The Barabbas Connection: The Vatican Knights, #21

By Rick Jones

During a visit to the United States, Pope Pius XIV is caught within the crosshairs of a lethal assassin. After scores of people are killed during an event featuring the Pope's address, a conspiracy theory emerges that the killings were conducted by one of the CIA's own. As the data trickles in, it becomes clear that the assassin is none other than Shari Cohen.

With the Vatican Knights serving as the pontiff's protective detail, Kimball Hayden is crushed to learn that she's involved with the assassinations. While questions begin to rise as to why Shari Cohen performed the act, there are indications that lead to an elite assassin who was believed to be dead: Barabbas.

Now that Shari finds herself on the run from the CIA, is she the Barabbas of lore who was believed dead but has been resurrected? Was she the tool of a conspiracy who was created to fulfill a dark agenda for a foreign power? Has Shari Cohen gone rogue? Or was she always a double agent?

As these questions plague the Vatican Knights, one thing becomes absolutely certain: Kimball Hayden now finds himself in a position to hunt down the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Jones
• Release date: Jun 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393130451

Book preview

PART ONE

PRESENT DAY

PROLOGUE

Washington, D.C.

Present Day

At the foot of the stairway that led into the U.S. Capitol Building, Pope Pius XIV spoke to thousands who had congregated at the western front of the venue which faced the National Mall. Used primarily as the inaugural site for incoming presidents since Ronald Reagan, the pontiff stood at the pulpit as a man that kings and queens and presidents bowed before. He was wearing his white cassock, a long-sleeved, ankle-length robe with an attached pellegrina, and a white zucchetto.

Sitting behind the pope in a row filled with dignitaries was President Burroughs. Alongside him sat the Speaker of the House, and other political and religious leaders that were spread out among the four tiers. The protective detail of the Secret Service stood on or near the stage surveying the crowd.

Kimball Hayden stood close to the pontiff with his eyes looking over the masses. Isaiah and Jeremiah remained nearby with Isaiah standing to the left of the stage, and Jeremiah taking position on the right. The Vatican Knights were dressed accordingly to their station as they wore their black cleric’s shirt, Roman Catholic collar, and signature beret. From the waist down they wore pocketed cargo pants and military boots.

As the pontiff held the people rapt, a killer was lining up a shot from a building approximately a half mile away.

* * *

The assassin was sheltered inside a building that had an angled view of the stage. Securing a vantage point had been easy since the killer was considered to be ‘one of the CIA’s own.’ With the proper credentials, the assassin was able to clear the site under the backing of the White House as a CIA operator who was assisting as a measure against possible fanaticism. As soon as the credentials were deemed proper by the two agents of Homeland Security, the assassin fluidly removed a suppressed Glock and put a bullet in each of their heads, the pair falling immediately to the floor as boneless heaps. After tucking the weapon in the waistband, the assassin set up a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle, which is recognized for being the rifle used to achieve the longest sniper kills in the world with confirmed shots at over two miles, before a window that offered an oblique view of the podium.

After lowering its tripod, the sniper put an eye to the scope and dialed in the target until the pontiff was within the crosshairs. Then the assassin moved the line of sight from the pontiff to the president, then from the president to the Speaker of the House, then back to Pope Pius XIV, bouncing from person to person as though trying to get a lock. The president was partially blocked by members of his detail. And the shot to the Speaker was a ridiculously small window since only a fraction of her showed from this angle.

Then back to the pontiff, an open target, the man directly within the crosshairs.

The assassin took controlled breaths and locked on.

The slow pull on the trigger.

The pope within the crosshairs.

And then a full squeeze.

The Mk 15 jumped, the silencer dampening but not completely eliminating the sound of a loud spit. A moment later, a direct hit as a red splash erupted against the pontiff’s white cassock. The impact had driven the man back from the podium, the masses stunned as the president’s detail quickly galvanized themselves into action.

The assassin redirected the weapon. The president was no longer obscured as he scrambled into the line of sight. In a mere flash of time, the killer was presented with a window of opportunity. Easing back on the trigger as the president was being swept away by his security team, the assassin had a bullseye target.

Another pull of the trigger and a jump of the weapon. The shot was true as President Burrough’s head snapped viciously from the impact. Then he fell as a contorted mass, the man dead before he hit the stage.

