Papal Justice (13 page)

“Sir, we haven’t looked in the freezer,” said another man.

The freezer. For a second Ruiz had thought El Moreno was referring to the children driving in the convoy. That wasn’t his enemy’s style. El Moreno liked to pretend he was one of the people, a poor man’s Robin Hood, but Ruiz had seen the results of the man’s barbarity. Those stories were well-concealed and rarely made it to the public.

Ruiz pulled the metal bucket aside, black blood sloshing and spilling over. The way now clear, he moved to the pull latch. With a quiet whoosh the door slid open, cold air hitting him in the face, sending white clouds into the warm room. It was dark inside the big cooler until he flicked on a switch just inside the door.

He resisted the urge to take a step back. Instead, he took a step forward and called back to his men, “Tell the monks to come. Now.”

+++

Brother Hendrik heard the order over the radio and left the storefront with his men. He whispered for his brothers to be ready, not that they needed the reminder.

Blank stares greeted them as they hurried through the factory and back to where they were being escorted. Brother Hendrik saw one man do the sign of the cross, mouthing the words to some unheard prayer.

The first thing he saw was the man hanging on the freezer door. Ruiz’s men were trying to get the man down, but it looked like the steel cables were being difficult.

“Where is Mr. Ruiz?” Brother Hendrik asked.

The answer came from inside the freezer. “I’m in here.”

Brother Hendrik motioned for his fellow monks to stay outside the container as he stepped toward the blast of cold air. He couldn’t see past Ruiz due to the fog created by the mixture of frigid and warm climates.

“You wanted to see me?”

Ruiz nodded slowly, shifting to the side so the monk could pass. “I thought you should be the first to see.”

Brother Hendrik stepped farther into the freezer, shapes taking form in the mist. He stopped as a burst of refrigerated air cleared his field of view. 

In front of him lay a scene he’d only read about in history books. Standing neatly against the walls of the freezer, and lined down the middle of the remaining twenty feet of freezer space, were large metal crosses, no doubt made in this very factory. But what made Brother Hendrik say a silent prayer, what made him ask God for assistance, were the crucified bodies of black clothed figures, mocking representations of Jesus Christ himself.

He’d found the kidnapped Catholic priests.

Chapter 17

Unknown Location

8:13pm, March 14
^th

Treats
. That’s what he’d called them. From his first memory, that had been the only name he’d known. Sometimes there were variations like “My Treat,” “Tasty Treat,” or “Chocolate Treat.” As a five-year-old, he hadn’t known the sin in it. He’d felt that special relationship, something the lost memories of his past could never conjure about whomever had left him on the doorstep of the Catholic orphanage.

He couldn’t remember when the touching had turned to hugging, or when the loving embraces had turned into the little games. Little games. It was those little games that first started the whispers, that got him noticed by the bigger kids who ran the orphanage. Most of them had known their parents, had experienced life outside the sheltered walls of the mission.

But not him. He didn’t know there was anything wrong with the little games and the sweet candies pressed into his hands afterword. But he remembered the day the revelation hit, levied by the right hook of a fifteen-year-old orphan. The rest of his gang joined in, spitting on him, calling him names, cursing his birth.

It was the priest in question who’d broken up the beating, chasing off the attackers and holding the little boy to his chest. He sobbed as the priest carried him to the small clinic, and he wailed as the nuns mended his wounds.

It was his sixth birthday. There were no presents, no cakes, just the throbs of pain from the cuts and the deep bruises. The nuns said there was nothing broken, but he felt like he wanted to die.

More than the pain, the memories of what the others boys had said stabbed his heart, pierced his soul, and made him question everything about his young life. When he’d finally been well enough to leave the cot, he found the priest and asked him about what the children had said. The young man brushed off the boy’s concerns and ushered him on to lunch.

He’d spent the rest of the day alone, shuffling around the walled perimeter of the playground, thinking. It was the first time he’d truly thought for himself, like the beating he’d taken had awoken something inside of him that he never knew he had. While his six-year-old mind pondered, the others jeered from the swings and occasionally tossed a handful of pebbles his way. He didn’t hear them or see them. His brain processed all that he could remember, sifting the good and the bad into piles, like stones being sorted for play.

Gradually, the pile of bad outweighed the good. His chest felt heavy, like it was filled with the tangible filth of those dirty deeds. But then, in the most natural way, like someone had tapped him with a wand and proclaimed him changed, the disgust and guilt turned to anger. Seething, tearing, burning anger. It flooded his body and he let it happen. The warmth felt like home, like it was supposed to be there. He was whole.

The priest had been his first kill. He murdered the pedophile with a large rock from the garden. It only took six downward strikes. He remembered that fact vividly, just as he marveled at the way his tiny hands had the ability to take a grown man’s life. Dripping with blood, he wiped them on the bedsheets and left for the last time.

El Moreno thought about everything that had happened since that day. Not once had he felt like a victim again. He’d literally taken justice into his own hands, and it wouldn’t be the last time. He was soon one of the fastest pickpockets in town. When the small police force finally found out who he was, he moved on to Acapulco and staked his claim.

Even as a teenager, he’d taken children under his wings. He was never cruel to them. Soon he was running a profitable trade and raising a score of younger boys and girls. They never talked of God, only of the responsibility they had to themselves and each other. Not once did they look for a handout. El Moreno would take anything they needed. From food to clothes, he provided. Some of those same children were still with him today, forging a new path for the one-time outcasts.

So when the Spaniard had asked for El Moreno’s permission to kill the priests, his request was denied. He alone wanted to be the one to send a message, that his organization was better than the others, that he didn’t fear God or the repercussions. He’d already been to Hell and back and wasn’t afraid to tempt the road again.

