Papal Justice
Page 15
“He would not close his mouth, not from the first moment at the airport. The man was trouble.” The stern faced former Swiss Guard didn’t look worried. He took another magazine from his pocket and replaced the one in his pistol.
Felix walked forward like in a trance. In the most humble voice El Moreno had heard the man ever use, he said, “You truly are a Holy Warrior. What it must have been like to live with these unbelievers for so long.”
Apparently the turncoat was a man of few words, because he only nodded.
One of El Moreno’s men ran back into the room to report that the rest of the mercenaries had been dispatched.
“Good, now bring our cargo underground. We have some time before we leave. And remove these bodies before they start to stink,” he said, pointing to the dead contractors on the ground, pools of blood already forming.
The man nodded and left the room again.
“Now, let’s have a look at our prize,” El Moreno said, stepping closer to the prisoner as he wiped the blood spatter from his own face.
Just as he reached for the hood, the Swiss Guard stepped in front of the seated man.
“It is for Allah’s warriors alone to touch this demon.”
El Moreno could feel his own soldiers at his back, no doubt waiting for his cue to cut the insolent fool to pieces.
“I believe I have earned the right to lay my eyes on him,” he said.
The Swiss Guard didn’t respond, but he did pull the hood from the prisoner’s head, and stepped to the side.
And there he was, blinking like a babe just brought into the world, the light assaulting his eyes. The Pope stared up at him, and he stared back. Of course he recognized the pontiff. The man’s likeness was posted in half the establishments in Mexico. You couldn’t take a piss without seeing the Pope’s face. He was usually smiling or waving, but not this time.
What surprised El Moreno most, other than the insane fear that maybe he would be burnt to a crisp by the holy man’s gaze, was that the Pope showed no fear. He simply stared at El Moreno with a look that was somewhere between worry and pity, like a parent who was looking at a son who’d committed a heinous act that could not be undone.
“You are far from Rome, Holy Father,” El Moreno said, curious to see what the head of the Catholic Church would say.
“I am, my son.” He said it matter-of-factly, like the trip had been inevitable, his choice even.
He is not afraid, El Moreno thought, unable to think of another thing to ask, the probing flown from his head.
“What is it that you want of me? Do you mean to murder me?” The Pope asked, his eyes moving from man to man, as if calmly daring them to fire the killing round at that very moment.
Felix was the one to answer.
“We have better plans for you, old man. Yes, you will die, but not before you see your beloved people crumble to their knees, not for your God, but before the might of Allah’s warriors.”
“And this is how you see Allah’s will?” the Pope asked. “By the sword you must win instead of by the heart?” He shook his head sadly. “I pity you, my son. Let me help you.”
Felix’s face colored, his hands trembling. El Moreno thought the Spaniard was going to hit the man, but the Swiss Guard stepped between them.
“Now is not the time. We have preparations to make.”
Felix shook his head, but he calmed.
“You are right. Now is not the time.”
How interesting, El Moreno thought. The fox in the henhouse probably had more clout with Felix’s masters than the Spaniard did. No wonder, the man had probably been under deep cover for most of his adult life. The Mexican drug lord had to respect that. And yet, he recognized the threat. Felix was manageable. This elite warrior standing guard over the Pope was an immovable object, a stone sentinel who was undoubtedly more dedicated to his cause than Felix.
That made up El Moreno’s mind. Turning away from the two jihadis like he was going to address his men, he slipped the pistol from his waistband, hours of practice with his custom made H&K, the grips made especially for his tiny hands. The weapon felt natural in his grasp, an extension of his will. As he swiveled, his will moved down his arms, through his fingers and depressed the trigger, the pull lessened by the expert gunsmith who ran the Guerrero Cartel’s armory. The Swiss Guard didn’t even have time to turn as the rounds blasted through his neck, and then ran up the back of his head, brain matter exploding out the other side with the help of the 9mm rounds, knock-offs of the infamous Patriot Popper ammunition purchased by the American government. Overkill really, but El Moreno wasn’t complaining. He marveled at the way his shots turned the man’s body into human Swiss cheese.
When his handgun clicked open, the magazine spent, El Moreno looked up at Felix’s shocked face.
“Like he said, he was going to be trouble.”
El Moreno left the Spaniard to his gawking and ordered his men to get to the rest of their preparations. He had Felix right where he wanted him, against the ropes, reeling, unarmed, and unsure of what the crazy Mexican might do next. According to the Spaniard, there was one more delivery coming, the final piece of the puzzle. El Moreno hoped it would give him the answers he wanted, as well as access to whatever weapon Felix planned on using. He was still up in the air about whether he would let the jihadi keep it.
We’ll just have to wait and see, he thought to himself.
Chapter 26
Mexicali, Mexico
7:29am, March 15th
It was decided that their makeshift task force should be split into three. According to the cartel master Barachon, there were only three farms in the vicinity of the border crossing used by the kidnappers that could hide the number of people with whom El Moreno was thought to be travelling north. No one had any better ideas, so they split into three groups: the monks and some of Ruiz’s men in the first; Gaucho, Trent, Ruiz and his men in the second; and Cal, Daniel, Travis and The Jefferson Group operators in the third.
