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

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When Bienemy moved into the thicket and saw that Stallworth was no longer standing post, his sense of danger heightened. Stallworth, like him, was a SEAL with the two coming from the same mold of experience and training. And Stallworth’s continuing silence was enough for Bienemy to ramp up his already heightened senses.

Moving through the brush, Bienemy’s world was NVG green. He could determine the outlines of shrubbery and plants. He could see the gnarled and twisted branches of the olive trees. And he noted the packed grass where Stallworth once stood to provide Bienemy with cover.

The ex-SEAL pivoted the tip of his weapon first to his left, and then to his right. He checked high and low with the NVG lenses of the Kevlar mask providing him with a clear view and advantage.

Silence reigned and Stallworth was missing.

The operator continued to move soundlessly through the brush with his footfalls touching down with the ability of not snapping a twig or crushing dried leaves. He was silent and casual as a cat that stalked its prey at night.

Then he caught a pair of fireflies alit on the floor of the thicket, the lights still and unmoving. Upon further examination, Bienemy realized that he was looking at the glowing NVG lights of Stallworth’s Kevlar mask. The man behind it, dead, his neck positioned at an odd angle.

Bienemy scoped his area with swiftness by moving his weapon from left to right, and then from right to left, up and down, the examination a full 360-degrees with quick sweeps and arcs.

Nothing.

The surrounding brush remained uncannily silent.

Bienemy took a few more steps with his assault weapon raised, his steps coming without sound.

Then his senses kicked in—that of not being alone. Something was nearby watching and waiting for the precise moment to pounce, a master predator.

But Bienemy saw nothing through his NVG lenses. The landscape was clear, and his surroundings were relatively meager with the exception of a few olive trees and knee-high shrubs.

Still, a heaviness lingered like a pall that left the air thick and syrupy with danger.

Where are you? Bienemy thought. I can feel you.

But the military operative spotted nothing and no one. But he could detect a closing threat. It was something with a hunter’s passion while locking its eyes on Bienemy to place him within the crosshairs, with the moment of attack eminent.

Bienemy spun to all directions of the compass, searching.

Nothing.

And just like that, as the hairs on his arms prickled, the ex-SEAL could feel the breath of his opponent pressing against the back of his neck with the even rhythm of his enemy’s breathing warm against his flesh.

Bienemy pivoted on the balls of his feet, the man proving to be lightning fast as he brought around the point of his rifle. But something stood behind him, an obstacle, something that countered his quickness with great speed of its own. Even within his NVG advantage, his opponent moved with grace and speed as though darkness was his ally and companion, the man moving as if he could see as though the sun had been burning bright.

Bienemy’s adversary was a man of massive built—that of broad shoulders and barrel chest, and someone who moved with a freakish ability for a man his size. Around his attacker’s collar, which told Bienemy all he needed to know, was the band of a Roman Catholic collar. Here was Kimball Hayden, the most elite of the Vatican Knights, a man who was considered to be an angel to some and a demon to others.

Here was Bienemy’s demon.

After Kimball Hayden slapped aside the weapon’s barrel, he began to throw a series of forward strikes with his arms and hands moving like pistons. Kimball struck the helmet, the throat, and points along the Kevlar vest with every hammering thrust knocking Bienemy off balance, the ex-SEAL staggering backward like a drunkard.

More blows were coming faster and faster as the shadows continued to aid the Vatican Knight as though he was in allegiance with it, the darkness a longtime devotee. Every time Bienemy tried to bring his weapon around, the Vatican Knight slapped it aside as the ex-SEAL pressed the trigger. The night lit up with a series of muzzle flashes and staccato bursts of light. In the stop-and-go illumination, Bienemy could see the red, threadlike laces of anger that crossed the whites of Kimball’s eyes, and the seething rage that had surfaced. Here was a man in the throes of savage anger, a person who was commanded by his own personal demons.

Blow after blow, thrust after thrust, with arms and hands and feet beginning to weigh on Bienemy, the ex-SEAL quickly cast aside his weapon to free his arms for close combat, and started to deflect Kimball’s blows.

He held his arms close to his torso to minimize the effect of Kimball’s punches. And when the opportunity availed itself, Bienemy spotted an opening and began to throw his own jabs—lefts, rights, uppercuts and power-driven hooks. At first, Bienemy was making gains by driving Kimball back with a combination of offensive strikes and defensive moves, the operative now throwing punches as much as he was deflecting them.

But Kimball Hayden was a master among masters and a truly gifted warrior who came once every generation. After taking Bienemy’s blows and counterstrikes, the Vatican Knight revved up his quality of combat by throwing combinations with impact power.

. . . Left . . . Right . . . Jab . . . Uppercut . . .

Everything came with coordinated and fluid strikes that were so fast, his movements became blinding.

. . . Left . . . Right . . . Jab . . . Uppercut . . .

And then came the most devastating of Kimball’s hand-to-hand combat arsenal, the elbow strike.

As Bienemy appeared to lose awareness of his surroundings and beginning to see internal stars, Kimball came across with additional elbow strikes, one right after another—left, right, left, right, left, right—all striking Bienemy along the chin line beneath his mask.

The