The Eye of Moses: The Vatican Knights, #22

By Rick Jones

In France, a member of a secret guild is killed for the secrets he keeps.

 

In Croatia, a stronghold is breached, and a treasure is stolen.

 

At the Vatican, a corrupt pontiff views Kimball Hayden as a threat to his rule. 

 

When a Croatian stronghold is breached and scores are killed, a religious icon is stolen that contains a dark particle that's powerful enough to either create worlds or destroy them. It is an element so strong and deemed so uncontrollable, that a group known as the Shadow Klan wants to harness its power to create a weapon of mass destruction that is so great and should they succeed, they would hold the scepter of global rule. Superpowers would fall under their dominance and their decrees with the broken wills of world leaders surrendering to bended knees. 

 

With a corrupt pontiff who sees Kimball Hayden as a threat to his power, Pope Clement XV mobilizes the Vatican Knight without his team to retrieve the dark particle known as the Eye of Moses, in hopes that this will lead to Kimball's ultimate downfall.  

 

Forced to work in tandem with a guild known as the Consortium Group, Kimball Hayden quickly discovers that the Shadow Klan is the most notorious enemy he has ever faced in a high-stakes game where the consequences are enormous and the chances of succeeding are small. 

 

Without the Vatican Knights by his side, will Kimball be able to retrieve a treasure that contains the power of Providence? Did Pope Clement XV wittingly set Kimball up to fail? Or will he forever take residence within the Darkness that he has lived in for so long without hope of redemption?   

 

From the author of the national and international bestselling series, Rick Jones once again weaves another tale of adventure and nonstop action. 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Jones
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393851202

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Mayfair, the West End of London

Nineteen Days Ago

On a beautiful evening with streamers of fading light disappearing beyond the horizon, Wendall J. Somerset could not have been happier. Not only did he live in one of the most affluent locations in London, but he also adored his family. And since little in life was perfect, he considered his wife and daughter to be close to it.

Getting off the tube at Mayfair, Somerset stopped by a flower shop to purchase a colorful arrangement of roses before continuing to his residential flat. Entering his home, he called out to his wife from the foyer while placing his fedora on the entry table, then walked into the dining room with the bouquet in hand. Within the subsequent moments that seemed to move with the slowness of a bad dream, Wendall J. Somerset released the bouquet to the parquet floor.

Sitting at the table with his wife and daughter was a man with a pallid complexion, shock-white hair, and eyes so pale they appeared almost entirely white. When Somerset tried to pin the stranger with a matching stare, it was as though he was looking directly through the man.

Good evening, Mr. Copernicus, the stranger stated evenly. In his hand and directed to his daughter’s head was a suppressed Glock. Across the table and sitting with paralytic terror was Somerset’s wife, whose eyes darted inquisitively from her husband to the stranger as their daughter wept. Then from the stranger whose measure remained strangely indifferent, he said, You’re ten minutes late. Looking at the roses on the floor, he added, But now I see why.

What do you want?

What I want from you, Mr. Copernicus, is the answer to a single question. That’s all I’m asking for.

At the mention of the name ‘Copernicus,’ Somerset let a facial tic slip that was noticed by the man holding the Glock.

I see, the pale man said after intuiting the movement. You obviously left your family in the dark regarding certain moments of your life, didn’t you? Choosing to be a man of mystery by allowing your family to live with a lie. He turned to Somerset’s wife. Did you think that your husband could provide you with such a lavish lifestyle in one of the most affluent places in London simply on an accountant’s salary? Or did you turn a blind eye because you were afraid to learn the truth in fear that it might all go away? Then he cocked his head like a baffled dog to study her features before he made his conclusion. No, he said, I believe you really thought that he was an accountant. He turned to Somerset. "Isn’t that right, Mr. Copernicus? You lied to your family as to who you really work for. Or what you really do." Then the stranger clicked his tongue several times as if to shame Somerset, though in jest.

I don’t have anything you want, Somerset informed the stranger. Believe me.

Believe you? I believe you have the answer I’m looking for, Mr. Copernicus. And I plan to get it.

Then from his daughter who, in between hitching gasps, asked, Why does he keep . . . calling you . . . Mr. Coperni—

Somerset cut her off by patting the air with his hands. It’s going to be all right, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.

Then the stranger whispered into the daughter’s ear with the point of his weapon pressed to her temple, causing the flesh to dimple beneath its touch. Yes, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine as soon as your father tells me what I want to know.

At this precise moment when Somerset saw his daughter sobbing with indescribable fear, it was then that his integrity broke down to the point of disavowing any honorable oaths he had taken to conceal ancient secrets. Then, and in a voice that was on the edge of cracking, he said, Please . . . All I ask is that you don’t hurt my family. I’ll give you whatever you want. Whatever you need.

