In Between God and Devil: The Vatican Knights, #19

By Rick Jones

In central Syria, villages are razed as young men are conscripted to join the ISIS faction. 

In a Doctors Without Borders camp, which is overrun by members of the Islamic State, people are abducted along with a priest, Father Savino, who also happens to be the brother of the Vatican's Secretariat of State. 

From the Green Zone in Iraq, Shari Cohen, now a CIA consultant and operator, learns that she must appropriate intel from the resurging ISIS force to stop them from striking international targets. 

In Vatican City, Kimball Hayden, a man who was broken in every way a man could be broken, and then mended after being on the brink of death, once again finds himself in service of the Vatican. But is he the man he used to be? Is he a soldier of God or something completely different? 

In a twofold journey that teams the Vatican Knights with Shari Cohen, they must go into the heart of an ISIS training camp not only to rescue the hostages, but to gather the intel necessary to stop future attacks against high-end principals across the globe.  

Outmanned and outgunned, Shari Cohen and the Vatican Knights once again team up to achieve the impossible the only way the Vatican Knights can: with elite combat skills. 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Jones
• Release date: Mar 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393236566

Book preview

PART ONE

STREAMERS OF NEW LIGHT

PROLOGUE

Kimball Hayden was standing within the hollowed Darkness of a long tunnel. At the far end was a small square of incredible brightness, perhaps a gateway that led to the Valley of Ethereal Light, or maybe it was simply an opening that allowed a simple splash of sunlight. In time it began to grow, the Light getting as bright as a thousand suns, though it was pleasant to his eyes, it was both warm and comforting.

In its own way it seemed to call and beckon to him, the invitation filled with the everlasting promise of peace.

Behind him, in the Darkness, he could hear the voice of the woman he loved.

Kimball! . . . You stay with me, you hear me? . . . Don’t you leave me! Not now! . . .You come back!

. . . PLEEEEEEASE . . . COME BACK! . . .

The pull of the Ethereal Light.

The voice of an angel calling him.

The pull of the Light.

The voice of the angel.

The pull.

The voice.

Everything seemed like a moment of time to Kimball, a blink of an eye, yet inside this void time had no concept or meaning. Minutes, seconds, days, months—time simply did not exist within this magnificent plain of Light and Love. It was also something Kimball Hayden had come to learn when he opened his eyes to see ...

. . . the ceiling . . .

. . . the bank of overhead lights . . .

. . . the monitors that kept track of his corporeal rhythms, such as heart rate and blood pressure . . .

. . . the face of the nurse, a hazy mask of what he believed to be twisting features, and then she was gone, the woman exiting from the room in haste . . .

His world remained a blur as if he was looking through a veil of cascading water that fell before his eyes, his realm a watery distortion and a defect of vision.

People rushed into the room moments later wearing white, all hazes under the banks of overhead lighting.

Mr. Hayden, the voice was male, though the tone sounded hollow and tinny as if he was speaking from the bottom of a well. Mr. Hayden, if you can hear me, please shake your head."

He couldn’t. He felt as heavy as lead with the pillow puffed and bloated around his head as it rested against the soft down.

Can you hear me, Mr. Hayden? the voice repeated, Nod your head if you can?

Kimball felt frustrated for his inability to perform a simple function.

Then: Can you blink your eyes?

Kimball did by blinking them once, though with great effort which seemed to leave him exhausted.

Then the voice became a waspy hum as he wondered about the Light and its sweet draw. Had he really seen the Ethereal Glow of the afterlife, that light of a billion suns? He could recall Its magnetic effect, something so wonderful that nothing else could compare to It by comparison, only to be dismissed by It in the end.

Closing his eyes, a tear slipped from the edge of his left eye and trailed along his cheek.

Mr. Hayden. The voice was clearer, crisper, and less hollow.

Kimball opened his eyes.

Those who stood around him were sharper, clearer, well-defined. The physician that stood over him appeared aged, perhaps late sixties, he considered, with pewter-colored hair, gray eyes and a hatchet-thin face. Two nurses stood on both sides of the bed with neutral expressions, one a blond and the other a brunette, with neither being pretty nor ugly, but simply nondescript.

Mr. Hayden, my name is Doctor Brady. The physician’s voice rang clear and without any measure of hollowed interference. Mr. Hayden, can you remember the last thing that happened to you?

