He lived in a small flat east of Vatican City, the view from his window a web-like network of clotheslines full of sheets, obscuring his view of a distant hillside.
He sat reminiscing of the past, drinking his third bottle of beer with the two empties sitting on the table beside him. And then he closed his eyes, feeling empty and vacant, feeling completely alone.
When he was a Navy SEAL he had felt like a man who was complete and whole. But he also had a wife who felt incomplete, thereby filling her personal void with other men during his absences. He didn’t know why he was shocked to find out about her indiscretions, but when he did, he came apart unlike a Navy SEAL should.
He had taken her for granted, believing she could live with his absences the same way he lived with hers, believing in all the heart-warming stories that ‘trust’ was the foundation of all relationships. And that distance only made the heart grow fonder. What a crock.
He looked at the near empty bottle in his hand and toyed with the label by peeling it back from the glass in little strips. Was this the way she felt? he asked himself, looking around his spartan apartment. This hollow, lonely feeling?
He brought the bottle to his lips and finished it off, and then he opened his fourth. After taking a deep pull, he realized that he could not fault her for leaving him. If this was what she lived through, he considered, then the blame was entirely his.
After she left him and his military assignment was up at the urging of Special Forces Command, he opted to outrun the loneliness and sorrow — to Vatican City where he thought he could find God at some level. But he didn’t and the sense of loneliness clung to him like a pall.
In his duty to serve, he had killed people without so much as flinching. But when his wife finally left him, when she departed within the embrace of another man’s arms, he broke, seeing himself as a man of great frailty, too unworthy to hold the title of Navy SEAL.
How could a woman possess so much power? It was a question he’d been asking himself for the past three years. And still there was no answer. He took another sip and put the bottle down.
On the table lying between the empties was a Glock. Attached to the weapon’s tip was a suppressor that was as long as the barrel of the firearm, doubling its size. It had been three years since he had touched the gun, stowing it away the moment he entered Rome seeking salvation.
He picked it up, hefted it, the touch of the weapon in his grip feeling good, feeling right.
And then he lowered it to the tabletop and looked out the window. Beyond the sheets that obscured the hillside, he could see the soft afterglow of a sunset sky.
Tomorrow he would begin his call to duty. He would take that gun, his Glock, and head to Turkey where he would locate the girl, and, for the greater good of the Church, put a bullet in her brain. He closed his eyes. For some odd reason he was warring with himself, torn between duty and honor as a number of emotions passed through him. Working on behalf of the Church was an honorable cause, he considered — and to protect its interests just as noble.
But to kill an innocent woman?
He toiled with his own warring factions going on in his mind, trying to understand. And then he came to the conclusion that he was a Navy SEAL. And a SEAL never questions authority.
They simply don’t.
With the cold fortitude of a machine, John Savage, a man who never smiles, opened up his fifth bottle of beer and watched the sky turn every bit the color black that embraced him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Obsidian Hall was dressed in a plush robe and ascot. In his hand was the most expensive cognac that money could buy. As his valet stood poolside with a food trolley piled high with deboned chicken, he watched the small Hindu toss pieces into the water from the upper tier. The surface became froth as the sharks wrestled for the morsels.
In the distance, a helicopter approached.
The Hindu man looked at it and then to Hall. “Should I greet our guests?” he asked.
“No, Abdul. Keep doing what you’re doing,” he said.
“Very well, sir.” The Hindu went back to throwing chicken back into the pool, the bull sharks mounting each other in order to feed.
Obsidian Hall left the tier, taking the walkway to the helipad at the ship’s stern, and stood at the fringe of the rotor wash with one hand on the railing and the other holding his drink, watching the chopper land. As the rotors continued to spin at full velocity, the chopper door slid open and four commandos hopped out, each carrying a weighted duffel bag.
Obsidian Hall opened his arms in invitation. “Welcome aboard the Seafarer.”
As the chopper lifted and banked to the east, the warriors stood their ground. The forward commando, a large man wearing a khaki-green T-shirt, camouflaged pants, and GI issued boots, addressed him. “Mr. Obsidian Hall.” He said this not as a question, but as a confirmation.
Obsidian inclined his head. “Welcome aboard,” he repeated.
“Name’s Butcher Boy,” said the commando. “But you already know that.” He then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the three men standing behind him. “And this is my team.”
Obsidian waved them on in invitation. “Please,” he said. “We’ve much to discuss.”
Grabbing their duffel bags, the warriors left the helipad and followed Obsidian Hall to the ‘Pool of Sharks’ where they would dine from plates bearing foods with fancy French names.
Obsidian Hall and the four commandos sat at an opulent table inside an observation room that overlooked the ‘shark pool.’ Set in fine fashion were candelabras made of gold and diamond-like crystal glittered with spangles of light. The table was made of expensive teakwood, and the bone china that sat upon it was made of the finest quality.
Standing at the entryways were two guards, each man carrying an Uzi.
“Tell me something,” said Butcher Boy, referring to the guards. “Why not them?”
“My ship is a floating museum of antiquities,” Hall answered. “I have more than a billion dollars worth of ancient artifacts on board with numerous more considered to be priceless. Their place is here to watch over them. What I want in my employ are seasoned fighters, not glorified security guards.”
One of the guards standing by the doorway warred with that sentiment with a facial tic.
If nothing else, Obsidian Hall was setting the parameters of their authority while establishing his.
“You men are being paid a lot of money,” he told them. “And since I’m the one footing the bill for your services, then I’m the one in complete authority. The command is mine.”
“Come again, mate?” The challenge came from a beefed-up Australian with a shaved head and an old scar that ran laterally down his cheek to his top lip, the scarring pulling down the corner of his lower eyelid enough to expose the glistening pink tissue within. “Funny,” he said. “You don’t look like a fightin’ man to me. ’Ave you been in combat before? Ever shot a man, killing him?”
“No.”
“Then what gives you the bloody right to man a combat unit? You sitting there, all pretty-like in your prissy little robe and ascot.”
Butcher Boy raised a hand toward Aussie. Don’t be stupid and kill this deal!
“Five million dollars per soldier once the mission is complete,” he answered immediately. “That’s my right.”
The Australian appeared stunned. “Five million per?” he whispered. “Seriously, mate?”
These people were so easy to please, he thought. Toss a few of pesos their way and they’ll jump through whatever hoop you tell them to. “I believe five million dollars for your services grants me that right, yes?”