The Absolver: Rome (Saint Michael Thriller Series Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  A tall, muscular blonde man in his late forties strode to the front of the room with a brown cardboard box in his arms.

  Where did that guy come from, Michael wondered. He wasn’t back there when I walked in a second ago, and I didn’t hear the door open. Guy’s a white ninja.

  “Good afternoon,” Paul offered in a deep tenor voice as he set the box down on the middle of the front table, directly in front of Bartholomew. “This is the part of my presentation where my trainees usually hear a little about who I am, what I’ve done, and what else I’m trained to do, so you have confidence in my credentials and in the credibility of the information and technology that I’m providing.

  “However,” he continued and moved back to clear the large dry erase board behind him, “John tells me you all aren’t privy to that intel, so, I’ll just let the material speak for itself. If you don’t like it, per John’s instructions, you can just go fuck yourselves. I get paid the same either way.”

  Michael liked Paul already, and he glanced over to see that Sergio had chuckled along with the instructor, as well. Jude, gotta get used to calling him Jude.

  Paul passed out solid plastic training guns, affectionately called “red guns” because they were made of one solid, non-moving piece of red plastic shaped to look and feel exactly like a real pistol. “When I set these down on the desk in front of you,” Paul loudly exclaimed, “do, not, touch, them. I would repeat it, but I wanna see which one of you window-licking retards is gonna get in trouble first. You’ll notice, if you look without touching the damned thing, that the trigger’s dark purple. That’s because I’ve coated it with purple food dye and Vaseline. If you touch that trigger, you’ll feel the icky and know you done goofed. Then, I’ll know it because you’re gonna put your hand up so I can see the pretty stain on your finger.

  “In short, the lesson here, people,” Paul explained, “is that you gotta keep your booger hooks off the God-damned bang switch. It’s not rocket science, and no matter how tempting it is to finger-fuck my red guns, keep ‘em unmolested for now.”

  John stepped forward to briefly draw their attention. “There’ll be hell to pay if anything in my beautiful classroom is purple when you leave here today.”

  Paul began with the four, standard firearm safety rules, and they spent a mind-numbing thirty minutes reciting, writing, regurgitating, and rewriting those same four rules until everyone confidently professed them from memory: Treat all weapons as if they are always loaded. Do not point your weapon at anything you’re not willing to destroy. Keep your index finger straight along the frame until you’re on-target and have decided to fire. Identify your target and know what’s behind it at all times.

  Michael felt a little impressed and grateful for the effort from a few of his colleagues. Kinda surprised that only took a half-hour.

  Paul led them through the inner workings of semi-auto handguns and revolvers. Only then did he allow them to finally handle the red plastic guns.

  Immediately, Michael saw Bartholomew try to subtly wipe a smear of purple Vaseline from his right index finger.

  “Bartholomew,” John called out from across the room, “how now, brown cow?!”

  The man froze in place as though he didn’t understand John’s volume or his question. “I’m sorry, John, I don’t—”

  “How, now, brown, cow,” John firmly asked.

  “I, don’t—”

  “Okay, so you don’t know what that means,” John surmised, “you ain’t never heard that phrase before?”

  “No, John, I guess not, I—”

  “It serves lots of purposes, but typically informs my students they’ve run their proverbial ship aground and are in dire need of a life preserver. So, it could mean things, like, ‘what the hell are you doing,’ or ‘what’s important now,’ or, like right now, it kinda means, ‘if you try to hide that goddamned critical error from my instructor, you’ll regret it right quick.’ We’re all about integrity here, and I’d rather see you shitheads struggle, and fall, and fail, as often as I can damned well help you do it, but you’re gonna be honest about it when you do fail. You learn more pickin’ yourself up off the ground than you ever will from standing ovations you don’t deserve. Did that make it clearer for you, son?”

  “Yes, John,” Bartholomew replied and held his purple-stained finger up to Paul.

  “And, we have a winner,” Paul exclaimed with the excitement of a daytime game show host. “Tell him what he’s won, John!”

