“The SIV is still searching. We’re trying to get a fix on them through GPS signals from their cell phones.”
“Any luck?”
“We may have found Job in Switzerland, close to Lake Lucerne. Joshua and Ezekiel are nowhere to be found.”
“What about Isaiah and Leviticus?”
“They’re still tied up with missions.”
Kimball sighed. “Bon, whoever this guy is — he’s a real pro. I’m starting to feel naked and lonely, if you catch my drift.”
“Trust me, Kimball. We’re not sitting idle on our end. We’ll assemble a team as soon as we can put one together. If we find Job before we find the others, then we’ll send him ASAP.”
“Job’s a good man. I’d feel better with him attached to my hip than those crazy brothers I have to track down.”
“They’re in Maryland, yes?”
“They are.”
“Then if we find Job, we’ll send him directly to the Sacred Heart s Church one mile east of the Washington Archdiocese.”
“I know where it’s at.”
“Then find the brothers and hold up. Having them is obviously better than being alone.”
“I agree. And, Bon, do whatever you can to find my team. I’m running out of time and friends.”
Although Kimball could not see him, Bonasero nodded agreement on his end. “I will.”
“Thanks.”
“And Kimball?”
Yeah.”
Another pause, then, “I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now.”
“What news?”
“About Amerigo.”
“No. I’ve been too busy trying to stay alive. Is he all right?”
“It’s not good news,” he said. “The pontiff’s ill — very, very ill.”
Kimball could tell by the heavy weight of the cardinal’s voice that the situation was dire. “What’s the matter?”
“He has cancer,” he stated. “Stage four… And it’s terminal.”
Kimball stopped in his tracks, his mouth slowly dropping, and let his hand holding the phone fall to his side. He could hear the cardinal talking, the voice coming through the receiver that sounded tinny and distant from half a world away. Slowly he brought the phone up. “I’m coming home,” he finally said.
“No! The pontiff has time. You need to find this assassin, Kimball. If you come home, then the assassin will surely follow you and bring the fight here. We cannot allow that under any circumstances.”
Kimball clenched his jaw, the muscles in the back working furiously. “Then assemble my team, Bon. Get them to the Sacred Hearts. In the meantime, I’ll take care of Hawk and be on my way to find the Brothers Grimm.”
“Who?”
“Just something we used to call them,” he said, and then ended the call by closing the lid of the phone.
Kimball was suddenly without sensation, his world suddenly disjointed like the random scatterings of a Pollock design, the kaleidoscopic pieces creating a surreal existence where life appeared to be spinning out of controclass="underline" There was the assassin. The murders.
The game of sequential killings, the killer taking away everyone he knew.
And now the final curtain call of Pope Pius.
Kimball sat on a corral railing, the log bowing beneath his weight, and brought his hands up to cup his face. He had been bred to deal with combat and confrontations. And seeing friends die around him was a part of battle and war, something to be expected. What he was not prepared for was the hurtful emotion that swept through him regarding a man whom he had come to love — a man who saw in him the Light he did not see within himself.
So Kimball did something he hadn’t done since he was a child.
He wept for Pope Pius.
Kimball Hayden spent the better part of the morning digging two graves — one for Dog, one for Hawk — next to a towering cottonwood tree situated along the bank of a small reservoir less than a hundred yards away from the stables. The view was breathtaking. The saw-tooth mountain range to the west was a deep purple in the late afternoon shadows, the sky as blue as Jamaican waters, and the one cottonwood in the entire valley stood as a behemoth with a widespread canopy, provided a comforting shade over the graves.
Kimball leaned against the handle of the shovel looking over the two dirt mounds — one small, the other large — as a cool wind blew in from the northwest.
The leaves of the cottonwood began to sway in concert, first in one direction and then in the other. Everything seemed to be in peace where there was so much madness — a nice reprieve, even if it was just for a moment.
Kimball examined the landscape, knowing this is how Hawk would have wanted it — to be buried on the land of his people with his canine companion alongside him.
He made no crosses. He said no words.
The man who was ‘The Ghost’ was now with the spirits of his ancestors.
After returning the shovel to the barn, Kimball released the appaloosas, the horses taking flight as their hooves kicked up dust trails as they vanished somewhere close to the horizon.
The scene was beautifully majestic.
After gathering his items, Kimball left the ranch to begin the final leg of his journey.
He would find the brothers, engage the assassin, and hopefully come out the victor.
But if he failed in his endeavors, then he hoped to be buried somewhere as undisturbed as Hawk’s grave, a place that would provide him with the peace and serenity that had eluded him throughout his entire life.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There was something about the passenger of the four-seated Cessna the pilot did not like. Whenever he asked a question, the man usually spoke in monosyllable answers of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ And when negotiating a set price from Albuquerque to Maryland, the man always spoke in a clipped manner, his answers always brief and to the point with no interest in small or gregarious talk beyond the settled cost.
The man always held his head low, the brim of his boonie cap covering most of his face with the exception of his jaw line. Beneath his clothes the pilot could see that the man was well honed, his body kept in shape by regimental exercise. On the ground next to him was a drab, olive green duffel bag, the type used by the military.
Without a doubt the man was evasive. And with the economy the way it was, the pilot was not about to let a willing customer go. So they settled upon $1,200/hour flight time with a guaranteed minimum of $6,000.
When agreed upon the man paid willingly, in cash, the $6,000 paid up front.
Once the Cessna was loaded with the man taking the rear seat behind the pilot, the pilot called the tower for departure rights and taxied the plane onto the runway. During this time the customer remained silent and always kept his head low, the brim of his hat concealing a major portion of his face, as he periodically gave sidelong glances out the window.
The pilot, in his forties, and with grizzled features of gray-brown hair and premature wrinkles, cocked his head and spoke. “It’s going to be a long flight — say, six hours. Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes.” Again — a monosyllable answer.
The pilot snapped on a few switches on his console. “Whatever.”
Within moments they were flying at an altitude of 20,000 feet.
The assassin knew he was being evasive. He also knew that such actions prompted suspicion from most people. But he also sensed desperation in this man who would sell his principles if the price was right.
The price was fixed at $6,000 in cash; all up front and paid immediately with no further questions and with the clear understanding that the pilot was to fly him to Maryland.
After loading the duffel bag into one of the rear seats, he took the seat behind the pilot, the act in itself telling the pilot that he wasn’t interested in camaraderie, talk, or any type of amity.