Papal Justice (11 page)

When he finally deemed that his stall time was sufficient, he emerged from his office to find Felix pacing. “I’m sorry. Were you waiting for me?”

Felix clenched his jaw but had the good sense not to say something stupid.

“Have you scheduled our departure?” Felix asked.

“Actually, I have.”

For maybe the first time since the jihadi had met El Moreno, Felix relaxed like some burden had suddenly been lifted.

“When do we go?”

“Tonight, just after dark. Is that soon enough for you and your men?”

Felix nodded. “We will be ready.”

+++

Gustavo Rosalez moved to the side as El Moreno passed him. He resumed his sweeping as soon as the security cordon went on their way, not once giving Gustavo a glance.

The slow broom strokes continued until he reached the restroom. Placing his dustpan on the floor, he swept up the debris, careful not to leave a speck on the concrete floor. He leaned his broom against the wall and entered the bathroom with the dustpan, depositing its contents into a metal trashcan.

There were two stalls and one urinal. Gustavo bent down to make sure neither stall was occupied and then entered the farthest one. After settling on the toilet to relieve himself, he pulled out his phone and composed a short text message.
They leave at dark
.

Once the message was sent, he deleted that conversation from his phone, and finished his business.

The coded message from the night before had been clear. The Jackalope wanted any information concerning El Moreno’s guests. If the past was any indication, Gustavo knew Señor Ruiz would pay well for the information. This could be his second big payday in less than a month. Who knew that a humble factory janitor could make so much money by simply listening?

Gustavo smiled, flushed the toilet, and then went back to his work. He still had another six hours before he could make the long walk home. Maybe there would be more to hear before that happened.

Chapter 14

Villa Tesoro

Acapulco, Mexico

1:07pm, March 14
^th

Daniel left the rest of his teammates to their lunch. Top was regaling the men with his story about Gaucho’s confrontation with his uncle. Daniel had heard the story earlier, when Gaucho and Trent had arrived carrying white paper bags stuffed with Mexican street food. He’d eaten quickly, silently processing what the pair had told him and Cal. Things were about to get dicey, and Daniel wanted to be ready. But there was one part of the group that still didn’t fit, a piece that still lay outside the proverbial puzzle. Father Pietro.

The priest had mostly kept to himself, sitting on the side of the pool and gazing out over the Pacific Ocean. When he wasn’t there, he took to the room he shared with the monks. Daniel could see the battle going on inside the man’s head, like he was trying to decide whether to keep living or just lie down and quit.

For some reason, and he knew better than to question it anymore, Daniel felt compelled to talk to the priest. While he didn’t have any expectations that he could bring the man out of his funk after one conversation, Daniel knew from experience that sometimes all it took was a simple question, followed by a little patient listening, for a person to take that first step out of the fog.

+++

Father Pietro looked up when he heard the knock on the door. Brother Hendrik rose from where he and his fellow monks were cleaning their weapons on towels on the floor. He unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Brother Hendrik, I was wondering if I might have a word with Father Pietro.” It was the quiet American, the one with the blond ponytail. The former warrior in Pietro recognized the calm calculation in the man’s eyes. He also saw compassion there. Not that the rest of the Americans weren’t kind. In fact, they’d gone out of their way to get him anything he might need despite his rookie mistake of leading the jihadis back to the safe house. The sophomoric act had put their lives at risk and had almost led to paying the ultimate price, but it seemed that they’d already forgiven him.

Brother Hendrik looked back at him, and he nodded.

The American stepped into the room, and the door was immediately locked behind him.

“My name is Daniel Briggs, Father,” the young man said, offering his hand.

Father Pietro grasped it and looked into the man’s eyes. This was a good man. He could sense it.

“It is good to meet you, Daniel. Please, shall we talk outside?” He motioned to the open sliding door that led to a comfortable patio.

Daniel nodded and preceded him out.

Father Pietro did not close the door behind him. There was nothing he wanted to hide from the brothers. They were good men as well, but their presence still unnerved him for some reason. He had yet to figure out why.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked, grabbing the railing next to where Daniel stood.

“I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help,” Daniel said. There wasn’t an ounce of condescension in the man’s tone. When Father Pietro looked into the American’s eyes again, he realized what had first grabbed his attention. It was a look that he’d seen in very few people in his life. A rare quality that he’d at one time felt he could find: peace.

“You and your friends have already risked so much for me. I wish I could repay the favor.”

“Brother Hendrik says that you want to go home, that you don’t want to help us find the guys who did this.”

Again, there was no accusation in Daniel’s tone, just an honest statement needing confirmation.

“That is true,” Father Pietro said, the words coming out slowly, like he’d practiced them.

“May I ask why?”

The night in the apartment flared in his mind. The machine gun fire. The smell of his own sweat and the sound of the last breaths of the men he’d killed. He closed his eyes and tried to force the images away.

“It is all too much. I don’t have the strength.” His soul ached. He’d tried for so long to be another person, to be a good priest, a devout follower of God.

Daniel didn’t press, simply nodding his response.

And then for some reason, as if someone or something had taken over control of his body, the story came out.

“I was in my early thirties when they gave me my own team. I was a good soldier, a model within the elite ranks of the Ninth Parachute Assault Regiment. Have you heard of them?”

Daniel nodded.

“Those were the first days after your 9/11. The Italian government used us in many roles. We found and captured terrorists, Mafiosi, anyone who my government deemed a criminal. We were given the hardest takedowns, the most dangerous assignments. I did not mind. I was young and running into a house full of armed men gave me a thrill that I can even now feel.”

Father Pietro took a deep breath and looked out to the waves rolling with the incoming tide.

