The Lost Cathedral: The Vatican Knights, #7

By Rick Jones

Three years ago, the papal airliner goes down over the jungle of Brazil never to been seen again.

Three years later, those considered lost on that fatal flight begin to show up at Vatican City disconnected from reality.

When the pope is gunned down in an assassination attempt, Kimball Hayden and his team of Vatican Knights follow the conspiracy's trail to a cathedral deep inside the Brazilian jungle—a place of taboo to locals who fear the Huecuvus, the Evil Spirits who protect those within the 'Ruins of Lost Souls.'

The cathedral is a place of damnation and dark secrets—a hub of moving shadows that reach out to Pope Pius with a hand from the past, a hand that holds a dark secret: the pontiff may not be who he appears to be, but a man whose past may have been as sinful as those within the lost cathedral, a dying breed of Nazis who once called the pontiff 'brethren.'

As Kimball Hayden and his team of Vatican Knights try to neutralize the threat against the Vatican, they find themselves fighting against overwhelming odds. Shadows and shapes converge, the weapons they yield sharp. Can the Vatican Knights defeat a sect where life has little meaning? Does the pope hold a dark secret? Was he once evil incarnate who now sits upon the papal throne? The answers lie within a temple of ancient evil called the Lost Cathedral.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EmpirePRESS
• Release date: Mar 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533727510

Book preview

PART ONE

The Order of Fallen Angels

PROLOGUE

Three Years Ago

Deep inside the Brazilian jungle stood an old cathedral, a solitary stone structure located at the end of a tributary that was more Mayan in influence than Catholicism. The walls were gray and cracked with growing fissures due to the erosion of its foundation, so the seating of the stone blocks no longer aligned on top of one another. Vines as thick as pythons crept along the walls, perhaps keeping them pieced together where the mortar had failed to hold. And old columns that once stood firm now lay in fragments along the jungle floor.

The lone entryway that led deep inside the ancient cathedral was vaguely perceptible beneath the cape of intertwining vines and leaves that covered it. And behind this flourishing veil, a world existed where people lived and died—where a government body ruled by one law, one rule, and one religion—with everyone living as a collective under the power of three men: the Triumvirate of Fallen Angels.

Corridors with bends that seemed never-ending led deep into vast underground chambers that were lit by ancient torches or vats filled with oils. Living quarters were small and spartan with little possessions. And those who followed the Triumvirate did so with unquestioning obedience.

In the middle of the cathedral was a limestone stage surrounded by burning lanterns with three chairs equivalent to pontifical thrones that held the ornate carvings of winged angels and demons doing battle with sword and shield, with each chair telling a different story. Sitting in these chairs were the members of the Triumvirate, all aged castoffs from the Nazi party. They were wearing hooded cowls which kept their faces steeped in darkness beneath the extension of the head’s covering, as they waited patiently for one of the underlings to report the nature of a mission in play.

At the end of the chamber, a bullet-shaped door made of thick wood with bands of black steel and rivets holding it together opened, then closed, with its protesting hinges echoing throughout the chamber like the raking of fingers across a blackboard.

A man wearing a cowl stepped into a circle of marginal light with his hands hidden beneath the fabric of his sleeves. His hood was drawn back, revealing the smooth features of Aryan descent. Even with the faint licks of flame that burned feebly in the lanterns, one could see the bleached-blond hair, the aqua-blue eyes, and the glint of instilled prejudices that burned with a fuel far greater than the oil that simmered in the lamps.

When he was about twenty feet from the steps that led to the thrones of the Triumvirate, the man stopped and bowed his head. Your Luminaries, he said.

The three members of the Triumvirate remained as still as Grecian statues for a long measure until the one sitting in the middle finally raised a palsied, liver-spotted hand. You have news, yes? His voice had grown too old to articulate correctly, his words slow and thick, but manageable enough to be deciphered by trained ears.

I do, Your Luminary, he answered. I’ve received word that Shepherd One and its dignitaries are flying over Brazil as we speak. Onboard are fourteen cardinals, who are well-guarded by six members of the Vatican Knights.

The aged Luminary lowered his hand and set it to rest on the carved rail of the throne. It wasn’t the cardinals he was concerned with, but the company they kept. Six Vatican Knights. A most valued prize. Everything’s in place, then? asked the Luminary.

The underling bowed his head before speaking, something all underlings did before addressing a Luminary of the Triumvirate. They are, he answered.

Very good, the Luminary said. Then it has begun.

