The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020), Rick Jones [learn to read books txt] 📗

raced directly towards the wall and tossed himself into it shoulder first. Drywall, studs, and chalk exploded as he fell and rolled his way into another room, the man covered and laden with dust.

The others gave chase.

Then Salt found himself on the balcony.

Nearly twenty stories above the pavement.

To his left inside of a hooded vase was a knotted rope. He tossed the lid, grabbed the rope, clipped it to the wrought iron, and pitched the line over the rail. Just as the patio door slid aside and a hand reached over to grab him, Salt was barely out of grasping range when he made it to the floor below. Kicking the glass door of the apartment beneath his balcony, it was all Salt needed to get away. Once he was on the lower level, he used the hallway to make his escape.

Salt was on the run.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

At the Lucerne safehouse, Alix Kristoffel was tethered to a wooden chair by Flexcuffs. He was bound around the wrists and ankles, which limited his mobility. With his face cast downward, a long, drooling viscous thread of blood stretched from his lips and nearly to the floor. His face was pulpy and bruised, the swelling almost disfiguring his features.

Mr. Spartan, who placed the tips of his fingers against the left side of Kristoffel’s neck to check his carotid, found the assassin’s pulse strong. “What happened?” he asked Mr. Galileo.

“I was made,” he answered. “But I happened to get the better of him.” And then: “The others?”

“Still in the wild. But we lost Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Lost? As in how lost?”

Mr. Spartan, for all his will to conceal most emotions, failed to do so when his features softened to the looseness of a rubber mask. “I’m afraid he’s been terminated.”

Mr. Galileo closed his eyes and began to work the muscles in the back of his jaw. Then softly: “He’ll be missed.”

Mr. Spartan walked around Kristoffel in observance. The man was large and fit with the cords of his muscles straining against his flesh. There was no doubt in Mr. Spartan’s mind that he was a military asset belonging to the Shadow Klan organization. Trying to extract information from him would prove to be a challenge.

Just then, Kimball Hayden entered the room. If he was surprised at the sight, he didn’t show it. Stoicism had always been his shield. What he did consider, however, was the gruesomeness of the capture. The man’s face had been bloodied and pounded raw. But Hayden did not comment on this. Instead, he said, “I heard what you said about Mr. Shakespeare . . . I’m sorry.”

Mr. Spartan continued to look like he carried blanketed sadness that was constantly wrapped around his shoulders, with the weight of his sorrows bending them to the crookedness of an Indian’s bow.

Hayden then began to walk slowly around Kristoffel, who was beginning to stir. “Has he said anything?” Hayden asked. “Anything at all?”

Mr. Galileo nodded. “Hadn’t had the chance to ask him anything yet. He threw the first punch, I threw the last, and here we are.” That was when Mr. Galileo retrieved a cellphone from his coat pocket, a burner. “He did have this on him, however.”

Kimball Hayden recognized it immediately, as did Mr. Spartan. A burner is an inexpensive mobile phone that’s purchased with prepaid minutes and no contract, for which its temporary use is often associated with illegal activities, after which they may be discarded.

Hayden took the phone and examined it. It was a flip type. After searching through the menu, he discovered a few encrypted calls that Hayden commented on it. “Encoded signatures,” was all he said.

“Three,” said Mr. Galileo. “All placed after the confrontation with Kristoffel, and not too far apart.”

Mr. Spartan took the phone from Hayden and said, “Most likely status calls that went unchecked, which prompted a dismissal code.” A dismissal code was the software means to destroy all cyber- or telephonic footprints to disguise any point of origin. However, there were high-tech tracking systems capable of detecting marginal or trace elements to build upon, then home on to the original source. But this tracking method could sometimes be time consuming. Nevertheless, Mr. Spartan knew that his only option was to contact the Consortium and have them decrypt and track down the original source, if possible.

As Kristoffel’s head started to loll and moans escaped him, Mr. Galileo prompted him awake with light pats to the assassin’s face. “Let’s go, big boy. Time to wake up and talk.”

Alix Kristoffel appeared confused and aimless, with his surroundings completely alien to him. “Where am I?”

“You sound awake enough,” said Mr. Galileo, as he stepped aside so that Mr. Spartan could command the moment.

Mr. Spartan positioned himself before Kristoffel with his arms crossed before his chest. His face was unreadable, unbiased, his features that of a man about to operate with the cold fortitude of a machine. And then: “Mr. Alix Kristoffel,” he said. “One-time member of the KTC, the Korps Commandotroepen unit of the Royal Netherlands Army. You were special forces who conducted missions which included counter-terrorism—”

“Enough!” yelled Kristoffel, who then spat a wad of bloody spit onto the floor. “Big deal. You read my biographical record and now you think you know me, is that it?”

“My point, Kristoffel, is that you worked with an honorable unit, Class A, top of the line. Now you’ve become the very thing you’ve fought against.”

This prompted a laugh from Kristoffel, who leaned forward to test his binds. “Is that what you think I am? A terrorist?” More laughter, almost delirious by nature. “You know nothing about me other than what you’ve read.” He looked directly into Mr. Spartan’s eyes and said, “You’re nothing.”

Mr. Spartan maintained his stance and betrayed nothing as to what he was feeling or thinking. He didn’t even move when Kristoffel hocked a blood wad and spat it in the direction of Mr. Spartan’s feet.

“You think binding me to this chair with Flexcuffs and acting all non-feeling is going to make me talk?