The Goliath Chamber - Vatican Knights 24 (2021) by Rick Jones (fastest ebook reader TXT) 📕

pieces around him broke away as chalky puffs of dust from the bullets’ impacts, the deep wounds in the walls telling him that Mannix’s weapon was a higher caliber with more power.

When there was a sound of dry clicks, Kimball realized that his attacker’s weapon had run dry. But he was an ex-Delta, meaning that he could unseat and reseat a new magazine within a blink of an eye.

Within that imperceptibly small moment of granted time, Kimball redirected his aim and fired off his weapon. Bullets struck Mannix along his dragon-skin armor, all perfect hits. Yet the former Delta responded as though they had little effect as he reloaded another magazine and returned fire, once again driving Kimball behind the wall for cover.

“You’re no match for me, Sinner! I wear the shielded garments of God!”

More gunfire.

More staccato bursts of light.

And then there was a second moment of dry clicks, which was followed by the unseating and reseating of an ammo magazine in a time that was too small to measure, with the operative well trained and fluid.

Kimball returned fire with his rounds striking the composite shields and the armored vest with at least one bullet skipping off the skeleton mask—at least by the way Mannix’s head snapped back—only for the ex-Delta to promptly readjust and continue the firefight.

Kimball’s weapon was for the most part ineffective. Yet it was the only weapon he had outside of his knife, which did him no good in this situation. So, the Vatican Knight kept firing off rounds that continuously found their marks, though the spent ammo bounced off the Nocturnal Saint with the seeming effectiveness of BB pellets.

And then it was Kimball’s turn to hear the dreaded clicks of his empty weapon. Worse, he had no backup magazines.

As the surrounding stone continued to be chipped away at Kimball’s location, a series of clicks echoed throughout the subterranean corridor. This time, however, Kimball did not hear the immediate ejection and insertion of a magazine. All he heard was silence. Mannix was out of ammo. If he had been supplied, Kimball knew that any good soldier would have instantly fed his weapon ammo.

Kimball exited from the shadows and stood within the center of the dimly lit hallway, the two now holding each other with measuring stares.

Mannix tossed his weapon aside with the hand that bore the gold ring of the Nocturnal Saints. Kimball responded in kind by tossing his assault rifle to the floor.

“Well, Sinner,” Mannix finally said. “I was to bring you before the Council of the One, so that justice could be handed down. Obviously, you’re not going to agree with that arrangement.”

Kimball stood with his chest heaving and pitching, as though he had just finished running a marathon.

Mannix removed his combat knife from his sheath. It was also a move that Kimball mirrored.

Now they stood like gunslingers who were squaring off, except they were armed with KABARs and not six-shooters.

“My job,” Mannix started with his metallic voice, “is to bring you before the One. Not my choice, of course, but she leads. And as soldiers, we both know that we always listen to the chain of command.”

“Where’s Shari?”

“Does it matter at this point?”

“Where is she?! I want to see her!”

“Then drop your knife, and I’ll take you to her.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll find her myself. If she’s dead as you say she is, then time is no longer an issue, is it?”

Mannix said: “Drop the knife. If you don’t, then you leave me no choice. I’ll run mine through you, which would piss off the One.”

“I know the One. I’ve dealt with her before.”

“So, I’ve been told.”

“Then you know the outcome of that meeting in D.C.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Then, if you continue to contest me, you’ll probably end up as they did.”

“I believe you think too much of yourself.”

“I’m losing patience. Where is she!”

“I’m not changing my position, Sinner. If you want me to take you to the body of the woman, then drop your knife. It’s that simple.”

“Why? So that you can kill me?”

“No. So I can take you to the One.”

“I’m not interested in your proposal.”

“Then I guess you leave us both with no choice. I was hoping for little more foreplay. But apparently, you just want to get right down to the killing.”

With those final metallic words leaving Mannix’s built-in voice box, the two elite soldiers converged for the final assault.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Inside the Monte Soratte Bunker

Jennifer Antle was sitting inside of a stonewalled chamber, a small room. And candles gave off minimal light that was enough to shed a meager glow over the cigarette that was burning in the ashtray next to her.

As she sat waiting to become judge, jury and executioner, she had been monitoring the communication between her team until they went silent. Stallworth, McKinley and Bienemy had either broken protocol regarding constant and efficient communication, or the sinner had somehow broken through the ranks.

She had chosen the latter.

The pontiff would be disappointed in her, she thought, or perhaps angry that she and her team had failed him.

“It’s not over yet,” she murmured out loud to herself, her voice as coarse as sandpaper. It was an admission of hanging onto hope—though slim—since Mannix still remained as the last line of defense. The man had been a colossus as a Delta operator, this she knew, and a leader who inspired his troops to be the best they could be. He commanded forces in the most hostile theaters of operation in the world, namely the Middle East, and he had come away weighted down by too many medals to count.

Grabbing and placing the cigarette between pinching lips at the corner of her mouth, the door to her chamber clanged open. Standing silhouetted in the door’s frame was Mannix. The twin lights of his eyes were emblazoned as they stared at her in evaluation. And his vest—having been painted over to represent a rack of human ribs and a spinal column to coincide with the skeleton