The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020) Rick Jones (amazing books to read TXT) 📖

lobby’s central area was Mr. Archimedes, whose body was in ruins. Mr. Michelangelo was nowhere to be seen.

Running through the compromised area of the facility, Kimball Hayden quickly found himself on the landing with a cold wind washing over his face to give him an immediate fresh-scrubbed look. The chilling effect also braced him for the coming challenge of rappelling down the cliffside. Then as he stepped into the buffeting wind, he noticed by the helipad the pared back doors to a subterranean lift. What had emerged from them was something he could only wonder about.

Hayden quickly examined the area to his left and then his right. There was nothing but surrounding darkness as a howling gust continued to wind its way along the landing.

Then he saw the cable-car station and noticed that the line was down, the gondola having been rendered ineffective for escape.

Feeling the rod and crucible affixed to his back, Kimball Hayden, who felt like Atlas who carried the world upon his shoulders, ran for the south face of the mountain.

With athletic agility and running prowess, it didn’t take long for him to reach the rim of the south-face side of the mountain. Once there, he checked his watch.

. . . 4:32 . . .

. . . 4:31 . . .

. . . 4:30 . . .

Looking over the edge and seeing nothing but a maelstrom of swirling snow and darkness, Kimball grabbed one of the duffel bags and emptied the contents on the snow-laden ground. What he was looking for was an NVG headset to see him through the downward journey. After grabbing the piton gun and tossing it aside, that’s when he found the NVG unit. Just as he was about to fit the unit over his head, a shape stood over him.

Its face was raven dark, yet its eyes were in stark contrast to its features, white against black. As the wind kicked up, the shock-white hairs along the shape’s head began to dance and undulate like a Medusa crown.

Salt!

If nothing else, Hayden thought, the man was resilient, if not unstoppable.

Salt extended a hand towards Hayden. “Give me the Eye of Moses,” he said with renowned and even measure.

Hayden got to his feet and stepped away from the edge. “No.”

“Give me the Eye of Moses.”

“No.”

Salt dropped his arm. “Are you going to make me kill you for it?” Salt asked him plainly. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

But Hayden dismissed Salt as a deceiver who would do anything to keep his secrets guarded from any possible chance of being compromised. Salt had every intention of killing him.

“It’s over, Salt,” Hayden said. Then he winced at this knowing that it sounded like a scripted line from a bad movie. But he didn’t know what else to say.

But Salt did. “For you it surely is. That I will admit.” Then he began to move on Hayden.

Hayden ground his feet against the surface and waited.

“I can kill you a dozen different ways,” Salt stated calmly as he slowly closed the gap between them. “But I choose to throw you off the cliffside. I want you to experience the long fall, to feel your heart beat its last few terrifying moments. And I want your mind to race with the fear of knowing that you are about to die on impact.” He took another step closer. “Then I will rappel to the bottom and simply take from your broken body the staff once belonging to Aaron, as well as the crucible. And, of course, the Eye of Moses . . . It’ll be that easy.”

“You know something,” Kimball told him. “You think too much of yourself.”

“You think so? You don’t believe that I can be your equal? Perhaps even better?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Kimball told him. “Since I don’t think you are, I’ll give you the opportunity to prove me wrong.”

That was when Salt charged him.

The two men grappled with Kimball Hayden relying on the techniques taught to him by the masters in the trade long ago—masters who were the elites when Kimball was a novice, a student. But Salt must have shared the same classes, learned from the same courses. Whenever Hayden made a move, Salt would make a simple maneuver to top Hayden. Nevertheless, Kimball maintained his own until Salt began to push him towards the mountain’s edge.

Kimball Hayden began to throw punches, straight jabs and roundhouses, only for Salt to deflect the blows and to force Hayden closer to the falloff.

Punches, blows, and kicks from Kimball Hayden had little effect, the Vatican Knight realizing that Salt was equal in scale in regard to combat. No one had such skill since Ezekiel, someone who he had trained in the past and a Vatican Knight who had gone rogue, the man eventually becoming the Professor Moriaty to his Sherlock Holmes. Here, on this mountaintop, was Kimball’s equal and a man with a superior skillset.

As the edge neared, as frenzied snow swirled in the darkness below, Kimball Hayden thought about his Shari and wondered if she would be all right after he was gone.

Then there was muffled sound, a pop.

The point of a piton shot through Salt’s leg with the tip of the dagger glistening with blood. Salt, backing away, took to a knee in great suffering.

Mr. Spartan, who appeared weak and feeble and barely able to stand, held the piton gun in his hand. He was breathing with difficulty as though he had just walked a historic distance beneath a glaring desert sun. Then to Hayden, he said: “Get those relics to where they need to be.”

“What about you?”

“To hell with me!” Mr. Spartan returned sharply. Then he turned to look at a wounded Salt. “I have my own agenda to deal with.”

Without hesitation, Kimball Hayden, after setting the NVG goggles, set the wire properly around him for a quick and safe rappel, looked up to see Mr. Spartan close on Salt with the piton gun in his hand, and began his descent. At the rate