Blessed are the Merciful

by Kristi Belcamino

  Then, with an eerie sucking sound, the door began to slide open.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I leaped to my feet, adrenaline pumping through me, pointing the AK47 toward the opening.

  A familiar face popped into view.

  Donovan.

  “Daddy!” Grace screamed.

  The gun fell to my side. I slumped in relief.

  He stood in the doorway for a second. “Everything is okay, but I think I need the kids to stay in here for a little while longer. “He gave me a meaningful look.

  Grace became hysterical. “No. No. No. I can’t stay in here. Please I have to leave. I have to leave. Get me out of here now. Now!”

  She’d kept it together long enough.

  Donovan looked at me as if I had the answer.

  I knew why he didn’t want the kids to leave. There must be dead bodies in our house.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “Daddy is going to take you one at a time to our bedroom. Then you can watch TV in my bed while the police do their investigating and then go to your own rooms.”

  “I’m not sleeping here!” Grace stood and stomped her foot, glaring at us. She was the perfect embodiment of her parents’ Italian and Irish tempers rolled into one. God help us.

  “No, you’re not,” Donovan said, surprising me. “You’re staying at Nana and Vincenzo’s house.”

  That’s when my mother spoke up. “Yes, that is the plan. We always love a sleepover with the grandchildren.”

  I hated to say it, but I had to. “Will it be safe?”

  “Of course!” It was The Saint, standing in the doorway. My mother’s face lit up as she looked at him.

  He stepped into the room and grabbed my mother, hugging her with Stefano in her arms between them. Then he turned to me and Donovan. “I will have all my men patrolling the perimeter of my ranch and will station two armed guards at the guest bedroom door. I will go downstairs and alert my driver. We will leave immediately.”

  Then he spoke in a low voice to Donovan.

  After a moment, Donovan turned back to us. “You kids have spare clothes at Nana’s house, right?”

  Grace and Alejandro nodded. I noticed they were holding hands tightly. It reminded me that my fierce, strong-willed daughter was still just a child.

  My mother said quietly. “We will take the baby, too. He will sleep in the bassinet. I will move it from the guest room into my bedroom.”

  Donovan cleared his throat. “We’ll all go. At least for tonight.”

  I nodded. I was happy that we were going to be with our kids. I worried about nightmares and not being able to comfort them. Not to mention being close to them in case El Loro’s men came back. I wouldn’t be sleeping at all.

  “You first, Gracie,” Donovan said, gesturing. She raced over, and he knelt down to her level. “Now, this is very, very important. I want you to bury your face into my shirt, and don’t look up no matter what, do you understand? We’re going straight down to Vincenzo’s car, okay?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “You can do this?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” This time she seemed indignant. “I’m not a baby. I can follow directions.”

  Donovan stood. He knelt down again in front of Alejandro who, although he still hadn’t spoken, at least he wasn’t staring off into space.

  “I’ll be right back for you, understand?”

  Alejandro nodded.

  I gave Grace a kiss. “I’ll meet you downstairs at the car in a minute. I’m going to stay with Alejandro until Daddy comes back for him.”

  My mother trailed behind Donovan with Stefano.

  After they walked out, I crouched and put my arm around Alejandro. I whispered soothing things in his ear in Spanish and rubbed his shoulder. “We will be safe at Nana’s. I promise.”

  He swallowed but didn’t answer. He’d come so far since he’d been living with us—he was more outgoing and less fearful. Now, I was worried he’d revert right back to where we started. It was heartbreaking.

  When Donovan came back a few minutes later, Alejandro didn’t move. Very gently, Donovan lifted him up and then tucked his face into his shirt, holding the back of his head with one hand.

  I followed Donovan out. Time to face the house of horrors that our home had become.

  Bodies were strewn across our penthouse. I tried not to look but couldn’t avoid it since I had to step over and around them.

