Papal Justice
“Papal Justice”
Book 10 of the Corps Justice Series
Copyright © 2015 Corps Justice. All Rights Reserved
Author: C. G. Cooper
Editor: Karen Rought
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This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.
Any unauthorized reproduction of this work is strictly prohibited.
Warning: This story is intended for mature audiences and contains profanity and violence.
Dedications
For Kathy Anday-Fallenius, one of the first Corps Justice beta readers. Your generosity and team spirit will not be forgotten. Thank you for the kind words and tireless effort to make me a better author. I know you’re still with us, quietly telling me to dot every “i” and cross every “t”. God Bless.
To my loyal group of Novels Live warriors, thanks for your help in crafting this novel. Much fun was had by all.
To our amazing troops serving all over the world, thank you for your bravery and service.
And especially to the United States Marine Corps. Keep taking the fight to the enemy.
Semper Fidelis
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Zapata District
Acapulco, Mexico
12:06am, March 11th
Father Pietro wiped a bead of sweat on the sleeve of his black cassock and leaned against the crumbling concrete wall. The muggy blanket of Mexican steam felt even more intense despite the late hour. Maybe it was the booze. As he stopped to catch his breath, he heard singing in the distance, capped by the distinctive tenor of Father Josef, the head of their small church.
Father Pietro pulled the small bottle of rum out of his pocket and took a burning gulp. He relished the heat moving down his throat as he listened to the hymns signaling the start of the midnight mass. He said a silent prayer of gratitude for the bartender who’d given him the bottle, on the house of course. No doubt the man thought it would usher him into heaven when the time came. If that was the man’s wish, who was Father Pietro to disagree? He’d seen all manner of wonders since arriving in Mexico, but none of them of the miraculous nature.
Five-year-old drug runners. Nine-year-old prostitutes. Thirteen-year-old cartel enforcers. They were supposed to be his flock, but his gifts had done little to bring them into the fold. Instead, it was Father Josef’s love of music that had persuaded a trickle, then a steady flow of new parishioners to join their young community. “Music,” Father Josef had said, “has the power to touch the hearts of even the most lost of God’s flock.”
When Pietro thought of Father Josef, he hiccuped a giggle. Josef had admonished him on more than one occasion for being late or missing an event completely. But what could Father Pietro do? He knew his weaknesses, had admitted them to Father Josef, and although he tried his best to improve, to wipe away his sins, he knew in his soul that it would take a momentous occasion to turn him away from the bottle. It was, after all, the least of his many sins.
Father Pietro was a good man. The poor of Acapulco loved to hear his stories, and they even stopped by to say hello when they were passing through. He’d found a home of sorts, but he missed his home in Italy every minute of every day.
He sighed and took another drink before tossing the empty bottle onto a pile of trash overflowing from the curb and onto the street. The Catholic priest moved on down the dusty sidewalk before the flies he’d disturbed took their wrath out on him. Dealing with Father Josef would be bad enough, but at least now he would have some liquid courage. Thank the Lord for the smallest blessings.
Father Pietro was just rounding the last corner a block before the squat church building came into view, when the squealing of old brakes filled the street. He’d been caught in more than his share of shootings and thought that this could be another. He hid behind a dented blue dumpster and watched as men poured out of three cars as well as a pair of oversized delivery vans. His chest tightened when he saw where they were going, straight into the midnight mass at La Iglesia De La Virgen Bendecida, The Church of The Blessed Virgin.
Screams followed, but were silenced by two gunshots. Father Pietro trembled, mouthing a prayer, his drunken haze gone in a burst of fear. Two more shots sounded, snatching the prayer from his lips. There was shouting, and he could just barely make out a few words, “No one move,” and, “Quiet that baby.”
He had to do something, but what? Thankfully, whoever was in charge of replacing streetlights in the neighborhood had never done so. Cloaked in black he would be difficult to see. It would be easy to turn and run. No one could fault him if he went to find help, but who would he seek? The police would be of little help at this time of night. They knew the risks of roaming the streets at this late hour as much as common citizens.
Despite his other flaws, Father Pietro was no coward. He’d served in the Italian Army before finding God and The Church. He’d killed other men and nearly lost his own life on more than one occasion. Dying wasn’t something he feared. He’d faced it before and somehow he came out unscathed. Some days he prayed for death, yet another item on his growing list of sins.
Swallowing what was left of his apprehension, Pietro picked a point across the street, sprinting there as quickly and as quietly as he could. After finding another hiding spot at the corner, his heart in his throat, his breath coming in gulps, Father Pietro looked down the block. The sentries were still standing in the same spot, one looking down the road and the other watching the front door of the church.
Thank you, Lord.
