Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER FOUR

Six months ago when the Vatican Knights were disbanded, Kimball Hayden became a wayward son in a society he rejected long ago. From the onset as a young man trying to make a name for himself in the power halls of the White House, he became a political assassin leading a CIA wetwork team tagged by the brass as the “man without a conscience,” since killing had become a polished skill possessed by few others on this planet.

For years he reveled in his own ego, each killing becoming a building block to his own monumental legend that grew every time he drew a blade across the throat of an insurgent or put a bullet in a man’s brain. When it came to killing, there was no one more consistent or dependable than Kimball Hayden.

Until one day while on a mission in the Middle East where he had an epiphany after being forced to kill two shepherd boys who threatened to compromise his position. After burying them beneath the desert sand, he laid there the entire night staring up at the sky, at the sparkling pinprick lights that made up the constellations, and wondered if there truly was a God.

On the following morning as the sun rose, he made a conscious decision to abscond from American service and disappeared, the Pentagon believing he had been killed in action, and posthumously awarded him the accustomed accolades as an empty coffin was buried at Arlington as a symbol of the warrior’s testament to duty.

But regardless of how courageously symbolic he was to others, should American forces ever discover that he was still alive, especially knowing the black secrets he possessed regarding past administrations, which included the sanctioned killing of a United States senator, then his accolades would have no meaning, and he would be targeted with extreme prejudice to ensure that all past misjudgments on the part of the political body would remain secret.

And this is why he never returned.

But then his life took another turn.

During the moment his coffin was being laid to rest in D.C., he was sitting in a small bar in Venice, Italy, watching the images on TV play out as American forces and its allies moved in on Saddam Hussein to free Kuwait. It was here that a cardinal of the Church took a seat in a booth opposite him without permission, and offered him a chance at redemption by serving as a Vatican Knight.

When Kimball questioned him about this knighthood, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stated that only a man of true integrity who can hold loyalty above all else, except honor; a man who truly believes in the sovereignty of the Vatican and holds to protect its interests and the welfare of its citizenry; and a man who is truly repentant for past actions of a dark nature, is a man who could be made whole in the eyes of God.

Kimball had finally found his home within the auspices of the Church.

And for years he plied his very particular set of skills to save lives across the globe with a team of the world’s best warriors, the Vatican Knights.

But the passing of Pope Pius gave rise to Pope Gregory, who in turn disbanded the group as an affront to God.

Not only was Kimball without a country, but he was now without a church. And there wasn’t much call for a man with his skill set with the exception of mercenary work, which he wanted nothing to do with. So he returned to the states under a different name, someone who had a simple dream of working an honest job.

The man who used to be Kimball Hayden was now James Joseph Doetsch, better known as J.J. Doetsch. With a new identity to keep him under the radar, Kimball Hayden was now a porter picking up trash off casino floors. Since it was an honest job, then he was fine.

Over the months he maintained his incredible physique and exercised at every opportunity. He also practiced religiously with his knives, going through a set routine similar to Tai Chi. If nothing else, Kimball Hayden remained very deadly.

“Yo, J.J.”

Kimball, pulling a trash bag from a barrel on the casino floor, his hands wrapped in latex gloves, stopped and looked at the floor manager who was beckoning him with a bird-like hand.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Come here. Got something I want to pass along.”

Kimball moved beside him, the height difference amazing as the little man with the doughy face looked up at Kimball the same way a small child looks up at his father.

“‘Member I told you about the gig my brother-in-law’s involved with? You know, the cage fighting thing?”

“Look, Louie—”

The smaller man raised his hands and began to pat the air. “Just hear me out,” he said.

Kimball did, but his body language, the grim twist of his mouth and arms crossed defensively across his chest, told the man he wasn’t going to be too receptive.

“Just hear me out,” he repeated. “That’s all I ask for, for chrissakes.”

“I’m listening.”

“You can get in a cage for five minutes — just five — and make yourself five grand tops.” He then stood back to appraise Kimball, his arms held out as if to showcase the large man to others. “Look at you. You’re a monster. Why in the hell are you wasting your time here for just over minimum when you can obviously work the circuit for so much more?”

