Sinners and Saints: The Vatican Knights, #12

By Rick Jones

In Geneva, a highly valued product with the power to cause major destruction is stolen from The CERN.  

Eighty kilometers from the Austrian border, a young girl becomes the key that controls the will of the man with the power to create and destroy.

In the mountainous regions of Switzerland, a hostile force from a pariah regime attempts to extract a scientist from a fast-moving train.

Kimball Hayden, lead commander of the Vatican Knights has been asked by the Vatican to retrieve a mysterious guest from Zurich and escort him to Rome by train.  Onboard the train, Kimball finds himself unwittingly caught up in the mix of an operation known as Scepter's Rule.  Even though the mysterious stranger tries to direct him, Kimball has an agenda of his own. Now, with the lives of more than 400 innocent people onboard the express, Kimball Hayden must become a sinner or a saint to achieve the means, and in the process must choose between damnation and salvation.

In Geneva, a highly valued product with the power to cause major destruction is stolen from The CERN.  

Eighty kilometers from the Austrian border, a young girl becomes the key that controls the will of the man with the power to create and destroy.

In the mountainous regions of Switzerland, a hostile force from a pariah regime attempts to extract a scientist from a fast-moving train.

Kimball Hayden, lead commander of the Vatican Knights has been asked by the Vatican to retrieve a mysterious guest from Zurich and escort him to Rome by train.  Onboard the train, Kimball finds himself unwittingly caught up in the mix of an operation known as Scepter's Rule.  Even though the mysterious stranger tries to direct him, Kimball has an agenda of his own. Now, with the lives of more than 400 innocent people onboard the express, Kimball Hayden must become a sinner or a saint to achieve the means, and in the process must choose between damnation and salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EmpirePRESS
• Release date: Jul 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540162960

Book preview

ALSO, BY RICK JONES:

Vatican Knights Series

The Vatican Knights

Shepherd One

The Iscariot Agenda

Pandora's Ark

The Bridge of Bones

Crosses to Bear

The Lost Cathedral

Dark Advent

Cabal

The Golgotha Pursuit

Targeted Killing

Stand Alone Novels

Familiar Stranger

The Valley

Mausoleum 2069

Hunter Series

Night of the Hunter

The Black Key

Theater of Operation

The Eden Series

The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

The Atlantis Series

City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

(COMING) The Sacred Vault (The Quest for the Emerald Tablet) (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

PROLOGUE

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Washington, D.C.

Three Days after the Targeted Killing Incident in Malta

Three days after escaping from Malta when a CIA liquidation squad designated him as a targeted killing, Kimball Hayden found himself walking the streets of D.C. as a man without a purpose or cause. All he had were the clothes on his back, a useless passport, a credit card that was quickly reaching its limit, and a cellphone with a cracked face.

He had given up his pursuit for the Light, eventually choosing damnation over salvation because it was an easy choice to make since it required no effort; damnation had claimed him long ago. And once it had its stake in him, he was forever damned.  Kimball knew there could be no bargaining with the Savior. He had forfeited that right when he killed his first without conscience.

The rain was coming down harder, plastering his shirt and hair, the man appearing numbed by all this as he walked with no destination in mind.

And then he thought about his damnation, how simple it came to him, unlike the Light. Had his Savior been telling him all along that his journey was a fruitless one? Weren’t the messages always there telling him that He would only bring upon Kimball the same Darkness he had brought upon others. In the end, there is only one crime: Robbery. By taking a life, hadn’t Kimball robbed a person of their life? Did he not rob a mother or a father of a child? Did he not rob a sibling of a brother or a sister? Did he not steal away entire family lines by taking away the lives of those before they had the chance to become mothers and fathers to their children? Did he not rob people of the wonderful gift of living out a full life?

Kimball never felt so pained on the inside with regret, a horrible pit that could never be filled as punishments had befallen him repeatedly. Those he had loved had been taken away from him in recompense, the Savior robbing Kimball of the feeling to feel good and whole. He had taken away those he had loved and grown close to. He had taken the lives of Sister Abigail and Bonasero Vessucci. He had taken the life of his father as they were about to mend a relationship that had been sour for years. He had taken from him as Kimball had taken from others, as his form of punishment.

