The Crimson Dagger - Vatican Knights Series 23 (2020) Read online

  THE CRIMSON DAGGER

  By

  Rick Jones

  © 2020 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.

  This is a property of EmpirePRESS & EmpireENTERTAINMENT, 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:

  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 Vatican Knights series continued:

  The Brimstone Diaries

  Juggernaut

  Original Sins (a prequel)

  In Between God and Devil

  The Sinai Directive

  The Barabbas Connection

  The Eye of Moses

  The Crimson Dagger

  The Goliath Chamber (coming)

  The Vladorian Keep (coming)

  The Eden Series

  The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  The Sacred Vault (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  City Within the Clouds (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  City Beneath the Ice (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  With RICK CHESLER

  First Strike

  Standalone ADVENTURE:

  The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  The Man Who Cast Two Shadows

  The Valley (Severed Press)

  Mausoleum 2069 (Severed Press and Luzifer-Verlag)

  The Hunter Trilogy:

  Night of the Hunter

  The Black Key

  Theater of Operation

  A BIG thank you to Adam Hanin and Michael Schubert, whose encouraging ideas led to this story.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  Judea, Roman Empire

  33 A.D.

  Moments after the man from Jerusalem shed his final breath, darkness descended over Judea while celestial staircases of lightning dotted the landscape with unremitting strikes. The edge of a leading wind quickly swept in, a considerable gale, which caused the heavy rain to take on a lateral course. Boughs from olive trees that were once stout snapped like dry timber, the winds too commanding, too powerful. And through it all, a Roman centurion by the name of Longinus stood rapt with his spear firmly in his grasp as he stared into the vacant eyes of a man named Jesus.

  “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” These were the final words of the man who was nailed high upon a cross as He looked heavenward, with these words reaching the centurion’s heart. It was an epiphany and a spiritual awakening that began to draw Longinus from the roots of his Roman gods and towards monotheism.

  As Longinus stared into the half-mast eyes of Jesus that showed slivers of white, he knew that this man had taken upon His shoulders the sins of the world. The driving rain was simply a baptism and a new beginning for mankind.

  “Centurion, run your spear through!” This came from Longinus’s commander who wore the lorica muscle armor and crested helmet. With the rain, the metal plates appeared slick and wet and shined with a golden polish to them.

  Longinus, however, in response, could only present his commander with a pinched and hesitative look. Then above the howl of the gale, he cried, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”

  “He speaks the tongue of a false prophet! And there is no other god who stands before the gods of Rome!” The commander swung his hand through the air with authority. “Now, run your spear through!”

  Longinus looked at the face of Jesus that was kind and gentle and tremendously sad.

  “Centurion!”

  Looking at the point of his spear that resembled a dagger, Longinus raised the tip, balanced it between two ribs, then plunged the point deep to create the ‘fifth’ holy wound.

  A booming clap of thunder sounded off in critical judgment as the earth trembled beneath their feet. As Longinus extracted the point of the spear from the body, blackened clouds scudded across the sky with racing madness, a surreal visual. And lightning surged with broad strokes in swordplay as the strikes ruined trees by dividing their trunks and creating fires that fully engulfed the boughs, only for the rain to do little to extinguish the flames.

  Longinus looked at the tip of the spear with wonder. The blade glistened with the blood of Chr
ist, a crimson hue. Yet the daggerlike tip would not be cleansed by the rain as His blood adhered to the spear’s tip like a fixed stain.

  Raindrops continued to bead on the spearhead, only for the drops to fall as though repelled by the dagger, which remained tarnished with a crimson coating.

  “The blood,” Longinus commented, as he showed the spear’s tip to his commander. “It does not wash from my spear.”

  The Roman commander quickly crossed the gap between them and grabbed the spear just below the point where the spearhead connects with the shaft. Raindrops beaded, then appeared to boil on the spearhead before falling to the ground, the blade remaining unclean.

  The commander released the shaft and fell back as lightning continued its volley of staccato flashes, while thunderclaps reached a crescendo of disharmony. The commander appeared frightened and perplexed as he appraised Jesus, a man who was more than just a man.

