The devils protege, p.2
THE DEVIL’S PROTÉGÉ, page 2
Job, allowing the leaves to come together, backed away. He started to circle the hut but stopped beyond the fringe of the fire’s light.
Three men.
All complacent.
Into his lip mic, Job whispered, “Kimball.”
“Go.”
“Four armed hostiles guarding two packages.”
“Copy that. Use discretion.”
“There’s only one option.”
“Understood.”
Job lifted his monocular over his helmet, draped his assault weapon diagonally across his back, and removed his knife.
Three targets close together in conversation, with seconds to neutralize them.
Job stepped from the shadows and into the light.
* * *
The conversation between the three terrorists centered on soccer. The Kampeon 7s Cup Games were coming up, and two believed that the Maharlika team was better than what Bacolod, Cebu City, and Davao City had to offer. The third reminded them that the team had never qualified for the World Cup, arguing that no team was worthy unless they played on the world stage. When the discussion became heated, their lack of focus allowed Job’s approach.
From behind the veil of dark shadows, the Vatican Knight exploded on the scene with speed and fluidity, the giant a freak of nature who moved with the agility of a monkey.
Before the terrorists could register the assault or withdraw their weapons, Job was fleet of foot and quick with the blade, the Vatican Knight sweeping the knife in vertical arcs and heart-plunging jabs, killing all three with quick and merciful kills inside of three seconds.
Inside the firepit, the wood crackled. It was the only sound as Job pressed his back against the hut’s wall by the burlap door and waited.
* * *
The overseer inside the hut continued to taunt the women, sometimes running the flat side of the knife’s blade along the cheek of Sister Farmiga, a missionary who served in Mindanao. Outside, an argument ensued—something about soccer.
After posing something vulgar to the nun in Tagalog, he leaned toward her and ran his tongue along her cheek, causing her to lean her head away in revulsion. Angered, he grabbed her hair and yanked her head until they were face to face.
Then an immediate hush fell over the area, no more argument.
The terrorist, releasing Sister Farmiga, cocked his head to detect sound, only to be met with disturbing silence.
Getting to his feet, he cried out, “Joselito?”
Nothing.
“Sandro? Vinusto?”
Silence.
He gripped the knife in his hand until his tanned knuckles turned white. “Joselito?” He took a step toward the burlap doorway.
“Sandro?”
Another cautious step.
“Vinusto?”
Through the fabric of the burlap door, he could see a fire raging in the pit.
Using the point of his knife, he pushed aside the fabric.
Joselito, Sandro, and Vinusto lay around the fire pit with throats sliced and their eyes wide with the surprise of their own mortality. Their blood, in the light of the fire, glistened like black tar.
Before he could hitch a breath in astonishment, Job appeared in the doorway, like magic, the big man blotting out the light of the flames as he lashed out and grabbed the terrorist by the throat, then twisted, his overly large hand powerful enough to snap the bones in the man’s neck.
Laying the terrorist on the dirt floor, Job went to the nuns tied to the pole. Using his knife, he cut the leather straps that bound Sister Farmiga to the pole. When he went to cut the second nun free of her binds, he noticed that her eyes had filmed over and that her skin had taken on the mottled complexion of decay. Sheathing his knife, Job, with his thumb, made the sign of the cross along the dead nun’s forehead.
Then to Sister Farmiga, “You’re safe. You’re going home.”
She noticed the Roman Catholic collar he wore as part of his uniform and saw the compassion in his eyes, the light of hope and goodness that could conquer anything dark. “You’re from the Vatican?”
“I am.” And then: “Two nuns were discovered as were three priests. Two nuns, however, remain missing.”
Sister Farmiga nodded. “One, for sure, is dead. She put up a fight, so she was the first to go. Where they dragged her off to, I don’t know. They probably left her in the jungle to be scavenged by the creatures. The other . . . I don’t know.”
Job ripped off the burlap door and wrapped it around the nun, then he hit his lip mic. “Kimball.”
“Go.”
“I have one package. The other didn’t make it.”
There was a pause, then, “Copy that.”
“There’s one package remaining.”
“Understood.”
* * *
Kimball Hayden was not alone. He was with Jonah, a new recruit who had sharpened his teeth in the Middle East with recon maneuvers before he teamed up with Kimball’s unit. Like all Vatican Knights, he was considered to be a phantom in disguise and an angel without wings.
Together, Jonah and Kimball came upon a hut with a barred door made of sticks lashed together, not burlap. Inside was the laughter of boys on the cusp of becoming men, and the cries of a woman.
Kimball, lifting his monocular and placing the sight of his weapon to eye level, approached the hut and smashed through the rickety doorway, the sticks exploding inward. Three boys, all in their teens, some smoking, appeared surprised by Kimball’s intrusion as the point of his weapon fanned from one teen to another. Jonah quickly entered after Kimball and mimicked his action of fanning his weapon, but he moved in the opposite direction to flank the enemy.
Lying on the floor next to a small firepit was a naked woman who had cigarette burns over her body, her flesh both a canvas and testament of grueling torture.
