The Golgotha Pursuit: The Vatican Knights, #10

By Rick Jones

After the march on the Vatican by the Islamic State, the radical group begins its push deeper into the European and American Fronts. But when the True Cross—the wooden remnants of the cross Jesus was crucified upon and the holiest of all relics—is stolen from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre by the Islamic State, it becomes clear that the relic is to be bartered to an arms dealer for weapons so devastating that Europe and the United States could be rocked to their very foundations. So when the Vatican Knights are called to retrieve the artifact before the weapons' exchange can take place, the team quickly finds themselves up against an elite paramilitary group. But can the Vatican Knights retrieve the True Cross in time and return it to the vault above Golgotha Hill? Or will the Islamic State finally get a stranglehold on the American and European states . . . and bring the continents to their knees?

• Language: English
• Publisher: EmpirePRESS
• Release date: Apr 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533779212

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Jerusalem

September 14, 326 A.D.

Helena, the mother of Constantine and the First Lady of the Empire, stands along the rim of an excavation site with the sun shrouded by a thin veil of clouds. Its light is dimmed and muted. Yet when the clouds part briefly, the sun sends down a Biblical beam into the pit for which Helena believes is a divine sign from God.

After Helena ordered the pagan temple that once sat upon Golgotha razed, her laborers began to dig upon the site where she believed the cross on which Jesus had been crucified lay buried beneath the sands.

Digging was glacially slow. But on September 14, 326 A.D., a digger struck something solid approximately 10 meters down. With careful sweeps of his hand, he moved aside the dry earth to reveal the surface of wood. The plane of its geometry was level like the face of a writing tablet, though the wood had splintered along its edges. The inscribed letters upon its surface had faded over time, but the inscription could still be read:

INRI

Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdaeorvm. Translation: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

As the digging continued, a cross was uncovered along with two others.

Once the crosses had been unearthed, Helena then ordered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to be built on the hill of the Savior’s execution on Golgotha, with remnants of the True Cross to be stored inside the church where it would reside for nearly seventeen hundred years.

On June 26th, 2016, the residency of the True Cross would forever change.

CHAPTER ONE

Boston, Massachusetts

Three Years Ago

Oliver Beckett was sitting at the Au Bon Pain with his legs crossed in leisure while nursing a cup of Earl Grey tea. The bulky pages of the Boston Globe sat along the edge of the table with the newspaper neatly folded. He was splendidly polished and refined looking, like most English gentlemen of wealth, who sat with a certain rigidity as part of his pose. Though he hailed from London, he shared time between his numerous estates not only throughout the United Kingdom, but those in Paris and Barcelona and on the island of Malta.

His demeanor was always even regardless of the levels of stress. In his mind, he was the absolute point of the people’s adoration. Whether it be politics or religion or as an entertainer, Oliver Beckett believed himself to be the pinnacle above all else since everything began and ended with him; life, death, and everything else in between. There was nobody more self-centered, and no one closer to being a god.

He had amassed his fortune as a supplier of arms and weaponry. Selling weapons on the market was just as much of a certainty of making a profit since war and killing had been the backbone of man’s existence. And because of this Oliver Beckett had chosen his trade wisely. There would always be a market for his goods.

The day was almost perfect except for a couple of renegade clouds passing overhead. It was warm and humid. But Beckett never seemed to perspire, and that’s what refined gentlemen like him do, they perspire, they never sweat. Hot or cold, the man always looked comfortable in his designer suits.

Ten minutes after Beckett’s arrival to the Au Bon Pain, a short man showed up and took the seat opposite the Brit. He appeared nervous and impatient, the man looking as if he wanted the moment over before it had a chance to begin. The nametag he was wearing read Calvin Locke. He was the chief engineer and weapons designer for SystemTek in charge of devising state-of-the-art weaponry for the U.S. government and its military divisions. It was obvious to Beckett that the engineer was tense and uncomfortable.

Relax, Mr. Locke, said Beckett. His English accent had a regal appeal to it, that of a well-educated man. He placed a hand on the Globe as it rested close to the table’s edge.

Let’s get this over with, said Locke.

If you insist. Beckett reached down to his side, grabbed a small laptop, placed it on the table, opened the lid, booted it, typed in a series of commands, and brought up a gallery of photos. Before I show you these, Mr. Locke, you need to give me what I asked for. Beckett held out his hand. The drive, please.

Oh, no. First things first. You need to show me that they’re all right.

Beckett didn’t waver. The drive, please.

My family.

They pinned each other with stares for a long moment, a standoff. Finally, Beckett conceded his position. Very well, Mr. Locke. He turned the laptop around so that the screen was facing Locke, whose chin suddenly took on a gelatinous quiver to it while his eyes began to well with tears.

