Crosses to Bear: The Vatican Knights, #6

By Rick Jones

In a Galveston, Texas lab, a lethal strain has been stolen by a terrorist faction.

In New Mexico, the population of a small town is completely wiped out.

In Las Vegas, a vicious underground clan called the Community surfaces at night to prey on the weak.

In Paris, two old foes of Kimball Hayden reunite as a kill team to hunt him down.

Now considered dead by the Vatican, Kimball Hayden is leading a secretive life living on the streets of Las Vegas. But when a parish comes under the threat of a vicious mob, he finds himself thrown back into a world of violence.

Once again Kimball finds himself in the role as the 'priest who is not a priest' fighting to protect those who cannot protect themselves. And when Vatican City is threatened with complete annihilation, he returns to fight a battle against a foe he cannot possibly defeat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EmpirePRESS
• Release date: Mar 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533758323

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

One Year After the Death of Pope Gregory XVII

One Year into the Reign of Pope Pius XIV

The Jesus Saves Mission

Las Vegas, NV

The large man sat at the table staring at the image of Christ that had been burnt onto his toast. Sitting around him were people just like him, those who were lost and lonely without hope. People whose faces were so drained they appeared as loose as rubber masks.

For a long moment, he stared at the profile of the Messiah who wore what appeared to be the pointed outcroppings of a thorn crown. The image was stark and well-defined. And for the past four months that he'd thumbed his way across the landscape with nothing but a soiled backpack and few possessions, the image of Christ seemed to be everywhere. He had taken note of every cross and church spire; every photo, print, and watercolor painting of Jesus that adorned the walls of diners and motel rooms. He even leafed through the pages of the Gideon Bible, taking in the words with absorption. Wherever he looked, wherever he went, the Messiah seemed to be looking at him with imploringly sad eyes.

After sighing through his nose, he laid the toast on the Styrofoam plate. 

Are you going to eat that? asked the person to his left, pointing at the slice. The man was wispy thin and frail-looking and had eyes that had a gel-like thickness to them. It was the look of a drunkard.

The large man pushed the plate in the direction of the homeless person. It's yours, he told him. Enjoy.

The wispy-thin man didn't even hesitate, nor did he thank the man. He simply grabbed the plate, and, without hesitation, ate the bread without considering the image on the toast. When he was done, he clapped his hands free of the crumbs, stood, and without acknowledging the large man, left the table and moved through the aisles of the mission’s dining area with an irregular hitch to his gait. Along with him went the aromatic hint of alcohol, the scent trailing until there was no scent at all.

In a former life, his name was Kimball Hayden. But in this life, he was known as Seth, a man who had no past and lived only for the present, and certainly had no definable future.

A few months ago, he had conducted his last mission as a Vatican Knight by seeking justice rather than following the accordance of the law, pious or otherwise. Against the doctrine of the church and the code of the Vatican Knights, he killed a man. And by this action Kimball had chosen damnation over salvation, ensuring condemnation in the eyes of Pope Pius.

He closed his eyes and bit back the sour lump in his throat. The only family he had come to know, those whom he had come to love, he had left behind letting everyone believe that he had been killed in the final assault against Jadran Božanović, a leading principal in a human-trafficking cartel.

When he felt a gentle hand settle upon his shoulder, Kimball started.

I'm so sorry, Seth, she said. You were sitting here with your eyes closed. I just wanted to make sure that everything was all right.

He thought Sister Abigail to be a stunningly beautiful woman whose pixie-like face was framed beneath the hood of her habit. He also thought her eyes to be soft and blue, the color of Jamaican water. Her nose had a slight upturn to it, giving her a spirited look that was enhanced by a beatific smile and ruler-straight teeth. She was young, he thought, perhaps in her late 20s, maybe early 30s, and definitely out of bounds.

I'm fine, he said, offering her a flash of his teeth that were brilliant and white, unlike most of the men she had seen at the mission. I was just thinking, that's all.

Her smile widened. I missed you, she told him. I haven't seen you in the past few days.

I've been busy, he lied, but not really. Kimball was busy looking for an honest job, only to end up at a bar that served one-dollar beers. It was something he did not want her to know about and was unwilling to put himself in a class of those he surrounded himself with or those she dealt with daily. He simply wanted to be different in her eyes. Then: Does the Father need my assistance at the church?

Maybe on the grounds, she told him. You think you're up to the task?

About two months ago, Kimball went back to the church where he gave a charitable donation of more than $6000 of earnings as a cage fighter and spoke with the priest, who remembered Kimball since no one had ever given him such a large sum. When asked his name he had given the priest the name of Seth, after the third son of Adam and Eve who became known as the Protector of the Innocent. And from that point on friendships grew, not only with Father Halvorson but also with Sister Abigail.