The laughter was gone, and teen mouths were agape with no one knowing how to respond, the boys riveted except for their eyes that darted from one Vatican Knight to the other.
“Jonah, cuff them and find something to gag their mouths.”
Kimball, draping his weapon over his back, used a nearby soiled blanket to cover the nun, raised her to a sitting position, and then lifted her into his arms. She was so light that she seemed almost weightless. “You’re going to be all right, Sister.” Then he exited the hut with the woman.
Jonah, after securing the teens with flex cuffs, bound them to a thick pole where they remained unmoving due to paralytic terror, something Jonah picked up on. Sensing newfound power, the Vatican Knight withdrew his knife and held it up. The blade was long, and its edge looked alarmingly keen.
“You take good women, and you sully them for what?” he asked them rhetorically. “For lascivious activities?” He rolled the knife in his hands, the blade turning over and over. “Good people suffered here because of your depravity. Maybe I should return the favor.”
In the dim light cast from the firepit, the teens could see the reflection of the fire in the Vatican Knight’s eyes, the flames of Hellfire.
* * *
Kimball, kneeling over the nun whose breathing was labored, stated softly into his lip mic. “The final package is secured. Everyone to the extraction site.”
Jeremiah: “Copy.”
Isaiah: “Copy.”
Job: “Copy.”
Behind him, inside the hut, Kimball heard a few muffled cries that were subsequently followed by gagging noises, sounds he knew all too well. Jonah, exiting, was wiping his knife clean against his pants, a few quick swipes, before he sheathed it.
Kimball got to his feet. “What have you done?”
Jonah shrugged. “I couldn’t find any gags.”
Kimball raced to the hut’s door. Inside lay the teens, still tethered, each bleeding out onto the dirt floor from the open wounds in their throats.
Anger surged in Kimball, something he could not contain. He turned to Jonah and was fast upon him with his hand grasping the edge of the Vatican Knight’s Kevlar vest and pulling him close until their noses were inches apart. Through clenched teeth, Kimball asked, “What the hell did you do?”
“I made sure they wouldn’t compromise our position.”
“They were kids.”
Jonah pointed to the nun on the ground, her breathing erratic. “Their handiwork,” he stated simply. “Good and moral people who have nothing but Light in their hearts, and this is the reward they receive?” He turned to Kimball with eyes that shone subzero coldness. “Weren’t you the one who said, ‘When you have the opportunity, cut away the cancer’?”
“These were kids following orders from a superior. They’re supposed to be stupid.”
“With all due respect and if I may be so bold, it’s no secret that you killed innocent men, women, and children in your past to achieve objectives. Now, you criticize me for following in your footsteps to achieve those same means to preserve objectives of anonymity when the opportunity avails itself. Children grow up, Master Commander Hayden. And what I did here tonight is no different from what you did when you served as an assassin for your government, but also as a Vatican Knight. I know you went rogue on missions to chase down people and ended their lives for the sake of ‘cutting away the cancer so that it wouldn’t spread.’ I merely did the same. Tonight, I saved lives by removing future threats they would have posed to others, to good and innocent people.”
Kimball continued to see the reflection of the pit’s nearby flames set against Jonah’s cold eyes. Then Kimball released Jonah’s vest.
Jonah, readjusting his Kevlar, said, “Will that be all, sir?”
After a pause, Kimball answered, “Get to the extraction site.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jonah headed off into the jungle as Kimball lifted the nun into his arms. Turning to look inside the hut, he saw the boys who were unable to fight back, still tethered to the pole. They had been openly murdered. And Kimball had to wonder if Jonah was right about justifying his act since he was following in Kimball’s footsteps.
CHAPTER ONE
The Manila Cathedral
Manila, Philippines, 2336 Hours
Under the cover of night, the Manila Cathedral stood as a solemn guardian of faith with its centuries-old stones as a testament to history. In the late evening hours, just before midnight, three shadowy figures clad in black attire moved with calculated precision. These were no ordinary intruders; they were a trio of military-trained operatives, each one exuding an air of unwavering determination.
As two maintained a watch with their suppressed weapons directed towards the empty plaza, the third used lock picks and toyed with the tumblers. There were muted sounds of clicking as the tumblers disengaged inside their locking mechanism to the point of a final click. Opening the door, the figures hurried inside knowing they had limited time to disable the alarm—maybe ten, fifteen seconds at the most.
The lock picker’s gloved fingers moved with dexterity as he popped the cap off the alarm system, applied alligator clips to two of the several connecting wires associated with the system’s hardboards, attached the leads to a hand-held controller, and pressed a button on the remote. Red LED numbers scrolled on the remote’s window as the device searched for the system’s memory for the disabling code.
. . . Five seconds . . .
A numeral in the first window appeared: 7.
. . . Seven seconds . . .
In the second and third windows: 6 and 4.
. . . Nine seconds . . .
In the last two windows: 0 and 1.
. . . Eleven seconds . . .
And then the hashtag signed appeared.
The face of the alarm system flashed DISABLED.
After removing the clips and pocketing the remote, the operative snapped the system’s faceplate back into position and, using the dark shadows within the church’s nave, went in search of a remarkable relic belonging to Saint Peter, the Vatican’s first pope.
