Sacred Retributionj

By Ricky Balona

 

Set in Queenstown, New Zealand. When War Correspondent Kheelan Sledge follows up on an anonymous lead Sledge finds himself drawn into a deadly game of cat and mouse. A priest is murdered in a ritualistic and very gruesome manner. Sledge finds himself as the number one suspect in the horrific murder. Cryptic messages appear in the newspaper a day before the murders are committed by a masked cult leader going by the name of Orcus. A Cardinal is abducted and forced to endure the Stations of the Cross streamed live on the internet. Orcus and his followers hunt down and execute Catholic priests who are known child abusers. Sledge is drawn into the world of M.K Ultra brainwashing and torture. Staying one step ahead of the police, Sledge fights to clear his name. Fast paced, hard hitting and shocking. A novel touching on the subject of the Vatican's reluctance to bring known predator priests to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ricky Balona
• Release date: Apr 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215453612

Ricky Balona

Ricky Balona is the author of hard hitting and graphic military fiction novels. Steele is a military fiction series centered on the character Sergeant Steele. It charts Steele's experience as a Templar during the Crusades where he is cursed to an eternity of military servitude. We follow Sergeant Steele's battles in the French Foreign Legion, all based on some of the Legion's most epic and bloody battles. French Foreign Legion Adventures is collection of short stories beginning with the Legion's involvement in the Crimean war through the North African desert era, W.W.1 and W.W.2 through Indochina and Kolwezi and Sarajevo. Written from a simple soldiers point of view caught up in merciless combat using the names of fellow Legionnaires I had the honour of serving with as the characters in the stories. Ricky Balona was born in South Africa, now living in Queenstown, New Zealand. Served in 1 Para S.A.D.F and 5 years in 2 Parachute Regiment of the French Foreign Legion. Author of By Blood Spilt series Steele's Dien Bien Phu, Steele's Verdun and Steele's Death March. Show More Show Less

Book preview

Sacred Retribution

By Ricky Balona

Copyright - 2018

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Free download of my novel Steele’s Dien Bien Phu for subscribers!

Chapter 1

Queenstown, New Zealand.

The Innocents have been denied justice for too long. Retribution will be terrible and swift. Kheelan Sledge re-read the message on his cell phone. The date, location and time were included in the cryptic e-mail received two days before, along with a deposit of $5000 for expenses. It was sent via the Dark Web by someone using the name of Orcus.

Sledge trudged upstream swatting at sand-flies. Bloody annoying little bastards! He muttered. For a moment he stood in awe at the beauty surrounding him. He imagined what life must have been for the pioneers who founded Queenstown during the gold rush. He shuddered at the thought of the hardships they must have endured.

Ignoring the sand flies sucking blood from his exposed flesh Sledge dug deeply into the side pocket of his trousers reaching for his ringing cell phone.

Who the hell is messaging me out here? Sledge flicked his finger over the answer icon.  The screen flashed a brief jumble of riverbank and trees.

Behold the sinner!

Barely audible, Sledge only just managed to hear the metallic voice on the other end of the line.

An image appeared on the screen of an elderly man ambling unsuspectingly near the riverbed somewhere up ahead.

Feel privileged Sledge. You are watching a live stream of justice about to be delivered. Zooming out the image revealed a sinister figure stalking the elderly man.

Who knows, possibly you will get to the sinner before my avenging angel does? Let the games begin!

Goddamnit, I had a bad feeling about this. Picking up the pace Sledge moved swiftly through the bush. Silently his slightly tanned, athletic body glided as if he were once again out on patrol in some distant jungle. 

Is this what it has come down to? He muttered. Here he was, a renowned War Correspondent trudging upstream following up on some nonsensical message.

His sharp blue eyes stared at the riverbend ahead. Wiping a trickle of sweat off of his forehead with his shirt sleeve Sledge ran his fingers through his military-style light brown hair. Women found his rugged good looks interesting, attractive. The scar running down his left cheek furthered the bad boy image even though he never sought it. A bayonet wound from his days in the Legion. His bayonet was a few inches longer than the Somalian warlord’s who charge at him in a drug-induced state. Sledge saw the dying man’s face each day when he shaved, in the mirror. That was if he shaved daily.