People ran in panic, a perfect diversion as the assassin turned the weapon on the Speaker of the House. Another shot. Another hit. The Speaker flying off the tier with her arms extended in mock crucifixion to the floor, the hole in her chest fist sized.

Stepping back from the weapon and leaving it in position by the window, the assassin produced a small remote from a vest pocket that normally carried ammo magazines. Now that the objective of the targeted killing had been achieved, it was now time to sanitize the area of trace evidence.

Having preplanned the demolition of the site by placing a thermite incendiary device inside the Electrical Room, the assassin hastened from the area after setting the timer. Since the explosive had thermite capacity, the room would burn at 3,600-degrees Fahrenheit with the flames racing to consume the entire building.

The killer moved down the corridors knowing the structure’s full layout, went to the staircase, and began to descend. When the assassin reached the lobby and saw the guard sitting at the entry station, the killer swiftly removed the suppressed Glock from the waistband at the small of the back, directed it at the sentry, and pulled the trigger in quick succession.

. . . Phffft . . .

. . . Phffft . . .

. . . Phffft . . .

Three shots. Two to center mass and one to the forehead.

The assassin kept moving through the lobby with the remote in one hand and the Glock in the other. When the assassin reached the exit door, the killer looked up at the CCTV mounted above the door, raised the remote in full display of the camera’s lens, and depressed the button. In a room underneath the main level, there was a muffled explosion. With the concussion of the blast so marginal as it swept through the building, the floor barely shook beneath the assassin’s feet.

Then in a smile that could have been considered one of malicious amusement, the killer exited the building and disappeared within the crowd. But in that moment before the camera’s lens, it would not take long for facial recognition to put a match to the face.

With a certainty of more than ninety percent, the match had proved to be Shari Cohen.

* * *

Everything happened with the slowness of a bad dream as the pontiff spun in an odd pirouette, as he was lifted off his feet and thrown behind the podium with his white cassock dyed with a Rorschach stain of blood.

Kimball’s face was freckled with the pontiff’s splatter as he maneuvered to shield the man’s body. Draped over Pope Pius the XIV, Kimball could hear the cries in the background as the crowd scattered to all points of the compass, mayhem ruling. The pontiff was alive, though breathing heavily. And Kimball could see shock beginning to take hold as the aged man’s eyes began to drift.

Stay with me, Kimball told him.

When the Vatican Knight examined the wound, he noted that the bullet had struck the pope in the area between the left shoulder and chest. The exit wound was as large as a peach and the scapula completely destroyed.

Behind him, Kimball could see the president’s detail converge on the terrible sight of the deceased leader. A good portion of the man’s head had been sheered away, almost half, with blood and brain matter scattered across the staging area. The Speaker had fared no better, as she looked skyward with the surprise of her own mortality.

As Isaiah and Jeremiah joined Kimball’s side to help put the pope at ease, as sirens sounded upon their approach while the audience screamed in the subsequent chaos, Kimball saw columns of black smoke rising from a building less than a mile away.

That’s where the shooter was, he considered. And now the building burns to cover evidence. That method of cleansing by fire was neither novel nor unique, except when it came to purifying the soul, he considered. For him, it was just a slow burn of agony that merely consumed it, not heal it.

Standing, Kimball continued to stare in the direction of the burning building as Isaiah and Jeremiah cared for the pontiff.

Never in Kimball’s wildest imagination would he have believed that someday, after he would learn who the assassin was, that he would be on the hunt to kill the woman he loved.

Never.

But life always had a strange way of throwing curves.

PART TWO

IN THE BEGINNING.

THREE WEEKS AGO.

CHAPTER ONE

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

Three Weeks Ago

Since Moscow was built along the banks of a river and was a city that eventually became the highest political seat in the land, past leaders and czars had created subterranean depots. After brick-lined tunnels and canals were installed in the late 1700s, these conduits would later expand and evolve into sewer systems, subways, gas and electric lines, a full network of innovation. Recently—since the Cold War Era—the Soviets had created secret tunnels, subway tracks, and TS-analytical labs that stored the high-end TS-secrets of Russian military data. Most notably was the Golden Shield ICBM, a rocket and missile system that was completely invisible by the existing standards of detection from any satellite or radar, even from the high-tech installations of the United States, Israel, and Germany. The Golden Shield ICBM was a long-range missile that could traverse more than half the globe unseen while carrying a number of nuclear warheads with high yields. They could be dispatched from submarines, launchers, and from the silo bays of large military warships. What made them unique was their jamming and cloaking abilities which had been conceived and produced with the aid of Iran. Once the missile was launched, it could virtually remain undetected until it reached a designated target like Washington, D.C. By the time the political principals realized what was happening, the warheads would ignite, and the District would become a nuclear wasteland. Not only could the armed warheads be considered weapons, but so could the carrier of the ICBM rocket.

