The cardinal nodded. And then: “A majority of his team is dead, all of them killed off by this assassin. And Kimball is running out of options. I need you to prepare yourself, Job. Ezekiel and Joshua will be ending their sabbaticals and returning shortly. If Kimball can get through the next few days, then I want you three to back him up.”
“How’s he holding up?”
The cardinal shook his head and managed a look of concern. “Besides him,” he began, “he’s working alongside two brothers who are as ruthless as Kimball is with his skilled techniques. Nevertheless, I would feel much better knowing that he had the backup of the Vatican Knights, instead.”
The cardinal fell back into his seat and stared out the window, his eyes staring at nothing in particular, the world passing by in a blur. It was quite possible that Kimball could neutralize the situation, he considered. But if he couldn’t, then there was no doubt in Vessucci’s mind that Kimball would have to return to the safety of the papal confines.
And if this should happen, then he would most likely bring this war to the Vatican.
Fighting for calm to quell the mounting anxiety, Cardinal Vessucci closed his eyes and began to pray.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
While the sun had risen in Rome, it was still early morning in Washington D.C. as Kimball and the Hardwick brothers ran down the street toward the pickup. Their pace was quick and silent as a feline that moved with predatory grace. And whenever possible they moved within shadows, using the darkness as their ally.
When they reached the truck they quickly surveyed their surroundings, sighting nothing.
The night was still.
Kimball stood by the cab, his eyes filled with subdued rage. He knew he had to be careful because if he took on one Hardwick, then he would eventually be taking on two Hardwicks, a battle he might not be able to win.
Kimball lashed out; his tone evenly measured but nevertheless held a hint of resentment. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.”
“And how was it supposed to go?” said Stan. “Were we supposed to walk in, question the dude, then walk away? We’re operators, Kimball. That’s all we ever were. We move in, make a statement, and get out.”
“And killing Senator Shore,” added Jeff, “is a message to whoever is out there taking out the Pieces of Eight that we know who’s involved, and that all actions are to cease and desist.”
“We know nothing,” Kimball shot back. “When he saw me he was genuinely surprised. Don’t you think the assassin would have told him that I was still alive?”
“Politicians are born actors. Of course he knew you were alive.”
“He had no idea.”
Jeff placed his hand on the truck’s handle. “You’re wrong, Kimball. Shore was behind everything because he’s the only one — the only one—who has any reason to fear the Pieces of Eight unless, of course, you have someone else in mind. If you do, then my brother and I will be more than happy to listen to whatever it is you have to say. So tell us, do you have someone else in mind, someone who wants us dead?”
Kimball had to admit that he didn’t, and that Shore surely fit the bill as a candidate who had everything to lose by the existence of the surviving members and what they knew. But there was nothing about him — his body language, the facial tics or the way he spoke — that served as telltale signs that he knew anything at all, besides ignorance.
“What’s the matter, Kimball?” asked Stan. “You got no answer?”
“He’s got no answer,” said Jeff. “Because he knows we’re right. Ain’t that right, Kimball?”
Kimball ground his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work.
Jeff smiled. “I thought so.”
When Jeff popped the door open of the pickup Kimball observed something wedged beneath the windshield wiper of something that looked like a flyer. “Wait a minute,” he said. He removed the item except it wasn’t a flyer at all, but a photograph. It was a print of the Pieces of Eight. However, this one had been amended. Unlike the other photos this one held an additional circle, another victim, the face circled in red with the letter “I” in it.
It was the face of Stanley Hardwick.
And then everything clicked.
They were not alone.
Kimball wheeled around immediately, motioning his hand for Stan to drop to the ground.
Too late.
Nobody heard the shot or saw the muzzle flash.
Stan went rigid, his back arcing slightly as he balled his fists against the impact to the center of his forehead. His eyes darted momentarily, as if taking in the final moments of his life, then fell backward as stiffly as a plank of wood.
Jeff and Kimball took to the ground, searching.
Nothing.
“So much for your concept of the assassin ceasing and desisting once the senator was taken out,” said Kimball. “Nice call.”
“Shutup.” Jeff quickly crawled to his brother who laid there looking skyward, a bloodless hole in the middle of his forehead, the pared back flesh a blooming rose petal of pulp and gore as a thin ribbon of smoke rose upward from the opening.
“In the truck,” ordered Kimball harshly. “Now.”
Jeff looked at him, then back at his brother, then at the row of houses, growing angrier with each passing moment. He then cradled his brother’s head within his arms, feeling a sudden and total loss of separation he never knew existed. It was like the complete severance of a body part, something that could never be replaced or made whole.
Stan Hardwick was gone forever.
“Get… in… the… truck,” demanded Kimball.
Jeff looked at him with a lost look, a sad look, then lowered his brother’s head, caressed his brother’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, and quickly got into the cab, keeping his head down.
Kimball got into the driver’s side, his head low, drove the key home and turned the ignition, the truck roaring to life. In a fluid motion he shifted into gear and stepped on the gas, the truck’s wheels spinning, the rear end fishtailing as he pulled away from the curb and away from the area, the truck sliding into the turns as he went.
In the rearview mirror Jeff saw the reflection of his brother lying in the street until the truck slid into its first turn.
And then he was gone.
“How did he know where we were?” screamed Jeff, raking his fingers constantly through his hair. “How did he know? We weren’t followed! I made sure of that. There was no one behind us.”
“You don’t have to see someone to follow them,” Kimball said.
And Jeff understood. “GPS,” he said. “The son of a bitch placed a GPS somewhere on the truck.”
“Bingo.”
It would be the last word between them until they reached Baltimore.
When Kimball pulled into the alleyway behind the surplus store, he turned off the ignition and both men sat quietly.
After a lapse of silence Kimball finally broke the ice. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said.
“You ain’t sorry about Jack,” he returned. “You hated him as much as he hated you.”
Kimball sighed. “It’ll take authorities awhile to determine who he is because he has no history or listed identity. Most likely someone will recognize a photo and trace him back here… Maybe.”
“Does it matter? The guy’s dead.”
“Look, Jeff—”
“Save it, Kimball. I ain’t listening.”
Jeff opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut behind him, shaking the truck. He then went to a steel door giving entrance to the shop, opened a metal box located next to the door with an ace key, tapped numbers on a keypad, and looked into the eyescan. When he was done the titanium bars went into motion and retracted, unlocking the door. Grabbing the handle, Jeff swung the door wide and entered the premise, leaving the door open as invitation for Kimball to follow.