The look of surprise and fear in the warlord’s face as Sledge twisted his bayonet in the Somalians guts never faded with time.

He made a comfortable living selling his photos to the highest bidder, but this assignment seemed different. Passing the usual groups of unsuitably attired tourists panning for gold, expecting to find nuggets the size of tennis balls Sledge checked his camera. Swirling a mixture of fine sand and river water around in their plastic gold pans the tourists searched in vain for that elusive nugget.

Shotover Jet boats sped past with their complement of tourists screaming as they flew down the river at high speed narrowly missing overhanging trees and boulders. Locals would always mutter under their breath, bloody Americans when they heard the whoops and hollers from the jet boat passengers, Americans were the only ones who yelled when the jet boats careened down the river.

Sledge carried on past the tourists pushing further upstream. After two miles he stumbled across the occasional group of locals swilling beer while they shovelled classified dirt through their sluice boxes. One of them smiled as he dropped a small gold nugget into an already half-full glass tube.

A mile further, he spotted movement. Full-time gold diggers using illegal dredges hoping not to be caught by the Department of Conservation.

A fleeting smile played on his lips imagining the same blokes distilling moonshine along the river bank using homemade copper piped stills, listening to AC/DC and songs like Copperhead Road.

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Preferring to use a map and compass as opposed to the usual Google Maps, Sledge waded rapidly through the shallows.

I hope like bloody hell this is some sick joke. No way I can take the chance though, move, move, move!  Running now, Sledge cut through the bush bordering the river. Brambles bit through his clothes leaving deep scratches on his face and arms.

Twigs snapped up ahead. Sledge froze out of habit, his years of military experience subconsciously taking over. A quick movement to his right caught his eye. He waited to scan the treeline. For a moment he wondered if he was hallucinating.

A young woman rushed through the scrub. Sandy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, a leather handbag on her shoulder. The young woman struggled through the thick bush. He smiled watching her attempt to keep her shoes dry drawing closer to the riverbank. Stylishly dressed she seemed out of place this far upriver. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Sledge thought she looked familiar. Then she disappeared into the scrub again.

Bloody strange, what is she doing around here? He checked his position with the compass, another two hundred meters.

His cell phone beeped again. Sledge read the message I knew you would not fail me, Sledge. Make sure you record what you are about to see in the utmost detail. Father Connelly has sinned a great deal. Now the sword of justice hangs over his head. The time has come that it must fall upon him. Sledge stared at the message. Bursting through the bushes, he sprinted along the riverbed.

Alone at the campsite, Father Connelly inspected the Parishioner's work. The boys would be arriving in approximately three hours. Neat rows of tents lined a lush green section of the riverbank. Gone were the days when campers slipped into the thickets with a roll of toilet paper and a spade. Health and Safety insisted on a Portable Toilet. It stood at the far end of the camp.

Crystal clear water flowed from the melting snow peaks of the majestic mountains surrounding Queenstown. Father Connelly scanned the trees lining the riverbank. Small waterfalls cascaded down into the gently flowing river. He looked toward the heavens. It promised to be a warm one. In the low mist blowing through on the slight breeze, he thought he saw a small black bird skimming over the treetops.

It sounded like no birdsong he had ever heard. A low metallic whirl filled the air as it shot over his head. Must be one of those new confounded drone things, damned tourists too lazy to walk upriver. He slipped on a wet stone drenching his lower legs in the icy water. Using language not associated with a priest he cursed the owner of the drone for distracting him.

Sitting on a rock, he took off his soaked shoes and socks. Swirling in the sudden breeze, Sledge watched the mist descended over the river.

Out of the haze, a lone figure emerged slowly but purposely walking toward him. For a moment Father Connelly thought it was some joke. A figure dressed in an altar boy's habit, the mask hiding his face the man appeared sinister. Father Connelly attempted a weak smile, but something in his gut told him it was no joke. The altar boy was a grown man. He wore the Melpomene mask or the tragedy mask in Greek mythology.

