Papal Justice (20 page)

“Hell if I know.”

The soldiers were still shouting, but the two friends didn’t move. A moment later, Trent heard Ruiz’s voice and then saw him walk forward, his hands also raised.

“Gentlemen, I think there has been some mistake,” he said, addressing the soldiers.

One of the soldiers came closer, his muzzle pointing right at Ruiz’s chest.

“We have orders to take you in. Now tell your men to get on the ground or we will shoot.”

“I have Colonel Molina on the phone,” Ruiz said, holding up his cellular. “He would like to have a word with whoever is in charge.”

The soldier hesitated, but then took the phone from Ruiz. The conversation was brief, and soon the phone was back in Ruiz’s hand.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience, Señor,” the soldier said, backing away and finally lowering his weapon. “We have been recalled to headquarters.”

Ruiz nodded and watched them load back into their vehicles and leave.

“What the hell was that about?” Trent asked when Ruiz rejoined them.

Ruiz frowned.

“It looks like our little friend was expecting us, and somehow paid off someone in the Mexicali chain of command. Barachon is looking into it.”

“And who is Colonel Molina?” Gaucho asked.

“He’s the garrison commander and that young man’s boss,” Ruiz said, pointed to the Humvees that were now filing back toward town.

Trent shook his head.

“Is it always like this?”

Ruiz shrugged as if it didn’t matter. Trent gave him one thing, he was as calm as they came. The Marine in him hoped Cal could pull some strings for Gaucho’s uncle before this thing was over. It would be a shame to leave him hanging.

+++

7:55am

The rest of the TJG contingent moved in just like the other two teams. There were no sentries to meet them and the sprawling ranch-style home was completely bare. Once the house was cleared, they took a cue from Brother Hendrik and searched the surrounding farmland. It didn’t take them long to find the metal hatch hidden behind a random pile of rocks, no doubt dug up years ago from the long lines of plowed fields.

The hatch was something you might find on a ship, with the wheel in the middle that unlocked the inner latch. One of the men whirled the wheel while Cal, Daniel and the others waited. The latch clunked, and the man holding the door waited for Cal’s signal.

“Open it,” Cal said.

The operator heaved, pulling the circular hatch back, exposing the round hole. Cal expected to see a ladder, but instead found a thin line of steps, along with a waft of air smelling like rotten vegetables. It assaulted his senses. Daniel moved first, rushing down the stairs into the blackness, Cal three steps behind.

They found the bodies immediately, nine of them thrown in an unceremonious pile. There was little blood on the ground, but it wasn’t hard to find the penetration wounds that had killed them, some in the chest and others in the head.

While two men kept an eye on the bodies, Daniel and Cal moved deeper into the space. It ended fifty feet from where they’d entered, and there was nothing else there, no secret doors, no more bodies, nothing.

“Dammit,” Cal said, making his way back to the bodies. He’d already heard the results of the other two raids. El Moreno, one. The Good Guys, zero.

The Mexicali chief had seemed so sure. What had they missed? Was there another farm that El Moreno was hiding out in?

The answer came a couple minutes later, after Daniel made the educated guess that the dead men in the storage space were most likely the mercenaries who’d kidnapped the Pope. He said he recognized two of the faces from Barachon’s still photographs from earlier. Cal didn’t see it, but he trusted the sniper’s assessment.

Cal’s phone rang. It was Ruiz. Strange. Why hadn’t he called over the radio?

“Yeah?” Cal answered.

“You heard about the Humvee thing?”

“I did.”

“Well, there’s more. Barachon just called. He said he’s got some bad news.”

Cal closed his eyes. “Tell me.”

“Someone in his organization was working for El Moreno. The guy confessed to taking a bunch of people through a new tunnel early this morning. He let them out on the American side. The thing is still under construction, and Barachon thought it was unusable. That’s why he didn’t mention it.”

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

“He kept apologizing and we saw how he felt about you-know-who, so yes, I do think it was an honest mistake. He didn’t say so, but whoever took El Moreno’s money is probably begging for their life right about now.”