I know you will.

The man was so calm and so contained with a skinny range of emotions, Somerset had come to realize that this stranger was more than capable of committing murder without a conscionable pang of guilt.

What do you want? Somerset asked him. Why are you here?

After a moment of dramatic pause, the stranger finally said, I want to know where the key is.

The key? What key? I have no idea what you’re talking—

The man turned the Glock on Somerset’s wife and pulled the trigger, the dampened sound no louder than a spit. A moment before she fell back with the force of the round’s impact, a bullet hole magically appeared in the center of her forehead as a bloodless wound.

As Somerset’s daughter cried out, the assassin cupped a hand around her mouth to shush her. With his other hand, he directed the weapon at Somerset. This could have been avoided, he said. You could have saved her life if you had told me what I needed to know, Mr. Copernicus. Her death is on you.

Somerset’s vision began to turn purple along the edges before darkness started to inch inward. Then his legs appeared to take on a boneless wobble to them and threatened to buckle.

Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Copernicus.

Appearing adrift with his wife on the floor and her eyes at half-mast, Somerset fell into a chair and cradled his head within his hands, the man finally breaking.

Come-come, Mr. Copernicus. You still have a lovely daughter, yes?

Thick strands of hair bled through the gaps between Somerset’s fingers, as he clenched his pompadour mane. Please don’t hurt my baby. The man sounded so lost and empty; all he could cling to was marginal hope that everything would work itself out in the end. I’m begging you.

The assassin turned to Somerset’s daughter. What’s your name sweetheart?

Through hitches and sobs, she answered, Amy.

Amy. He nodded at this as though he approved. Then: That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. How old are you, Amy?

Thirteen.

Thirteen. A teenager. How about that? Then he returned his focus on Somerset, who was watching every move of the assassin from eyes that had a hot and rheumy thickness to them. A very pretty girl for thirteen, Mr. Copernicus. For sure. Can you even begin to imagine how beautiful she would be at twenty-one? After a beat, the stranger added, That is, of course, if she lives to reach that momentous time of her life, which is completely up to you.

Do I have your word on that?

My word is as good as my bond, Mr. Copernicus. All I ask is that you give me what I want. It’s that simple.

Somerset began to size up the situation and saw nothing but dead ends. His only option was to concede and hope for the best.

Are you ready, Mr. Copernicus? When the stranger pressed the point of his weapon harder against Amy’s temple, she arched her back and gave off a mewling sound. In turn, the man with the Glock spoke softly into her ear, his voice calming and soothing. As your father promised, my dear, everything will be fine once he tells me what I need to know. Then he turned to Somerset and with a slight edge to his tone, he asked, Where’s the key?

After committing the sin of hesitating, which caused the assassin to flex his trigger finger, Wendall J. Somerset told the man everything about the key, its location, and how to resurrect it from its grave.

Moments later, the assassin left Somerset’s flat in Mayfair untrue to his word.

He made sure that there were no loose ends.

CHAPTER TWO

Collégiale Saint-Laurent

Salon-de-Provence, France

Early Morning Hours, Eighteen days Ago

Close to the Collégiale Saint-Laurent in Salon-de-Provence in France, a man dressed entirely in black walked along the streets during the early hours of the morning carrying a weighted satchel. As he walked beneath the sodium-vapor lamps, his shadow waxed and waned as he moved from one cone of light and into another. The air was damp and chilly, at least enough for him to hike the collar of his coat around his neck. At so early an hour when the streets were vacant, the clicks from his footfalls echoed.

When he reached the door to the Collégiale Saint-Laurent, the man removed a lock pick Snap Gun from the inner pocket of his coat, inserted the points into the lock, and engaged the device. Multiple muted clicks sounded off as the trigger-powered needles maneuvered through the locking mechanism to strike all the pins at once, unlocking it. Once the Snap Gun did what it was invented to do, the man returned the unit to his pocket, grabbed his satchel, and entered the ossuary.

Walking down a cramped hallway, he could see the aura of burning candles peeking out from a doorway at the end. The moment he entered the chamber—which was heavy with the scent of melted wax—he noted the number of candles that burned close to a tomb.

Against the far wall was a memorializing plaque in French in regard to Michel de Nostredame, who died in 1566, and his wonders of foresight. Here were the remains of Nostradamus who had been reinterred inside this tomb in Salon-de-Provence, after having been transferred from a Franciscan chapel.

Moving away from the honorary plaque and toward an ornately designed tomb, the man searched for the seams between the tomb’s body and its lid. But he quickly discovered that the stone cover was tight-fitting as if hermetically sealed.

