Papal Justice (21 page)

“I don’t get the play,” Master Sergeant Trent said. “Why risk coming across the border when you already have the Pope? Wouldn’t one of those death videos work just fine?”

And there it was, the thing that no one wanted to think about. If they were taking the risk, that meant there was more, possibly much more. That gave Cal an idea.

“Mr. President, what if we sent out sort of a toned down alert? You know, kind of like we did after nine-eleven with the truck drivers. One of those “Be on the lookout for” kind of things. Maybe an Amber Alert?” Cal said.

Zimmer nodded his head slowly. “What would we tell them to look for?”

“Tour buses, RVs, convoys, that sort of thing.”

“It’s worth a shot. When do we sound the real alarm?”

Cal looked down at his watch. “Let’s say midnight. If we don’t have them by then, let’s pull out all the stops.” He looked around the room at his friends. Everyone seemed to agree with him except for Brother Hendrik. He seemed more nervous than before, his hands clenching as he sat thinking. “Brother Hendrik, do you have anything to add?” Cal asked, hopeful that he might.

The monk looked up in surprise, as if Cal woke him from a daydream. Without answering, he shook his head and went back to clenching his fists, lost again in his thoughts.

“Cal,” Travis said, “I think we should ask the Marines if we can have a few helos on standby. That way, if we do get word, we’re ready to bolt as soon as we hear.”

Cal nodded his agreement. “Top, can you talk to the colonel and see what he can get?”

“No problem,” Trent said.

“And, Trav, can you handle the alert?’

“Got it,” Travis replied.

“Okay. Let’s see what we can find. Either way, in less than ten hours, all hell’s gonna break loose.”

+++

As the meeting broke up, Daniel excused himself to take a short walk. The fresh air would be a welcome change from the cramped quarters of the last two days, and the sniper needed time to think. He felt his normal peace slipping and he knew it had everything to do with the fact that the Pope himself was in peril. Normally, it was easy for Daniel to push his personal feelings aside. He’d done it for years in an unhealthy way, but he now knew how to harness the light and the dark in his soul. Like his own personal Yin and Yang, harmony allowed him to do many things that his peers could not.

This time things were different. The certainty he usually felt about the outcome of an operation now felt like a shifting target. You take a shot and the silhouette magically disappears before the round hits downrange. It bothered Daniel more than anything had bothered him for years.

He walked past the MPs standing guard and stepped out into the Yuma afternoon. A few laps around the building might loosen things up, get his mind realigned. He started praying as he took the first step down the sidewalk.

As he rounded the first corner, Daniel heard footsteps behind him. He looked back and saw Father Pietro trying to catch up with him. Daniel stopped and waited for the priest, smiling when he reached him.

“Hello, Father. Can I help you with something?” In the last day, Daniel had seen a change in the priest. Ever since he’d recognized the Pope in Barachon’s picture, there’d been more confidence in his step, more steel in his gaze.

“Yes. I was wondering if I could ask you a question.” There were still dark bags under the man’s eyes, but he now stood upright, his lips no longer quivering when he spoke.

“Sure,” Daniel answered, glad that the priest had found him.

“Brother Hendrik told me about your plan, and I was wondering if I might be allowed to come with you.”

Daniel looked at the priest for a few seconds, and then answered, “We’ll probably only have room for operators, Father.” He hated to tell him no, but there was no way Cal would let the priest come along, despite any progress he’d made. The best place for Father Pietro was right there in Yuma until the whole thing was over.

“Yes, I thought you might say that and I understand. But I have been thinking and praying, of course. I believe God wants me to be a part of this. I won’t carry a weapon, and I promise to stay out of the way and help in any way I can.”

His eyes pleaded with Daniel, not in a pathetic, “I need this or I’ll die” kind of way, but with a fervent tone that told the world that he was going, and would do anything in order to board with the rest of the warriors.

“Let me talk to Cal.”

