Papal Justice (8 page)

On they went until no more enemies popped up to face the monks.

“Those are some badass padres,” said MSgt Trent.

“Madre de Dios,” said Gaucho, his eyes wide as he watched.

“Let’s secure the street. I’ll bet the cops will be here soon,” Cal said, turning to head downstairs. For the first time since he’d talked to the president, Cal wondered what exactly they’d just stepped into.

+++

Ricardo Lozano somehow resisted the urge to drop his weapon and give himself up. The sight of four robed figures systematically ripping through his ranks sent his mind reeling. He’d often wondered about the consequences of the life he’d decided to live under El Moreno. Was this his repayment? Had God sent his own messengers to pay Ricardo back for his sins?

He didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to stick around to find out. Without another thought, except to say a small prayer for forgiveness, Ricardo turned and ran as fast as he could.

+++

Brother Zigfried took a knee, carefully following the retreating man in his sights. His finger touched the trigger.

“Let him go,” came Brother Hendrik’s voice.

Brother Zigfried hesitated. “But, brother, he was the last—”

“Yes,” said Hendrik, watching the man disappear down the hill. “He was the last for today. Let him go back to his master and tell him of the Lord’s messengers.”

Chapter 10

Acapulco, Mexico

8:12pm, March 14
^th

His head throbbed as he came to. There were voices, muffled yet close by. They faded in and out for a time, like someone was turning the volume up and down on a television. He sensed them, but something in their tone made him think he was safe.

His first thought was that he’d been taken to a hospital. Then it hit him. The voices were speaking in Italian, not Spanish. Although he could’ve kept his eyes closed and enjoyed the overwhelming sense of safety, Father Pietro forced them open. Colors blended together in blurry blobs. He squinted despite the dim lighting.

Gradually his sight cleared. There were four men seated around a table, one speaking in Italian. They turned in unison as Father Pietro shifted his position, wincing at the searing headache.

“Welcome back, Father,” one of the men said in fluent Italian.

The priest’s breath caught when he realized the men were wearing the brown robes of monks.

“Where am I?”

“You are safe.”

Father Pietro bit off a groan as he sat up in the bed.

“You’re Luca’s men?”

The largest of the four men nodded.

“We are the Brothers of Saint Longinus.”

The priest searched his mind for any memory of the brotherhood. He couldn’t recall ever having heard of it.

“Saint Longinus, you say?”

Another nod from the large one. Without thinking, Father Pietro examined the monks, assessing the outwardly formidable quartet. Strong, especially the apparent leader. The others might not seem as impressive as their peer, but Pietro knew better. They had the cool gaze of trained professionals. They were men who’d seen death, and likely dealt their fair share. He found himself wondering who these Brothers of Saint Longinus really were, and how his old friend Luca had captured their friendship.

“We are an ancient brotherhood. Brother Luca is the head of our order. He speaks highly of you.”

Father Pietro thought that Luca might not think so highly of him if he could see what he had become. Sitting across from the four monks, Pietro felt like a lesser man, like a failure.

“How is my old friend?” the priest asked, wanting to change the subject. The last thing he wanted was to talk about himself. He’d avoided such conversations for as long as he’d served God, each day another ring of penance for his mountain of sins.

“He is dying.” The big man said it matter-of-factly, like he’d already come to terms with the implications and sadness of Luca’s death. But there was warmth there as well. This man respected Luca, cared for him like a comrade, like a brother.

Father Pietro said a silent prayer for his old friend.

“Then we should go. It has been too long since I’ve laid eyes on the old man.”

A look passed between the four monks, like he’d somehow offended them. Pietro’s stomach turned.

“I’m sorry. Have I said something wrong?” he asked.

“Our orders are clear, Father.”

“And what are your orders? I assumed that you would be taking me back to Italy.” That was all he’d thought about since that dreadful night. His plan was to give any information that might help in the investigation and then request a new assignment, perhaps one in Italy, without parishioners to tend to. Surely they would take his circumstances into account and let him live out his days in quiet solitude, atoning for his sins in relative peace.

