Pandora's Ark (4 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Las Vegas
, Nevada
, Downtown
Area

Six months ago when the Vatican Knights were disbanded, Kimball Hayden became a wayward son in a society he
rejected long ago. From the onset as a young man trying to make a name for
himself in the power halls of the White House, he became a political assassin
leading a CIA wetwork team tagged by the brass as the “man without a conscience,”
since killing had become a polished skill possessed by few others on this planet.

For years he reveled in
his own ego, each killing becoming a building block to his own monumental
legend that grew every time he drew a blade across the throat of an insurgent or
put a bullet in a man’s brain. When it came to killing, there was no one more
consistent or dependable than Kimball Hayden.

Until one day while on a
mission in the Middle East where he had an epiphany after being forced to kill
two shepherd boys who threatened to compromise his position. After burying them
beneath the desert sand, he laid there the entire night staring up at the sky,
at the sparkling pinprick lights that made up the constellations, and wondered
if there truly was a God.

On the following morning as
the sun rose, he made a conscious decision to abscond from American service and
disappeared, the Pentagon believing he had been killed in action, and
posthumously awarded him the accustomed accolades as an empty coffin was buried
at Arlington as a symbol of the warrior’s testament to duty.

But regardless of how courageously
symbolic he was to others, should American forces ever discover that he was
still alive, especially knowing the black secrets he possessed regarding past
administrations, which included the sanctioned killing of a United States
senator, then his accolades would have no meaning, and he would be targeted
with extreme prejudice to ensure that all past misjudgments on the part of the
political body would remain secret.  

And this is why he never
returned.

But then his life took
another turn.

During the moment his
coffin was being laid to rest in D.C., he was sitting in a small bar in Venice, Italy, watching the images on TV play out as American forces and its allies moved
in on Saddam Hussein to free Kuwait. It was here that a cardinal of the Church
took a seat in a booth opposite him without permission, and offered him a
chance at redemption by serving as a Vatican Knight.

When Kimball questioned
him about this knighthood, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stated that only a man of
true integrity who can hold loyalty above all else, except honor; a man who truly
believes in the sovereignty of the Vatican and holds to protect its interests
and the welfare of its citizenry; and a man who is truly repentant for past
actions of a dark nature, is a man who could be made whole in the eyes of God.

Kimball had finally found
his home within the auspices of the Church.

And for years he plied
his very particular set of skills to save lives across the globe with a team of
the world’s best warriors, the Vatican Knights.

But the passing of Pope
Pius gave rise to Pope Gregory, who in turn disbanded the group as an affront
to God.

Not only was Kimball
without a country, but he was now without a church. And there wasn’t much call for
a man with his skill set with the exception of mercenary work, which he wanted
nothing to do with. So he returned to the states under a different name, someone
who had a simple dream of working an honest job.

The man who used to be
Kimball Hayden was now James Joseph Doetsch, better known as J.J. Doetsch. With
a new identity to keep him under the radar, Kimball Hayden was now a porter
picking up trash off casino floors. Since it was an honest job, then he was fine.

Over the months he maintained
his incredible physique and exercised at every opportunity. He also practiced
religiously with his knives, going through a set routine similar to Tai Chi. If
nothing else, Kimball Hayden remained very deadly.

“Yo, J.J.”

Kimball, pulling a trash
bag from a barrel on the casino floor, his hands wrapped in latex gloves,
stopped and looked at the floor manager who was beckoning him with a bird-like
hand.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Come here. Got something
I want to pass along.”

Kimball moved beside him,
the height difference amazing as the little man with the doughy face looked up
at Kimball the same way a small child looks up at his father.

“‘Member I told you about
the gig my brother-in-law’s involved with? You know, the cage fighting thing?”

“Look, Louie—”

The smaller man raised
his hands and began to pat the air. “Just hear me out,” he said.

Kimball did, but his body
language, the grim twist of his mouth and arms crossed defensively across his
chest, told the man he wasn’t going to be too receptive.

“Just hear me out,” he
repeated. “That’s all I ask for, for chrissakes.”

“I’m listening.”

“You can get in a cage
for five minutes—just five—and make yourself five grand tops.” He then stood
back to appraise Kimball, his arms held out as if to showcase the large man to
others. “Look at you. You’re a monster. Why in the hell are you wasting your
time here for just over minimum when you can obviously work the circuit for so
much more?”

“And I suppose you’d get
a percentage of my take?”

Louie smiled. “Of course.
As your manager, how does fifteen percent sound?”

Kimball shook his head
and turned away.

“All right then. How
about ten?”

“I’m not hearing you,
Louie.”

The pudgy man moved
beside him. “You’re wasting your talents, J.J. You always said the only thing
you ever wanted was an honest job. Well here it is, sitting in our lap. It’s totally
legit; the circuit has top-notch billing and everything you could ever ask for.
And the bottom line, J.J., is that I see six, maybe seven figures a year once
you hit the top.” 

“Not interested.”

“You’d rather pull trash
for the rest of your life?”

“Just temporary duty,
that’s all.”

“I don’t get it. Why
won’t you fight?”

Kimball looked him
squarely in the eyes. “If I’m going to fight, Louie, there has to be a cause
behind it.”

“Money ain’t cause
enough?”

“For me? No.” He went
back to emptying the cans, placing the bags in a rolling trash cart.

