Papal Justice (12 page)

The Pope exhaled. “Tell me, Luca, what do you think I should do about these fanatics?”

He saw a familiar twinkle in Brother Luca’s eye, the same one he’d seen many times in their younger years.

“Prayers alone will not stop them, Your Holiness.”

The Pope smiled. It was the same dilemma he faced from sunup to sundown. He was supposed to be the head of a rejuvenated Catholic Church. He tried hard to be a beacon of hope and an example of piety to the rest of the world. But Luca was right. While it was easy to say that violence was never the answer, what should be told to those on whom violence rained down every day? Pray? Pray and you will be saved from the savages who took your mother and raped your sister? Pray and the army on your front doorstep will suddenly disappear?

No. He knew the truth, that most evil men could only be stopped by overwhelming force. On the face of it, it seemed like a contradiction. How could a good Christian wage war when much of God’s message spoke of peace? Did that mean that every soldier who’d ever marched into battle was a sinner?

No. The answer was much more complicated. God had blessed warriors in the past, just as He would in the future. It was easy to condemn a man because of the gun in his hand. It was harder to look into the man’s soul and find the good leading him forward on his mission.

And then there was the question of cause. Who was to say that one group’s interpretation of heavenly blessing was superior over another? Were Islamic extremists correct when they declared that, in order to serve Allah, a holy war must be levied on their supposed enemies? Were clergy correct during the Inquisition when thousands of suspected heretics were rounded up and tortured, all in the name of God?

No. The Pope had studied religious persecution and violence since he’d first entered the priesthood. He’d come to the conclusion that should have been obvious. The crux of the matter was the simplest form of human emotion: Love. It all came down to love.

He secretly called it “the love test.” He’d found that examining a person’s motives became easier when you looked at them through the eyes of love. For example, was the decision to condemn all sinners an act of love, or merely a front to portray oneself as holier than others? The Pope knew from weathered experience that those who raised the anti-sinner banner were often the worst offenders, vying for power, celebrity, or just a cause they could put their name on.

So Brother Luca was correct. The jihadist threat could not be fixed with prayers alone. There would always be a need for warriors to protect the defenseless. While it might be a beautiful dream to imagine a world without violence, a utopia where harmony reigned, the opposite would always be true. If human history had taught the world anything, it was that evil men would always exist, fueled by power, greed, mental illness, or all three characteristics. As long as villains existed, the Pope knew there would be a need for men like the Brothers of St. Longinus.

The Pope sighed when he realized his mind had slipped onto his familiar rabbit trail, a quandary he could mull over for centuries if given the time.

“I was just thinking about what you told me when you first came to visit me in Rome,” he said.

Brother Luca grinned, the gesture pulling the oxygen lines tight across his cheeks. “What was that?”

“You said that the greatest threat I would face during my time as Pope would be apathy.”

“And have you found that to be the case?”

“Unfortunately, yes. It is easy for a person to say the words, to pray as if Jesus is standing before him, but the moment he leaves the church, he goes back to his old ways. The same can be said for governments, my own included. We talk about helping others, unconditionally opening our arms to the world, but do we really? No.”

“I am surprised. I thought you were going to say that you were appalled by my recommendation to strike a blow against the jihadis.”

The Pope chuckled. “I was more surprised to see you than to hear that you wanted to take the fight to those fanatics. You are, after all, the same Luca I met all those years ago on the streets of Argentina.”

Luca nodded, the motion triggering another coughing fit. Once he’d regained his breath, Luca said, “What will you do? Will you tell the world what is happening?”

The Pope honestly didn’t know. He didn’t have the answer even though he desperately wanted one. With so much at stake, including ever-shrinking numbers of churchgoers, he was hesitant to do anything that might further discredit The Church.

And that’s when it hit him.

Brother Luca watched as a subtle change came over the Pope. He first paled and, just as quickly, his color returned like a jolt of electricity had shocked his system.

