Archangel: The Vatican Knights, #27

By Rick Jones

In Los Angeles, the niece of an esteemed cardinal of the Vatican is abducted by an Albanian mob.

Kimball Hayden, a man without a country or the support of the church, soon finds himself in the crosshairs of an indigenous black-op unit that is trying to terminate him for secrets that could set off a political firestorm.   

While Kimball fights for survival on two fronts, he bonds with an unlikely savior: Cardinal Gallo, the man who was instrumental in spearheading court-martial proceedings against Kimball Hayden as a Vatican Knight.

Together with a small unit of Vatican Knights, Kimball quickly discovers that the man behind the black-op forces is commanded by Shari Cohen's husband, a man with a very dark and sinister past.

Lacking in numbers, Kimball must prove himself to the Vatican by overcoming an Albanian team of precision assassins and a sanctioned kill team from the United States government.

But most of all, he must confront the man behind it all, the husband of Shari Cohen. 

 

Each of the 24 action thriller novels will leave readers gripped. A global television series is currently in development – (Executive Producer) Ileen Maisel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Jones
• Release date: May 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201367664

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Los Angeles, California

The assassin was no novice or stranger when it came to targeted killings. In fact, one could even say that he was a seasoned vet with twenty-two recorded kills and someone who had a reputation as one of the most reliable dispatchers with Homeland Security. Never a miss. And no trace evidence was ever left behind.

It was eight o’clock, the night young. And with saintly patience, the assassin waited inside his car that was far from the nearest streetlight as he kept his eyes on the Tudor-style home that was less than fifty yards from his position.

A plastic bag, like an ill-fitting glove, had been fixed around the suppressed Glock he was holding, with the bag’s edges duct-taped around his wrist to assure that the ejected rounds would be caught and collected inside the bag after each trigger pull.

As he waited, he would often trace the fingertips of his free hand over the weapon’s barrel, nothing but soft strokes. The weapon had become an extension of him, his scepter of rule, which gave him the power to determine who lived or died. And power—absolute power—was what goaded him to be an elite killing machine.

When the vehicle of his targeted killing pulled into the driveway of the Tudor home, the assassin remained unmoving as he steeled his nerves.

The car, an Audi, waited as the garage door opened, then it drove inside with the door closing behind it.

The assassin remained inside the vehicle to give his target time. It was these moments he enjoyed most, the foreplay. To him, he was the predator who maliciously toyed with his prey before striking the final blow that would once again extend his dominion over another. At the moment when his quarry expelled that long sigh that vacated the lungs, the assassin would feel an orgasmic and sickening stimulation.

Checking the clock on the dashboard, the killer counted every blink of the colon that divided the numbers. Each blink represented a second, sixty blinks a minute. When he counted 120 blinks, two minutes, he exited the vehicle and made his way toward the house.

* * *

Mitch Stovinski was a man who unfortunately possessed a moral compass. For him, honesty was an inbred code of honor that had been passed down from generation to generation and was more of a genetic trait than a learned one. His father, grandfather, and those before them believed that ‘honor and truth’ were the traits that bred leaders. Such remarkable achievements began at an early age—much like the Spartan tradition—where he was groomed to attain heights through his own merits rather than using others as stepping stones to achieve the means. ‘Honor and truth,’ a mantra that had been handed down over the ages as the Stovinski Code for the ‘self-made man.’

