Original Sins Read online

  ORIGINAL SINS

  By

  Rick Jones

  © 2019 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.

  This is a property of Empire PRESS & Empire ENTERTAINMENT, LLC

  The Vatican Knights is a TRADEMARK property

  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:

  Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at:

  Also by Rick Jones:

  Vatican Knights Series

  The Vatican Knights

  Shepherd One

  The Iscariot Agenda

  Pandora's Ark

  The Bridge of Bones

  Crosses to Bear

  The Lost Cathedral

  Dark Advent

  Cabal

  The Golgotha Pursuit

  Targeted Killing

  Sinners and Saints

  The Barbed Crown

  The Devil’s Magician

  The Nocturnal Saints

  The Brimstone Diaries

  Juggernaut

  Original Sins (a prequel)

  PROLOGUE

  Washington, D.C.

  More Than Two Decades Ago

  Darkness reigned in the life of Kimball Hayden as he stood and watched his mother wailing and sobbing beneath a cone of light that was meant to highlight her presence. He could not see her face because it was shielded by her hands. But as an only child who had an umbilical tie to his mother, he could certainly feel her pain.

  Mom?

  In the shadows, Kimball walked towards his mother who was trapped within this glare of pointed light, which did not appear to have a power source. Perhaps the beam was Biblical in nature, he considered, with the cast coming from the Above, since his mother was a pious woman who was deeply devoted to her God.

  Mom?

  Her wails sounded hollow as if from a bad dream where resonances were often distorted in lingering and haunting ways. She was on her knees with her hands to her face, the woman weeping as she wore her finest Sunday dress, the one with the floral patterns.

  Mom?

  Kimball stood along the fringe of light but went no further since the illuminated circle was a repellent, even though he couldn’t quite understand why. His mother remained spotlighted wearing colors in reds and yellows and greens, the pattern scheme of roses to celebrate the pageantry of Christ. But beneath this cone of light, while pressing her hands to her face, the colors began to bleed away, to fade. Reds became shades of pink; yellows had dulled to near white; and the decorative leaves, the brightly lit greens, began to turn brown and eventually died as they rotted.

  Mom?

  Kimball wanted to reach a hand to his mother and make her feel comfortable, to make her feel safe. But then the floral patterns started to change as the petals began to intertwine into nonsensical shapes and kaleidoscopic confusion, like living vines, twisting and curling. Then the dulled colors fully mutated to the point of becoming ash gray.

  Mom?

  From the outer most reaches of Kimball’s peripheral vision, he saw the shape of someone who stood blacker than black against the Stygian darkness that framed him. The Shape was alien and familiar to him at the same time, someone who was not a close friend but was more of a casual associate.

  I know you, he said. Don’t I?

  That you do, it answered.

  Still on the floor on her knees with her hands to her face, Kimball’s mother continued to sob.

  It’s a shame that such a woman who is so devoted to Christ lives in such misery, the Shape stated. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hayden?

  Kimball turned to his mother only to watch the once beautiful floral patterns turn into a mishmash of colorless blends that twisted into ungodly and demonic shapes, whose misshapen face had been brought on by unbridled agony.

  Mom?

  She weeps because her life is encased in misery, the Shape stated with aristocratic authority. And yet she worshipped her God every Sunday and kept Him close to her heart. So why is she here, Kimball? Why does she continue to suffer so? Has she done something in her life that was beyond forgiveness, even in His eyes? In the darkness, the Shape moved its head enough so that Kimball knew that it was looking right at him. Or was it because of something else? it asked. Perhaps she continues to wallow in pain because she believes herself to be a great failure in His eyes . . . Perhaps she failed Him by failing herself.

  Kimball’s response was heated. My mother was a good woman who never failed anyone.

  Are you sure about that?

  Damn sure.

  In the shadows, the Shape chuckled with laughter that was deep enough to vibrate the air. No one, it finally said, is beyond damnation if they don’t live up to the terms of fully believing that they had left behind a dark legacy . . . or an unfulfillment of goodness.

  She’s been a good soul her entire life, returned Kimball, who spat the words out like venom.

  That may be. But perhaps her legacy is steeped in what she believes to be something so horrible, something that she left behind, that needs to be exorcized before she can fully move on.

  Like what?

  More chuckling. Like her son, perhaps?

  Me?

  Think about it. She weeps in misery not for her actions since she was always a good and pious woman . . . But from the actions of another. Do you not kill others in judgment of doing what you believe is right, Kimball? Do you not kill because you believe that the nature for which you do kill is for the good of others who may be corrupt? Do you not feel empowered when you take the life of another?

  I do what I do for the better of others.

  I see, said the Shape. It’s easy to shake off your conscience when you learn to justify your actions to fit your moral perspective, isn’t it? Life has always been that way. But others, like your mother—well, maybe she doesn’t quite see it that way.