“What is it?” he asked.

The Pope closed his eyes, ignoring the question. His lips moved and Brother Luca realized the pontiff was saying a prayer. He waited for his old friend to finish.

When he did, the Pope looked up, his eyes bright.

“I must go.”

“I am sorry to have kept you.” Brother Luca assumed that the Pope had just remembered an important meeting, or maybe he’d come to a revelation that didn’t involve his dying friend.

The Pope brushed the apology away with a wave of his hand.

“I am sorry to leave you. I just had a…reminder.”

Luca didn’t understand. “What happened?”

The Pope smiled. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

What did that mean? “So where are you going?”

“To Mexico.”

If he’d been able and not tethered by tubes and wires, Brother Luca would have jumped out of bed.

“What?! I don’t understand. We have things under control. My brothers—”

“I am a simple priest in the service of God, Luca. I go where He bids me to go.”

“You are the Pope! Millions depend on you!” Luca searched his mind for any excuse that could stop the stubborn determination in the Pope’s tone. “Easter is coming. What about Easter Mass? What about the thousands who have travelled to see you?”

The Pope shrugged like he was a twenty-three-year-old priest again, walking the dangerous byways of Argentina’s worst slums. Not a care in the world, like the only sustenance he needed was God’s love.

The pontiff rose from his chair and laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Right now, one man needs me. I must go to him. After all, is it not my duty to fight for every soul I can?”

And with that, the Pope left the room, leaving Luca to wonder how to explain this to the rest of the Brotherhood.

Chapter 16

Acapulco, Mexico

6:47pm, March 14
^th

They waited in an abandoned convenience store a block away from their target. The only thing that remained in the old store were the remnants of broken shelving and the droppings of animals and humans alike. Cal barely registered the smell of the place. There were too many other things to worry about.

Armando Ruiz had insisted on bringing his men and taking the lead in the operation. Cal hadn’t liked the idea at first, but with Gaucho’s blessing, The Jefferson Group contingent and the monks were playing a supporting role. Their combined firepower would only be brought to bear if everything went to shit.

Up until that point, it looked like Ruiz had things well in hand. Much to Cal’s surprise, the cartel soldiers were polite and well-trained, a far cry from what he’d expected. He’d asked Gaucho about it and the short Hispanic had said, “My uncle always liked things tied tight. It’s good to see he’s still a pro.”

Cal had to give it to the guy. He had the bearing of a crusty and gruff Marine colonel, but the unflinching acceptance from his troops spoke volumes of the reputation the criminal had within his organization. It was almost hard to hate the guy until Cal reminded himself that this was a drug lord he was thinking about.

He heard the clipped voices over the radio, barely making out two out of every ten words. They spoke in their native tongue and Cal was ready to turn his walkie off. Gaucho sat next to MSgt Trent, listening intently and giving the occasional translation like, “They’ve got eyes on the warehouse,” or, “Every egress route is covered.”

Cal felt useless. He was not accustomed to playing a supporting role. Even during his time in the Corps, he somehow always ended up at the front. He didn’t volunteer for it. It just happened.

Daniel had set up on the roof. With nothing better to do, Cal left out of the back exit, and climbed the metal ladder. At least maybe up there he’d have a better view of what was about to happen.

+++

“Vehicle noises inside the factory,” came the voice over the radio.

Ruiz waited. It would only be a minute or two before he triggered the ambush. His instructions were simple: clear shots only and no mowing down vehicles. If they could take down the convoy without firing a shot, all the better. Not that the veteran soldier expected that, but his men knew his intent. There were civilians in the line of fire. No need to have their blood on his hands. He wanted one man: El Moreno.

“Factory doors opening,” came another voice.

“Wait until they all clear the door,” Ruiz ordered. The last thing he wanted was for the enemy to take cover back inside the factory. No, he wanted them in the open, where well-aimed shots could disable whomever they wanted. With shooters lining every possible way in and out, things could get out of hand quickly should his men get itchy.