Cal didn’t doubt it. He exhaled, willing his limited patience to take over. His supply was dwindling.

“Okay. It looks like our plans just changed, again. You keep your guys in Mexicali, just in case. I’ll tell my guys to saddle up. We’ve gotta get back across the border.”

Chapter 27

Brawley, California

9:02am, March 15
^th

A little over twenty miles north of Calexico, things were settling down. After the journey from Acapulco and the run-in with the mercenaries, everyone was spent. They’d made it into the U.S. easily enough, despite their cargo. The children were behaving themselves, for the time being, thanks to the women he’d brought along for the sole purpose of caring for the many boys and girls. They were quiet when ordered and only the occasional whimper left their lips. El Moreno watched them as they slept. Some were pretending to be asleep if only to avoid his gaze. No one complained about sleeping on thin mats on the concrete floor. At least now they could stretch out instead of being crammed into a cargo hold.

But despite his success so far, El Moreno had a dilemma. The Spaniard had yet to tell him what the plan was. That didn’t sit well with El Moreno. He and his men had done everything they’d promised, and in return Felix kept the details of the coming climax to himself. The Mexican drug lord thought that the loss of his Swiss Guard spy would wake the Spaniard up, loosen his tongue a bit, but it hadn’t. If anything, it had done the opposite.

So while the soldiers of the Guerrero Cartel got some rest, the jihadis sat huddled in a corner, conspiring and planning. El Moreno looked around the room again, trying to put the pieces together. He’d always assumed that the children were bargaining pieces, or possibly some sort of diversion for the Spaniards, but that didn’t feel likely. Something else was going on that made his insides squirm. It was the way the other jihadis looked at each other, like men going off to war knowing that they would never return home.

The buses would arrive that afternoon. Felix said he wanted to leave at sunset. He hadn’t said it would be their final farewell, but El Moreno sensed it. The jihadis had a room prepped with video equipment. Not a fancy setup, just a tripod, a small video camera, and a simple set. A white sheet would be used as a backdrop behind an old metal chair.

That room was where they kept the Pope, tied to a chair, now guarded by one of Felix’s men and one of El Moreno’s. After the incident with the Swiss Guard, the Spaniards were leery about leaving their prize with the unpredictable Mexican or his men. Not that El Moreno would have done anything to His Holiness, but uncertainty had always been his ally. He wielded it like a fog machine, his enemies and friends never really knowing where he might strike next. In and out he moved, darting like a skilled swordsman through the haze.

But now, all his tricks were played. Unless the jihadis pulled another surprise entrance, introducing a verifiable weapon or bringing in new players, El Moreno’s time was running out. He couldn’t figure it out. The Pope, the children, and a few crates filled with blankets, clothing and hand soap. What the hell were they doing?

+++

Felix watched El Moreno out of the corner of his eye. He’d hoped to have been rid of the man by then, but the little Mexican insisted on escorting them to the mission’s successful completion. It was what he said, but Felix knew that the only thing El Moreno wanted was more money and whatever weapons the jihadis intended to use. Little did he know that the three-headed dragon was not something you could easily bottle and sell. In fact, the taste of success was so near that Felix had to bite his tongue in order to keep from throwing the truth in the cartel leader’s face.

He knew better, and kept reminding himself that a noble holy warrior does not brag, but instead carries his duties out with solemn reverence. Felix wondered if that was how the heroes of 9/11 had felt as they crashed their planes into their targets. Luckily he wouldn’t have to share their fate. His masters said there was more to be done, other missions that required his specific talents. That thought kept him moving, kept his mind from being distracted by the dangers and the toil. Hard work was not something that came easily for Felix. It had taken every ounce of desire to retool his urges and reshape his priorities.

During his teenage years, and even at university, he lived a comfortable life. When the call came to serve his people, Felix jumped at the chance, envisioning mowing down hordes of unbelievers and lopping off heads with maniacal fervor.