CHAPTER ONE

Shepherd One was the pope’s airborne transport—though it was not the name of the plane—it was an Alitalia airliner chartered by the Vatican to transport members of the Church. Shepherd One was simply a name of reference upon its landing or departing from airports.

Onboard were fourteen cardinals who had been reassigned to Latin American states that suffered great poverty. Pope Pius XIV’s vision was to place more emphasis on nations and communities who were lacking any measure of hope and to provide the people confidence in God where there had been little or none before. Especially within the favelas, where God seemed to be vacant in the hearts of men.

Since Latin America was highly Catholic, Pope Pius saw this as a necessity. With fourteen states wading in the shallows of despair, fourteen cardinals would lift them in spirit.

Onboard Shepherd One were six soldiers of the Vatican Knights, an elite commando group made up of the finest combatants in the world to help protect those who could not protect themselves. They were rich in essence and morality. And they were in service to the Church, protecting its sovereignty, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry.

Like all Vatican Knights, their call signs were taken from revered texts, names that overshadowed the identities of their given names, which was an anointment of becoming a revered member of the Vatican. In the rear sat Kish and Mordecai, Eli and Jacob, Phinehas and Zadok, names from the Old Testament—names that identified them as brethren.

As Shepherd One was making its way south to Brasilia from Mexico City, everyone with a window seat could see a jungle canopy that was lush and full with no break in the vegetation or growth beneath them—just a tropical rain forest that seemed to run endlessly toward the horizon.

Soon they would reach Brasilia, where the cardinals would disband to all points of the compass in ragged-looking vehicles geared to take the harsh roads that led to chaotic lands, with the Vatican Knights to provide them with enough paramilitary support to get them through territories governed by bandits and killers.

But when Shepherd One began to bank hard to the south when the known trajectory was straightaway west, Kish became suspect. He turned to Mordecai, who sat in the center seat beside him reading a magazine. Why are we turning? he asked.

Mordecai lowered the periodical and looked out the window to his left as the plane banked, seeing nothing but jungle, and then shrugged. Got me. Then he went back to his magazine.

Kish, however, having piloted missions in Afghanistan and Pakistan, sensed that something was wrong since the distance between two points was always a straight line. Why alter the course? Why are we heading west instead of south?

Then the plane shuddered.

And it did so violently.

#

The pilots of Shepherd One were usually gifted flyers from Italy’s prestigious Aeronautica Milatare—a superior outfit of pilots who retired from service and found employment with Alitalia Airlines—who were specifically hired to captain all the Vatican flights.

Enzio Colombo, having served the Aeronautica Milatare for twenty years, was the chief pilot with Vincenzo Palumbo aiding as his co-pilot. Though Palumbo was much younger, he was a seasoned vet, nonetheless.

More than halfway toward Brasilia, Enzio started to hear voices and whispers, words of direction. He turned to Palumbo who didn’t seem to hear them. Then he looked at his hands that were clutching the yoke and saw the whites of his knuckles.

Then the voices were gone.

A moment later Enzio took on a completely new demeanor, one of steady resolve. After undoing his seatbelt, he got to his feet and placed a hand on Palumbo’s shoulder. Back in a minute, he told him. You OK?

Palumbo shot him a thumbs-up as he took over the responsibility of manning the helm.

Enzio nodded, then he left the armor-plated cockpit and headed for the nearest lavatory. After closing the bathroom door and locking it with the ‘occupied’ sign sliding into place, he rummaged deep inside the trash container and pulled out a greasy rag that covered something solid. He put the item on the sink and peeled back the edges of the fabric, revealing a sidearm with an attached suppressor.

He looked at his image in the mirror. His eyes were vacant, but his mind moved along evenly knowing that he had a mandated mission that needed to be finalized. Keeping the weapon close to his side, Enzio exited the bathroom and returned to the cockpit, where he locked the door behind him. His co-pilot was looking forward, the back of his head looking ripe for targeting as Enzio raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, the firearm going off in a loud spit as a small-caliber bullet penetrated Palumbo’s skull and bounced around, killing him.

Enzio took the seat, buckled up, and turned the yoke to the right, causing the plane to bank slightly to the west.

Then the voices.

The ghostly whispers.

All telling him what to do.

Enzio, with vacant eyes, drove the yoke forward and downward, the suddenness of his action causing the plane to shudder against a leading edge of a strong wind as it began to descend rapidly, the plane vibrating greatly as the jungle canopy loomed closer.

Twelve seconds later Shepherd One vanished completely from radar with all radio feedback nothing but static, then absolute silence.

