The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

  Next to that and scratched on a notepad was an address. Kimball peeled it away and held up the paper. “This could be anyone’s address.”

  “Yeah. It could be. But it’s not.” Talib sounded nasally through his damaged nose. “It’s where Allawi is.”

  Kimball wanted to believe him. He then moved the mouse to the computer, which caused the monitor to exit out of screen-saver mode, and typed the address on the note in Google Map. He used the satellite imagery mode, then zeroed in. The house was about three miles away, close. And it was in a poor neighborhood, the homes and tenements there looking close to Third World lodgings.

  Just as Kimball was about to type in something additional on the keyboard, Talib got to his feet and raced for the kitchen. Kimball saw what he was going for: the butcher’s block. And of course, for the biggest knife in the set which had a dull shine to its blade, but a deadly sharpness all the same.

  Kimball stood.

  And Talib came at him like a feral creature, his hand swinging the knife from left to right, right to left.

  “Put the knife down!” yelled Kimball. The Vatican Knight stepped back, found himself against the wall and yelled another warning.

  Talib struck with the point and nicked Kimball’s shirt, his skin, the puncture wound drawing a single bead. Then he came across in an arc. “Allahu Akbar!”

  “You don’t even know what that means!” shouted Kimball.

  When Talib came across again, Kimball responded in pure instinct. He grabbed the Jordanian’s wrist, twisted it, relieved the attacker of his weapon, gripped the knife in his own hand, and drove it deep into Talib’s chest, killing Talib before the young man of nineteen could register his own death.

  Kimball then laid Talib gently to the floor and swore silently with a string of profanities, asking Talib why he acted so foolishly.

  Talib’s answer, of course, was the vacant stare of his eyes.

  Kimball became frustrated. He didn’t have to kill Talib. He never wanted to. Talib would have kept coming, though. Disarmed or not, he would have kept coming because that was what he was being groomed to do: to surrender his life for a cause he thought was just.

  Kimball sat beside the body and stared into eyes that showed no spark of recognition of what was going on around him, blank eyes. After heaving a heavy sigh, Kimball returned to the computer screen and committed the location of Allawi’s whereabouts to memory. He knew exactly where he had to go and what he had to do.

  Ten seconds later Kimball was gone, leaving Talib to stare at nothing in particular.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Outside of Washington, D.C.

  Late Night

  The address belonging to the residence on the slip of paper looked worse than it did on Google Map. The home was a single-story unit constructed of cinderblocks that was painted an ugly color. The roof seemed to bow downward, as if the support beams underneath were rotting and starting to give. Windows were cracked but pieced together with strips of duct tape to keep them whole. But the door looked strong and healthy, the wood solid.

  Kimball surveyed the house from across the street.

  The area was quiet.

  From where he stood he could see bedsheets covering the windows like makeshift drapes. Occasionally, like a phantom, a shape would drift passed them.

  As soon as the lights went out Kimball made his move.

  He tried the windows: locked.

  And then the doorknob: also locked.

  Then he spied the small skylight on the roof. Not a good idea, he thought. The entire rooftop appeared weak and most likely wouldn’t be able to sustain his weight. Then he found the home’s weak spot. There were a couple of broken casement windows that led into the basement, both were boarded up, however.

  Kimball got to his knees and pressed firmly against one board with both hands, the muscles in his arms flexing, working, the board beginning to loosen behind the push of his strength, the nails that once held the board firm against the window’s frame now giving.

  After he had pushed the board deep enough to provide a gap to wrap his fingers around the edges, he grasped the board, and wrenched it free. When he did the rusty nails whined in protest, causing Kimball to wince and freeze, the man waiting to see it someone would respond.

  When no one did he quickly worked his way through the opening, though it was a tight squeeze. For some peculiar reason Kimball suddenly wondered if this was like coming out of a birth canal, a weird thought at such a moment. And then he was inside, the basement amazingly dark.

  He found his way to the stairway with movements that were graceful and silent.

  And then he began to climb.

  A step or two creaked beneath his weight, the boards having weakened over time. Then he opened the door to the main level. Marginal light came in through the windows from a distant streetlamp outside, illuminating the kitchen. Against the opposite wall was an old refrigerator that labored as if struggling to keep going in its dying moments. Dishes were piled high in the sink, no dishwasher. And the kitchen table was very small and round, only a two-seater.

  Kimball closed the door softly behind him, even the sound of the bolt locking couldn’t be heard, and went to the knife drawer. Kitchen knives, cheap ones at that, all plastic like the forks and spoons. He closed the drawer and moved deeper into the house.

  And then the refrigerator stopped its humming.

  The house was oddly silent, like a crypt.

  And something didn’t feel right to Kimball.

  His sixth sense heightened.

  He was not alone.

  In fact, someone was watching him.

  Shadows pooled to his left, a shape moving. In its hand was something long, a rifle. The point of its barrel came up, swung around, and took aim.

  And Kimball dove just as the rifle went off, the bullet striking a couch and causing puffs of stuffing to explode from the fabric and to the floor.

