The Crimson Dagger: The Vatican Knights, #23

By Rick Jones

In Vienna, one of religion's greatest treasures is stolen from the Imperial Treasury.

In Washington, D.C., Shari Cohen finds herself in a struggle between life and death.

In Austria, an elite terrorist faction commandeers a state-of-the-art high-rise.

When the Spear of Destiny is stolen by members of the Islamic State with its leader believing that the possessor of the Holy Lance has the ability to command powerful legions, they quickly find themselves in a position of 'no escape' inside a towering skyscraper. Now that the power of the Holy Lance is in the hands of Ali Mustafa, he now finds himself with the opportunity to test its value and strength against those who dare oppose him.

At the Vatican, a corrupt pontiff sees the prospect of bolstering his political power by dispatching a team of Vatican Knights to acquire the artifact, which is now in the hands of a master terrorist. But when the Vatican Knights make a hard run at Mustafa and his insurgent team inside the tower, they soon discover that they're up against insurmountable odds from a dangerous menace above and an unconquerable threat from below.

Now hemmed in with Death surrounding the team from all sides, Kimball begins to wonder if he'll ever see the woman that he loves not knowing that she, too, is in a personal struggle to survive.

Will the Vatican Knights claim the artifact? Or will the willpower imposed upon it by Ali Mustafa become too great for Kimball Hayden's team to overcome? Will Shari Cohen survive her own battle to survive? Or would an untimely death return Kimball once more to a Darkness he will never return from?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Jones
• Release date: Dec 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393361442

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Judea, Roman Empire

33 A.D.

Moments after the man from Jerusalem shed his final breath, darkness descended over Judea while celestial staircases of lightning dotted the landscape with unremitting strikes. The edge of a leading wind quickly swept in, a considerable gale, which caused the heavy rain to take on a lateral course. Boughs from olive trees that were once stout snapped like dry timber, the winds too commanding, too powerful. And through it all, a Roman centurion by the name of Longinus stood rapt with his spear firmly in his grasp as he stared into the vacant eyes of a man named Jesus.

Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. These were the final words of the man who was nailed high upon a cross as He looked heavenward, with these words reaching the centurion’s heart. It was an epiphany and a spiritual awakening that began to draw Longinus from the roots of his Roman gods and towards monotheism.

As Longinus stared into the half-mast eyes of Jesus that showed slivers of white, he knew that this man had taken upon His shoulders the sins of the world. The driving rain was simply a baptism and a new beginning for mankind.

Centurion, run your spear through! This came from Longinus’s commander who wore the lorica muscle armor and crested helmet. With the rain, the metal plates appeared slick and wet and shined with a golden polish to them.

Longinus, however, in response, could only present his commander with a pinched and hesitative look. Then above the howl of the gale, he cried, Truly this man was the Son of God!

He speaks the tongue of a false prophet! And there is no other god who stands before the gods of Rome! The commander swung his hand through the air with authority. Now, run your spear through!

Longinus looked at the face of Jesus that was kind and gentle and tremendously sad.

Centurion!

Looking at the point of his spear that resembled a dagger, Longinus raised the tip, balanced it between two ribs, then plunged the point deep to create the ‘fifth’ holy wound.

A booming clap of thunder sounded off in critical judgment as the earth trembled beneath their feet. As Longinus extracted the point of the spear from the body, blackened clouds scudded across the sky with racing madness, a surreal visual. And lightning surged with broad strokes in swordplay as the strikes ruined trees by dividing their trunks and creating fires that fully engulfed the boughs, only for the rain to do little to extinguish the flames.

Longinus looked at the tip of the spear with wonder. The blade glistened with the blood of Christ, a crimson hue. Yet the daggerlike tip would not be cleansed by the rain as His blood adhered to the spear’s tip like a fixed stain.

Raindrops continued to bead on the spearhead, only for the drops to fall as though repelled by the dagger, which remained tarnished with a crimson coating.

The blood, Longinus commented, as he showed the spear’s tip to his commander. It does not wash from my spear.

The Roman commander quickly crossed the gap between them and grabbed the spear just below the point where the spearhead connects with the shaft. Raindrops beaded, then appeared to boil on the spearhead before falling to the ground, the blade remaining unclean.

The commander released the shaft and fell back as lightning continued its volley of staccato flashes, while thunderclaps reached a crescendo of disharmony. The commander appeared frightened and perplexed as he appraised Jesus, a man who was more than just a man.

Longinus, however, felt an indescribable peace. He truly is the Son of God, he remarked softly, as he held the tip of the spear high. In the flashes of lightning, the point continued to show off an oily hue, perhaps a lasting pigment.