In the subsequent aftermath, nothing of the plane was ever discovered. There were no fields of debris, no smoke, no fire, no traces or swatches cut through the jungle.

Shepherd One had simply disappeared.

CHAPTER TWO

The Vatican

The Office of Monsignor Dom Giammacio

Present Day

Monsignor Dom Giammacio was the Vatican’s counselor for clerics who wallowed in the self-doubt of their waning faith. On this day, however, the subject in question was not about faith, but one of redemption.

The monsignor was sitting quietly with a cigarette wedged between the crooks of his fingers, watching a ribbon of smoke trail lazily toward the ceiling. Patiently, as with all the sessions he shared with Kimball Hayden, he waited for the Vatican Knight to find his moment to speak. And when five minutes remained from a sixty-minute session, the monsignor finally said, Kimball, we have five minutes.

When Kimball sighed through his nose, the monsignor leaned forward in his chair and pressed him. Kimball.

Kimball despised these meetings with the monsignor and purposely showed up late. But the pontiff mandated these weekly sessions for him as a ‘catharsis.’ A way to get Kimball to believe that he was deserving of salvation despite his underlying nature of pure savagery. All he needed to do, all Kimball needed to understand and accept, was to see himself the way others did, as a savior to those who couldn’t defend themselves. But Kimball’s past left a blight on his soul, something he just couldn’t peel away like a snake that molts its second skin.

Kimball, please. The monsignor continued to examine the slow curl of cigarette smoke as it rose upward, then disappeared. Tell me, how did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated?

Kimball hesitated as images played across his mind’s eye. He recalled the moment as a wetwork operator for the United States government when he was ordered to kill Senator Cartwright . . . and the moment he slid the blade neatly across the politician’s throat to bleed the man out. He remembered the senator’s grandson hiding in a cabinet beneath shelves of books---the boy most likely watching the scene of his grandfather’s death play out with surreal slowness.

How did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated? the monsignor repeated.

Kimball closed his eyes. Everything was so clear to him, so vivid. Out of personal guilt, he raised the boy into a young man and as a Vatican Knight. Eventually, Ezekiel learned to use his particular skill set against Kimball as retribution for murdering his grandfather---the Frankenstein’s monster of Kimball’s creation returning to kill its master. But in the end, it was Kimball Hayden who remained standing.

How did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated? the monsignor repeated evenly and relentlessly.

Kimball finally answered. I didn’t love him. Not like a father. Not even close. But I did care for him.

"Kimball, that doesn’t really answer my question, now does it? So let’s try again, shall we? How did you feel when Ezekiel was terminated?"

Kimball gave him a hard look. Why don’t you just phrase it the way you mean to? Without prettying it up.

What do you mean?

You know exactly what I mean.

Tell me. You’re a man of candor.

Kimball knew he was falling into the monsignor’s trappings, but he didn’t care. Shouldn’t the question be: How do I feel after killing Ezekiel, a person I helped raise since he was a boy?

The monsignor sat idly still and refused to betray a single emotion. The only thing alive was the slow curl of cigarette smoke from between his fingers.

I felt . . . Kimball let his words hang.

You felt what?

After a beat Kimball said, I felt remorse in one hand . . . relief in the other.

Remorse and relief. Don’t you find that odd? Aren’t they opposite from one another? To feel remorseful for killing someone you cared for, and then to feel a certain relief in doing so.

He was a monster, Kimball stated immediately. He killed good people.

As you did when you were a government assassin, yes?

Not always.

But you did kill good people at one time, true? Those who could have compromised your position in the scheme of the mission. Like those two boys in Iraq.

Kimball was stewing underneath. It wasn’t like the monsignor to get under his skin. The relationship between them had always been cordial and somewhat informal. Kimball couldn’t understand what the monsignor was trying to pull from him. Then heatedly: I was never like Ezekiel.

You helped raise him. You shared with him your traits. So how can you not be like him?

Kimball could feel the muscles in his arms tightening with restrained tension. I changed. He didn’t.

How so?

I kill because I have to. Not because I want to. He killed to appease his anger.

Exactly on both accounts, said the monsignor, who eased back into his seat. Eventually you changed to protect those who could not protect themselves. Ezekiel’s soul had blackened and rotted with self-possessing anger. So, you responded by protecting the Church from Ezekiel, who was on a quest to see it fall. You saved lives, Kimball. Even though your stake in this was quite personal.

I’m assuming you have a point to all this?

