Papal Justice

by CG Cooper

  “What are you…?”

  The words disappeared as a quick burst from the automatic weapon hit him in the stomach. He fell backwards, hitting his head against the bus, and dropped to the ground, his vision beginning to blur.

  Shaking his head before the real pain began, he felt rather than saw Felix grab the pistol from his back. He tried to push the Spaniard away, but his arms were like floppy tentacles, his fingers going numb as he attempted to save the weapon.

  His stomach started to burn, and then his back went into tiny spasms, like someone had punched him in the kidney. El Moreno clenched his teeth and attempted to rise, his legs moving but refusing to support any weight. There was a tapping sound, and then muted gunfire that sounded like it was coming from the inside of a barrel. Then there were screams, children’s screams, lots of them. They filled his ears and made him nauseous.

  He was able to prop himself on one elbow, his vision going in and out like he was looking through some weird kaleidoscope. Men were being thrown from the buses, his men, he realized. Again he tried to stand, getting a kick in the back from someone he hadn’t noticed beside him.

  His head was bobbing now, his body telling him to close his eyes, to sleep away the pain that now ran up his back and down his legs, like someone had taken razor blades and drawn lines down the length of his body. He focused on the pain, like a screeching beacon he wasn’t supposed to touch.

  The last thing he saw before the light faded was Felix pointing down at him, his companions at his side, laughing at the fool they’d caught by surprise.

  +++

  It had been too easy. His masters told him about the vast network in Los Angeles. There were apparently many followers who lived among the nonbelievers in one of America’s darkest dens of sin. He’d only made one phone call, alerting his brothers of the men El Moreno had hired to drive the buses, and the Los Angeles-based jihadis had taken care of the rest.

  They’d stowed away in the buses, weapons hidden but still trained on the hijacked drivers, waiting until the children were loaded. Then, once Felix had taken care of the Mexican, he gave the signal for the drivers and the rest of El Moreno’s men were killed.

  The screams from the children were only natural, but their extended internment, along with the sight of more weapons, silenced them soon enough. In one bold move, Felix had taken care of the head of The Guerrero Cartel, saved his masters millions, and secured their final passage.

  After he was sure El Moreno was well on his way to hell, he ordered his men and the ten newcomers from Los Angeles to clean up any mess they’d made in the buses and to load the rest of the shipment. Each bus had to have the same amount of children and supplies. It was all part of the plan.

  Once everything was loaded, all the bodies of the dead except El Moreno, who Felix wanted to leave where he lay, were placed inside the building.

  Felix went back into the hideout, kicking open doors as he went. When he got to the Pope’s small prison, El Moreno’s last man was lying in a pool of blood, a single bullet in his head, legs still twitching. Without a word, Felix’s man untied the Pope and led him out behind his leader.

  “Put him in the white bus,” Felix said.

  His man nodded and escorted his charge to the appropriate vehicle.

  Felix took a deep breath and entered each bus, bidding his brothers farewell. They knew the plan and would execute it as they’d discussed. There would be no further communications. The enemy could track cell phones and probably even radios. After they left, they would be on their own. If they were able to get away after their tasks were complete, their new friends from Los Angeles would take them to freedom. Should they somehow get caught, they were ready to die and the children would die, too. He hugged each man and told them he would see them soon.

  Once his ritual was done, he boarded the fourth bus that would take him and the Pope to the most important destination. Felix tapped the new driver on the shoulder. It was time for the final show.

  Chapter 30

  Rome, Italy

  4:39pm California Time, 11:39pm in Rome, March 15th

  Brother Luca scanned the precise report he’d just received from his men. Using the pictures provided by Brother Hendrik, they’d actually identified most of the bodies that’d been found in Mexicali. Just as their American counterparts had found out, the dead men were mostly Mexican criminals, thieves and murderers with long rap sheets. It was the lone white male who’d confused them all. The man had no identification and he couldn’t be found in any of the international crime databases.

  Then it had clicked. Someone remembered the missing man from the Pope’s security team, the one who’d disappeared along with His Holiness when they’d landed in Calexico. Everyone, including Brother Luca, had assumed that the man had either been kidnapped or killed, his body disposed of separately. Again, the second option seemed true, but without any other leads, Brother Luca instructed the Brothers of St. Longinus to see what they could find out about the dead white man.

  When the photograph was shown to the Swiss Guard, they recognized him immediately. They even supplied the monks with a name: Yan Mettler. The commander of the Pontifical Swiss Guard confirmed that Mettler was one of the men assigned to the small detail. It took a personal call from Brother Luca to pry the rest of the information from the protective commander. Due to the Pope’s abrupt departure, and the pontiff’s demand for complete secrecy, the Swiss Guard did not know the full story. They did not know, for example, that the Pope was missing. That detail flustered the career soldier and almost sent him running for the phone. Brother Luca calmed him down and explained that the Americans were helping in the search, and that it was imperative he be given any information the commander had on Yan Mettler.

