The Vatican Knights

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

“Kimball?” Shari asked over the phone.

“Yeah.”

“Yahweh confessed to the whereabouts of the pope.”

“Where?”

Even though he couldn’t see her, he could envision her gesticulating with hand motions on her end of the line as if he was standing in front of her. “He’s in an abandoned depository in Boston.”

“Boston!”

“They moved their operations to avoid the dragnet,” she said. “The president wanted a Quantico Team to move in and do the chore immediately, but it would take too long to assemble a team and get them ready for transport. So as of right now, Kimball, you’re it. You and the rest of the Vatican Knights. I need you pressed into duty and ready to go.”

“We’re ready now.”

“I know you are. I already informed the administration that I have a team who’s prepped. But as far as they know,” she told him, “they think it’s a Quantico squad. So you’ll need to lose the Roman collars to avoid questions.”

“Understood. Where’s the depart point?”

She told him. Within twenty minutes they had met at the point of departure, and in twenty-five minutes they were airborne and heading for Boston.

Vice President Bohlmer sat in his study, his eyes vacant, but his mind toiled. Before him lay shelves of books he’d collected over his lifetime. There were law books dealing with torts, corporate and criminal law; biographies of every politician and statesman ever published; and books about political theories of this country and almost every other nation with a respectable government. In the process of growing in a political entity as an official, he had learned from these books, studied them and even gleaned theories to make the political machine run more efficient. Ironically enough, he was now shelved like them.

A fire was burning in the fireplace, the wood snapping every so often and sending sparks up the flue. But the vice president found no comfort in such warmth.

His cause was dead, taken by the cancer of his own aggression, his politics forever gone.

In self admonishment the vice president released a regrettable sigh, not for what he did, but for getting caught. He had shamed himself before the eyes of his peers and was thankful his wife, having been dead six years, did not have to suffer the pang of being branded a political pariah.

After getting to his feet, the vice president walked to the foyer and checked on the Secret Service detail posted there by the president.

An agent stepped forward, his face as rigid as his posture, his professionalism forced. “Is there anything I can help you with… sir?”

Sir? An hour ago it was Mr. Vice President.

“No. I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you.” Brandishing a false smile, he closed the door to the study with a soft click and returned to his chair.

Beneath the nightstand by the lounge chair laid a.38 caliber revolver hidden within a drawer, its chambers loaded. Its chrome-plated barrel shimmered in hues of red and orange and yellow, the colors of the burning fire. He picked up the pistol and examined his reflection in the chrome, turning his head to the left, and then to the right, his image warped in a funhouse mirror sort of way. And then in a quick and fluid motion, as if without considering the consequences, he brought the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

The distance between Washington D.C. and Boston is exactly four hundred and forty-eight miles. The time it took for the Vatican Knights and Shari Cohen to arrive at Logan Airport took just over an hour. Since the confession of the vice president, the Response Team had been assembled and transported to their debark-point in less than ninety minutes.

During their flight they had gone over the schematics of the depository, committing every nuance of the floor plans to memory. They drew up plans for entry and engagement and theorized the location of the pope and the bishops of the Holy See. But no matter what, they knew the Force Elite had prepared for every conceivable contingency regarding a breach of hostile forces and counterattack. This would not be an easy assignment since the pope would most likely be heavily guarded.

That catapults the probability of a teammate dying great.

So as required by papal order before any mission, the Knights prepared themselves with prayer — except Kimball, who only found confidence in the weapons he carried. And Shari knew that such a man as Kimball Hayden could never be weaned from the savagery of his lifestyle. It was simply a part of him.

As the aircraft sped toward Boston‘s Logan Airport, Shari felt a pang for a man who was willing to commit a single selfless act to save the life of the pope by putting his life at risk. No matter his past, no matter the brutal force of nature that propelled him to commit the atrocities he did, Shari hoped that Kimball Hayden would find the Light before he died.

She prayed he would find it soon.