Father Connelly’s subconscious mind told him that the altar boy was a Thurifer. He wore a long black robe under a white alb or long, decorated shirt. In his left hand, he held an incense burner, an elongated metal cylinder burning sandalwood incense. The sweet fragrance of sandalwood drifted across the river. In his right, he carried a tarnished cross.

Captivated, Father Connelly allowed the altar boy to get within an arm’s length before realising he had made a fatal mistake. A ray of bright sunlight pierced the mist momentarily blinding Father Connelly. Looking up it seemed to him as if the sunlight shone like a halo around the altar boy. Throwing the cross and incense burner to the ground, the altar boy advanced.

From the folds of the altar boy's sleeves, a razor-sharp knife glinted in the sunlight. It flashed toward Father Connelly's face. He felt the cold steel bite into his cheek. Connelly's face was slashed open from ear to mouth, blood gushed from the wound. Father Connelly suddenly felt the searing pain. Panic-stricken, the ageing priest, turned and ran.

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Father James Connelly stumbled along the tree-lined riverbank. Early morning sunlight sparkled in the crystal-clear waters. He lurched sideways glancing at the menacing figure closing in on him. Warmblood seeping from the gash in his cheek ran down his face and neck.  Connelly shook with fright. Adrenaline swept through his shocked body. In the flight or fight anxiety response his mind and body offered up, he chose flight.

The fifty-three-year-old Catholic priest struggled for breath. He ran blindly through the neatly set up rows of tents.

Between the boy's tents and Father Connelly's own, more massive tent stood an open-air chapel. Displayed in the centre of the campsite was a wooden crucifix.

He tripped and fell heavily. Like a hunter stalking its prey, the robed altar boy followed closely behind. Overweight and out of breath he knew he had no hope of outrunning his assailant. Bending down the altar boy caught hold of Father Connelly’s lower leg. The knife flashed through the air once more, slicing through Father Connelly’s Achilles tendon. His screams were stifled as the Altar boy shoved his face into the river sand.

Fear coupled with adrenaline coursed through Father Connelly's sweat-soaked body. He pulled himself along clawing at the lush grass for a handhold. Father Connelly hoped that by some miracle he would find safety at the foot of the Crucifix. 

Exhausted, Father Connelly turned to face the man slowly closing in for the kill. He felt sick to his stomach. He stared up at Jesus on the cross. Jesus seemed to look down on him with an accusing expression.

Suffer the little children who come unto me! Father Connelly felt his blood run cold. It was the first time the robed man had spoken.

Now, as he watched the altar boy attach a length of sturdy rope to the trunks of two trees, he began praying.

He stopped praying when the altar boy dragged him over between the two trees. Kneel, Fat Bastard! Father Connelly obeyed wondering if this man had been one of the boys in his church. It was open knowledge the boys called him Fat Bastard behind his back because of his size.

Slipping the ropes around Father Connelly's wrists, the altar boy pulled them tight. On his knees, arms outstretched Father Connelly felt utterly helpless. He began pleading with the altar boy. His pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears.

Why are you doing this? I have done nothing to you. Please let me go now! Father Connelly sobbed. If this is some kind of joke it has gone far enough.

Roughly the altar boy cuts away the priest's clothes leaving him naked. His fat belly jiggled as he moved. Father Connelly caught a glimpse of the steel dagger smeared with his own blood and what looked like a small battle axe. The altar boy crudely stuffed a finger sized memory stick wrapped in plastic into the priest's mouth breaking a tooth in the process. Father Connelly heard a rasping sound. A thick layer of Duct tape muffled his cries. The altar boy wrapped layer after layer of tape over his mouth.  He had watched many crime movies where the victim was tied up and gagged. He had at that time wondered if the victim suffered from sinus problems, how would they breathe through their mouths only. Now he was about to find out. Father Connelly gasped for air through his nose. He felt light-headed, not enough oxygen.