On the screen was a series of photos of his wife and daughter. Both were bound by handcuffs. Duct tape had been stretched across their mouths. And those looks of paralytic horror, the way the whites of their eyes spoke volumes of terror that was complete and absolute—at least to Beckett—was priceless.

Beckett flexed his fingers over his open palm, a signal to Locke to hand over the thumb drive. Which he did, but reluctantly so.

Now release my family as promised?

Of course, Mr. Locke. A deal’s a deal.

Beckett turned the laptop so that the screen faced him, inserted the thumb drive into its appropriate slot, and downloaded the images. Within seconds the schematic to the M600 SR Squad-Level Precision Guided 5.56 Service Rifle surfaced on the screen. The thrill of a shiver ran along Beckett’s spine like a cold finger. Here was the weapon that would revolutionize ground warfare.

Beckett faced off with Locke. And this schematic, is it the prototype? . . . Or is it the version of the weapon in its completion?

Both, Locke returned. It works. The precision-guiding system has been perfected.

Nice, said Beckett. Very nice.

Now my family.

Beckett closed the hood to the laptop and offered Locke a neutral look. The Department of Defense will know that you downloaded the images from your PC. Eventually, they’ll track it to you. And certainly, questions as to ‘why’ by certain high-end principals will be raised.

I completely sanitized my trail, he said. No one will ever find out. Believe me.

They will, said Beckett. No matter what you think you know about hiding your cyber footsteps, the DOD has the ability and talents to discover the source of the download. And that, Mr. Locke, is you. So, I must admit that you’ve become quite a loose end.

I gave you what you wanted, said Locke. Now give me my family.

Beckett feigned a marginal smile. I wish that was possible, he answered. I really do.

Locke gave him a quizzical look. What?

Locke was so absorbed with the images on the laptop, he never saw Beckett reach for the suppressed weapon hidden inside the newspaper, until the moment he directed it at Locke. I’m afraid that your wife and daughter are no longer amongst us. And by that, I mean the living. I took care of that little problem this morning . . . So, as I said, Mr. Locke, I can’t afford any loose ends. Loose ends aren’t good for business, you know.

Locke could see the dark eye of the firearm’s barrel peeking out from the folds of the newspaper.

Goodbye, Mr. Locke, said Beckett. And thank you for everything.

The weapon went off as muted spits, two shots to center mass. Locke reacted violently against the impacts, the man convulsing, but the body quickly settled as Locke’s chin slowly lowered to such a level that it nearly touched his chest.

The area was empty so late in the afternoon on such a day that was hot and humid.

Locke had demanded a meeting in a public forum, which Beckett agreed to. But Beckett chose an area that would have provided him with an opportunity of a daytime strike. No eyes to see, no witnesses to bear testimony. It had all gone down as Beckett expected.

Beckett got to his feet, the man casual in his movements, slow and deliberate, grabbed the laptop, and then he did something peculiar. He ran his finely manicured fingers through Locke’s hair. Do say hello to your wife and daughter for me, will you?

And then Oliver Beckett disappeared.

CHAPTER TWO

Office of the Monsignor, the Vatican

February 11th, 2016

Four Months after the Death of Bonasero Vessucci (Pope Pius XIV)

Monsignor Dom Giammacio sat in a winged-back chair of fine leather smoking a cigarette. Sitting across from him was Kimball Hayden, the most elite of the Vatican Knights. When Bonasero Vessucci reigned as pope, he requested that Kimball see the monsignor to deal with issues of his self-proposed feelings that he was beyond the reach of redemption. Now that Bonasero was no longer serving as the Bishop of Rome, Kimball had never felt so hollow. When he first attended these sessions, he did so after an appeal by the pontiff. Now he entered into counsel with the monsignor voluntarily, trying to make sense of life after Bonasero.

You say you feel empty, said the monsignor. Did you not feel empty when you stated that redemption was beyond your reach?

This has got nothing to do with redemption, said Kimball. "You know what this is about."

The monsignor nodded. You miss him. This was not a question, but a statement.

I do. Greatly. He was more of a father to me than my true father.

So, we have discussed.

I’m at a crossroad here, Monsignor. I’m a Vatican Knight. We protect those who cannot protect themselves. I get that. But it’s endless. We knock down one evil only for another to rise.

Evil cannot be defeated, the monsignor said evenly. It can only be contained. If you doubt your ability to continue, if you begin to question your effectiveness to fight your way through this, then evil has won. Bonasero realized this and I'm sure, before he died, he knew that you would soldier on. But it must be within your heart to do so, Kimball. In the end, the decision is yours to make, not Bonasero’s.