  Finally, the commander relented and read it over the phone. “Born in Zurich, Mettler was the only son of a single mother. She died when he was twelve and he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle in Berne. He enlisted in the army at age eighteen, and when he’d fulfilled the requirements for his current post, he applied. I knew the man. He kept to himself, but was a hard worker. No blemishes in his record. A shame to lose him, really.”

  He didn’t know why, but something had bothered Brother Luca. You never knew the real desires behind a man with no attachments.

  “Would it be possible to search wherever he lives, just in case it gives us any clues?”

  That question got the commander riled up again.

  “Is there something you are not telling me, something that should concern me even more than the loss of our Holy Father?”

  Brother Luca didn’t want to fluster the man further, so he just said, “Surely you wouldn’t want any stones to go unturned, commander.”

  The Swiss Guard leader had grumbled, but promised to conduct the search personally. A return phone call came less than an hour later, the commander’s voice speaking as if he’d just found a ghost.

  “It was under the bed, no effort to be hidden.”

  “What was it?” Brother Luca had asked, his ears straining to hear the man’s voice.

  “There were old pictures of his parents, messages to friends, and a letter to us.”

  “What was it? What did it say?” He wanted to jump through the phone and shake the man.

  “He lied. Somehow he hid it from us, from everyone.”

  “What did the letter say, commander?”

  “He was a traitor, a wolf in our home.”

  “Get it together, commander! What did he say?”

  Another pause, as if the commander was rereading the note.

  “He said he had always been a believer, hiding under the robes of the Catholic Church, that he was a holy warrior, destined for greatness, and that the filth and corruption of the Catholic Church would lead him there.”

  For some reason that hadn’t shocked Brother Luca. In fact, it emboldened him.

  “I’m sending three of my brothers to help you. Would that be acceptable?”

  The commander h
ad agreed, and Brother Luca dispatched his men. Meanwhile, he had his investigative division dive into Yan Mettler’s life. What had he done for the last three months, six months? They searched public video feeds and hacked into private telephone records. It didn’t take long for a pattern to appear.

  Mettler had mentioned the corruption of the Catholic Church, but Brother Luca assumed he had meant it as a whole, one of those sweeping statements that extremists make. But that wasn’t the case. The trail led to one place.

  “Get me out of this bed,” Brother Luca barked at the nurse.

  “But, Brother Luca, you should be resting.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead, girl. Now get these tubes out of me and get me a wheelchair.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Brother Luca and four of his men, all heavily armed under their robes, stood outside the modest residence. One of the monks knocked on the door and a sleepy-eyed servant answered a few moments later.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?” the young man asked.

  “We would like to see your master,” Brother Luca said from his wheelchair, where he was wrapped in blue hospital blanket.

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “We have a message from His Holiness.”

  The young man nodded, still looking at them warily. They were in the heart of the Vatican, one of the few apartments kept for high ranking officials, so obviously the visitors had already been screened by no fewer than three guard forces. The servant opened the door and escorted them to a sitting area.

  “I can start a fire,” said the servant, pointing to the fireplace.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Brother Luca said. “Now, if you’ll please wake your master. We have important news to relay.”

  The obedient nod came from habit and the servant rushed off to do as Brother Luca commanded. The monk wondered how he must seem to the young man, a shriveled troll surrounded by muscle-bound bodyguards, no doubt.

  Five minutes later, the Cardinal Secretary of State of the Holy See, Cardinal Nofri Deliso, entered the room. He was a nondescript man, a bit mousy in the face, but with an average build. He had a scrap of hair above each ear and wore those thick black glasses that had gone out of style years ago. Despite his outdated appearance, the Cardinal had been one of the preferiti, one of the Cardinals known to the public to be a popular vote in the last papal election. He now held the post that oversaw the foreign policy for the papal kingdom. In short, he was a very powerful man.

  “Cardinal Deliso, could you please ask your attendant to give us some privacy?” Brother Luca asked respectfully.

  One of the Cardinal’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded and told his manservant to leave the apartment. Brother Luca waited until he heard the front door close.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we have come on behalf of His Holiness.”

  The Cardinal’s expression did not change.

  “You did not mention who you were,” the Cardinal said.

  “We are loyal servants of the Church, Your Eminence.”

  “And you say you come with word from His Holiness, the Pope?”

  Brother Luca couldn’t suppress the gurgling cough that came up his throat. While he tried to calm the fit, Cardinal Deliso murmured, “You do not look well.”

  He said it with the air of someone who knew of such things, who had looked death in the face many times and now gazed upon it like a detached physician.

  “I am dying,” Brother Luca said, finally getting his breathing under control.

  “What a shame. Now, what is it that you needed to tell me?”

  The Cardinal’s tone had a slight edge to it now, like his time had been wasted enough and he wanted the monks to leave.

  “When was the last time you talked to Yan Mettler?” Brother Luca asked, sucking from the oxygen mask in his hand.

  “I do not believe I know a Yan Mettler.”

  There wasn’t even the briefest sign of recognition in the Cardinal’s eyes. Brother Luca liked that. It made the joust more interesting.

  “And what do you know about the Pope’s trip to Mexico?”

  “I believe he mentioned something about it, but I do not recall what it was in reference to.”

