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

by Gavin Reese

  John glared at them, and his jaw muscles flexed several times. “Everybody else, clear the room. Right now, get the hell out.” He pointed at Michael and Z with his right index finger. “Everybody but these two assholes.”

  Chairs scuffed across the wood floor as the rest of the trainees scurried away and descended the basement stairs. Not that it’s really gonna matter, Michael thought, this still won’t be a private conversation for any of us.

  “What the hell’re you doing,” John demanded as soon as the three of them were hypothetically alone.

  Here it goes. “We wore a few layers out this morning so we could change our appearance a few times,” Michael explained, “and we made the first change at the city limits off Highway 20. I was just getting too warm in that long-sleeved running jacket.”

  Z cleared his throat and spoke. “And, we also ditched the Accord right after we got to town and rented a green Ford Ranger. We spent the whole day in that, least until we had to get it back at 1700.”

  John continued to glare at both of them, and Michael assumed he was deciding on a course of action. We didn’t violate the R-O-Es, we didn’t get I-D’d by the local cops. All we did was be creative enough to win, and, test the integrity of the exercise.

  “I suppose you both think you’re pretty damned smart right now,” John slowly surmised. “Think you got one over on us, huh?”

  “No, John, not at all,” Michael countered, “but, I do think it’s odd that the target I-D’d the car we had for only a few minutes, along with clothing descriptions he couldn’t have seen.”

  “That is weird,” Z sarcastically injected, “it’s like he had some kinda help, but I can’t imagine how that coulda happened. Whoever saw us in those clothes and that car would-a had to be somewhere between this kitchen and the town limits.”

  “Almost like someone wants to fail everyone out without giving us a chance to prove or test our capabilities,” Michael added and held John’s angry glare. “There is another possibility. Maybe this’s all a coincidence. Maybe the target saw a white sedan he thought was our Accord with two guys that looked like us, and just happened to also be dressed in yellow and orange—”

  “It’d be understandable,” Z interrupted, “given the number of construction workers and road crews that come through here—”

  “And the oilfield workers,” Michael added. “I’d bet most of them probably wear just as much high-visibility clothing as anyone else in the construction industry.”

  John leaned back in his chair and seemed to consider the position in which they each found themselves. He pulled their intel and activity log closer and intently read through it. “You boys just might be right,” he apologetically offered. “Before we go jumpin’ to any conclusions, I oughta check with your target and see if there’s any way he mighta made the kinda mistake you boys brought up. Ask around and see if there’s someone that could-a given him the kinda help that’d be required for him to have known what you looked like when you left here this morning. But, I doubt it.”

  John stood up from the table with their intel packet in his hands. “Hell, now that you boys bring it up, there’s gotta be hundreds of men riding together through that little town in old, white Honda Accords wearing orange and yellow shirts. I think the better question, at this point, is to find out why he didn’t call in every one of ‘em he saw throughout the whole day. If you’ll excuse me, y’all boys can invite your friends back up for supper and I’mma go have a word. See if we can get to the bottom of this.”

  Michael watched John leave the room and waited until he was gone to look over at Z. When he did, he saw his teammate appeared skeptical.

  “Yeah, Z, I feel like you look.”

  “Whaddaya gonna believe? The words or the probability?”

  “I’m gonna believe,” Michael offered, “that whatever the cause, that it won’t happen again, at least not in a way that we can embarrass John like that again.” He stomped twice on the wood floor just hard enough to signal his classmates sequestered belowdecks.

  Sergio led the other trainees back up from the basement, looked around, and smiled at Michael after confirming John was no longer in the room. “You guys are some stupid kinda mother fuckers, tryin’ to prove the deck’s stacked like that.”

  Zeb squeezed through to the front of the group. “Yeah, well, at least I’ll get a bed tonight for sure, there’s no way John lets you guys keep your bunks after that!”

  “Easy, Floorboard,” Michael replied, “don’t count your mattresses until they hatch.”

