The Bridge of Bones (Vatican Knights) Read online

  THE BRIDGE OF BONES

  Book 5 of the Vatican Knights Series

  By Rick Jones

  © 2014 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]

  Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at:

  www.rickjonz.com

  Visit the Hive Collective on the World Wide Web at:

  www.hiveauthors.wordpress.com

  ALSO BY RICK JONES:

  Vatican Knights Series

  The Vatican Knights

  Shepherd One

  The Iscariot Agenda

  Pandora's Ark

  The Bridge of Bones

  The Eden Series

  The Crypts of Eden

  The Menagerie

  The Thrones of Eden

  Familiar Stranger

  PROLOGUE

  Port of Ploče Container Terminal

  Croatia

  The last of the freight containers were loaded onto the deck of the Александра (the Aleksandra). The ship was a converted cargo vessel registered with the Croatian Register of Shipping (CRS), under the guise of a reputable shipping merchant, which was actually a dummy corporation for the Croatian mob.

  Standing along the rail of the 133-meter ship and overseeing the last freight container loaded squarely on top of another by hook and crane, stood Jadran Božanović, a high-ranking contributor within the organization. He was known for his brutality when dispensing a certain brand of justice with the keen edge of a knife, which also happened to be his weapon of choice, since it never ran dry. His signature hallmark was to leave behind a corpse so brutalized that it appeared to have been mauled by an animal, the message behind his actions a testament of his raw and unbridled viciousness.

  At six three and weighing close to 220 pounds of lean muscle, with a body fat that could be measured in the single digits, Božanović was as intimidating as his appearance. His face was hard-looking with a mild flaring of cheekbones, a carryover from Mongolian genes that had been diluted over generations. His eyes were the color of onyx, dark and non-expressive. But what dominated his features and made his face so memorable was the scar that ran laterally down his cheek to the top of his lip, the scarring pulling down the corner of his lower eyelid enough to expose the glistening pink tissue under it.

  He was also a man who played a key role in the pecking order of the mob’s hierarchy.

  As streamers of light began to surface along the horizon, and as the shadows of night started to dim and wane, the cranes continued to work under the bank of working lamps that were situated along the ship’s headers and beams. Once the last container was loaded and secured, Božanović waved his hand as a gesture to move quickly before the members of the CRS began to second-guess his onboard stock.

  The Croatian fell back from the railing and headed for the main deck, as the horizon grew brighter in set colors of oranges and reds, the morning light inching and lengthening over the docks.

  When he reached his stacked supply of containers, there was a man of tiny stature taking inventory with a pen and clipboard. When standing next to Jadran Božanović, the man appeared small and insignificant. And to Božanović, like with all men beneath him, this man was nothing more than a working asset to the company, someone who was nameless and faceless and could readily be replaced at a moment’s notice.

  “Are we good to go?” Božanović asked him. “I count eight containers in total.”

  The smaller man nodded. “Eight crates carrying,” he checked his clipboard with the point of his pen, “seven hundred and six assets.”

  Božanović cocked his head. “Seven-o-six? There’re supposed to be seven hundred and twenty.”

  “I’m afraid fourteen didn’t make it, Mr. Božanović.” When the smaller man spoke, he did so with the greatest air of caution. To Jadran Božanović, every asset was money. And money lost was inexcusable. In time, the Croatian would hold someone accountable and make a messy example of that person with the blade of his knife. Prudence was supposed to be taken with all of his properties; this had been the paramount rule of handling.

  “I want a full list of those responsible for the treatment of my assets,” he said.

  “Immediately, sir.”

  Božanović gave a cursory glance to the east and noted that the upper rind of the sun was beginning to show itself. “How much longer before we depart?”

  “Immediately, sir.”

  “See to it then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Božanović went to the railing and scrutinized the dock area, as stretches of daylight were crawling along the port, giving light to areas that had been steeped in dark shadows moments before. From the edge of his downturned eye, he caught movement—a glimpse, really. Someone was moving and taking shelter behind a wall of stacked crates.

  The person was not alone.

  Božanović slapped the heels of his hands repeatedly against the railing in frustration. His operation had been compromised.

  Where there is one, there is always another…

  He quickly ran along the ship’s deck crying out to move the Aleksandra from its mooring, as members of an international taskforce closed in from all points, their weapons raised and directed. They were adorned in black gear, wearing specialized helmets and composite armor, their weapons high-grade armaments.

  Božanović continued to bark out orders as he ran along the ship’s level. “Pomicanje! Pomicanje! Pomicanje!” Move! Move! Move!

  Božanović’s shipmates tried to detach the mooring lines from their bollards, only to be cut down by strafing gunfire, as bullets stitched across bodies, causing blood founts to jettison in arcs and red mist.

  Bodies fell as boneless heaps all over the deck, as the international unit pressed forward along the gangways.

