The Trafficker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  Wil, another SCPD cop that Michael had always admired, adopted his best “nerd voice” and pretended to push eyeglasses back up on his nose. “Well, yes, as you all well know, I won’t smoke just any free cigar that’s handed to me. It’s possible it might have been smuggled into this fine nation by communist ruffians and socialist scallywags. Everyone knows maduros are just imposters of real cigars, anyway.”

  Michael laughed along with the slightly inebriated group.

  “Brown,” Brandon responded to Michael’s earlier question. “We got brown cigars tonight! Beyond that, I got no clue what they are!”

  Michael grabbed a random corona from the case and passed it back to Kent. He reached across and shook Wil’s hand. “Well played, Wil, that character never gets old.”

  “I always knew you were gonna leave us for the priesthood, Michael,” Wil offered, “being named after three saints and all. How are you liking the work? Gotta be a damned sight different than pushing a black-and-white around town, yeah?”

  “In a lot of ways, yeah, night and day. But, sometimes, I feel like I just changed uniforms and went to work for another agency. They kinda frown on me carrying cuffs and a gun around the chapel, keep tellin’ me it sends the wrong message. But, like a close friend of mine says, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

  Michael stayed at the reception with his old friends and former cohorts only until Brandon and Cat departed for their hotel. No one challenged his claims that the next day’s mass preparations demanded attention, but Michael’s reality was very different. He had other work to do.

  Alone in the sedan he’d borrowed from his parents for the trip, Michael navigated eastbound US 180 and its winding path through the Gila National Forest. Five Finger Death Punch’s cover of Bad Company played inside the sedan, and he drove a little faster to the cop/military anthem.

  Despite what he wished were possible, Michael accepted that he couldn’t return to Silver City again. I guess you really can’t ever go back home. The reality that his friends were all trained observers with guns and arrest authority presented the potential for problems in Michael’s life. There is no worse group of people to try to lie to. Every time I visit from now on just increases the chance that one of us, me or them, gets put in a bad spot with life-altering decisions to make. I can’t ask them to ignore their oath any more than they could ask that of me.

  No matter how much he enjoyed seeing his friends and squad partners, Michael couldn’t ever rekindle those once-close relationships. It’s too hard to lie to them about my life, avoid giving them any details about my work. I’ve lied to my parents most of my life, that’s just what kids grow up doing, but I’ve never been anything but truthful with those guys, up until now.

  If I were honest, what would they think?

  Worse, what would they do?

  Their job. They swore an oath, and they would do their job. They’d follow through, just as they promised God they would.

  An oncoming, lifted truck passed by and darkness returned to the pine forest around him. I worked as a street cop for years and never got into anything more dangerous than a fistfight. I didn’t start stacking bodies until I became a priest. Now I’m tryin’ to save people by killing them.

  A pit formed in his stomach as the reality of his current work again collided with that Semper Cop portion of his psyche. If I am successful in London, and it goes to an absolution, I’ll officially be a serial killer.

  The story continues in The Bombmaker. Continue reading for a sample, or click here to purchase now.

  The Bombmaker: www.amazon.com/dp/B09CB3LZW7

  The Michael Thomas Series

  The Absolver

  The Trafficker

  The Bombmaker

  The Bombmaker

  The Bombmaker

  A Michael Thomas Thriller: Book Three

  Read on to experience the riveting beginning of the next story in Gavin Reese’s original, pulse-pounding series!

  The Bombmaker – Prologue

  Michael strolled through a peaceful meadow filled with waist-high sunflowers. Surrounded by steep, glacial-cut and snowcapped mountains, bright, warm sunlight shone down on his face and arms. Merci walked by his side, and he reached out and grasped her hand. Her skin felt soft and warm as she gently squeezed back. Michael looked over at her, and she met his gaze and smiled.

  “I knew I’d see you again someday,” she explained. “I just never imagined it would be anything like this.”

