elite, along with Nehemiah, had simply vanished. Within moments, the shadows held nothing more than the obvious nightshades.

  Th
e Vatican Knights and their targets disappeared as quickly as they had emerged.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Washington, D.C., Southeast Washington Hospital

  September 28, Early Morning

  Murdock lay in a hospital bed. The lower portion of his leg had been removed just above the knee with the stump bandaged and elevated. Although under the haze of pain killers, Murdock was barely cognizant. “You have to protect me,” he said lazily. “You know they’ll be coming for me.”

  Shari went to the bedside and stood with her arms folded, her body English that of little remorse for the man who lay before her. In fact, she tried to kill him; it’s just that she was never much of a sharpshooter.

  “Who?” she asked. “Who’s coming for you?”

  His eyes wandered until they settled on her. “Oh . . . it’s you.”

  “That’s right. It’s me. Who’s coming for you?”

  FBI Director Larry Johnston moved in behind her.

  “Them,” Murdock said, “whoever is left of Omega Team—the Force Elite. Whoever is left under the command of Yahweh.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Johnston.

  “The cause,” he said above a whisper. In his condition the effort was equal to yelling.

  “You’re talking about the pope’s kidnapping?”

  His eyes rotated back to her. “I’ll give you whatever you want,” he told her. “But I want a deal.”

  “No deal,” said Johnston.

  Murdock rolled his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

  “Were you there that night the Secret Service detail was murdered at the Governor’s Mansion?” Johnston asked.

  Murdock remained silent.

  “What kind of deal are you looking for?” asked Shari.

  Murdock fashioned a lazy smile. “That’s my girl,” he said. “I want clemency.”

  “Impossible.” Johnston took the request as an insult.

  “It’s your call, bonehead. But keep in mind that the pope’s life is hanging in the balance and you’re running out of time.”

  Johnston, humbled, turned a deep shade of red. “You know we have to keep the Oversight Committee out of this.”

  “I know that. All I’m asking is that I don’t end up in potter’s field once I give you what you need to know. In other words, don’t make me suddenly disappear.”

  “And why should I give you the benefit of the doubt?”

  “Because I’m a coward at heart,” he said. “That’s why.”

  Johnston turned to Shari. Although the communication between them was silent, it was also as vociferous as if the exchange of ideas couldn’t have been louder. He turned back to Murdock. “Life in a military installation under solitary conditions,” he offered.

  The corner of his lip twisted into a smile. “A courtyard,” he said. “I want a courtyard.”

  Johnston knew the term didn’t refer to an actual courtyard, but a barred window offering a view of the grounds. He rolled his eyes and fought for calm. “Granted.”

  “I have your word?”

  “You have our word,” said Shari.

  “Shouldn’t we notarize this or something?”

  “Don’t get cute, Murdock. You got what you want.”

  Murdock chortled in lethargic glee before falling into a coughing jag, and then he began in earnest to talk about the cause. He explained his role, his taking the moniker of Judas, and the Soldiers of Islam and their executions. He explained his responsibility at the Governor’s Mansion, of how he had drawn his detail into complacency and aided in their deaths by allowing Omega Team to breach security. At times he was graphic, other times evasive, but a picture was drawn and light cast upon the kidnapping of the pope. Situations and events were beginning to fall into order, and all led to principals on Capitol Hill, especially Yahweh.

  “Is the president involved in this?” Shari asked. “Is he Yahweh?”

  A mirthful grin surfaced. “Perhaps,” he said. “But that would be giving up the prize, now wouldn’t it?”

  “You made a deal.”

  “And so did you.”

  “What more do you want?” asked Johnston.

  “I’ll give you two names in good faith—two names who are the last line of defense for the cause who will be pressed into duty to take me out. Yahweh will no doubt send them forward to kill me to keep his identity safe.” Murdock had to labor to roll his head so he could look directly at Shari and Johnston. “You know what has to be done since you know that the courts will play no role in this . . . it’s always been the political answer to everything.”

  “You’re asking us to take out two people?” asked Shari.

  “Are you surprised?”

  Johnston said nothing.

  “You know what has to be done to keep the truth buried,” added Murdock.

