Papal Justice (10 page)

“I’d love some water, please,” Trent said, getting a funny look from his friend in the process. “What? I’m thirsty, okay?”

Trent wished Gaucho would loosen up. He seemed more like Cal at the moment, intense and ready to pounce should someone say a word he didn’t like. But that wasn’t fair. Maybe that was the old Cal. His leadership role had matured and grown within The Jefferson Group; most likely, at least in Trent’s opinion, this was due to the positive influence that Diane Mayer had on the stubborn Marine. If Gaucho wasn’t in such a foul mood, Trent might have shared his thoughts with him.

Trent took a seat as Gaucho paced slowly back and forth across the porch. No sooner had Trent taken his first sip of cucumber flavored water than he heard a noise that made him turn. Hoofbeats coming closer. A minute later, a group of riders came into view, trotting onto the back lawn like they were just coming in from a cattle drive. The man in the lead motioned for the others to keep going, and he circled back toward the house.

The guy rode high in the saddle, like the way Trent assumed a nobleman might have. The horse clopped onto the stone patio and the rider tossed the reins to the butler. After dismounting, he scraped his cowboy boots on the edge of the pavement.

“Who’s your friend?” the man asked. He looked like a ranch hand, strong in that wiry kind of way. He was clean shaven and stood at least half a head taller than Gaucho.

“This is Master Sergeant Willy Trent,” Gaucho said, still standing with his arms crossed, his cool gaze not wavering from the man Trent assumed was his uncle.

“Not a Marine, I hope?”

Gaucho scowled.

“What did I tell you about befriending Marines, Gauchito? And you even picked a big black one!”

“You’ll have to excuse my uncle, Top. He’s always been a bit of a racist.”

Gaucho’s uncle shrugged as if being racist was just one of those things that men in his position were allowed to be. Even so, he walked over and offered Trent his hand.

“Since my nephew is too rude to introduce us, my name is Armando Ruiz.”

“Willy Trent, Mr. Ruiz.”

Ruiz let go of Trent’s hand and motioned for his guests to follow him into the house.

“Were you offered something to drink?” he asked as he slid open the glass door.

“We’re fine,” Gaucho answered.

Trent coughed and gave his friend a “get it together” look.

“Mr. Ruiz, if you’re offering something stronger than water, I’ll have something,” Trent said, trying his best to diffuse the simmering tension between uncle and nephew. In Trent’s humble opinion, Uncle Armando just won Round One.

“Whiskey okay?”

“On the rocks, please.”

While Armando Ruiz busied himself at the well-stocked bar, he pressed, “You said it was important.”

“It is,” Gaucho replied, one notch lower in his pissed off tone.

“So, what is it?” Ruiz asked, turning to deliver one of two lowball glasses to Trent.

“We met some of El Moreno’s men.”

“Oh? And how is El Negrito doing?”

“We left twenty of his men dead on the streets.”

That got his uncle’s attention. Ruiz chuckled and took a sip of his whiskey.

“Now
that
I wasn’t expecting. I thought you were coming to tell me that you were still mad at me for saying I was going to kill you. I’ve gotten past that you know. You
are
family.”

Trent hoped to see his friend relax, but he didn’t.

Ruiz continued, “Are you going to tell me why you ran into these men, or should I ask Mr. Trent?”

Gaucho ignored the question and asked, “What have you heard about any recent church kidnappings?”

Ruiz’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Is that why you’re here? Has the American government finally taken an interest in the well-being of our country?”

“You can cut the
our country
crap. Your love for Mexico has to do with one thing: opportunity.”

Ruiz grabbed his chest and took a step back. “You wound me, nephew. I am a proud Mexican. I serve Mexico just as I once served your United States.”

“You can drop the act. You quit being that person a long time ago.”

Ruiz looked at his nephew for a moment and shrugged. “Well, we all have to change some time. Like you, what is it that you’re doing these days? Still eating snakes and swimming through rivers of Iraqi sewage?”

“I’m in the private world now. That’s why we’re here.”

