The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021) by Rick Jones (good novels to read .TXT) 📗

“The people within the government are highly nervous, Kimball. They’ve been told to evacuate to areas considered well beyond the presumed blast zone.”

“Meaning areas close to Vatican City.”

“Not only that, but we’ve also been told to evacuate the American Embassy and set up a Comm Center from a satellite station outside of Rome.”

“Are you at the Embassy?”

“No. I’m heading home to grab a few things. This is going to take a while. And it scares me to know that something like this could actually happen—the detonation of a nuclear weapon.”

“The principals are doing the right thing, Shari. You need to get out.”

“What about you?”

Kimball paused. Then: “I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t sound overly confident.”

“Shari, we’ve combed the entirety of Vatican City,” he told her. “Every inch. Every centimeter. And so far, nothing. Vatican Security, the Swiss Guard, Isaiah and Nehemiah, we’re all performing constant sweeps of the grounds. And as of right now, we don’t believe the unit’s here in Vatican City.”

“But there are a number of places close to the Vatican that would have the same effect, should the device detonate.”

“That’s why the Italian authorities are canvasing the perimeter around the Vatican from a mile or two away.”

“We both know that that amount of territory is too much to examine with the range too broad, no matter how many people are involved with the search.” After there was a gap of silence between them, she added, “Please come home.”

“I can’t and you know that. So, try not to worry—even though it’s easier said than done, I know.”

“I’m worried for you.”

“I know. But I’m glad that the Embassy has decided to do the right thing. Get away from the blast zone, Shari. Work from a safe haven.”

“If something happened to you, I’d be devastated.”

“We’ll find him, Shari, long before he has a chance to set off the device.”

Shari wanted to believe Kimball and to believe that the nightmare that was Bangladeshi would be over. But the Bangladeshi was military elite who could prognosticate situations and act accordingly to what was available to him. Rome was a big city with too many buildings and structures to count, too many hiding places for something as small as a suitcase. The odds definitely favored the assassin, this she understood.

“I love you,” she told him.

“I love you, too.”

“Promise me you’ll come home.”

“Of course. Don’t believe for one moment that the Bangladeshi is going to win. He’s not.”

Shari wanted to believe this, but she also had her doubts. “When I get to the satellite station,” she told him, “I’ll contact you.”

Hearing the concern on her voice, Kimball said, “It’s going to be all right.”

Wanting to respond with ‘I hope so,’ she instead said, “I love you.” And then she hung up as tears began to sting her eyes. Kimball was her rock as she was his, the two as stalwart as a loving couple could be. But life had a way of contesting such strength and commitments as though to truly challenge the power of the bond between them, which she believed was indominable. Still, as powerful as they’d become as a pair, she also realized that there were forces strong enough to drive a wedge between them as well. In the case of the Bangladeshi, his strength lay within the device he carried, a suitcase that served as the crucible containing the False Prophet.

Reeling in her emotions enough for the sting of tears to dissolve, Shari found the entry key on her keyring, inserted it inside the lock, and opened the door to her apartment. The hallway possessed both Renaissance and Baroque touches to the décor that were feebly lit from banks of incandescent lighting. Taking the elevator to the upper level of her floor, which was meagerly lit from the overhang of aged lightbulbs, Shari undid the lock to her apartment, opened the door, and stepped inside. Turning on the wall switch, the lights failed to come on, which drew an exasperated sigh from Shari.

. . . click . . . click . . . click . . .

After several tries, Shari gave up with the intent to contact maintenance as soon as she returned from the satellite station, if the residence still stood. Going to the window, she parted the drapes to allow light from the streetlamps to filter into the room. Realizing that she was working on limited time to gather essentials such as clothing and toiletries, she wondered if she would ever see the Swiss clock that sat upon the mantel of an artificial fireplace, or the plants that bloomed by the power of her green thumb, or the Italian-styled furniture, things she had never given much thought to before and had taken for granted. How odd it was, she considered, to truly give thought to these surroundings.

Going to her bedroom and parting the louvered doors to the closet, and with little light coming through the window, she was able to pull a small suitcase from within. Taking it to the bed and opening the lid, she went to the dresser and, just as she placed her hands on the rungs to open the drawer, she froze.

Silence.

Every good cop had something embedded deep inside them, a sixth sense that was often referred to as the ‘blue sense.’

Reaching behind her with a slow hand and to a holster hidden underneath her coat, she was able to grab the firearm’s grip and thumb off the safety, the click a soft, but perceptible, tick. Moving with precision, she was able to point the weapon in front of her using the two-handed method.

I’m not alone, she thought.

She moved away from the dresser and into the center of the bedroom in order to grant her an unobstructed view of the living room, the area she had just came from.

She moved slowly from one room to the next with her weapon leveled.

Then she stopped.

And she listened.

Nothing.

I know you’re here. I can feel you.

With the room vaguely lit by the outside source of a streetlamp, unmoving shadows