  Božanović tapped his palm against his sheathed knife. It was hardly a formidable weapon against such an arsenal, so he pulled his Glock, instead.

  He took aim and fired in rapid succession, the bullets hitting their marks. A soldier wearing composite armor went to a knee for a quick moment before recalibrating and redirecting his weapon on Božanović. A quick volley of bullets soon followed and pinged against the metal bins behind the Croatian, the projectiles caroming in all directions, as Božanović ducked beneath the hail of gunfire. In vain he raised his hand and blindly fired off several shots, hitting nothing, while running to the stern of the ship.

  He had six shots left.

  Military enforcers swarmed and fanned out across the deck of the Aleksandra, firing in 180 degrees of direction—left, right, east, west. Božanović’s men fell as they were judiciously dispatched by the team’s advancement.

  But when Božanović heard the cries of his men, he felt absolutely nothing—no remorse, no contrition, and certainly no sense of gratitude for their sacrifice. In Croatia, where people often romanticized ideas of becoming a member of the Croatian mob, replacements were always bountiful.

  When he reached the ship’s stern, he came upon a one-man submarine that was tethered to the deck by metal clamps. On the one-man pod was a numerical keypad, bearing a code only he knew. With deft fingers, he began to type in numbers on the keypad. Bullets pocked the area around him. Holes appeared around
him like magic, as more bullets blazed paths alongside his ears, as near misses and waspy hums. And then the sub’s hatch opened and lifted with the whoosh of escaping air, as the seals parted.

  Bullets pinged off the sub’s hard titanium shell, as Božanović slipped inside and locked the latch. With the pull of an internal cord, the clamps holding the sub to the deck lifted with metallic noises. The torpedo-shaped sub then slid cleanly down a ramp and to the surface of the sea, where it bobbed like a cork for a quick moment before righting itself.

  Božanović quickly engaged the sub’s electronics. He initiated the driveshaft and propellers, worked the flaps, and filled the buoyancy tanks with water. Within moments the sub vanished beneath the waves, as bubbles rose from the point of its descent.

  Members of the international team grouped around the railing with their weapons pointed downward at the churning froth.

  Jadran Božanović was gone.

  John Majors, who was the team leader of the English taskforce from the London Group, and former head of the British Special Forces, lifted his face shield, slid it over his composite helmet, and watched the last of the bubbles burst along the surface, as Božanović made his escape.

  “Bloody ‘ell,” was all he said, looking at the waves. They’d had Božanović trapped; they’d had him hemmed in, his crew offering marginal resistance against a much better team. Yet Božanović had slipped their grasp.

  Majors closed his eyes and fought for calm, as the muscles in the back of his jaw worked.

  This was the third time they had closed in on the Croat within a period of eighteen months. The man had escaped through the grips of American, Spanish, and English forces.

  Majors visibly huffed in anger and frustration at missing the kill. To take away the life of Božanović would have been a justifiable act in the eyes of the international court of opinion, the man’s death already having been adjudicated as a green-light ‘go’ by those who sat upon the thrones of worldwide justice.

  Then: “Colonel?”

  John Majors opened his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Sixteen crew members of the Aleksandra are dead, sir.”

  “Survivors?”

  “None.”

  “And the cargo? Is it safe?”

  “Yes, sir. Safe and secured.”

  Majors led his personal team to the main deck, where armed units of British commandos congregated around the freight containers.

  “How many bloody crates this time?” Majors asked a soldier, who by his striping served as a sergeant.

  “Eight.”

  Majors shook his head and walked past the soldier, his eyes fixed on the shipping crates. “That’s eight too many.”

  Majors lowered the point of his weapon as he neared the first container, a transport crate one would find on the back of an eighteen-wheeler. “Open the bloody door,” he stated firmly. And pray that we don’t find what we’re supposed to.

  A soldier with a welder’s torch sparked the tip and placed the flame against the lock, the metal melting as easily as a hot cake of butter. When the lock fell free from its hasp, the soldier lifted the latch and opened the door.

  The smell was nauseating as the stench of human waste overwhelmed them. There was also an accompanying wave of heat like a wafting fever that was real and alive—that of sickness and disease, as people coughed with phlegm-like wetness and viruses coursed through their veins.

  Majors stepped back. Damn you, Božanović. “For God’s sake, get these people out of ‘ere! And get them some bloody ‘elp!”

  “Immediately, sir.”

  People coughed sickly upheavals from burning lungs, all between the ages of twelve and twenty-five, victims of Jadran Božanović’s pleasures, as a merchant of human misery.

  Majors took note of the other crates with hard appraisal, knowing that each one contained the same cargo as this one: human livestock.

  He shook his head in complete and utter disgust, wondering how people like Božanović could even exist. He tried to comprehend what possible element in life could make a man so horrifically miserable that he would readily accept the devil as his ally and be comfortable with that alliance.