* * *
Ricardo Reyes had worked security for the cathedral for nearly seventeen years without missing a single day of work, barring vacations. He loved his job and the serenity it provided by being surrounded by the pious statues that kept him company. On occasion, he would find himself holding conversations with them in times of sorrow as though they were direct conduits to God.
As he sat in front of a bank of TV monitors inside his basement office, a screen started to turn into a field of snowy-static. He tapped the glass screen with his forefinger, hoping to jar the picture back to life. Then the rest of the screens went down like dominoes, one right after the other, with nothing but wavy lines and static on every monitor.
More taps of his fingertip against the glass.
Nothing.
Sighing, he called over his shoulder. “Fernandez.”
Fernandez dela Cruz, unlike Ricardo, found the job boring. He was young, 23, with ambitions of traveling and being someone who was renowned and famous, someone with purpose. He wanted to wear nice clothes to look good in fine-dining restaurants. He envisioned himself driving down the Skyway in a fancy car, sleek and fast, with its roof down so that his long hair would wave behind him like the whipping mane of a horse. But Fernandez dela Cruz was an idealist and a dreamer who would always be blind to the realism that he was forever fated to sit inside a basement office reading magazines about the rich and famous.
Without looking up from the magazine, he answered, “What.”
“Check the power box. The screens are down again.”
“The screens are always down.”
“Fernandez, please. You have all night to dream.”
Fernandez, rolling his eyes, set the magazine aside, grabbed his flashlight, and exited the basement office.
* * *
The nave was dark. Even the light from the flashlight was barely enough to penetrate the church’s further reaches. As he walked down the aisle between the pews with his footsteps echoing in haunting cadence, he was making his way towards the altar when he saw the relic on display beneath a rigging of lights—that of the staff of Saint Peter, now petrified, on loan from the Vatican. It was hermetically sealed inside a glass chamber that was protected by a network of roving laser lights that served as a protective shield. To break a single line of light would enable an alarm inside a carabinieri station a block away, where a first-responder specialty force would be galvanized within seconds.
As he was about to head for the apse, a gloved hand clapped over his mouth and pulled him close. Dropping his flashlight, Fernandez began to mew under the glove.
The operative with the gloved hand shushed Fernadez until he fell quiet.
“That’s a good lad,” whispered the operative with a thick British accent. “Do as you’re told, son, and nobody will get hurt. Do you understand?”
Fernandez nodded.
“Now, we know you have a keycard to get into the office. So, if you’ll hand it over willingly, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Fernandez reached into his pocket, grabbed the keycard, produced it, and raised it high, which the second man immediately snatched away.
“Now, I’m going to pull my hand away from your mouth, do you understand?”
A nod from Fernandez.
“Good boy. Now, if you scream, I can assure you that it will be the last time that you do. Have I made myself clear up to this point? Do you have any questions? If you do, nod yes. If you don’t, nod no.”
Fernandez nodded no.
“When I release you, say nothing. I will ask questions and you will answer them. Do you understand?”
Another nod yes.
The operative removed his hand but kept a hold on Fernandez’s shirt. When Fernandez was wheeled around, he saw three men in black wearing ski masks. In the hands of two of the operatives were suppressed automatic weapons, MP7s. The one who continued to maintain a grip on his shirt had a sidearm that was equipped with a suppressor.
The man with the suppressed sidearm released Fernandez and backed away, bringing a finger to his lips to remind Fernandez to say nothing. Then the operative held his hand out to the second man, who gave him the keycard. The operative then held the keycard that had Fernandez’s unsmiling photo on it to Fernandez.
“This keycard is needed to get into the office, correct?”
Fernandez nodded yes.
“And there’s also an ocular sensor as well, correct?”
Another nod for yes.
“And this ocular sensor, after you swipe the card, you then place your eyes against the scanner until it reads the map lines of your eyes that are unique to you, correct?”
Another confirming nod.
“And to my understanding, this sensor reads the pulsations within your eyes, the capillaries, and vessels, to assure that your heart’s still beating, is that correct?”
Another ‘yes’ nod.
The operative looked at the name on the card. Then, “If you would be so kind, Mr. dela Cruz, please take me and my team to the office below.”
When Fernandez started to speak, the operative put a finger to his lips, a gesture to Fernandez reminding him to remain silent. Then he stated, “You’ve been good so far. Let’s not ruin the moment.” After a pause, he added, “Now, take us to the office.”
* * *
In the basement beneath the transept of the church, Fernandez was ushered along a semi-lit corridor by the lead operative. When they reached the doorway to the security office, the operative swiped his card through the meter, which enabled the device's pulse detection technology to detect capillary pulsations. If the mapwork of capillary lines didn’t match up or if the vessels did not pulsate to validate a beating heart, the door would remain locked. Dangling a dead eye before the scanner would be considered a red-flag moment that would set off carabinieri alarms.
“If you will, Mr. dela Cruz, please look into the sensor.” When Fernandez hesitated, the lead operative placed the point of his suppressed weapon against his temple. “I will not ask again.”
