Papal Justice

by CG Cooper

  “It is all too much. I don’t have the strength.” His soul ached. He’d tried for so long to be another person, to be a good priest, a devout follower of God.

  Daniel didn’t press, simply nodding his response.

  And then for some reason, as if someone or something had taken over control of his body, the story came out.

  “I was in my early thirties when they gave me my own team. I was a good soldier, a model within the elite ranks of the Ninth Parachute Assault Regiment. Have you heard of them?”

  Daniel nodded.

  “Those were the first days after your 9/11. The Italian government used us in many roles. We found and captured terrorists, Mafiosi, anyone who my government deemed a criminal. We were given the hardest takedowns, the most dangerous assignments. I did not mind. I was young and running into a house full of armed men gave me a thrill that I can even now feel.”

  Father Pietro took a deep breath and looked out to the waves rolling with the incoming tide.

  “It was another classified operation. We didn’t know where we were going until we crossed the border into Slovenia. The target was a bomb-making factory that was bringing its goods into Italy. The intelligence report said there would be minimal resistance, but that the ringleader would be at the location. My superiors wanted to bring him in for questioning, in order to see if the man would give up his customers.

  “At first, everything went according to plan. There was minimal security outside the large barn, and we easily incapacitated those men. It wasn’t until we stepped inside that a shot was fired. I had fourteen men, all handpicked by myself. We swept through the old place like we’d trained. Those enemies who raised weapons were put down. When we located the bomb maker, he retreated to an underground silo, where a farmer used to store grain. Well, he had a handful of men with him and, by the amount of firepower they were using, it was obvious they were not going to surrender.”

  Father Pietro watched the scene unfold as if he’d magically been transported back to that awful day. He continued, his voice almost mechanical, as if he were reciting an after-action report for a superior.

  “I contacted my commanding officer who then gave me permission to terminate the target. My concern was that the bomb-maker had somehow rigged the entire building for detonation. It was one of the things he was known for. I ordered all but two of my men out, just in case. From the top of the stairs, each of the three of us pulled out two high explosive grenades and threw them down the steep stairwell. Even though the stairs went down almost two stories, the explosion still rattled the building and broke several windows. I took the lead, my men following behind. There was no sound as I descended the staircase. The explosives had apparently done their job. We didn’t use that type of grenade unless the kill order had been confirmed. Typically we would have used what you call flash bangs.

  “I had to turn on my flashlight as we neared the bottom. The explosions had taken out all the lights in the silo. The dust and leftover grain was still settling when we got to the bottom. It took a moment for me to get my bearings, to be able to see what our grenades had done. No one leapt up to greet us, and no bullets flew our way. What I found next was worse. Parts of the dead bodies of the bomb maker and his men lay nearby something that none of us had expected, a cruel surprise that our informant had neglected to tell us. We later found out that the bomb-maker was also getting into the slave trade. He had been harboring a shipment of young girls who would soon be making the trip to whomever had purchased them.

  “There were thirty girls, all tied to rings mounted on the stone wall. One of the grenades must have landed right in the middle of them, because there were body parts everywhere. Thirty girls. Thirty girls, Daniel, all dead because of me, because of my actions, because of my decision to take another man’s life. I swore right there as I fell to my knees, my weapons falling from my grasp, that I would never take another man’s life. I would spend my life trying to atone for my sins. I see those bloody eyes every night. They come to me, pleading, begging for their lives. But I cannot help them. I cannot turn back time and bring them back. I must live with this pain. I must try to bury it and move on. I must…”

  “Go on living,” Daniel finished for him.

  Father Pietro nodded.

  “You’ve known this torment as well.”

  “I have.”

  “And does it still live inside you?”

  “Always.”

  “How have you done it? How have you learned to hide from the pain, to forget your old life?”

  Daniel smiled, the warmth in his voice like a welcome salve. “I embraced the agony. I realized it will always be a part of who I am, but that fact doesn’t make me weak or damaged. It makes me stronger. I made the decision to get up off of the floor and take that first step. But I didn’t do it alone.”

  Father Pietro would have cried if he’d had any tears left to shed. He looked at this young man, who seemed to glow in humble confidence, like he’d found the secret to eternal happiness and was now waiting for Father Pietro to ask the right question so that he could reveal it. He was desperate to know.

  “Who helped you? Who showed you the way?”

  With that curious smile again, Daniel pointed up at the sky, pulling Father Pietro’s gaze heavenward. When he looked down, Daniel was still smiling, and hot tears started running down Father Pietro’s face. How could one so young, in the line of work Daniel was in (he’d even heard the others calling him Snake Eyes), have the answer?

  “Will you help me?” The question spilled from his mouth like he’d just exhaled after holding his breath for his entire adult life. Father Pietro reached out his hand and grabbed Daniel’s arm, as if the act would transfer the young man’s peace to him.

  “Of course,” Daniel answered, putting his hand on top of the priest’s.

  Father Pietro smiled and returned his gaze to the heavens.

  Chapter 15

  Rome, Italy

  10:15pm (3:15pm Acapulco Time), March 14th

  Hollow blips and the steady whir of a myriad of machinery greeted the Pope as he entered the converted apartment. He’d offered to lend one of his personal physicians, but Brother Luca had informed him that The Brotherhood had their own team of caregivers. They’d outfitted the master bedroom like a high-end hospital suite. Every device was digital and shiny. Apparently, The Brotherhood of St. Longinus was well-funded.

  Luca’s eyes snapped open and he struggled up in bed.

  “Please, stay where you are,” the Pope said, rolling over a chair so that he could sit next to his friend.

  “I am sorry I could not come to you, Holy Father. These doctors have me hooked up to so many tubes.” He adjusted the plastic oxygen cannula that ran into his nose.

  The Pope waited for his friend to get comfortable, and then said, “How are things in Mexico?”

  Brother Luca coughed into a handkerchief. “They tell me things are progressing. We should know more in the morning.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  The monk shook his head. “My brothers can take care of it.”

  It wasn’t that the Pope disagreed with him, but matters were getting worse. Too many parishioners had been killed or kidnapped. It seemed that the attacks had ceased, but that could only mean that the next phase of the enemy’s plan would soon be implemented.

  To complicate things further, the Mexican government was naturally alarmed. There’d been several inquiries to the Vatican regarding the attacks. So far, the Pope and Brother Luca had kept the secret of the terrorist actions to themselves. President Zimmer had also assured the Pope earlier in the day that the team he’d dispatched to assist the monks were the only ones that knew of the jihadi involvement.

  It was only a matter of time before word got out. Some enterprising reporter would eventually pick up the story and start digging. Such was the new reality in a technological world.

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

  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 14th

  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.