  One man was lying in the hall leading to the safe room. He had a bullet between his eyes. He was still holding a large automatic rifle. We had to step over him. The next body was in the kitchen leading to our front door. This guy, a short man with a black moustache had been shot in the chest. He lay in a pool of blood. His gun, a Browning automatic rifle was off to the side.

  The third man was right outside our front door, slumped in the corner, half his face blown off.

  My mouth filled with bile.

  In the elevator, I slumped against one mirrored wall and closed my eyes. Donovan and Alejandro stayed silent. They now stood side by side.

  When the elevator dinged, Donovan folded Alejandro in his arms again, facing his head away from the front desk.

  I caught a glimpse of Mr. Peters feet as we passed, sticking out from behind the front counter in a pool of blood.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At the Marin ranch house, we put the kids to bed and then huddled around his massive marble dining room table. Donovan was downing shots of whiskey. I was afraid if I had alcohol I would lose it completely, turning into a blubbering mess, so I gulped coffee.

  My mother and The Saint were the only dignified ones, sipping Italian aperitivos.

  Donovan spoke first. “My team is going after him. Our flight leaves in three hours.”

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  Donovan glanced at me like I was crazy—not the first time in our relationship that he’d given me that same look.

  “I am.” I folded my arms across my chest.

  “This is an official DEA operation.”

  “I don’t care.” I wouldn’t drop my gaze.

  “You don’t have authorization.”

  I reached for my cell phone.

  “Jesus, Ella.”

  My mother, who had remained silent, made the sign of the cross. Donovan glanced over. “Sorry, Mrs. G.”

  The man on the other end of the line answered officially, even though I knew it was three in the morning on the East Coast. I had dialed a special number—a line to the office of the head of the DEA.

  After Donovan had gone missing, I’d spent days trying to find out what had happened. When Donovan and I had returned from our kidnapping ordeal in Guatemala, we’d insisted I have numbers to call in case of emergency.

  “I need permission to accompany the DEA on a mission to Guatemala to track down El Loro. I’m the bait.”

  Donovan was pouring another shot. The muscle in his jaw was pulsing. He was pissed.

  I didn’t care. This was no longer about me. Or him. It was about our children. All bets were off.

  “Granted.”

  I hung up and gave Donovan a defiant look.

  He sighed and ran a hand over his head. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I get it,” I said, reaching over to put my hand on his. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, either.”

  He scowled. “Don’t you think it’s rash to send both of us—both their parents—into a dangerous situation?”

  I’d thought about that. But there was no other way. I clamped my lips together and nodded.

  “It’s not ideal. We have no choice.”

  The Saint, who had been quiet the entire time, cleared his throat. We both looked over at him.

  “I’m afraid she’s right.”

  I gave a small nod of thanks.

  “But the kids?” Donovan said, looking at my mother.

  The Saint spoke. “I have an idea, if you’ll indulge me.”

  “Of course,” I sa
id. The Saint was a powerful man. Although he’d never used the word Mafia, it was clear he was connected and had endless resources in addition to wealth beyond measure.

  “The children will come with us. We will go to a safe house.”

  “Hmm. How safe?” Donovan’s brow wrinkled. “El Loro’s reach is more extensive than we thought.”

  “An island. Off the coast of Italy. A private island I own that nobody could ever connect to me. It is also heavily guarded. It is the most secure facility I own. It is not like my penthouse. It is secret. Private. Secure. Safe.”

  I was onboard. “Okay.”

  I couldn’t argue. I wanted my kids where they felt safe. And that obviously wasn’t anywhere near me. I was the target.

  But, at the same time, having my children halfway across the world sent a tremor of anxiety through me. Then, I realized that Central America wasn’t close, either.

  I waited for Donovan to answer. He finally sighed. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “We leave at the same time. My plane is waiting. On standby.”

  “Okay.” It was all I could say.

  We sat there in silence. A mixture of adrenaline and dread soared through me. I wanted to find El Loro and destroy him. But the thought of being so far from my children was agony. How long would I be away? A week? A month? Longer? God help us.