  The front door opened without warning and Jane stepped just past the threshold. She kept hold of the door handle as though she didn’t intend on straying farther inside. “Andrew, Z, John says both you two assholes have the floor tonight. Where’s Zeb?”

  “Right here,” he replied and stepped toward the instructor.

  “You get a cot. John says to stop being a shithead and you’ll get a mattress someday. Updated schedule. John says Mother Mary starts at 0-400. See you boys dark and early in the morning.” Jane stepped back out and started to pull the door closed. “Oh, yeah,” she exclaimed and briefly pushed it back open. “John says you know why this is happening. Nighty-night, boys.” She disappeared and the door closed and latched.

  “Alright,” Zeb smiled, “upgrade!”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” Michael said to Z and shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, boys,” he loudly announced to the other trainees. “Didn’t intend for this to spill over onto all of you.” After a few grumbled their acceptance of his apology, Michael turned back to Z. “What’re we gonna do now?”

  His teammate slowly spoke while absentmindedly staring at the table. “I’mma start by runnin’ in my orange Orioles t-shirt tomorrow morning.”

  Michael smirked at the small act of defiance. “I suppose I’ll have to wear my yellow, then. If they’re gonna smoke us anyway, may as well make sure they send us down in flames.”

  With the accelerated schedule looming over them, Michael and the rest of the trainees quickly ate supper, cleaned up the kitchen, and retired to the basement. It seems like we’re finally starting to come together as a team, Michael thought, even though we don’t know a damned thing about each other. He noticed the bed Matthias had spent the last week in was tightly made up, and all his gear was gone. “What happened there?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sergio replied, “he quit right after we got back today. That exercise really bothered him.”

  “Really,” Michael asked. “What was that bad about it?”

  “He just knew what was coming,” Alpha facetiously explained in his thick accent, “and he wanted to get outta tomorrow.”

  Michael chuckled at the ribbing, but Sergio ignored him and continued.

  “So, Tex was our target,” Sergio explained, “and that dude’s pretty sneaky. We were sittin’ down the block from this business he’s supposed to be in. We saw him go in, and I’m still pretty sure that there wasn’t a back door, but, like ten minutes later, he snuck up on the passenger side of the car and put a red gun right in Matthias’ face. Scared the hell outta that kid.”

  “So, he quit because a trainer put a fake gun in his face?”

  “No, not really,” Sergio responded, “he quit because he realized how bad he messed up, and how vulnerable he’d be following real, armed bad guys around by himself. We came back here after the loss, and he packed his shit. John had him on the bus in, like, thirty minutes.”

  “The man’s bunk isn’t really even cold yet,” Phillip offered, “and I bet they’ve already pulled his chair outta the classroom. Any evidence of your time here gets erased before you cross the county line.” The nine remaining trainees all looked at one another in silence for a long moment and considered Phillip’s observation.

  “And, then, there was nine,” John unexpectedly called down as he descended the stairs into the trainees’ basement. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Michael saw his tone and appearance completely concealed
the recent dust-up. “Sounds like everybody knows Matthias quit. Just like Bartholomew, I got no hard feelings towards the man. He realized how isolated and vulnerable he’d be, especially if he had to work surveillance by himself. Said he couldn’t stomach the idea of putting himself out there to hunt men who might have guns and weapons when he had nothing more than fists and prayers. Told me he felt guilty that he'd put Jude in danger, if there had been actual danger to be in.

  “Too bad,” John surmised, “but, the harsh reality is the guy barely made it through our defensive tactics training, and there’s still a lot of ground left for y’all to cover there before you get to move on. I understand his apprehension. He mighta just saved his own life, and, prob’ly, the life of someone else that didn’t need killin’. That’s just a small taste of one of the assignments our fellas go to. If you got similar considerations, think long and hard about what we’re training you to do here.”