“It was another classified operation. We didn’t know where we were going until we crossed the border into Slovenia. The target was a bomb-making factory that was bringing its goods into Italy. The intelligence report said there would be minimal resistance, but that the ringleader would be at the location. My superiors wanted to bring him in for questioning, in order to see if the man would give up his customers.

“At first, everything went according to plan. There was minimal security outside the large barn, and we easily incapacitated those men. It wasn’t until we stepped inside that a shot was fired. I had fourteen men, all handpicked by myself. We swept through the old place like we’d trained. Those enemies who raised weapons were put down. When we located the bomb maker, he retreated to an underground silo, where a farmer used to store grain. Well, he had a handful of men with him and, by the amount of firepower they were using, it was obvious  they were not going to surrender.”

Father Pietro watched the scene unfold as if he’d magically been transported back to that awful day. He continued, his voice almost mechanical, as if he were reciting an after-action report for a superior.

“I contacted my commanding officer who then gave me permission to terminate the target. My concern was that the bomb-maker had somehow rigged the entire building for detonation. It was one of the things he was known for. I ordered all but two of my men out, just in case. From the top of the stairs, each of the three of us pulled out two high explosive grenades and threw them down the steep stairwell. Even though the stairs went down almost two stories, the explosion still rattled the building and broke several windows. I took the lead, my men following behind. There was no sound as I descended the staircase. The explosives had apparently done their job. We didn’t use that type of grenade unless the kill order had been confirmed. Typically we would have used what you call flash bangs.

“I had to turn on my flashlight as we neared the bottom. The explosions had taken out all the lights in the silo. The dust and leftover grain was still settling when we got to the bottom. It took a moment for me to get my bearings, to be able to see what our grenades had done. No one leapt up to greet us, and no bullets flew our way. What I found next was worse. Parts of the dead bodies of the bomb maker and his men lay nearby something that none of us had expected, a cruel surprise that our informant had neglected to tell us. We later found out that the bomb-maker was also getting into the slave trade. He had been harboring a shipment of young girls who would soon be making the trip to whomever had purchased them.

“There were thirty girls, all tied to rings mounted on the stone wall. One of the grenades must have landed right in the middle of them, because there were body parts everywhere. Thirty girls. Thirty girls, Daniel, all dead because of me, because of my actions, because of my decision to take another man’s life. I swore right there as I fell to my knees, my weapons falling from my grasp, that I would never take another man’s life. I would spend my life trying to atone for my sins. I see those bloody eyes every night. They come to me, pleading, begging for their lives. But I cannot help them. I cannot turn back time and bring them back. I must live with this pain. I must try to bury it and move on. I must…”

“Go on living,” Daniel finished for him.

Father Pietro nodded.

“You’ve known this torment as well.”

“I have.”

“And does it still live inside you?”

“Always.”

“How have you done it? How have you learned to hide from the pain, to forget your old life?”

Daniel smiled, the warmth in his voice like a welcome salve. “I embraced the agony. I realized it will always be a part of who I am, but that fact doesn’t make me weak or damaged. It makes me stronger. I made the decision to get up off of the floor and take that first step. But I didn’t do it alone.”

Father Pietro would have cried if he’d had any tears left to shed. He looked at this young man, who seemed to glow in humble confidence, like he’d found the secret to eternal happiness and was now waiting for Father Pietro to ask the right question so that he could reveal it. He was desperate to know.

“Who helped you? Who showed you the way?”

With that curious smile again, Daniel pointed up at the sky, pulling Father Pietro’s gaze heavenward. When he looked down, Daniel was still smiling, and hot tears started running down Father Pietro’s face. How could one so young, in the line of work Daniel was in (he’d even heard the others calling him Snake Eyes), have the answer?

“Will you help me?” The question spilled from his mouth like he’d just exhaled after holding his breath for his entire adult life. Father Pietro reached out his hand and grabbed Daniel’s arm, as if the act would transfer the young man’s peace to him.

“Of course,” Daniel answered, putting his hand on top of the priest’s.

Father Pietro smiled and returned his gaze to the heavens.

Chapter 15

Rome, Italy

10:15pm (3:15pm Acapulco Time), March 14
^th

Hollow blips and the steady whir of a myriad of machinery greeted the Pope as he entered the converted apartment. He’d offered to lend one of his personal physicians, but Brother Luca had informed him that The Brotherhood had their own team of caregivers. They’d outfitted the master bedroom like a high-end hospital suite. Every device was digital and shiny. Apparently, The Brotherhood of St. Longinus was well-funded.

Luca’s eyes snapped open and he struggled up in bed.

“Please, stay where you are,” the Pope said, rolling over a chair so that he could sit next to his friend.

“I am sorry I could not come to you, Holy Father. These doctors have me hooked up to so many tubes.” He adjusted the plastic oxygen cannula that ran into his nose.

The Pope waited for his friend to get comfortable, and then said, “How are things in Mexico?”

Brother Luca coughed into a handkerchief. “They tell me things are progressing. We should know more in the morning.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

The monk shook his head. “My brothers can take care of it.”

It wasn’t that the Pope disagreed with him, but matters were getting worse. Too many parishioners had been killed or kidnapped. It seemed that the attacks had ceased, but that could only mean that the next phase of the enemy’s plan would soon be implemented.

To complicate things further, the Mexican government was naturally alarmed. There’d been several inquiries to the Vatican regarding the attacks. So far, the Pope and Brother Luca had kept the secret of the terrorist actions to themselves. President Zimmer had also assured the Pope earlier in the day that the team he’d dispatched to assist the monks were the only ones that knew of the jihadi involvement.

It was only a matter of time before word got out. Some enterprising reporter would eventually pick up the story and start digging. Such was the new reality in a technological world.