Opening his satchel, he removed a crowbar, a hammer, a chisel, then laid them aside. First, he attempted to soften the lid’s grip by jamming the crowbar between the crack where the lid and body met, then working the crowbar as if he were cranking the handle of a well. Seeing that he was getting nowhere, he grabbed the hammer and chisel and began to break away the cement that held the lid firm.

With the echoes of his hammering sounding off louder than he wanted, he would often stop and listen for a member of France’s Police Nationale, should they have been alerted. When silence bounced back, he continued his efforts to loosen the tomb’s cap. Within three hours, and after working up enough perspiration to reveal the Rorschach sweat stains that formed on the back and underarms of his shirt, the man was able to move the lid, though it was only a few inches. With more hammering, he was able to loosen it enough to slide the entire cap off the tomb and to the floor. Grabbing a flashlight, the man in dark clothing scanned the tomb’s interior. Scattered bones were lying within the vault—a femur, a tibia, ribs, a grinning skull. While running the light, he questioned if these were truly the reinterred bones of Nostradamus, since some were stained a deep-coffee color, whereas others appeared to have been bleached white.

Casting the bones aside as though they were nothing more than annoying playthings, he brushed away an area of cement where the head would normally lie, then brought the head of a steel mallet to the vault floor. Cracks began to show themselves, the floor weakening. Then after being nearly spent with the weight of the hammer almost too heavy to bear, the vault’s floor finally gave way. Reaching inside, the man started to toss broken stones and debris aside until he saw a glitter of gold within the recess.

After setting aside more stones, he grabbed the item and held it aloft. In the cast of burning candles, the polished gold-plating of a crucible that was about the size of an ancient column krater, which was a vase-like bowl, shined as though it was truly divine. On the side of this vessel was an emblem. It was the Red Cross of the Knights Templar.

The man with the incredibly pale eyes smiled. The key, he whispered. In his hands was a world of riches that was far greater than the wealth of the Templars, he considered. Here, cupped within his hands, was the key that could access a power so great it could diminish continents down to ruins.

Quickly, the man gathered his items, stowed them into his bag, and just as he was about to get to his feet, heard approaching footsteps. His mission had been compromised, which really came as no surprise to him with all the hammering.

The footsteps became louder, grew closer. At least two people, he considered, maybe three.

Two officers of the Police Nationale rushed into the chamber with their weapons drawn, both demanding in French for the man to take to the floor in the prone position.

Then in a moment too fast for the officers to comprehend, the man removed his hand from the satchel, drew a suppressed weapon, and pulled the trigger in quick succession.

. . . Phfft . . .

. . . Phfft . . .

. . . Phfft . . .

. . . Phfft . . .

Four muted shots were divided equally between the officers, with two shots each to center mass.

After the officers fell to the floor as gelatinous heaps, the man whose eyes were so pale that they appeared entirely white within their hollows, placed the crucible within the bag and took flight.

In the background, as the keen wail of sirens drew closer to the Collégiale Saint-Laurent, police would discover two downed officers inside the chamber along with the scattered bones of an aged seer, and a vault whose floor had been compromised.

Somewhere in the dark streets of Salon-de-Provence, a killer ran free.

* * *

The assassin was breathing heavily as he closed the door of his apartment, went to a nearby table, and dropped the satchel to the floor. Clamped to the edge of this table was a jeweler’s magnifying lamp with a 5-diopter distortion free lens and a Circline spotlight to eliminate shadows.

After hitting the ‘on’ switch to the spotlight, he delved into the bag and retrieved the crucible. The assassin carefully placed the receptacle on the table, moved the lens over the bowl to shed light against the crucible’s interior, then looked through the magnifier.

There were countless symbols engraved onto the bowl’s interior wall—script, ciphers and ancient markings circled inside the crucible in a pattern that resembled a nautilus spiral. There were thousands of small etchings that had been created to serve as keys to unlock the world’s greatest mysteries.

The assassin, with his pale eye magnified in the lens, looked on with studious admiration.

Here was the crucible that had been used by Nostradamus to forecast the future.

Easing back into his seat, the assassin picked up a cellphone and dialed a quick-contact number with a single tap on the keypad. After a series of clicks, he was connected.

It’s Salt, he said. I have the key. It was exactly where Mr. Copernicus said it would be.

Are you sure it’s a true relic and not a red-herring facsimile?

It’s the true article, the assassin stated evenly. But it’ll need further evaluation by the Master Tech to confirm the finding.

"Very well, then. Get it to Deep Mountain as soon as you can."

It’ll be there by tomorrow, Salt told him.

