Papal Justice (18 page)

It was only after he’d left his home and traveled through South America, receiving his final orders prior to taking his first step into Mexico, that Felix came to know the full plan. Three-headed dragon indeed. The world would tremble because of the bold actions of Felix and his fellow warriors. They would shatter faith across the globe and show the world which deity ruled them now. After that, recruitment would skyrocket. For those populations who did not capitulate, a swarm of holy warriors would invade their homes, trample their lives, and murder their loved ones.  The three-headed dragon would portend their end of days.

For a moment, Felix wanted to tell El Moreno everything, to let him bask in the light of the truth. But that could not be. His masters had been very specific; the Mexican should only know enough to get the job done. Felix had already made one mistake in discussing their plan near the cartel. He knew that had been his pride, and that he would have to be more careful with his actions and with his tongue. If only he were able to speed up time. Now that would be a miracle. Then he could ride the wave of religious joy back to his home, the conquering hero embraced once more by his father and by his people. 

Chapter 24

Outskirts of Mexicali, Mexico

5:49am, March 15
^th

The sun was just tickling the horizon as Travis Haden waited for his friends. He rolled his shoulders back, still uncomfortable with the assault gear he’d borrowed from the Secret Service. The familiar itch of sweat breaking out under layers of kevlar and nylon swept his mind back through the years. His time with the SEALs were some of the most exhilarating of his life. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had stayed in, but in the next moment he thanked God for his uncle’s foresight in making him an integral part of Stokes Security International (SSI), the company still owned by Cal.

It was funny how things worked out. Never would he have thought that one day his service to his country would be as Chief of Staff to the President. The same thing could be said for what he was doing now. Never in a million years would Travis have imagined that President Zimmer would allow him to go on a real mission, to be part of a team outside the White House. But Travis needed this and, apparently, Zimmer understood that. You could only cage a bull for so long before it bucked its way out. This was Travis’s chance.

He inhaled the dusty Mexican air as one, then all four planes came into view. They flew in low, landed with practiced ease, and taxied to where Travis stood waiting. He was flanked by the four Secret Service agents in matching tactical gear, and Barachon, the cartel leader of Mexicali. The guy wasn’t much to look at, with his sagging red face and overweight body, but when he shook Travis’s hand, the American saw fire in the man’s eyes. There was plenty of fight left in the aging gangster. The Colt .45 he carried in his waistband accentuated that point.

And yet, Barachon was gracious. He was a bit standoffish, but this was his turf after all. Travis knew they’d have to play by most of his rules.

A man Travis could only assume was Gaucho’s uncle walked up first, embracing Barachon.

“Thank you for meeting us, my friend,” said Ruiz.

“It is you who should have the thanks. To imagine such foolishness happening in my backyard.” Barachon shook his head sadly. “Come, we have refreshments waiting.”

While the two leaders moved off with their men to the desert camouflaged headquarters tent a few feet off the runway, the rest of Travis’s friends made their way from the planes, followed by the robed monks.

Jeez, they look like they just walked out of a monastery
, he thought.

“Well I’ll be damned,” said MSgt Trent. “Cal said you were coming, but I told him he was full of it.”

“How are you, Top?” Travis asked, grinning up at the enormous black Marine.

“The sooner we get rolling the better, brother. My legs are still cramping from that ride.”

Travis nodded, turning his gaze to Cal.

“Hey, cuz.”

Cal smiled. “We couldn’t keep you away?”

“Not a chance,” Travis said, smiling now that his men were together.

“So what’s the deal? Does this Barachon know anything?” Cal asked.

Travis nodded and pointed at the large tent.

“He said he wanted to wait until you guys got here to brief everyone. Let’s see what he’s got.”

As was his way, Daniel Briggs went first, his finely tuned radar no doubt working overtime despite his mellow demeanor. Briggs was one of the reasons Travis rarely worried about his cousin. Like a well-trained Doberman, the Marine sniper sniffed out danger like he was born to do it.