As the Roman centurion held the shaft high with its point directed heavenward, and as the blood of Jesus ran from his personal wounds to flow with the rivulets at the cross’s base, Longinus could feel these warm streams bathe his feet as they rushed past him. It was a ritual of cleansing for which Longinus would ultimately surrender the gods of his Roman heritage, for the Heavenly Father who had touched his soul.

Over time, when his stint with the Roman legion ended, Longinus gave up the weapon’s shaft but kept the spearhead as an amulet that had been worn around his neck as a spiritual charm. And because the former Roman centurion renounced polytheism in order to worship his newfound God, he would eventually be canonized and become a saint of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

Then as centuries passed and long after Longinus’s death, the tip had become known as the Spear of Destiny, which had developed into accounts over history that the relic contained divine powers. Men from both shores of good and evil would seek out this holy artifact with romanticism, believing that it would serve them as the most powerful and uncontested scepter of rule. When Christian knights sacked Antioch and drove out the Saracens during the First Crusade after being inspired by the discovery of the Holy Lance within the city, a steadfast myth began to grow: those who possessed the Holy Lance would not only know the power of sustaining an elite army, they would also come to rule the mightiest kingdom in the world.

Kings and monarchs and leaders alike, both good and evil, from Charlemagne to Frederick the Great of Germany, would hold the artifact with more than forty-five global leaders possessing the item over time. When Hitler acquired the Lance when he arrived in Vienna to oversee the annexation of Austria, the artifact was transported to Nuremberg where the Spear of Destiny was protected within St. Catherine's Church. As soon as the Holy Lance was firmly in the grip of the Nazi regime, Hitler began his campaign to invade Poland, and then Western Europe. But as war waged and began to take its toll with a portion of St. Catherine's Church damaged, U.S. soldiers took possession of the Holy Lance on April 30, 1945. A few hours later, it was reported that Adolph Hitler had committed suicide inside his bunker, with the act an official conclusion that the war with Germany was finally over.

In time, the United States returned the Holy Lance, along with other treasures seized by the Nazis, to Austria, where it now lies on display inside the Austrian Imperial Treasury at the Hofburg Palace, in Vienna. Though counterfeits and replicas were created, it is believed that the holy relic within the Hapsburg Museum is the true Spear of Destiny. It has become a spotlighted feature where a Roman centurion by the name of Longinus had plunged the tip of his spear into the side of the man who had been ascribed by many to be the King of Kings.

As the legend of the artifact failed to diminish over time, the eyes of opportunists had kept a keen watch, believing they could be the next to fall in line to be the next great leader, for which there would be no equal.

In the days to follow, an elite faction would attempt to seize the opportunity in the name of Allah. Since the Muslim faith holds Jesus in high regard and believes Him to be one of God’s greatest messengers, they also believe that possessing the Holy Lance would also bolster a jihad. And like the countless armies that had come and gone throughout history, ISIS, too, would become an overwhelming force with the backing of Allah, along with the combined power of the Holy Lance.

This held especially true within the eyes of one of ISIS’s most esteemed commanders, Ali Mustafa, who believed that as long as he remained in possession of the relic, there would be no earthly force who could challenge his power. But Mustafa’s confidences would soon be contested, and his beliefs fully challenged. Because in the days to come, he would throw down against one of the world’s mightiest forces believing that having complete mastery over the Holy Lance would also give him the ability to vanquish all enemies . . .

. . . Including the Vatican Knights.

CHAPTER ONE

Lakeside Cabin in Maryland

Shari Cohen was sitting before a bombe chest that was in front of a window which overlooked the lake. Sitting on the chest was a number of framed photos of her husband and two daughters, now deceased. The photograph setting was homage to the family she had lost, the memorial a shrine. Hanging from the corner of every picture were pendants of the Star of David, which hung on platinum chains. These small commemoratives often jumpstarted fond memories of a time that was—when her children laughed and ran through the hallways of their home in Washington, D.C. When they went on vacations as a family, their times together magic. Or when birthdays came and went as the children aged towards adulthood that would never come. Sometimes, Shari smiled at these thoughts. Other times, she would openly sob. Depending on her mood, her emotions often vacillated between good memories and dark ones.

Beyond the window and on the lake the mallards swam.

As she sat reminiscing, she recalled the moment when her family was wiped out by a domestic terrorist. With the slowness of a bad dream, she remembered standing on the porch as her family piled into the Escalade. The moment her husband turned the key to the ignition, the vehicle exploded into a fireball. And within that moment that turned from incredible jubilation to absolute sorrow, her entire family had been stolen from her.

While staring at the photos of an extended family that might have been, of grandchildren and a family tree that will never be, Shari sighed heavily through her nostrils.

