Papal Justice (28 page)

MSgt Trent knew he’d dislocated his shoulder during the explosion. At least Brother Hendrik had popped it back in for him, but he was gonna have a helluva time carrying that cross again. Everyone was bloody and bruised. The Pope was good considering the situation. Somehow the guy kept his composure. Trent had to give it to him. Most civilians would’ve been crapping their pants.

The smoke was making it harder to see a damned thing. With the monks guarding their position, at least he didn’t have to worry about protecting them anymore. As soon as they hopped on that bird again, he was going to take a deep breath of cool, clean, Marine Corps air.

He heard the Osprey as it bore in a minute later, the downdraft cleared some of the smoke in funny swirls that looked like little tornados.

“You ready to pick him up again?” Trent asked Brother Hendrik.

“I am, but perhaps you should have someone else carry your side.”

“Nah, I’m good. Hell, we’ve come this far, right?”

Brother Hendrik didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway.
Good dude, that Brother Hendrik
, Trent thought, mustering the strength to pick up his half of the cross again.

They got the cross upright as the Osprey settled to the ground, the crew chief stepping down the ramp.

“Okay, on three,” Trent said, rolling his injured shoulder once. “One, two—”

The clatter of automatic fire cut through the night. All the weight of the cross was suddenly on his side. Trent looked over as the monks tried to find out who was firing, unwilling to level fire unless they had something they could see to shoot at. The smoke was still thick enough in each direction that even Trent couldn’t see who’d shot at them.

Then he saw Brother Hendrik, lying flat on his back. There was a smear of blood on his throat, and when he moved his mouth, a gush of blood rushed out.

Trent almost dropped the cross to help, but then heard the Pope moan. He looked at the pontiff and noticed the dark stain on his right sleeve.

“Jesus,” Trent said.

“He is here,” the Pope nodded. A joke? “I am fine.”

“Okay, this won’t be easy, but I need to get you over to that aircraft. Do you think you can handle it?”

The Pope nodded.

Trent took two deep breaths and stood to his full height, the cross and Pope hoisted a foot off the ground. Ignoring the pain, the Marine Master Sergeant ran to the ramp.

+++

10:24pm

Felix was fairly certain that he’d hit the Pope. There’d been a brief clearing through the smoke and he fired. Marksmanship was one of the surprising things he’d taken to during his initial training. He’d actually out-fired most of his peers on their final evaluation.

So as he moved around to take another shot, he knew he would hit something. But then he heard a shot from behind, and then another. He moved faster and then another shot followed by a searing pain in his leg. He screamed. He’d never felt such pain before. It felt like someone had taken a barbed blade and was thrusting it in and out of his leg. When he lifted his hand, it was covered in blood and he almost passed out. He didn’t faint, but he did fall, his weapon clattering to the ground. How could a leg wound hurt so much? He’d always heard that chest or stomach wounds were the killers, the ones that took men out before they could be helped.

He saw the truth of the matter when he finally had the courage to look. Not only was his leg gushing blood, but there was something white sticking out of the side. It was his bone. For some reason he wanted to touch it, and when he did he screamed again. So this is how it would end, with a shot to the leg, a compound fracture, and his blood pouring out onto a church parking lot.

+++

10:26pm

He’d taken a chance. In his head, Father Pietro pictured where the Osprey was, where the Pope and the monks were, and where his target could be. He took one shot at a time and then he’d heard the scream. When the recipient of the bullet hadn’t returned fire, he quickened his step.

The man was propped up on his elbows, his right leg bent at the knee, and there was blood flooding out from his thigh. Father Pietro saw the bone and knew he’d somehow hit the femoral artery.

With no weapon in his hands, the man was not a threat. But when the priest’s gaze settled on the man’s face his eyes went wide, recognition stealing the breath from his lungs. It was the man from that night in Acapulco, the one who had ordered so many killed, the one who had killed Father Josef.

“You.”

The man looked up at him. Instead of the stalwart conviction of a warrior, there was only fear in the jihadi’s eyes.

“I’m dying,” he said.

Father Pietro nodded.

“Yes.”

The man retained a small measure of his dignity by not begging for help. Father Pietro could have put a bullet in the man’s head and saved him from more misery. But instead he just watched, and he prayed that God would have mercy on the man’s soul.

Chapter 39

Our Lady of Joy Catholic Church

10:32pm, March 15
^th

Cal and Daniel made it all the way to the small airstrip before they realized the helo that was supposed to take the terrorists to safety was already gone. They turned back to the mess at the church and were careful to make sure the area was clear when they returned.

“Make sure the Pope is in the Osprey. I’ll go check on Trav.”

Daniel nodded and loped off to help the others.

Cal trotted through the smoke and tried to remember where he’d left his cousin. He called out, but Travis didn’t answer back. Maybe they’d already taken him onto the aircraft.

He was just about to join the others when he saw a form a few feet away.

“Trav?” he said, walking closer.

It was Travis. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes were closed. Cal bent down and nudged him.

“Hey, it’s time to go.”

Still nothing.

He shook Travis’s shoulder and one of his cousin’s arms flopped to the ground.

Cal put his ear to Travis’s mouth. No breath sounds.

He put his fingers to Travis’s neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing.

“Oh no you fucking don’t,” Cal said, setting his weapon on the ground and starting chest compressions. “Don’t you die on me. Don’t you fucking die on me!” He kept pressing until someone pulled him off. He punched whoever it was and went back to administering compressions.

“Don’t die. Please don’t die.”

He pounded Travis’s chest with his fist, once, then twice, and a third time.

Nothing.

His tears ran freely, splashing onto his cousin’s placid face. His breath came in anguished gasps, his throat tightening like it was encircled by a hangman’s noose.