“Will you at least think
about it?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” he
said. “I’ll think about it along with other things.”

Louie smiled, his
emotions uplifted with slight hope. “That’s great,” he said, his smile
blossoming. “That’s really great! You just tell me when.”

How about never
? Kimball returned the smile and kept his mouth shut.

“Got a gig coming up in
two weeks,” he added. “You just let me know, J.J. You just let me know. I hate
to stand by and see a man like you waste your life away, that’s all.”

Kimball’s smile slowly
melted away.

Louie turned and began to
walk away, calling out over his shoulder. “A guy’s gotta have purpose in his
life, J.J. So I’m telling you that fighting is yours. I can see it in your
eyes. You’re a warrior. Think about it.”

Kimball roughly tossed
the trash in the bin and watched Louie disappear behind a bank of slot
machines. He seemed to have prophetically hit the nail on the head. Was he fated
to fight and do nothing more with his life? In a moment of self defeat, Kimball
sighed. No matter how fast or how far he tried to run, Fate was always standing
at every corner waiting to hand him the scepter of war.

He looked at his watch.
Ninety minutes to quitting time.

He went back to work.

#

After clocking out
Kimball took leisure and headed off to one of the
neighboring casinos that offered a parfait glass of shrimp for a $1.99, and ate
beneath the lighted canopy of the Freemont Street Experience. Music blared to
the beat of the Rolling Stones and The Doors, as cartoon images played
overhead. When the show was over, he placed the glass aside and headed east on
Freemont where the neighborhood was severely depressed with motels in disrepair
and meth whores working for fixes. Homeless people gathered in small groups
with shopping carts filled with treasures when people of comfort often considered
them trash. Further east towards Boulder Highway, where the motels were sitting
on the fulcrum point of becoming condemned but not quite there, was Kimball’s
apartment. It was the only place he could afford on his wage without applying
for government aid and possibly draw attention.  

It was night, the air hot
and dry. It was always hot. And the smell of the city was all around him. The
sweat, the ozone, the smoke from tailpipes and the smog of big-city air all
twisted into a terrible cocktail.

But it was home.

As he turned down an
alleyway he noted a figure of a small man, perhaps a teenager, standing next to
a Dumpster. The closer Kimball got to the shape; it would counter with steps to
confront Kimball in the middle of the alleyway, ultimately coming face to face
by the time their paths crossed. 

“Something I can do for
you?” Kimball’s sixth sense kicked in, meaning that they were not alone.

“Got any smokes, man?”

“Sorry. Don’t smoke.” When
Kimball tried to sidestep him the man stepped in front of him, blocking him. Kimball
could see that he was neither a teenager nor a man, but on the cusp, perhaps
twenty and wasting away.

“What about money? You
got money, don’t you?”

“How about you get out of
my way? That way you and your friends won’t get hurt.”

From the shadows came movement.
Three others, all in the same condition of being wasted and thinning on drugs, were
positioning themselves so that Kimball was flanked on both sides with another
behind and the punk in front.

“You don’t want to do
this,” he told the kid. “Trust me. You really don’t.”

There was a snicker as a
blade shot out from a stiletto in the punk’s hand. Another three followed in
concert: …
Chic! . . . Chic! . . . Chic!
. . .

In Kimball’s mind it was
an easy estimation of four knives total. 

“Give me your wallet,
dude.”

“The only way you’re
getting my wallet,” he told him, “is if you come and take it.”

“Are you kidding me? There’re
four of us.”

“I see that,” he said.
“Unfortunately for you, the odds favor me quite a bit.”

The punk cocked his head
and gave a questioning look.

“Last chance,” Kimball
said sternly. “Get out of my way.”

The punk did not
hesitate, but came at Kimball with unskilled and reckless abandon, the point of
the blade going in as a straight jab.

Kimball pivoted and
sidestepped the punk, the blade missing its mark and going wide, the punk
tripping and sprawling to the ground in the face-first approach as his chops
hit the pavement hard, his teeth fracturing and breaking.

Kimball took a step back
to access the situation, barely able to choke back the laugh which irritated
the punks to no end.

The attacking punk gained
his feet, and put a hand to his bloody mouth. “You think that was funny?”  

“Are you kidding me? That
was friggin’ hilarious.”

The punk attacked in
rage, swinging wildly, the blade cutting the air in diagonal Xs, back and
forth, side to side, Kimball falling back, waiting.

And then the former Vatican Knight struck.

Kimball lashed out with
his left hand, caught the punk by the wrist, and twisted, snapping the bone and
causing the knife to fall. He then brought up his right leg and kicked the punk
with such force that the young man went airborne and carried across the alley
in what appeared to be an impossibly long distance, the kid landing on a pile
of trash bags where he remained unmoving.

Keeping his eyes on the
other three, he slowly picked up the knife.

They faced him. And it
was obvious to Kimball that they were determining if attacking him would be the
wrong thing to do. To help them with their decision, Kimball began to play the
knife across and over his fingers like a majorette twirling a baton. The motion
was poetic and effortless, the skill taking years to achieve, the ability displayed
unlike anything the punks had ever seen before.

“Your choice,” he said.

The punks backed away,
two of them withdrawing their blades and pocketing their knives. The third
wasn’t so sure, keeping his knife ready.

“We just want to take our
friend and go,” said the skinny punk with the knife.

“Do what you want. I’ll
give you thirty seconds.”