The tent was large, but not big enough to hold everyone, so other than Cal, Daniel, Gaucho, Travis and the largest of the monks, the rest stayed outside.

Bottles of water and sugary pastries were offered to the guests. Travis took two bottles and one pastry, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was. He remembered his number one rule before combat: Drink ‘em and smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em. You never know when you’d get the next chance.

“If you gentlemen would like to gather around this map, I will tell you what I know,” Barachon said, taking the spot at the head of a rectangular plywood table. A large rendering of Mexicali was pinned to the wood. Travis took a spot next to Cal and looked down at the map.

He estimated the urban part of the city to be probably four miles east to west and about the same north to south. Based on the satellite imagery he’d seen on Air Force One, Travis knew there were plenty of places to hide.

“We may have gotten lucky,” Barachon said. “This is my city. Other families know to get permission for kidnappings and they always come to me if they are moving across the border. Just after you called, I had my men check the security cameras at all our crossings. Nothing. But, we did find that one of our tunnels’s security systems was not working. I had a team check it out, and someone had disabled the video cameras.” He paused and shook his head as if this news was all he had. Then he clapped his hands together. “But God is good. Earlier this year we installed motion sensor cameras just as the American Border Patrol had done. We told no one of this, and I am glad of it.” Barachon snapped his fingers and one of his men produced a manila envelope. He laid the contents on the map, clear photographs of men with guns in a tunnel, one at a time. “I know these men. They do work for me. They started out as coyotes, taking immigrants across the border, but they wanted more. It now looks like they no longer choose to obey my rules. I was good to them, even fair when they asked to expand their business.” Again the sad shake of his balding head. He laid the very last photograph on the table, slowly, as if he feared it would explode. It was a clear shot of a person hunched over, a hood on his/her head, hands bound and closed in front, being led by two men. “Can any of you tell me that this is our Holy Father?” He made the sign of the cross as he asked the question, kissing the gold cross hanging down on his chest when he’d finished.

Everyone bent closer, but it was impossible to make out the hooded stranger’s features.

“Brother Hendrik said he would be disguised, but who knows from this shot?” Cal said, turning the picture so the large monk could get a closer look. “Do you recognize anything? Could this be him?”

The monk picked the photograph up reverently, his eyes darting around the page. Travis could sense the near desperation in the way he held his breath, his arm shaking just perceptibly.

“I don’t…I’m not sure.” He turned to Barachon. “Does this match the timeline? Could there be another way across the border?”

Barachon shrugged.

“Anything is possible, but not likely. There are other ways across, but none as fast. And yes, the timing is the same. This must be him.”

Brother Hendrik nodded, returning his gaze to the picture. “It has to be,” he muttered. His eyes never left the photograph. “Mr. Stokes, could you ask my brothers and Father Pietro to join us? Maybe they will see something that I cannot.”

Cal nodded and left the tent. A moment later the other four monks entered, along with a man in soiled workman’s clothing. His face was drawn and haggard. Travis thought that the man might pass out, eyes twitching nervously, avoiding eye contact with those he walked by.

“Tell me if you see anything familiar, anything that will confirm that this is His Holiness,” Brother Hendrik said, now joined by his fellow monks and the pale priest.

One minute passed, then two. One by one the monks shook their heads, stepping back from the table until only Father Pietro was staring at the high definition photograph. Then the priest’s right arm rose shakily, one finger pointing at something on the printout. Travis leaned in closer to get a better look.

“What is it?” Brother Hendrik asked, straining to see what the priest was trying to show.

Father Pietro’s voice shook as badly as his arm. “His fingers. Don’t you see them?”

“Yes, there they are. I don’t understand.” Brother Hendrik’s voice rose in frustration. “What do you see?”

It started out as a low chuckle and then Father Pietro coughed out a laugh, tears falling from his eyes like he’d just heard something so hilarious that even the dire circumstances could not hold back the mirth. Brother Hendrik’s jaw clenched, his chin quivering.

“Tell me what—”

Daniel stepped forward, placing one comforting hand on the monk and another on the priest in near hysterics.