Now that he was on the same side of the street as the church, he had more options. One of the benefits of his late night binges was that he knew the area well. He’d slipped into the rented apartments he and his fellow priests lived in next door to their humble church on more than one occasion. Without waiting until fear got the best of him, Pietro took his familiar path around the building and down the back alley.
Either the attackers didn’t know the back entrance was there or they didn’t care. Luckily, the rear avenue was empty. With his right arm grazing the wall, he moved to the back door. He slipped his key out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock. The door opened with a muted click. Slowly, he pushed the door open and slid into the darkness.
He could hear more shouting now, the thin walls separating the chapel from the living quarters doing little to muffle the sounds. Father Pietro hurried to the small shared bathroom and the discovery he’d made only days before when looking for a place to
hided his assortment of after-hours beverages. Whether a product of bad construction or due to the needs of a past tenant, the priest had found a loose ceiling tile. It allowed anyone who knew of its presence to slide the tile aside and peek into the modest chapel.
The sounds of children crying and women pleading made him move as fast as he dared. He stepped onto the edge of the bathtub, getting his hand on the faded panel overhead. He had to place his other foot on the soap holder across the tub in order to lift himself up. He then pushed the ceiling tile aside and pulled his head up through the space.
He almost fell when he saw the scene next door. Two small bodies lay sprawled on the floor, each head lying in a pool of crimson blood. They were only children. Thankfully, he couldn’t see their faces because he would have lost his footing; he knew every person in the congregation.
Other than the masked men, Father Josef was the only person standing. The rest of his flock was on their knees, cowering from the intruders. After a quick scan of the space, Pietro counted at least thirty worshippers on the ground, including the two boys, already dead.
“The younger priests and the children under thirteen, stand up now,” came the order from one of the masked men. Then to his men he said, “Take them to the vans.” The voice was accented, but not in any Mexican dialect Pietro had ever heard. The man was speaking proper Spanish, but there were hints of something that tingled the edges of the priest’s brain.
“Please, take me instead,” pleaded Father Josef.
“We don’t need you, old man,” said the man with the AK-47. “I said get up!” He swiveled his weapon at the huddled figures for effect, a handful of young boys finally standing. “You too, boy,” he said, pointing at a small child named Francisco.
“He’s only a baby!” wailed his mother, her arms wrapped protectively around her other child, a newborn swaddled in a baby blue blanket.
The man’s weapon shifted and a burst of machine-gun fire sent bullets slicing into both mother and child.
Father Pietro clapped his free hand over his mouth. He knew the mother well; he had baptized her baby a week before. In that moment, the Catholic priest wished he had a rifle back in his hands. At least then he could have done something. He felt hot angry tears streaming down his face.
“Now, who else wants to die?” asked the masked man.
“Please, no more,” pleaded Father Josef, bending down to comfort the boy who’d just become an orphan.
Just then, Father Pietro’s foot slipped and he barely caught himself from falling, banging his knee against the wall with a dull thud. Every weapon turned his way. Luckily his head had slipped from view.
“What was that?” Pietro heard the man say.
Father Josef answered quickly. “Bad pipes. They make sounds all night.”
Father Pietro tried to calm his breathing as he waited for an extended moment, fully expecting a combined spray of bullets to pierce the wall and his body at any second. The blinding pain never came.
“Get up, all of you. The priests and the children to the door.”
Pietro heard shuffling and the murmuring of his people. He had to know what was happening, so he retook his position overlooking the scene, this time making sure he was more stable on his precarious perch.
The parishioners were doing as ordered, and even the two newest priests were over by the front door. Four masked men herded the group by the door onto the street. Father Josef and the others gathered near the makeshift altar.
The leader of the disguised men, joined by two of his compatriots, stepped closer. As soon as the front door slammed closed, he lifted off his mask, glaring at Father Josef. “Say your last prayers, priest, because tonight you will face Allah’s judgment.”
If the threat frightened the devout priest, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded, and turned to his people.
“Please kneel, and pray with me.”
Father Pietro watched as they all obeyed, whimpering at the danger just feet away, all kneeling with the priest whose magnificent voice had gathered them together for the celebratory mass.
Father Josef, joined by what remained of his congregation, bowed his head and began praying, “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”
The rest of the words were drowned out by the thundering rattle of machine gun fire, rounds assaulting the bodies of the assembled innocents, blood spraying and bodies slumping into piles. All Father Pietro could do was watch in horror, fists clenched, hoping that their murders would one day be avenged.
