Since coming into the combat ranks Kimball was always known as the silent assassin; a man who killed with stealth. For more than twenty years he remained at the top of his game by continuously honing his skills. Like Tai Chi, which can possess up to 108 moves, Kimball incorporated a set of 230 moves in a single exercise, teaching defensive and offensive techniques, mental balance, and oneness with his inner Chi. As one of the best in the world in double-edged weapons and combat engagement, it was important for Kimball to maintain his performance and mentor his team of Vatican Knights, so they can be the best the world could offer.
Removing the knives and sheaths, Kimball strapped a bladed weapon to each thigh like a gunslinger would strap on a holster. The handles felt good in his grip, the motions of the blades cutting through air in graceful arcs were artistic in its nature and aesthetic to the eye. The adage of ‘poetry in motion’ was a perfect assessment of Kimball’s skill, as he handled the weapons so fluidly it was hypnotic. With his mind focused and eyes forward, he sheathed the knives by slipping them into their thin slots, and slid them into place.
Kimball Hayden was now in his element.
After locking his suitcase, Kimball began to move forward to investigate the fuselage to get a better feel for his surroundings, noting every niche and shadow, anything that would give him the advantage of knowing his terrain better than his enemy. When he came upon a couple of tethered crates he also noticed the two aluminum cases situated between them. At first he ignored them and pressed forward, taking careful measures with his forward advancement until he heard a sudden whine and pitch coming from behind him.
Immediately his hands came to fall on the handles of his combat knives, ready for a quick draw. And then he listened, intently, his chin cocked forward as he quietly turned on the balls of his feet trying to gauge where the sound was coming from, the pitch and whine vacillating in tone, and slowly followed the pull of the noise to the two aluminum cases.
By the time he got there the sound was barely perceptible, a slight ringing, and then gone. Getting to a knee, he gingerly traced his hand over the cover of the first case, in an almost loving stroke, and found the shell to be cold to the touch.
Undoing the clasps, he carefully lifted the cover and exposed the three burnished spheres. Leaving the cover up, Kimball opened the second case, with far less caution and no hesitancy on his part, by yanking the lid upward.
There, lined side by side, an additional three spheres.
Leaving the tops open, Kimball fell onto his backside and sat there.
There was no doubt in his mind as to what they were. No doubt at all.
His agenda just got harder.
Hakam and three of his assassins stood at the end of the aisle staring at the vacant seat that once held Kimball Hayden. The ties were still there, a bloodied one hanging on the armrest, the other placed dead center of the seat in mockery.
“You know I’m a better soldier than that,” informed the assassin responsible for watching Hayden. “I simply responded to what was happening up front. I thought the priest was tied down tight.”
Hakam placed a hand on the assassin’s shoulder. “Where can he go?” he asked. “The man is on a plane more than thirty thousand feet in the air.”
The assassin’s eyes fell ashamedly to the floor, nonetheless.
In turn, Hakam squeezed the man’s shoulder reassuringly. “If you want to make amends, Aziz, then you shall have that right.”
The assassin projected his chin out aggressively. “My failure to you is a failure to Allah.”
“You failed no one, my friend. Your actions on the battlefield have more than proven your worth in the eyes of Allah.” Hakam moved to the kitchen area and looked through the glass pane of the elevator chute. From his vantage point he could see the top of the elevator one level below. “He’s in the baggage area,” he said. “And no doubt he’s locked the elevator down.”
“There’s another way,” said Aziz. “In the fore section next to the cockpit is a trapdoor leading to all sublevels.”
Hakam nodded. “No firearms,” he said. “This particular man scares me.” He moved back to the kitchen area with his hands clasped behind the small of his back, his mind working. “He’s a fighter,” he added. “And the last thing I need is for someone like him to get a hold of a firearm and end this mission before it has a chance to get started.”
“My aim is true. I will not miss.”
“My point, Aziz, is that the priests up here are lambs too frightened to fight back when it comes to their own slaughter. I never anticipated one who would fight back. So, for this man, I think we shall exercise caution, yes?” Hakam opened a drawer filled with knives that were long, sharp and keen. Butcher’s knives set aside to cut the baked meats normally served on trans-Atlantic flights. “Take two men and go below,” he ordered. “And leave your firearms here — give him no chance to acquire a weapon so he can try to level the playing field.”
Aziz appeared disappointed. “You don’t trust me, do you? You think a priest who prays to a false God can defeat a soldier of Allah?”
Hakam nodded. “A soldier of Allah you are, my friend, and a very good one. But this man is no priest.” He reached into the drawer, pulled out a knife, and handed it to the assassin. “Bring me his head to be placed before the pope.”
Aziz took the weapon and held it firmly in his grasp.
Hakam then produced two more knives for the soldiers who would be accompanying him to the lower level, and laid them on the countertop. Although the color of the blades were as dull as aluminum casting, their edges held a razor-like sharpness to them. “Allahu Akbar,” he said.
Aziz thrust the knife he was holding downward, the pointed end planting deep into the countertop in a display of its effectiveness. “Allahu Akbar.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Criminal Investigators Louis Bardaggio and Chris Cardasian stood outside of room 616 while the crime scene analysts continued with their work inside. However, the full complement of analysts was now beginning to spread thin, since further investigation revealed an additional five bodies. All part of the papal flight crew.
“Mr. Morgenessi,” said Bardaggio, looking at his notepad, “as much as we have on him, is a father of three with no questionable background, resides in Rome, and has been the co-pilot of Shepherd One for almost three years.”
Cardasian kept a watchful eye on the analysts through the open door. “Shepherd One?”
“It’s the papal plane,” he answered. He then gestured by pointing and jabbing his thumb ceilingward, indicating the upper levels. “The other five bodies are confirmed members of the papal flight crew… and all of them garroted in their sleep. The only one missing from the detail is the pilot.” He referred to his notes. “Captain Enzio Pastore, a highly decorated pilot of the Aeronautica Milatare and lead pilot for Shepherd One.”
Cardasian appeared nonplussed before examining his watch, his face screwing mildly. When he spoke, he never looked away from his watch. “Didn’t the pope’s plane take off about thirty minutes ago?”
Bardaggio nodded like a bobble-head doll. “It did, and with a full flight crew that was checked in by TSA. So the question is this: If the real papal flight crew is here, then who’s up there?” Once again he jabbed his thumb ceilingward.
Cardasian raked a hand through his fading crop of thinning hair. “TSA doesn’t know who they checked in?”
“I asked LAX that,” he said. “And they told me since Shepherd One is not considered a commercial flight or a flight of hostile intent, it is not subjected to the same search protocols as commercial liners. It is, after all, the papal plane.”