Kimball sighed and looked out the window as they went west on Tropicana. The Pieces of Eight were dwindling at a rapid pace. Only half the team remained.
Then from Father Sebastian, “We believe the assassin is still in the area since McMullen has been determined to be dead not more than four hours.”
“A man can be anywhere in four hours.”
And this was true, which is why Father Sebastian remained quiet.
“By the way, where are you taking me?”
“To a parish on the west side of town,” he answered. “You’ll be safe there.”
“Actually, I’ll need to get to New Mexico as soon as possible. Can you arrange that?”
“I can. But you need rest.”
“What I need is to get to New Mexico to reach The Ghost before the assassin does. If he maintains one step ahead of me at all times, then there will be no one left.”
“It’s late. Ticketing kiosks and flights won’t reopen for another few hours. The red-eye flights are already gone.”
“Then rent me a car.”
“With all due respect, you’d have to drive through Arizona and half way through New Mexico. It would take you longer to drive to your destination than to wait for ticketing to reopen and fly.”
Kimball drew a mental image in his mind of the map of the US. Sebastian was right. New Mexico, especially Albuquerque, was far from Las Vegas. By flight it was nothing. The moment the plane leveled off, then it would be time to descend. Kimball just couldn’t stand the lapse between now and then.
“Perhaps you should rest.”
It was a good notion, but Kimball was too hyped up.
He looked out the window and at the lights that made up the Las Vegas Strip. His eyes took on a hypnotic gaze. Out there, he considered, was the man who killed his friends. Out there, in the blaze of neon glory, was the man who was targeting him with the presumption to take him out.
The lights were incredible.
“Perhaps you should rest,” Father Sebastian repeated.
But how could he? Wondering if the killer was within the city limits of Las Vegas, or if he already had a leg up and was on his way to kill The Ghost.
“Just get me a flight as soon as possible. And have a car waiting for me when I get there. I’ll need it to get to the reservation.”
Father Sebastian nodded. “I understand.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pope Pius rested comfortably at Gemelli Polyclinic, his bed raised so he could better view the television. Beside him sitting in a chair was Cardinal Vessucci.
“Bonasero.” The pope reached out to him with a bony and frail hand, and Vessucci grabbed it with ease. “You’re a good friend and favored by the College to succeed me—”
“Let’s not talk about this, Your Holiness.”
“Bonasero, death is only a new beginning. It’s a way of life.”
“Of course it is, but yours is far from over.”
Pius smiled, becoming passive. And then: “I’ve lived a good life, my friend. But we both know that I’m in the twilight of my existence. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that. I know just as you do.” The pontiff sighed and laid his head against the pillow, their hands still clutching. “It’s time to see my Heavenly Father,” he added.
“Amerigo—” The cardinal cut himself off.
“Bonasero, you’re my good friend and the College favors you to succeed me. You have the tools to win the masses, and the gift to give hope when hope is needed the most. Use them wisely.”
The cardinal relented. “If I should succeed you, if the College of the Cardinals deems me fit to sit upon the papal throne, then I will not disappoint.”
The pope smiled. “I know that.” And then the pontiff fell into a severe coughing fit, more blood, his face growing crimson. Red flecks ended up on the back of Pius’s liver-spotted hand, which the cardinal wiped clean with a tissue.
Within moments the pontiff eased back into a calm repose with a hand to his chest as his breathing fell into a more rhythmic, a more normal pattern.
“On my passing,” he told the cardinal, catching his breath, “you’ll need to fill the vacant seat within the Society of Seven. There are those who are too conservative to see the need for the Vatican Knights. But there are those who recognize the Church’s right to protect its sovereignty, its interests and the welfare of its citizenry. Choose wisely, Bonasero, to avoid an insurrection by conservative factions within the Vatican, those who are most politically minded.”
The cardinal nodded in agreement. “The secrets of the Knights will be well kept and held to the Society of Seven. There are many within who recognize the right of the Church to protect itself. So don’t worry, Amerigo. I’ll find someone to fill the void without a setback.”
“What about the status of the Vatican Knights?”
“Isaiah and Leviticus are meeting with marginal resistance and no collateral damage, but far from being relieved of duty to aid Kimball. We still haven’t found those on sabbatical.”
Pius sighed. “And have you heard from Kimball?”
“No. But he did land safely in Las Vegas where he was met by SIV who informed him of Mr. McMullen’s fate. From what I understand he’s now on his way to the next perceived target.”
A man of Lincolnesque statute, tall and lanky with wispy limbs beneath his medical coat, entered the room wearing a feigned, if not uneasy, smile. As he stood at the foot of the pontiff’s bed the man rung his hands nervously.
With an encompassing smile magical enough to sooth the man, the pope put the doctor at ease. “And how are you today, Doctor Simonelli? Blessed, I hope?”
“Your Eminence—” The man took a step closer, the pretend smile gone. “Your Eminence, I’m afraid I have some rather disturbing news regarding your condition.” The physician hesitated for a brief moment, the lapse of time, however, seemingly long and surreal. “I’m afraid you have cancer.”
“Advanced?”
“Yes, Your Holiness, I’m afraid so. The cancer has metastasized to tissues to both lungs and neighboring organs. You’re at stage four, in fact.”
“Stage four?”
“I’m afraid it’s terminal.”
There was another pregnant pause, the moment awkward.
And then: “How long?”
“I’d say anywhere from three to six months. It all depends upon how your body responds to chemo and radiation.”
“There’ll be neither,” he said. “I’ll simply let nature take its course.”
“But, Your Holiness—”
Pius raised a halting hand. “No, Bonasero, God is calling me home. There is no need to prolong the inevitable.”
“Are you in any pain?” asked the doctor.
“No, just tired. I thought I was just overworking myself.”
“If you want, Pontiff, I can prescribe morphine.”
“There’s no need, Doctor.” He turned to the cardinal. “I’ll need around-the-clock care until I can perform no longer. You’re the secretary of state, so I’ll need to groom you to cover my duties until my passing. From then the Cardinal Camerlengo will take over the duties upon the moment I die, and continue those duties until a successor is chosen.”
The cardinal nodded sadly. “Of course, Your Holiness.”
The pope laid his head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I’m going home.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The assassin had no idea that Kimball Hayden had just driven within fifty feet of his location as he holed himself up inside a cheap franchise motel along Tropicana. Behind the drawn drapes the assassin sat on the edge of the bed going over aged dossiers of the Pieces of Eight. The dossiers of Walker, Arruti and Grenier were closed out, the files bound by an elastic band and sitting on the nightstand between twin beds. The five remaining dossiers sat on his lap. The profile of McMullen was open, the aged photos yellowing at the edges, the detailed information regarding the one-time government assassin spelled out in seventeen pages.