Father Pietro smiled, and nodded his thanks. Daniel watched him walk away, his sure step punctuating the man’s newfound determination. For some reason that made the way clearer for Daniel. The unease he’d felt minutes before now seemed to fade away, like Father Pietro was indeed part of the solution. He made up his mind. One way or another, he was going to convince Cal that the priest should go. Daniel knew his friend wouldn’t like it, but the sniper had plenty of chips stocked up to ask for this one favor. After all, when was the last time Daniel’s call hadn’t resulted in a win?

Chapter 29

Brawley, California

4:17pm, March 15
^th

The buses were running behind, almost an hour late. The drivers had called, of course, but that still didn’t make El Moreno feel any better. After the snafu with the idiots at the border, his trust of independent contractors was at an all-time low. Part of the problem was that he was so far from his home turf. He’d already filed that issue away for later endeavors, planning to stay close to the Guerrero stronghold or using more force in the future.

He checked his phone again, frowning at the time. But then he heard a rumble. Less than a minute later, four buses pulled in front of the low brick building. They were of varying makes and sizes, and each one bore a different identifying logo or name. One was painted white and sported
St. Augustine High School
in navy blue writing. Another had a bleeding heart logo with
Marymount Catholic Church
painted in blood red over it. The other two buses were comparable, and all Catholic. Another similarity was that the windows were tinted almost black, so that nothing and no one could be seen from the outside. That had been a careful consideration for El Moreno, and initially he wanted to use tour buses. Felix had insisted on the painted Catholic modes of transportation instead. “More of a statement,” he’d said. It was a little more hassle, but El Moreno’s contacts said they could make it happen, for an increase in fee, of course.

El Moreno waved to the first driver and motioned to the back of the building. It would be easier to have the men load the cargo and the children there. While the vacant former shipping terminal was mostly shielded from prying eyes, it was better to be cautious, especially during this last leg of their journey.

As the buses drove to the back, El Moreno entered through the front door, his thoughts slipping back to his options. He hadn’t found anything that could be used as a weapon, and he now realized that Felix had skillfully kept whatever he would soon implement to himself, at least until he was free of El Moreno. That would happen the moment they pulled away in those buses, any chance of gaining the upper hand on his rivals a fading dream.

He had part of his millions from the jihadis, but money had quickly become a smaller and smaller part of his expansion plans. Ah well, maybe they would do business again. And while he’d at first worried about the welfare of the children, seeing himself in their eyes at times, the pathetic weakness he’d once endured, his professional mind now saw it as a business transaction. Without the children, the remaining sum would not be paid. Despite whatever reservations he held about giving the children over to the jihadis, the thought of losing millions was worse. Once the final deposit was confirmed, he would take the money and walk away.

They’d been ready for the buses, so by the time he made his way through the building, everyone was gone or streaming out the rear exit. When he passed the room where the Pope was, he saw the old man still sitting there, watched by eager guards who were ready to be done with their boring duty. El Moreno nodded to them as he passed and picked up his pace. Getting the fifty-seven kids loaded into the correct buses would take no more than a couple minutes, but he wanted to watch the process. Maybe there was still time to extend their business relationship, one more chance to find out what Felix’s plan was.

When he got to the parking lot, the children were mostly loaded. He noticed that the drivers were still in their seats. El Moreno waved for one of them to come out, but the man gave him a strange look and avoided his gaze. A cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun and shading the area in an unnatural dullness.

Something in El Moreno froze. His eyes swept the line of drivers. They either had their eyes focused dead ahead or were looking at their laps. He couldn’t see into any of the buses, and therefore couldn’t see his men who had escorted the prisoners on. Cursing under his breath, he just made it to the first bus, his foot moving up to climb the first step, his right hand on his gun at the small of his back, when he heard a voice behind him.

“Put your hands up, slowly.” It was Felix. He could feel the Spaniard’s glee even before he turned and saw the damn smile on the jihadi’s face. There was an AR-15 in his hands, its muzzle extended by a suppressor, and it was pointed right at El Moreno.