When the call was severed, the man who called himself Salt removed the SIM card from the cellphone and destroyed it.

After placing the crucible inside the satchel, the assassin headed for the home base of Deep Mountain, which was a stronghold facility located along the peaks of the Swiss Alps.

CHAPTER THREE

Apatin, Croatia

Present day, Early Morning Hours

Hister is the Latin name for the part of the Danube in what is now northwestern Croatia. And on the night of a gibbous moon and standing close to the banks of the river, a six-man unit dressed in Robocop shin, knee, forearm and elbow guards constructed from a special composite, and Kevlar helmets that had a boon of gadgetry that ran along the top of their heads like a Mohawk, moved through the shadows with military sophistication.

Approximately fifty meters from their position after Team Leader halted his troops within a copse of pines was a concrete bunker. Its vault-like doorway was built into the side of a hill that was blanketed with manicured grass. On the wall next to the door was a high-tech ocular scanner. In order to gain access, not only did the system measure the threads of red lining in one’s eye, it also measured the pulsations to assure that the authorized member was still active. This state-of-the-art technology was an insurance policy against those who believed they could gain access by plucking an eye from its authorized owner, then placing the detached orb before the ocular scanner as the key-of-entry. The system, however, was developed to completely nullify this action.

Looking through an Infrared GoPro monocular, Team Leader was able to scan the landscape with the images a green hue. There were two guards by the bunker’s door and four more walking a perimeter around the area, though they were divided into two-man units.

Team Leader continued to watch the soldiers as they made their rotating rounds, with the two-man units passing each other every three minutes like clockwork. After examining the routine and making sure that it remained habitual, he gestured to his teammates with a series of hand signals. Team One was to go west and Team Two to the east, where they would maneuver into position to neutralize the sentries that paraded the grounds. Once the perimeter threat had been removed, Team Three would converge on the bunker and take out the remaining sentries.

When everyone understood the rules of engagement, the teams separated and headed towards the target site.

* * *

Francois and Franchot Archambault were French Nationals and brothers who were also generational clan members who served the Consortium, which was a clandestine organization who righted the wrongs to maintain global balance between the superpowers. Before doing so, however, they had served in the COM FST (Commandement des forces spéciales Terre), which was France’s elite Special Forces Group. It was here that they had honed their combat skills, which was a prerequisite to serving with the Consortium.

The night was raw and held an uncomfortable chill to it, the sky often opening with a miserable drizzle. But the clouds had broken to give way to the face of a near full moon whose celestial cast of light had pigmented the landscape the color of whey.

The brothers were regimented and equally classed as superior fighters. When they rounded the bunker as duty dictated, they did so without complacency. Then on one of their sweeps it was Francois who detected something improper. In the same way that a dog raises its hackles when sensing great danger, the former COM FST stood rooted, the commando searching.

After holding back his brother with a raised fist, the two then scanned the surrounding shadows with their weapons raised and leveled.

Nothing but silence.

In tandem they sensed something but saw nothing. And then a breeze swept across the meadows which forced the treetops to sway in concert from side to side, their vacillating motions beautifully entrancing.

The brothers continued to maintain their composure, kept their wits. Shadows within the copse of trees remained still and unmoving, all statuesque. Yet the brothers took the initiative to investigate the height of any threat.

As they moved towards the tree line, Franchot Archambault slowly slid the attached NVG monocular over his eyes and powered up the unit. As soon as his lens flared green, a bullet smashed through the glass and penetrated deep, a perfectly muted kill shot from the shadows, the man dead on his feet, falling.

At that same moment when Francois went to knee, a high-powered round punched through and caved in his face to create a sphincter-like pucker wound. As though he was indecisively caught between life and death, Francois wavered for an impossibly long moment before registering and accepting his fate, then fell hard against the grass with the face-first approach.

From the pines, a two-man unit who had their weapons raised to eye level and their heads on a swivel, emerged from the shadows to retrieve the bodies, then dragged them quietly into the thickets beyond the tree line.

Now it was up to Team Two to finalize the mission.

* * *

Team Two blended perfectly with the background of darkness wearing black attire. As they waited, an audio feed over their earbuds confirmed that Team One had succeeded and achieved the means with takedowns.

In accordance with the predetermined rules of engagement, Team Two had trained their suppressed weapons in the direction of two approaching sentries. After dividing up the targets between them, and then placing the Consortium team within the NVG crosshairs of their rifles, the pair of snipers coordinated the timing of their trigger pulls so close together that they sounded off as a single muted shot.

After gathering the bodies and whisking them into the shadows beyond the tree line, both teams, and from opposite sides of the bunker’s mound, converged on the Master Gateway