  Damn you, Božanović.

  Damn you to bloody ‘ell.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London

  Approximately One Month Later

  When Colonel John Majors returned to his flat in London for R&R, he could not exorcise the images of the children on the Aleksandra, the way their flesh held the awful color of grayness instead of a healthy glow. Or the way they carried that haunted look of detachment.

  Once again, Jadran Božanović had proven himself to be as slick as an eel.

  And this sickened Majors to no end, because he had been so close to capturing the Croat he could smell the man’s foulness in the air.

  After pouring himself a tumbler of cognac, Majors went to the balcony of his fourth-floor flat, which offered a view of Hyde Park in the distance. From there he could see a spread of trees and open fields. But the reason he cherished the park so much was because of the podiums that were seated along the pathways. He would come to listen to those who spoke of hot-button topics that mattered, things that could change or alter the mind and one’s personal philosophy. But lately, at least from his interpretation, the podiums had been taken up by weirdoes and cranks who spouted off nonsensical rubbish.

  Times were changing.

  Downing his drink, Majors went to the bathroom and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were red and raw. And the lines and seams along his face were growing deeper and longer.

  When he was the head of the British Special Forces things had seemed so different, because his mind and body were in sync due to the blessings of youth. But now that he was aging, his body was telling him that he was in the twilight of his service, even as a taskforce leader. The constant aches in his knees and shoulder were becoming a testament to what his mind was beginning to register: you’re getting too old.

  But he wanted to do one last thing that meant something good in his life—the one thing that would make him a legacy. He wanted to be known as the man who took down Jadran Božanović.

  He grunted as the pains in both knees were too great even for the cognac to numb. So he opened the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet, grabbed a bottle of pain killers, and shut the door. When he did, there were two images reflected in the mirror: his and Jadran Božanović’s.

  Majors’s eyes didn’t even start. Nor did he turn to confront the intruder. It was as if he’d been expecting this moment all along.

  In the mirror, he watched the scarred face of Božanović looking at him with features that did not betray his emotions, a look of neutrality. His eyes, however, held something deep and cold to them, their blackness impenetrable.

  And Majors had come to realize that Božanović was a man of subdued rage, who had come to collect a toll from him for compromising the operation on the Aleksandra.

  Božanović raised a knife. Its point was sharp and wickedly keen, with its polished blade reflecting clean light from the overhead bulb. In malicious play he toyed with it, by turning it over in his hand in simple rotations to give Majors a good look at it from all angles.

  And Majors conceded with a nod, knowing there was nothing he could do against this man alone.

  Three days later, when the body of Colonel Majors was discovered, the London Times would equate the murder to the likes of Jack the Ripper.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Office of the Monsignor

  The Vatican

  “I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”

  Monsignor Dom Giammacio was the Vatican’s counselor for clerics who floundered in the self-doubt of waning faith. But today he was not listening to a priest at all. He was listening to a soldier of the Vatican, a seasoned warrior who served in the capacity of protecting the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry.

  This morning, he was list
ening to someone who was simply known as ‘the priest who is not a priest.’

  He was in session with Kimball Hayden, team leader of the Vatican Knights, who was always in search of personal salvation and sought deliverance from a dark past that clung to him like cancer.

  “Kimball, what you’re telling me is beginning to sound like a hollow mantra. We’ve been down this road many times before.”

  Kimball fell back in his chair, his startling cerulean blue eyes never losing their focus as he stared into the copper-hued eyes of the monsignor. “Then what’s left to talk about?”

  The monsignor looked at the curls of smoke rising from a cigarette that was wedged between his long and thin fingers. He watched the delicate loops of smoke as they rose and dissipated. “We need to talk about your unwillingness to accept the fact that you have achieved God’s good graces by serving as a Vatican Knight.”

  Kimball leaned forward. The muscles in his forearms were considerable and became electric with movement. “Can God forgive a man who has killed innocent women and children for the sake of duty?”

  “It all depends. Are you a man of contrition? Do you feel repentant for committing such actions?”

  “Repentant?” Kimball slowly fell back into his seat. “The hardest thing for any man to do, Monsignor, is to forgive himself. You know that.”

  “So is that the bottom line, Kimball? You can’t forgive yourself?”

  Kimball sighed. “No… However, if I wait long enough, then I can justify my actions no matter how heinous they may be. After a while, I learn how to live with what I’ve done by making myself believe that what I did was right, that my actions were justifiable in the end. It’s so easy to make yourself believe anything over time.”

  “But apparently you don’t. Not if you come in here today and tell me that God continues to forbid you salvation. You cannot justify your actions, then feel an ongoing culpability. You either feel absolved of those actions or you don’t. So tell me, which is it?”