Kimball could only imagine the look he gave the priest. “I‘m sorry?” he said. “You’ve been what?”
“Kimball Hayden,” the priest offered his hand. “My name is Bonasero Vessucci… Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci.”
And a new alliance was born.
So the man, who was once considered to be without contrition, would now be an elite commando for the Church.
He is not a member of the Swiss Guard.
Nor is he a member of an Italian military faction.
He is a Vatican Knight.
Kimball Hayden sat up in bed, his partially naked torso that of a well-developed body builder — his upper arms, including his triceps, as large as a common man’s thigh.
Seeking salvation through the Church had always given him a comfort zone, but not one that was complete and absolute. He had been repeatedly plagued by this dream time and again, the same scenario never changing, the Freudian calculation being an overwhelming guilt for killing two children which led to a sudden epiphany that was apparently not enough.
Closing his eyes, Kimball asked these questions: Will You ever forgive me, Lord? Could You ever forgive me? But deep inside Kimball believed that true forgiveness would always elude him for the fact that he had given up one war to wage another against his own personal demons. And these demons would never let him forget, coming night after night eroding what little hope he had of someday being free of a past laden with the bloodshed of others by his hands.
Climbing out of bed, now fully nude in the glow of the moonlight, he stood before the sliding glass doors overlooking L.A. The pinpricks of light reminded him of the night in the Iraqi desert, as he lay there looking skyward and praying for forgiveness so long ago with the bodies of two youths lying buried beneath his outstretched arms.
It remains, without doubt, his darkest memory.
In the shadows he sighed, then took a seat before a window, craving a drink.
What… really… is different? he considered.
Although his agenda had changed, his criteria had not. Under Kimball’s command his team of commandos had entered the jungles of the Philippines and South America to save the lives of missionaries held hostage, often implementing tactics hardly acceptable in the eyes of the Catholic citizenry, but acceptable in the eyes of the Church in order to achieve the means. Other times they traveled to eastern bloc countries to aid in the protection of priests against dissident insurgents, and often interceded in bloody skirmishes between opposing factions of religious orders in Third World nations. The differences always dispelled upon the appearance of the Vatican Knights.
The bottom line: People continued to die.
But this time it was under the quiet acceptance of the Church.
So again, what really is different? The question caromed off the walls of his mind as his headache continued to rage on. The answer, however, continued to elude him.
Although his comfort zone was the front line of the battle zone, Kimball Hayden needed a reprieve from everything that was a major part of his world. What he needed was a sabbatical, a vacation away from the dark side of man’s constant wages of sinning. And he got that by serving as the pope’s personal valet during the Papal Symposiums.
Of all the damaging dreams he was mired in, Kimball Hayden never dreamed he would have to utilize his very particular set of skills to save himself, the pope… and most of the free world.
He looked at the emblazoned numbers on the clock: It wasn’t even midnight.
Nevertheless, he would sit and wait for morning.
CHAPTER FIVE
Night had settled.
Team One of the Arab league could see the boundary marker dividing the United States from Mexico, a simple barbed wire fence held in place by hitching posts, which hardly seemed worth the effort since it didn’t appear to be much of a deterrent.
In the far distance the glittering lights of Naco, Arizona winked intermittently.
The three Arabs hunkered down next to the aluminum case, each man listening for anything out of the ordinary that would give fair warning as to what really lay beyond the fence line other than the coyote standing on a rocky escarpment silhouetted against the moonlit night. In the darkness its eyes radiated something mercuric, that stark oddity of quicksilver flashes against a darkened shape. After a brief study the coyote released a quick series of yelps before trotting off into a grove of tangled brush.
In the lighted phase of the gibbous moon, the Arabs continued to wait, sit, and listen, their patience a learned virtue.
Now the silence became as unsettling as the coyote’s cry, because everything seemed far too easy with Arizona less than sixty meters away without a hurdle to provide them a meager challenge to stop them. Which is probably why this area had become a popular crossover point for illegal aliens over the years; the possibility of getting caught was minimal.
Getting to his full height of six three, Abdul-Ahad quietly ventured several feet forward with a noticeable limp, his bad leg acting up after the long journey across the desert terrain after the van was held up in sand, then took to a knee between the divides of two sand dunes and held up an open hand, the signal to his team to hold their progress.
In the distance the lights of Naco continued to burn and twinkle as an incentive of a new beginning for those who crossed over. Yet the Arab discerned something was amiss, the one-time elitist of the Republican Guard sensing a peculiarity only a seasoned soldier could intuit.
After closing his eyes and letting his hand fall in defeat, he considered how close his team had come to fulfilling Allah’s wishes. Unfortunately, he and his team would enter Paradise much sooner than anticipated.
Reaching into the cargo pocket of his pants, the Arab withdrew the BlackBerry controller of the nuclear weapon and flipped back the lid, revealing the lit face of the keypad, knowing all too well what was waiting for them in the darkness.
With a finger poised over the pad and waiting to strike the keys to initiate the device, Abdul-Ahad thought, I know you’re out there… I can feel you..
And the man intuited correctly.
As if on cue a row of floodlights positioned along the crossbar of a Border Patrol Jeep kicked on, bathing Abdul-Ahad and his team in bitter brightness.
“Border Patrol! Get down on the ground! Get… Down… On… The… Ground!” And then in Spanish, same thing: “¡Patrulla de frontera! ¡Consiga abajo en la tierra!”
Sorry, Padre, I don’t speak Spanish.
In an instant Abdul-Ahad began to type with a pianist’s speed and dexterity, his fingers never missing a mark as the password set in Russian characters began to show up on the display window, the device talking to the payload as the frequency worked its way across cyberspace to initiate the weapon’s triggering mechanism inside the aluminum case.
“¡Patrulla de frontera! ¡Consiga abajo en la tierra!”
And then a warning shot, a quick burst in the air from an automatic weapon by the Border Patrol, an illegal maneuver against policy, but one that caught Abdul-Ahad’s attention nonetheless.
“Majid, Qusay, hold them off.” His Arabic came in a rush, his tone bearing the weight of urgency as he fell behind a small sandy rise and away from any direct line of fire. “I need time!”
Majid and Qusay ambled forward in the soft sand aiming their side arms before firing in quick succession, the shots taking out half the spotlights while others coughed up sparks when they hit the Jeep’s metal bumper.
Abdul-Ahad’s men were pretty much on target as they were able to drive four officers from the Jeep’s cab, and to the useless cover of sage before they hunkered down into the prone position to return fire. Bullets zipped passed them with the sounds of angry wasps, each man in the patrol knowing that a particular sting may prove fatal should it find its mark. And then they returned their own volley, the cacophony of gunfire carrying north to the Arizona town.