Papal Justice (19 page)

“Look, if you want us to take you and your cargo across the border, why don’t you let me see who he is? Just by the look on your friend’s face here,” he poked his finger into Felix’s chest, “I would say he is an interesting catch.”

Yes, the man was either high or stupid. Not including Felix and the Swiss Guard, the mercenary was outnumbered two to one, and that was just underground.

El Moreno beckoned the man closer, so only he could hear. The man complied, more curious than scared.

“Take your men and leave. Now.” El Moreno was used to having his orders followed. His demeanor left no space for interpretation. But the glazed eyes and the sagging grin of this mercenary wouldn’t budge.

Loud enough for everyone to hear, the man said, “After you tell me who we kidnapped. You are in my town. I want to know.”

One moment the man’s head was there, and then El Moreno felt something splash his face, followed the sound of gunfire that made his ear ring. Quicker than he thought possible and before his own men lifted their weapons, the corrupt Swiss Guard not only dispatched the mercenary leader, but his four henchmen as well.

“What are you doing?” El Moreno hissed at the man, motioning for his soldiers to go take care of the rest of the mercenaries. All but three ran from the room, gunshots soon sounding from the storage space they’d first entered.

“He would not close his mouth, not from the first moment at the airport. The man was trouble.” The stern faced former Swiss Guard didn’t look worried. He took another magazine from his pocket and replaced the one in his pistol.

Felix walked forward like in a trance. In the most humble voice El Moreno had heard the man ever use, he said, “You truly are a Holy Warrior. What it must have been like to live with these unbelievers for so long.”

Apparently the turncoat was a man of few words, because he only nodded.

One of El Moreno’s men ran back into the room to report that the rest of the mercenaries had been dispatched.

“Good, now bring our cargo underground. We have some time before we leave. And remove these bodies before they start to stink,” he said, pointing to the dead contractors on the ground, pools of blood already forming.

The man nodded and left the room again.

“Now, let’s have a look at our prize,” El Moreno said, stepping closer to the prisoner as he wiped the blood spatter from his own face.

Just as he reached for the hood, the Swiss Guard stepped in front of the seated man.

“It is for Allah’s warriors alone to touch this demon.”

El Moreno could feel his own soldiers at his back, no doubt waiting for his cue to cut the insolent fool to pieces.

“I believe I have earned the right to lay my eyes on him,” he said.

The Swiss Guard didn’t respond, but he did pull the hood from the prisoner’s head, and stepped to the side.

And there he was, blinking like a babe just brought into the world, the light assaulting his eyes. The Pope stared up at him, and he stared back. Of course he recognized the pontiff. The man’s likeness was posted in half the establishments in Mexico. You couldn’t take a piss without seeing the Pope’s face. He was usually smiling or waving, but not this time.

What surprised El Moreno most, other than the insane fear that maybe he would be burnt to a crisp by the holy man’s gaze, was that the Pope showed no fear. He simply stared at El Moreno with a look that was somewhere between worry and pity, like a parent who was looking at a son who’d committed a heinous act that could not be undone.

“You are far from Rome, Holy Father,” El Moreno said, curious to see what the head of the Catholic Church would say.

“I am, my son.” He said it matter-of-factly, like the trip had been inevitable, his choice even.

He is not afraid
, El Moreno thought, unable to think of another thing to ask, the probing flown from his head.

“What is it that you want of me? Do you mean to murder me?” The Pope asked, his eyes moving from man to man, as if calmly daring them to fire the killing round at that very moment.

Felix was the one to answer.

“We have better plans for you, old man. Yes, you will die, but not before you see your beloved people crumble to their knees, not for your God, but before the might of Allah’s warriors.”

“And this is how you see Allah’s will?” the Pope asked. “By the sword you must win instead of by the heart?” He shook his head sadly. “I pity you, my son. Let me help you.”

Felix’s face colored, his hands trembling. El Moreno thought the Spaniard was going to hit the man, but the Swiss Guard stepped between them.

