by Rick Jones
As Hassan held the phone so that he could see Ecclesiastes through the face-plate, he began to speak, his measure clipped as if his words were scripted and spoken verbatim the same way they were written on paper. “To the infidels who sit at the Vatican, your mission has failed. Your attempt to free the cardinal has failed.
Your team has failed. And for your gall and arrogance, a man will suffer the consequences. Let this be a lesson to the pope that further attempts will not be tolerated.” Then Hassan gave the final order, which was a preplanned directing of his finger at Ecclesiastes.
A match was struck, a teardrop flame of light burning, then tossed. Ecclesiastes and the tire went up as massive licks of flame fire climbed skyward, the blaze automatic. Scorching heat blew out in all directions from the burning hub, the fire intense, as Ecclesiastes got to his feet while entirely consumed by fire, the tire restricting him, the man then stumbling and teetering and moving about in madness with no place to go, or having any hope of salvation or reprieve, as his nerves screamed out in a tabernacle of pain. Yet the Vatican Knight did not cry out, nor did he provide Hassan with the satisfaction he was seeking. Then Ecclesiastes stumbled forward, the rubber burning and melting into his flesh, to his bones, the flames impossible to extinguish with the tire made of fuel components that would burn for hours on end. Then Ecclesiastes fell forward, a man cast in bright shades of orange and yellow, the tall fires that consumed him dancing in mock delight, feasting, the flames the victor as it attempted to devour him down to ash. As Ecclesiastes finally lay still, as the fire continued to burn brightly, Hassan Maloof zoomed in on the body, the cellphone capturing everything. Once the recorded images were saved to a file, Hassan and his team of assassins returned to the repository.
Ecclesiastes, however, would burn throughout the morning hours and well into the noon day, the necklace he wore finally spent with nothing left to burn, leaving behind the charred remains of a man who was completely devoted to God.
* * *
The man in the shadows had seen it all from his window above the courtyard.
There was little preamble by Hassan, the message in itself regarding the process of killing a man in the most horrible way imaginable, saying it all: Attempt this again, then you will lose everything.
And then a ball-like flash of fire and the subsequent leaping of flames reaching skyward. The Vatican Knight got to his feet and moved about in a drunken gait, stumbling until he could no longer maintain his footing, the man going down, burning, the necklace he wore ravaging his flesh down to bone. Then the man stepped away from the shadows and retook his seat, thinking. The Vatican would get this message and clearly, he considered. To send more would only elevate the battle between ISIS and the Vatican, a fight he didn’t want since his optimum goal was to go underground, recruit, and rebuild to fight another day. Military powers had forced ISIS out of Iraq and northern Syria, eventually overtaking Raqqa, which was their self-proclaimed capital. The Shadowman sighed as orange light from the fire below danced along the ceiling of his chamber. ISIS was losing the battle, the terrorists forced southbound towards Damascus where they would hide in plain sight and rebuild their forces, a time-consuming process. The ability to sell oil and antiquities on the black market had been stolen away from them, forcing them to seek other sources of revenue, such as high-end kidnappings from organizations or institutes with deep pockets; or by the illegal fetching of horns from white rhinos in South Africa, with the horns now valued at tens of thousands of dollars apiece due to the alleged medicinal purposes, which was enough to buy thousands of AK-47s. We will rebuild, he told himself. And we will win. Then he closed his eyes where he looked for an even greater peace in the darkness.
But something weighed on him—a simple thought.
When he opened his eyes, the light from the courtyard reflected and danced along the ceiling of his chamber in eerie configurations, which brought with them a strange foreboding and a sense of menace.
Once again he closed his eyes and tried to relax, but couldn’t. All he could think about was the man who is said to be able to walk through a wall of fire as if he was a part of it, rather than to be repelled by the heat of its flames. He opened his eyes, saw the dancing of light on the ceiling and the way they danced in odd and macabre shapes, wondering if this was a foretelling that this man would be coming for them from the flames.
Yes, he thought. This man who is an angel to some and a demon to others is coming. I can feel him. Then after a period of silence, he finally acknowledged this man by name: “The Devil’s Magician,” he said out loud, the words echoing with a frightful timbre inside the chamber.
...The One who always follows the course of a hot wind ...
...He comes...
CHAPTER FIVE
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Venice, Italy
Three Days Later
Kimball Hayden was sitting inside a small bar in Venice with eight shot glasses lined up in front of him, some type of cinnamon whisky—something that was hot and spicy to his gut. Every day since leaving the Vatican Knights, Kimball came to this small bar where it was quiet, even for Venice. And every day he would sit there and stare at these shot glasses, always eight, and always lined up in a neat row, the arrangement a basis for a ritual. He would start with the glass on the left by bringing it to his lips, tipping it, swallowing, and then closing his eyes as a warm sensation spread throughout his insides with a blossoming of heat, the taste heavenly. Then he would tip the empty glass over to rest it on its rim, and set it aside from the other glasses. As he sat there reminiscing of good times and bad, he had come to terms that there was no Light, no salvation, no goals or aspirations outside of living within the Darkness, a place he has always walked and always will. Then he grabbed the second glass, brought it to his lips, closed his eyes, tipped it, and swallowed, only to feel a spreading of heat a moment later. When he opened his eyes, Kimball was shocked to see Monsignor Dom Giammacio standing next to him. The clerical psychologist was dressed entirely in black with the only outstanding feature being the stark white band of his collar. In his hand was a briefcase the color of tanned leather. Kimball’s eyes started, a brief flash of surprise. “Monsignor.”
