Papal Justice Read online

  “We should be at the border by now,” said the jihadi. “If you cannot deliver, we will find help elsewhere.”

  Were there not so much at stake, El Moreno, the diminutive cartel jefe, would have put a bullet in the man’s head. The leader, whose deep caramel skin was a result of African slave ancestors bred with Mexican Indians, smelled an opportunity. His fledgling cartel was muscling its way into coastal towns along the Pacific Ocean. Their progress in the last month alone eclipsed the moves he’d made in the previous year. The other cartels called them outcasts, peasants and even freaks, but El Moreno didn’t care. He’d been called much worse, had been treated like a slave for much of his childhood. He could put up with the insults of his peers and even the complaints of this foreigner.

  “We have paid you millions, and yet you continue to take tiny steps to our goal,” the jihadi continued.

  “Felix, I made you a promise and I do not go back on my word.” He said it slowly, as if talking to a child. But the calm menace in his voice finally got through to the man standing across the small office.

  “I do not doubt your word, but the men I answer to—”

  “Are not here, Felix. Tell me, do they trust you?”

  “Of course.” The man huffed, puffing his chest like his honor was being questioned.

  “And if you told them that you were merely being cautious, that the mission will be accomplished despite the needed delay, would they believe you?”

  The hesitation on Felix’s face was plain. Despite whatever boasts the man made, El Moreno knew that the terrorist held no real power. He was a pawn and nothing more. He’d just admitted it to a man who was accustomed to putting such knowledge to good use.

  “What are you insinuating?” Felix asked, trying to regain a measure of his pride.

  “Nothing, my friend. I am only reminding you that you are in charge, are you not?”

  Felix nodded, reminding El Moreno of a circus monkey he’d once seen on a trip with his orphanage.

  “Good.” El Moreno pulled out a cigarette and tapped it on his desk. “Now, when are you going to tell me what you have in mind for the priests and children we’ve been keeping for you?”

  “That is none of your concern. Your job is to ensure our safety, and get us to the border.”

  El Moreno nodded as he pulled out a cheap butane lighter and lit his cigarette. “That is true, but what happens under my roof is my concern.”

  El Moreno didn’t really care what they were going to do with the priests this man had kidnapped. For all he cared they could kill them all. There was the issue of the children, however. Even he wasn’t cruel enough to send lambs to slaughter.

  But what he really wanted was a glimpse into the jihadi’s plan. His men had overheard the terrorist talking about something the foreigners called the three-headed dragon. They made it sound like it was a kind of weapon to use against their enemies, the Americans.

  Again, El Moreno didn’t really care about what the Islamic fools did to Americans, although there was the underlying concern of what it might do to the demand for his goods, but he did want to know what their weapon would be. He’d supplied the foreigners with guns, vehicles and food after picking them up from a deserted bus station weeks before. There had been no shipments, minimal phone calls, nothing that could be considered a weapon.

  He stared at Felix for a long moment, wondering what could motivate an intelligent man like this Spaniard to listen to the orders of some Islamic lunatic half a world away. El Moreno didn’t care about the man’s religion, it had no real bearing on their business relationship, but he did care about the actions that fanaticism could bring to bear. He often wondered what would possess a man to strap explosives to his chest and run into a crowded cafe. There was no payoff. Even when he’d been beaten, raped, and left for dead, never once had El Moreno thought of letting go. There was too much to live for.

  His curiosity took over. “Why are you doing this, Felix? Why do you hate the Americans?”

  Felix’s faced colored. “Because they are infidels. I am bound by my faith to fight them to my last breath.” He thumped his chest to accentuate the point.

  Fool, thought the cartel chief. While his peers might send their troops to slaughter, El Moreno cherished his men, took care of them in ways he’d always wished to be taken care of. His actions trickled down and seeped into the streets. Now the downtrodden were starting to look to him as some kind of Robin Hood, a benevolent benefactor who wasn’t afraid to walk the streets with them, take meals to their homes and eat with their families. El Moreno knew that if he had the resources of these single-minded terrorists, he might one day take over the drug trade for the entire country.

  But now he was done with this conversation. Obviously the proud jihadi wasn’t going to divulge his secrets. There was still time for him to pry them out.

  El Moreno shrugged, trying to look contrite. “You are right, Felix. Now that I have had time to think about it, we are moving too slowly.” He rose from his chair and walked around the desk. “Come, let us see how we can find this missing priest and get you through the American border by the time we promised.”