  What do you want from me? asked Kimball.

  Nothing, it returned. I have everything from you already.

  What does that mean?

  It means, Mr. Hayden, that when you choose to dance with the Devil, remember that the Devil always leads. This is something your mother has realized, which causes her to weep so. The Shape turned its head in the darkness enough for Kimball to know that it was now looking at his mother. Then from the Shape: Isn’t that so, Madam Hayden? Sometimes people weep until they can weep no more. But here you’ll weep for eternity because of what you left behind. Are you not the mother of the Devil’s Keeper?

  Kimball’s mother lowered her hands and faced Kimball. Her eyes were completely black, no whites, and her face appeared to lengthen into an impossibly long and haunted mask of sadness.

  Kimball stumbled back from the fringe of light as his mother cried out with a bloodcurdling scream. And then she raised a hand to point an accusing finger at him that was as long and as thin as the tine of a pitchfork.

  What have you done to my mother? Kimball asked.

  What have I done? I’ve done absolutely nothing. It was you who sucked the Light out of her soul, not me.

  It was always here at the juncture of the dream that Kimball Hayden shot upright in bed, the man breathing as if he’d been underwater for a great amount of time. After his heart settled, he laid back down and stared ceilingward.

  His mother had been dead for a few years now, the victim of a murderer who wanted to send a message to Kimball by letting
him know that he was threading too deeply into matters where he wasn’t wanted. His mother’s death had become the first act of war, however, at least that was how Kimball read it, instead of the warning that had been sent by the assassins. All the message managed to do was to raise a sleeping giant to wreak havoc, which Kimball did by crushing his opponent with no mercy or contrition. This was the beginning of dampening his conscience by justifying his acts. His retribution against those who had killed his mother eventually became his means of success, which would ultimately make differences in worldly and political challenges.

  After the deaths of his parents, Kimball enrolled in the military as a special operative. Thereafter, it didn’t take long to catch the eye of the military brass who saw in him the natural abilities that were offered too few in life. He was big, athletic, and a quick learner, especially in combat techniques such as the use of double-edged weaponry, which didn’t take him long to master.

  After exhibiting his skillsets to the covert eyes of shadow organizations, it wasn’t long until he was pulled from the military to serve with a black-ops arm of the CIA. Working to better the American position on the global stage had enchanted Kimball with the idea of becoming the shine within the eyes of the United States government. To do this, however, he would have to dismiss his conscience by raising a hand against his enemy to steal away their lives, which would be an easy and acceptable thing to do, since he had justified previous acts of murder in the name of good.

  Since his recruitment, Kimball had killed more than a dozen people across the globe and chalked it up to the good of the nation and its ongoing policies, which allowed him to sleep well at nights.

  But the dreams of his mother and the Shape who stood within the shadows, this dark Overseer, were beginning to crop up as of late. They had the betweenness of reality and fantasy combined, a position of the mind where thoughts and images could be considered real but not real, that state of surrealness.

  The images were dark and haunting, enough to raise him from sleep and into a sitting position with his heart racing.

  Turning his head, he noted the time on the clock. It was 5:35 a.m. In twenty-five minutes, he was scheduled to wake up by the clock’s alarm. And in two-plus hours he had to see a man about a job from someone who held Kimball in high praise, a United States senator.

  Foregoing the twenty-five minutes of sleep, Kimball rose from the bed to begin his day.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Russell Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  0805 Hours

  United States Senator Jeffrey Rhames was sitting inside his office pouring over documents when there was a light tapping at his door. After inviting the client to ‘come in,’ the senator eased back into his chair while an aide opened the door to allow Kimball Hayden to enter the office.

  Rhames was a portly man with soft, doughy features and eyes so close together they gave him that perpetual beady-eyed stare. And because someone had told him that the color black always made people look thinner; he wore nothing else. But in the case of Jeffrey Rhames that was a fallacy. He was still an enormous man whether he wore black, white or any other color.

  After the aide gestured Kimball inside the office, he left the office and closed the door behind him to leave Kimball alone with the senator. After a moment of locking eyes, the senator finally waved his hand to the seat in front of his desk as an invitation to Kimball. Taking the seat and then grinding himself into the cushion to get comfortable, Kimball appeared like a man trying to fit himself into a child’s chair, his frame was that large.

  “Comfortable?” the senator asked him.

  Kimball eventually discovered his comfort zone. “I am. Thank you.”

  “You’re sitting in a rather expensive chair. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t break it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The senator waved at him dismissively and smiled. “I was just kidding, son,” he told him. “I’m glad enough you came here to answer the call.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Senator.”

  “Please, Kimball, call me Jeff. No need to be formal when it’s just the two of us.”