The monsignor pointed to the empty seat across from Kimball. “May I.”
Kimball nodded.
As the monsignor slid into the booth, he saw that the glasses were lined up in a neat row. Then he noted the disheveled appearance of Kimball, the man looking as if he hadn’t seen the inside of a shower for days, maybe weeks, with evidence of this being the knotted beard he kept in wild tangles.
“You look good,” Kimball told him.
The monsignor, however, was far blunter: “I wish I could say the same about you, Kimball. You worry me.”
Kimball waved him off dismissively. “I’m fine.”
“Are you drunk?”
Kimball raised a third shot glass and held it toward the priest as if in salutation.
“No. But I’m working on it.” Kimball downed the third drink, tipped the glass over, then slammed it down next to the empties, leaving five full ones. Kimball pointed to one of the shot glasses. “Care to join me, Padre?”
“No thanks,” he answered. “I’m not one for the hard stuff.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re missing.” Kimball grabbed a fourth and drank it, a quick shot to the back of his throat, and then another slamming of the glass to the tabletop.
“You’re going through that row quite quickly,” the monsignor commented.
“And your point?”
The monsignor eased quietly back into his seat while measuring Kimball, his memories of him as a Vatican Knight being far different from the man who sat before him now. The man before him now appeared wasted and lost, someone with- out direction or care or want or need, with the exception being a labyrinthine road to walk on no matter where it went. Kimball Hayden had truly become a wayward son.
“What?” Kimball asked, intuiting the lo
ok. “You think you have the right to sit there in judgment?”
“I want to help you,” said the monsignor.
“I don’t want your help, Padre. You’re not my psychiatrist anymore.”
“Kimball, please—”
“Kimball nothing. I made my decision, Padre. I’m not coming back.”
The monsignor became deflated in his seat, his shoulders slumping.
“By the way,” said Kimball, “how did you find me? I did my best to stay away from the cameras, knowing somebody in the SIV would try to track me down through facial recognition.”
“You’re right about that,” said the monsignor. “They’ve tried. They looked in Las Vegas, thinking that you might have made your way back.”
“But I didn’t.”
“No.” But the monsignor wished he did. Perhaps there he would have been more than a shell of his former self.
“So again, how did you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard,” said the monsignor. And then: “I know you, Kimball. I know the operations of your mind because I’ve been inside your head.” Then the priest scrutinized the bar and noted the nicotine-colored walls and ceiling, and the dismal characters who sat wallowing over a glass of alcohol, some so inebriated they mumbled to themselves in ceaseless whispers. Then he faced Kimball and said:
“This isn’t you.”
“Really.” Kimball took his fifth shot, a quick tip into his mouth, and then another slam of the glass to the tabletop. “I think it fits me just fine.”
“This isn’t you,” the monsignor repeated calmly.
“Look, Padre, you’re not my shrink anymore. So stop trying to get into my head. I’m not coming back to the church. It was a mistake. A pipedream. There is no Light for people like me.”
“I’m not here to address why you left the Vatican Knights, Kimball. In the end it’s always your choice.”
“Then why are you here?”
“The pontiff has no knowledge of my whereabouts—does not know that I made it a mission to hunt you down. It wasn’t hard, Kimball. This is the bar where you met with Bonasero Vessucci for the first time ...I know you miss him dearly.” Kimball nodded. “As a matter of fact, Padre, you’re sitting in the same seat he was. Same table.” Kimball raised his sixth glass toward the monsignor. “Touché, Padre. Your deductive reasoning wins out.” He then drank and placed the empty glass alongside the other empty glasses, which were piling up in numbers. “But that doesn’t answer my question: Why are you here?”
“I need your help.”
“As much as I like you, Padre, I’m out of the ranks, remember?”
“This is important, Kimball. And the help I ask of you is one of great urgency.”
Kimball could hear the seriousness in the monsignor’s voice, that of dire pleading. Then: “What?”
“About a week ago,” the monsignor began, “a cardinal who was considered a preferiti was abducted in Syria by a faction believed to be ISIS.”
Kimball shook his head in understanding—the situation not good.
“The asking price for his release was made, a rather large sum. Our contact in Syria proffered intel to Vatican Intelligence regarding the whereabouts of the cardinal, who was being maintained by a cell on the outskirts of Damascus.”
“So you sent in a team.” Kimball said as a statement and not as a question.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The contact had the numbers wrong. He said there were a dozen, give or take a few. Certainly an amount that can be handled by a V K team of five.”
“But that wasn’t the case.”
The monsignor nodded. “There were close to four dozen military operatives. More so, they knew the Vatican Knights were coming.”
“How?”
The monsignor shrugged, the body English saying ‘I don’t know.’ Finally: “They were ambushed, Kimball.”
“Losses?”
