Authors: Rick Jones
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.