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

by Gavin Reese

  Seven minutes and a few brief stops later, Michael jumped up to complete number one-fifteen. He put his hands up on the back of his head, slowly walked around the outside of the group, and worked to catch his breath.

  “About half-a you’s already done,” John shouted to be heard, “so the slower shitheads’re gonna have to listen while you work! The point of our driver training is to make sure you can drive real cars on real roads! No point in supercars and race tracks, cause you won’t ever get that in the real world. Whether you find yourself in New York City or Moga-fucking-dishu, you’re gonna be on shitty roads and Jeep trails!”

  Michael stopped strolling about as John spoke and Sergio walked up and quietly stood nearby. That asshole barely broke a sweat.

  “What the hell are Vatican operatives doing in Mogadishu,” his friend carefully whispered while John shouted over them.

  “He forgot Denver,” Michael quietly replied without looking at Sergio, “roads are shit there, too. Don’t know what the job is, but I look forward to finding out.”

  “Get used to this shitty blacktop,” John loudly continued, “and you’ll be grateful when you get to drive on the good stuff. After this week, we’re going out onto the local dirt track to teach you a few things about drifting and counter-steer. As y’all get done with your penance, head over to the cars and get started. We’re burnin’ daylight, shitheads!”

  Michael pulled his hands down off the back of his head and walked to the farthest vehicle, which seemed to be first in line to go out on the “track.”

  Gonna be a good day, now that that’s over, Michael told himself. Never had a bad day on the track.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Training Day 29, 0811 hours.

  Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  Michael stood behind his flimsy classroom chair by 8:11, but delayed sitting down until he had to do so. The day had started with the usual run, this time just a 5K to warm up before the trainees raced for time through John’s parkour obstacle course. Although he’d given his best effort, Michael continued to fall short of the times his younger and more flexible teammates set. The “mandatory fun” had continued with a half-hour of bodyweight torment on the grinder before John finally released them at 7:15. While he waited John’s presumed entry at 8:15, Michael stretched his legs and back. This flimsy chair’s gonna put me in one with wheels before it’s all said and done.

  “Good morning, shitheads,” their lead instructor proclaimed as he strode through the back door with his standard, large mug of steaming coffee and a frown. “Gonna be a good day today. Some of the best instruction in classroom theory you’ll have the whole time you’re out here. I’m a little biased because I’m teachin’ the goddamned class, but I hope to make most of you fervent believers before the day’s out.” John set his mug atop the front banquet table and made use of the dry erase board.

  “Today’s theory,” he continued, “is all about long-range shooting. Precision, rifle, operation,” he slowly called out as he wrote it in large block letters. “Sniper shit. Whatever you wanna call it. I call it ‘good times.’ Now, I’m not gonna cover anything we talk about today in incredible detail, today’s class is more an overview, the ten-thousand-foot perspective. We’ll get right down into the goddamned weeds on some of this stuff in the next few weeks, but, for today, just try to catch onto the concepts.” During the next four hours, John covered a wide range of related topics, discussing rifle components, terminology, and associated vocabulary; the physics of a bullet’s vector, which included ballistic coefficients, transitional ballistics, yaw, precession, and bullet nutation. The last topics he covered before lunch focused on spin-drift, maximum terminal range, and terminal ballistics.

  “’Terminal ballistics’ is just college-boy, fancy-talk for how bullets make things go splat,” John explained. “With that beautiful picture in mind, let’s break you assholes for lunch. I think there’s spaghetti and meatballs in the kitchen. We’ll pick it back up in an hour.”

  Michael and his fellow students all migrated back over to the main house and took their meal together in the kitchen and dining room, as had become their practice three times a day. Once seated, they individually crossed themselves and bowed their heads in solitary prayer. Each lifted their heads as they finished, and only then did they address one another.

  “Anybody got any reservations about the class today,” Bartholomew asked immediately after he finished praying.

  “Only that it was just a survey course,” Sergio replied and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m into this kinda thing, so it’s interesting to me. I think I can learn a lot from John on this.”