  Kimball could hear the bolt of the weapon being drawn back to load another round. He immediately responded by leaping over the couch and diving forward. He then lashed out with his foot and knocked the barrel aside as it went off for a second time, the muzzle shot lighting up the area long enough for Kimball to see that it was Mohammad Allawi.

  Kimball threw a flat palm to Allawi’s face, smashing cartilage and bone. Then he came across with a pair of elbow strikes, a left, a right, causing Allawi to fall back and drop the M600. But Kimball wasn’t done, not by a long stretch.

  Here was the man who tried to kill Shari Cohen, a beast in Kimball’s eyes who wanted to kill out of pure malevolence.

  Kimball reached down, grabbed Allawi firmly with both hands, and hoisted the man high above his head like a man pressing weights, and then he body-slammed the extremist on top of a table, which collapsed like a house of cards. Kimball grabbed Allawi again, raised him high, this time tossing him through a flat-screen TV, the only thing inside the residence that wasn’t substandard. Sparks flew and sizzled as the entire screen shattered and broke, the pieces skating across the floor.

  Allawi cried out in pain.

  Kimball didn’t care.

  The Vatican Knight was seeing red, his rage all-consuming. He picked up Allawi again and raised him until he nearly touched the ceiling, then tossed his body against the wall, hard, the drywall collapsing against the impact and leaving an impression.

  Allawi rolled onto his back with his hands held high pleading for this to stop.

  Kimball stood over him, his chest heaving and pitching as adrenaline continued to dump in his system.

  “Stop!” yelled Allawi.

  Kimball stood and waited to hear what Allawi had to say next.

  “What the hell do you want?” asked Allawi, spitting blood.

  Kimball got to a knee, grabbed Allawi by the front of his shirt, and pulled him close.
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br />   Allawi could see laces of red stitching tracking angrily across the whites of this man’s eyes. And then he saw the cleric’s collar, a priest’s collar, then realized that this man was a heathen to Allah.

  Allawi spit in Kimball’s face, marring it with blood. But Kimball didn’t even flinch.

  “You’re an infidel!” Allawi shouted.

  Kimball, his eyes still ablaze with fury, grabbed Allawi by the ankle and dragged him across the room. Once they reached the room’s center Kimball lifted Allawi’s leg and drove his foot directly into Allawi’s kneecap, the leg buckling the wrong way like a dog bend.

  Allawi howled in great pain, his leg badly broken and looking the part.

  Kimball released the leg. Allawi was going nowhere.

  Kimball hunkered over him. “You put a dear friend of mine in the hospital. Someone who might not make it.”

  “So this is what it’s all about? Shari Cohen?” He grit his teeth against the pain.

  “Mabus is dead,” Kimball blurted. “Your courier is dead. Everyone around you is dead.”

  “So now you’re going to kill me, is that it? You’re going to complete the mission?”

  “No,” said Kimball. “You’re Islamic State. There are places for you here. Places where you’ll be mined for what you know. There’ll be sleep deprivation. Starvation. You’ll be tied down like the animal you are and have a miserable existence. This I promise you. In the end you’re going to wish that I had killed you … Believe me.”

  Allawi spit again in defiance.

  A huge mistake.

  Kimball grabbed Allawi by the ankle of his bad leg, causing the terrorist to scream, and dragged him to a closet where he tossed Allawi inside. Closing the door, Kimball propped a chair against it and beneath the doorknob to lock the terrorist inside. There would be no escape.

  Allawi began to hammer a fist against the door from the other side.

  Kimball just stood there, listening until Allawi gave up.

  “What are you?” Allawi’s voice sounded muted though the door. “I saw the collar around your neck. You’re a priest but you fight like a soldier?”

  Kimball said nothing.

  “You think you’re a soldier for your God?”

  Kimball leaned against the wall next to the door. “No … I’m just a very tired man.”

  Then Allawi continued to pound his fist against the door.

  Kimball found the M600 lying on the floor, a marvel of technology, rested it on the table, then removed the live rounds and battery, disabling it.

  Then he called the SIV through his own cellphone. Auciello wasn’t there but Father Essex was.

  “In two minutes I need you to contact the field office in Washington, D.C., and inform them that they will find Mohammad Allawi at this location along with the last missing weapon, the M600. Tell them they’ll find Allawi alive, but he’s no longer a threat.” Kimball gave Essex the address, asked Essex to repeat it to make sure it was correct, then hung up. A call coming directly from the SIV to FBI Headquarters would be taken seriously.

  Kimball exited the house and hastened down the street. Two minutes later he could hear sirens. And then he saw the lights of the cruisers. A moment later a bevy of unmarked cars and sedans also appeared, those driven by the Feds.

  From a distance Kimball watched law enforcement breach the door and enter. A few minutes later an ambulance showed up to take a screaming Allawi off to the nearest facility to reshape his badly broken leg with lots of rods and pins. A moment later a Federal agent exited the premise carrying the M600. Now all the weapons were accounted for.

  “How you doin’, Fadda?” It was an elderly man with a bearded growth on a face that was old and aged looking, the results of living a hard life. The man smelled of alcohol. “What’s goin’ on, Fadda? Huh?”

