Papal Justice
Authors: CG Cooper
“Papal Justice”
Book 10 of the Corps Justice Series
Copyright © 2015 Corps Justice. All Rights Reserved
Author: C. G. Cooper
Editor: Karen Rought
Get a FREE copy of any
Corps Justice
novel just for subscribing at
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
Zapata District
Acapulco, Mexico
12:06am, March 11
th
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.”