  “Not concerned about the physics and the theory, Jude,” Bartholomew clarified and addressed Sergio by his pseudonym. “I’m talking about the practical reality of just what the hell they’re gonna expect us to do with this training.”

  “Maybe nothing,” Matthew injected, “maybe something. I don’t have any heartburn over it one way or the other.”

  “You afraid to make people go splat, Bart,” Thomas smugly inquired.

  “Not in theory, Thomas, but I see a mountain of moral difference between shooting a man who tries to murder me with a handgun in self-defense, and shooting a man from so far away that he can’t even see me.”

  “I can prob’ly guess how you feel ‘bout huntin’, then,” Z joked, and deliberately emphasized his Carolina accent. “Maybe we gotta go back a couple hundred years and go after big game with knives and runners.”

  “John’s not training us to harvest deer and elk,” Bartholomew harshly responded, “he’s talking about the basics of setting up a murder.”

  The group sat and ate in silence for several minutes, and Michael felt he had no reasonable, logical argument that would overcome the emotional conviction that Bart had professed. Ya can’t get there from here, bub.

  Thomas, predictably, both spoke first and did so with an antagonistic tone. “You’re not some pacifist, are you, Bart? Think that we’re limited to huggin’ it out with evil?”

  “No, I’m just trying to find a path to overcome the murderous applications of today’s lesson, and I don’t think poking fun at my morality will get me there.”

  “So, we’re not ever gonna get to call you ‘Black Bart,’ huh?” Thomas ate a large piece of bread and chewed it with his mouth open. “What about ‘Bart the Bitch?’”

  “I’ll continue to pray for you, Thomas,” Bartholomew patiently replied. “Still not sure that you’re really a priest.”

  “It takes all kinds of clowns to put on a decent circus,” Thomas replied and savagely devoured a meatball.

  Most of the remainder of their meal passed in silence, with each man excusing himself as soon as the opportunity presented itself. John reconvened the class at precisely 1:30, and continued his survey course in long-range shooting theory for the afternoon session: heat wave optics, wind, elevation and relative height adjustments; humidity, heat, and weather considerations; moving target solutions; moving shooter difficulties, such as shooting from an aerial platform; and simultaneous, three-dimensional shooter and target movement.

  “The best, most recent, and well-known example I can give you of simultaneous three-dimensional movement is the Maersk Alabama rescue. Anyone familiar with that one?”

  Sergio quickly raised his hand. “Absolutely, John, the Navy SEALS rescued Captain Phillips from a group of Somali pirates by putting all three of ‘em down at once with snipers.”

  “Damned straight,” John acknowledged. “What makes that even more impressive is the detail of what was necessary for it to happen. To skip most of the backstory, the U-S Navy is towing a closed lifeboat with three goddamned Somali pirates and an American hostage, one Captain Phillips. Y’all mighta seen the movie. So, the dumbass pirates let the Navy tow their boat toward shore. The Navy isn’t gonna let ‘em go, and they’ve already promised to kill Captain Phillips if anyone tries to take their vessel. So, the Navy brings in some SEAL snipers and hi
des ‘em on the back of the ship towing the lifeboat. They sit in their hides and wait. For days. Just pissing down their own legs and waiting for the perfect shots. Remember, they gotta take out all three assholes at once to make sure none of ‘em get to kill Phillips. So, time passes. Eventually, those dumb-shits all stick their heads up together, which is exactly what the snipers were waiting for. At a moment’s notice, three snipers took near-simultaneous shots from the deck of a moving ship, at moving targets, on another moving ship, and they went three-and-oh on the day. Three piece-of-shit pirates all went splat together, and, can you imagine what it musta been like to be Captain fuckin’ Phillips at that moment?! One second, he’s looking at three skinnies that all want him dead and are using his life and safety as leverage, and, the next, he’s lookin’ at three headless corpses with bloody canoes where their faces used to be! Holy shit, that’d get your undivided attention, for sure!”