“And I suppose you’d get a percentage of my take?”

Louie smiled. “Of course. As your manager, how does fifteen percent sound?”

Kimball shook his head and turned away.

“All right then. How about ten?”

“I’m not hearing you, Louie.”

The pudgy man moved beside him. “You’re wasting your talents, J.J. You always said the only thing you ever wanted was an honest job. Well here it is, sitting in our lap. It’s totally legit; the circuit has top-notch billing and everything you could ever ask for. And the bottom line, J.J., is that I see six, maybe seven figures a year once you hit the top.”

“Not interested.”

“You’d rather pull trash for the rest of your life?”

“Just temporary duty, that’s all.”

“I don’t get it. Why won’t you fight?”

Kimball looked him squarely in the eyes. “If I’m going to fight, Louie, there has to be a cause behind it.”

“Money ain’t cause enough?”

“For me? No.” He went back to emptying the cans, placing the bags in a rolling trash cart.

“Will you at least think about it?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” he said. “I’ll think about it along with other things.”

Louie smiled, his emotions uplifted with slight hope. “That’s great,” he said, his smile blossoming. “That’s really great! You just tell me when.”

How about never? Kimball returned the smile and kept his mouth shut.

“Got a gig coming up in two weeks,” he added. “You just let me know, J.J. You just let me know. I hate to stand by and see a man like you waste your life away, that’s all.”

Kimball’s smile slowly melted away.

Louie turned and began to walk away, calling out over his shoulder. “A guy’s gotta have purpose in his life, J.J. So I’m telling you that fighting is yours. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a warrior. Think about it.”

Kimball roughly tossed the trash in the bin and watched Louie disappear behind a bank of slot machines. He seemed to have prophetically hit the nail on the head. Was he fated to fight and do nothing more with his life? In a moment of self defeat, Kimball sighed. No matter how fast or how far he tried to run, Fate was always standing at every corner waiting to hand him the scepter of war.

He looked at his watch. Ninety minutes to quitting time.

He went back to work.

After clocking out Kimball took leisure and headed off to one of the neighboring casinos that offered a parfait glass of shrimp for a $1.99, and ate beneath the lighted canopy of the Freemont Street Experience. Music blared to the beat of the Rolling Stones and The Doors, as cartoon images played overhead. When the show was over, he placed the glass aside and headed east on Freemont where the neighborhood was severely depressed with motels in disrepair and meth whores working for fixes. Homeless people gathered in small groups with shopping carts filled with treasures when people of comfort often considered them trash. Further east towards Boulder Highway, where the motels were sitting on the fulcrum point of becoming condemned but not quite there, was Kimball’s apartment. It was the only place he could afford on his wage without applying for government aid and possibly draw attention.

It was night, the air hot and dry. It was always hot. And the smell of the city was all around him. The sweat, the ozone, the smoke from tailpipes and the smog of big-city air all twisted into a terrible cocktail.

But it was home.

As he turned down an alleyway he noted a figure of a small man, perhaps a teenager, standing next to a Dumpster. The closer Kimball got to the shape; it would counter with steps to confront Kimball in the middle of the alleyway, ultimately coming face to face by the time their paths crossed.

“Something I can do for you?” Kimball’s sixth sense kicked in, meaning that they were not alone.

“Got any smokes, man?”

“Sorry. Don’t smoke.” When Kimball tried to sidestep him the man stepped in front of him, blocking him. Kimball could see that he was neither a teenager nor a man, but on the cusp, perhaps twenty and wasting away.

“What about money? You got money, don’t you?”

“How about you get out of my way? That way you and your friends won’t get hurt.”

From the shadows came movement. Three others, all in the same condition of being wasted and thinning on drugs, were positioning themselves so that Kimball was flanked on both sides with another behind and the punk in front.

“You don’t want to do this,” he told the kid. “Trust me. You really don’t.”

There was a snicker as a blade shot out from a stiletto in the punk’s hand. Another three followed in concert: …Chic!… Chic!… Chic!…

In Kimball’s mind it was an easy estimation of four knives total.

“Give me your wallet, dude.”

