As the team rode in silence to the bunker that was north of Vatican City, the woman could not entirely dismiss her deep-rooted concerns, no matter how much she tried. She had seen the Vatican Knights in action as they wiped out her entire D.C. program, with the overwhelming defeat of her team causing her to flee to Brazil. And just like those inside this truck—the SEALs, the Delta and the Ranger—her Washington team was also made up of urban mercenaries with similar backgrounds, and people who were considered to be the best of the best. They were, and had been, the alpha predators with no equals, until the Vatican Knights literally showed up on her doorstep. The skillsets they exhibited had wiped out her team with ease as though in play, with the challenges coming from her team second-rate.
Then she closed her eyes to envision the moment when the Vatican Knights and the Nocturnal Saints engaged one another. The inhouse battle was quick and deadly and over within minutes, as the conflict waged appeared to be between men against boys with the Vatican Knights far more mature in their skillsets. When she opened her eyes to evaluate the ex-soldiers around her, those who had earned the title of ‘elite,’ she had to remind herself that Kimball Hayden was a man who bled like any other. And like any other man, he was just as mortal and one against four.
Plans had been pored over and discussed until the design of the operation was embedded into memory.
Whatever flaws there might have been were deliberated upon and believed corrected. But the woman had learned long ago that plans were always mapped out perfectly on paper. And when it came time for the operation, only the deeply hidden flaws, those that were impossible to plan for, would show themselves and become insurmountable problems. Nothing truly works by design, she thought.
One man alone who bleeds like any other man . . . That’s all he is.
One against four.
Yet the woman sighed inwardly and thought: Always easier on paper. Always perfect by design. But she also knew that there were people like Kimball Hayden who had a habit of screwing up the blueprints to a mission, especially if he was the focal point.
When the truck finally pulled to a stop and the team exited the vehicle, Antle turned her eyes heavenward. The sky was midnight black and the stars shined overhead like a cache of diamonds spread over black velvet. It was a beautiful night, she thought.
. . . A beautiful night . . .
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vatican Intelligence
The Vatican, Vatican City
Vatican Intelligence is considered to be one of the best intel agencies in the world that rivals the likes of MI6, the CIA, and the Mossad. Though the agencies often work in collusion with one another, it was the Jesuit team of Vatican Intelligence that spotted an anomalous transaction from a Yemen bank account belonging to a suspected terrorist financier, Ahmed Jaziri, to an account that came and went as soon as the amount of five-hundred million had been transferred. Upon tracing, it was discovered that the created account belonged to a faceless and fictitious owner. Within a minute—twenty-four seconds to be exact—the funds were converted into cryptocurrency and the account summarily closed. Everything performed—the transfer of huge amounts of money, the sudden opening and closing of an account under a false registration, the transference of money into an untraceable form—were notorious red-flag issues of terrorist activity. And with a known supporter like Ahmed Jaziri who funded terrorist operations and sponsored extremist groups who took over the oil fields, he was on the radar as a person to watch. It was known that Jaziri received a percentage of all oil sales through his black-market contacts which helped to build his financial empire. A half billion-dollar transfer meant that something off-the-charts huge was about to go down. And it did not go unnoticed by Vatican Operations, either. Calls immediately went out to intel agencies across the globe, including Interpol, who listed Ahmed Jaziri as a wanted person, though not for terrorism but as an illegal arms dealer. The problem with Jaziri, however, was that no one knew what he truly looked like, though it was reported that he often sported grizzled beards and sunglasses to mask any possibility for facial recognition programs to map out certain landmarks on his face for identification. The man was simply a ghost who walked.
But recent intel had surfaced to indicate that Ahmed Jaziri moved with a specific gait due to having a clubfoot that did not fully heal from treatment, leaving the man with a marginal limp that could not be masked. In fact, it might even be said that his gait would be as identifiable as a fingerprint, even if FRS programs were unable to recognize him.
Recent video recordings in Yemen, Syria, Iran, Lebanon and most recently in Paris, had videotaped several ‘potentials’ with similar walks, though none could be absolutely determined to be Ahmed Jaziri. So, the Jesuit team of Vatican Intelligence had to connect the dots. Since styles and mannerisms of walking possessed a uniqueness to them, the Vatican Intel team registered these gaits into a program to identify a person by his movements and motions. One man who had been recorded over a three-week period in places like Sana'a, Yemen; Damascus, Syria; and more recently in Paris, exhibited a gait and style that was verifiable to a 93% probability that it was the same person. Though this did not confirm on any level that the ‘man of interest’ was Ahmed Jaziri, the person he met at Paris was. After being captured on a number of CCTV
