“The damage is extensive,” the Jesuit priest returned. “The amputation of his arm and given the history of his ailing heart . . .” He let his words trail.

  “There’s nothing anyone can do at this point,” Kimball returned. Then he immediately transitioned to another topic. “Have you discovered anything on your end regarding the sniper, or snipers?”

  Auciello, after a brief pause, nodded and said, “Kimball, we were able to extract data from the CIA databanks, after they decided not to share the information. The reason behind their openness to communicate with the Vatican is because of the damage such evidence could provoke, should it fall into the wrong hands. And I can understand why,” he added. “And when you see this, so will you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The assassinations appear to have been an inhouse attempt from one of their own.”

  “A CIA rogue operator? It’s not surprising since the CIA retains a number of black-ops units that are outside of the scope of the president’s circle, with the president on a need-to-know basis. But why the pope? He wasn’t a threat to anyone. I can see if a terrorist group was involved. But the CIA?”

  “It goes much deeper than that, Kimball. Much, much deeper.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s reason to believe that the pontiff was not the primary target, but perhaps the president himself. Further interpretation states that shooting Pope Pius XIV, since he was the most visible target from the angle of the sniper’s nest, may have been a diversionary target to draw attention away from the principal target of President Burroughs. When the pontiff was struck, that perhaps opened enough of a window for the sniper to hit the mark.”

  “Speculation?”

  “Right now, it appears so. At least from the CIA’s point of view. But there’s something else, Kimball. And it’s something you’re not going to like.”

  “I don’t like it already.”

  “You’re about to dislike it even more.”

  Kimball leaned toward the screen. “Give it to me.”

  “The CIA was able to bring up the footage of the assassin. And the assassin’s identity has been confirmed. I’ll send you the loop.”

  Kimball made a gesture that told Father Auciello to ‘go ahead and send it.’

  “Are you ready for this?” the priest asked him.

  “Go ahead.”

  A green bar at the bottom of Kimball’s screen started to track from left to right as the video started to download. It was a slow process and one that brought a sigh from Kimball. When it reached the 100% marker, a video popped up. It showed a woman crossing the lobby with her gun hand raised, directed, and then firing off three rounds, killing the security guard. Then she stood before the lens of what he assumed was a CCTV scanner, raised what appeared to be a thumb-pressed detonator, and depressed the button. The camera shook against the blast. When it stilled, the woman continued to stare into the lens before she finally disappeared from view.

  “The assassin’s a woman,” Kimball commented.

  “She is . . . But you also need to take a closer look.”

  Kimball leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. The face was familiar. The shape of her cheeks, her jawline. She was also wearing a corduroy shirt, jeans, and sneakers, but her eyes remained disguised behind sunglasses. Then it suddenly dawned on him as a chilling wave rippled through his body.

  “Perhaps your memory isn’t quite there yet,” said Father Auciello, “of this woman.”

  But Kimball did remember. And his memory of Shari Cohen couldn’t have delivered a more crushing blow. His heart had twisted itself into a tight fist, the sudden pain bringing a grimace to his features. “No way.” Kimball’s mind raced to find an alternative to the truth. He did not want to believe that the woman he loved had been the one behind the assassinations. “No way,” he whispered distantly.

  “I’m sorry, Kimball.”

  “This has to be a mistake.”

  From his end, Father Auciello hit another button to forward Kimball additional information. It was the headshot photo of Shari with the facial recognition registering at 91%.

  Falling back into his seat, Kimball Hayden’s shoulders fell with the crookedness of an Indian’s bow, the defeat sinking him even lower than the overwhelming downfall that sunk him to incredible depths after the pontiff had been shot on his watch.

  Shari Cohen was a killer.

  “No, I—” Kimball cut himself off, the man lost for words.

  “I am sorry, Kimball. It was something I did not want to propose to you, but it was something I had to. I hope you understand.”

  Kimball gave a weak nod. Then: “Did they catch her?”

  “No. But the information appropriated appears to indicate that they have activated a number of units to find her, including the Special Activities Division.”

  “Have they been given orders to terminate her with extreme prejudice?”

  “Unknown.”

  Kimball could understand the reason behind such an order. It was to keep matters close to home. Should word get out to the global community that the president was killed by an American agent, the American people would become infuriated since the assassination may mark the beginning of the end of true democracy. The constituency may also view the power of intel agencies with having the pick-and-choose method as to who they want to serve in office to better serve their needs. Here were shades of JFK all over again, he thought. Lightning really does strike twice.

  Then from Father Auciello: “Kimball? Are you good with this?”

  Kimball looked at the screen. “I’m fine,” he lied.

  “We’ll keep you updated as the events progress.”

  Kimball nodded. “Whatever you learn, no matter how small, I want to know.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Kimball. She’s made her decision for whatever reason only she can understand.”

