Blaze of Glory (36 page)

“We have to assume we’ve been compromised and that more men are on their way to make our lives miserable. We have two hostages in the church and unknown opposition. We need to do this fast and surgical.”

Moyer’s voice filled Zinsser’s head, pushing out every other image and voice. Zinsser was grateful. “All we have is the exterior layout. No idea what’s on the inside?”

Jose leaned in to keep his voice low. “I’ve toured many missions. My wife loves them. Lots of them have basements.”

“Makes sense,” Moyer said. “Okay, we assume that to be true in this case. Here’s what we do: two teams. I’ll lead Alpha team; Shaq you’ll lead Bravo. Colt, Data, you’re with me. Doc, Junior, you’re with Shaq.” Moyer laid out the next steps. The meeting lasted less than ninety seconds.

CHAPTER 38

PADRE GRADOS HAD BEEN ordered to stay in the basement. He hated giving the men upstairs free rein of the church. Who knew what manner of defilement they had brought within the mission walls. If the condition of the man and woman were any indication, then Grados could only fear the worst.

The stomping above had ceased, and for a few moments Grados hoped something had forced them to flee. He didn’t know what could force heartless, callous, armed men to flee, but he’d welcome it.

Hearing nothing for several minutes, the priest walked up the wooden stairs slowly, pausing when he could see the upper floor. The stairs led to a narrow hall that prevented him from seeing very far. He strained his ears to hear the sound of the men and heard nothing. He took a few more steps and paused again. Fear made him sick to his stomach, but he continued up the risers, moving as quietly as possible. “In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid of what man can do to me.” He quoted the psalm over and over, his voice so low only he could hear it.

The floorboards beneath his feet creaked, and he stopped, as if the sound had turned him to stone. He took another step. The hall ended in the church kitchen. The room was old and the painted plaster chipped, but the appliances were new—gifts from a man who thought he could buy acceptance and forgiveness. Grados wanted to reject the stainless steel, commercial grade refrigerator and freezer, the matching stove and double oven, but Hernando Soto was not a man one said no to.

In slow steps he crossed the large kitchen and entered the fellowship hall, a wide space filled with folding tables and folding chairs. The light in the kitchen had been on, meaning the men had been helping themselves to the food. He wondered when the couple on the cots in the basement had last eaten.

The fellowship hall was dark. As Padre Grados stood in the doorway, light from the kitchen cast his shadow into the room, filling the rectangle of illuminated floor. His heart pounded so hard, he was surprised the windows didn’t reverberate in rhythm with it.

A wide opening in the wall opposite him led to the narthex and the nave. He moved to the door that opened to the large space where the congregants sat each Sunday. The space was much larger than needed. A century ago the church believed the small villages it served would grow and so they built for future crowds, that never arrived. Prayer candles were the only light in the room, but it was enough for Grados to see two men with automatic rifles peering through the shutters that sealed the opening facing the courtyard. The only glass in the sanctuary was century-old stained glass. All other openings in the walls—where glass windows might be in a contemporary church—bore hinged shutters that could be opened and closed from the inside.

It took a moment for Grados to realize what he was seeing. The two men were set up for an ambush. An ambush of whom? Realization settled on him:
Federales.
The government was making an assault on Hernando’s drug empire—and these men were lying in wait for them. Blood was about to be spilled on church grounds.

Grados stepped back, praying the floor would not squeak under his weight. Over the years he had grown used to hearing the noises and no longer paid them attention. Now, it was his greatest concern. Knowing the floorboards were more secure near the walls, the priest moved along the partition that separated the narthex from the nave until he reached the large, oak double doors. Each door had a small square opening covered with decorative wrought iron. Placing his face near one of the openings, Grados stared across the courtyard with its central fountain and at the four-foot high stucco wall that enclosed the space. Centered in the wall was an opening with an arch above. Congregants walked through that opening and into the courtyard every Sunday, often gathering in the courtyard after services to share gossip.

Something moved near the courtyard entrance. Something dark; almost impossible to see. Something human shaped. Grados’s eyes traced the wall. He saw another form. They were here. They were approaching. They were about to walk into the crossfire of evil men.

“Blessed Jesus!” Grados crossed himself. He was about to witness murder.

A man dressed in black slipped under the arch and moved toward the fountain, crouched like a cat ready to spring. In his mind he could see the two men in the sanctuary tightening their fingers on their respective triggers.

Grados’s hands shook so that he had trouble working the iron-door latch. He hesitated. His lungs ceased drawing air. His heart refused to beat.

Again, Grados crossed himself, then flung open the door. He forced his feet to move, to run. Pointing at the shuttered windows, he shouted at the top of his lungs:
“¡Cuidado! ¡Peligro!”

Padre Grados heard something.

Something loud.

ZINSSER HAD BEEN THE first on direct approach. Moyer gave him the signal, and he rounded the wall, stepped through the gateless opening, and sprinted to the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. He had only taken a few steps when a crazy old man bolted from the front doors of the church yelling something in Spanish. Instinctively Zinsser turned his weapon on the man but stopped short of pulling the trigger. The man wore a long robe with long sleeves and what appeared to be a white rope around his waist. The priest?

Zinsser had no idea what the man was saying, but he understood. He dove for cover behind the fountain just before something chipped off a large piece of decorative tile. No one had to tell Zinsser what that something was. He lowered his head and pulled his helmet tight.

Another shot.

The man stopped his screaming.

Zinsser glanced to his side in time to see the man fall to the ground. His head bounced off the adobe skirt that circled the bottom of the fountain. Zinsser reached an arm to the man, seized the hood at the back of his robe, and pulled him behind the fountain. The priest’s open, lifeless eyes told him it had been a useless gesture.