Shuffling into his view with slow deliberation the altar boy held the knife and axe close to Father Connelly’s panic-stricken eyes. He then took up position behind the priest.

Painfully slowly the altar boy cut through skin and a thick layer of body fat. Blood splattered over the white robe and spurted up onto his face mask. The Duct tape stifled father Connelly's screams. His eyes bulged with pain and terror. With practised ease, the altar boy cut the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings onto Father Connelly's back. How he knew this the altar boy did not know. All that he knew was what was required and what he must do. It was somehow burned into his subconscious. He had vague memories of seeing the process done before. Now he had to do it.

Blood ran down Connelly's lower abdomen soaking the grey river sand a dull red. One by one the altar boy hacked the ribs from Father Connelly's spine with the small battle axe. He heard the crunch of the bones, the sickening feeling of razor-sharp metal cutting through flesh. Connelly was still alive and conscious. The altar boy pulled the bones and skin on each side outward to create a pair of wings on Father Connelly’s back.

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined such pain. Connelly hovered between two worlds.

Out of the corner of his eye, Father Connelly caught a momentary glimpse of what he thought was a small angel. It fluttered back and forth then hovered inches from his terrified and bloody face. He stared into the cold metallic lens of the drone capturing his death on video. The altar boy slid his hands into the wound gripping the priest's lungs.

His hands were warm and wet in the body cavity. Steam seeped into the air from the wound.

Father Connelly thought of the many sheep he had seen during his involuntary prayer and forgiveness bouts of leave that he was to forced take. New Zealand, the only country where there are more sheep than people. A herd of sheep are eating grass in a green field. The good shepherd watches his flock. Unexpectedly one sheep runs off into a different pasture. The other sheep follow. According to the scriptures, and the clergy we are all sheep. The sheep live in fear of the wolf, constantly reminded by the shepherd of the dangers of the wolves.  But the shepherd is the one who eats them in the end. 

The killer pulled the delicate and still pumping lungs from the huge gaping wound and laid them on the priest's shoulders, so they looked like the folded wings of an eagle. His exposed lungs fluttered. Father Connelly took his final, dying breath. Images of eternal damnation flashed through his mind.

Breaking through the undergrowth Sledge stopped dead in his tracks.

Holy shit! Why did I not run faster? He panted.

Staring open mouthed at the scene before him Sledge fumbled for his cell phone.

Didn't make it in time I see. That's so sad. Maybe next time Sledge. Droning on in a monotone metallic voice, the unidentified caller continued. A sneak preview for your eyes only.  Staring at the cell Sledge flicked through three images sent by the killer.

Shoving the cell phone into his pocket, he watched the scene unfold through the lens of his camera. Cautiously approaching the murder scene Sledge took photo after photo of the dead man tied to the stakes. He zoomed in on the terrible wounds inflicted on the victim’s body.

Circling the corpse, he sniffed at the familiar stench of death and blood.

Sand stained dark by blood, images of Afghanistan and shattered bodies flashed through his mind.  Sledge felt his body become taught. His nerves were like a tripwire. His mind subconsciously raced searching for potential threats hidden in the brush.

He had seen worse than this, but it had been in war zones. In the last century, Queenstown had been the scene of one murder. A domestic turned violent some forty years ago. No-one locked their doors, keys were left in the ignition, and lost wallets or cell phones were handed into the Police Station. The headline news was when the occasional drunk teenager entered the wrong apartment and fell asleep on the couch, most times after pissing on the floor.

Perhaps it was the light breeze, but Sledge swore he thought the exposed lungs moved slightly.

Sledge noticed a flicker of movement in the bush. He caught a glimpse of someone wearing a robe which reminded him of the altar boys when he last attended mass, which was some time ago. The altar boy was holding onto a cross, and an incense chalice as the altar boy stood on the high ground. He stared down at Sledge. Gripping his camera, Sledge snapped away taking photos of the masked man standing in a halo of sunlight. Mist swirled in the breeze, it was a moment captured in time. Obscured by the mist the altar boy vanished.