“Give him a minute,” Daniel said to Brother Hendrik, his look fixed on Pietro. “Tell us what you see, Father. What are we missing?” His voice was soothing, like a doctor coaxing a patient into talking.

“Imagine, a fallen priest being the only one who can see that this is clearly who we seek.” Father Pietro’s finger stabbed at the picture. “There, his fingers. His smallest finger folded over his ring finger. Do none of you know?”

Complete confusion showed on Brother Hendrik’s face.

“Tell us, Father. What does it mean?” Daniel asked.

Father Pietro steadied, a sudden resolve setting his jaw.

“In the days when Christians were persecuted, hunted down like animals, it was impossible for those early believers to wear anything that bore the likeness of Jesus of the blessed cross. Instead they found other ways to show their face to one another, like a secret handshake. This,” he tapped the picture, “was one of those signs, the smallest finger folded over the next. It is not a natural gesture, uncomfortable even. A crude cross, but still a cross. I once heard the Holy Father tell the story of how those Christians first used simple signs to show their unity, their undying love for God. To him it was a constant reminder of where the Church came from, the lessons we should learn, and to always remain humble servants of God without the rich trappings of man. That sign, despite being surrounded by guns and men who could surely kill him, tells me that this is who we seek, the man who told me that in times of distress he would make this simple sign, a plea for guidance. Yes, this is His Holiness the Pope.”

Chapter 25

Mexicali, Mexico

6:04am, March 15
^th

El Moreno wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked into the cool underground compound. It was a storage space used to get crops out of the scorching sun. He could smell the remnants of years worth of asparagus even though the floors were swept clean.

“Where are they?” he asked the pair of guards who’d escorted them in from the farm above ground.

“In the back,” one of the hired guns said, pointing toward the flickering light farther down the hall.

El Moreno nodded and motioned for his own men to lead the way. He’d told Felix to keep his mouth shut until they’d let the Mexicali mercenaries go. They would be used at a later time, but their constant presence was no longer needed.

Down the damp hallway they walked. Somewhere the sound of water dripping on metal could be heard, pulling them farther into the darkness. When they reached the room at the end of the hall, El Moreno’s men went in first, always diligent about securing a space before their boss entered. When he was given the okay, he entered, followed by Felix.

El Moreno’s eyes searched the dim space, his eyes coming to rest on a form sitting in a white plastic chair. His hands lay in his lap and the hood still covered his head. That was good.

One of the mercenaries came to greet him.

“Moreno, who is this man who guards your prize?” the mercenary said in a low voice.

El Moreno glanced over to where the man was pointing. He was talking about the Swiss Guard. Before he could answer, Felix decided to butt in. “That is my brother. Why do you need to know?”

The mercenary looked Felix up and down with amusement. El Moreno had no doubt that the shorter man could easily take the Spaniard.

“I was only wondering because he seems to have an attitude. The man refuses to talk to us.”

El Moreno cut in before Felix could make matters worse.

“He is our informant, the reason you are getting paid.”

The mercenary looked like he was going to push, but he thought better of it. “Do you have the rest of my payment?” he asked instead.

“Yes. I have it here.” El Moreno patted the leather satchel on his shoulder, then he handed it to the man. “Thank you for your help. There will be more after we get across the border.”

The man grabbed the bag eagerly, lifting the flap and leafing through the hundred dollar American bills inside.

“This man must be very important to pay such a sum. Tell me, who is he? A competitor? An American?”

El Moreno didn’t like the man’s line of questioning.

“Yes, a competitor who has crossed me for the last time. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to have a word with him.”

The mercenary met El Moreno’s gaze. The cartel leader didn’t like the look he saw, like he was high on something. His options had been limited when it came to who he should hire. He couldn’t go through the master of Mexicali, the aging Barachon. The old bastard hated him almost as much as that snob Armando Ruiz. He’d settled on this crew. Younger and more ambitious than their rivals, they were known to be reliable but a bit reckless. At the moment, El Moreno was getting a taste of the latter.