Kimball’s eyes went to the ceiling as if to search for remembrances or clues of his past, which seemed like seconds ago. He could remember a woman’s voice calling to him, sweet and melodic like an angel beckoning him from the Light, rather than to compel him towards it. And then he recalled memories that were tainted with images of destruction and foulness. In his mind’s eye he saw the blossoming of fiery explosion and the pillar of smoke that resulted from the blast, the area around him suddenly taking on a Stygian darkness as cloying ashes filled the air.

From the base of Kimball’s throat came a series of clicks. It was as if he was trying to voice what he was recalling in order to purge himself of these images through admissions, and as a means of catharsis. But the words became locked.

Then he recalled seeing himself from high above, the man floating as a tranquil feeling encompassed him. A woman was sobbing as she cradled him. And he could see the significant burns to his left arm, his skin blackened and charred, along with broken legs that were at angles never meant to be possible.

Mr. Hayden? The voice of the physician remained crisp as he shined a light first in Kimball’s left eye, and then his right.

Kimball could feel his muscles starting to become electric, could feel the charge that was beginning to spark sense and feeling to his limbs, the warmth of rejuvenation beginning to stoke maneuverability.

Kimball’s eyes began to dart about as if trying to get a fix of his location, trying to regather his wits and his acumen. The Tunnel and the Light was now a room filled with strange people wearing strange faces.

Mr. Hayden?

Kimball’s voice came as a raspy whisper. Where am I?

The physician leaned over him. Mr. Hayden, you’re at the Providence Hospital. You’ve been here for quite some time now. Fourteen weeks, in fact.

Fourteen weeks?

Kimball shook his head, incredulous that he had been bed ridden for nearly four months. Seeing the Tunnel and the all-consuming Light—that moment wasn’t more than fleeting, not even thirty seconds.

Kimball rolled his head slowly back and forth. Impossible.

Fourteen weeks, Mr. Hayden. You’ve been in a coma all that time.

No . . . I— Kimball’s words trailed.

In this new light, which was not as bright as the Illumination, but was coming from a bank of overhead fluorescents, the doctor brought a small juice box with a spaghetti-thin straw to Kimball’s lips. Slowly, he told him.

But Kimball’s body craved liquids beyond the saline he had been receiving, his intake of the juice so quick that the box the doctor was holding imploded in his grasp almost immediately.

Another, Kimball managed to say.

Four boxes later and with Kimball’s reality coming more into focus, he is disappointed.

The Tunnel and the Light; his gateway to a peace he had never known . . . now gone. Fourteen weeks in this timeline was mere seconds in another.

He had been teased with Serenity . . . only to be rejected in the end.

Kimball Hayden slowly closed his eyes to fight off the sting of tears.

Mr. Hayden, I do believe you’re going to be fine.

But Kimball, in his effort to contain his emotions, ended up squeezing a tear from the corner of his eye before he whispered, I’ve been turned away.

Turned away?

From the Light of God.

No-no-no, Mr. Hayden, what you were probably experiencing was the synapsis of your brain misfiring when your body was shutting down. What you most likely observed were the brain’s electrical impulses beginning to power down as billions of dying synapsis provided a moment of brilliant explosions and electrical discharges, all which would explain the light you saw.

Kimball shook his head because he wanted to believe that something highly spiritual had taken over the reins of his fate with ultimate command, rather than something that could be explained away by the rationale of science.

Kimball opened his eyes—which now had a red-and-rheumy thickness to them—and stared upward as if Providence hovered just beyond the tiles of the acoustic ceiling. When nothing appeared, when no hint that something of magnificence would once again reveal itself to him, he turned his head to the side.

He watched as the green line on the screen vacillated as peaks and valleys to the rhythm of his heartbeat, which sounded strong. Then as he raised his left arm, which had been so badly burned that his skin had healed to look like the tallow of melted wax, he then noted the umbilical tube that extended from his arm to a half-filled bag of saline.

Across the room was a body-length mirror, a rectangle from top to bottom, but it was angled away from him. Pursing his lips and digging deep into his reserves, Kimball snatched the cord free from his arm and tossed it aside, which prompted the physician to cry out with a declaration that Kimball wasn’t supposed to ‘get out of bed,’ at least ‘not yet.’

