Their missions were normally in hotspots around the world, using tactics and methods to achieve the means — techniques that were often brutal when there were no other options available. In the course of their duties people died, but many more lived, usually the innocent or those who could not protect themselves.
But Pope Gregory refused to see their necessity in a world growing cancerous every day and quickly disbanded the Knights. His subsequent move was to scatter the members of the Society of Seven to every corner of the globe with Vessucci ending up in the United States.
And though he loved the Church, he missed his soldiers just as much, knowing everyday for the past six months that the Church had been left open and naked. How many people lost their lives when they could have been saved? he wondered. And he asked himself this question just before he recited his ritual prayers to start the day, wondering if the Knights had been forced to leave their calling.
Just as he was about to get into bed there was a knock on his door, a soft tapping.
“Just a moment.”
When he opened the door a bishop was standing there, his face grim.
“Yes, Bishop.”
“I’m afraid I’ve received some rather terrible news that I must pass on to you.”
The cardinal opened the door wider as a gesture to allow the bishop to enter, but the man remained standing at the threshold. “We’ve just received word that the pope has passed.”
Vessucci’s jaw dropped.
“It appears that he met with a horrible accident and fell off the balcony. He was pronounced dead prior to being sent to Gemelli.”
Vessucci was genuinely stunned. The pontiff had only been in office for six months. More so, he was so physically fit that he was set to rule for at least two more decades, perhaps longer. “When?”
“About two hours ago,” he said. “It’s about to be announced to the world. But before it is,” he handed Vessucci a piece of paper, “your presence is required at the Vatican.”
Vessucci stared at the paper for a long moment, before lifting his hand to receive it. “Thank you,” he whispered, then closed the door softly. Without looking at the paper he knew what it was: a request to band with the College of Cardinals and prepare for another Conclave. He didn’t even look at the writing. He gingerly placed the paper on the nightstand and stared out into space.
He had come close to winning the seat six months ago, having a strong camp but not enough to defeat the two camps that joined together to trump his. This time around, however, his chance for the Papal Throne was well within his reach.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, gathered his wits, and began to pack his bags for Vatican City.
CHAPTER FOUR
Six months ago when the Vatican Knights were disbanded, Kimball Hayden became a wayward son in a society he rejected long ago. From the onset as a young man trying to make a name for himself in the power halls of the White House, he became a political assassin leading a CIA wetwork team tagged by the brass as the “man without a conscience,” since killing had become a polished skill possessed by few others on this planet.
For years he reveled in his own ego, each killing becoming a building block to his own monumental legend that grew every time he drew a blade across the throat of an insurgent or put a bullet in a man’s brain. When it came to killing, there was no one more consistent or dependable than Kimball Hayden.
Until one day while on a mission in the Middle East where he had an epiphany after being forced to kill two shepherd boys who threatened to compromise his position. After burying them beneath the desert sand, he laid there the entire night staring up at the sky, at the sparkling pinprick lights that made up the constellations, and wondered if there truly was a God.
On the following morning as the sun rose, he made a conscious decision to abscond from American service and disappeared, the Pentagon believing he had been killed in action, and posthumously awarded him the accustomed accolades as an empty coffin was buried at Arlington as a symbol of the warrior’s testament to duty.
But regardless of how courageously symbolic he was to others, should American forces ever discover that he was still alive, especially knowing the black secrets he possessed regarding past administrations, which included the sanctioned killing of a United States senator, then his accolades would have no meaning, and he would be targeted with extreme prejudice to ensure that all past misjudgments on the part of the political body would remain secret.
And this is why he never returned.
But then his life took another turn.
During the moment his coffin was being laid to rest in D.C., he was sitting in a small bar in Venice, Italy, watching the images on TV play out as American forces and its allies moved in on Saddam Hussein to free Kuwait. It was here that a cardinal of the Church took a seat in a booth opposite him without permission, and offered him a chance at redemption by serving as a Vatican Knight.
When Kimball questioned him about this knighthood, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stated that only a man of true integrity who can hold loyalty above all else, except honor; a man who truly believes in the sovereignty of the Vatican and holds to protect its interests and the welfare of its citizenry; and a man who is truly repentant for past actions of a dark nature, is a man who could be made whole in the eyes of God.
Kimball had finally found his home within the auspices of the Church.
And for years he plied his very particular set of skills to save lives across the globe with a team of the world’s best warriors, the Vatican Knights.
But the passing of Pope Pius gave rise to Pope Gregory, who in turn disbanded the group as an affront to God.
Not only was Kimball without a country, but he was now without a church. And there wasn’t much call for a man with his skill set with the exception of mercenary work, which he wanted nothing to do with. So he returned to the states under a different name, someone who had a simple dream of working an honest job.
The man who used to be Kimball Hayden was now James Joseph Doetsch, better known as J.J. Doetsch. With a new identity to keep him under the radar, Kimball Hayden was now a porter picking up trash off casino floors. Since it was an honest job, then he was fine.
Over the months he maintained his incredible physique and exercised at every opportunity. He also practiced religiously with his knives, going through a set routine similar to Tai Chi. If nothing else, Kimball Hayden remained very deadly.
“Yo, J.J.”
Kimball, pulling a trash bag from a barrel on the casino floor, his hands wrapped in latex gloves, stopped and looked at the floor manager who was beckoning him with a bird-like hand.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Come here. Got something I want to pass along.”
Kimball moved beside him, the height difference amazing as the little man with the doughy face looked up at Kimball the same way a small child looks up at his father.
“‘Member I told you about the gig my brother-in-law’s involved with? You know, the cage fighting thing?”
“Look, Louie—”
The smaller man raised his hands and began to pat the air. “Just hear me out,” he said.
Kimball did, but his body language, the grim twist of his mouth and arms crossed defensively across his chest, told the man he wasn’t going to be too receptive.
“Just hear me out,” he repeated. “That’s all I ask for, for chrissakes.”
“I’m listening.”
“You can get in a cage for five minutes — just five — and make yourself five grand tops.” He then stood back to appraise Kimball, his arms held out as if to showcase the large man to others. “Look at you. You’re a monster. Why in the hell are you wasting your time here for just over minimum when you can obviously work the circuit for so much more?”