  Kimball was about to respond like he always did, by saying that he wasn’t a priest. But for some odd reason he held back this time.

  “Hey, Fadda?”

  Saying the first thing that came to mind, Kimball said: “I wish you well.”

  “Hey, tank you, Fadda. Bless you, too. Bless you, Fadda. People like you … yaw saviors.”

  Kimball left the old man’s side and kept on walking.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Medstar Washington Hospital Center

  Washington, D.C.

  It was after visiting hours, but Kimball wasn’t about to be denied. He displayed his credentials from the Vatican, showing that he was here acting as an emissary. And because of this he was granted limited time to visit with Shari.

  The police officer closed the door softly behind Kimball as he entered the room. Shari was lying in bed, the sheets clean, white, everything appeared sanitized. But the tubes of different girth coming from her nose and mouth, the accordion tube moving slowly up and down inside the respirator, the heart monitor blipping evenly, drove the sting of tears to Kimball’s eyes.

  He moved closer to the bed, pulled a chair up to its side, sat down, then he reached for her hand and gently grabbed it with his. It was cool to the touch and as frail as a sparrow.

  Softly: “Shari?”

  The monitor continued to beep in even measures.

  “It’s Kimball.”

  Nothing.

  “I know you can hear me,” he said, his voice starting to crack. “I’m here by your side. Can you feel your hand in mine?”

  No response.

  Kimball checked the tube inside the respirator. It worked fine. “You can beat this,” he told her. “You’re strong, Shari. You always have been. This is a fight you can win.”

  She laid there unmoving. Even her eyes didn’t flutter in REM.

  Kimball leaned close to her ear. “I took care of Mohammad Allawi,” he told her. “He’ll never hurt you again. He won’t hurt anyone again.” Then he grabbed her hand in both of his. “Will you do me a favor? Can you move your hand for me? Just a little squeeze. That’s all I’m asking for. Just … a squeeze.”

  Nothing.

  And Kimball discovered that he wasn’t strong enough to hold back the tears.

  “Please, Shari … squeeze my hand.”

  No response.

  Pleeeeaaaase …

  The door opened to the room. It was the doctor. “Father Hayden, I’m afraid time’s up. You’ll have to leave now.”

  I’m not a priest.

  Standing, Kimball gently pushed aside an errant lock of hair on Shari’s forehead, leaned over, and kissed the area with a sweet and gentle kiss. “You come back,” he whispered to her.

  As soon as they left the room Kimball inquired about her state of health.

  “There was a lot of trauma,” the doctor stated. “I’m sure you’ve been informed by now that a part of her left lung had to be removed.”

  “Yes.”

  “If she comes out of her coma, and that’s a big ‘if,’ she could certainly live a normal life.”

  “Is that a high probability?”

  “All I can say, Father Hayden, is that she’s stable for now.”

  He sighed. “Thank you.”

  As soon as the doctor left, his cell rang. It was from the Vatican. “Hello.”

  It was Isaiah. “I know you’re in the States,” he said. “But you need to get back. We’ve got another mission lined up.”

  “Get Jeremiah to cover.”

  “Jeremiah’s already active,” he answered. “You’re it.”

  Kimball hesitated, then looked at the door that led into Shari’s room. “I’ll be there in twelve hours,” he said to Isaiah, and then he hung up. And for a long time Kimball stood his ground by Shari’s door. He wanted to be here. He wanted to see her through this. But he knew that he had duties elsewhere. He was, after all, a Vatican Knight.

  “Good-bye, Shari,” he whispered. “I promise t
o come back.”

  Then he left the hospital not ashamed to spill a teardrop or two.

  #

  Kimball left the room followed by the doctor. But if he had stayed a moment longer, perhaps ten to fifteen seconds, then he might have seen and felt Shari flex her fingers in an attempt to squeeze his hand.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Office of MI5

  London

  Thomas Brown, the man who had been MI5’s Director General Capability for almost ten years, was sitting in his office when Director George Henry entered unannounced. And he was not alone. Three members of the security staff were with him, all uniformed, all bearing side-arms.

  Henry took a seat before Brown’s desk and gave him a hard look.

  “Something I can do you for you?” asked Brown.

  “Yeah,” said Henry. “You mind telling me why you did it.”

  Brown’s shoulders slumped with the crookedness of an Indian’s bow. He knew this day was coming, so he didn’t even try to circumvent this with a series of lies.

  “And here I am,” said Henry, “believing that it was somebody, or maybe more than one somebody, working in the Capability team that was on Beckett’s payroll, when all the time it was you.”

  “How’d you find out, George?”

  “It wasn’t hard to piece the timing together,” he answered. “On the day Group Thirteen called for the Eye of God, you were inside the Drone Command Center. You swiped your card to get in and out, the time logged. You were there when the team discovered Beckett’s whereabouts but not his exact location. And the moment when God’s Eye was redirected to confirm his location, Beckett suddenly disappeared from the radar. And the reason why, Thomas, was because you were watching from a front row seat. We saw you on the monitor using your cell phone, which, if you may, pass it over to me.” Henry held out his hand to receive the device, which Brown readily handed over.