by Gavin Reese
Before long, a few photographs of women landed inside the burn can. A small handwritten journal followed. He waited until they all finished. “Now. Same thing, but search each other. Everywhere. You all better know who’s got the biggest and smallest dicks among you. Go.” He puffed on the cigar some more and inspected their efforts. A few more ancillary items landed in his coffee can. Just before they finished tossing each other’s pockets and undergarments, a palm-sized object thunked as it landed inside the collection tin.
Rogelio stepped over and recognized it as an insignia patch for an elite unit within the Mexican Marines. He snatched it out of the can and shouted his rage at the men before him. “Who brought this?!”
Nervous silence emanated from the group.
“I said, who, the fuck, brought this?!”
“It’s mine, Señor,” a young twenty-something man explained and stepped forward. “I didn’t realize that--”
Rogelio stepped in front of the man and leaned in until their noses almost touched. His subordinate bristled and stood at attention. “What the hell is this doing on my job?”
“Señor, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”
“Do you think I’m stupid, or ignorant?”
“No, señor, of course not, I--”
“How many men did you lose in your unit,” Rogelio paused and glanced down at the patch, “the twenty-third, was it? From one of the Fast Reaction Force battalions?”
The man swallowed hard, now well aware that Rogelio knew about the patch’s real significance. “Fifteen men, while I was there.”
“Men that died fighting against the cartels, yes?”
He swallowed again. “Yes.”
Rogelio stepped to his side. “And now, here you are, on a job for my cartel, with a military patch that commemorates men who died trying to steal from me, and stop me from achieving my objectives?”
Several silent seconds followed while Rogelio watched the man’s profile. “I just, uh, made a mistake--”
Rogelio stepped behind the man and whispered into his left ear. “When you got that patch, didn’t you swear an oath to carry it with you every day, and, if ever given the chance, to avenge the men who died for it?”
“But, but-,”
Knowing he’d found the scapegoat he wanted, Rogelio stepped back, withdrew a gold-plated super-38 1911 concealed in the small of his back, and swung it up to the back of the man’s head.
BOOM
At that distance, blood and brain matter splattered in all directions, including back onto Rogelio. The blast echoed inside the hangar and made Rogelio’s ears ring. He took one more step back as the man’s corpse fell to the ground. The men around him stepped away, but no one ran or tried to pick up a weapon off the deck in front of them.
A quick scan of the other men convinced Rogelio the death didn’t inspire mutiny among them. He removed a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped biomatter off his cherished pistol. “Load him in the plane. Get all your shit in the trucks.” Rogelio replaced his weapon and strode toward the burn can. “We have work to do.”
While his men hurried about to fulfill his orders, Rogelio sprayed a healthy dose of lighter fluid into the metal coffee can. He dragged heavily off his cigar. When its cherry burned red hot, he dropped it inside. The collected fumes ignited, but he sprayed additional fluid into the fire. Rogelio zinged the military patch into the flames and added more fluid. Convinced the contents couldn’t be recognized or used against them, he looked at the Santa Lena enforcer chosen to lead this assignment. “Tirador, ride with me.”
The loyal, proven shooter followed Rogelio to his SUV and joined him in the back seat. Neither spoke until they could do so privately. “That was necessary, jéfe, I’m just sorry I didn’t resolve it myself before we flew him over here.”
“Not to worry. It was necessary, but for different reasons.” Rogelio retrieved a set of sanitizing hand wipes and four handkerchiefs he’d left there. He wiped the dead man from his face, hands, and jacket while they spoke. “We can go over greater details tonight, but, at present, my plan is this. I have a small advance unit that’s keeping watch on the port operations now. When the ship gets close to the docks on the morning of the 20th, they will smuggle themselves aboard and take control of our container, which is below-decks.
“Our exchange is not to happen until late tomorrow night. The dock workers will need that long to access our container,” Rogelio continued. “Early tomorrow morning, we leave for the port in Slovenia. For tonight, I have put your men up in a hotel already. I must check on our buyer after we get back to the city. Even though I do not expect any trouble, keep your men on standby and prepared to respond as needed. I will leave one of the SUVs with you for the night in case you need it.”
“Are there maps available of the port and the ship’s anticipated docking location?”
Rogelio dried his face with a handkerchief. “Yes, it is all in the briefing packet I assembled. You’ll have it tonight. We have an extended drive tomorrow, with plenty of time to plan the finite details.” He wrapped the wipes and the first three blood-stained kerchiefs in the fourth and handed the pile of evidence forward to his driver. “Get rid of these.”