What he found was the exact opposite. Yes, there had been the excitement of the attacks in Acapulco, but then there were the hours and days spent planning and waiting. The waiting was the worst! Like much of his generation, Felix wanted everything done at the speed of the Internet. Push a button and the task is complete. Make a call and your chores were done. But not in the real world. As the leader of his small band, everyone looked to him for the answers. If they were hungry, they looked to him. If they were tired, they complained to him. If they wanted to talk, they talked to him.

It was exhausting work and the Spaniard couldn’t wait to have some well-deserved time off when he returned home. Surely his masters would put him up somewhere nice. He had always wanted to visit Monaco. Maybe he could convince them that the wealthy kingdom on the sea was the perfect next target. Yes. The idea calmed him, imagining the lapping waves and the luxurious accommodations provided by a thankful people.

Felix’s mind snapped back to the present, realizing that one of his men was asking him a question. The idiot still didn’t understand the breadth of the plan, something he had digested easily. Maybe next time they could give him more than these simpletons. After all, didn’t the hero who brought the world’s Christians and the United States to its knees deserve the best?

+++

The Pope moved his hands to increase the circulation to his fingertips. That was the problem with getting older. He assumed that a young man tied loosely to a chair would not feel the aches and pains that racked his body at regular intervals. It was a small discomfort, and he once again reminded himself that too many throughout the world dealt with far worse on a daily basis.

As he often did, he let his mind slip into prayer. These were not recited words repeated verbatim, but an opening of his mind, a search for peace and guidance. He was in desperate need of both in ample quantities. He also prayed for the same to be granted to the Brothers of St. Longinus, and the brave men sent by President Zimmer.

Through the darkness, and in and out of various modes of transportation, the Pope had listened. If he had learned anything in his life it was that the simple act of opening one’s ears often paid higher dividends than the converse act of opening one’s mouth. He’d accomplished much over the years by nodding his head and letting others do the talking.

But listening wasn’t helping him now. The guards were tight-lipped and after the confrontation with his nefarious Swiss Guard, the rival leaders of the kidnapping party had been careful to say nothing in front of him. But they had left his hood off after arriving at their current location, and the Pope took to watching as well as listening. He noticed small things like the looks passed between the jihadis and the Mexicans. He saw the cool demeanor of the shorter Hispanic leader, and the darting eyes of the jihadi.

Finally, he caught a glimpse of the children. They were scared, and more than one of them stared at him in recognition as they passed by his open doorway. He did not know if leaving the door cracked was a careless mistake made by one of the guards, or a subtle reminder by their leaders. Either way, he would have given his life had he known that the lives of the children could be saved.

And so with nothing more to do, the Pope watched, listened and prayed. God would make His will known soon, of that the pontiff was certain.   

Chapter 28

Marine Corps Air Station Yuma

Yuma, Arizona

2:45pm, March 15th

To say that the mood in the room was deflated would’ve been a major understatement. Every piece of the puzzle came together, and then
POOF!
it was gone. Hours of scouring every net they could think of had turned up nothing. Whoever this El Moreno was, the guy wasn’t stupid. Cal tried to put himself in the thug’s shoes, imagining where they could go next.

The good thing was that the enemy’s options were limited as long as they stayed as a group. But as the minutes flew by, that seemed a fading reality.

“If I were him, I’d split up as soon as I could,” Cal said, receiving nods from everyone from President Zimmer on down. The team leaders and the President were crowded into a makeshift command post they’d set up in a displaced Marine major’s office. The career logistician had been none too pleased until the Marine colonel tasked with escorting the President’s men told the bony major to move out.

“But where does that leave us?” Zimmer asked. “They could be hundreds of miles away by now.”

Cal saw the strain on the President’s face. He’d made the call not to raise alarms and now he would pay the price. Whatever had come through the border had the potential to destroy many lives. The good news was that it probably wasn’t a nuclear threat. Zimmer had told them that the active sensors the Border Patrol and Department of Homeland Security had installed over the last decade were now fully in place. If anything higher than a trace amount of radiation came across any border or through any port, they’d know about it. That didn’t make anyone feel better, but the risk of a dirty bomb made even the toughest warriors squirm.