“And what is your mission? To save some poor souls that happened to walk in the line of fire?”

Gaucho smiled. “No. We’re here hunting terrorists.”

Ruiz lowered his drink from his lips. “Are you saying that El Negrito is working for those savages?”

Gaucho’s smile widened. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Ruiz turned and hurled his glass into the stone fireplace, crystal shattering into hundreds of little pieces. He whirled back on his nephew.

“Say what you want about me, that I’m a criminal or that I do things that make you sick, but I spent twenty years fighting those bastards. From the Philippines to every shithole we could find in the Middle East. That was before it was en vogue to fight terrorists. We saw the threat long before the American government would ever admit it. I did it then, and now I’ve done everything I could to keep them out of this country, too. Just last week I led my men into the desert where we heard a group of Saudis had taken up in an abandoned village, training for a trip across the border. We slaughtered them like lambs and then burned their castrated bodies in a blazing fire.” Ruiz spat on the floor. “So you tell me, nephew, is this why you came? To tell me that this half-breed, this bastardo, has slipped into bed with these animals?”

Trent was completely taken aback by the outburst. The man who’d just moments earlier been as calm as Don Corleone was now seething with anger.

“Yes, Tío, that’s why we came. But I’m also paying you a visit for one other reason.” This was the Gaucho he knew. He’d somehow taken the reins from his uncle and turned the tables in their favor. The little shit hadn’t even told him he was going to do that. Trent grinned in admiration.

Ruiz asked, “What’s the second thing? What other news do you have to spoil my day?”

Gaucho walked over to his uncle and looked him right in the eyes. “I want you to help us track these jihadists and take them down before they can do any more harm.”

His uncle relaxed and placed a hand on Gaucho’s shoulder. “See, I knew we would one day be working together.” He then turned to MSgt Trent. “My men and I are at your disposal, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?” Trent asked.

Ruiz grinned. “When we find these men and track them back to the Guerrero Cartel, I am the one who gets to kill El Moreno.”

Trent downed the rest of his drink and then said, “You’ve got yourself a deal, Sir.”

Chapter 13

Acapulco, Mexico

10:10am, March 14
^th

The smell was starting to get to him. He should’ve listened to the Mexican who had recommended allowing the prisoners to get a bar of soap under a garden hose at least every other day.

“They will start to stink if you don’t,” El Moreno had said.

Felix shook his head and tried to concentrate through the stench of sweat and who knew what else. As if planning and executing a major attack against the Great Satan wasn’t enough. Now he was playing innkeeper and babysitter to cattle who would most likely be dead in a matter of days.

He wondered if his masters had ever had to do the same, to go through the mundane in order to get to the glory. Felix never took the time to ponder the question before taking the circuitous route to Mexico, first on a plane from Madrid to Venezuela, then the mind-numbing hours of buses and trains through Panama, Central America, and then finally up the coast of Mexico until they’d arrived in Acapulco.

Felix knew they were lucky. He and his men were a new breed of holy warrior. His cousins in the Middle East had the Arabic features that set them apart throughout the world. As a native of Spain, Felix could blend in anywhere. He had grown up alongside the Catholic children who’d spat curses at him because of his religion. Going to university in Barcelona had been easier simply because of the more liberal leanings of much of the student body. There he’d almost been normal compared to the Moroccans and Asians who stood out regardless.

He’d learned to hide his religion, his passion. But that had changed during his final year in school, when his father paid for him and a close friend to visit Mecca and then America. Before leaving, Felix had been confused about America. Why would his father send him to a place called Detroit?

It all became clear in the end. The journey to Mecca had been less than luxurious. He was accustomed to living in the comfort of middle class society. On this trip, his father insisted that he travel with the masses to watch and learn. And learn he did.

His fellow travelers were mostly poor, some spending all the money they’d ever saved to make the sojourn, their Hajj or pilgrimage.  They were humble and polite. They shared their meals with him and he came to understand the true gift of spiritual renewal. He cried at the end of his pilgrimage and prayed with his brothers as they circled the obsidian Kaaba in the center of Al-Masjid al-Haram mosque, the largest of its kind in the entire world.