He had been the captain of his high school baseball and basketball teams. He was president of the Debate Team that won scholastic honors. And as a result of his hard work, he received a full scholarship to Yale where his father, grandfather, and great grandfather were alumni. After graduating with a master’s degree after four years of study, Mitch Stovinski was highly recruited by the United States government as a computer analyst in regard to covert tracking of ‘alleged’ insurrectionists within the country’s own borders. Stovinski, however, came to realize that his job of maintaining vigilance over domestic terrorism soon morphed into keeping track of people who were flagged as ‘potential’ threats under the so-called banner of national security, even though none of these individuals had any affiliations to hostile national organizations. Mothers, doctors, teachers, housewives, laymen—everyone became the laser focus of the United States government. But Stovinski had come upon a document that had been archived by the CIA, though the assignment had been sanctioned by a team of United States senators. It was buried so deep that it took Stovinski months of decrypting codes to uncover one of the government’s darkest secrets. Years ago, members within a political circle of senators sanctioned the killing of another senator à la Brutus style. To perform the act, the CIA activated their paramilitary unit within the Special Activities Division, the SAD. Under the leadership of Kimball Hayden, the group’s commander, Senator Cartwright had been assassinated. Digging deeper, Stovinski discovered that talks within certain political groups were being monitored and approved by the CIA and the HOMELAND SECURITY. It appeared that highly visible figures were being targeted for their opposing viewpoints, and as potential ‘kill targets’ to better constrain viewpoints deemed negative to the United States. Once again, the government, after suppressing the practice, was leaning towards activating ‘targeted killings’ of nationals within the United States that were considered threats, such as mothers, doctors, teachers, housewives, laymen—anyone who had a voice. Stovinski couldn’t sit by knowing that the practice was being considered for reactivation. So, he uploaded the data onto a thumb drive. Though he tried to scrub his cyber trail, there were always those ghost remnants that eventually put others onto his path.

Placing his briefcase on the kitchen’s granite countertop and then loosening the knot of his tie, Stovinski called out to his wife. Elaine! I’m home! What’s for dinner? I’m starving!

A woman in her late twenties, pretty with dark hair and eyes, a copper-colored complexion, entered the kitchen. With a smile and after planting a kiss on Mitch’s cheek, she said, You’re always starving. You’d think you were turning into the human skeleton by the way you talk, I swear.

A growing boy has to eat.

Just as he removed his tie, his two girls entered the kitchen, Abigail and Anya, twins. They cried out in delight with their arms open in invitation, which Stovinski accepted by sweeping and embracing his children. Have you been good girls?

Always, said Anya. Her smile was broad enough to show the gap where her front teeth were missing.

Then he turned to Abigail. And what about you?

I’m always good.

When Mitch Stovinski stood, it was his cue to the girls to run off and play in the next room.

How was your day? Elaine asked him. Good? You seem a little stressed.

Stovinski feigned a smile. I’m good, he lied.

You sure?

He leaned forward, kissed his wife on the forehead, then fell away. I’ll be in the office.

Reaching his office at the end of the hallway and closing the door softly behind him, Stovinski leaned his forehead against the door and sighed heavily. It was at this moment that he wondered if the Stovinski tradition of upholding honor above all else, including the safety of his family, was worth the risk. Going to his desk where his PC sat, he booted the system, applied his passcode, then waited for the screen to light up. As soon as he was online, he went into his file folder and clicked on a file titled SAGAN. It was a code word for CONTACT, the title to Carl Sagan’s book, though this was not about interstellar beings, but a list of contacts within the Washington Post, The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Wall Street Journal, and other notable newspapers. There were emails; phone numbers, both personal and business; contact areas, usually in public forums; and names of prominent journalists. What he was about to do would blow the doors of American secrecy wide open, and enough for the American people to wonder if their government could be trusted. To list certain individuals for targeted killings because they amplified opinions that went against certain government agendas was beyond acceptable. Of course, he would have to move his family to another country and assume new names, new identities—all something he’d been working on for months. Where they could find a landing spot that was safe and had a ‘no extradition clause’ with the United States, however, was proving difficult to find, the list a short one. Most countries were in the Middle East, Africa, and Southeast Asia, like Vietnam and Cambodia. Either way, no country truly appealed to him. More so, how acceptable would his wife be about being on the run?

Stovinski closed his eyes and shook his head. The man was clearly on the fence about pulling the trigger, though his moral compass continued to point true. But his reluctance was short-lived. He had already downloaded hidden files that listed targets from California to Washington, D.C. The ‘when,’ ‘where’ and ‘how’ of the attacks were planned for some, but not for everyone who was listed. Soon—perhaps tonight or sometime tomorrow, maybe even next week, Mitch Stovinski knew he would acquire the courage to do what he believed was necessary. He would become the whistleblower who would ignite a raging political firestorm across America.