“What are you…?”

The words disappeared as a quick burst from the automatic weapon hit him in the stomach. He fell backwards, hitting his head against the bus, and dropped to the ground, his vision beginning to blur.

Shaking his head before the real pain began, he felt rather than saw Felix grab the pistol from his back. He tried to push the Spaniard away, but his arms were like floppy tentacles, his fingers going numb as he attempted to save the weapon.

His stomach started to burn, and then his back went into tiny spasms, like someone had punched him in the kidney. El Moreno clenched his teeth and attempted to rise, his legs moving but refusing to support any weight. There was a tapping sound, and then muted gunfire that sounded like it was coming from the inside of a barrel. Then there were screams, children’s screams, lots of them. They filled his ears and made him nauseous.

He was able to prop himself on one elbow, his vision going in and out like he was looking through some weird kaleidoscope. Men were being thrown from the buses, his men, he realized. Again he tried to stand, getting a kick in the back from someone he hadn’t noticed beside him.

His head was bobbing now, his body telling him to close his eyes, to sleep away the pain that now ran up his back and down his legs, like someone had taken razor blades and drawn lines down the length of his body. He focused on the pain, like a screeching beacon he wasn’t supposed to touch.

The last thing he saw before the light faded was Felix pointing down at him, his companions at his side, laughing at the fool they’d caught by surprise.

+++

It had been too easy. His masters told him about the vast network in Los Angeles. There were apparently many followers who lived among the nonbelievers in one of America’s darkest dens of sin. He’d only made one phone call, alerting his brothers of the men El Moreno had hired to drive the buses, and the Los Angeles-based jihadis had taken care of the rest.

They’d stowed away in the buses, weapons hidden but still trained on the hijacked drivers, waiting until the children were loaded. Then, once Felix had taken care of the Mexican, he gave the signal for the drivers and the rest of El Moreno’s men were killed.

The screams from the children were only natural, but their extended internment, along with the sight of more weapons, silenced them soon enough. In one bold move, Felix had taken care of the head of The Guerrero Cartel, saved his masters millions, and secured their final passage.

After he was sure El Moreno was well on his way to hell, he ordered his men and the ten newcomers from Los Angeles to clean up any mess they’d made in the buses and to load the rest of the shipment. Each bus had to have the same amount of children and supplies. It was all part of the plan.

Once everything was loaded, all the bodies of the dead except El Moreno, who Felix wanted to leave where he lay, were placed inside the building.

Felix went back into the hideout, kicking open doors as he went. When he got to the Pope’s small prison, El Moreno’s last man was lying in a pool of blood, a single bullet in his head, legs still twitching. Without a word, Felix’s man untied the Pope and led him out behind his leader.

“Put him in the white bus,” Felix said.

His man nodded and escorted his charge to the appropriate vehicle.

Felix took a deep breath and entered each bus, bidding his brothers farewell. They knew the plan and would execute it as they’d discussed. There would be no further communications. The enemy could track cell phones and probably even radios. After they left, they would be on their own. If they were able to get away after their tasks were complete, their new friends from Los Angeles would take them to freedom. Should they somehow get caught, they were ready to die and the children would die, too. He hugged each man and told them he would see them soon.

Once his ritual was done, he boarded the fourth bus that would take him and the Pope to the most important destination. Felix tapped the new driver on the shoulder. It was time for the final show.  

Chapter 30

Rome, Italy

4:39pm California Time, 11:39pm in Rome, March 15
^th

Brother Luca scanned the precise report he’d just received from his men. Using the pictures provided by Brother Hendrik, they’d actually identified most of the bodies that’d been found in Mexicali. Just as their American counterparts had found out, the dead men were mostly Mexican criminals, thieves and murderers with long rap sheets. It was the lone white male who’d confused them all. The man had no identification and he couldn’t be found in any of the international crime databases.