  Kimball, however, had his own theory. Before he was recruited as a Vatican Knight, he was an operative for a black-ops arm of the CIA which most conspiracists would label as deep state. During his tenure as an assassin for the United States government, they had stripped him of his conscience and morality, and turned him into a killer who operated with the cold fortitude of a machine. He had murdered women and children under the sake of ‘national security’ when the truth was that he was facilitating coverups by silencing voices that could condemn those in power. Had they stripped Shari of her morality until there was nothing left of the woman he had grown to care for?

  Kimball could feel his rage building. He wanted to shout with cries laced with profanities. He wanted to vent and erupt with anger. He wanted relief from what he was feeling at the moment, from the loathing he felt. She had betrayed his memory of her—that her wholesome goodness had been entirely corrupt. She was now an abomination in his mind and a dark spot in his heart.

  Fighting for calm, Kimball looked at Shari’s image—at her wonderfully beautiful face. He saw the MATCH number at 91% and not the generally registered 100%. Though ninety percent of confirming facial landmarks was a high degree of endorsement, it still wasn’t perfect.

  He examined her face once again and tried to find faults with the identification process. Then he wondered if that nine-percent inability to register other facial points was there for a reason. But the truth was obvious: deep down he wanted to believe that she had nothing to do with pulling the trigger, so he looked for anything that would indicate otherwise. But in the end, he could find nothing beyond the fact that the face did belong to Shari Cohen.

  They got to you, he told himself while tracing the point of his finger over her image. Didn’t they? They stripped you of the woman you were. The woman I loved.

  “Kimball,” Father Auciello interrupted Kimball’s thoughts, “the Secretariat of State has taken over command and the Camerlengo has been notified, should the pontiff pass.”

  “Understood.” Kimball realized that the church was praying for the best but preparing for the worst.

  “Get some rest,” said Father Auciello. “You look like you could use it.”

  Nodding in farewell rather than to say goodbye, Kimball disconnected the feed.

  He sat in the quasi-darkness of his room with the drapes drawn, but not enough to kill the light from the streetlamps that filtered through the parted seam between the curtains. It was just a sliver of illumination that cut its way through the refuge of shadows he was most comfortable in. And as he fell slowly back into the cushion of his seat, Kimball was overcome with emotion. He was running through a gamut of feelings from anger to sadness and all the sentiments in between.

  Then he closed his eyes.

  Shari Cohen.

  Two words that meant the world to him.

  Shari Cohen.

  A woman who had lost her way.

  Shari Cohen.

  A murderer.

  Opening his eyes, he could not deny the fact that he was angry beyond measure. And though he fought for composure, it was turning out to be a waged battle that he was losing. Clenching his fists as a means to contain his rage, Kimball eventually found himself on the losing end.

  The Vatican Knight got to his feet, grabbed a chair, then smashed it over a table, the chair splintering into countless pieces. He then tipped over the table with the vase sitting on top taking flight and smashing against the tiled floor. He ripped pictures that had been screwed into walls free from their moorings, then smashed them until the frames had been broken into shards. Holes had been punched into the walls, his driving fists finding no contest against the drywall. And then as a final note as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, as his chest heaved and pitched with fury, he drove his fist against the looking-glass until his altered image reflected back at him from the web-like cracks.

  Exhausted to the point of buckling into the cushions of the sofa, Kimball brought his hands to his face. He had failed the pontiff, he considered. And Shari had failed him. Of all the people who would never live up to his memories, he never believed that Shari Cohen would be one of them.

  Deep down, Kimball wondered if he had it in him to kill the woman he loved since his rage for her betrayal was paramount.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Vatican

  Vatican City

  Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo did not waste time shamefully self-promoting himself with members of his preferiti camp. Pope Pius XIV was neither cold nor in his grave, but the cardinal, nevertheless, considered it prudent to publicize the fact that preparation was a necessity, should the Lord decide to call the pontiff home.

  Words were exchanged as political meandering and campaigning went on through to the early morning hours with no sleep, the situation so dire that candidates needed to be cast immediately. ‘It was God’s will,’ he would tell those who would listen. And that he was the ‘Chosen One because of his timely return from exile.’ Then he would profess the reason behind his homecoming: It was because he could stand within the shadows of St. Peter’s as its new leader. He was fated, if not preordained by God, to become the next pope. And he wielded his golden tongue like a sword that cut deep to the hearts of his cardinal constituency to keep them close.

  He was strengthening his camp by politicking and winning the minds and souls of his loyalists. His numbers were growing. His political backing soaring. What Cardinal Angullo wanted all his life despite sacrificing others to achieve his goals, was to see the plumes of white smoke rise from the chimney the moment he was voted by the Conclave to be the new pope.

  Throughout the day he would campaign tirelessly and without rest as his adrenaline coursed through his veins like an opiate.

  In the end, after he made his arguments and placed upon many his influences, Cardinal Angullo returned to his apartment, got to his knees before the portrait of Jesus Christ that was hanging on the wall, clasped his hands together in an attitude of prayer, and continued to pray for the death of Pope Pius XIV.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Washington, D.C.

