End of Days (Pike Logan #16)(8)

He reached a stone archway leading to a courtyard, sandwiched between a store selling Hermès on the left and Jimmy Choo on the right. He went forward to a small security checkpoint and presented his credentials. A man checked his identification and let him through without issue, but he could tell the attendant wondered about the sweat cloaking his body from his jog in the cloying June heat.

He speed-walked across the courtyard to the main door of the Magisterial Palace of the Knights of Malta. Known formally as the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta, it was an organization that had been around since the First Crusade in the eleventh century, and was one of the last papal sovereign orders of chivalry.

Formed initially by a Benedictine monk to help the faithful on their path to the promised land, it had morphed much in its history. First, a hospital to help the pious on their quest to Jerusalem, then, when the faithful were attacked, as an army to defend them, and finally, when they were defeated in the defense of the Holy Land, they became a sea power protecting the Catholic empire, first on the island of Rhodes, and finally Malta.

As with most of the papal benedictions of the day, the order eventually lost favor as it grew in power—perceived as a threat to the Holy See. But the Knights of Malta were cunning. They’d learned early on who the true authority was. When the famed Knights Templar were burned at the stake as heretics, even as they did the bidding of the Holy Roman Empire, the Knights of Malta knew it was because they had become too powerful. The Grand Master of the Knights of Malta had learned a valuable lesson: It doesn’t pay to be the king. Better to be the court jester.

When the Templars were destroyed, the benefactor had been the Knights of Malta. They were bequeathed the lands and treasures of that order. Having been kicked out of Jerusalem, then Rhodes, and finally Malta—from no less than Emperor Napoleon in the late eighteenth century, which was a legitimate black eye, as the Knights had literally saved the European continent from the Ottoman hordes in the sixteenth century—they had been given a plot of land in Rome. They had existed there ever since.

Now returning back to its roots of charity, the Knights of Malta worked worldwide to help the downtrodden. They were a weird anachronism of history. They had their own passports, produced their own currency and postal stamps, had observer status in the United Nations, but owned no terrain. In effect, they were a state entity without a state. Given its nonprofit work around the world, and the support of the Holy See, it still had its pedigree, but no longer had a martial bent. At least that’s what they said on official documents.

Garrett was the marshal side of the house. A devout Catholic, he had been contacted by the Knights when they went into Syria the first time, during the barrel bombings of the Assad regime in early 2013.

The Knights wanted to help the refugees there like they had been doing for hundreds of years the world over, but realized that they couldn’t do so without at least some protection. And they’d approached Garrett, a lowly Knight of Magisterial Grace from the United States Order of Malta. A former soldier of the United States Army’s Special Forces, he had contacts they wanted access to, both in Syria and from his past.

Having spent his formative years in Croatia, his life had been one war after another, first the hell of the Bosnian conflict, then the hell after 9/11. He’d fought in countries he couldn’t have even found on a map as a student. But after his life in the army, he did have contacts.

Garrett went through the large front door of the mansion, ignored the anteroom with the secretary, and took a left down a hallway, to a stairwell leading to the basement.

The Knights didn’t want to advertise his services—being a humanitarian organization—so he was relegated to the basement section of the mansion, to a group of hastily renovated closets that were once used solely for the cleaning crew.

Now the little rat warren was his office space.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, the faint odor of mildew creeping out, the ceiling at just seven feet causing him to duck his head even if he wasn’t going to hit it.

He walked down to his office and opened the door, finding Leonardo inside waiting.

In his late twenties, Leonardo had hard eyes, having seen much more of the hatred that mankind can bring than the locals in Rome would ever understand. He lived in a so-called civilized world, but at the edges, where the monsters roamed, it was still a vicious, brutal existence, which is why Garrett had recruited him.

All four of his team were former members of the Croatian Special Forces Command, a unit that had been formed after the horrific violence of the Bosnian war. They had been too young to understand the incredible trauma that war personified, but became old enough to see it inflicted elsewhere. They’d served their time, learning invaluable skills, and then had returned to civilian life only to find it wanting.

They’d lost the camaraderie and focus of the military, and all four were floundering, working dead-end jobs when Garrett had sought them out, one by one.

Born in Croatia, he was now a United States citizen, with one foot in both camps, and he had the same zeal that they had. He’d recruited them for a single mission in Syria, and they’d signed on. A good mission—protecting the Knights of Malta as they helped the victims from all sides of the conflict. At least it was a good mission on paper.

That mission had turned into a cauldron of violence, with all of them scarred—none more than Garrett—and because of it, they would now follow him into hell, convinced his new mission was the way to cleanse the world of the scourge they’d witnessed.