Kimball sighed through his nostrils as he appeared to mull this over. Then: I’ve been thinking about having a family and a home away from the Vatican.

Is this what you want?

Kimball shrugged. I . . . just think about it.

You have doubts about the future now that Bonasero is gone. Is your redemption no longer important to you?

Kimball turned to the monsignor. I need direction.

No, Kimball. Bonasero is gone. Now it’s time for you to stand on your own.

It was not the answer Kimball wanted to hear.

Then from the monsignor: Did that strike a chord with you when I said that you must stand alone?

Bonasero understood me. He knew me.

And now it is up to you to understand yourself.

Life was so much simpler when Bonasero stood by his side, Kimball thought. It was so much easier and far more linear. Now it had curves and dips.

The monsignor leaned forward in his chair with a cigarette wedged between two fingers. A ribbon of smoke rose ceilingward. In the end, you must make a decision that’s best for you, he said. "Not what Bonasero might have expected from you. His heavenly soul is now at rest. But I’m sure, Kimball, he looks over you and wants what’s best for you."

Kimball looked at him with an appearance that the monsignor could not read or intuit.

Then the monsignor asked: Do you want to continue your journey to seek the Light of Redemption? I only ask this, Kimball, because of two reasons: you’ve come to your journey’s end believing that God has finally embraced you, which is why you think of a life away from the Vatican. Or perhaps you’ve come to accept that He has forsaken you entirely, which means that you have surrendered to your fate of damnation. The monsignor continued to drive his point. You stand in the middle, Kimball, between the Darkness of the Light not knowing which way to turn. Bonasero is gone. He has shown you the path. Now it’s up to you to realize the direction he has pointed you in and take the divine route you covet so much. You’ve earned the right. Take it not only in your mind . . . but also within your heart. Peace is there waiting for you.

Kimball started to bite his lower lip. I can’t, he finally said. It’s not that simple. Not for me. I know I’m not there yet.

You’re not where? At the point of self-forgiveness? Or at the point of God’s salvation?

Both.

Eventually you must decide, Kimball. You either move on from the Vatican feeling as a man never to receive redemption, or you seek it because it’s what you want to do. The answer lies within you. This is what Bonasero has been trying to teach you all along. This has always been the reason why he sent you here.

Stand or fall, this is what Kimball had to decide.

Stand or fall.

Kimball sat straight in his seat, rigid. Since the day I found my mother lying dead in the hallway by the hands of a killer, he began, it was also the day I became wired differently from most. Light or Darkness I stand in the middle and probably will for the rest of my life. I live in the Gray, Monsignor. And inside the Gray I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. Only now I do it to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

You will always be challenged on this issue, said the monsignor. It’s how evil works. It plants the seeds of doubt in your mind and allows it to take root. And a man can’t work on questionable doubts. If doubts exist, even minutely, then you’ll need to move on from the church. But if your heart speaks differently, Kimball, then move forward as a Vatican Knight. If you choose the latter, always expect doubt to be your greatest enemy in the long run. Because in the end, your conviction to the church must be pure and absolute.

Kimball thought this over, the period of thought lasting seconds. I have wants and needs like everyone else, Monsignor. But I also know that I’m wired differently and don’t fit into some norms of society. Being a Vatican Knight is the only thing I know how to do. How to be. But I also know that I struggle as a person outside these walls.

And you’ll continue to struggle with this, said the monsignor, "until you believe in the power of the Light."

Kimball stood. I walk in the Gray, he said drily. It’s where I’m most comfortable and it’s where I belong.

Remember the lessons that Bonasero has taught you. Take a step towards the Light. Just one. Sometimes it only takes a single step.

I can’t, Kimball said dispiritedly. That right isn’t mine to take. Not now. And maybe not ever. All I can tell you, Monsignor, is that I’ll do my best . . . And what else does a man have left if he doesn’t do his best, right?

Without adding anything additional, Kimball left.

#

Kimball sat before the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci beneath the church. The chamber was small and cramped, but pristine and peaceful. The tomb was made of marble with bas-reliefs of cherubs and angels leading the way to Heaven, with Heaven represented by engraved beams that appeared to flow downward from the carvings of spherical-shaped clouds.

Lowering his head, Kimball thought: How are you, my old friend?

I’m good. Every moment you come by is a blessing, you know that. It tells me that you have chosen to continue your journey to seek the Light.

This isn’t about redemption anymore.

A beat. Then: You’re angry.

I am.

There are men out there you seek. Men responsible for my death.

Yes.

And now you see the need for retaliation.