The monsignor stared at him blankly. You’re not listening to yourself, he told him. You just said you’ve changed. By your own admission. But your tongue is not in sync with your conscience. You feel guilty for past actions. You continue to think that redemption is beyond your grasp despite all the good that you do. You speak of one thing, but your conscience leads you to believe differently. If your conscience and subconscious can somehow align themselves, then I believe you’ll find the salvation you seek. It’s up to you, Kimball, to believe in what you speak to be the truth not only externally, but internally as well.

Kimball relaxed. I get it, he told himself. You want me to admit to something I’m not ready to admit to myself. Since I killed Ezekiel to save the Church, then my feelings for Ezekiel should be blunted because he was, in a sense, evil. It’s not that easy to explain away, he finally said. Not by a long shot.

A look of disappointment slowly eclipsed the monsignor’s face. Time’s up, he said lightly. Another session had ended with zero gain.

Watching his client rise from the chair and leave the office, Monsignor Dom Giammacio resigned himself to believing that Kimball Hayden continued to be a lost soul.

Even he was starting to believe that salvation was beyond the Vatican Knight’s reach. So, he prayed and hoped that Kimball’s soul was not too far gone. And further wished upon Kimball the good returns from the path he would decide to take in the end, which would be the road toward the Light of Loving Spirits.

The answers to his prayers, however, did not come by the salient whispers of an understanding God, but the steady ticking of a wall clock in the background.

As the monsignor sat there with the stub of his cigarette burning close to his flesh, he eventually stubbed it out by dashing it in the ashtray, eased back into his chair, closed his eyes, and listened.

In the background, the hands of the clock continued to click in even measures.

Still, he prayed.

And still, the clock beat on.

#

The moment Kimball Hayden reached his quarters he immediately sat along the edge of his bed. On the right side of the room stood a votive rack with few candles that had been lit, a kneeling rail that had never been knelt upon, and a waist-high podium with a Bible whose cover had never been opened. On the chamber’s left side were his bed, a nightstand, and stacks of military manuals—a more lived-in appearance. In the center of the room and high on the wall was a single glass-stained window of the Virgin Mary who reached her arms out in invitation. And during certain times of the day as the sun made its trajectory from east to west, rays would shine through the panes with the ethereal glow of her outstretched arms ready to embrace him within the warmth of basking luminosity. But Kimball refused this radiance and kept away from the light, feeling it would be vulgar to accept it since he wasn’t worthy of receiving it.

At least not yet.

I have to earn that right.

Inside the drawer of the nightstand was a small photo album, a throwback volume since he didn’t have a computer to store digital files, and then he began to leaf through the pages. There were photos of old units and old friends, some dead, and some having moved on to new lives and new families. Then photos of his new unit, his new family, the Vatican Knights. He turned the pages to see the familiar faces of boys who had been trained to become caliber men of the Knights’ League, warriors who devoted their lives to protect the welfare of the Church and its citizenry.

More pages.

The center of the album was the point he’d been aiming for as he allowed the covers of the open book to rest on his thighs. The two pages he was looking at were dedicated to Ezekiel beginning with the moment of his recruitment as a small boy, through the snapped images of his training as a young man, to the day he was branded as a Vatican Knight. In all the photos he noticed the boy smiling only in a single photo, a smile that was without humor.

Did I blacken your soul that much?

Kimball reached down and traced the tips of his fingers over Ezekiel’s images.

When Ezekiel was five Kimball had killed his grandfather before the child’s eyes—though unknowingly to Kimball—in an act of service and duty to his government which orphaned the boy. In an attempt to appease his conscience, Kimball, with the aid of Bonasero Vessucci, now the pontiff, conscripted the boy to become a Vatican Knight even though Vessucci was against this after seeing something dark inside the child. But Vessucci eventually relented because he also saw the need for Kimball to give the boy a purpose that would heal them both.

But Ezekiel had grown with an anger that was so deeply submerged it only surfaced when he believed he was ripe enough to kill. So, he went after Kimball who was his mentor and the man who killed his grandfather, with a combat skill set that nearly destroyed Kimball in the end.

But it was Kimball who remained standing, having been forced to kill the child he had trained to become a man, who then became a soldier, and the soldier a Vatican Knight.

Kimball then closed his eyes and wallowed in a feeling that was close to mourning, but not as dominant. The moment he opened his eyes he shut the book closed and returned it to the drawer. Then, laying on his bed with his hands behind his head, he stared at the image of the Virgin Mary who reached out to him with willing arms. The light of the yellow stained glass showed as rays