Crosses to Bear (Vatican Knights Book 6) by Rick Jones

Author:Rick Jones
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Hive Collective
Published: 2014-10-08T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Las Vegas, NV

Kimball quickly followed the route taken by Sister Abigail, the large man running with speed and agility that seemed impossible for a man of his size.

He rounded the bend leading into the alley, then ran a good length before he came upon a mass lying between two Dumpsters. For the briefest of moments, in that time of confusion where raw feelings collided with reality, the inconceivable pain could only be described as a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Sister Abigail lay on the ground unmoving, her habit and wimple covered with blood. Her gray dress was saturated and stained whereas the gray fabric appeared more like a canvas to a mad artist’s rendering, his use of red overpowering, her blood becoming the dominant color. Her face was badly beaten and swollen, her once beautiful face unrecognizable as her eyes swelled beneath blackened lids, her lips split and bloodied, and her nose severely broken.

Kimball grabbed her and pulled her close, crying and stroking her hair with a loving hand, begging her to come back not only to the world, but also to him.

“Please, Abby, please don’t leave me.” His tears flowed freely, the tracks wetting his cheeks and his lips before falling onto her bloodied gown. He then pulled her tight until his cheek rested on the crown of her head, often turning to kiss her, his words begging and pleading as his mind began to run toward chaos. “Please, God. Not her. Not Abigail.”

And then he tried to console her by rocking her gently within his arms, and continued to entreat his wishes upon a higher power to make everything that was wrong right.

But the only answer he received was the reality of the moment as Sister Abigail bled out with her arms lying listlessly by her side.

Please, God! Pleeeaaase!

A man once considered to have the cold fortitude of a machine, a man deemed to have no conscious by White House brass, seemed anything but as his emotions got the best of him, the man feeling completely empty and lost.

Then: “Heeeellllp!” His vocalization was loud and booming, the cry bringing a crowd as he lay on the ground rocking the nun, his eyes red and raw, the man crying profusely as he cried for help. “Someone, please call an ambulance. Please help Abby. Pleeeaaase.”

A calm hand rested on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of her,” a kind voice said.

Kimball looked up and saw the face of a man that was serenely kind and gentle. His eyes shined like sapphires. But there was something about them that gave off an indescribable warmth, a peace Kimball never knew existed. His hair was long and curled in magnificent locks. His beard was trimmed and well-maintained. And his voice was soft and soothing. This man, he thought, was beautiful in the sense that he was good and kind and that Sister Abigail would be fine in his care.

“I’ll take good care of her,” he reiterated, bending down and taking Sister Abigail into his grasp.

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