  Father Michael Andrew Thomas woke from the unusual dream, blinked several times, and scanned the surrounding darkness. A thin, bright strip of light emanated from underneath the bathroom door and helped him recognize the luxurious hotel room he’d occupied for the last week. Michael oriented himself back to reality, took in a deep, calming breath, and laid back on the plush king featherbed.

  He rubbed his face and tried to analyze the dream. What the hell was that about? I miss Merci and her friendship, but, that dream felt like being in love with her. He immediately realized the faux pas and shook his head. She’s only ever been ‘Doctor Renard’ to me. I didn’t know her well or long enough to fall in love with her, but it’d be pretty damned easy to fall in love with the idea of her, or whatever I’ve made her out to be in my mind. Either way, Catholic priests don’t get girlfriends or wives, so it’s all wasted emotion.

  Michael laid still for several quiet minutes until he accepted he was awake. Like he imagined most people would do, he gave up on slumber and started the morning with his personal smartphone. He opened his email app, and the top item listed there was still the communication Doctor Renard sent yesterday, which he’d read just before falling asleep last night. He touched the screen to re-open it.

  “Dear Father Michael—I pray that this finds you safe, warm, and happy. I understand, however, that you are happiest in the dangerous cold where the least of your parishioners have to live. Still, I pray that you are safe and well, no matter where you now find yourself.

  I understand the boundaries of a friendship such as ours, and that you must maintain your professional distance. I take no offense, but it does my heart good to tell you about my life, even if you seldom respond. The benefit of such communication is that I can finally call myself only ‘Merci’ while respecting your station and title in this life. I can be ‘Dr. Renard’ to my colleagues. You, however, I count among my closest friends. Unless you ask me otherwise, I will continue writing to you. Just knowing you read my words and thoughts brings me comfort and reassurance, the very things you seek to dispense to the world around you.

  I don’t know where God has called you to serve, but I hope you’re happy there. I know your parishioners are Blessed to have men such as yourself. I hope they realize how fortunate they are, and just how much God has smiled on their lives by bringing you into their presence.

  My research has made unexpected advances in the last few weeks, which will delay my return to international aid work. For now, I must be home. It seems we will soon outgrow our present facility, so my partners and I travel to Lucerne soon to consider a larger laboratory space. Regardless of the outcome, I will let you know where to find me, if you ever wish to do so. Peace be with you, Father Michael.

  Wishing you Love & Light, without agenda. — Merci”

  Michael stared at the email for a long moment. Monsignor was probably right. The only kinder words I’ve read were Catherine’s love letters back in college. Mer—, Doctor Renard may say ‘without agenda,’ but that’s not a letter you write to a platonic friend. I knew clerical work would lead to certain, temptations, along the way. Just not sure what to do about this one…

  The phone’s digital clock proclaimed it was 3:42am. Michael calculated the time difference and shifted focus to a secured messaging app. He first texted his mentor and colleague, Monsignor Eduardo Hernandez.

  H, everything alright back there? I can’t come home yet, so I hoped you could check on my parents. How’s Ira?

  He sent the message,
and a blue bubble appeared almost immediately to announce that Hernandez was typing a response.

  Ira the Wonder Dog is fine. Your mom had a rough week, the new MS treatments have taken a toll. Your dad stops into the church every other day to talk and check on Ira. Be safe, and I’ll worry about home until you get back.

  Michael grimaced at the unpleasant reality that his family faced at the moment. If I survive this job long enough, I can pay cash for mom’s treatments in another year.

  Michael locked the phone, sat up to his left, turned on a bedside lamp, and set the device on the adjacent nightstand. A customized notepad from The Oremus at Greenwich sat next to the clock and displayed a handwritten address for his next destination. John insists I take the hotel’s shuttle service to a private airport. If he’s so confident that no one will think twice about taking me out there, the hotel’s registry must read like the Fortune 100 directory. Biggin Hill Airport’s only really used for corporate jets and private aircraft. At least the Vatican’s covert fleet can hide in plain sight among all the other multimillion-dollar planes.