Deep inside a subterranean level where the Russian intel analysts staged their operations, a woman by the name of Natasha Kaminski was sitting at a computer console. Two bodies lay on the floor with their lab coats pitted with gunshots by two armed operatives who maintained a protective watch over Natasha, as she downloaded intel from the databanks. They were wearing the uniforms of the Kremlin Regiment, whereas she was wearing a lab coat.

As she typed commands into the keyboard, the blueprint and geometric design of the rocket came up on a large Plexiglas screen on the opposite wall, not on the PC monitor. The blueprint images had precise measurements and specific data regarding the utilization of internal hardware, such as the state-of-the-art jamming and stealth systems, the motherboard, and their placement within the ICBM unit. The rotating image, the scrolling of numbers to formulas, the exact measurements down to the centimeter, were all being downloaded by a flash drive.

As the siren to the subterranean lab sounded off like a klaxon, the two soldiers appeared anxious. They were holding their posts with their weapons raised and directed at the entryways.

Let’s go, the larger of the two operatives stated in perfect English, though it sounded more like a command than a suggestion.

Natasha responded with an edge. I can only download with the cooperation of the computer’s help, she said. I can’t make it go any faster.

More images continued to pop up on the large Plexiglas screen of the rocket, a true marvel of engineering.

Over Natasha’s earbud, she heard, Three groups converging on your position from wings three, six and nine. ETA about three minutes.

Copy that, she answered. Readjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose—the pair merely a stage prop to give her a more scholarly look—she began to download real-time screen images on her monitor of the connecting corridors that led to the lab. She had divided the computer screen into a latticework of six grids. Inside three of these grids she could see the approach of the Kremlin Regiment, who were moving on their position from different points.

She looked at the Plexiglas screen.

At the bottom of the screen, the downloading bar that represented how much data was on the flash drive read 89%.

The klaxon continued to blare, the noise an old-school sound from the Cold War Era.

Her guardians that mimicked the wear of the Kremlin Regiment, were becoming increasingly anxious knowing that time was running exceptionally thin. But Natasha was everything to the mission and the absolute tip of the spear when it came to appropriating data. Not only did she design the overall mission, she also orchestrated the breach of the Kremlin and perfected the intrusion. But in the final moment before basking in glory, they had triggered an unknown security sensor.

93%.

She continued to watch the monitors and counted the number of opposing guards in each regiment. Six in one, ten in another, and a dozen in the third—all heavily armed.

94%.

Natasha started to type commands into the keyboard with the skill of a pianist, the woman never missing a beat. As the teams converged on their position, she finished entering her instructions and poised a forefinger above the ‘ENTER’ key. Having planned for every possible contingency, she waited for the opportune moment.

96%.

Then a male’s voice came over her earbud. ETA less than one minute.

Copy that, she said. At the ready.

Her finger held steady over the ‘ENTER’ button while her eyes focused on the screen.

98%.

As soon as the squadrons reached a certain point of the lab’s adjoining corridors, she hit the ‘ENTER’ button with stabbing authority. Within a second of transmitting the commands, well-placed Semtex charges had gone off in quick succession, the explosions thereby taking the forces out as corridors collapsed beneath the Kremlin.

99%.

But there were other tunnels and more soldiers, all who were pressing down on their position from different locations.

All Natasha did was buy them more time.

100%.

After removing the flash drive and pocketing it, she stated into her earbud mic, I’ve got the download. Now heading to the extraction site. The Conquistador will land in five. I repeat, the Conquistador will land in five

The Conquistador will land in five. Copy that.

