Papal Justice (7 page)

“My guys are getting things ready upstairs. Should we go up and talk?”

Brother Hendrik nodded and motioned for his fellow monks to lead the way. Once the four had left the room, Trent pulled Cal aside.

“I swear, Cal, when I heard that chanting, I thought you were having the rest of the boys sworn in as Catholics.”

Cal chuckled. “You should’ve seen the look on Daniel’s face when we came in. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so surprised.”

“Can you blame him?”

Cal shook his head and let out another quiet laugh. “I’m just worried that he’ll decide to go back to Rome with them.”

Trent and Gaucho looked at each other and then laughed with Cal. While Daniel was as spiritual a man as Trent had ever met, the massive Marine knew there was no way Snake Eyes could be torn from Cal’s side.

“Come on,” said Cal, clapping Trent on the back. “I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

+++

Father Pietro shivered despite the oppressive heat inside the battered taxi cab. The steam and his passenger’s unease didn’t seem to faze the driver. He putted along like he didn’t have a care in the world, as if this fare was supposed to last the rest of the day. The priest wished the man would press the gas pedal to the floor. The jarring ride into the hills already felt like it was taking hours. Father Pietro chided himself for not bringing a fresh supply of alcohol. At least that could have calmed his nerves.

But he wanted to make a good first impression in front of Luca’s men. He had no idea what they would be like, and Luca had only told him when and where to be. It was just like his old friend to be cautious. That fact did not make his nerves rattle any gentler. The days of hiding had taken their toll. When he’d looked in the mirror after a much needed shower earlier that day, the priest wasn’t surprised to see a haggard face that spoke of the fear that even now shook his body.

It wasn’t like the old days when he’d laughed in the face of danger. This was different. There was something bigger happening. He could feel it, like an invading army marching over the horizon, stomping closer with each passing day. The days had given him time to think, but his thoughts always drifted to what he’d seen and what he’d done on that fateful night. Somehow, through the fear and drunken bouts, he’d found new clothing, and had even found shelter with a beggar who offered a place next to him under a crumbling bridge. It was the man’s home, along with the ever-present ring of stray cats that shared his food and his bed.

He’d said a silent prayer for the man when waving goodbye. It spoke of the man’s character that he had opened his arms and welcomed him without hesitation. This was a man who had nothing, who lived in the worst of conditions, who barely scraped by under the wary gaze of the rest of mankind.
What would mankind be like if they learned from the lessons of a humble beggar?
Father Pietro held onto that thought as the taxi struggled up the steep hill, finally coming to a stop in front of a dilapidated metal gate.

The driver didn’t say a word, just turned in his seat and held out his hand.

Father Pietro glanced at the meter and thumbed out the appropriate number of bills, a parting gift from the beggar. “Thank you,” he said, after getting a curt nod from the driver.

No sooner had the priest stepped from the vehicle than the taxi sputtered a choking cough of smoke and ambled on its way.

Father Pietro looked up at the high fencing, and into the crumbling courtyard. There wasn’t a soul in sight. However, he could feel eyes watching him. Gulping down his fear, Father Pietro pulled open the creaking gate, and stepped inside.

+++

“He’s here,” Daniel said, stepping into the room where Cal sat talking with Brother Hendrik.

Cal looked up. “You mind bringing him upstairs?”

“Brother Aaron, please go with Mr. Briggs,” Brother Hendrik said.

Daniel was finding it hard to admit to himself that he was in awe of the monks. When he and Cal had first come into the house, finding the four men chanting in the living room, Daniel felt a familiar pull coming from the makeshift altar. Like so many other men and women, Daniel Briggs hadn’t come home from war unscathed. He’d escaped bodily harm, but his mind and his conscience bore the pressing weight of his guilt.

It wasn’t the killing that bothered him, or even the daily race against death. It was something deeper, like the devil was laughing at him, taunting him with his forked tongue. He’d felt cursed, like anyone who got within arm’s reach would contract the worst malady possible: death.