  Shari Cohen was tired, cold, and hungry. She had risen from the depths of the Earth looking like a societal castaway, one who appeared filthy and destitute and without hope. Her corduroy shirt was soiled, as were her jeans. The sneakers she had on were caked with mud and, she also believed, clots of fecal matter. Her hair was in a wild tangle, giving her somewhat of a feral look.

  Soon, streamers of sunlight would begin to shine off the horizon. And like a vampire, Shari knew that she could not afford to be caught within the light. She would be visible and a target. And despite having a firearm, she knew she would be swept off the streets and disappear.

  The Company takes care of their own.

  She stayed within the shadows, which had done her well. Ahead, however, and lit up by a number of colored lights for aesthetic purposes, was the hotel that housed the Vatican Knights.

  She wondered if Kimball Hayden was there.

  She hoped so.

  Moving into the light, Shari found herself alone in the streets at such an early hour, so she used the time to her advantage. Moving to the rear of the hotel and to a loading dock, Shari discovered an open bay. A transport vehicle was delivering goods. With feline silence and stealth as the delivery man loaded a cart with boxed items, Shari slipped unseen into the building. There were corridors, tunnels, all a labyrinth that could have gone a number of different ways. But it was not enough to deter her, either.

  She moved down one passageway that held the office belonging to the janitorial crew. When she came to a door marked CREW CARTS, she entered the room. The lights were off. She turned them on, which she knew was a danger due to getting caught now that the lights served as beacons.

  Several clipboards were hanging against the wall on small hooks. These were the manifests of hotel guests that were assigned to the hotel maids. Shari quickly traced her finger over the list of names, which were defined by last name and first initial. She went from board to board, floor to floor.

  And there it was: Hayden, K. Room 313. Extra towels.

  She looked at the ceiling, which had numerous pipes running across it, and realized that she had to climb three flights, which was far better than climbing the twenty-eight stories of the building’s actual height.

  Shutting off the lights, Shari continued down the corridors, bypassed the elevators, and found the stairway. She climbed the steps quickly, the stairwell silent and empty. When she reached the third level, she opened the door and poked her head inside just enough to measure the hallway by first looking left, and then her right.

  The passageway was clear. After silently closing the door behind her with a click that was barely audible, she started down the corridor and began to read the numbers on the doors. When she realized that she was going the wrong way and that 313 was at the opposite end, she changed directions and rushed down the hallway with the odd numbers on the right side.

  . . . 305 . . .

  . . . 307 . . .

  . . . 309 . . .

  . . . 311 . . .

  There it was: 313.

  She stood before the doorway not knowing what to do. She had evaded CIA operatives and the Special Activities Division to get to this very point and to stand on this very threshold. Her heart was racing with vigor. And she was certain that the bones in her legs were about to turn gelatinous and give.

  She stood before the number, 313, as if the characters portended an evil omen that the door was a portal to Hell with no way to salvation. Worse, she wondered which side of Kimball Hayden she would see—the one that was an angel to some or a demon to others.

  She tried the knob. As expected, it was locked. Then she raised her hand and prepared to rap her knuckles lightly against the door, but she hesitated and wondered what Kimball knew or believed up to this point. She even considered, for that brief moment, of leaving. The idea of Kimball seeing her anything less than the woman he had come to know would overwhelm her with grief, even to the point of wondering if she’d be better off taking her chances against the Special Activities Division. For Kimball to look upon her with such shame would devastate to her.

  She lowered her hand.

  But all answers were clarified in a single moment when the door suddenly whipped open.

  Kimball Hayden was standing in the doorway, a hulking mass whose blood-laced eyes examined Shari with raw anger, and perhaps even hatred, with a gaze that cut deep and to her core.

  Here was not the angel she expected to see.

  Here was her demon.

  Bringing her hands up to cover her eyes, Shari Cohen started to sob like she had never sobbed before.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Shari Cohen quickly realized she was at the mercy of her demon that was Kimball Hayden. She had read the unmistakable hatred in his eyes, the murderous intent behind them. There was no doubt that the man she loved viewed her with so much venom that she wished herself dead. To see such darkness had been absolutely soul crushing to her. But instead of feeling the hammer blow that she had expected by becoming the object of his rage, a pair of arms surrounded her in a gentle embrace as he pulled her close. With gentle strokes of his hand, Kimball caressed the wild locks and tangles of hair on the back of her head. Against his chest, he could feel the warmth of her tears and the heat of her body.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said, her words muffled.

  Kimball led her inside the room where it appeared to have been taken out by a cyclone. Kimball’s temper was probably the second thing closest to one.

  Sitting her on the couch, Shari embraced herself as Kimball stood over her. Her grime-smudged faced was lined with the clean tracks of running tears. And the untidy tangles of her hair gave her somewhat of a savage look.

  “They’re after me,” she managed through hitching sobs.

 

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