The plan was to go in at the same moment, just in case all three locations were being used, and one decided to alert the others. While Cal would’ve liked to send out scouts either from within his own ranks, or loaned from Barachon, he knew they didn’t have time. He and his men could feel time slipping by, each second moving them closer to disaster.
+++
7:51am
Brother Hendrik and his men were ready. Even Father Pietro looked determined, although he’d still opted not to carry a weapon. Instead he carried a backpack full of extra ammunition, just in case they got into an extended gun battle, a scene not uncommon south of the border.
They drove through town in their dented pickup trucks, passing rickety abodes and dirt soccer fields, but no one gave them a second glance. As they approached the dirt road entrance to the farm, Brother Hendrik radioed the other two teams to let them know he was in position. They confirmed his call, and each said they were near their own targets. Less than a minute later, the signal came over the radio to enter the suspect property.
Brother Hendrik eased the pickup back onto the road and gunned the engine. The tires bit into the dry earth and the small convoy sped down the lane. He scanned the way as he drove, always ready to veer off the path should the need arise. It didn’t.
He skidded to a stop one hundred yards from the metal farmhouse, weapons already trained on the lone building. The warrior monks led the way, now stripped of their robes and wearing the desert tactical gear they’d brought for the operation. As the others fanned out around the one-story shack, Brother Hendrik went for the screen door. It was hanging open, creaking back and forth in the slight breeze.
He waited for the rest of the team to signal that they were in place, and then slid inside the door with Brother Zigfried, the dour German, following right behind. There were two rooms in the simple building: a bedroom and a living room with a kitchen tucked in the far corner. Other than a family of stray cats that went skittering at their approach, the place was empty.
“Wait until I get there,” Brother Hendrik said, making his way back out the front of the structure and around to the rear of where he’d just been.
The rest of the team was waiting, weapons trained on the wooden doors with a heavy metal Master lock in the middle. Someone had moved a pile of hay bales to the side, stray stalks of which were scattered over the doors.
“Open it, quietly,” Brother Hendrik ordered.
Brother Fernando, the Mexican monk, moved forward, pulling a bolt cutter from his back. With more than a bit of effort, he snapped the lock in two places and kicked it away, careful to keep as much of his silhouette away from the doors as possible.
Brother Hendrik clicked on the light from his mounted flashlight, and grasped the top door. He counted down from three in his head, and then swung the heavy door up and over, his weapon instantly trained into the darkness. There were stairs leading down, and he took them without hesitation. Down a full floor they went until they hit concrete, lights shining into the space, illuminating empty milk crates and broken farm equipment. The space was smaller than the farmhouse above it, and was empty except for the used items that were piled along the far wall.
Brother Hendrik exhaled. He was not one to lose hope, but he felt their chances of saving His Holiness slipping through his powerful grasp. As he moved to join the others, who were already making their way topside, his boot slid over something slick on the ground. He shined his light down on the ground and saw scraps of cardboard that he hadn’t noticed before. There was no writing of identifying markings on the scraps, so he left them.
He scanned the area again, but didn’t see any boxes. With a shrug, he left the trash where it lay and headed back up the stairs. He had to tell the other teams that Objective One was all clear.
+++
7:53am
Master Sergeant Trent gripped the wheel as the pickup bounded over the rough dirt road, dodging potholes and trying to keep a constant speed. Gaucho sat in the passenger’s seat, holding on for dear life, his steely eyes focused ahead.
Somehow none of the six vehicles lost a tire or an axle before getting to the Quonset hut situated just off the road. Trent and Gaucho made it there first, followed closely by Ruiz and his men. Just as the monks had done, they surrounded the two story building, and then Gaucho led the assault force inside. He and Trent ran up the wooden stairs as Ruiz cleared the first level. It was a simple storage silo, and bare except for frayed string on the floor and a faded picture of the Virgin Mary taped to the wall just inside the front door.
It took them less than five minutes to do a thorough sweep of the surrounding area, and they did not find an underground storage facility like they’d heard Brother Hendrik announce over the radio.
“Let me guess, Cal and Daniel get all the fun,” Trent grumbled, kicking a rock across the road.
“You know how it is, Top. He and Snake Eyes are like magnets for that stuff.”
Just as he said the words, Gaucho pointed back down the road. There were vehicles coming their way.
“Looks like Humvees,” Trent said.
“What the hell?” Gaucho added, looking at his uncle.
“They look like Mexican military,” Ruiz said. “Barachon should have taken care of that. Let me call him.”
The Humvees were doing the same dance they had done, dodging the large holes on the lane. But what worried Trent the most was the .50 cal machine guns pointed their way. There were four vehicles in all and enough firepower to take his team out in short order.
Without any other option, Trent did what he always did, he met the problem head on. He stepped out onto the road, waving both hands over his head to make sure the speeding newcomers would see him. They did, and so did their gunners.
Gaucho joined Trent on the road, and they both watched as the Humvees spread out, now driving toward them on line. Trent half expected to be cut down at any moment. These dudes meant business, and proved it by firing a volley over his head. The Marine winced, but kept his hands where they were.