  The lead instructor mimicked Paul’s gameshow inflection. “Well, just for being the very first asshole to touch the trigger on his simulated weapon system, Paul, he gets one timed victory lap down Mother Mary, along with a hundred burpee bonus for tryin’ to hide it, and it all starts just as soon as class is over!”

  Michael stifled his laughter at Bartholomew and his public shaming, but genuinely appreciated the gravity of the lessons several of his colleagues had to learn before they took possession of real guns and live ammunition.

  “Alright, Bartholomew,” John asked in his normal voice, “how now brown cow?”

  Michael watched Bartholomew assess what was asked of him, and, as he looked at his own finger, what to do about the purple petroleum jelly.

  “You mean, how am I gonna clean this up?”

  “They can be taught, Paul!” John turned back to his student. “Yeah, shithead, what now? How do you plan to fix that particular problem?”

  Bartholomew looked around for anything that offered a reasonable solution but found no such thing. “I’ll run back to the house and wash up.”

  “Eat it.”

  “What, John?”

  “You heard me, Bartholomew. Eat it. It’s food coloring and petroleum jelly, just like your grannies used for Chapstick. We ain’t got time for you to ‘wash up’ across the yard and downstairs, you clearly gotta hear every word Paul says. Get that shit off your finger so we can carry on.” He looked over to Paul. “See? This is why I hate teachin’ this shit, there’s always one or two that’re just plain ‘paint-by-numbers’ stupid.” John glared back at Bartholomew. “Why aren’t you done yet?”

  Bartholomew jammed his finger deep into his mouth and grimaced like he expected a nauseating taste. He pulled it back out, and Michael saw that a much smaller purple stain remained.

  “Alright, thank God that travesty’s over and done with,” John observed. “Paul, carry on, please.”

  Paul spent the next four hours teaching the class proper center-mass targeting areas, along with how to handle, draw, present, aim, carry, holster, and conceal a firearm. By the time he’d finished, Michael felt reasonably assured the group could return from a live fire range with no more holes than they took with them.

  “Last thoughts for the day,” John announced while Paul picked up and cleaned the red guns from each student. “Whenever we talk about firearms, really any weapon system that has the potential to do real, prolonged, and profound harm, we’re also obligated to consider and discuss the moral and scriptural limitations of the device.

  “In terms of a gun,” John continued, “whether it’s a pistol, a rifle, hell, a high-powered pellet gun for all it matters, any of ‘em. Whenever you have a firearm you’re thinkin’ about using, or someone else has a firearm they’re thinkin’ about using on you, what are the justifications and reasons for morally and ethically pullin’ that trigger?”

  “In defense of yourself or someone else that’s presented with a deadly threat,” Sergio offered.

  “That’s good,” John replied. “Do you have to wait for someone else to actually start pullin’ trigger before you’re allowed to use deadly force to stop them?”

  “No,” Michael replied in unison with only about half the class.

  “What about an imminent deadly threat? One that’s foreseeable, but not yet deadly at that instant?”

  “Shoot ‘em,” Michael answered.

  “We got one Doc Holliday back there, and no other takers?” John scanned the class and gav
e a few seconds for additional feedback. “Alright, lemme be more specific. You’re in a convenience store bathroom, one way in and out. You have a holstered and concealed gun. A massive M-M-A fighter busts through the door and attacks you with punches and kicks? Can you shoot him?”

  “Yes,” Michael and Sergio both confidently replied.

  “More Americans are killed every year with hands and feet than firearms, so sayeth the F-B-I,” John explained, “so that tells you that punches and kicks are more statistically lethal than guns. So, yes, you shoot that man if you don’t have a chance of winning the fistfight.

  “What about if the same guy busts in the same bathroom, in the same black undersized M-M-A t-shirt, but he just stands in the doorway? He tells you that you’re not leaving without a fight, and he’s got about two-hundred pounds of roid-muscle on you. Do you shoot him?”

  “Yes,” Michael and Sergio again answered together.

  “Right again,” John replied. “You don’t have to engage in a fight where you have a serious chance of severe injury or death. Now he comes in, same dude, same bullshit t-shirt, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stands in the doorway, takes up a fighting stance, and puts both fists up and glares at you.”

