But stilclass="underline"
— Kimball is Kimball; a Vatican Elite—
— That may be so. But he may also be out of his league and needs your help—
— That goes without question. But Kimball Hayden is never out of his league—
— Let’s hope so. Because right now he’s all alone—
They spoke further of Job’s position to back Kimball up to better the odds, and how they were on the search for Ezekiel and Joshua to aid the supreme Knight in his hunt.
— Kimball had to take this fight elsewhere before the assassin could bring his fight to the Vatican—
— Do we have an idea as to who he is?—
— Nothing—
— With all your resources?—
— Whoever this man is, he’s nothing less than a phantom—
A pause, and then in a tone of deference:
— So is Kimball—
The men continued onward toward the hostel, the once beautiful day no longer as severe cloud cover began to move in and threatened to open riotously.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The moment Kimball landed he rented a vehicle and, after purchasing a map, charted a course to the Hardwick brothers’ store. After parking his rented car in a fenced-in lot that charged by the hour, Kimball grabbed the manila envelope on the seat beside him and made his way down streets lined with brick-row houses.
Trash filled the gutters as rogue curs lapped at the filthy stream of water meandering its way toward the sewage grates; and neighborhood toughs, all wearing colors unique to their gang affiliation, sat along the steps of residences shouting out in an undisciplined manner. But when Kimball walked by they spoke not a word, their eyes focusing on the band of the cleric’s collar. And then all of a sudden they would slip into their second skin, becoming disciplined and quiet, as if the presence of the priest was deterrent enough for wayward behavior.
Kimball passed by poorly kept storefronts until he came across a building reminiscent of a warehouse, the cinderblock walls were laden with pictures of colorful urban murals. Above the door was a sign that was cheap in its design: HARDWICKS’ ARMY & NAVY SUPPLIES.
Standing on the sidewalk across the way, Kimball drew in air with a long pull, filled his lungs to capacity with stale air, and then released it with an equally long sigh.
The Hardwick Boys, he thought, they were the last of a unique band of brothers.
Now, after all these years, he could only wonder how they would welcome him back into their fold believing he died so long ago when, in fact, he absconded from service.
Would they view him with the same disappointment as Hawk?
Stepping off the sidewalk, he was about to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When the Cessna landed the assassin stated to the pilot another monosyllable word: ‘Thanks,’ then collected his gear and melded with the crowd in the terminal, disappearing from the pilot’s life hoping to be nothing more than a memory soon to be faded or forgotten.
After securing transport, he made a quick trip to Baltimore to challenge the Hardwick brothers, and took vigil on an abandoned rooftop across the street from the surplus store. Earlier he had seen one of the Hardwick’s enter the store, the man moving with all the pomp and circumstance of an aristocrat. The way he held his chin in a self-aggrandizing manner or the way he walked with a hitch in his gait, were clearly gestures that this particular Hardwick thought he was well above everyone else on the urban jungle food chain.
It was also the ‘Hardwick’ myth that the assassin was willing to dispel with the aid of his pick.
As the day wore on he took mental notes from the rooftop, as well as to draw the outlay of the streets. He noted entry and exit routes, vantage points from high and level surfaces, and charted a means of escape from several locations.
The assassin was planning well.
Within two hours of his arrival and approximately ninety minutes after Hardwick entered the store, the assassin caught the glimpse of a man walking with a purpose. The man was large and well built, and he wore a cleric’s shirt with the pristine white band of the Roman Catholic collar. He also wore black fatigues with cargo pockets and high-ankle military footwear. On the pocket of his shirt was the emblem of a silver Pattée within a blue shield supported by lions: The symbol of the Vatican Knights.
Kimball Hayden!
The assassin watched from a safe distance surprised that ‘the priest who is not a priest’ was less aware of his surroundings, given the fact that he knew he was a targeted man. However, the assassin also knew that Kimball was untouchable until the Hardwick brothers were terminated.
For a long moment he watched the Knight stand across the street from the surplus store, Hayden appearing lost in some type of self debate before stepping off the curb and making his way to the front of the mural-laden store. A manila envelope was in his hand.
No doubt the dossiers, the assassin considered.
Now the game would become harder, he thought, the competition much higher. But the odds of three to one deterred him little. He took out Hawk, The Ghost, with little effort, the old man’s skills obviously eroded over time. But the Hardwicks looked fit and ready to fight at the drop of a hat. And there was no doubt to the skills of Kimball Hayden. Without reservation the confrontation between these three just ratcheted up several notches to a much higher degree of difficulty.
This time Kimball would be waiting.
And so would the Hardwick brothers.
From his perch the assassin watched Kimball make his way across the street and to the establishment’s front door. After another moment of hesitation Kimball reached up and pushed the button.
Even from his position the assassin could hear Kimball being buzzed in.
He was that close.
Jeff Hardwick could hardly believe his ears when the door buzzer sounded off. The army/navy surplus was widely known in the ‘streets’ to be a front and not truly an outlet for goods sold at all.
Curious!
Through the spycam, Hardwick could clearly see the image of a large man. In his hand was a folder of some kind, perhaps an envelope. His first thought was a mail drop-off that had to be signed for. But with closer examination he saw the cleric’s collar. The man’s face, however, remained obscured since he kept his eyes downward.
A priest?
When Hardwick reached beneath the counter he did so for two reasons: one, to hit the buzzer to allow the man in; and two, to ready himself with a Glock, in case something wasn’t quite copasetic.
He took the weapon and placed it within the waistband of his pants, covered it with the tail of his shirt, and buzzed the man in.
The man looked anything but cherubic, Jeff Hardwick thought. He had broad shoulders and a tapered waist, along with the angular and chiseled features of an athlete rather than a preacher. The edges of his eyes looked as hard as flint with the promise that a single spark could ignite something extremely volatile within. And when he walked he did so with the type of authority neither of the Hardwick brothers could match, no matter how hard they tried.
This man moved like a seasoned warrior.
Hardwick slowly eased his hand behind him and found the familiar curve of the pistol’s grip. “Something I can do for you?” he asked.