But Kimball wanted to see what fourteen weeks in a hospital bed had done to him, what life had given him in exchange of the Light.

In lieu of the Light, what have I become?

What have You made me?

As soon as he stands before the mirror, he’s as shaky as a newborn foal. His face has thinned to the point where his flesh now hangs with the looseness of a rubber mask. His eyes are surrounded by dark loops, making his hollows appear deeper as the bones around his orbital sockets look sharper. And numerous scars adorn his arms and legs where the flesh had first been scored and then sealed, the wounds closing as angry red lines. Once an unstoppable man who stood within the Gray between God and Devil, he now stands before the mirror looking like an unfinished monster.

Kimball, with heartfelt pain, closed his eyes against the abomination that he has become.

CHAPTER ONE

Providence Hospital, Washington, D.C.

Three Weeks Later

When Kimball woke up, the first thing he saw was the grinning face of Monsignor Dom Giammacio.

Recognition was immediate, which brought a lethargic smile to Kimball’s face. Padre.

The monsignor placed a warm hand on Kimball’s forearm. I must tell you; all within the Vatican sends you their love. You were deeply missed, my friend.

Kimball’s smile appeared so tired it looked artificial and lazy, but it was quite genuine. Believe me, he answered, I miss them, too. With his left hand that had been grossly discolored by the fire that left him with a tone that was lighter than his tanned-colored skin, Kimball covered the monsignor’s hand and gave the cleric gentle pats of appreciation. And it’s good to see you.

The monsignor looked upon Kimball’s hand that had no pores or hair, all which were replaced by the swirl-like patterns of melted flesh that eventually cooled to forever lock in these new and grotesque designs. The burns, the monsignor considered, and the melting of skin, were certain indications that Kimball had been to Hell and back with the flames touching but not consuming.

Intuiting the monsignor’s study of his wounded hand, Kimball said, If you think that’s bad, you should see my legs. Kimball continued to maintain his smile of good humor.

The monsignor placed his hand over Kimball’s burned one, leaving Kimball to wonder if the monsignor was purposely masking the wound.

I’m sorry, my friend. I had no idea that your tribulations were so great.

Kimball’s lazy smile never wavered. In order to get to Heaven, he stated, one most go through Hell. Isn’t that the claim, Padre? Kimball raised his burned hand before his eyes and began to flex the digits. No damage to the underlying nerves. Fully functional. Then he turned his hand over to study the backside, the burned side. His flesh appeared thicker, almost calloused, with the buildup of skin having nautilus-like loops and swirls to them. His legs were no different.

Lowering his hand, Kimball turned to the monsignor. Right after the explosion, he went on, I remember being inside this tunnel, or maybe it was a hallway. And at the end of this hallway was a small square filled with Light. Then I heard this voice calling me, telling me to come back. Everything was warm and inviting. And then this Light expanded and came closer, filling the hall with a wonderful brightness that had the luster of a thousand suns. Kimball paused and swallowed, his throat becoming dry. Once his cords were lubricated, he continued with a dreaminess to his words. Then there was this voice calling me to ‘come back,’ sweet and pure, the voice of an angel. Kimball’s smile left him, nothing but a grim line. And then the Light dimmed and faded, becoming the overhead fluorescents you see above your head. Kimball pointed to the bank of overhead lights. And then the pain, the strange faces, all acting concerned about my welfare. Kimball sighed as he turned his eyes ceilingward. That’s when I knew that I had been rejected by the Light.

Not so, Kimball, you may have been turned away because your mission here might not be over. Did you consider that?

No. In fact, I was considering it to be a cause of science than something spiritual. He turned to face the monsignor and locked eyes. I was told that upon the moment of my body shutting down, the synapsis of my brain was firing off with electrical discharges when dying. Therefore, the explanation of the Light . . . Sounds feasible.

Sometimes, Kimball, science and faith collide. Perhaps this was one such incident, yes?

If that’s the case, Padre, that only means I was rejected by the Light, which I choose not to believe in. To do so would only validate that I’m not wanted.

Believe in what I just said to you, Kimball, about your mission here on Earth to be an unfinished one.

Kimball raised his hands and noted the congealed flesh of his burns. My legs were shattered to the point of having rods and pins inserted to stabilize them. It’s a long road back to recovery. My days as a Vatican Knight may be over.