Chapter 2
Zapata District
Acapulco, Mexico
12:21am, March 11th
Father Pietro stepped down into the tub so he wouldn’t have to see the carnage, his hands cupped over his ears as soon as he hit the ground. His heart ached for the children, for the mothers and for Father Josef. When the gunfire stopped, he sat and waited. The familiar voice of the leader still spoke in Spanish for some reason, even though Pietro’s mind had already deduced that the man was some sort of Islamic fanatic. But when he’d gotten a glance at the man’s face, he was sure it wasn’t Arabic, maybe Spanish or even Italian, but not Arabic.
“You two, go next door and make sure the old man was telling the truth. Meet us back at the warehouse after you’re done.”
There were grunts from the men and the sound of doors opening and closing. Father Pietro knew he had to go, but where? Surely they would come in from the front and the back entrances. That’s what he would have done. That’s what he and his men had done.
The back door was the closest, so he decided to close the gap, his senses heightened by the thought of getting his hands on the murderers. It wasn’t what a proper Catholic priest should do, but in that moment, Pietro slipped back into his former role, his training taking over.
Doing a quick scan as he crept forward, nothing that could be used in his defense came to mind. He’d have to do it the hard way since there was no time to go to the tiny kitchen for anything that resembled a weapon.
He said a prayer as he settled in next to the rear entrance, his back soaked in stale sweat as he leaned against the wall. The light switch was on the other side, but the intruder wouldn’t know that.
Father Pietro heard the front door slam open just as the back door did the same. He caught sight of the tip of a muzzle, its owner scanning the entryway.
Stupid, thought Pietro. You never gave your enemy a glimpse. He knew what was coming.
The man with the gun rushed in, looking right, then moving to look left. That was when Father Pietro’s clasped hands crashed down on the man’s hand, making him bobble the rifle.
The priest bowled the man over. There was a brief struggle for the weapon, and thankfully he never pulled the trigger, but he did call out for his friend. “Help!”
Father Pietro almost panicked, grabbing the man’s head with both hands. But then his anger drove him, all thoughts of forgiveness flew from his mind. He slammed the man’s head into the tiled floor, once, then again, and again. After the third thud, the man was no longer moving.
The priest didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the man’s weapon and moved into the next room, padding quietly as the dead man’s accomplice called from the front.
“Where are you?”
Pietro kept moving. A light flicked on in the front hall, then another in the kitchen.
Another stupid move. If it had been Pietro, he would have left the lights off. Better to stalk his prey. But as he’d found in countless operations against the Mafiosi, most human beings were scared of the dark. The only shadows Father Pietro feared were the demons in his dreams.
Weapon scanning, lungs and heart settling, Pietro kept his eyes over the front sight post, a small part of him relishing the feel of a gun in his hands. He wasn’t helpless anymore.
No more calls from the front, only the noisy whirr from the ancient refrigerator in the kitchen. As Pietro peered from the darkness, ready to slip around the final corner, machine gun spat lead into
the hallway, taking out chunks of cheap drywall and shattering a mirror to the priest’s right.
Instead of falling back, Father Pietro rolled into the next room, well below the stream of bullets. It was almost always the same. Enemies rarely aimed low.
The barrel of his automatic weapon came up, his muscle memory taking over. Eyes aligned and finger poised, the head of his attacker came into view for a split second. It was all Pietro needed. He depressed the trigger as he got to his feet, every fiber in his still muscular frame working in harmony, tracking his target to the right and through the thin wall. The intruder was no match for his bullets.
Burst after controlled burst rattled from left, then down and right; the exact trajectory of the falling man. Father Pietro knew before he rushed around the corner what he would find.
The submachine gun had fallen from the masked man’s hands and was a few feet away. He was still moving, and writhed even more when Father Pietro stomped a foot on the man’s chest, pinning him in place.
Pietro ripped the black balaclava from the man’s head and two wide eyes looked up at him. Blood ran from his mouth and it opened and closed like a fish that’d been dropped out of water. Father Pietro knew what was coming. There was no saving this man. So he said a silent prayer for the man’s soul, and shot him in the face.
By the time he got to the bar, the owner was closing shop.
“Oh, hello, Father.”
“Hello, Ignacio. Don’t tell me it’s already closing time,” Father Pietro said, his voice strained from the fifteen-minute sprint away from the massacre.
“Slow night, Father.” He paused and looked closer at priest. “Are you well?”
Pietro gave him a quick nod. “Yes, yes. I was just hoping to catch you before you went home.” He knew it was a risk. Soon the entire neighborhood would know what had happened. It wasn’t that wholesale slaughter was new to the coastal city. Acapulco had gone from a luxury resort town that hosted international celebrities on its beaches for decades, to the most dangerous city in Mexico. Not only had tourism disappeared, but the per capita murder rate had skyrocketed. There was talk of a renewed push by the Mexican government and several rich benefactors to kick out the narco-traffickers, but so far the lost city was still firmly in the hands of Mexico’s ruthless drug lords.