“Now is not the time. We have preparations to make.”

Felix shook his head, but he calmed.

“You are right. Now is not the time.”

How interesting
, El Moreno thought. The fox in the henhouse probably had more clout with Felix’s masters than the Spaniard did. No wonder, the man had probably been under deep cover for most of his adult life. The Mexican drug lord had to respect that. And yet, he recognized the threat. Felix was manageable. This elite warrior standing guard over the Pope was an immovable object, a stone sentinel who was undoubtedly more dedicated to his cause than Felix.

That made up El Moreno’s mind. Turning away from the two jihadis like he was going to address his men, he slipped the pistol from his waistband, hours of practice with his custom made H&K, the grips made especially for his tiny hands. The weapon felt natural in his grasp, an extension of his will. As he swiveled, his will moved down his arms, through his fingers and depressed the trigger, the pull lessened by the expert gunsmith who ran the Guerrero Cartel’s armory. The Swiss Guard didn’t even have time to turn as the rounds blasted through his neck, and then ran up the back of his head, brain matter exploding out the other side with the help of the 9mm rounds, knock-offs of the infamous Patriot Popper ammunition purchased by the American government. Overkill really, but El Moreno wasn’t complaining. He marveled at the way his shots turned the man’s body into human Swiss cheese.

When his handgun clicked open, the magazine spent, El Moreno looked up at Felix’s shocked face.

“Like he said, he was going to be trouble.”

El Moreno left the Spaniard to his gawking and ordered his men to get to the rest of their preparations. He had Felix right where he wanted him, against the ropes, reeling, unarmed, and unsure of what the crazy Mexican might do next. According to the Spaniard, there was one more delivery coming, the final piece of the puzzle. El Moreno hoped it would give him the answers he wanted, as well as access to whatever weapon Felix planned on using. He was still up in the air about whether he would let the jihadi keep it.

We’ll just have to wait and see
, he thought to himself.        

Chapter 26

Mexicali, Mexico

7:29am, March 15
^th

It was decided that their makeshift task force should be split into three. According to the cartel master Barachon, there were only three farms in the vicinity of the border crossing used by the kidnappers that could hide the number of people with whom El Moreno was thought to be travelling north. No one had any better ideas, so they split into three groups: the monks and some of Ruiz’s men in the first; Gaucho, Trent, Ruiz and his men in the second; and Cal, Daniel, Travis and The Jefferson Group operators in the third.

The plan was to go in at the same moment, just in case all three locations were being used, and one decided to alert the others. While Cal would’ve liked to send out scouts either from within his own ranks, or loaned from Barachon, he knew they didn’t have time. He and his men could feel time slipping by, each second moving them closer to disaster.

+++

7:51am

Brother Hendrik and his men were ready. Even Father Pietro looked determined, although he’d still opted not to carry a weapon. Instead he carried a backpack full of extra ammunition, just in case they got into an extended gun battle, a scene not uncommon south of the border.

They drove through town in their dented pickup trucks, passing rickety abodes and dirt soccer fields, but no one gave them a second glance. As they approached the dirt road entrance to the farm, Brother Hendrik radioed the other two teams to let them know he was in position. They confirmed his call, and each said they were near their own targets. Less than a minute later, the signal came over the radio to enter the suspect property.

Brother Hendrik eased the pickup back onto the road and gunned the engine. The tires bit into the dry earth and the small convoy sped down the lane. He scanned the way as he drove, always ready to veer off the path should the need arise. It didn’t.

He skidded to a stop one hundred yards from the metal farmhouse, weapons already trained on the lone building. The warrior monks led the way, now stripped of their robes and wearing the desert tactical gear they’d brought for the operation. As the others fanned out around the one-story shack, Brother Hendrik went for the screen door. It was hanging open, creaking back and forth in the slight breeze.