“Data?”

“I’m fine for the moment, Boss. The priest is dead. He was pointing to the two windows facing the courtyard.”

“We got a clear angle on them.” Rich’s voice came through the monitor in Zinsser’s ear.

“Take it, Shaq.” Moyer didn’t hesitate and Zinsser was glad.

Before Zinsser could raise his head, a fusillade of noise-suppressed gunfire erupted. The wooded shutters in the window exploded into countless splinters. Zinsser pushed to his feet and charged the front doors. When he was two strides from the entrance, a large man with an AK-47 appeared. Zinsser pressed the trigger and sent a burst of bullets into the man’s chest. He fell across the threshold. Zinsser planted a foot on his back as he propelled himself through the door.

From his left came the
ratta-tatta
of automatic gunfire, followed by the whistle of bullets and thudding as rounds impacted the thick plaster walls. Through the opening between what Zinsser thought of as the lobby and meeting hall, he saw a skinny man with an automatic weapon.

Zinsser put three rounds into him.

“Boss, Data, two EKIA.” Two enemy killed in action.

“Other hostiles?”

“Unknown.”

Zinsser stepped into the church. Long wooden pews formed an aisle leading to the front. A handcrafted pulpit sat upon a dais. He brought his weapon to his shoulder and moved quickly down the side aisle, looking for bad guys who might be hiding.

“Boss, Data, church clear.”

“Hold your position.”

Zinsser stepped from the church and back into the foyer, stopping short of the threshold into the next room. He dropped to a knee and kept the barrel pointed into the unsearched room.

“Coming in.”

Zinsser didn’t look up at the sound of boots at the door. Moyer and J. J. appeared; each took a position on either side of the doorway. Moyer motioned to J. J., held up three fingers, and did the countdown. J. J. was through the door before the last finger retracted. Moyer followed, and Zinsser after him. What appeared to be a dining room was empty.

The three men poured into the kitchen. Moyer must have seen the hallway. He pivoted and pointed his weapon down the narrow corridor. A closed door was on the opposite wall. Moyer pointed to Zinsser and gestured at the door. J. J. stepped to the door and set his hand on the doorknob. Zinsser raised his weapon, stopping just a foot away from the door. He nodded, and J. J. turned the knob, throwing the door open. Zinsser plunged in, J. J. a half step behind.

The room was small and spare. A bed with a worn mattress was situated to the side. A small desk was on the other wall. A large crucifix hung on the wall.
The priest’s bedroom.
Zinsser thought of the man lying dead by the fountain.

Zinsser and J. J. retreated from the bedroom and gave the signal for all clear. Zinsser stepped behind Moyer, and J. J. stepped behind him. Zinsser squeezed his team leader’s shoulder. Moyer started forward. Two steps in, a voice came over the radio.

“Boss, Shaq. Perimeter.”

“Understood.”

“Boss, I think we may have company. I’m hearing engine noises.”

“Take cover.”

Moyer pushed through the narrow corridor to the stairs. Zinsser tensed. Stairs could be a problem. Once a soldier was on a staircase, his movement was limited to forward and back, and back in this case was uphill. The railing and wall limited lateral movement. There was nothing they could do but take the chance. Zinsser’s primary concern at that moment was not to accidentally shoot Moyer should something go south.

Thirteen steps later they were in a barely lit basement. Two people lay on rickety cots: one male, one female. Only the female was conscious. She pushed back, trying to put distance between her and the men in the black masks carrying guns.

Zinsser and the others swept the room and found no hostiles.

Moyer moved to the woman. “We’re not here to hurt you. How many men brought you here?”

She didn’t answer. Zinsser could see fear in her eyes. “Is Delaram your daughter?”

“Yes, yes! Is she safe?”

“She’s alive and being taken care of,” J. J. said. “I got to meet her. Now please answer his question. We don’t have much time.”

“Two. Two men brought us here. My husband won’t wake up.”

Another voice in the ear. “Boss, Shaq, we got company. Two vans, approaching.”

“Take positions in the church. We’re in the basement. Building is clear.”

Zinsser stepped to the woman and looked at the shackles that bound the couple to the wall. A metal plate that held one end of the shackle had been bolted to the wall and a chain welded to it. At the woman’s wrist was a hinged cuff with a padlock securing the two parts together. “Did one of the men use a key to lock your cuff?”

“Yes. He put it in his pocket.”

Moyer turned to J. J. “Colt, get upstairs, get that key and get Doc down here. We have to find a way to wake the man.”

J. J. was gone before Moyer could put a period on the end of the sentence.

CHAPTER 39

THE GATE CLOSED BEHIND him. He had waited until the last possible moment to sprint through the automatic gate. He had almost waited too long, and he wondered what would have happened had his wide body become trapped in the device. Would it have crushed him?

He didn’t harbor the questions for long. He had other things on his mind, and those
things
were waiting just a few yards ahead of him. He had toyed with several ideas about how to approach the mansion. Seeing heavily armed men race from the grounds in two vans gave him a little more confidence. Something else was going on, something that demanded the attention of the guards. Perhaps they had left the place unguarded.

He took his time walking up the drive, trying to look as if he belonged there. A backpack hung from his shoulder. He knew there were cameras watching the large property. Lawn and low-lying shrubs populated the grounds, leaving no place for an unwanted visitor to hide. If someone was manning the security camera area, then he had been seen. He should have been seen several minutes ago, but no one approached him.

The man had a new fear. Maybe the house was empty. No matter, he could wait.

He took the porch steps one at a time, as if he had walked this path a hundred times before. In a way he had. He had rehearsed this in his mind more times than he could count.