The rain was coming down in sheets, the sky opening fully.

In the distance, he could see a church, a cathedral, a magnificent structure with a spire that reached for the sky. As Kimball neared this church, celestial staircases of lightning began to strike in the far distance, which was accompanied by thunder booms a few moments later.

Kimball then leaned against the wall of a building across the street from the cathedral and looked at the spire. It reminded him of that rainy day in Malta where the image of Christ on the Cross appeared to weep down at him with sadness. And he remembered trying to strike a bargain with God that if He should bring Shari Cohen back to him, then he would remain a Vatican Knight to the end of days, even if his soul was already condemned.

But she was dying, he knew that. God was taking her away from him as He took all the others. This was his punishment. This was his damnation. And he knew now that God doesn’t bargain with the soulless.

I know that now, he told himself.

Kimball slid down along the wall and sat on his backside, the rain soaking his clothes as he looked at the cross sitting high on the spire.

And then his phone vibrated. A call.

He removed it from his pocket and stared at the broken glass, the numbers appearing oddly scrambled. The call was from Father Damelio. Kimball had always called Damelio to find out about Shari’s condition, the man always by her bedside. Never had Father Damelio called him. For him to do so meant that Shari, too, had finally been taken.

Kimball looked at the cross at the top of the church as the phone continued to ring.

Then he took the call.

Mr. Hayden?

Yes, Father.

Can you please hang on for a moment?

Kimball couldn’t speak as he sensed his throat tightening.

Then: Kimball? The voice was tired and rough sounding. I heard you, the voice said. Every day you called, every day you spoke to me, I heard you. I heard every word you said. I was so scared, Kimball. It was always dark. But I always felt you beside me...inside this Darkness. You kept me safe. And every day when you spoke to me you were walking me toward the Light. I could feel this. I could feel you. But the closer I came to the Light when I was coming to, you began to fade away. You were staying behind in the Darkness. But I didn’t know why. And when I finally came to when I saw the light of the room...you weren’t there.

Then the phone beeped, the juice almost gone.

Kimball looked at the power meter. Less than two percent.

Back to his ear.

I felt you, Kimball. You brought me back. And for that—

The phone died.

Kimball looked at the cross on the spire as white lightning broke behind it. Then he looked skyward as rain mixed with tears, the man sobbing openly as the warm drops pelted him with this wonderful baptismal effect.

He had bargained with his Lord by promising to be forever true to the Vatican Knights should He bring her back to him.

Finally, His answer was ‘Yes.’

Shari Cohen’s voice had never sounded sweeter.

Kimball wept.

* * *

The old priest was lighting the candles inside the votive rack when the church doors opened. In the doorway’s arch was a man who stood silhouetted against a gun-metal gray backdrop created from an overcast sky.

The priest waved the match dead and placed it on the rack while keeping an eye on the shape as the drippings of rainwater pooled around his feet. Is there something I can help you with? the priest asked.

The shape didn’t respond, didn’t move.

Water continued to fall from him like the slow and annoying drip from a water faucet.

The priest took a step forward and repeated: Is there something I can help you with?

Kimball walked into the dim glow of light that was naturally cast through the stained-glass windows of the cathedral, he looked completely worn.

Please, offered the priest, come in.

Kimball walked to the burning candles of the votive rack and stood over them as the licks and curls of flames reflected off his eyes. In the wan glow of smoldering light, his skin took on a sickly hue that was cancer-yellow.

Are you all right, my son? the priest asked him.

Kimball continued to stare at the candles’ flames and watched the dancing of fire with a hypnotic gaze. Rain continued to drip from his clothes and hair, with small drops hanging precariously along the edge of his angular jawline before falling to the floor.

Are you hungry? the priest asked him.

Kimball continued to stare at the flames.

The church manages a shelter close by. The priest’s voice was comforting and honey-smooth. We can feed and provide you shelter if you want.