  “We don’t do that,” Johnston said. “Get your head straight.” But Johnston knew Murdock was correct in suggesting that those with damaging secrets are doomed to a short life. Shari, on the other hand, hadn’t worked long enough for the FBI to know of the possible existence of black op groups working within government agencies who conducted such tasks. The Force Elite was one such group. Were there more?

  “Save my life,” he said, “and I’ll give up Yahweh. He’s the only one who can give you the location of the pope, since he’s the only one who actually knows where the pope is. The ball is now in your court.”

  Johnston placed a hand softly on Shari’s shoulder and ushered her toward the door. “Give me a moment alone with him,” he told her. “Let me see if I can reason with him about what we want and assure him of his safety. I’ll have him moved to an installation immediately.”

  “Don’t push him into a shell,” she demanded.

  “I won’t. Trust me.” Once she was in the hallway, he closed the door.

  “What’s the matter?” Murdock asked in snide accusation. “You don’t want her to know the truth?”

  “No, I don’t. She’s a good officer with a good heart, which is more than I can say for you.”

  “Bravo. So what is it you want to say to me that you couldn’t say in front of Girl Wonder there?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “You want names.”

  “Exactly. And you know why?”

  “To keep the deep, dark secrets of the good ol’ US-of-A out of the hands of those who couldn’t bear to hear them,” he said.

  “The names.”

  Punch Murdock looked Johnston in the eyes and saw nothing but conviction. He gave him two names that, judging by his grimace, seemed to wound Johnston. “That’s right. Pappandopolous and Paxton are the eyes and ears within the agency who report any red flags to Yahweh or Obadiah.”

  Johnston’s features hardened. “This better pan out.”

  Murdock’s head rolled lazily back so he was staring at the ceiling again. “It will,” he said. “It most certainly will.” And then he closed his eyes.

  “I got one last question.”

  Murdock’s eyes labored to open. His lids fluttered briefly then stabilized. “Go ahead.”

  “Those men on the president’s detail—you knew them, and you knew them well, so how could you set them up?”

  A dreamy smile washed over Murdock’s face. “For two reasons,” he said. “One was for the money. It’s always been about the money.” He seemed to drift. “I picked out a small island off the coast of Belize. A beautiful place you can only dream about. Sandy beaches, a beautiful view of the sunset.” His gentle repose turned to forced calm, the muscles in the back of his jaw suddenly working. “And now it’s gone,” he said. “All of it. My dreams, my life . . . everything.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “You said one question.”

  “I was mistaken. How much money?”

  Murdock ran a dry tongue over even drier lips. “Ten million,” he managed. “That was to be wired to my account in Belize.”


  Johnston had to wonder. “Where was this money coming from?”

  “From the oil companies,” he said. “It was to be an upfront fee for services provided.”

  “And your purpose was to infiltrate the Governor’s mansion and set the stage while the Force Elite went through the back door that you left unlocked for them, theoretically speaking?”

  “You’re not as dumb as you look. But you’re ugly.”

  “So what’s the second reason?”

  Murdock shook his head. “It’s the rule of thumb for this city,” he said. “You know that.”

  “Actually, I don’t. So suppose you enlighten me.”

  Murdock sighed as if being burdened. “We do illegal things,” he started, “because we don’t think we’ll ever get caught. Ask any politician. They’ll tell you the same thing.” He raised his hand to reveal the handcuff that bound him to the bed rail. “And is this necessary? Do you really expect a one-legged man doped to the gills to get up and walk out of here?”

  “You know the procedure.”

  The standoff was long and silent, each man trying to read the thoughts of the other, their poker faces unreadable.

  “You gave me your word,” said Murdock. “Life with a courtyard view.”

  “And I’ll keep it, providing that what you gave me pans out. But I want Yahweh.”

  Murdock’s features softened, then fell into a dismal appearance. His eyes and mouth took on the appearance of the Greek Mask of Tragedy. “And you’ll get him.”

  Johnston remained impassive. “Just so you know,” he told him. “This agreement continues only as long as the pope is alive. If he dies, then there’s no point in keeping the bargain. If the bargain goes away, so does the man who wields the secret

  —unless you want to tell me now who Yahweh is.”

  Murdock nodded. “I’m trying to prove my loyalty to you by providing you with two names in good faith.”

  “You’re doing it to save your pathetic life.”