  Most of the students chuckled along with John’s understatement, but Michael noticed that Bartholomew found no humor in the bad men meeting their deserved and justifiable end.

  “Excuse me, John,” a voice called out from behind Michael. He turned and saw “Double-Time” standing in the open doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but the doc needs to see Andrew posthaste.”

  John looked at Michael and nodded toward the open doorway. “Go make it so.”

  Michael glanced at his watch and saw it was already 5:13pm.

  “Go ahead and pack up your milk crate,” John directed. “I keep tellin’ the doc you’re crazier’n a shithouse coon, so you might be in there long after I cut these assholes loose.”

  Michael nodded, reluctantly collected and crated his belongings, and headed for the door empty-handed. I’d much rather keep talking about rifles and ballistics than to have a head shrink try to get my innermost fears and secrets outta me. After he stepped from the classroom, Double-Time strode immediately in his wake, which made Michael feel the man intended to make him uncomfortable, maybe even threatened.

  “Doc’s in the usual room in the main house,” the instructor gruffly offered, his right leg walking in lockstep immediately behind Michael’s left.

  Taking a small step right and turning himself counterclockwise, Michael stopped and found himself nearly nose-to-nose with the antagonistic instructor.

  “Something I can do for ya, Andrew?” The man’s pupils expanded, and the corners of his mouth turned up, just slightly. “Cause, I gotta tell you, I really hope there is. I been just waiting for the invite, brother, so, if you wanna throw down right here and settle this, I’m game.”

  “I just wanted to let you know I’m not gay,” Michael dryly responded, hoping to motivate the presumed homophobe to throw the first punch. “The way you been tailgatin’ me around, I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

  “Fuck you, fairy boy,” he hissed through clenched teeth and moved closer until their noses touched.

  “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about, I don’t wanna fuck you and, no matter how nice you ask, I’m not gonna let you blow me.”

  “Please throw on me,” the trainer ferociously begged, “it’d be good for both of us.”

  “Ready when you are, just so you know there’s no tummy-sticks afterwards.”

  Double-Time kept his nose in contact with Michael’s for another few seconds before he stepped back, but didn’t stop glaring at him. “You’ll get your chance to tango, mother fucker, and I’m gonna take my sweet time fuckin’ you up.”

  “I’m feelin’ pretty good today,” Michael offered, “so, if you want my appointment with the doc, you can work through your recurring man-rape fantasies. Might just keep you outta prison.”

  “Like I said,” he countered and strode toward the main house, “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

  “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Michael called out after him. I don’t wanna let him catch me by surprise when he snaps. Love to know what made him set his sights on me.

  Michael followed the adversarial instructor into the house and soon found himself isolated with Father Harry. This guy might make my brain hurt, but he’s pretty unlikely to make me bleed. “Whaddaya wanna talk about today, doc? Anything specific, or just the usual?”

  “This is just our normal, periodic check-in to see how you’re adjusting to life here at the facility, how you’re interacting with the instructors and the other students. See if, maybe, you’re struggling with any moral quandaries over the topics and lessons here, which are not necessarily what most people would associate with mainstream Catholicism, no matter how strongly they’re based in the Holy Scripture and the Catechism. So, let’s start with the easy one. How’re you getting along with everyone here?”

  After more than an hour of non-answers, half-truths, and avoided revelations, the head doc finally released Michael. He immediately found his way back to the basement without further confrontation. Had enough asshole for one day. As he landed on the basement flooring, Michael exhaled, stepped to his bed, and flopped down on the blanket-covered mattress. After a few moments, he noticed how quiet everyone was and glanced around the room. “Who took all Bart’s stuff? You guys shouldn’t mess with him, not with the day he’s had.”

  “Not us,” Matthias explained, “he took everything himself. Got in an argument with John and quit. He left just a few minutes ago.”

  Michael sat up on his elbows. “What the hell happened?”

