Papal Justice (6 page)

“My uncle was pretty torn up after that. He told me he went to the police, but that they had interviewed the witnesses, and none of them could identify the attackers. He knew that was a lie because of the way the bartenders had given the thugs preferential treatment, like they came in all the time. Well, he decided to have a talk with a couple of the bartenders. They refused to talk. So what did he do? He found out where they lived and held them at gunpoint until they talked. After that, it wasn’t hard for him to find the guys. The only problem was that they were tied to the reigning drug cartel. That didn’t matter to my uncle. He started with the guy who’d taken the shots, and then he got the others. Their bodies ended up as shark food, thrown off a fishing boat my uncle rented.”

Cal could see that nothing Gaucho had just told them necessarily disturbed the Mexican-American. Violence was part of their lives. It was what they trained for, and it was what they leveled against criminals.

Gaucho continued. “So he tells me all this, and I could understand, you know? But then his story took a weird turn. He said that the leaders of the cartel came after him, tried to kill him. Somehow he kept them at bay, dealing with two, then four, then ten man teams. I mean, that’s what the Army had trained him to do. Finally, I guess after the death toll got too high, whoever was in charge of the cartel asked for a meeting. My uncle was allowed to choose the place. They met, and after an hour of friendly exchanges, they offered my uncle a job. They wanted him to train their men to do what he’d done, and they offered him money, lots and lots of money.”

“And he took the job,” Cal said.

“Yeah. But the story doesn’t end there. After a year or two of training the cartel’s troops, my uncle had it all figured out. So what does he do? He kills the leader and takes over. He’s now one hundred percent on the dark side. I’m sitting there as he’s telling me this, and it’s like a stranger had taken over my uncle’s body. Same face, same smile, but the heart and soul had changed. He must have seen the look on my face because he said, ‘Don’t be so surprised. This is the fucking real world, Gauchito.’ And then he really shocked me, really made me realize he didn’t know me at all. After all that, my uncle has the nerve to offer me a job, to do the same thing he did, training the troops.”

No wonder this was a sore spot for Gaucho.

“What did you tell him?”

Gaucho snorted. “I told him he was going to hell, and that he could shove his job up his ass.”

There were chuckles around the room, the mood lightening in the face of Gaucho’s surprise revelation.

“And that’s how you left it? He let you go?”

Gaucho shook his head.

“He let me go, sure. But not before he told me something that I’ll never forget.”

“What did he say?”

“He looked me straight in the eye and said that if he ever saw me again, he’d put a bullet in my head.”

The room went quiet. Everyone waited on either Gaucho or Cal to break the silence. Finally, Cal laughed because it was the only thing he could think to do, and said, “Well, anyone else got any uncles in Mexico?”

Chapter 7

Acapulco, Mexico

8:39pm, March 13
^th

Metal grinding and the incessant hammering of factory workers below came in muffled clangs to the ears of the two men in the third story foreman’s office. Everything was metal and dirty, except for the desk. Each sheet of paper was arranged neatly, and even the pencils and pens were standing at rigid attention in their lucite holder. Behind the desk, El Moreno listened as his client went on and on about their lack of progress.

“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 14
^th

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 seconds 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.