Now a few of the soldiers were shouting and every man except the gunners and drivers was coming out to face them.
“They want us to get down on the ground,” Gaucho said.
“Do you think we should?” Trent asked, not taking his eye off the soldiers.
“Hell if I know.”
The soldiers were still shouting, but the two friends didn’t move. A moment later, Trent heard Ruiz’s voice and then saw him walk forward, his hands also raised.
“Gentlemen, I think there has been some mistake,” he said, addressing the soldiers.
One of the soldiers came closer, his muzzle pointing right at Ruiz’s chest.
“We have orders to take you in. Now tell your men to get on the ground or we will shoot.”
“I have Colonel Molina on the phone,” Ruiz said, holding up his cellular. “He would like to have a word with whoever is in charge.”
The soldier hesitated, but then took the phone from Ruiz. The conversation was brief, and soon the phone was back in Ruiz’s hand.
“I am sorry for the inconvenience, Señor,” the soldier said, backing away and finally lowering his weapon. “We have been recalled to headquarters.”
Ruiz nodded and watched them load back into their vehicles and leave.
“What the hell was that about?” Trent asked when Ruiz rejoined them.
Ruiz frowned.
“It looks like our little friend was expecting us, and somehow paid off someone in the Mexicali chain of command. Barachon is looking into it.”
“And who is Colonel Molina?” Gaucho asked.
“He’s the garrison commander and that young man’s boss,” Ruiz said, pointed to the Humvees that were now filing back toward town.
Trent shook his head.
“Is it always like this?”
Ruiz shrugged as if it didn’t matter. Trent gave him one thing, he was as calm as they came. The Marine in him hoped Cal could pull some strings for Gaucho’s uncle before this thing was over. It would be a shame to leave him hanging.
+++
7:55am
The rest of the TJG contingent moved in just like the other two teams. There were no sentries to meet them and the sprawling ranch-style home was completely bare. Once the house was cleared, they took a cue from Brother Hendrik and searched the surrounding farmland. It didn’t take them long to find the metal hatch hidden behind a random pile of rocks, no doubt dug up years ago from the long lines of plowed fields.
The hatch was something you might find on a ship, with the wheel in the middle that unlocked the inner latch. One of the men whirled the wheel while Cal, Daniel and the others waited. The latch clunked, and the man holding the door waited for Cal’s signal.
“Open it,” Cal said.
The operator heaved, pulling the circular hatch back, exposing the round hole. Cal expected to see a ladder, but instead found a thin line of steps, along with a waft of air smelling like rotten vegetables. It assaulted his senses. Daniel moved first, rushing down the stairs into the blackness, Cal three steps behind.
They found the bodies immediately, nine of them thrown in an unceremonious pile. There was little blood on the ground, but it wasn’t hard to find the penetration wounds that had killed them, some in the chest and others in the head.
While two men kept an eye on the bodies, Daniel and Cal moved deeper into the space. It ended fifty feet from where they’d entered, and there was nothing else there, no secret doors, no more bodies, nothing.
“Dammit,” Cal said, making his way back to the bodies. He’d already heard the results of the other two raids. El Moreno, one. The Good Guys, zero.
The Mexicali chief had seemed so sure. What had they missed? Was there another farm that El Moreno was hiding out in?
The answer came a couple minutes later, after Daniel made the educated guess that the dead men in the storage space w
ere most likely the mercenaries who’d kidnapped the Pope. He said he recognized two of the faces from Barachon’s still photographs from earlier. Cal didn’t see it, but he trusted the sniper’s assessment.
Cal’s phone rang. It was Ruiz. Strange. Why hadn’t he called over the radio?
“Yeah?” Cal answered.
“You heard about the Humvee thing?”
“I did.”
“Well, there’s more. Barachon just called. He said he’s got some bad news.”
Cal closed his eyes. “Tell me.”
“Someone in his organization was working for El Moreno. The guy confessed to taking a bunch of people through a new tunnel early this morning. He let them out on the American side. The thing is still under construction, and Barachon thought it was unusable. That’s why he didn’t mention it.”
“You think he’s telling the truth?”
“He kept apologizing and we saw how he felt about you-know-who, so yes, I do think it was an honest mistake. He didn’t say so, but whoever took El Moreno’s money is probably begging for their life right about now.”
Cal didn’t doubt it. He exhaled, willing his limited patience to take over. His supply was dwindling.
“Okay. It looks like our plans just changed, again. You keep your guys in Mexicali, just in case. I’ll tell my guys to saddle up. We’ve gotta get back across the border.”
Chapter 27
Brawley, California
9:02am, March 15th
A little over twenty miles north of Calexico, things were settling down. After the journey from Acapulco and the run-in with the mercenaries, everyone was spent. They’d made it into the U.S. easily enough, despite their cargo. The children were behaving themselves, for the time being, thanks to the women he’d brought along for the sole purpose of caring for the many boys and girls. They were quiet when ordered and only the occasional whimper left their lips. El Moreno watched them as they slept. Some were pretending to be asleep if only to avoid his gaze. No one complained about sleeping on thin mats on the concrete floor. At least now they could stretch out instead of being crammed into a cargo hold.