In Kimball’s estimate, the senator had nothing to do with commissioning their demise. He was sure of it.
The Hardwicks, however, concluded something differently.
“Let’s just walk away from this,” he told them. “There’s no need to take out the guard.”
Jeff faced him with a disconcerting look. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked him. “That white collar you normally wear choking off the blood to your brain or something? You’re turning into a pussy, Kimball. Keep with protocol and erase all elements of opposition.”
“The guard won’t even know until we’re gone.”
“If he sees the bodies, then he’ll call in reinforcements. We need time to draw distance between us and them.”
Kimball knew he was right. That had always been the rule of thumb: Engage, destroy, and retreat. There was no platform he could truly debate from to quash the situation. Killing had always been their forte.
Conceding to the will of the brothers, Kimball had no choice but to follow, his position as team leader having been usurped by the Hardwicks.
The killing would go on.
The remaining officer who covered the grounds received a command through his earpiece. It was a call for backup, the voice frantic. When he responded through his lip mike he did not receive a reply in return, the frequency going silent.
The officer held his MP5 high, the weapon an extension of himself as he moved his head in a swivel, his world seen through the lens of the assault weapon.
From behind came a noise; barely perceptible, but still there.
He pivoted.
Through the lens he saw nothing but the Italian cypresses swaying gracefully with the course of a light wind.
Then more noise, this time from the right, no doubt the snap of a twig.
Something was moving within the shadows.
The officer pivoted, then with slow efficiency made his way toward the source of the sound.
There it was, in the shadows, the silhouette of a man standing as still as a mannequin, waiting silently within a copse of trees.
“You! Move forward with your hands on your head! Now!”
The shape did not move.
“I said now!”
From behind, whispered words were spoken mere inches from the officer’s ears. “Maybe he doesn’t want to,” the voice said.
The officer never heard the assassin sneak up on him. The man’s focus squarely of what was in front of him rather than keeping a peripheral awareness.
The officer quickly pivoted, the point of the gun swinging around.
Too late.
His opponent quickly knocked the MP5 out of his hands and came across with the blade of a KA-BAR combat knife, cutting through the man’s neck with all the ease of slicing through a hot cake of butter.
The man’s eyes widened, his neck becoming a second horrible mouth as he quickly bled out. Falling to his knees with his mortality slipping away, his head, although far from being severed, fell back like the cap of a Pez dispenser, the wide gash showing the plumbing of internal gore before falling back dead.
Jeff sheathed the knife and beckoned his brother from the shadows. “Nice job, man.”
Stanley smiled as he made his way forward. “I never had a doubt.”
“What are you talking about? You were nervous he was gonna pull the trigger, weren’t you?”
“Like I said, I never had a doubt. You were moving up on this guy like a cat.”
After the brothers’ fist bumped each other they turned to the body, the wound glistening in the darkness like black tar.
“Kinda like old times, isn’t it?” asked Stan.
“Certainly gets the blood going. I almost forgot what it was like.”
Kimball came forward. He purposely remained far from the scene but kept a keen eye to see how it would play out. “I hope you two animals are happy with yourselves.”
Jeff turned to him. “You know what I like about you, Hayden?”
“No. What?”
“Absolutely nothing.” He squared off with Kimball, the six-inch height difference between them evident. “Your holier-than-thou attitude is getting on my nerves.” Then: “You’re not the same man, Kimball. One time you would have been bathing in this guy’s blood after you gutted him… What happened to you?”
Kimball remained silent. But his mind answered for him. It’s all about salvation.
After a short lapse of time Stan stepped forward, grabbed his brother’s arm, and began to usher him away. “We gotta get out of here,” he said.
Jeff allowed himself to be led and Kimball followed, the men picking their pace up into a jog, then to a sprint, and made their way back to the truck leaving five people dead in their wake.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Job was dressed in faded jeans that blossomed over the high ankle edges of military issued boots, a black cleric shirt, and Roman Catholic collar. His hair was set in a buzz cut and his sunglasses held an amber-colored tint to the lenses. In his hand was his duffel bag. Embroidered across the fabric was the emblem of the Vatican Knights, a coat of arms of a Silver Cross Pattée set against a blue background. The colors were significant in which the silver represented peace and sincerity, and blue the traits of truth and loyalty. Standing alongside the coat of arms were two heraldic lions rising from their hind legs with their forepaws against the shield, stabilizing it. The implication of the lions was a symbolic representation of bravery, strength, ferocity and valor. It was also the symbol worn on their battle attire.
When Job exited the terminal, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci was waiting for him by the loading curb beside the papal limousine wearing a conservative-style robe that was black with red buttons and scarlet piping. On his head sat a red zucchetto.
When the men saw each other they gave off genuine smiles and, after Job dropped his bag, fell into each other’s embrace.
“It’s good to have you back, Job,” said the cardinal, drawing back. “I’m terribly sorry that you had to be called back from sabbatical so soon.”
“That’s quite all right,” he said, and then he picked up his bag and rounded the vehicle to the open trunk. The limo driver was standing there with his hands held behind the small of his back, a light smile on his face, then stood back as he allowed Job to toss his duffel bag into the cargo bay. When the driver closed the trunk, Job and the cardinal found their rightful seats and settled in.
The car pulled away from the curb, the ride as smooth as sliding over the surface of glass as the limo made its way to the main artery.
Job leaned forward, still wearing his sunglasses. “You said Kimball was in trouble?”
The cardinal nodded. “You know where Kimball comes from, don’t you? You know of his background?”
He nodded. “He was an assassin,” he said straightforwardly.
“Apparently his old team is being terminated by an assassin and we have no idea who he is at this time. The SIV has no information as to who this killer is or why he’s doing what he’s doing. The only thing we do know is that whoever is doing this is going down the list and killing them in order. On the backs of each victim he carves a single letter, spelling the name Iscariot.”
“The betrayer of Christ. But why?”
The cardinal shrugged. “We think — Kimball thinks — that U.S. political factions may be involved in this to cover up past digressions. But the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano cannot find anything to support this.”
“Their government is very good at keeping secrets close to the vest.”