The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021), Rick Jones [e ink epub reader .TXT] 📗

She pointed her weapon towards places that were at their darkest.

Nothing moved.

Nothing sounded.

And then the hairs on the back of her neck started to rise in the same way a dog raises its hackles when sensing great danger. The threat to her welfare, she knew, was becoming greater.

Suddenly, the room started to come alive. Shadows and shapes emerged from the blackened veils and converged on Shari as though she was the centerpiece of some dark orgy. And with the same slow and deliberate act of a terrible nightmare as hands immobilized her, she could not get off a single shot with the gun being knocked away from her grip and to the floor. Suddenly, Shari found herself staring into the face of Death. With the bony outline of its features and the would-be maniacal grin of its jawline if not for the circular speaker, she gazed into the flaring green orbs that were set deep within the hollows of its eyes. Around her, this pair of eyes had been joined by others.

From Death who stood before her, a metallic voice said, “Don’t give me cause to hurt you.”

With quick examination while in the grasp of others, she noted that the intruder was wearing body armor and carried an assault rifle.

Then once again from the operator who stood before her, and with the same metallic voice, he asked, “Do you understand?”

Her understanding came by way of attempting to kick the operator in the groin, only to have her attempt easily deflected. In response, Death raised his weapon and with the butt of his rifle, he rammed it forward, a hard strike.

Shari’s sight started to swim and turn purple along the edges. As her sight began to slide into tunnel vision and into a pinpoint light, the last thing she saw and remembered was the human skull who inhaled and exhaled with metallic breaths.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Rome, Italy

The Bangladeshi could feel the noose tightening. He was driving on Via delle Carrozze, which was not too far from the Spanish Steps, believing he could set the False Prophet closer to Vatican City by placing the device in symbolic locations like the Basilica of SS, a basilica that contained religious artworks. He also considered such venues as the Chiesa di Santa Maria del Divino Amore and the Chiesa di San Nicola dei Prefetti. But these sites had been overwhelmed with security forces who continued to expand their search outward from the origin point of Vatican City. These actions of enlarging the search area were forcing the Bangladeshi to a vicinity well beyond the effective range of the False Prophet.

Continuing east past the Piazza Barberini, he ended up at the Church of Saint Cletus which was a twenty-minute drive from Vatican City. But he needed to go west and not east, which was impossible due to an ever-expanding perimeter.

As he let his vehicle idle along the curbside while trying to find a solution, and sometimes, if one waits long enough, an opportunity will present itself as though by divine intervention.

The Bangladeshi spotted a police officer approximately fifty yards away. He was sitting inside his FIAT which had Polizia stenciled along its side in big, bold letters. Apparently, he had ticketed a driver and was finishing up with the process of inputting the data into the dashboard terminal.

Ratcheting his vehicle into gear, the Bangladeshi drove to the FIAT and parked twenty feet behind. The officer was still typing the information into the dash monitor with his attention entirely consumed by what he was doing.

Reaching into the glove compartment, the Bangladeshi removed a fully loaded Glock. And then, after reaching into his shirt pocket, he removed a suppressor and firmly screwed it into the threading of the weapon’s barrel.

The Bangladeshi checked the rearview and side mirrors. The street was nearly vacant with few people milling about. Getting out of the vehicle, the Bangladeshi secured the suppressed weapon in the waistband behind him, then calmly made his way to the police cruiser.

With the brim of his hat hanging low enough to hide a majority of his features, the Bangladeshi rapped his knuckles lightly on the officer’s window. The officer, taking notice, lowered the pane.

“Something I can help you with?” he asked in Italian.

The Bangladeshi’s smile was warm and welcoming as he showed the fine rows of his teeth. Then in flawless Italian, he said, “Officer, I appear to be lost and was wondering if you could provide me with the proper directions. It appears that many of the streets have either been cordoned off or redirected for detour.”

“Where exactly are you heading?”

“To the Basilica Papale di Santa Maria Maggiore.”

The officer winced in a way that was apologetic. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that. But all streets west of here have been closed off due—”

. . . Phfttt . . .

It was a muffled shot from the Glock. The officer, as he stared at the Bangladeshi with stark confusion, made clicking noises in the back of his throat as the gunshot wound to his forehead released a ribbon of slow-curling smoke. Within two seconds, however, the officer’s head and shoulders slumped as life escaped him.

The Bangladeshi quickly opened the door, shoved the dead officer into the opposite seat, returned to his vehicle to grab the laptop and the False Prophet, then returned to the police sedan. With the deceased officer appearing as though he was surprised by his own mortality, the Bangladeshi drove the FIAT east with every intention of returning west towards Vatican City.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Kimball’s Chamber

The Vatican, Vatican City

After ending his call with Shari, he could tell by the tenor of her voice that she was overly concerned. For him, there would be no escaping since his allegiance was to the church and his devotion written in stone.

After performing a search of the Old Gardens alongside Isaiah and Nehemiah and discovering nothing, Kimball returned to his chamber. Having been greeted by the Medieval door to his quarters along with the