  Michael took his official smartphone off its charger and checked for new emails and messages. None, not even from Sergio. Hope he’s wrong about the new phones John forced on us, but paranoid is safer than complacent. He opened the last email his boss had sent yesterday evening, and Michael reread it to ensure he hadn’t mistaken any of its details. I can easily hear John’s gruff baritone saying this.

  “Bonjour, shithead. Got your preliminary report on London and the request. Standby. Meantime, you’re going straight back out. Meet your transport at Biggin Hill Airport no later than 0700. They depart for Paris at 0701, whether you’re there or not. I made reservations for you at The Oremus there, as well. Keep up the good work and you ought to get a shitload of frequent flyer points this year, maybe even absolve your way to a nice set of steak knives for the rectory back home. 2297. — John”

  Still seated on the edge of the luxurious bed, Michael stretched his neck and shoulders. He gave a reluctant sigh and accepted the urgent, unexpected request. John normally sends us home between investigations, even the ones like London that refuse to pan out. I know it’s not the same as saying ‘no’ to God, it’s still hard to turn down a request from the Church, even if it does only come from the anonymous head of this clandestine sect. Might be His Holiness, Pope Cornelius II, or someone he’s directed to actively combat evil in the shadows where it lives. Either way, it doesn’t matter. John and the minders above him probably deserve more faith and trust than I’ve given. Especially with an investigation of this nature, I can’t go out into the field questioning everything they send my way.

  Michael pondered the coded explanation of his next investigation, the numerical ending to John’s email that referred to a specific paragraph of Catholic ideology. Although an obscure and lesser referenced section of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, Michael knew 2297’s subject by heart. Kidnapping, hostage taking, mutilation, terrorism, and torture. No idea which part of that I’m being sent to corroborate, but they’re all among the most reprehensible aspects of human behavior. Most people will never understand that killing isn’t the worst thing humans do to each other. Michael considered some of the gruesome crimes he’d investigated when he still worked as a cop before he entered the priesthood all those years ago. There’s nothing on earth so cruel as a human who’s inspired and motivated by evil. We routinely commit atrocities against our own species that even predatory animals would find immoral.

  Michael stood and refreshed a navigation page on the phone’s browser. Last night’s web search proclaimed the private international airport stood within a thirty-minute drive despite road construction on the A206 and the A21 highways. He confirmed a nearly identical commute this morning and returned his work cell to the nightstand.

  Michael cycled through a slow deep breath to combat his rising apprehension. As he’d done for decades, he knelt beside the bed to begin the first of his five daily prayer recitations. Unlike most days, he struggled this morning to first calm his mind and force anxiety from his heart. The investigation here in London has been a recurring strikeout, so I haven’t had to face this day till now. If my Paris assignment really involves terrorism or kidnapping, I need all the wisdom and fortitude God’s willing to offer, and all the grace and divine guidance I can carry. Another deep breath offered him no reprieve. God willing, I’ll officially become a serial killer today.

  The Bombmaker – One

  May 6, 07:32am.

  Private Learjet. 20,504 feet above France.

  Dressed in a black belt, slacks, and dress shoes to accompany a dark gray button-down dress shirt, Michael had chosen the monochromatic attire to better blend in with the Parisian population. It’s so ironic for the city to be one of the world’s fashion capitals while most of its citizens dress in colors more befitting their morose national mood.

  When he felt the descent begin, Michael looked outside the lavishly appointed aircraft and scanned the northern French countryside below. The idyllic mix of farm fields, green forests, and small country roads reminded Michael of his childhood on his family’s ranch outside Santa Fe. All the alfalfa and grain crops should almost be ready for their first cut. The growing season might not be long enough here to give farmers all four cuts we’re used to back home. The cockpit door unexpectedly opened, and Michael nonchalantly unbuckled his seatbelt to defend himself.

  The copilot emerged, apparently unaware of Michael’s reflexive reaction. He closed the door and passed over a locked, black case that Michael had expected to receive earlier. Bright red paint displayed “Diplomatic Pouch—Internationally Protected Contents” on both its sides.