The man accepted the biohazard trash and stepped out of the SUV without a word. Rogelio looked back at the still-burning coffee can. His driver sprayed more fluid into it before tossing in his rags and adding additional fuel. He gazed back at the plane, where four men loaded the tarp-wrapped corpse into the rear cargo hold. The flight crew had their orders before they landed. Not long after they leave here at midnight, they’ll fly over a remote lake and dump the body out the rear hold. Thankfully, the bigger lakes haven’t frozen over this winter, so that Marine can have the watery grave he always wanted. That body, number sixteen from his vaunted unit, will never be seen again. Rogelio sniffed and wiped his nose. The cold had already irritated his sinuses. I only have positions for eight men, but I always order a scapegoat along. Just didn’t know who it was gonna be. Whoever brought that damned journal oughta thank Jesus Malverde and Santa Muerte for that fuckin’ patch, or he’d be the one packed in that tarp right now.
Rogelio glanced at his watch. 4:13. He retrieved his smartphone and tried to access his online stream of König’s office. ‘404 loading error?’ What the hell does that mean? Dropping the phone on the seat next to him in frustration, he looked up when the driver re-entered the SUV. “Honk the horn, what are they waiting for?! We have to get to Vienna, the hotel is still an hour away.” The driver blared the horn twice, and everyone outside the SUV hastened their efforts.
Rogelio again looked at his watch. I can’t see what’s happening in Vienna right now. Regardless of anything König’s got himself into, I’ll soon have ten armed men there to resolve any problem that he’s created for us.
February 19, 5:05PM
Tourist Information Center. Vienna, Austria.
Altüss parked his delivery van near a side exit at the northeast corner of the Tourist Information Center. Unsure of the building’s official hours, he’d stopped by earlier that day and left that door slightly ajar. König didn’t explain why he wanted to change our delivery schedule, or why he asked if I knew any Latin immigrants. I don’t like change and I can’t trust him. He activated the van’s flashing hazard lights to keep traffic cops from investigating the unattended vehicle. There’s an opera tonight and traffic’s just starting to pick up. König won’t like that I’m so late bringing the cash to him today, but I don’t care what he thinks, or what he thinks he can do about it. He never responded to the message I sent about my delays. After this shipment and the money that it brings to me and the cause, we won’t take orders from König for that much longer, Inshallah.
Altüss removed a small CZ .380-caliber belly gun from beneath the van’s instrument panel and slipped it into his pants pocket. König doesn’t have the stomach to rob me, but a million euros is a lifetime of cash for most people, so he could easily pay someone else to do it for him. He
ll, my own uncle might do it for a couple thousand and an hour with a blonde prostitute. He checked the mirrors one more time for anything suspicious or anyone approaching the van from behind. Seeing nothing alarming, Altüss stepped out, secured the van, and strode toward the building.
Glancing up, he saw the curtains were drawn inside König’s office, and the lights were on. He’s certain to be expecting me.
February 19, 5:05PM
König’s Office. Vienna, Austria.
Michael stepped back into the open bookcase doorway between the hidden storage room and König’s main office. I should look back over everything one more time before I move forward. He walked to the desk and began his inventory there. The suicide note, taken from König’s own statements in emails and texts over the last three months, was prominently displayed in the center of his desk. Printed copies of König’s communications about the drug shipments and overdose deaths were stacked beneath the note. The security camera system’s hard drive sat in Michael’s messenger bag. He opened the bottom right drawer only long enough to confirm the feed no longer worked.
Michael strode back into the storage room and stood between König and the center countertop. All of his guns are unloaded and on the counter. All three narcotics bags are open next to them, just so the cops can see what’s inside without disturbing anything. A medical emergency bag with König’s opioid antidote kits sat atop the corresponding bag of heroin and fentanyl. Nice of König to demonstrate his knowledge and intent. If the product wasn’t deadly, why would he need an antidote?
Michael turned to the bank of cabinets to his left. All the money bags are exposed and each has a count receipt to discourage any of the underpaid cops from growing sticky fingers. The evil and sin in this room will try to rub off on anyone who comes in here, just as a parasite jumps off a dying host.
Satisfied he’d accomplished all his evidentiary objectives, Michael nudged the tranq gun holstered beneath his cassock. Still secure. No repeat mistakes. He wished he could say the right thing to change König’s position, and he feared that each failed absolution brought him closer to damnation himself, regardless of his intent and the love he held in his heart to go through with the investigation and its resulting rituals.
Michael stepped back in front of König. Their eyes met again, and he saw the trafficker had made his decision. “Even though it appears your mind is set, Herr König, I wish to again offer to help assure your ascension to sit at God’s side. Do you wish me to take your confession and deliver last rites, or do you wish to make this spiritual transition as you are?”
König stared back, and the anger in his eyes answered for him.
Fueled by his subject’s unrepentant rage, Michael’s internal apprehensions became much more pronounced. I’ve done everything I know to encourage König to see the error of his ways and the misery and suffering that await him. I fear my own eternal fate is too closely tied to his, and to Isadore’s, for that matter. König isn’t the kind of man who gives a damn about dragging others down to Hell with him. As he sits here at the precipice of forever, he won’t admit to his years of wrongdoing to save himself from an eternity of torment.