Again, he sighed.

Turning off his PC, he sat in the dark room. The blinds to the window were open and provided a view of the street that fronted the house. It was a quiet neighborhood, peaceful, it was a place to raise children without worry. All these thoughts bombarded him knowing that nothing lasted forever, even true peace.

Standing, he checked his watch. Nearly a half-hour had passed since he left Elaine alone in the kitchen. Exiting his office, Stovinski headed down the corridor, the house uncannily quiet.

Elaine!

Silence.

When Stovinski entered the kitchen, his eyes flared with alarm. A man wearing a ski mask was leaning against the wall with his right hand wrapped in plastic. Inside the wrapping, which Stovinski could see, was the outline of a suppressed handgun.

Elaine was sitting at the table with her hands on the tabletop, palms flat, with her cheeks tear-streaked. His daughters, Abigail and Anya, mirrored their mother’s actions with their palms down on the tabletop and crying. On the counter by the stove was Stovinski’s empty briefcase, which had been emptied and its contents spilled all over the countertop.

Sit, the man told him evenly.

Stovinski, with his jaw hanging in disbelief, pulled out a chair and sat down.

Hands on top of the table where I can see them, stated the intruder.

Stovinski complied. What do you want?

You know what I want. The assassin pushed away from the wall and started to circle the table. You’ve been a naughty boy, Mitch, stealing secrets that should not have been stolen. Did you really believe that you could erase your trail? I mean, seriously?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

The intruder stopped and placed the point of his pistol against Elaine’s temple, which prompted a bark of terror from her. Don’t insult my intelligence or the integrity of the people I work for by denying your actions. Do so again, I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Do you understand me?

Stovinski nodded.

Lowering his pistol, the intruder started to round the table. When he did, he would gently stroke the scalps of the children with loving touches and move on. The device you used to download the information. A micro-disc? A thumb drive? He pointed his weapon to the open briefcase and to the contents lying on the counter. There was nothing in there. Then he continued to round the table. A deposit box in a bank perhaps. A locker at the train station? Maybe a locker at the airport? The assassin stopped and placed the plastic-wrapped Glock against the back of Anya’s head. You tell me.

The moment this happened, Elaine pleaded for the assassin to stop. Please, not my baby! She immediately drew her attention to Mitch. Give him whatever he wants!

With a pained look, Stovinski answered, It’s not that easy.

For God’s sake, Mitch! Just do it!

The assassin held the gun to Anya’s head, the girl now sobbing as her chest heaved and pitched. You know what they say, Stovinski. They say that a child’s death is the most painful thing a parent can suffer through. Shall we see if that’s true?

Stovinski implored him with his hands held together in prayer. Please don’t.

The data you stole, Stovinski. Where is it?

I . . . I . . . All Stovinski could do was stammer.

I’ll tell you what, I’ll count to three. If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll pull the trigger and we’ll see how truly painful it is when a parent loses a child.

Daddy . . . please. Anya’s plea was so pathetic with maximum terror, immediate tears came to Mitch Stovinski’s eyes.

You’ll still have another daughter, said the assassin. A mirror image since they’re twins. She can always remind you of the one that’s forever missing in your life.

Please, said Mitch.

One . . .

Please, not my little girl.

Do you prefer that I put the gun to your wife’s head instead? . . . Two . . .

Oh God, no!

One more number to go, Stovinski, and I will pull the trigger. You know I will.

Stovinski threw his hands up in surrender. All right! . . . All right!

The intruder lowered the gun. Good boy. Now, tell me, where’s the data you so aptly appropriated without the authority to do so?

It’s here in the house, Stovinski answered.

Where in the house?

My office.

The intruder looked on for a long moment. And then: This is what we’re going to do. We’re all going to march quietly and calmly to your office. First your wife, then your daughter, you, and then this little princess here, he patted Anya’s head, who will be in front of me with my weapon aimed at the back of her head. If you’re lying to me or try to do something foolish—any of you—I won’t pause to pull the trigger. Do you understand me?