  While the children got ready, I called Kellogg, leaving a message. I told him the trip was off and that I was going with the DEA instead and that I’d file some stories if I could while I was there. At first, I didn’t want to mention the slaughter at the penthouse. I was too weary. But then the blue ink that ran in my blood surfaced and at the last minute I said, “Send May to my place in the city” before I hung up.

  In the driveway, standing in the pre-dawn darkness, the children were sleepy and moved slowly, confused, as we tried to sound chipper saying our goodbyes.

  I knelt down in front of Grace and Alejandro.

  “This is a special adventure. An island in Italy. Please be on your best behavior. We will call when we can. But this is the best thing for you to do while the police find the dangerous men. You will be safe there.”

  I hadn’t been sure how much to say, but I also couldn’t sugar coat it too much or lie. They knew that gunmen had broken into our home and that people had died.

  Watching Donovan hold the baby and how he clung a little extra long made my heart—which was breaking into shards from the goodbye—soar a teeny tiny bit.

  For my part, I could barely look at Stefano as I kissed his brow goodbye. I was worried if I looked at his little face, met his eyes so full of love for me, I’d grab him and run away.

  Alejandro, for once, didn’t look afraid.

  “Are you excited to go to Italy?”

  “Si,” he said with a shy smile. His English had flourished enough for him to be fluent this past year, but he answered in Italian.

  “Have a wonderful time.”

  I gave him a hug and small kiss on the cheek, and he crawled into the back of the SUV.

  Donovan took Grace aside and said something to her in a low voice. She was a Daddy’s girl. She, more than, anything, wanted to make her father proud. She was such a stoic.

  I could tell she wanted to cry, but she fought back the tears. She was fierce. Fiercer than I’d ever been.

  Then I took her in my arms, burying my face in her hair. “I love you so much, Grace. God bless you and keep you.”

  I drew back and tried to smile.

  She looked at me so solemnly. Then she took my hands.

  “Mama, don’t worry. We’ll be fine. You need to stay safe.” That’s when her cracks showed. I could see in her eyes she was terrified.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It will all be over soon, and we’ll be back together.”

  She swallowed, nodded, and hopped into the SUV without looking back.

  My little warrior.

  As the SUV pulled away with my life inside, Donovan and I stood in the driveway and waved just as the palest pink misted the horizon. We didn’t move toward our own car until the vehicle disappeared from our sight.

  CHAPTER NINE

  We landed in Guatemala at noon on a private landing strip only used by the DEA.

  Stepping out of the plane, the moist heat enveloped me. Sweat beaded on my brow. But after a cold few weeks in San Francisco, I embraced the warmth.

  Although I wore thick canvas pants with millions of zippered pockets and a lightweight jacket, I had a tank underneath. I stripped off the jacket and tied it around my waist. I hoisted a small backpack, containing a change of clothes and toothbrush, over one shoulder and headed to a small patch of shade on the edge of the runway, waiting.

  The three men on Donovan’s team yawned sleepily and gathered their olive-green duffel bags. They were all dressed in beige fatigue pants and black T-shirts.

  I’d met them briefly in San Francisco. I knew that we’d be working closely together in Mexico. As I met them, I logged my impressions of them.

  Smitty. The wisecracking one. He gave me a smile and made some smart-ass comment about how I must’ve drawn the short straw for this trip. He was of medium build and wore his blond hair in a ponytail and had yet to remove his aviator glasses.

  Jesse. The charmer. He kissed my hand when we met and winked. His olive arms were rippled with muscles and you could see his thigh muscles bulging through his pants when he sat down. He had cropped black hair and an infectious smile.

  Kenny. The quiet one. He was lean and sinewy like a crack addict. Tattoos snaked up his wiry arms and crawled out of the neck of his shirt. I tried not to stare, so I wasn’t sure what was inked on his skin other than a jumble of skulls and a few guns. His brown hair was shorn to a buzz. His ice blue eyes were squinty and jumpy. He was the only one who scared me a little.