And then, not for the first time in his life, Cal’s heart broke.

Epilogue

Camp Spartan

Arrington, Tennessee

10:47am, March 19
^th

The ceremony was simple, exactly the way Travis wanted. As per his instructions, everyone held a tumbler full of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey as Waylon Jennings sang in the background. The air was cool, but not uncomfortable, just one of those perfect Tennessee spring mornings that makes you want to grab a fishing pole and hit the water. Songbirds chortled back and forth as the tree branches creaked lazily overhead. It was a perfect setting for the somber sendoff.

Cal watched it all like he was in some crazy dream. He kept telling himself to wake up, but it didn’t happen. It was all wrong. So fucking wrong.

The graveside service concluded, and Diane took his arm.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

He nodded even though he felt the exact opposite.

Cal and Diane led the way, followed by President Zimmer, MSgt Trent, Gaucho, Daniel and the rest of The Jefferson Group, and all of Stokes Security International. They came to pay their respects, to their friend, their former CEO, to a brother. They’d all lost friends and family before, but this was different. Travis was Travis. He was a SEAL who’d looked after them when Cal’s dad died, who’d taken over the reins when everyone outside SSI said he was too young. He’d provided for them and cared for them. He was like a father to many of them.

They sipped their whiskey as they walked, some exchanging funny stories of things Travis had done or said, others retelling how Mr. Haden had saved their careers, given them a second chance.

It was a sad day for all of them, but at least he was resting at home on a private lot amongst fellow warriors, on a beautiful hill overlooking the day-to-day training of his men.

+++

11:47am

“How’s he doing, Diane?” The President asked, sipping from his glass.

“He’s not good,” Diane Mayer answered truthfully. She knew she should probably sugarcoat it, make it look like things were going to get better, but that’s not what she felt. Cal had barely touched her since getting back. He said as few words as possible to get through the day. She felt like she was losing him.

“Maybe I should have a talk with him.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” she heard herself say.

“Okay,” Zimmer said, patting her on the arm reassuringly. “We’ll get through this, I promise.”

She nodded a thank you and then excused herself to get some fresh air.

+++

11:53am

President Zimmer watched his friend from across the room. Cal stood there and accepted the condolences, but Brandon could see that his mind was somewhere else. His heart ached for Cal just as it ached for Travis. He’d been the one to let Travis go despite the dangers. He’d recognized the risk, and also known the heart that beat in the SEAL’s chest. He was a warrior first. They’d bonded and become something like best friends. They’d battled through the fiery streets of political careerists and built something they could both be proud of. A SEAL and a Democrat President. An unlikely pair who’d taken the world by the short hairs and turned it in the other direction.

He was going to miss Travis. He was going to miss their frank talks and their heated arguments. Most of all he was going to miss the man, the guy who would drop everything to come to the aid of a friend, like he’d done before getting killed. No one could have foreseen the tragedy, but this fact didn’t make it any easier to rationalize the loss of this spirited man, a true leader.

At least they’d saved the Pope, minus some bruising and a minor gunshot wound. Relations with the Vatican were much improved. The pontiff had even suggested that maybe they could sit down and talk about The Zimmer Doctrine and how he could assist with bringing fellow religious leaders into the fold.

As for Father Pietro, the Pope had informed Brandon that the priest had taken his invitation to join the Brothers of St. Longinus. But he’d done one thing before doing so. With the blessing of the Pope, he changed his name back. Until he died, Father Pietro would now be known as Brother Gabriel.

And the mystery of the children's cargo had also been solved by an inquisitive CDC investigator. Embedded in each container of liquid soap was a clear plastic bag. The sack contained a biological agent that was still being laboratory tested. Initial results pegged it as a new highly contagious and fatal virus. As soon as the first unsuspecting person depressed the soap dispenser button, a needle would have punctured the clear plastic sack around the agent.  The devilish soap-like concoction would have easily passed into the population, ultimately fulfilling the intent of the jihadi three headed dragon.  As if America didn’t have enough to worry about, now there were terrorists with mad scientists at their disposal, willing to cook up brews that could kill millions. Luckily they’d caught the bags in time.

The only unknown for now was Armando Ruiz. Gaucho and his uncle were trying to figure out a way to get him out of Mexico in one piece. Zimmer had offered anything he could provide, including protective services and immediate asylum, but Ruiz wanted to make sure the gains he’d made within the cartel world weren’t wasted. Zimmer was confident that the man would find a solution.

Brandon moved across the room and cut through the crowd. They parted for him as he walked, most still in awe of his presence.

“Hey, you wanna take a walk?” he asked when he got to Cal.

Cal looked up and shook his head.

“Come on, Cal, a little fresh air will do us both some good.”

Cal’s eyes snapped back at him.

“You think a little fresh air will make this better?” The words came out slowly, like a sticky sweet syrup laced with poison.

“I just thought that—”

“You just thought that you would come over here and fix me, is that it?” Cal’s voice was getting louder. Brandon grabbed his arm gently and tried to usher him toward the door.

Cal shook out of the grip.

“Cal, I really think we should—”

“You think we should what, go have a drink and talk about how much we miss Trav?” Cal slammed his glass against the stone wall behind him, and immediately Brandon saw blood on his friend’s hand. If Cal felt it, he didn’t acknowledge the wound or the fact that the entire room had gone quiet. He went on, his voice icy and sharp. “You never should have let him go. You NEVER should have let him go!”

Zimmer avoided the urge to look around.

“You’re right I shouldn’t have let him go, but that was his choice and you know that. He wanted to, so I let him.”

Cal’s chin hit his chest and Brandon saw fresh tears fall from his eyes. He said something under his breath that the president couldn’t hear.

“What’s that, Cal?” he asked in a half-whisper.