  “What is that, precisely, John,” Sergio asked despite knowing he wouldn’t get the answer they all sought.

  “Whatever God calls you to do. Early start tomorrow, shitheads. Don’t be late.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Training Day 85, 0345 hours.

  Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  Michael worked to cast the proverbial fog and cobwebs from his mind as he climbed the stairs to the start of another extraordinarily early day. Even the sun’s still in bed, he surmised and yawned, so we oughta be, too. Fifth early start since Z and I peed in John’s Cheerios two weeks ago. Maybe coincidence, probably not. He stepped out onto the porch, and the brisk, high-forties temps immediately reminded him that summer came late and short to this part of the world. The porch lights cast only a small amount of light around them and Michael assumed they had a dimmer switch somewhere. Still too early for bright light, and I imagine I’m about to need my night vision to go stumbling around in the darkness.

  “Good morning,” John announced as the last of the trainees straggled out on to the porch to join him. Steam rose off the top of his coffee mug and reiterated the coolness around them. “Got a local field trip planned for this morning. In the interest of time and efficiency, I’m combining your morning run with a field problem. Y’all are gonna head into town, on foot, at whatever pace seems beneficial to you. That’s about thirteen miles, each way.”

  John, who had no such prescribed regimen this morning, paused and loudly sipped at his coffee. “Then, each o’ you’s gonna figure out how to get me a copy of yesterday’s local paper. There’s a paid dispenser right outside the front door ‘o The Blue Bonnet. Even if there’s no papers to be had, you’re gonna physically touch that bin. That’s the midpoint of the run and no one gets to cheat me on the distance. Standard rules of engagement. No unnecessary violence. No assaulting cops under any circumstance. No police reports. No witnesses. No sins. Just the typical R-O-Es that you’re all used to by now, with the additional caveat that no one gets to take any money with ‘em. You’ll have to round up two quarters somewhere along the way if you wanna pay for your copy of the paper. Otherwise, you’ll have to get creative and come up with some alternate means of entry into the bin.”

  Michael started shivering a bit as they stood still on the porch. I’m dressed to be moving and working, not standing around doing nothing. He tried to quietly jog in place to get his core temp back up a few degrees.

  “Now, a few points for clarification,” John continued after another sip of coffee. “My cadre has assured me that there will be no more than three papers in the bin. They checked it last night and removed all but three, so, there could still be three. But, then again, there could be none if the local townsfolk had a late-night hankering for local news and farm equipment ads.

  “Second, I will make my way in to have lunch at The Blue Bonnet at 1100 hours. I will return all of the papers y’all borrow and deliver to me by that time. If you borrow a paper that doesn’t make it back to my porch before the stroke of 1100, you’ve got stolen property in your hands that you’ll have to figure out how to return without committing a sin or addin’ your name to the local police blotter. That gives y’all almost seven hours to get that done, so, that seems pretty goddamned generous. Four hours is a good marathon time, and you got near double that to get back a winner. Winners are guaranteed a bunk for the next seven nights. Last man back here without a paper’s gonna keep Zeb’s floorboards warm for him tonight.”

  John gave his coffee another pronounced and prolonged sip. “Regardless of when y’all get back here, we start the afternoon class promptly at 1300. Got a specialist that’s gonna train you numbskulls in Body Language Interpretation and Emotional Tells. Vitally important to what some-a y’all might be doing someday. Questions, comments, concerns before y’all get goin’?”

  Michael mentally worked his way through the marching orders for a creative solution, shortcut, or stumbling block that offered John and his instructors an opportunity to sabotage the results. I’ll probably find one on a front lawn or sidewalk between here and there, but that’s at least Petty Theft and, maybe, Trespassing, depending on where I find it. The bin’s the only viable option, assuming there’s even papers left inside. That’s the easiest way to make sure everyone loses. More likely that there’s only one paper left so we waste a bunch of time.