  Longinus, however, felt an indescribable peace. “He truly is the Son of God,” he remarked softly, as he held the tip of the spear high. In the flashes of lightning, the point continued to show off an oily hue, perhaps a lasting pigment.

  As the Roman centurion held the shaft high with its point directed heavenward, and as the blood of Jesus ran from his personal wounds to flow with the rivulets at the cross’s base, Longinus could feel these warm streams bathe his feet as they rushed past him. It was a ritual of cleansing for which Longinus would ultimately surrender the gods of his Roman heritage, for the Heavenly Father who had touched his soul.

  Over time, when his stint with the Roman legion ended, Longinus gave up the weapon’s shaft but kept the spearhead as an amulet that had been worn around his neck as a spiritual charm. And because the former Roman centurion renounced polytheism in order to worship his newfound God, he would eventually be canonized and become a saint of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

  Then as centuries passed and long after Longinus’s death, the tip had become known as the Spear of Destiny, which had developed into accounts over history that the relic contained divine powers. Men from both shores of good and evil would seek out this holy artifact with romanticism, believing that it would serve them as the most powerful and uncontested scepter of rule. When Christian knights sacked Antioch and drove out the Saracens during the First Crusade after being inspired by the discovery of the Holy Lance within the city, a steadfast myth began to grow: those who possessed the Holy Lance would not only know the power of sustaining an elite army, they would also come to rule the mightiest kingdom in the world.

  Kings and monarchs and leaders alike, both good and evil, from Charlemagne to Frederick the Great of Germany, would hold the artifact with more than forty-five global leaders possessing the item over time. When Hitler acquired the Lance when he arrived in Vienna to oversee the annexation of Austria, the artifact was transported to Nuremberg where the Spear of Destiny was protected within St. Catherine's Church. As soon as the Holy Lance was firmly in the grip of the Nazi regime, Hitler began his campaign to invade Poland, and then Western Europe. But as war waged and began to take its toll with a portion of St. Catherine's Church damaged, U.S. soldiers took possession of the Holy Lance on April 30, 1945. A few hours later, it was reported that Adolph Hitler had committed suicide inside his bunker, with the act an official conclusion that the war with Germany was finally over.

  In time, the United States returned the Holy Lance, along with other treasures seized by the Nazis, to Austria, where it now lies on display inside the Austrian Imperial Treasury at the Hofburg Palace, in Vienna. Though counterfeits and replicas were created, it is believed that the holy relic within the Hapsburg Museum is the true Spear of Destiny. It has become a spotlighted feature where a Roman centurion by the name of Longinus had plunged the tip of his spear into the side of the man who had been ascribed by many to be the King of Kings.

  As the legend of the artifact failed to diminish over time, the eyes of opportunists had kept a keen watch, believing they could be the next to fall in line to be the next great leader, for which there would be no equal.

  In the days to follow, an elite faction would attempt to seize the opportunity in the name of Allah. Since the Muslim faith holds Jesus in high regard and believes Him to be one of God’s greatest messengers, they also believe that possessing the Holy Lance would also bolster a jihad. And like the countless armies that had come and gone throughout history, ISIS, too, would become an overwhelming force with the backing of Allah, along with the combined power of the Holy Lance.

  This held especially true within the eyes of one of ISIS’s most esteemed commanders, Ali Mustafa, who believed that as long as he remained in possession of the relic, there would be no earthly force who could challenge his power. But Mustafa’s confidences would soon be contested, and his beliefs fully challenged. Because in the days to come, he would throw down against one of the world’s mightiest forces believing that having complete mastery over the Holy Lance would also give him the ability to vanquish all enemies . . .