Then Kimball looked at the altar, at the intricate detail of the craftsmanship involved. Situated against the ornate backdrop was the image of Christ in crucifixion form. His arms were extended, a crown of thorns adorned his head, and his puncture wound from the point of Longinus’s spear appeared like a horrible slash that barely wept blood.

Here was a man who had died for man’s sins. Here was the man who looked down at Kimball Hayden with eyes that reflected like mirrors and appraised him with objectivity.

Thank you, Kimball finally whispered to the image.

The priest laid a hand upon Kimball’s shoulder, feeling the developed muscle tone beneath the wet fabric. Are you all right?

Thank you.

The priest didn’t know if Kimball was addressing him, or if he was so detached from his surroundings that nothing existed but he and the image of Christ, with the two locked in a conversion that was deeply personal and between them.

Then he turned to the priest and said, He finally said ‘yes.’

The priest appeared puzzled. To what?

Kimball closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, then released it with an equally long sigh as though he was relishing a fine thought. He had taken everyone I cared for from me. Everyone. So, I made a promise that if He returned her to me, then I would seek the Light once again with the blessings of the Vatican.

The priest didn’t know what Kimball was talking about, now wondering if the large man had mental health issues. Perhaps you’re tired, said the priest, trying to usher Kimball to one of the pews. But Kimball remained steadfast as he continued to stare at the image of Christ.

I can help you, the priest added.

Don’t need it, said Kimball. But thank you.

Then Kimball stared at the candles’ flames, saw how they danced and flickered with fluid rhythm. And somewhere outside a peal of thunder rolled, shaking the cathedral. Only to be followed by another toll of thunder that rattled the stained-glass windows in the pronouncement of almighty power and undiminished strength.

Kimball closed his eyes and felt the wash of an alien warmth exorcise the cold that had taken hold of him for so long. Then he told himself that there was so much more to do, so many ships to right.

Then after a long pause, he said in a whisper that was more to himself than to the priest: I’m going home.

Without acknowledging the cleric, Kimball turned from the altar, walked down the aisle of the nave, exited the cathedral, and entered the rain when a clap of riotous thunder opened up as if to tear the world asunder.

Chapter One

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St. Rose Dominican Hospital

Geneva, Switzerland

One Week Later

When Cardinal Angelo Conti entered the room of Frederic Bass, he was wearing a scarlet zucchetto, a black simar with red buttons and piping, and carried a briefcase.

For Frederic Bass—an aged man who was now in the twilight of his life—his beginning of the end began ten weeks ago when he spits a clot of blood onto the back of his hand. Stage-four lung cancer the doctor had told him, which had metastasized. And every day thereafter, his cells continued to run wild to stake new claims against otherwise healthy tissue. Oddly as the cancer was eating him alive, there was no pain or discomfort, only fatigue.

When Cardinal Conti closed the divide between them in the room with his hand held out, Frederic Becher sat up in bed with his hands ready to receive the cardinal’s in greeting. As soon as Becher embraced Conti’s hand within both of his, he brought the cleric’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of Cardinal Conti’s hand in an act of spiritual homage.

And then from Becher: It’s wonderful to see you, Angelo.

After placing a chair close to the bed, Cardinal Conti eased forward in his seat and rested a warm hand against Frederic’s forearm. And how are you today, my friend?

Better than expected, he told him. I am, however, tired.

I was informed by the clerics who tend to you that you sense your time is close.

Becher tipped his chin as a nod of validation.

The cardinal appeared saddened by this. Then: Just so you know, Frederic, the travel may be rough for a man in your position. The ride by train to Rome is nearly eight hours long.

It will be the last time I get to see such beautiful scenery, said Becher, from Switzerland to Rome where the mountains are snowcapped, and the fields are green. I want to see it all, Angelo. I want to absorb everything as if I was seeing this for the first time.

The cardinal nodded. And so, you shall, he said. The Vatican has been notified and arrangements are being made. Your final days, Frederic will be met with beauty and wonder. This I promise you. And you will be placed in a vault of honor beneath the Basilica where you belong.

Becher gave off a marginal but genuine smile of appreciation. Thank you.