  Brother Luca nodded, and then looked to his companions.

  “Sit him down.”

  One of the burly monks pulled up a chair, while two more grabbed the Cardinal by his arms and shoved him into the seat. It was obvious that the man had rarely, if ever, encountered physical coercion because his face paled. But just as quickly, the fear was replaced by bluster.

  “I will call the guard on—”

  “Hit him. Once.”

  The larger of the two monks standing next to the chair connected his fist with the Cardinal’s stomach. Brother Luca could see that the man hadn’t put much force behind it, but the Cardinal still doubled over. It took him a minute to regain his breath and look back at Brother Luca.

  “I wish I could have done that myself. Now, you were about to tell me how you convinced the Pope to fly to Mexicali.”

  The Cardinal’s eyes flashed with terror.

  “You can’t do this to me. Do you know who I am?” He was trying to sound brave, but his voice shook like a child who was about to fall into tears.

  “I know who you are, Cardinal Deliso, but you don’t know who we are. Let me tell you. We are the Brothers of Saint Longinus, a very old and very secret order devoted to the protection of the Pope and the Catholic Church. I personally am a very old and dear friend of His Holiness. He saved my life a long time ago, and I will do anything to save his. Do you understand?”

  Whether it was the men standing around who looked like they could beat him into a bloody pulp or the weapons they were now showing openly, the Cardinal nodded.

  “Once I tell you, will you let me go?”

  Brother Luca shook his head. Cardinal Deliso waved his hands as if the monk didn’t understand.

  “I do not mean to let me go, but to live out my life in exile. That I am willing to do as my penance.”

  Brother Luca nodded and motioned for the Cardinal to proceed.

  Deliso ran a hand over his stubbly chin and started talking, “I do not have to tell you how contentious things can be in the Church. Sometimes I wonder how we have survived all these centuries, when man is pitted against man, priest against priest. We argue like old maids about scripture and policy. There are days when I would not be surprised if the Earth ripped open and the Church was simply devoured by the will of God.”

  He paused, and then chuckled.

  “The Pope and I have known each other for many years. I would not say that we are friends, but we have learned to work well together. Much changed during the last papal election. Sides were taken and lines were drawn. I was the frontrunner, the conservative who would bring back the traditions of the Church. It would be good to have an Italian Pope again, another sign that the Church was going back to its roots. But then a dark horse appeared and momentum grew. He was not a newcomer, but an unexpected addition to the preferiti. He lived simply, and professed to enjoy his life as a priest more than as a bishop or Cardinal. In my sin, I grew to hate him. He was elected in an overwhelming fashion. I was caught by surprise and the bitterness enveloped me.”

  When he didn’t look like he’d continue, Brother Luca said, “What did you do about it?”

  Cardinal Deliso looked up and shrugged, like it had happened so long ago that he might not remember the details. He said, “I travel all over the world as Cardinal Secretary of State. I meet with many governments. I forge new friendships and mend old wounds. That is what I do.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The Islamic extremists will always hate us. I wanted a way to use that to strengthen the Church, to embolden God’s followers to grow their faith. I was provided a contact here in Rome.”

  “Yan Mettler?”

  “No, it was a code name, Gilgamesh.”

  “And what did you discuss?”

&
nbsp; “Very little. He told me about the attacks in Mexico and that they were part of the plan. He said they needed the Pope in a certain location and said I could get what I wanted if I helped.”

  “And what location did they give?”

  Cardinal Deliso put a hand over his eyes.

  “Calexico. It is in America, just across the border from Mexico.”

  “And did they tell you what they were planning?”

  “I did not ask.”

  “How did you convince His Holiness to go?” Brother Luca asked, barely restraining himself from launching across the short space.

  “I did not have to do much. He came to me for guidance. He said The Lord had spoken to him and that he felt compelled to fly to Mexico. He asked me what I thought and I said that he should follow God’s will. Because I know that area better than him, he asked where he should go. I told him Calexico.”

  Brother Luca’s next question came out in a ragged rasp, “Have you had any more contact with this Gilgamesh?”

  Cardinal Deliso shook his head.

  After taking a few breaths from the oxygen mask, Brother Luca said, “Then that is all I need.”

  The Cardinal’s eyes sparkled with hope. “Then you’ll let me resign, spend the rest of my days in exile?”

  “Yes.” He looked up at the large monks. “Brothers, please escort the Cardinal to his bedchamber and help him pack his things.”

  “God bless you, Brother. God bless your forgiving heart,” the Cardinal gushed, helped to his feet by the sentinels at his side.

  Brother Luca gave his brothers a look and before the Cardinal could react, they whipped him around so his back faced the wheelchair bound monk, slammed him to his knees, and held him there.

  Brother Luca bent over, placed his mouth right next to the Cardinal’s ear and whispered, “Enjoy exile, Your Eminence.”

  Without warning, Brother Luca looped the thin garrote over the Cardinal’s head, his aim perfect. It bit into the man’s neck as the monk pulled on the wooden handles, even pushing with one of his feet in the middle of the struggling man’s back.