  They all gathered toward the rear of the plane.

  Standing on a deserted landing strip in the jungles of Guatemala triggered an unwelcome déjà vu and sent a streak of terror through me.

  The last time I’d landed in this country, I’d thought Donovan was dead. It was only eighteen months before that I’d hunted for traces of Donovan’s dead body after his plane crashed in Guatemala.

  Now, seeing him talking to his team reassured me.

  After just a few minutes of being on the ground, the men seemed alert and full of energy. Unlike me, they’d been trained to sleep during the flight. As soon as we’d boarded the plane they’d all put in earbuds and slept until we landed.

  I was jealous. All my caffeine intake had made me jumpy and unable to sleep on the plane, but now that we’d landed, I could barely keep my eyes open.

  A vehicle that looked like a Jeep with a truck bed pulled up. The driver didn’t say a word.

  Donovan got into the front seat and gestured that I should get in the back. Smitty hopped in with me, while Jesse and Kenny piled in the truck bed, lighting cigarettes.

  It took an hour for us to reach our base camp.

  The secret DEA safe house was deep in the jungle, off several main roads, and tucked back against a small jutting range of mountains. A guard shack at the foot of the drive was manned by a small man sitting on a stool who only nodded at our driver, keeping the automatic rifle in his lap pointing toward us.

  The small building was long and low and had massive antennas sticking up from every roof surface.

  We pulled into a small, covered carport, and after we got out, a man in beige pants and T-shirt, pulled a camouflage tarp down over the entrance to the carport.

  The front door opened to a large rustic main room with a kitchen and table off to one side and a hall leading to bedrooms on the other. There were four small bedrooms and one bath. One bedroom was for the caretaker, the man who had greeted us, Donovan said.

  Donovan led me to a bedroom at the far end of the hall. It contained a large bed with a mosquito net over it, a dresser, and a kerosene lamp. One window faced the jungle, revealing a wall of deep green. We threw our bag
s on the dresser and then joined the others in the kitchen for lunch.

  A small couple with broad smiles plopped bowl after bowl on the large wooden table. We sat on benches and ate rice and beans and some type of green sautéed vegetable.

  After we ate eagerly and gulped down bottled waters, Donovan and his men stood at the sink doing the dishes. The couple had disappeared shortly after serving us food.

  According to Donovan, the couple only worked a few hours a day, to serve breakfast and lunch, if anybody was staying at the safe house. They always left at one every day so they could get home to their own place before dark. The jungle was not a friendly place at night, Donovan said.

  I watched the four men clean up, too sleepy to move or offer to help.

  When they were done washing, drying, and putting everything away, Donovan wiped off his hands and turned to the men.

  “Let’s meet in an hour and talk about what’s next,” he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After a quick nap in our bedroom, Donovan shook my shoulder.

  “Living room.”

  He’d adopted this weird military tone with me. I was too tired to argue about it.

  Once everyone was gathered in the living room, Donovan laid out his plan.

  We would meet a DEA tipster deep in the jungle at a para-military camp of resistance fighters. Once there, we’d be told where El Loro was hiding.

  As Donovan spoke, Smitty paced. Kenny stood leaning against the wall in the back of the room. Jesse sat with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, listening intently.

  When Donovan was done giving the bare basics of the plan, Jesse and Smitty peppered Donovan with logistic questions. How long would it take to get there? How many fighters were in the camp? How friendly were they to DEA? Were we overt DEA or going undercover?

  Donovan patiently answered all their questions. He explained that we’d have to travel rugged terrain and wade through a river to get to the camp. He spread a map out on the massive square coffee table and charted the course.

  “We leave 0300 hours. By sunrise, we should be here,” he pointed to a spot on the map. “We’ll reach the camp, or at least the outskirts where the first level of security is at dawn. We don’t want to approach in the dark. We want them to clearly see us so there are no—” he glanced at me. “Mistakes made.”