  Chapter 8

  Acapulco, Mexico

  1:44pm, March 14th

  The TJG team came in on six different flights. Cal opted not to bring their own transportation, much to the chagrin of MSgt Trent. Top loved flying in TJG’s swanky Gulfstream. It was one of the few aircraft that the huge Marine could fit in comfortably. Instead, he and Gaucho paired up and routed through Dallas, Los Angeles, and finally down to Acapulco International Airport.

  After a twenty minute taxi ride out of the city, the mismatched duo stepped out into the blazing sun. A weathered iron gate awaited, and a nondescript two story house lay inside, weeds tumbling over long untended flower beds.

  “Nice place,” Trent said, grabbing his carryon bag from the back of the taxi.

  “It may not look like much, but at least it’s safe,” Gaucho replied, handing the driver a fifty dollar bill.

  Trent didn’t know what Gaucho meant by safe. Hell, the rusted gate looked like he could kick it open without trying very hard. Trent was also surprised there wasn’t anyone guarding the entrance. His questions were answered when he heard a tapping and looked up at the prominent second story window. Daniel Briggs waved to Trent, cradling his newly delivered M40A5 sniper rifle, a gift from a friend at Quantico. Trent relaxed and smiled up at his friend.

  The gate squealed in protest as Trent swung it open. It really did feel like it would fall off its hinges at any moment. When they stepped inside, the pungent smell of incense greeted them.

  “You think they’ve been holding mass?” Trent asked.

  Gaucho shook his head and pushed past his friend.

  “Hey, boss, we’re finally here,” Gaucho called down the narrow hallway.

  Cal’s form appeared at the end of the hall.

  “Shhh,” Cal said, holding a finger to his lips.

  It was only then that Trent heard the chanting, low and even like worshippers praying in perfect sync. When they came into the far room, Trent’s eyes took in the spectacle around the fireplace. There were four robed forms, all on their knees, facing a crude wooden cross that looked like something a child had pieced together from a fallen tree. Incense burned in a tiny bronze vessel that was shaped like a miniature teapot, a thin line of smoke reaching up to the stained ceiling. Cal was the only other person in the living room.

  “What’s going on?” Trent whispered to Cal.

  “This is how we found them. They’ve been at it for almost an hour.” Cal’s lack of patience tinged his reply.

  “Where are the rest of the guys?”

  Cal pointed upstairs. “Getting comms up and unloading our gear.”

  “Briggs in charge of security?”

  Cal nodded without taking his eyes from the four monks who had just completed a simultaneous bow.

  Trent sensed that the prayer was coming to an end and a few sec
onds later, it did with a collective, “Amen.”

  The cloaked figures stood, threw back their hoods, and turned to face the newcomers.

  “Mr. Stokes?” the largest of the four men asked, his accent slightly European, although Trent couldn’t place where. His eyes were calm, but Trent could tell that under the bulky robes, this man was probably built like a body builder. He wasn’t as tall as Trent, but the Marine estimated that the guy was probably at least six foot five.

  “That’s me,” answered Cal.

  The monk stepped forward, offering his hand. “I am Brother Hendrik. Thank you for coming.”

  Next, a smaller version of Brother Hendrik came across the room. This one’s eyes were stone gray, piercing like a hawk’s. “I am Brother Zigfried,” he said in heavily accented English. This guy was either German or Austrian. Trent guessed the former.

  The third man to come forward was Cal’s size, and had the easy-going smile of an old friend. His hair was light brown and just beginning to bald. “I’m Brother Aaron,” the monk said, nodding to Cal, Trent and Gaucho. He spoke in perfect American English. Trent didn’t know what he’d expected, maybe a bunch of guys speaking Latin or Italian, not a mix of nationalities who looked more like an international SWAT team.

  The last man to introduce himself was the shortest of the four and obviously Hispanic.

  “I am Brother Fernando.”

  “It’s a pleasure meeting you,” Cal said, taking the time to look each man in the eye.

  Trent wondered if Cal was thinking the same thing he was. The Jefferson Group had brought twelve men and had just as many in support back in Charlottesville. The Pope had sent four men. Only four men! Trent hoped that either the situation had improved or that there were more monks stashed somewhere nearby.

  “As we discussed over the phone, Father Pietro should be arriving soon. He is understandably anxious to be under our protection,” Brother Hendrik said.

  MSgt Trent had discussed this Father Pietro with Gaucho. Both men wondered where the priest was hiding. If the poor guy had any sense, he’d probably been hiding in the darkest hole he could find. Gaucho said there were plenty of those in Acapulco, depending on how much money you had.

  “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 cru
mpled. 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 14th

  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.