“Roman lost both legs.”
“He was only twenty-four.”
“A good man for sure,” said the monsignor. “But he’ll be fine. Once he completes his rehabilitation, Roman will serve as a minister in Tuscany.” There was a pause, which was accompanied by a dismal look. “The others, however, were not so lucky.”
“Who?”
“Leviticus, Isaiah and Ecclesiastes were captured, I’m afraid. The cell bugged out and we have no idea where they are. Not even the contact or the SIV. No one knows anything.”
“Are they alive?”
The monsignor clenched his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work. Then he undid the clasps to his briefcase and removed a small laptop.
“I’ve something to show you, Kimball. And it’s going to be very difficult to watch.”
He placed the laptop screen so that it faced Kimball and pressed the ‘ENTER’ button. The screen came alive with images, though dark. Yet Kimball could easily decipher that it was Ecclesiastes who was on his knees with a single tire wrapped around him as a binding.
“I believe the term is necklacing,” said the monsignor. “It’s when someone takes a tire—”
“I know what necklacing is,” Kimball interrupted harshly.
Kimball witnessed the strike of the match and the tire light, then watched as the consuming flames engulfed the Vatican Knight. He noted the terrorist’s eyes in the video and the terrifying light within them, which happened to be the same terrifying light that Kimball held, a light of wickedness they both shared.
Then Kimball closed the lid of the laptop. “Leviticus and Isaiah?” he asked.
“For now, as far as we know, they’re alive along with the cardinal. But the asking price has gone to twenty-five million dollars, which is to be paid within a matter of days through a wire to a Middle Eastern bank sympathetic to ISIS. If not...”
The monsignor let his words hang.
“The money trail will eventually disappear.”
“We know this.”
“And you do understand that Leviticus, Isaiah and the cardinal will probably be killed, right?”
“In all probability.”
“So what is the Vatican doing about it?”
“After the failure of the first mission, and seeing that time is running low and nobody seems to know where the cell is, the pontiff has agreed to make the demands of payment. He has faith that the faction will stand behind their word and release the men.”
“Does the pontiff have any idea as to whom he’s dealing with?”
“He knows. But his hands are tied.”
Kimball looked at the remaining two glasses of whisky, both filled to the brim.
“They’re my brothers,” he said softly. Then he pinned the monsignor with a stare.
“So this help you ask of me, what is it? Why are you here?”
The monsignor reached into his briefcase, grabbed an item, and hesitated for a moment—perhaps, thought Kimball, he was thinking about another option— before placing the object on the table. It was a cleric’s band to be fitted into a collar, and a major piece of the Vatican Knight’s uniform.
“Kimball, please, find them,” the monsignor begged
Kimball stared at the band beneath the priest’s fingers. At one time it was something he coveted most in life, the pristine white band a symbol of his search for the Light of Salvation.
The monsignor pushed it in Kimball’s direction, then left it by the empty shot glasses. “Please.”
Kimball stared at the band, and at the white color. And then he placed his fingertips on the item, could feel it smoothness beneath his touch, and then shoved the band across the table. “No,” he stated adamantly. “I will not wear the collar. What part about me leaving the ranks of the Vatican Knights do you not get?”
The monsignor appeared intimidated. “I’m sorry, Kimball. I thought—”
“You thought right, Padre,” Kimball cut in. “But I will no longer smear the good name of the church by wearing this collar. But I will find my brothers. And I
will do so alone and without any aid from the Vatican Knights ...I will do this my way.”
“Then you will go to Damascus?”
“If that’s the theater of operation.”
“But the collar. The church.”
“What I do, Monsignor, will have to be without conscience or control of the Vatican. I will find them. I will bring them back. And I will leave a trail of bodies a mile wide in my wake. This I promise.”
The monsignor saw the danger in Kimball’s eyes, the ferocity and savagery within that repelled the Light, not attracted it.
The monsignor slid the band back into his briefcase. “Maybe someday,” he commented, “you’ll once again become the cornerstone to the Vatican Knights.”
“Unlikely.”
Then for the next two hours they discussed the mission at hand. The mon- signor proposed to Kimball a dossier of the person believed to be heading the abduction cause, a man by the name of Hassan Maloof, an ISIS lieutenant. And Kimball discussed in earnest with the monsignor the tools and weapons he would need to see the job done. He’d also need the aid of Vatican Intelligence and a mobile BGAN communications system, all which would be waiting for him in Damascus. As for the pontiff, he’d be forced to agree with Kimball’s assertion to do this alone, and not under the waving banner of a Vatican Knight. His methods of achievement would be brutal and unrestrained, something he did not want the pontiff to take any responsibility for, as well as to cast a stain against the church. Kimball knew if he was to get this right, then he would have to work in the Dark in order to serve the Light.
Once the conditions had been finalized, Kimball downed the seventh shot glass and got up from the table, leaving the eighth still full.
The monsignor, with briefcase in hand, pointed to the glass. “You left one.”
Kimball gave him a one-sided smile. “When you look at a glass and see it either half full or half empty, I choose to leave a little optimism,” he said. “Because you never know.”
With that being said, the monsignor and Kimball left the bar, leaving one glass full.