  “Bang bang,” Sergio quickly offered.

  “Shoot him,” Michael added, “twice.”

  “That’s all spot on, folks. Guns are not just for dealing with other guns, they are for dealing with all manner of deadly and profound threats.” John pointed at Michael and Sergio. “Neither of you get to answer anymore. This one’s for the rest-a the group.

  “So, let's say you find this guy,” John looked off in the distance like he was imaging the perfect hypothetical scenario. “Never mind how, but just accept that you know, for a fact, beyond any reasonable doubt, this man is a serial rapist. He has assaulted dozens of women, dozens. You see him, recognize him, know who and what he is. Let’s even say that you know he only rapes if he has his red banana with him, and you see him headed out of his house with a red bandana. Can you shoot him?”

  Nervous silence fell across the room. Michael looked around and tried to assess if any of them would pull the trigger in such an obvious “shoot” scenario.

  “Yes,” Z hesitantly offered with slight up-speak that conveyed his uncertainty.

  John shook his head. “I’m sorry, Z, was that an answer or a question?”

  “Yes, shoot,” Z more confidently offered.

  “That’s right. We can use deadly force to prevent reasonably foreseeable and imminent death or profound injury. Now, let’s take that back a bit more. Let’s say you knew just a little less.” John again looked off and formed his hypothetical question. “So, you know all that stuff about him, absolutely know it, and you can prove it to anyone that asks. But, he’s not headed out when you find him. He doesn’t have the red bandana on him, he’s just eating a T-V-dinner in front of a Magnum, P-I re-run. Even got his back turned to you. Let’s add this, though, that you learned all this through the victim’s confession, and you have all the corroborating evidence you need to convict him in court, but, you can’t go to the cops and you can’t violate the Seal of the Confessional. But, you still know he’s a serial rapist that’s gonna rape again, and again, and again, until he’s stopped, but you can’t tell anyone about him.”

  John scanned his audience, waited for an answer, and prodded them further when he received none. “What debt do we owe to all the rest of society, to protect the safety and dignity of humanity, knowin’ the kinds of things that we sometimes learn through the course of our service to God? If we know that serial rapist cannot ever be rehabilitated, not in prison, not in free society, and we know he won’t stop until someone stops him, and we find ourselves in that position, what moral and ethical obligation do we have to act? Are we not indebted and avowed to care for all God’s children, even if we’re protectin’ those infected with evil from themselves? We occasionally identify evil, that through its actions, clearly demonstrates an intrinsic, unavoidable desire to commit horrific acts against all human dignity, to prey on the weak, the vulnerable, and the most precious of our people. When we find them, are we not obligated to act in some protective manner?” Only the outside wind was audible while John scanned the room.

  Michael understood John required an answer. “I say shoot him, recite his Last Rites like a tobacco auctioneer, and hope for the best.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Training Day 18, 0745 hours.

  Abandoned Airfield. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  Michael stepped down from the same school bus that had delivered him to John’s camp more than two weeks ago. Unlike most of the past seventeen mornings, they’d been bussed out to an old, asphalt airstrip in lieu of sitting in the stable-turned-classroom. Nice to be out in the open air, even if we’ll have to spend all day in the early-spring wind. Maybe we can skip the lectures on theoretical violence and ethical debates in favor of something a little higher-speed. Michael walked a few steps away from the bus and approached a line of assorted sedans and SUVs. There’s gotta be twenty-five vehicles here! Hell, I don’t think most of them are even sold in the U-S!

  “Thomas, Z!” John’s shout drew everyone’s attention and hastened the approach of the two he named. “You two shitheads,” he publicly explained as they stood in front of him, “are in my goddamned doghouse! Thomas, you're on the floor tonight, and Z gets the cot. You two’d best learn to start keepin’ your mouths shut, ‘cause I’m gettin’ pretty damned tired of callin’ you out for op-sec failures! I won’t keep doing it forever, so, keep it up and I’ll getcha that bus ticket I promised.