  “Alright, then. Paperboy drops today’s copy about 0-700, so I’d get goin’ if I were you. It pays to be a winner.”

  As soon as John finished his recurring send-off statement, Michael strode from the porch. He consciously let his body warm-up while he worked up to his marathon pace. Several of the other trainees ran with greater urgency, and Michael questioned their decision. There’s always another way to solve John’s field problems, always a creative solution that’s not immediately obvious. What’s the angle here, though? Even if there are three papers left in the bin, we’re gonna waste a lot of time trying to get in without breaking the bin, without being confronted by a passerby or the deputies, and being gone before the paperboy shows up at 7am. Wait...that’s it.

  Michael smiled at his realization and slowed his pace to a stroll. That’s it! This is an easy win! I don’t wanna avoid the paperboy, I wanna meet him there and ask him for one of yesterday’s copies that’s gonna be thrown out, anyway! He looked down at his watch. 0402. Three hours, almost. I need to keep a slower pace, eleven or twelve minutes a mile, and I’ll get there just after 6-30 to make sure I don’t miss him. Then, I’ll have more gas to hurry back here with the paper.

  During the next few minutes, Michael fell back into last place among his fellow runners and used his wristwatch and the county road’s mile markers to pace himself. Harder than I thought, my body naturally wants to run each mile a couple minutes faster. Hopefully, my legs still feel this fresh on the way back. Once I get my copy from the paperboy, assuming no one else’s reached the same conclusion, I won’t even need to worry about hauling ass back. Don’t gotta be first, just can’t be last.

  Michael pressed on into the predawn darkness and watched the sunrise in solitude. He waved at the few vehicles that passed him on the isolated, rural road. Gotta work to keep from raising suspicion. Doesn’t help that nine strangers are running toward town at sun-up. Better’n running around at night, I guess. Maybe they’ll think we’re some kind of adult fat-camp.

  When he saw Sergio running back toward him, Michael checked his watch, suddenly concerned he’d fallen too far behind his intended pace. 6-0-3, I better be getting close. As they met, Sergio slowed and jogged alongside Michael toward town.

  “You better pick it up, Mike, you’re in last place by at least five or seven minutes.”

  “Where’s your paper?”

  “Bin’s already empty, must-a been tapped out overnight.”

  “Assuming there was ever still three in it to begin with. You tell anybody else about that on your way back?”

  “Only Z and Phillip, nobody else asked.”

  “Kay. Is the cafe open?”

  “Should be,
sign says it opens at six,” Sergio replied and ran with Michael in silence for a few dozen yards. “You tryin’ to be last?”

  “No, I’ve got a plan,” Michael replied.

  “You say so. I don’t give a shit about winning this one as long as I don’t lose. No way I’m sleepin’ on the floor again if I can help it.”

  “How much distance is left to the bin?”

  Sergio thought for a moment. “About two miles, little more, definitely under three, though. Haven’t paid as much attention on the way back.”

  “Thanks, brother. See you back at the house, then.”

  “Yeah, good luck, man, hope it works out for ya, whatever it is.” Sergio quickly stopped, turned, and ran back toward the compound.

  “Me too,” Michael said aloud to himself. He rechecked his watch. I’ll get there a little after 6-30, so, as long as the delivery’s not too early, I’ll have a little rest, maybe even find some water.

  When Michael finally saw The Blue Bonnet Cafe, he again checked his watch. 6:39. He kept his pace, stopping only when he finally reached the bin. Still empty. Good, delivery’s not here yet. He had passed only Sergio on the run in, despite taking the most direct route. None of the others are around. Musta went looking for other bins. Surprised they risked having me beat them back. It’ll be hard to win this one, but real easy to lose. No way we’ll keep pace on an unsupported marathon with no supplies. Still got half of that distance to get back home.

  “Sir?”

  Michael turned to the kind, female voice behind him. A young woman in a blue checker-board apron stood in the cafe’s open doorway and smiled at him.