  “John sends his regards,” the copilot explained in his thick Italian accent. “We normally give this when you first arrive, but John wanted a procedure change for this flight. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.” Michael accepted the hardened case and inspected its numerical locks. Just as the other times he’d flown on covert assignments for his anonymous hierarchy within the Vatican, Michael saw the case had a two-digit numerical combination lock near each side of its handle. Seems legit. He looked back up at the copilot. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Prego, Father Andrew. We will have you on the ground in a few minutes. Please tell us if you require anything else.”

  Michael nodded as the copilot turned back to the cockpit. Father Andrew. I’m still not used to the pseudonym, even though Saint Andrew is one of my namesakes. Once he was alone again, Michael retrieved a pair of medical exam gloves from his duffel bag and put them on. He input the combination John had specified in his email. 22-97. The case opened and revealed the usual sealed manila envelope. Michael removed it and scanned the familiar dark red letters printed on the envelope’s exterior:

  “Diplomatic Pouch – Property of the Holy See Consulate – Internationally Protected Contents – Sachetto Diplomatico – Proprietá della nazione della Santa Sede”

  Michael smirked as he considered the reality that most people don’t understand Vatican City is the primary municipality within the nation of the Holy See. Almost everyone says, ‘the Vatican,’ so even the most famous structure in Vatican City takes blame and credit for all manner of things that involve the actions of its nation, the Church, the Pope, or Catholics at-large well outside its walls.

  Additional legalese appeared below the English and Italian language headings. Michael turned the envelope over and saw a two-inch, intricate red wax seal over each of its flaps. The Seal of the Holy See appeared in the upper half, with its cross centered beneath a large papal crown and between a sword and olive branch. Beneath that complex seal, a simple transverse cross, an X-like symbol, appeared in the wax. Together, they confirmed the envelope’s origin within the Holy See and Michael as its intended recipient. Every time he authenticated one of these envelopes, the X reminded Michael what he risked on behalf of God and His Church. The Greeks martyred Saint Andrew by crucifying
him on such a cross. Ever since John assigned me to use ‘Father Andrew’ as my apostolic pseudonym, I’ve feared meeting such a fate. That kinda death makes third-world prison seem like recess.

  After the envelope passed his initial security confirmations, Michael retrieved a pocketknife and carefully cut into the wax seals. A concealed piece of parchment appeared, and he inspected the tiny numbers typed on it. 2297. 2302-8. 2268. That matches what John sent over in the second email. Everything’s authenticated and legitimate. He opened the envelope and found only a single sheet of paper. Curious, Michael read its typed message:

  “Welcome to Paris, shithead. Time to re-up your membership dues to The Merry Union of Snake Hunters & Gravediggers. This assignment’s got different operational security protocols from what they usually do. Wait inside the aircraft until the crew tells you it’s safe to proceed. You’ve got a room reserved at The Oremus Hotel in central Paris. Check in with your Holy See passport. Further details await in your room. Safe opens with the same combo. This investigation’s a damned sight more dangerous than all the others, so keep your wits about you. Stay frosty. – John”

  Michael checked again to make sure the envelope was empty. Nothing. He put the paper back into the envelope, which he then carefully secured in a hidden flap at the bottom of the duffel bag. Gotta preserve any latent prints that might still be there, just in case...

  Apprehension filled his heart and grew more intense as the plane approached its destination. The only two things I truly hate are ‘change’ and ‘the way things are.’ I still don’t implicitly trust John as I should, and any change he makes to our protocols makes me question why he’s doing it. He could be isolating me because he knows the secrets I’m keeping from him, or some negative external force might have compromised me or one of the other Absolvers. Either way, I’ve lost my element of surprise and anonymity because John knows exactly where to find me and when I should arrive. Even worse, if he already knows the exact room I’m staying in, then, well, anything’s possible. Anything or anyone could be waiting for me inside.