And so he’d traveled the backroads of America, drowning his fears with a bottle of Jack here or a handle of Dewars there. As long as he moved and spurned all relationships, he thought he could outrun his demons.

In the end, he found the only ally who would always be there for him, who would keep the devil at bay. It was God who had finally come into Daniel’s life and brought him the peace he never thought possible. That same peace was what he felt when he’d walked into that living room. It was like encountering your twin, someone who had experienced the same life, the same feelings, the same hopes and fears. He saw that plainly in the eyes of the four monks. They’d also battled their demons, and had come together as brothers under God. The only word that came to Daniel’s mind was
miraculous
.

When he and Brother Aaron got downstairs, a man stood waiting. He had the look of a wounded animal, like a dog who cowered after being whipped one too many times by its master. He was covered in sweat and his ill-fitting shirt stuck to his chest.

“Father Pietro?” asked Brother Aaron.

The man nodded, taking a shaky step forward.

“I am Brother—” Brother Aaron began.

Daniel sensed it before it happened. Father Pietro’s eyes rolled back and his legs crumpled. The Marine rushed forward and caught the fainting man just before he hit the tiled floor. Daniel could smell the lingering scent of alcohol seeping from the priest’s pores.

He checked for a pulse and made sure the man was breathing. Both good.

“Get some water and a towel,” Daniel said, lying the priest down on the floor.

Brother Aaron nodded and ran to the kitchen. He was back a moment later.

Daniel grabbed the moist towel and wiped Pietro’s face. It was regaining some of its color. Daniel stopped. His eyes narrowed and he looked toward the front door. At the same moment, there was a commotion upstairs. Not yelling, just the hustled footsteps of men moving.

“What is it?” Brother Aaron asked.

Reaching for the pistol in his waistband, Daniel said, “We’re about to have company.”

Brother Aaron reached under his thick robe and produced a compact submachine gun. With one arm apiece, they dragged Father Pietro deeper into the house, gunshots already sounding from upstairs. Just as they pulled the unconscious man behind the kitchen counter, Daniel heard the sound of breaking glass, and a split second later, two olive drab grenades came skidding into the room.

Chapter 9

Acapulco, Mexico

2:41pm, March 14
^th

Following the priest’s taxi was the easy part. The hard part had been finding him. They’d located him early that morning. Whoever the priest was, he at least had the sense to hide well.

There was little that money couldn’t buy on the poor streets of Mexico. El Moreno had a certain affinity with the lower class, the pariahs. That was where he’d found the milky eyed captain who’d been entrusted with finding the rogue priest. After all, the religious man had apparently killed two of El Moreno’s men.

Ricardo Lozano had always lived on the streets. He didn’t know his parents, had rarely eaten something he hadn’t stolen as a child. It was on one of his daily “shopping trips” three years prior that he’d first encountered El Moreno. Of course, he already knew about the brown-skinned man on the rise. The man would sometimes appear with a basket of pastries or a heaping sack of tortillas for the street urchins in the poorest areas of Acapulco. In exchange for this kindness, the men and women of the streets were El Moreno’s eyes and ears. They were only too happy to provide information on so-and-so informant or this-and-that cartel. What wouldn’t they give for a bit of food and friendship, two things that El Moreno gave in oversized helpings while rival cartels resorted to strong-arming and butchery.

Ricardo Lozano hadn’t known much of El Moreno on that first day, but it was hard to miss the dark-skinned leader who dressed simply, a habit copied by his entourage. As Ricardo had watched the gang cross the street in front of Ricardo’s favorite bakery, it was as if the world exploded. Machine gun fire erupted from rooftops and suddenly the area was filled with the sound of squealing tires.

El Moreno’s men moved to protect their leader and paid the price. Ricardo had watched as one by one they fell, spilling blood as they ran, the unsettled dust in the road making the scene look like something out of a movie. Somehow, impossibly, El Moreno kept moving, firing as he went until his last man fell. For some reason (El Moreno would later call it fate), Ricardo ran to the man he’d never met, scooping up a submachine gun as he sprinted to the man’s side.