I do, Mitch Stovinski told him, his voice a whisper.

All righty then, let’s get this parade going.

In the order that the assassin outlined, they made their way down the corridor and to Stovinski’s office. Once inside, Mitch Stovinski hit the light switch.

Close the blinds, the intruder stated to Elaine, who immediately complied.

Keeping Anya close with the wrapped pistol not directly aimed at her head but able to do so within a quick moment, he said, The information . . . All of it.

Appearing crestfallen with his shoulders slumping with the crookedness of an Indian’s bow, Stovinski made his way to the baseboard next to the closet and pulled it free. Inside a small recess was a small metal box about the size of a hardback novel. Removing it, he placed the box on the PC’s table. Everything’s right there, he told the assassin. There’re no backups.

Remove the hard drive from your computer, the intruder told him calmly.

Breaking the all-in-one PC open, Stovinski muscled the hard drive and its enclosure free from the unit and placed it next to the metal box.

Now, the intruder said as he directed the point of his weapon to Anya’s temple, open the box. If there’s anything else in there besides the thumb drive, there’ll be no stopping me from pulling this trigger. So, tell me now, is there a weapon in there?

No.

Open the box.

Stovinski did. Inside was a thumb drive, four passports, and a wad of American currency in hundred-dollar bills.

I see that you were planning for the great escape, said the intruder. Positioning Anya to the side, the assassin redirected his weapon on Stovinski. Move aside.

Stovinski took position next to his wife and daughters as the intruder investigated the contents of the box and the hard drive.

The assassin held up the hard drive, which was still within its metal enclosure. Is this everything along with the thumb drive?

It is.

Nothing more?

No.

How much of the classified data did you send to your contacts?

None. I was still accumulating information.

That will be easy to discover once we examine the hard drive. If you’re lying to me, understand that this planet isn’t big enough for you or your family to hide. We will hunt you down.

I’m telling you the truth. Examine the hard drive. You’ll see that it contains those I was going to contact. But I didn’t have the time to encode the files before disseminating the data.

And this is the only hardware containing the classified information?

Yes.

The assassin smiled. I believe you.

If someone had been walking along the sidewalk in front of the Stovinski household, they might have seen the dozen muzzle flashes between the slats of the closed blinds to Stovinski’s home office.

Less than thirty seconds later, the assassin left the premises and headed for his car. Once inside the vehicle, he unwrapped the duct tape that secured the plastic around his gun hand and removed the bag. Placing his suppressed weapon inside the console, he lifted the bag that exhibited a small exit hole from the gunfire. Inside were twelve spent shell casings. Three shots to each victim; two to center mass and one to the head—all the unmistakable hallmarks of a professional killer.

After jiggling the bag and hearing the metal casings clink against one another, he was satisfied with this new grouping of trophies and set the bag on the passenger seat along with the thumb and hard drives. Starting the sedan and putting it into gear, he pulled away from the curb and drove slowly past the Stovinski home.

Tomorrow, the news would be abuzz with the murders of a wholesome family that resided in an upscale neighborhood and, so far, there would be no clues as to the culprit involved or the motive behind the shootings.

Because you were a whistleblower, he commented softly to himself. That’s the reason. Never try to cast a stone against Goliath unless you know that your aim is going to be true. The assassin smiled. He was pleased with the outcome as he drove to his home in a well-to-do suburb in Los Angeles.

After pulling inside his garage and closing the door behind him, he removed the bag containing the spent shells, the thumb and hard drives, the suppressed Glock, and went to the safe secreted behind racks that stacked boxes and tools. After opening it, he unscrewed the suppressor from the Glock, placed both units inside the safe, then added the shell casings, the hard drive, and the thumb drive. Tomorrow, he would take the drives to his principals with the matter concluded, and America once again made safe in the eyes of HOMELAND SECURITY.

After locking the safe, he exited the garage and went into the laundry room where he removed his gloves and ski mask, then tossed them into the washing machine. After turning the dial to the ‘wash’ mode on medium, he entered the kitchen.

Honey?

Elliot! You’re finally home.

He