“The only way you’re getting my wallet,” he told him, “is if you come and take it.”

“Are you kidding me? There’re four of us.”

“I see that,” he said. “Unfortunately for you, the odds favor me quite a bit.”

The punk cocked his head and gave a questioning look.

“Last chance,” Kimball said sternly. “Get out of my way.”

The punk did not hesitate, but came at Kimball with unskilled and reckless abandon, the point of the blade going in as a straight jab.

Kimball pivoted and sidestepped the punk, the blade missing its mark and going wide, the punk tripping and sprawling to the ground in the face-first approach as his chops hit the pavement hard, his teeth fracturing and breaking.

Kimball took a step back to access the situation, barely able to choke back the laugh which irritated the punks to no end.

The attacking punk gained his feet, and put a hand to his bloody mouth. “You think that was funny?”

“Are you kidding me? That was friggin’ hilarious.”

The punk attacked in rage, swinging wildly, the blade cutting the air in diagonal Xs, back and forth, side to side, Kimball falling back, waiting.

And then the former Vatican Knight struck.

Kimball lashed out with his left hand, caught the punk by the wrist, and twisted, snapping the bone and causing the knife to fall. He then brought up his right leg and kicked the punk with such force that the young man went airborne and carried across the alley in what appeared to be an impossibly long distance, the kid landing on a pile of trash bags where he remained unmoving.

Keeping his eyes on the other three, he slowly picked up the knife.

They faced him. And it was obvious to Kimball that they were determining if attacking him would be the wrong thing to do. To help them with their decision, Kimball began to play the knife across and over his fingers like a majorette twirling a baton. The motion was poetic and effortless, the skill taking years to achieve, the ability displayed unlike anything the punks had ever seen before.

“Your choice,” he said.

The punks backed away, two of them withdrawing their blades and pocketing their knives. The third wasn’t so sure, keeping his knife ready.

“We just want to take our friend and go,” said the skinny punk with the knife.

“Do what you want. I’ll give you thirty seconds.”

The punks hustled, stirring their friend who was half conscious and murmuring nonsensical syllables. When they gathered the punk to his feet he cried out in agony as the pain in his wrist suddenly became white hot.

One of the punks came forward. “Can we have his knife back?” He held out his hand as a gesture to receive.

Kimball nodded. “Nah, I think I’ll keep it for posterity.”

The punk fell back with his group, and then they headed for the opposite end of the alley.

Kimball pocketed the knife, watching. When they rounded the bend he hastened his pace. Regardless, there were always vultures out there waiting in the shadows ready to close in on what they think may be carrion to feed on. This was not a good area to take things lightly or remain complacent.

When he reached his apartment he finally felt at ease, knowing he was safe because his apartment was rigged to deal with any unwanted visitors.

The interior was small, hot and closed in, the kitchen nothing but a single-basin sink and a microwave oven. The bedroom was equally small and allowed nothing larger than a super-single sized bed and adjoining nightstand. Across the way was a small dresser with a 13” flat-screen TV. Next to that was a bathroom, small, with walls that were stained with patches of black mold that he had to wash away with a sponge on a weekly basis.

But it didn’t matter to him. It was just a place to lay his hat.

Removing the knife from his pocket, he depressed the button and watched the blade slide out. The metal was clean and shined with a mirror polish. But it wasn’t a well-made knife. More like something that was made in Tijuana and brought across the border.

He tossed the knife onto the dresser, took a quick shower, and felt fresh and new as he got into bed. Most nights he would lay there and watch the news, often using the remote to switch channels by the second — going from channel to channel until settling on a station.

But tonight he just wanted to lay in the dark and think about what Louie had to say about how he saw the fight in Kimball’s eyes, which caused him to wonder if his destiny was truly set. The skirmish in the alley was testimony to that, the “fight” always seemed to be within arm’s length no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

With Louie’s words and the images of the brawl in the alley playing out in his mind, and if he wasn’t so consumed with the sequence of the day’s events, then he would have been watching TV. And if he had, then he would have learned that Pope Gregory had died of an apparent accident by falling off the Papal Balcony.

What a day.