Through fire and dust they retreated, Ricardo leading the way through the familiar streets. He’d saved El Moreno. He, the bastardo with one bad eye that the other boys always called Ojo del Diablo (eye of the devil), Ricardo Lozano stepped into the cartel world. For saving his life, El Moreno took the younger man under his wing. Despite his lack of experience, Ricardo listened and learned. Soon he was one of El Moreno’s bodyguards, then in charge of protecting the cartel’s inner circle. Now he was one of El Moreno’s captains, like a field commander in the military.

He was proud of that fact. No one called him names anymore. He was a man of respect, a proven battlefield commander.

But as Ricardo ordered his men to unload from their vehicles, something itched at the back of his subconscious. He couldn’t shake the feeling as they entered the front gate, wanting to take the priest by surprise. But then the windows on the second floor shattered and gunfire rained down on his men.

He had twenty men with him thanks to another kidnapping mission for the Spaniards. It was the only blessing Ricardo recognized as he took cover and ordered two of his men to rush the front door. They made it to the door, one soldier breaking the glass next to the door, the other man throwing two grenades into the house.

The explosions rocked the house, but the gunfire from above didn’t relent.

“Knock it down,” Ricardo screamed at his second in command. The man nodded and ran back to their SUV. It was a good thing they’d brought along a new toy El Moreno had given his captains. It was some type of cutting-edge explosive developed by the Russians. The first time he’d seen it, he thought it was a trick. How could one warhead, no bigger than an American football, level an entire building?

While he didn’t understand why it worked, Ricardo knew it did. He would just have to tell El Moreno that there hadn’t been a choice. Sometimes total destruction was inevitable in the face of troop loss.

He looked back and saw his man loading the thermobaric round in the RPG. Then he ducked down lower and plugged his ears. Ricardo counted down in his head.
Four, three, two, one…

Nothing.

Despite the heavy gunfire, Ricardo picked his way back to where his man had been. When he got there, he found the RPG cast aside and a red hole in the man’s forehead.

+++

“Nice shot!” yelled Cal over the steady fire.

Daniel nodded, looking for more targets. After the initial barrage when The Jefferson Group and the monks leveled disciplined fire at the invading force, the enemy was getting smart. Daniel estimated that the attackers had lost half of their strength.

“We need to get outside,” he said to no one in particular.

He was about to volunteer when Brother Hendrik tapped him on the shoulder. “We will go.”

Daniel looked to Cal, who nodded.

Brother Hendrik ran for the door, his fellow monks on his heels.

This should be interesting
, thought Daniel.

+++

Down the stairs they went, hopping overturned chairs and debris. Brown robes flowing, the monks burst through the back door that spilled out into a small backyard. Brother Hendrik pointed to the six foot stone wall that wrapped around the house complex. His brothers nodded.

Brother Hendrik went first, secure in the fact that his fellow warriors and the Americans would cover his movements. He was over the wall with a jump and a pull, landing softly on the other side. There was a man with a machine gun at the far corner, obviously avoiding the onslaught from the second story. He was faced away from Brother Hendrik and went down with a quick burst from the monk’s weapon.

Sensing his men behind him, Brother Hendrik strapped his submachine gun over his shoulder and grabbed the dead man’s medium machine gun. After checking to make sure there was enough ammunition and that the weapon would function, he motioned to others, and they turned the corner in search of the enemy.

+++

Rounds were no longer flying past and over his head, but Cal could still hear the gunfire from the street. He got in a position where he could better observe what was going on. What he saw made him smile.

The four monks were leap-frogging from one enemy vehicle to the next, taking down bad guys like they’d been born for the task. When they couldn’t get a good shot at one shooter, Brother Zigfried had the balls to jump on top of the hood of one of the vehicles while Brother Fernando produced a canister grenade from under his robes and threw it underhand to where the bad guy was hiding. That made the dude run, and he was promptly cut down by a stream of bullets from Brother Zigfried.