It was a small church, a parish, with a small courtyard that displayed the statue of the Mother Mary as its focal point, along with several rose bushes and azaleas that bloomed with a riot of bright colors. Unfortunately—since the church was located in a high-crime area—the walls were high, and the doors were always locked except on Sundays when services were held.

But it was here that Kimball found peace.

I'll be there tomorrow at one, he told her. I'm still looking for a job. He wanted her to believe that he was a man of purpose, a man who had goals and direction. Truth was, he had neither.

She gave him a gentle pat on his shoulder. We'll see you at one then.

Her beaming smile was so radiant that Kimball wanted to hold that image, wanting to see it in his mind’s eye wherever he went. At one, he confirmed in a gentle tone.

As she walked away, Kimball watched her as she went around greeting others and took up the cause to make their lives better. She tried to give them hope, steering everyone with desire and passion to better themselves. And this included Kimball, who was slow to the task.

Kimball—Seth—never took his eyes off her, seeing her as the light to his darkness.

Once he left the mission Kimball looked up and took note of the marquee. It was simply another reminder of his journey, the sign reading:

†

JESUS

A

V

E

S

CHAPTER TWO

Galveston National Laboratory

Galveston, Texas

8:46 PM

The Galveston National Laboratory in Galveston, Texas, is engaged in efforts aimed at controlling infectious diseases and defending our country against bioterrorism. The six-story building is a high-security National Biocontainment Facility housing several Biosafety level 4 research laboratories and is run by the University of Texas Medical Branch. It consists of 80,000 square feet of laboratory space with 12,000 square feet dedicated to the sublevels, which is strictly for BSL-4 use. They are also the biosafety levels that house and isolates the most dangerous biological agents in the world, such as Bolivian and Argentine hemorrhagic fevers, the Ebola virus, the Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever, the Marburg virus, the Lassa virus, and various other hemorrhagic diseases. These levels also contain the most virulent agent of all, the Omega Strain.

At approximately quarter of nine at night, a smartly dressed man carrying an aluminum case that was no larger than a lunchbox walked into the facility. The cadence of his footfalls echoed throughout the entire foyer as he made his way to the central desk, which was manned by a two-guard attachment. One guard sat at the console manning the bank of monitors, while the other stood by the access door with a close-quarters combat submachine gun, his eyes sharing a glance with the Well-Dressed Man. Perhaps considering the hour to be late and the timing of the visit odd, the sentry took a firmer grip on his weapon, which did not go without notice by the Well-Dressed Man.

When the suited man reached the counter, he lowered the aluminum case and smiled. Gentlemen, he said in greeting. My name’s Joseph Thurgood. I believe I have an appointment at nine o'clock with Dr. Henshaw. BSL-one. BSL-1 dealt with non-pathogenic elements such as Escherichia coli, as well as some cell cultures and non-infectious bacteria materials. On this level, dangers were minimal, with the use of gloves and facial protection the only required recommendations.

The guard began to type in the man's last name, the muted clicks of the keyboard sounding off rapidly until he hit the ‘enter’ button. The guard scanned the screen and traced a finger over the listed names. Thurgood was not among them. I'm sorry, sir, but your name—

A bullet hole magically appeared in the guard’s forehead, a ribbon of smoke rising from the entry wound as the man's eyes rolled up into his head until they showed nothing but slivers of white. The Well-Dressed Man then turned his suppressor-tipped pistol at the armed guard and shot with a perfect double-tap, with both shots striking the center of body mass. The force of the shots threw the man against the elevator door, his face pinched with pain as he went to both knees. It took a third shot to the cap of the man's skull to put him down for good. Slipping the weapon into his shoulder holster, which was hidden beneath his suit coat, the Well-Dressed Man rounded the guards’ station and took command of the console.

From the inner pocket of his suit coat, he removed the Bluetooth-like device, hooked it around his ear, and tapped a small button on the earbud. You there? he said.

"Yeah. I’m here." The voice responding over the earpiece sounded tinny and hollow.

The Well-Dressed Man removed what appeared to be a flash drive and plugged it into the console. Then he began to type with urgency. Numerals and encrypted symbols appeared on the screens in front of him, scrolling from top to bottom until the words ‘ACCESS GRANTED’ flashed on the main monitor. I'm in. You have it from here so walk me through.

At this moment three individuals entered the facility. Two of them were dressed like the downed guards, like sentries. They quickly dragged the guards out of sight and took their posted stations; one by the elevator door, the other behind the console. The third team member, who was dressed in black fatigues, joined the Well-Dressed Man by the elevator doors.

All right, the Well-Dressed man stated over the Bluetooth. We're ready to rock.

After a dozen seconds, the doors parted.

"On the keypad, you’ll see the button BL-3," said the voice over the Bluetooth. "Press it. When the doors open, there will be two guards standing there: one to the left, the other on the right. Neutralize them."