“You are to remain here and assist us in finding our stolen flock. There have been more kidnappings.”

Sweat sprang from Pietro’s brow.

“I am happy to assist with information, but I am not qualified to help in any other way.” He felt the panic clawing away at his insides. This couldn’t be happening.

The muscular monk shook his head.

“That is not God’s plan, Father.”

The words shot from his mouth before he could stop them. “What do you know of God’s plan?! What life have you lived that you should be the judge of what I must do?”

It was like the words shattered against an impenetrable wall of stone. The monk’s face didn’t change.

“It is not my choice, Father.”

“Then whose is it? Who demands that I stay and help you?” His old anger simmered, long since tamped down into the farthest reaches of his soul, wrapped in iron bonds where it could no longer hurt others. But now it shook in its chains, demanding to be let out, howling for the light. Pietro let it come. “You know nothing,” he hissed.

But still the monk looked unfazed.

“I know you are in pain, Father. Is that not why you changed your name, to distance yourself from your past? Is that not why Gabriel Fusconi became Pietro?”

Cold fury washed over the priest. His hands shook as he tried to form his retort.

“How dare you…”

“No, Father, how dare
you
.” The monk rose from his chair, now even more imposing as he walked to the bed. His face wasn’t the mask of fury Father Pietro expected, but still the calm facade of a determined warrior. Father Pietro glared at the man with every ounce of hatred he could muster, but if he felt a thing, the monk didn’t let it show. He said, “You swore an oath to God. You promised to serve Him, to serve His people. Instead you’ve chosen to hide like a coward, to lose yourself in your weakness. That is not what God wants of you.”

The words were like swift jabs to the priest’s chest. He felt each one, saw the truth in the words, but didn’t want to listen.

“So tell me, monk,” Father Pietro stabbed back. “Whose orders do you follow now? Is it God who told you to keep me in Mexico?”

A smile made its way onto the burly monk’s face. Pietro steeled himself for a glib reply.

“Normally we are bound by our vows not to divulge our master’s identity, but Brother Luca has given me the assurance that you can be trusted.”

Pietro was getting tired of the man’s riddles.

“So, who is it? Who is this mysterious person that commands the warrior monks before me?”

The monk’s smile stretched wider.

“His Holiness, our Holy Father, the Pope.”

+++

The villa they’d rented was swanky and built like a fortress. Commanding an impressive view of the Pacific Ocean, Villa Tesoro (Spanish for treasure) lived up to its name. With video surveillance inside and out, two sets of armored entry gates, and enough room to house a platoon, Villa Tesoro was exactly what Cal and his team needed: a safe place to plan their next move. Sometimes it was good to have a lot of money and friends who could find new accommodations on the fly.

The Pope’s warriors had taken Father Pietro to a large guest room on the other side of the mansion. The Jefferson Group operators were congregated in a split level living area that overlooked an LED lit swimming pool that could’ve been an exact replica of the one at the Playboy Mansion.

Cal read the report Neil had sent moments earlier from TJG headquarters. With the help of the pictures they’d sent him of the dead men who’d attacked them hours before, Neil was able to discover their identities by accessing the Mexican police database.

“Neil says these guys are cartel gunmen. Some have records and others were rumored to have affiliations with a guy called El Moreno. Anybody ever heard of this guy?” Cal asked.

Gaucho raised his hand. “Yeah, I have. He runs the Guerrero Cartel.”

“How much do you know about him?”

Gaucho winced. “More than I should. He’s my uncle’s number one enemy.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“Do you know this guy?” MSgt Trent asked.

“No. I just remember my uncle telling me about him.”

“So what’s his deal? Why do you think he was after the priest?” Cal asked.

