They had moved the conversation to the cellar, which, at least to Kimball, appeared to be a warehouse of aged wartime goods and battle cutlery, such as bayonets and cavalry swords. The true cache, however, was hidden behind a false wall the brothers called ‘The Vault.’ Inside were weapons of every distinction from mobile turrets to RPG’s to Gatlin mini-guns, the bottom line translating to serious dollars.
Kimball moved about the weaponry, often tracing a finger along the weapon and feeling the sleekness of the RPG's or running a hand over the multiple barrels of the mini-gun. “Aren’t these illegal?”
Stanley held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Just a little bit,” he said.
“This—” Jeff held his arms out as if in homage “—is our cash cow,” he said. “Grenier and Arruti purchased directly from us and supplied the rebels in the southern part of the Philippines.”
Kimball cocked his head. “You mean they were supplying the same rebels they were fighting?”
“The very same,” he stated. “The Philippine government hired them as — what they liked to be termed — a military security firm to stem the flow of terrorist groups to the north. But while the government paid them, they were also selling weapons to guerilla factions in the south to keep the conflict going. If there’s no battle, then there’s no payment. If there’s no payment, then there’s no profit.”
“The rebel conflict could have gone on forever.”
Jeff smiled. “Like I said, baby, it’s a cash cow — a win-win situation for all of us. They get paid a fortune by the Philippine government to fight the same rebel faction, while supplying them with our weapons on top of it. We were profiting from both sides and kept the fight going at the same time. The Philippine government had no idea.”
“But we haven’t heard from them in over a week,” said Stanley. “Now we know why.”
Kimball moved away from the weapons’ display area and made his way to a small table the Hardwick brothers were sitting at. Over the entire tabletop were the photos of what had been the reigning members of the Pieces of Eight, both before and after their deaths. He took a seat and began to shuffle through the pictures, noting the youthful poses when they were young and brash to the aged death postures with carvings in their flesh.
Walker was the first to go: the photo of a legless man tethered to the table, the letter ‘I’ carved in his back.
And then they spoke about Grenier and Arruti, not a simple tandem team to take down.
Ian McMullen wasn’t much of a surprise, the man surrendering to the bottle long before the Pieces were disbanded. The consensus was that he resigned himself to the direction of his fate because alcohol was more of a kinship than his band of brothers — so much was the hold of his affliction.
Hawk on the other hand, made the decision to rekindle with the spirits of his people and the Apache nation, rather than to profit with the Grenier’s and Arruti’s military security firm as a high-end operative.
When discussions finally turned to Kimball — well, he was something different all together.
Jeff Hardwick continued to stare at him with a steely gaze, the fierceness in his dark eyes equal to the ferocity of whatever was left of his soul. “Now you know about us, so now we want to know about you — and about that.” He pointed to Kimball’s collar. “You used to be the big honcho of the unit,” he said. “And now you tell us that you absconded for the salvation of the Church.” He leaned closer to the Vatican Knight. “You think that after all the horrible things you did that God is going to forgive you? Forgive us?”
“I didn’t come here to talk about me. What I’ve become, and for whatever reasons, is not on the table. I came here to save us from this.” He swept his hand over the photos. “If we don’t act now, if we don’t come up with a game plan, then there’ll be additional photos added to this group. And I’m talking about you.” He points to Jeff. “And you.” And then points to Stanley.
Jeff fell back in his chair, his gaze remaining hard on Kimball. “Do you really think I’m comfortable sitting here knowing what you did for a living, what you did to people, innocent or otherwise, and then have to stare at that collar you’re wearing? When I work with people, I want to know who they are. And I don’t know you, Kimball — not anymore. And if I don’t know you, then I don’t trust you. And if I don’t trust you, then I don’t work with you. It’s that simple.”
“You and your brother can’t do this alone.”
“Then I guess you better tell my brother and me who and what you’ve become.” Jeff’s features became as hard as his eyes, his manner deliberately adamant.
Kimball sighed, nodded, and then resigned himself. “All right… I’ll bend.”
Jeff Hardwick smiled with impish delight. “Please do.”
The assassin watched and waited with the virtue of a pious man. From the rooftop of a building across the way of the surplus store, the assassin maintained a vigil watch. It had been more than three hours since Kimball Hayden entered the store. And all the killer could do was question what they were talking about — of the assumptions they were making at the moment and how to react.
Who was doing this?
Why were they doing it?
More so, how do we stop him?
These questions would be the natural course of inquiries, he considered, the questions of self-preservation. The questions of scared little men.
The assassin removed his backpack and rummaged through the rear pocket. Inside was a black-and-white photo of the Pieces of Eight; the men posing in machismo indifference for the camera in either a kneeling or standing position. Five of the team members had been crossed out; three remained. The next in line was Stanley Hardwick.
Tracing a finger gingerly over the image of Stanley H, the assassin decided that he would continue to adhere to the rule of engagement, no matter how difficult it was about to become. He would kill Stanley first as the photo dictated, then Jeff, and then Kimball.
And the killer relished the thought, but refused to betray any emotion with something as little as a preamble of a smile.
Replacing the photo to its rightful pocket, the assassin donned the backpack and stood at the building’s edge, watching the store across the way.
The questions of scared little men, he thought.
The questions of scared little men.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
If there was anyone with the look of a weasel it was Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo. His face was blade-thin, and his nose pointed outward like a snout above a weak chin. His eyes were constantly flared to the size of half-dollars that forever darted around his sockets. And when he spoke he did so with a nasal twang. Yet in the eyes of his constituency he was a man who could be king.
When he entered the pope’s chamber he did so stooped at the shoulders. Not because he was physically infirm or twisted at the joints, but as a quasi-bow of respect. When he stood tall within the cast of the pope’s shadow, he did so at six foot four.
“Your Holiness,” he greeted.
Before taking the cardinal into his grasp he held up his blessed ring, which was dutifully kissed by Angullo, then pulled the cardinal into his embrace. “It’s good to see you again, my old friend.”
After accepting the embrace, Cardinal Angullo fell back and measured the pope with his hands still clutching the pontiff’s shoulders. “You look well, Amerigo.”
The pontiff waved a dismissive hand. “You lie,” he said with a weary smile. “I’m losing weight, albeit weight I should have lost a long time ago, and I look as if I haven’t slept when all I do is sleep.” He motioned a hand toward a button-studded chair of Corinthian leather in front of his desk. “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”