Copy that.

As the elevator moved downward the Well-Dressed Man handed off the aluminum case to the third man, Mohammed, who removed a Glock from his shoulder holster, then screwed on a suppressor that was as long as the gun’s barrel. To Mohammed, he said, Watch my rear. Do not allow anyone to come at me from behind.

Mohammed nodded.

When the elevator stopped and the doors parted, they moved quickly and efficiently with the Well-Dressed Man pointing his suppressed weapon at his designed target to the left, pulling the trigger, then sweeping the firearm to his right and pulling the trigger two more times, the weapon sounding off with loud spits as both sentries fell to the floor. 

The Well-Dressed Man checked the length of the hallway, then tapped his Bluetooth device once again. We're in.

Good. Now I need the two of you to move down the corridor to your right, said the Navigator. When you reach the end of the corridor, there will be a set of doors to your left. That will be guarded by a two-man attachment.

The Well-Dressed Man took a firmer grip on his weapon with both hands, leveled the firearm, and then he began to move forward.

These doors will get you to the main lab where the asset is stored. Here you will find three heavily armed guards. So be careful.

Will do.

As instructed, they moved along the corridor with their firearms held at the ready. When they reached the doors, they noted the mirror polish to them as their images stared back in funhouse shapes, their contours warped and distorted.

All right, said the Well-Dressed man, holding his weapon steady. We’re at the first set of doors.

Get ready, the Navigator told him.

To the left of the doors was a keypad. On its faceplate LED numerals began to scroll in the numbers’ window. From a covert position outside the facility, the Navigator was operating the system by overriding the mainframe unit. Not only was he hacking into the security code banks, but he was also reconfiguring images on the screens at the main console inside the lab. The armed officials manning the station would view the monitors and see that the corridors were clear since the Navigator had recorded prior images of empty hallways and replayed them, giving the impression that the facility was empty. If the guards had been diligent in their duties, they would have noticed that the timestamp on the monitors was more than twelve minutes behind the actual time.

Just a few more seconds, stated the Navigator.

The numbers on the faceplate began to slow, some taking hold, and when all five numbers held steady, the doors opened.

The Well-Dressed Man moved quickly into the room and took out the guards with perfect kill shots to the head and chest. As the guards fell, Mohammed and the Well-Dressed man sidestepped the sentries, as if they were nothing more than inanimate objects.

Very good, said the Navigator over his earpiece. One more obstacle. Remove the tangos and acquire the asset. Let me know when you have it.

Copy that. The Well-Dressed Man and Mohammed moved to the final set of doors, with the Well-Dressed Man making a quick observation that Mohammed continued to clutch the aluminum case as if it were a sacred item.

As they approached the doors, they quickly realized that this set was like all the others, with a mirror polish. In the upper right-hand corner of the room was a posted camera, the lens pointed in their direction.

The Well-Dressed Man immediately tapped his earpiece. We have a problem, he said. We have eyes on the wall.

That's not a problem at all, said the Navigator. I'm looping images that are almost ten minutes behind. All they see is an empty hallway.

So, we’re invisible?

For the moment.

With no need to add anything further, the assassin positioned himself by the door by grinding his feet and raising his weapon. Let's get this show going already.

Give me a few seconds to break through the firewalls, said the Navigator.

When the doors opened, the Well-Dressed Man slid inside the doorway and moved to his left, pulling the trigger in quick succession with his firearm going off in sounds that were no louder than spits.

. . . phfttt . . . phfttt . . . phfttt . . . phfttt . . .

The guard sitting behind the console took a clean headshot, killing him instantly, the power of the impact driving the man's body on his wheel-based chair to the wall behind them. The other two guards were not as slow to react. They raised their weapons with the points of the barrels coming up and center. The guard to the left of the console was able to give off a quick burst of gunfire, as the Well-Dressed Man ducked beneath shots that stitched across the wall in a horizontal pattern. From a crouching position, the Well-Dressed Man brought his weapon up and fired off two quick rounds. Both shots hit the guard at the center of body mass, knocking him off his stance. But the guard was wearing his Kevlar as he quickly realigned his weapon for the kill shot, but the Well-Dressed Man fired off a shot and hit the man in the throat and at the point of his Adam’s apple. The shot drove the guard to his knees with both hands clutching at his neck. The man's eyes were wide and filled with the surprise of his mortality as his blood drained quickly through the gaps between his fingers. Gagging and choking on his fluids, his eyes rolled up into his sockets until he showed nothing but white. Then the man finally succumbed and died in the position of someone who appeared to be paying homage to his God, that of dying on his knees.

The second guard was a little less coordinated in his maneuver to raise his firearm. Mohammed, also skillful with a firearm, took the man out with a pristine shot to the guard’s left eye, the exit wound exploding from the back of his skull as if it had all the consistency of a melon, the pulp of his brain matters then spotting the wall behind him with a Jackson Pollack design.