Felix left Saudi Arabia with a full heart, his soul cleansed and yearning for something more than his business degree could give him.

His next stop was much different. Landing in the Detroit airport, he was at first overjoyed to see such wealth and prosperity. Everything looked clean and new. But then he remembered his lessons, and until he left aboard the hotel shuttle, he kept his eyes downcast so as not to allow himself to be corrupted.

After spending a sleepless night at a small hotel on the outskirts of Detroit, he was picked up the next morning by a small man who introduced himself as Walid and said he was a friend of Felix’s father. Felix breathed a sigh of relief as he embraced the man, and then asked endless questions as his host drove to another city called Dearborn. According to Walid, Dearborn housed the largest Muslim community in America. Felix had never heard of such a place, but he took the man at his word.

Walid gave him a brief tour of the city. He pointed out the Arab American National Museum, various neighborhoods his brothers had invested in, and finally a modest mosque tucked into the corner of an aged shopping center. They parked behind the mosque and entered through the rear entrance. Felix still remembered the feel of the place, like a worn down tea shop that contained more nicotine stains than customers.

Soon they entered a small room, and at first all Felix could see was a haze of smoke. As his eyes adjusted, he saw three men sitting on wicker chairs. They turned to regard him. Like Walid, they were of Arabic descent, with dark skin and bushy hair.

“Is this the boy?” one of them asked Walid, pointing a fat finger at Felix.

“Yes.”

“Come closer, boy. Let me take a look at you.”

Felix stepped closer, trying to focus on taking short breaths so he wouldn’t cough from the cigarette smoke.

“Walid said you’ve been to Mecca.”

“Yes. I just returned,” Felix said, trying to sound proud but feeling more like he was an insect being dissected under a microscope. Why had his father sent him to these men?

“And what did you think of your Hajj?”

“I found my purpose.”

“And what purpose would that be?” the fat man asked.

Felix searched for the correct answer, and then said, “To serve Allah, and live by the example of the Prophet Mohammed.”

The fat man and his two companions nodded in affirmation.

“We try to live humbly amidst the heathens in this country, but at every turn they swat us back like flies. Do you not see what we’ve been reduced to?” The fat man spread his arms and motioned to the dingy room.

A flame of anger ignited in Felix’s belly.

The fat man continued. “We need your help, brother. We need warriors like you who can show the Americans that our people are the chosen ones, not them. They must learn to respect us, to fear us. Tell me, do you think you are up to the task?”

Felix nodded eagerly.

“Good. Now go back to your studies. Finish your Western education, and then we will find a place for you in our army.”

He’d spent another three days in America with Walid as his guide. Walid had shown Felix how the Americans lived, how they assumed that their safety was guaranteed. They walked in groups and indulged in their vices as if Allah was not watching. It filled Felix with excitement, like a warrior looking down upon an undefended future conquest.

He was far from that moment now. Working out of the scrap metal factory owned by El Moreno, Felix longed to set his gaze on America again. But this time he would not be the observer; he would be the avenger, taking the fight to an unguarded enemy. It felt so close and yet so far away. If only he could get to the border. From there things would fall into place.

+++

El Moreno nodded to the workers as he made his way through the factory. They subtly bowed, never stopping what they were doing. He paid them well and expected the best. They knew that and there’d rarely been the occasion to get rid of a willing worker.

He poured himself a cup of coffee from the communal pot that was always simmering, and grabbed a golden brown Pan Dulce, his favorite powdered Mexican pastry. His ever-present security team followed, weapons holstered in one of the few safe havens for their master.

As they ascended the stairs, Felix called from the second level.

“We must talk.”

El Moreno calmly held up a finger and then pointed to his pastry. He was getting tired of the Spaniard’s orders. Felix could wait.

He checked in with his secretary even though he didn’t need to, and then sat down to finish his coffee and tasty snack. Really he just wanted his guest to sweat a little.