Father Michael crossed himself and decided to offer his own confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four days since my last confession, and I fear that I’ve failed to shepherd your son, my brother, Alfred König, back home to you.
“I didn't say the right words, Father, maybe not in the right way or the right order, and he doesn’t believe the imminent truth as I’ve explained it to him. I’ve given him every reasonable opportunity to reconcile his sins and cleanse his soul. His continued presence here so greatly threatens the dignity and safety of those around him, Father, that I have no choice but to send him to you in his current condition, whatever that is. I pray for his salvation, Father, and that you show him the mercy, love, and care that he has failed to show those around him.”
Michael bowed his head, crossed himself, and fought back the emotions welling up in his chest and throat. “Adversum me susurrabant omnes mimici mei. Adversum me cogitabant mala maht. Numquid qui doormit, nonadjuciet ut refurgat?”
König maintained his defiant glare, and Michael continued with his selected, ancient prayers.
“Tu nutum, D mine, miserere mei. Resuscita mei y retribuam ets. In hoc cognovi quonium volutsti me quooriuam non guadebit intimcus meus super me...”
“At least have the decency to speak something I can understand!”
“I delayed this moment to give you all the opportunity to change your mind, but I’m still offering portions of the Rites of the Dead on your behalf.” Michael cleared his throat. “What I said was, ‘All my enemies whispered against me, they thought Evils against me; but he that sleeps, shall he not rise again? O Lord have mercy on me. Raise me up again, and I will repay them. You have confessed to me that my Enemy shall not rejoice over me.’”
König closed his eyes and faced away from the priest, but otherwise kept his demeanor unchanged.
Michael began his recitations to fulfill an Act of Contrition. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us; and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.
“Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and shall ever be, world without end.” Michael again crossed himself, opened his eyes, and looked at König.
“That’s it?” Surprise filled the man’s voice. “You kidnapped, tortured, and held me hostage, and you’re preparing to kill me, and you’re only making yourself recite each prayer once? I think my murder is worth far more than one 'Hail Mary!’”
Michael refused to reveal his mortal fears over König’s imminent death and descension. “Some men just need killing, Alfred, but your soul doesn’t have to share in your body’s fate.”
König scoffed but resumed his silence. Michael looked up toward the heavens and penitently held his hands out in front of him, palms up, and recited the Apostles Creed. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried; He descended into hell; on the third day, He rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from there He will come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting.”
König held onto his hateful glare, but Michael reached out, crossed König’s body, and swallowed hard to subdue his apprehension. “I pray, Father, that you show Alfred König mercy and accept his soul into your Kingdom. While he walks through the cleansing fires of Purgatory absent the viaticum, the food for his immortal journey that Communion would have provided, I pray that his soul’s hunger contributes to those cleansing fires and hastens your acceptance of him.”
Michael walked over and retrieved the fentanyl-loaded syringe from the center countertop. When he stepped back to König, the trafficker struggled hard against the restraints, but still couldn’t budge them.
“Wait,” he called out, “I do wanna reconcile, I wanna confess, I’ll tell you everything, absolutely everything!”
Michael paused and grimaced. I’ve heard that same desperate manipulation hundreds of times, between the interrogation rooms and confessional booths I’ve worked on two continents. “If I believed your sincerity, I’d happily accommodate you, but I promise to do all I can in the next five minutes."
König re
sumed his struggle as Michael pushed his dress shirt sleeves farther up his arms and searched for an injection spot. “No, no, no! You can't! You won’t!”
Michael inserted the small needle at the base of a skin tag on the back of König’s exposed left triceps and administered half the syringe. That should help conceal the needle mark from the local coroner. Once it takes hold, I’ll plunge the other half into a typical injection site to substantiate the suicide. König’s still too feisty for me to do it now, so I’d end up leaving forensic evidence that he didn’t kill himself. Michael removed and recapped the syringe, and then set the hypodermic back on the countertop.
“I can’t believe you fucking did that! What was it, saline, to trick me to talk fast and loud for the next few minutes?”
“No, Alfred, that’s from your own stash. I’m still willing to help you reconcile with God, but, in a few minutes, you won’t have breath or a pulse. I plan to wait ten minutes and ensure you’re dead. I’ll pray for you during that time, regardless of what you choose, but I think God will be more inclined to listen if you show up without all these grave and serious, mortal offenses hanging like an anchor around your neck.”
Surprise washed over König’s face. “You really intend to pray for me?”
“I do. I want to pray for you and your victims, and all the affected families. I pray that God helps all those you’ve hurt, and that Satan releases his hold on your soul. I pray that God welcomes you home like a prodigal son, forgives your debts and trespasses, and forever holds you and your victims in the palm of his hand.”
König watched Michael for a moment, as though he didn’t know how to respond. “What time is it?”
“It’s time for you to go home, Alfred, and I wish you’d let me help prepare your soul for its judgment.”