  “Yes, sir . . . Yes, Jeff.”

  The senator appraised Kimball with a keen, and sometimes, narrowed eye. The CIA operative appeared more as a teenager in a sizeable man’s body. In fact, Senator Rhames wondered if he even shaved since he had that fresh-scrubbed look of a minor. Yet according to his biographical records, Kimball Hayden was at the top of his game as an assassin. He’d been to Russia and the Middle East, removing those who had been designated as targeted killings, without leaving behind trace evidence. Here was a master dispatcher who modeled the angelic blue eyes of youth.

  The senator returned his attention back to the sheets of paper on his desk. The biographical records regarding Kimball Hayden were impressive, with Kimball achieving the goals of the United States government on TS missions at an unprecedented level and rate. The proverb that surrounded Kimball was that he was ‘seen only as a glimpse by the target a moment before a knife was being driven across the target’s throat, and then he was gone.’ In fact, he often left red herrings so that investigative authorities could point an accusing finger at a hostile government of the United States.

  “Your record, Kimball, as a dispatcher is impeccable. You do great service and bring honor to your nation. You know that, don’t you?”

  Kimball nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Jeff,” the senator corrected.

  “Yes, Jeff.”

  The senator returned the sheets into the manila folder and closed it. Then he pointed to the file. “You know what that is?”

  “I’m assuming it’s my biographical record.”

  “You assume right, Kimball. Yet it sits upon my desk, even though you’re a Deep State operative, which means you’re buried so deep that even I, a senator, should have never heard of you. Yet here you sit in my office. Do you want to know how I was able to retrieve your records and bring you to the surface?”

  Kimball didn’t respond, since he accepted this as rhetorical.

  “You’re sitting in my office, Kimball, because I have friends in extremely high places . . . Even those who operate within the shadows of a CIA black-arm detail. A senator of my esteem does not serve a few terms without making contacts.”

  Kimball silently wished that the senator would finish his preamble and get to the point.

  Then from Senator Rhames: “You’ve been reading the papers about me? About the distasteful reporting regarding my so-called tryst with an underaged girl?”

  Kimball nodded. He knew of the accusations that dominated the news. Senator Rhames, leading member of the Senate who had his eyes on the presidential race come Fall, was being debased in the media from the harsh tones of reporting.

  “Fake news!” he insisted loudly. “The Post is behind this rubbish. You know that, right? They want to see me dead on my feet before I can get my campaign started. The media is supposed to report objectively, not to influence the minds of a nation with mistruths.” The senator leaned forward and locked eyes with Kimball. “You know what I’m saying to you, Kimball? About the media? That their subjective news reporting is causing more damage to this nation than to bring forth the light of truth.” The senator then fell back into his button-studded seat and toyed with his chin with the tips of his fingers, thinking.

  After a beat, he added, “I’ve been a senator long before you were born, Kimball. That’s the truth. I have governed and supported the laws of the land to benefit all Americans. And then some yahoo comes along and wants to make a name for himself as a journalist by making me his sacrificial lamb.” He stopped rubbing his chin and sighed. “Times have certainly changed. And at times we need to right a listing ship when the balance is becoming too great to overcome. Right now, this country needs you. This country needs you to right that ship so that it can ride the often-tumultuous waves of political seas, if you know what I mean.”

  Kimball had no id
ea what he was getting at.

  Then more in control of himself, the senator asked evenly, “Are you willing to do for your nation what your nation commands of you, Kimball? Are you willing to right that listing ship?”

  “Of course.”

  “What you do, Kimball, does not leave this room. You’re still an operative working on behalf of the Company’s black-arm unit, understand?”

  “I do.”

  “What we discuss in this room today does not reach the earshot of anybody except your superior. Is that clear?”

  Kimball nodded.

  The Senator opened the manila folder, dug beneath the papers, and brought out a single sheet which he laid on the desk. “Protecting the government of this nation has and always will be foremost in regard to threats both foreign and domestic, agreed?”

  Kimball did agree.

  “There is a domestic threat,” stated the senator. Then he proffered Kimball the sheet of paper, which was a short dossier on a man by the name of Peter Savange. “Male Caucasian,” the senator continued. “Twenty-eight years old. Started as a journalist in Seattle, relocated to Boston, then made his way to the Post. Aggressive, ambitious, which are good qualities in most men, but his actions have become detrimental to ruling members from his columns by attacking the political body injudiciously. Especially me. And to say that I bedded an under aged girl which is not only a lie, Kimball, but a career killer. This country needs people like me to steer it to greater heights, especially when global tensions are on the rise. Not some snot-nosed kid who thinks he’s going to change the world when he knows nothing about politics. Don’t you agree?”

  Instead of telling the truth, Kimball nodded in politeness.