Are you OK? Kimball Hayden’s voice came from behind with his words soft and somewhat cautious in asking.

Shari feigned a smile. I’m fine.

Kimball stood in the doorway of their bedroom wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He was a heavily muscled man with biceps that were as large as most men’s thighs, his body entirely bulked up. But the hardships of his near disasters and ultimate pain had been memorialized upon his flesh. There were pock marks from bullets wounds. Lateral scars from knife slashes. And severe burns that had left deep scars after he had been engulfed by flames, with his skin having melted like the tallow of wax before cooling and scarring. Despite all his markings from a number of conflicts, Kimball Hayden was never so beautiful in the eyes of Shari Cohen.

Kimball crossed the room and took position before the window. The lake had a thin layer of fog settling just above the surface, a wispy blanket. Yet he could clearly see the vivid colors of the mallards that swam along the water. Stepping back, he noted the photos on the bombe and the medallions that hung from the corners of the picture frames.

I know you miss them, he told her in a light and sorrowful way.

Shari reached up, grabbed his hand, and enclosed both of hers over his. Then she brought his hand to her cheek to feel its warmth. They were a part of me as you are.

But Kimball had his shrine, too, of photos lined up along the mantel of the fireplace in the bedroom. They were the photos of the Vatican Knights—of Isaiah and Leviticus, his top two lieutenants, along with Bonasero Vessucci, the force’s founder and eventual pontiff. But with the progression of time also brought the eventual loss of good friends. Bonasero Vessucci and Leviticus were gone, both passing into the Light. Isaiah, however, continued to be a major component of the unit.

I know you miss them, too, she added.

Kimball nodded.

The question is: how much do you miss them?

You’re not keeping me away, if that’s what you’re thinking, he told her.

Truthfully? When Kimball didn’t respond, she responded for him. It’s all right to miss those you love. Believe me, I understand.

It’s just that they were the only family I had until you. You’re family now.

But deep down you feel as though you abandoned them.

Kimball sighed. In a way, he answered. I feel as though I left them when they needed me most.

You’re not responsible for the corruption of Pope Clement.

No. But I am responsible for leaving the unit rudderless. Isaiah is capable of managing the team. But he’s not capable of contesting the pope in questionable situations, even if Isaiah realizes the high-end improbability of the mission. He operates on blind faith. I never did.

You want to go back, don’t you?

Not if it means leaving your side for any length of time.

Shari looked at Kimball who continued to stare out the window. I’m a big girl, she told him. "But more importantly, I want you to be happy. After a beat, she continued. Kimball, it’s all right to be a part of something you love. You need to be what you were meant to be. I’m not here to take away from that. If I did, I’d be just as miserable knowing that deep down you were miserable."

He turned to her. Maybe a visit—to see how they’re doing.

Her smile made its way into a one-sided grin, and then she said, And perhaps put on the uniform to see if it still fits? Or maybe don the collar to see if it still looks good around your neck? Or maybe to see if the beret still looks good on you when tilted a certain way?

After a brief pause, Kimball replied, I miss them. I fought beside them. They’re my brothers.

And you need them as much as they need you.

I would like to think so.

I know so. Shari stood up, embraced Kimball, and placed her head against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and measured. She also knew that it was the seat of Kimball’s feelings and the trigger that often forced him to wear his emotions on his sleeve. At times he could be kind and caring, and at others he could be brutal and savage. There was no doubt in her mind that Kimball Hayden would always be at war with himself as Darkness and Light consistently fought for the bounty of his treasured soul.

Go, she finally told him. And do so knowing that I love you. And do so knowing that I’ll be here waiting for you.

What about you? You make a decision yet?

Shari knew what he was talking about. She had been working for the CIA as a field agent, until her position became compromised enough to assure that she could never serve in the field again. So, Langley offered her a position as a lead principal who would train operatives at Camp Peary, better known as the Farm, which she balked at. Like Kimball, she wanted to get her hands dirty. And it was because of this shared understanding with Kimball to get engaged rather than to sit along the sidelines, that she appreciated his desire to work within certain theaters of operation. It was for the white-knuckle draw of stemming conflict.

The Bureau wants me back . . . I’m considering the possibility of resigning my post at Langley and returning to the Bureau.

Kimball smiled. Good for you. And then: I’ll be gone for a couple of days. A week at the most. Just enough to pop in and out.

Kimball, please, do what you have to do. I won’t hold you back.

As they kissed while framed by the window with the lake and forest in the background, Shari pulled away and winced, then grimaced. She immediately placed a hand to her side in an attempt to quell a sharp and stabbing pain. It was something akin to having a hot knitting needle driven deep into her abdomen.