It all depends upon the fervor within your heart, Kimball. The wounds you suffer may hold the vestiges of your own personal Hell, but they are neither crippling of body, soul or mind. Your journey may be one that is not yet fulfilled. Perhaps the rigor of your past only sets for a stronger constitution of what is about to come. You must remember, Kimball, the world is leaning closer to the edge and may eventually spill over into a downward spiral. It’s people like you who continue to bring balance to a worldwide constituency that yearns for calmer times.

I’m one man.

Who can lead others by becoming that fulcrum that steadies the divided spectrums between Darkness and Light. One man alone can make a difference, Kimball, and you have proved that time and again. But to lead others into battle to reform Goodness that begins to lose its way by rejuvenating a kindling spark, only bodes well for everyone involved should that rekindled flame once again burn like a pyre. The monsignor grabbed Kimball’s hand in both of his and gave it a light squeeze. You have always been the breath that gave life to dimming glows that often flourished into bonfires. You provided hope to others when there was no hope.

For my entire life as a Vatican Knight, Padre, I had hope that someday I’d reach the Light, only to be rejected by it. So ‘hope’ to me is nothing more than a delusional belief that something good will eventually happen to me in time. It hasn’t. Nor will it ever. I still kill people because it’s what I do and it’s what I’m good at. So, let’s face the facts, Padre . . . I was rejected.

One who sees the Light, Kimball, is never rejected. It simply reminds us all that Light is always within our reach and gives us all a glimpse of what’s to be. If you had been rejected, Kimball—I mean, truly rejected—you would not have received a glimmer of the Great Illumination, only Darkness that is absolute and complete. A darkness that is filled with those souls who enter it with hearts filled only with ice and stone. You, Kimball, have bathed within the Glory of the Ethereal Glow, something that’s delegated only to those who have good intentions and good will. You have seen something that not even the pontiff has seen. In your pain you have been blessed with the Sight.

Kimball appeared pacified by this, the Vatican Knight once again smiling with a lazy, dreamlike quality. Speaking of the pontiff, how is Bonasero?

The monsignor gave Kimball a quizzical look. Vessucci?

Is there any other?

The monsignor’s brows arched. Have you forgotten?

Forgotten what?

The state in which the Holiness lies?

Kimball looked at the monsignor with a highly alarmed look. What happened to him? Did something happen during the fourteen weeks I was under?

Do you not remember?

Remember what?

Kimball, the pontiff succumbed to a terrorist attack a few years ago. How could you not remember? You were on a mission elsewhere with the Vatican Knights when a terrorist cell breached the Apostolic Palace. The Swiss Guards were able to neutralize all but one, who made it to the pontifical chamber and detonated his vest. Bonasero was lost.

Kimball appeared lost as his breathing quickly mounted to a rigorous pace that set off the alarm to the sensors. Isosceles-shaped valleys and peaks showed on the monitor, with the keen tips of the spikes as sharp as the points of knitting needles. Kimball had entered a danger zone.

The monsignor rested both hands on Kimball’s chest to calm him but failed as the spikes continued to rise and fall sharply. Nurses rushed in to check his vitals and entered a calming fluid of some kind into his saline line. Within moments, Kimball’s beat slowed until his signs became controlled.

Lying on the elevated bed with his chest rising and lowering with a natural rhythm, the monsignor reached for Kimball’s burned hand and squeezed it. If you can hear me, my friend, stay calm and fight hard, for your mission is far from over. We will talk later when you’re in a proper frame of mind. Then he lowered Kimball’s hand over the Vatican Knight’s heart, which left Kimball in gentle repose, and left the room.

* * *

Upon the rediscovery of Bonasero Vessucci’s death, Kimball Hayden thought his heart was about to misfire inside his chest. With spreading agony that felt as if his heart was clenching itself into a tight fist, Kimball had known no other greater anguish or suffering. Bonasero Vessucci, even though they did not share a single DNA molecule, could not have been closer if they had been father and son. And for a second time in Kimball’s life there was a vacuum in his heart where Bonasero once stood.

. . . the pontiff succumbed to a terrorist attack a few years ago . . .

. . . How could you not remember? . . .

. . . a terrorist cell breached the Apostolic Palace . . .

. . . The Swiss Guards were able to neutralize all but one