  “And this goes for the rest-a you maggots, too,” John more loudly addressed the group at-large. “I ain’t under no pressure to pass anyone, and no one’ll bat an eye if I fail everyone. I ain’t got a quota and I don’t work on commission. Clean up your act, square yourself and your mind, and get focused on takin’ in everything we give you out here! Thomas and Z’s gonna lead ya off because they each owe me two-hundred burpees before they join my training today. Rest-a y’all, as a show of solidarity and remorse for everything you’ve each done to fail to live up to my expectations, y’all each gotta gimme a hundred before you can drive my vehicles.”

  “Once you do finish with your penance,” John loudly continued, “you’re gonna get in one of my fine, used grocery getters. These are not flashy, high-performance coupes and supercars like the movies, because that’s not what you’ll have access to, and it’s not even likely that you’ll have a chance to steal one if ya could. These are the most popular vehicles sold, by volume, in the last decade in North America, Europe, Southeast Asia, and the modernized parts of Africa, both of ‘em. Statistically, these are the vehicles to which you will have the most frequent and probable access, so that’s what you’re gonna learn and be tested on.

  “Today’s course,” John paused for the brief moment required to put in fresh Copenhagen, “is gonna start teachin’ you basic emergency vehicle operation and control. In total, you’re gonna get four weeks behind the wheel in this program. We’re startin’ slow today, but, those of you that graduate will know how to pick the door locks, hotwire the ignition, diagnose and overcome mechanical problems and equipment failures, and, of course, how to recon and surveil with a car. And, later on, if you’re still around, how vehicles help you survive, evade, resist, and escape.”

  Did he just tell us we have a SERE evolution at some point, Michael wondered. No way. John’s just fucking with us now.

  “I ain’t got time to turn y’all into Hollywood stunt drivers, but we can getcha damned close.” John offered a rare wink and smile. “For me, this is one of the best segments of the program, as long as y’all agree to disregard everything you think you know about auto mechanics and high-speed vehicle operations. Anybody got anything?”

  Sergio half-raised his hand as he spoke. “So, do we have to pick between being ‘fast’ or ‘furious?’ I was kinda hopin’ for both!”

  A b
road smile suddenly covered John’s face. “Quit tryin’ to stall, you asshole! Everybody get on your faces and start pushin’!”

  Michael dropped down to the asphalt in a barely-controlled belly flop and commenced working through the appointed punishment. Most of the class started counting them off together, but Michael knew that wouldn’t last.

  “ONE!”

  There's too much difference...

  “TWO!”

  ...in our fitness levels...

  “THREE!”

  ...to keep this up!”

  “Four!”

  As Michael maintained a consistent burpee-marathon pace, the other instructors walked over from the parked cars. The only one that Michael didn’t trust strode right toward him.

  “Double-Time, ladies,” he called out.

  And, that’s why you’ve got the stupid nickname, Michael thought to himself.

  “Everybody that doesn’t beat Jude owes me another fifteen at the end,” John shouted.

  Michael glanced over and saw Sergio maintained his pace, even though the rest of the class would surely pay for it. I’ve got one-fifteen, then. They’d add to his total for every one of us that beat him, anyway.

  Michael’s nemesis stood in front of him with his hands on his hips. “Get that pace up as long as you can! Even if you only got ten D-Ts in you,” he shouted at Michael. “Give us whatever you got! Double-Time, go!” The stocky trainer loudly clapped his hands together several times as though that, in some way, helped train or motivate the students before him. “You guys should be going way faster’n this! Come on, Andrew, at least act like you give a shit! I know you can do better’n that, but I don’t know why you refuse to prove it! Let’s go, let’s go!”

  Michael didn’t bother trying to meet his demands today. It doesn’t matter what I do, it won’t be fast enough, hard enough, loud enough, or tough enough, so there’s no point in passing his arbitrary muster. John hasn’t given a shit that no one lives up to Double-Time’s demands. As he leapt up to complete burpee number twenty-three, all of the students had begun counting to themselves. No one’s gonna keep up with Sergio!