While Armando Ruiz wouldn’t understand the connotation left in the note, El Moreno looked at it as yet another step forward, a dark blanket over old memories. He would never be anyone’s treat again. 

+++

Felix looked up from his phone and smiled. The next phase of their plan was a GO. His masters had been right, their faith unwavering. He thought about what it must be like to hold such power, to be so sure of your path that only death could take it from you. He marveled at the mystery of Allah, and how everything came to pass just as his masters predicted.

  Even though he would never admit it to his men, Felix still harbored doubts. He found it hard to fully believe in something he could not see. While others walked through life with blinders, he kept looking all around, just as he had as a child when his father took him on business trips to Barcelona.

But Felix knew that curiosity and uncertainty were enemies to the true believer. He prayed every day that he could shake away his fears and embrace his masters’ vision. All he needed was evidence. Maybe now he had it. After all, what otherworldly power did it take to precipitate the actions that were now coming to fruition?

Allah be praised.

Then there was the issue of the Mexican, El Moreno. They’d had their differences in the past, but now it seemed they were coming together, finally on the same page. Felix had at first been enraged when the cartel leader said he couldn’t kill the priests. But when the slim smile spread across El Moreno’s face and he said he alone would take care of that deed, Felix had felt real fear.

That worry had only increased as he watched El Moreno’s workers craft the metal crosses and mount them inside the freezer. It was El Moreno himself who took the time to strangle each priest with a yellow extension cord, one by one as the others watched. Then, with the help of his men, he mounted the dead bodies on their displays, not an ounce of remorse on his face.

The act itself wasn’t the problem. In fact, it showed Felix that the Mexican would have no qualms about the next phase of their operation. What worried Felix were the steps after that. He’d been told to keep things close, to only divulge information at the last practical moment. But El Moreno kept dropping hints. He wanted to know everything. And now, after watching what he’d done to the priests, Felix had no doubt what would happen to him and his men should they cross the line with the Mexican.

Felix looked out at the passing ocean and said a prayer that the pieces would fall into place quickly. The sooner he could finish his task and return home a hero, the sooner he could get away from the cherubic drug lord and his violent grasp. The steady stream of ocean air didn’t cause the shiver that ran down his back as he stepped away from the railing. It was the thought of tiny hands wrapped around his straining neck that gave him chills.

Chapter 18

The White House

11:35pm, March 14
^th

President Zimmer toweled off after taking his second shower of the day. He’d found that taking one in the morning helped wake him up, and taking one before going to bed helped to wash away the smell of another day in Washington, D.C. He was finding it harder and harder not to be cynical. There were too many players who seemed hellbent on causing chaos.

From gun control to civil rights, the White House always had to have a comment. Some days he wondered how he’d ever get anything done. All Zimmer had to do then was remind himself that he had a good man at his side, a man who’d fought on the front lines and come to D.C. kicking and screaming. Travis Haden kept him grounded and looking forward. Not a week went by that the Chief of Staff didn’t make some small comment that would nudge his boss back into the slipstream.

It didn’t help that an endless influx of enemies cropped up daily. While Americans believed that their government could protect them, Zimmer knew that was impossible. There were just too many threats on the horizon and the United States was a big juicy target.

As he slipped into a freshly laundered robe, he looked in the mirror, noticing more gray hairs than before. Had there ever been a president who hadn’t aged prematurely? They all looked fresh and clean when they took office, but the piling problems and constant strain stripped them of their innocence and their youth.

He finished his nightly routine and made his way to bed. A preview of the next day’s schedule lay waiting. Zimmer exhaled as he grabbed the one-page report and pulled back the duvet. He’d just sat down on the bed when there was a knock on the door.

He took a deep breath.

“Come in,” he said, trying not to sound annoyed.

A Secret Service agent entered the master bedroom.

“Mr. President, we have a secure call for you.”

Zimmer wondered why they hadn’t just patched it to the phone on his bedside.

“Who is it?” the President asked, grabbing his newly designed portable phone that the developer bragged was unbreakable. It reminded Zimmer of the old suitcase cellphones from the Eighties.

“It’s the Pope, Sir.”

He hadn’t heard from the Holy See since their visit in Rome. Regular updates from Cal had kept Zimmer apprised of the mess in Mexico, so it wasn’t like the two heads of state needed to talk regularly.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I’m done,” the president said, waiting until the agent left the room.

“President Zimmer,” he answered, after waiting for the range of clicks and zips to die down.

“Mr. President, I am sorry for calling you at this hour.”

“It’s not a problem. I wasn’t even in bed yet.”

There was a pause as the connection settled again.

“I wanted to let you know that I am on my way to the United States, and then to Mexico.”

That was news.

“Oh? I hadn’t heard that you were coming.”

“It was a last minute decision.”

“Will you be coming through Washington? I’m sure we can shuffle my schedule around a bit.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. President, although I appreciate the thought. You and your men have done enough already. My representatives in Mexico tell me that your men are very good.”

“I’ve heard the same of your men.” That was true. In fact, Cal’s exact words had been, “These monks are Class A pros.” That was a huge compliment coming from the picky Marine.

That gave Zimmer an idea.

“Where will you be flying into? I assume you have your full compliment coming?”

The Pope didn’t fly anywhere without his retinue. From the bubble car to the Swiss Guards, the Pope’s crew rivaled even Zimmer’s.

“No. We are coming in a private aircraft and I’ve brought a small contingent of security.”

More news that Zimmer hadn’t expected. What was the Pope up to?

“May I ask why you’re coming?” Zimmer asked.

“The Lord has requested my presence.” He said the words as if he’d just told the president that a neighbor asked him to coffee. Zimmer didn’t know how to respond.

“And where exactly will you be going?”