I do.

Kimball, this is not the way.

It’s my way, Bonasero. You know this. You accepted this.

I accepted you as a man who was deeply tortured and gave you the necessary direction to channel the goodness that runs deep inside you. I picked you up when you stumbled. I brought you to the Light where you have stood upon its threshold for so long, and now you’re about to slip back into the Darkness.

Kimball sighed. Bonasero’s voice was so clear. But it sounded different. It sounded more like Kimball’s inner voice.

Bonasero, the Light rejects me because I cannot change. I am who I am. All my life I have walked in the Gray. That’s where I belong.

No, Kimball. The Light has not rejected you. It’s as accepting of you as does the Darkness. You stand in the Gray. Now that I’m gone, it’s time for you to make a choice.

The man responsible for your death . . . His name is Mabus.

Leave it be, Kimball.

I can’t.

Killing him, Kimball, will not bring me back.

He kills so many innocent people. Good people.

There was a long stretch of silence.

Bonasero?

Kimball, all I ask of you is to think about it. Take one step forward into the Light and stay there. Don’t let anger consume you. If you allow it to do so, then you will never find true peace. Will you take that step forward?

I’ve been taking that step all my life. But something happens that sets me back two steps, back into the Gray.

I’m afraid, Kimball, that if you falter by following through with your dark ambitions, then you will fall from the Gray and into the Darkness. You will finally fall from Grace and the personal redemption you seek will be forever lost.

Kimball patted the tomb lovingly. I’ll try, Bonasero.

Take the leap forward, Kimball. And there you shall find peace.

But Kimball knew he wasn’t equipped to follow the path toward the Light. He never was. All he knew was that he would at least make a valiant attempt, and ultimately fail in the end. The Gray was his comfort zone. Here he could differentiate between justice and law without boundaries. And it was here that he could act with the same lack of restrictions.

I’ll talk to you soon, he thought to Bonasero. But his thoughts remained empty with no response from the former pope. Just . . . silence.

Getting to his feet with his head nearly touching the low-level ceiling, Kimball brushed his hand appreciatively over the surface of the tomb and left the chamber.

CHAPTER THREE

Outside Washington, D.C.

April 5th, 2016

Shari Cohen directed the FBI’s Response Unit, the HRT, an elite force within the organization. Today they were after a domestic group of home-grown terrorists that were responsible for multiple killings in the D.C. area. They were radicals—Americans, actually—who had converted to Islam while incarcerated in state penitentiaries. There they had found a different kind of God, one who condoned the killing of another man because there was zero tolerance against those whose tenets were not in line with those of the Koran. And prison had become the perfect breeding ground for altering states of mind. People whose lives held nothing, but voids were now filled with indescribable hatred and darker purposes. Finally, they had a cause to rebel against.

A group had set up in an old warehouse beyond the outskirts of D.C. It was an old complex that died long ago when jobs had been farmed out to foreign markets to lower labor costs. Now a husk of a building, it now accommodates religious fanatics who lived and died by the will of Allah.

Shari commanded from a distance, from inside a cubed van that had banks of monitors lining both walls. She was wearing a blue-tooth type device with a lip mic and earbud, then directed the team to take the appropriate position for the pending assault.

The teams had set a perimeter and were ready to storm the premise from all fronts. When the teams were in place, she gave the command for the units to move forward.

It was night, which meant the advantage went to the FBI’s paramilitary unit since they had night-vision goggles. Nevertheless, the night lit up through the windows of the warehouse in a series of muzzle flashes that gave off strobe-like effects. And in the end, with ten dead and twenty-four captured, it would be those accumulated deaths that Special Agent Cohen would be held responsible for by someone who was not present at the time of the takedown.

And it would be by the hand of this terrorist that she would pay dearly.

#

Bethesda, Maryland

Following Day

His real name was Montrell Thompson. But his converted name was Mohammad Allawi, a three-time felon who had a dangerously high I.Q. in the Mensa range but wasted his gifts on bad choices which earned him prison time. Now that he was valueless in society’s eyes, he created his worth in prison by finding a God who accepted him as he was. While behind bars he had discovered purpose and belonging, realizing that he was wanted when he was never wanted before. And because Mohammad Allawi was a man whose interests centered on electronics and switches, and on developing and devising high- to low-end explosive devices, he also became a person in demand. So, by the time his conversion was completed inside the Brockbridge Correctional Facility, he was sure that it had been Allah who had originally bestowed upon him these gifts. He just needed to realize this. And with this realization came the understanding of his existence: He now had a cause.

But the cause was quashed, and his team gone.

A day after the raid by the FBI in the warehouse he had established to create his