After the guards were downed, the Well-Dressed Man and Mohammed approached the console. Without saying a word, the Well-Dressed Man gestured to Mohammed to take position next to the frosted-pane doors that led to the lab.

The Well-Dressed Man tapped his Bluetooth. We're in, he said. The tangos are down.

Quite impressive, returned the Navigator.

Why? Did you doubt my skills?

The Navigator ignored the question. Instead, he continued to direct. You're practically there, he told him. You have two obstacles left. Both scientists. You know the protocols. No one is to be left behind.

Understood. The Well-Dressed Man tried to open the doors that led to the lab area, but they were locked. Now what?

Be patient, my friend.

From his covert position outside the facility, the Navigator was hacking into the system and altering the mainframe’s infrastructure. The eyes of the cameras became the eyes of the Navigator, making him omniscient and, in a sense, omnipotent, all-seeing, and all-knowing. He manipulated the security codes by readjusting programs, which enabled him to breach the facility’s defensive system.

At the ten-second mark, a bolt inside the frosted-pane door retracted, and the door opened easily as Mohammed and the Well-Dressed Man entered the room.

In another room that was situated behind a thick pane of glass were two scientists, both in hazmat suits, sitting at a workbench unaware of their presence.

The Well-Dressed Man tapped his Bluetooth. I got two more tangos in sight, he said softly. They’re wearing hazmats, so the area may be contaminated. Direct.

The area’s fine. The hazmats are simply a precaution as required by protocol.

And should there be an errant shot?

All unsafe assets are stored away. Once you’re inside, then I’ll direct you to their secured location. Now proceed. You’re twenty seconds behind. So, step it up since time is not a luxury.

Is time ever the luxury? the Well-Dressed Man thought.

Moving so they wouldn’t catch the attention of the scientists, and as soon as the doors opened with a soft hiss, the Well-Dressed Man stepped inside and, to the astonishment of the scientists who were too numbed to respond as he raised his weapon, he pumped several rounds that penetrated their suits, killing them. As they lay on the floor, deep red stains began to spread across the fabric of their suits in near-perfect circles.

From an inside camera, the Navigator saw everything. Very good. Now go to the eastside wall.

What direction is that?

Your left.

The Well-Dressed Man reacted accordingly by moving with quick efficiency. Against the eastside wall, stood a brushed-steel door with a displayed temperature reading of 28°F. To the left of it was a keypad. The Well-Dressed Man then proffered a thumbs-up gesture to the nearest mounted camera, a predetermined signal to the Navigator that he was ready. Moments later numerals began to scroll along the keypad’s window, deciphering the code. As soon as the cipher had been interpreted, there was the sound of bolts snickering as they pulled back into their circular sockets.

Quickly. Open the door. When the Navigator spoke, he did so with urgency. Their window of opportunity was closing, and fast.

After securing his weapon by placing it into his shoulder holster, the Well-Dressed Man open the door with the biohazard symbol on it and allowed cold vapors like the mist of dry ice to drift from the unit in lazy eddies. As soon as the fog dissipated, the Well-Dressed Man was looking at a single container roughly the size of a small index card holder sitting on a shelf, alone. Reaching inside, he carefully grabbed the container and placed it carefully on the nearest workbench.

Now open it, said the Navigator.

With two steady hands, the Well-Dressed Man undid the clasp and slowly peeled back the lid of the container. Inside and evenly packed in foam molding were twelve vials, each as long as a human forefinger. Instead of being rounded like most glass tubes, these tubes had six sides to them, a hexagonal shape. Carefully, he lifted one of the vials and examined it closely. It appeared empty.

Please be careful with that tube, stated the Navigator. Should you drop it, then you, Mohammed, and everyone within a half-mile of your position will be dead within moments.

The Well-Dressed Man returned the vial into its packing, then closed the lid.

Now, said the Navigator. Secure the asset and do what you need to do next.

The Well-Dressed Man gestured to Mohammed to place the aluminum case on the workbench. When he did, the Well-Dressed Man undid the clasps and opened the lid. Inside the case, which was a refrigerated unit, was a recess that had been perfectly bored out to fit the container to its exact specifications. The regulating program of the cooling system was set at 28°F, which was the same as the lab’s cooling unit. After securing the asset. He gave another thumbs-up toward the camera’s eye. Asset secured, he said evenly into his Bluetooth.

Almost thirty seconds behind. You know what to do. So do it and get out of there. It's only a matter of time before someone realizes that the timestamps on the monitors are behind. Once that realization is made, then there is nothing I can do to help you.

The Well-Dressed man turned to Mohammed and hesitated.

What are you waiting for? the Navigator stated