“Well, you said the same thing back then. But look at you now. You’re the best I have in Chinese Kenpo in your age group.”
Ezekiel sighed.
Kimball brushed a hand across the boy’s head, messing his hair. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll show you my secrets, how’s that? I’ll show you things that even Job and Joshua have never seen before.”
The boy beamed. “Really?”
“If you promise to show me more heart.” Kimball stood and patted Ezekiel on the crown of his head. “Off you go,” he said, giving him a little push toward the hallway. “You’re going to have a long day tomorrow, so get a good night’s sleep.”
Ezekiel responded by racing down the stone-arched corridor. “Tomorrow!” he shouted.
Kimball watched the boy disappear beyond the light of the torches.
“He’s quite a project, isn’t he?” Cardinal Vessucci came forth from the shadows opposite the hallway.
“How long have you been watching?”
“For a while,” said the cleric. And then: “The boy’s struggling, Kimball.”
“He’s struggled with everything he’s done,” he returned. “But that’s okay since success does not come without struggle.”
“Kimball, the boy does not have the natural tools to be a Knight. What you do you do for yourself — not for the boy.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“You’re trying to right this boy by hoping it will right you. To save him is honorable, yes. But save him some other way. Do not make him a Vatican Knight when he does not have the tools to become one.”
“I believe in him.”
“Kimball, it’s noble to believe in someone who is down, but it’s even nobler to let someone go if you know in your heart the truth. If he goes into battle as a warrior for the Church and is weak at his trade, then he will surely be killed. Can you live with that knowing all along that he never really belonged?”
Kimball was heated. “You took me in believing I could find salvation within myself, yet I still haven’t found it. Not yet. So maybe I don’t belong.”
“I see. You demand of the boy what you don’t demand from yourself.” The cardinal turned and walked to a stairway leading to the second tier that led to an outside balcony. As he climbed the stairs lifting the hem of the robe as he ascended, he continued to speak. “I believe in you, Kimball, as does the pope and everyone within the Society of Seven. You have given us no reason otherwise.” When the cardinal reached the doorway leading to the outside loggia, he turned and faced Kimball. “But don’t expect from the boy what you don’t expect from yourself.”
And then he opened the door, the chamber illuminating with a bright and dazzling…
… Light.
Beautiful, glorious morning light.
When Kimball’s brain registered the light beyond the folds of his lids, he immediately reacted purely on instinct by bolting from the mattress with his hand reaching for the KA-BAR strapped to his thigh. In a skillful move the blade was in his hand in a firm grasp, his legs parted, knees bent, the man ready to rock and roll.
He knew he had overslept, the fatigue carrying him deeper than he wanted to, the hours slipping by.
“Hawk!”
He checked his watch. He should have been up hours ago, when it was still dark.
“Hawk!”
No response — just an uneasy silence.
And then he saw it — on the night stand. Dog’s head sat sentinel with his ribbon of tongue hanging out, his eyes already taking on the milky sheen of death.
He could have killed me, Kimball thought. He was here, in this room. Dog’s head was testament to that, a perverse message.
Hawk?
Kimball hunkered low with blade in hand, his head on a swivel as he moved slowly from the room and into the hallway.
The front door was open, giving view to a landscape cleansed by a rain he was oblivious to, fresh and pure and unadulterated.
He moved down the hallway, his senses kicking in, the feeling of not being alone paramount.
And then: Why didn’t he kill me? He was right beside me — had every opportunity. Why didn’t he do it?
The surface of the porch was beaded with drops of rain and the air smelled like ozone, usually the promise of more rain to come, even though the sky was clear.
Kimball carefully scanned the terrain, close and afar, sighting nothing.
Next to the chair was the MP-5 Hawk left from the night before. Kimball picked it up and snuck back into the house for cover, checking the chamber and noting that the weapon was ready for fire action.
He then brought the weapon up until the scope met his eye. With his head on a swivel and his body low to the ground, he exited the house and onto the porch.
With head shifts to the left and right, Kimball pointed the weapon in the direction to the east, and then the west in grid fashion, always moving in case he was caught in the crosshairs, a hard target to hit.
Twenty minutes later he found Hawk lying face down in red clay that used to be sand until it rained. His shirt was torn and parted, revealing the Indian’s backside.
Carved into the flesh was the letter ‘R.’
Kimball then turned the man over, the wet clay making a perfect imprint of Hawk’s face and body. Little clumps of clay stuck to the man’s face and Kimball brushed it off. And then he looked out over the desert terrain knowing that the assassin was gone.
He was keeping with the sequential order of the photo, the brothers being next, Kimball last.
If he wanted Kimball dead, then he could have done it when the opportunity availed itself as he lay in bed, an easy kill. It was apparent he wanted him alive to the very end and was probably off to engage the twin brothers to complete the kills sequentially.
Kimball lowered the point of the weapon and stood to his full height.
He was, after all, alone here.
Looking down at Hawk, he recalled that his skin once held the deep, rich tone of tanned leather, but was now the color of ash.
Kimball took in a long deep breath, and then let it out with an equally long sigh. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “Iscariot.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“We were worried about you,” said Bonasero Vessucci. “You missed your contact mark.”
Kimball hesitated on the other end. And then solemnly, “He could have killed me, Bon. He had the opportunity.”
“But he didn’t.”
“That’s not the point,” he returned curtly. “I’m slipping. I was too fatigued to hang in there when I had to. I’m not a kid anymore. It’s getting harder to fight time.”
“Kimball, all that matters is that you’re alive—”
“You’re missing the point,” he said. “He killed Hawk and he could easily have killed me. I don’t think I can keep up with this guy, whoever he is.”
“Are you sure it’s just one?”
“I think so. The rain from last night washed away most of the prints. But I found a pair beneath a precipice approximately four hundred yards east of the ranch where the rain couldn’t get at, and again in the barn. Same set of prints from the same pair of boots — G.I. issue.”
“Government issue?”
“You got it.” Kimball walked by the corral, the appaloosas paying him no attention. “Look, Bon, you got to find me a team and quick. I need them. My old team is dropping around me.”