  “It went like this,” Zeb offered. “He said he couldn’t make himself carry or use a rifle. Said something real self-righteous about how it had no Godly, defensive purpose. He tried to get out of the rifle training and stay, but John insisted he had to complete all the courses. Bart refused to have anything to do with the rifles, so John offered him the chance to think about it overnight, but he came down here, packed up his stuff, told us all we were gonna follow John and his mystery program right down into the bowels of Hell, and bounced. Took off outta here before John even had a chance to call that damned bus to come get him.”

  “Hmm, interesting,” Michael surmised, “not too hard to see that happening after the questions he had at lunch. Some Christians believe we’re supposed to be pacifist sheep and just let the Devil’s wolves have their way with us. Too bad. He’s a little too black-and-white for me, but I think he means well. Bart was a good man.”

  “Still is a good man,” John interrupted as he descended the stairs and brought all the students to a heightened sense of foreboding.

  Shit, Michael thought, he’s never come down here like this before. He sat upright and moved over to the edge of his bed.

  John waited to speak until he reached the basement floor and had a chance to survey the room around him. “I just wanted to make sure y’all know and understand that I don’t harbor any grudge or ill will against Bartholomew. I appreciate his position and that he had to stick to his own morals and conscience. Doesn’t matter that I disagree with him, and it doesn’t matter that the Church and I both believe he’s misinformed.”

  John briefly paused before pressing on with his monologue. “He knew he couldn’t wake up every morning and look himself in the mirror if he continued with my training program. That’s far more important than being here. You gotta live in your skin for however long God wants you on this Earth, but you’re only gonna be here for a few more months, and maybe in your selected assignment for only a few years, right? Even if you’re as good as I was, eventually, age and aches catch up with you, and you gotta find a way to move on and still find meaning in your work. I admire Bart for knowing and vocalizing his limitations. I know it required bravery on his part, because I’m sure he felt like he was going against me, but, in reality, he did exactly what I asked of you all on Day One. If you’ll recall, I told you that I didn’t want you here one day longer than you wanted to be here. Also said something about not wanting you to ever feel any kinda moral grievance. I don’t have the time or desire to work through nonstop philosophy discussions every time we start a new training evolut
ion, so, I’m grateful he pulled himself out. I just wish he would-a waited for the goddamned bus. It’s a long walk to town with luggage, boys, and the bus ride’s free.

  “So, just in case there’s anyone else with similar objections that just hasn’t had the intestinal fortitude or heartburn required to voice ‘em yet,” John continued, “here’s the deal with the rifles, which, sadly, Bartholomew didn’t wanna hear. I’ve done told y’all this training program feeds a number of specialty positions and assignments within the Holy See hierarchy. Some are clandestine, some are intelligence, some are security related. Some are, well, somethin’ else. We don’t know what you’re each gonna be good at, where you’re gonna demonstrate the greatest proficiency, and, therefore, where you’re gonna be most useful to God and His Pope. So, knowing that, lemme pose this scenario. Vatican Intelligence gets notified that an ISIS-inspired group is headed to Saint Peter’s Square right now with a Vee-BIED, a ‘vehicle-borne improvised explosive device,’ and there’s no time to cordon off or evacuate the Square. They get an accurate description of the car, its driver, and its projected route to get into the center of the Square before detonating. Only a few minutes pass until the exact vehicle drives toward the Square, and the driver matches the description you’ve been given, and he’s wearing a black-and-white fishnet patterned keffiyeh, and there’s an ISIS flag draped over his shoulders. He’s driving more’n twice the speed limit, westbound on Via della Conciliazone, headed straight toward the east end of the Square, and accelerating.

  “Who do you want to try to solve this problem? Do you want a trained sniper to put him down before he gets into the Square, and potentially avoid detonation in the first place? Do you want a Swiss Guard standing by the east entrance to give him a chance to change his mind and surrender, maybe give him some verbal commands in Italian, Arabic, and English, just to cover the bases? Or, do you wanna wait for him to do whatever the hell he’s got on his mind, just ‘turn the other cheek,’ and clean up any debris, victims, and body parts he leaves behind?” John looked around the room, and enough time passed to demonstrate he expected an answer.