What’s the matter? he asked her.

After taking a few deep breaths, the pain appeared to be subsiding with Shari’s pinched look fading.

I want you to get that looked at, he told her. The pain’s too frequent and they’re getting worse.

I’ll be fine.

Your body’s trying to tell you something, Shari. Promise me that you’ll get that looked at while I’m gone.

We’ll see.

Promise me.

Staring into his cerulean blue eyes and seeing his desire for her, she caved. I promise.

Then as a couple, and as the fog started to burn off while the mallards swam about in majestic colors, Kimball Hayden and Shari Cohen stood as one to watch the sun rise completely above the pines.

CHAPTER TWO

The Vatican, Vatican City

Three Days Later

It was close to midnight when Kimball reached the bullet-shaped doorway to his chamber that was located within the garrison of the Vatican Knights. It was a nondescript building made of field rock that was situated in the Old Gardens, with the structure having been pieced together stone by stone more than five hundred years ago.

As Kimball stood before the wooden door that was held together by black bands of metal and rivets, something with a medieval touch to it, he read the Latin that was etched into the stones that surrounded the doorway.

Pietas Maxime Praeter Honestatem

(Loyalty Above All Else Except Honor)

He traced his fingers carefully over the lettering while remembering fond memories, and as he did so the corners of his lips curved gently into a marginal smile. He remembered those who had come into his life and then departed, soldiers and warriors and clerics, but not before they left behind their impressions that made Kimball think of them as family.

Turning the knob and opening the door to his chamber, Kimball stepped inside the room which was as black as pitch. But he knew every inch and every crack that ran along the walls because he was familiar with moving through darkness as though he was a part of it.

On the nightstand and by the smell of its oil was a kerosene lamp. With a bold stroke of a match, Kimball lit the wick and adjusted the brightness once he returned the lamp’s glass chimney.

His footlocker was gone from the end of a cot that no longer had any bedding. Military magazines and tomes that were stacked knee high in some areas were gone. And the steel plate of metal that had a mirror polish to it was no longer stationed on the wall above the washbasin. Pope Clement XV had done his best to erase Kimball not only from his life, but also from the church. Everything that had been a reminder of Kimball Hayden had been removed from the chamber.

Untouched, however, and on the opposite side of the room was the votive rack for which the candles had never been lit, a kneeling rail which had never been knelt upon, and a podium that accommodated a Bible that he had never opened. High on the wall that divided the chamber was a stained-glass window of the Virgin Mother who held her arms out in invitation. At a certain time of day when the sun traversed the sky, a biblical beam of light would enter the room as a warm and gifted shaft to absolve Kimball of his sins only for the Vatican Knight to reject it, since he never felt comfortable in accepting what he believed he didn’t deserve. Earning the Light had always been a far-reaching goal not yet acquired, but certainly attainable.

Kimball sat on the cot whose mattress was military issue, meaning that the pad was only two inches thick. But to him, it was more comfortable than the bed he shared with Shari.

Looking at the stained-glass window once again, and with the flame of the lamp’s wick dancing, the image appeared to shift macabrely. Where there had once been a gentle smile upon her face, warm and welcoming, it had now been replaced by a sardonic grin that appeared to shift into horrible distortions and unruly malice.

Sighing, Kimball turned away and laid on the cot. He then interlocked his fingers and placed his hands behind his head to create a makeshift pillow. As he lay there staring ceilingward, he thought about Shari . . .

. . . And he thought about the Vatican Knights.

Then he wondered if he could live in a world where he could divide his time between the two.

Another sigh, this one caused by the realization that he was truly where he needed and wanted to be, at the Vatican.

. . . Shari . . .

. . . My team of Vatican Knights . . .

Kimball closed his eyes knowing that sleep would not come to him on this night.

CHAPTER THREE

Medstar Medical Center, Office of Doctor Simon De Natalie

Washington, D.C.

Following Morning

The office of Doctor De Natalie had an odd smell of peppermint to it as Shari Cohen sat in a chair before a large desk and waited. Accolades hung on the wall behind the desk, all gold-starred with impressive honors from well-renowned institutions of medical learning, with perhaps the certificate from Johns Hopkins the most admired.

Behind her came the complimentary taps of door knocking from the doctor before he entered his own office. In his hand was an open manila file. As he made his way to his desk without acknowledging Shari, he took his seat while continuing to review the results of her recent examination.

After Shari considered the moment to be the longest minute in her life, Dr. De Natalie provided a few nods as though he was debating with himself before saying, "The results of your x-ray, Ms. Cohen, which I have here, shows sizeable growths on both ovaries, which