The Vatican also asks a favor of you, Frederic. One of great importance. Something they feel you could manage before your moment of Glory.

I’m dying, Angelo. I’ve little to offer.

Cardinal Conti opened his briefcase, reached inside, pulled out a thick manila folder, and passed it over to Becher, who grabbed it with both hands that looked as thin and frail as the bones of a sparrow. What he grabbed was a biographical record.

While he lay there, he began to leaf through the pages using hands that were covered with crepe skin and liver spots. Kimball Hayden, he said simply.

The cardinal nodded. To know him is to know yourself, Frederic. He is a man in desperate need of vision. With Bonasero Vessucci now gone...Kimball Hayden must now lean on himself. Unfortunately, he is not equipped to do so.

Frederic Becher looked at the cardinal with eyes that had gone gray over the years after being a lustrous blue. What does this have to do with me? he asked him.

Who better, Frederic, than to give a lost soul hope...when the soul who is teaching him was once lost himself.

And Becher understood. From one morally corrupt person to another, is that it?

Save him, Frederic. As you have saved yourself.

I haven’t much time.

Nor does he, stated the cardinal. He vacillates between Darkness and Light, unsure of which way to turn. So perhaps, Frederic, in one man’s death lies another man’s resurrection.

Frederic Becher looked down at the bundle of papers on his lap. It’s not that simple, he said evenly. I skirted the Darkness and embraced it at one time. I was consumed by it. And I know that the journey to the Light is one of great difficulty. Even to this day, I wonder if the atrocities I committed in the past can ever have His forgiveness while wondering at the same time if I’ll ever see the Light of Loving Spirits or the Darkness of Damnation.

The cardinal reached out a hand to squeeze Bass’s shoulder, a soft touch. God forgives those who are truly repentant for their sins, he told him. You have proven yourself worthy to achieve His glory. You, Frederic, after all, became the lighted spark that continues to exist today.

Becher smiled at this. The Vatican Knights, he said.

The cardinal nodded. The Vatican Knights.

Frederic glossed over a few pages and made a few mental notes regarding Kimball Hayden. I’ve heard of him, he said. Kimball Hayden. Once an assassin for the United States government working on black operations committing acts of atrocity with impunity. Men, women, and children died by his hands.

Sound similar?

I never killed children.

There was a moment of silence, a pregnant pause, as he continued to pour over additional sheets of information. And then: And now he has discovered his conscience.

He is a good man who remains lost. The Vatican needs you to guide him toward the Light.

I can only guide him so far, Becher said. The rest is up to him. I’m sure Bonasero has led the way for so long, and yet Hayden continues to be lost. He looked up from the papers and turned to the cardinal. Why would that be?

The good Bonasero Vessucci lost his life before he could finish taking Kimball Hayden to the fringe of Light.

And because of Bonasero’s death...Kimball continues to live in the Gray since he skirts the Darkness.

The cardinal said nothing.

So, Frederic Becher continued to read. A moment later, he said in a tired voice, Kimball Hayden. The priest who is not a priest. He set the records aside and sighed. In whatever time I have left, Angelo, I will guide him to the best of my abilities.

Thank you.

Becher held up the papers. But from what I’ve read...he appears to be a lost cause.

Nobody, said the cardinal, is a lost cause.

We shall see. Becher lowered the papers to his lap.

Please, Frederic, show him the way to the Light. Make him believe that the Light is not a mystery. But something known and reachable.

Becher didn’t know if this was true as doubt existed in his mind—the man always wondering if God would exempt the great sins from his life such as the killings, the murders, or the blood spilled by hands that were now too frail to do much of anything. All I can promise, my friend, is that I can try. But if a man is too far gone, if he believes that redemption is unattainable, there’s nothing I can do. As I said, in the end, it’s up to him. And the hardest thing for any man to do, Angelo, is to forgive himself. If he cannot do this— He let his words hang, the manner of doing so answer enough.

I understand, the cardinal said, standing. With the briefcase in his hand, he asked Becher one last thing: "Are there any personal belongings you wish to take along for your