  . . . Including the Vatican Knights.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lakeside Cabin in Maryland

  Shari Cohen was sitting before a bombe chest that was in front of a window which overlooked the lake. Sitting on the chest was a number of framed photos of her husband and two daughters, now deceased. The photograph setting was homage to the family she had lost, the memorial a shrine. Hanging from the corner of every picture were pendants of the Star of David, which hung on platinum chains. These small commemoratives often jumpstarted fond memories of a time that was—when her children laughed and ran through the hallways of their home in Washington, D.C. When they went on vacations as a family, their times together magic. Or when birthdays came and went as the children aged towards adulthood that would never come. Sometimes, Shari smiled at these thoughts. Other times, she would openly sob. Depending on her mood, her emotions often vacillated between good memories and dark ones.

  Beyond the window and on the lake the mallards swam.

  As she sat reminiscing, she recalled the moment when her family was wiped out by a domestic terrorist. With the slowness of a bad dream, she remembered standing on the porch as her family piled into the Escalade. The moment her husband turned the key to the ignition, the vehicle exploded into a fireball. And within that moment that turned from incredible jubilation to absolute sorrow, her entire family had been stolen from her.

  While staring at the photos of an extended family that might have been, of grandchildren and a family tree that will never be, Shari sighed heavily through her nostrils.

  “Are you OK?” Kimball Hayden’s voice came from behind with his words soft and somewhat cautious in asking.

  Shari feigned a smile. “I’m fine.”

  Kimball stood in the doorway of their bedroom wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He was a heavily muscled man with biceps that were as large as most men’s thighs, his body entirely bulked up. But the hardships of his near disasters and ultimate pain had been memorialized upon his flesh. There were pock marks from bullets wounds. Lateral scars from knife slashes. And severe burns that had left deep scars after he had been engulfed by flames, with his skin having melted like the tallow of wax before cooling and scarring. Despite all his markings from a number of conflicts, Kimball Hayden was never so beautiful in the eyes of Shari Cohen.

  Kimball crossed the room and took position before the window. The lake had a thin layer of fog settling just above the surface, a wispy blanket. Yet he could clearly see the vivid colors of the mallards that swam along the water. Stepping back, he noted the photos on the bombe and the medallions that hung from the corners of the picture frames.

  “I know you miss them,” he told her in a light and sorrowful way.

  Shari reached up, grabbed his hand, and enclosed both of hers over his. Then she brought his hand to her cheek to feel its warmth. “They were a part of me as you are.”

  But Kimball had his shrine, too, of photos lined up along the mantel of the fireplace in t
he bedroom. They were the photos of the Vatican Knights—of Isaiah and Leviticus, his top two lieutenants, along with Bonasero Vessucci, the force’s founder and eventual pontiff. But with the progression of time also brought the eventual loss of good friends. Bonasero Vessucci and Leviticus were gone, both passing into the Light. Isaiah, however, continued to be a major component of the unit.

  “I know you miss them, too,” she added.

  Kimball nodded.

  “The question is: how much do you miss them?”

  “You’re not keeping me away, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he told her.

  “Truthfully?” When Kimball didn’t respond, she responded for him. “It’s all right to miss those you love. Believe me, I understand.”

  “It’s just that they were the only family I had until you. You’re family now.”

  “But deep down you feel as though you abandoned them.”

  Kimball sighed. “In a way,” he answered. “I feel as though I left them when they needed me most.”

  “You’re not responsible for the corruption of Pope Clement.”

  “No. But I am responsible for leaving the unit rudderless. Isaiah is capable of managing the team. But he’s not capable of contesting the pope in questionable situations, even if Isaiah realizes the high-end improbability of the mission. He operates on blind faith. I never did.”

  “You want to go back, don’t you?”

  “Not if it means leaving your side for any length of time.”

  Shari looked at Kimball who continued to stare out the window. “I’m a big girl,” she told him. “But more importantly, I want you to be happy.” After a beat, she continued. “Kimball, it’s all right to be a part of something you love. You need to be what you were meant to be. I’m not here to take away from that. If I did, I’d be just as miserable knowing that deep down you were miserable.”

  He turned to her. “Maybe a visit—to see how they’re doing.”

  Her smile made its way into a one-sided grin, and then she said, “And perhaps put on the uniform to see if it still fits? Or maybe don the collar to see if it still looks good around your neck? Or maybe to see if the beret still looks good on you when tilted a certain way?”