“Vehicles moving.” There was a short pause. Ruiz inhaled. “Six vehicles clear. Factory doors closing.”

“Go, go, go,” Ruiz said calmly. He flicked the safety off of his weapon and followed his bodyguards out the front door. He didn’t hear any firing. That was good. Maybe El Moreno wouldn’t put up a fight. Not that it would keep Ruiz from putting a bullet in the man’s head, but it would keep things cleaner.

He could see his men up ahead. They’d pulled their own vehicles in front of the convoy so he could see past them.

“Update, please,” he said over the radio, his pace quickening.

There was no answer. He broke into a jog.

“Update,” he repeated, noticing that his bodyguards were now fully alert.

“Sir, they’re just children.”

“What?” he asked, skirting around the idling vehicles, his patience thin.

“The drivers, they’re children.”

Ruiz got to the first truck and stared up at the frightened eyes of a child. He must have been eleven or twelve. His mouth was taped shut and his hands were secured to the steering wheel.

“It’s the same with the others,” one of his men said.

“All children?” Ruiz asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get them out and back to the Americans. Quickly.”

He marched off without waiting for a reply. When he got to the back of the convoy, he pointed to a soldier holding a large crowbar.

“What are you waiting for? Open the door.”

It only took a couple of tugs for the man to get the side door open, Ruiz falling in with his troops as they streamed into the factory. Five minutes later, the “all clear” came over the radio. The place had been abandoned. They’d rigged the factory doors to open by remote. Ruiz shook his head. El Moreno had played them perfectly. He’d somehow slipped through the surveillance they’d put in place earlier.

“Sir, there’s something you should see.”

Armando Ruiz looked up at the man.

“What is it?” he snapped.

The man pointed toward the back of the expansive factory.

“It’s back there.”

“What is?”

“It’s a note.”

“What does it say?” Ruiz growled.

“It’s for you, sir.” To his credit, the man didn’t cower. Ruiz’s men didn’t back down from anyone. He’d taught them that.

Ruiz nodded and said, “Show me.”

They made their way deeper into El Moreno’s complex. The place was tidy and in complete contrast to the crumbling exterior. He knew that his rival used the place as a metal works shop, producing counterfeit car parts that were shipped all over the world, mostly to America. Not for the first time, Ruiz wondered where the tiny man had found so many skilled laborers to fill the long assembly lines and cramped workshops.

“It’s in there, sir,” his soldier said, pointing to a room off to the right.

When he got inside, there were a handful of men standing around a large metal box. Ruiz realized it was a commercial grade walk-in freezer, the type used in food processing plants and shipping hubs. The men moved aside when he came into the room, and that’s when he saw it.

A man was literally crucified to the huge steel door, using heavy metal cable as shackles around his wrists, ankles and waist. Adding to the macabre display, the dead man was hanging upside down. The man had been disemboweled, and his intestines, stomach and other internal organs hung down onto his bare chest and over his face. Surprisingly, someone had the foresight to place a metal bin under the dying man, and the receptacle now held the majority of the man’s dark blood.

Ruiz stepped around the bucket of fluid and moved a strand of intestines aside. It was his informant, the janitor, Gustavo. Apparently the man hadn’t been as careful as he’d been taught.

“Where is the note?” Ruiz asked, wiping his gloved hand on the hanging man’s trousers.

One of his men produced a rolled up piece of paper and handed it to him. The message was typed, probably on one of those antique typewriters. The note was short and to the point.

Señor Jackalope,

I am sorry that we missed you. Unfortunately, I did not wish to meet at a time of your choosing. But fear not, I will see you soon. Please enjoy the
treats
I left for you.

El Moreno

Ruiz looked up from the note.

“Was there anything else? He mentioned treats.”

A burly soldier with a shaved head pointed to the dead janitor. “Did he mean that?”

“No. He specifically underlined
treats
.”