Natasha stood up, removed her lab coat, and tossed it over the PC monitor. Then she grabbed her suppressed weapon from her side holster, a Glock, and moved to the rear of the lab where there was a submarine hatch door with a wheel handle. After appropriating the blueprints from Kremlin-based databanks regarding hidden tunnel systems, Natasha’s team had prepared well for their escape.

Entering the tunnel, which was tube-shaped, she and her two-man team ran down the corridor which led them to a train platform. A cylindrical-shaped car that looked like a Pringles container lying on its side was actually a highspeed train that operated by the maglev principles of ‘magnetic levitation,’ and a system that was popular in Japan.

Knowing full well that they were being captured on the CCTV scanners, Natasha, along with her team, took out the cameras with their weapons.

* * *

The Kremlin’s video team had watched Natasha’s every move all the way to the tram station. And then the camera feeds went dead, the CCTV monitors taken out by strafing shots as they were about to board the train.

Sergei Ostrovsky watched closely as he stood before the monitors and watched with a keen eye. Natasha Kaminski was betraying her oath, he considered. And when captured, she would die a traitor’s death with her torture slow and agonizingly painful. The other two were just pawns who would suffer by the means of slow dismemberment, starting with a finger and then the hand. Then Ostrovsky would take bits and pieces all the way up to their shoulders. Extracting information, at least in Sergei Ostrovsky’s mind, was the best part of his job. It was also something he was quite good at since mining information was his forte. Especially when he did so behind closed doors where his victim’s cries were often heard, and then abruptly stopped. As a statement of his success, he would exit his exclusive chamber with his leather apron coated with the blood of others when his slaughter was complete.

To play this game, however, he first had to catch his quarry.

Issuing commands into his lip mic with measured calm, he watched his advancing teams removed from the equation by the predetermined placements of explosives. That may have been a well-played moment on the part Natasha Kaminski, he thought, but a battle win, especially inside the Kremlin, was far from winning the war.

The Kremlin leader issued more commands, this time to intercept the train, which was, according to the monitors, heading west at a significant speed. He wanted the conspirators taken alive, if possible, and brought to him, especially the woman. There was no doubt in Ostrovsky’s mind that the appropriation of the missile designs was by a backing of either the Mossad or the CIA.

Nevertheless, he would gleefully practice his skillset to find out.

* * *

As soon as the operative who stood before the control system of the train enabled the panel, the structure lifted off the floor as the forces of magnet against magnet worked against each other and started the tram along the course, the train eventually picking up speed.

Sweat beaded on the man’s brow, which he wiped away with the sleeve of his ‘Cossack’ uniform, something he felt dirty wearing.

Then bullets started to punch through the walls of the tram, the holes suddenly showing up like magic, the driver ducking instinctively. Sparks flew from the damaged panel, but the train kept moving along at a good clip.

More shots.

More holes.

More ducking.

The driver slid aside the conductor’s door on his left, knowing that a train on the adjacent track was keeping pace, which was something he and Natasha had expected and were fully prepared for.

As rounds continued to punch holes through the hull of the cylinder-shaped car, the operative raised his weapon, now in grenade-launch mode, and set off a grenade that corkscrewed through the space between them, and struck the conductor’s cabin of the opposing train. The driver’s compartment exploded with a fireball. And then the car, after the concussive forces knocked the vehicle off the magnetic pad and at a speed of more than one hundred miles per hour, rolled a dozen times in blinding revolutions before coming to a full stop, the train nothing but twisted wreckage with all onboard dead.

Natasha’s driver continued forward though the vehicle was beginning to slow, the damage done. The digital speedometer was clocking downward: 90, 85, 80, 75 . . .

He had hoped that the train would make it to the extraction site to the west.

. . . 55 . . . 50 . . . 45 . . .

From bordering magnetic tram pads, he could see two more trains converging to intercept. According to his wrist monitor, he had another two kilometers to go, just over a mile.

Smiling somewhat grimly, he thought: You almost made it . . . Almost.

. . . 25 . . . 20 . . . 15 . . .

The other two trains caught up, slowed, and when the operative’s train came to a final stop, the doors to the flanking trams opened with fully armed soldiers from the Kremlin’s Regiment spilling out with their weapons raised.

The operative, still bearing his grim smile, held his arms up in surrender and went to his knees, but only after he hit the ‘hazard’ button on his watch to send a signal to his handler.

Upon inspection of the train, neither Natasha nor the other soldier