He waited for the rest of the team to signal that they were in place, and then slid inside the door with Brother Zigfried, the dour German, following right behind. There were two rooms in the simple building: a bedroom and a living room with a kitchen tucked in the far corner. Other than a family of stray cats that went skittering at their approach, the place was empty.

“We uncovered a cellar door behind the property,” came Brother Aaron’s voice.

“Wait until I get there,” Brother Hendrik said, making his way back out the front of the structure and around to the rear of where he’d just been.

The rest of the team was waiting, weapons trained on the wooden doors with a heavy metal Master lock in the middle. Someone had moved a pile of hay bales to the side, stray stalks of which were scattered over the doors.

“Open it, quietly,” Brother Hendrik ordered.

Brother Fernando, the Mexican monk, moved forward, pulling a bolt cutter from his back. With more than a bit of effort, he snapped the lock in two places and kicked it away, careful to keep as much of his silhouette away from the doors as possible.

Brother Hendrik clicked on the light from his mounted flashlight, and grasped the top door. He counted down from three in his head, and then swung the heavy door up and over, his weapon instantly trained into the darkness. There were stairs leading down, and he took them without hesitation. Down a full floor they went until they hit concrete, lights shining into the space, illuminating empty milk crates and broken farm equipment. The space was smaller than the farmhouse above it, and was empty except for the used items that were piled along the far wall.

Brother Hendrik exhaled. He was not one to lose hope, but he felt their chances of saving His Holiness slipping through his powerful grasp. As he moved to join the others, who were already making their way topside, his boot slid over something slick on the ground. He shined his light down on the ground and saw scraps of cardboard that he hadn’t noticed before. There was no writing of identifying markings on the scraps, so he left them.

He scanned the area again, but didn’t see any boxes. With a shrug, he left the trash where it lay and headed back up the stairs. He had to tell the other teams that Objective One was all clear.

+++

7:53am

Master Sergeant Trent gripped the wheel as the pickup bounded over the rough dirt road, dodging potholes and trying to keep a constant speed. Gaucho sat in the passenger’s seat, holding on for dear life, his steely eyes focused ahead.

Somehow none of the six vehicles lost a tire or an axle before getting to the Quonset hut situated just off the road. Trent and Gaucho made it there first, followed closely by Ruiz and his men. Just as the monks had done, they surrounded the two story building, and then Gaucho led the assault force inside. He and Trent ran up the wooden stairs as Ruiz cleared the first level. It was a simple storage silo, and bare except for frayed string on the floor and a faded picture of the Virgin Mary taped to the wall just inside the front door.

It took them less than five minutes to do a thorough sweep of the surrounding area, and they did not find an underground storage facility like they’d heard Brother Hendrik announce over the radio.

“Let me guess, Cal and Daniel get all the fun,” Trent grumbled, kicking a rock across the road.

“You know how it is, Top. He and Snake Eyes are like magnets for that stuff.”

Just as he said the words, Gaucho pointed back down the road. There were vehicles coming their way.

“Looks like Humvees,” Trent said.

“What the hell?” Gaucho added, looking at his uncle.

“They look like Mexican military,” Ruiz said. “Barachon should have taken care of that. Let me call him.”

The Humvees were doing the same dance they had done, dodging the large holes on the lane. But what worried Trent the most was the .50 cal machine guns pointed their way. There were four vehicles in all and enough firepower to take his team out in short order.

Without any other option, Trent did what he always did, he met the problem head on. He stepped out onto the road, waving both hands over his head to make sure the speeding newcomers would see him. They did, and so did their gunners.

Gaucho joined Trent on the road, and they both watched as the Humvees spread out, now driving toward them on line. Trent half expected to be cut down at any moment. These dudes meant business, and proved it by firing a volley over his head. The Marine winced, but kept his hands where they were.

Now a few of the soldiers were shouting and every man except the gunners and drivers was coming out to face them.

“They want us to get down on the ground,” Gaucho said.

“Do you think we should?” Trent asked, not taking his eye off the soldiers.