“I don’t know, but I can probably guess. From what I remember, El Moreno is new in the drug world. My uncle describes him like a lord describing a peasant, like the guy wasn’t good enough to be in the drug business or something. Anyway, if I had to bet, I’m sure the Guerrero Cartel is leveraging whatever they’re getting from the jihadis to step up in the world. It could be money, weapons, or both.”

That seemed plausible to Cal. While the presence of Islamic extremists in a predominantly Catholic nation might’ve been a slim possibility in the past, who knew what upstarts like El Moreno were willing to do? More importantly, who they were willing to work with in order to get what they wanted?

“So how do we find this guy?” Trent asked to no one in particular.

“Neil said he’s working on it, but El Moreno has been pretty good at staying off the authority’s radar,” Cal answered.

“What about the police? Could they help?”

Cal shook his head. “The boss wants us to keep the Mexicans out of it for now. I don’t think they’d like to find out that we’ve been waging war in their playground. U.S.-Mexico relations are already bad as it is. Unless Hendrik and his brothers have some secret Catholic intelligence asset, I think there’s only one option on the table.” Cal looked to Gaucho, who returned the look with a frown. “You know who we need to contact, Gaucho.”

The short Hispanic exhaled and tugged at his beard.

“Okay, but I’m not promising anything. My uncle did promise to kill me the last time I paid him a visit.”

Chapter 11

Acapulco, Mexico

8:50pm, March 14
^th

Ricardo Lozano waited nervously for his boss. He’d had the unfortunate pleasure of having to call El Moreno while the leader was on a date. His master had been cordial over the phone, but Ricardo hated to disturb his boss when he was on one of his rare excursions into the upper crust of society.

It wasn’t safe to speak over the phone, so El Moreno had instructed him to come to the hotel for a full debriefing. Ricardo knew he was stepping into dangerous territory, that the loss of so many men would surely ignite his boss’s fire. He promised himself that he would take it like a man. He would not retreat from his responsibility. His faith was with his patrón.

As he waited in the penthouse vestibule, trying not to stare at the paintings displayed in gold gilded frames and the spotless sheen on the black marble floors, Ricardo replayed the disastrous raid in his head, no doubt that El Moreno would want to know every detail. He always did. The man had a mindset like what Ricardo assumed a college professor or a doctor might have. He missed nothing and remembered pieces of conversations that most other men would have missed.

El Moreno came into the room wearing a knee length black silk robe. His feet were bare and tapped lightly on the cold floor. Ricardo bowed his head.

“Jefe.”

Without saying a word, El Moreno walked to his man and embraced him. Ricardo half expected a blade to plunge into his back, but none came. The short man placed a hand on Ricardo’s shoulder and guided him into the living room.

“Tell me what happened.” El Moreno’s voice was calm, even soothing. It made Ricardo relax until a split second later when he remembered what he had to say.

“It did not go well, Jefe.”

“Tell me everything.”

Ricardo explained how one of the cartel’s informants called with the information regarding the priest’s whereabouts. A surveillance team was set up and for the better part of the morning nothing happened. Then, just after the lookout unit had switched over after lunch, a taxi arrived and the priest got into it.

“I called in the extra men who were still on the road from earlier.”

“The ones running the errand for our guests?” El Moreno asked.

“Yes.”

“So you had how many men?”

“Twenty, Jefe.”

“Tell me what happened next.”

Ricardo nodded, taking a hesitant breath before beginning again.

“If the driver or the priest knew that we were following the taxi, they did not show it. They made no stops until they arrived at their destination.”

“Where was it?”

“In the foothills near Nueva Jerusalen.”

El Moreno nodded. “Then?”

“The priest got out of the taxi and went inside the compound.”

“What did you do?”

“I radioed the others and ordered them to go in like we always do.”

“You expected trouble?”

Ricardo looked up, panic making his heart race. El Moreno’s orders had been clear, “Bring the priest in alive.”

His words came out in a tumble. “I cannot explain it, Jefe. I had a feeling, like someone was watching, waiting even.”

El Moreno frowned.