Dropping his camera Sledge tore at the Duct tape over the victim's mouth. Kneeling, Sledge opened the priest's mouth running a finger inside searching for anything which could impair breathing.

He knew it was a futile gesture. The man was dead. What the bloody hell is this? Sledge pulled a blood-smeared plastic wrapped object out of the dead man’s mouth. He wiped away a thin layer of blood and spit mingled with vomit. He stared at the memory stick. A shiver ran down his spine.

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Lifting the camera Sledge was about to take additional photos when two land cruisers burst through the bush disgorging members of the Armed Response Unit. Staring down the barrel of a loaded assault rifle Sledge dropped the memory stick into the sand. He ground it underfoot obeying the instruction screamed into his ear by a black masked policeman.

Dropping to his knees, he clasped his hands behind his head. Sledge made sure the memory stick was buried in the sand. Slammed down onto the ground he felt handcuffs snapping around his wrists. A metallic click as they bit tightly into his flesh and he was hauled roughly up onto his feet.

You are one sick bastard mate! Sledge lifted his head. He stared into the rugged face of a police inspector.

I’ve heard a lot about you Sledge, couldn’t resist killing one last time, could you? The inspector’s hard eyes bored into Sledge’s.

I didn’t do it mate. I was on an assignment following a lead when I came across this. Sledge retorted. A young policeman bent over, vomiting into the river.

Stop walking all over the crime scene you idiots! The inspector waved at the rest of the team signalling them to halt where they stood.

Inspector Rees here, and you are nicked, mate! He sneered.

Rees snatched the camera from around Sledge's neck. Frisking Sledge, he bundled him into the back of a land cruiser.

Police officers set up a perimeter around the crime scene, while detectives scoured the crime scene. Inspector Rees called to his unit.  They hurriedly climbed into their vehicles.

Sledge rocked back and forth in the police vehicle on the drive downriver.

This is going to be almost impossible to explain. Thinking about the overwhelming amount of evidence which could be used against him in a court of law he felt trapped.

When, and if I get out of this, I am going to find the bastard responsible for setting me up.

He started out of the wire mesh covered window of the land cruiser. Tourists strolled down the streets of Queenstown oblivious to the heinous murder he had attempted to prevent.

The driver slowed down before turning into the Police Station. Taking one last look out of the window Sledge stared in disbelief at the blonde girl he had seen earlier upriver. She glanced momentarily at the police vehicles all the while talking on her cell phone then turned and walked away.

Following the river upstream the killer entered a dilapidated old mining cottage. The rusty tin roof rattled in the warm breeze. He blinked, eyes unaccustomed to the darkness of the sparse interior.

Holding out his blood-stained hands, he felt his way around the schist rock walls. Staring vacantly at two sticks bound with twine to form the sign of a cross he slowly removed the blood-soaked altar boy’s cassock. Kneeling on the cold stone floor, the killer sat in silence oblivious to the sand flies swarming around his exposed body.

Sitting staring at the cross, he did not stir at the sound of heavy footsteps outside the single room cottage.

We are pleased with your work. Matterson. Follow me!

Obediently Matterson slowly stood upright. Automaton like, he followed the man outside. Together they climbed up the steep riverbank littered with fallen trees and rocks.

Turning down a little-used path hidden from view by pine trees and scrub, Matterson followed the man to the entrance of an old mining shaft.

Down into the depths of hell you go! He pushed Matterson along the dimly lit tunnel.

Sit down. You know what happens now.  Matterson slumped down onto a heavy wooden chair. He did not offer up any resistance when he felt the sturdy leather straps pull tight. Bound hand and foot to the wooden chair Matterson stared straight ahead.  He did not flinch when the man attached an I.V drip in both arms.

You will forget today’s events. A stream of Barbiturates coursed through his body. A feeling of intense drowsiness threatened to put him to sleep. Seconds later a shot of Amphetamines sent a rush of adrenaline