Dionne, Dorothy and Zoya watched it again in silence.
And again.
Finally, Dionne turned it off.
A heavy silence descended upon the room.
Dionne cleared her throat before she spoke. “They’re asking for the impossible.”
Dorothy nodded. “Yes. Yes, they are.”
“So what do we do?” asked Dionne.
Dorothy tapped her fingers on the wooden desktop for about ten seconds. “We have no choice. We do the impossible.”
Chapter Forty-One
Father Gabriel stood in the centre of the church and scanned all around him. He held in his hands a broom.
“Right,” said Bunny, “we need a plan. They’re probably just checking the perimeter, but they’ll be in here in a minute.”
“I can’t believe I’m the one saying this,” said Smithy, “but shouldn’t we call the police?”
“Yeah,” said Bunny, “and the best of luck explaining the kid in the basement. Right, here’s what we’re going to do…”
“No,” said Gabriel, his voice calm. “I will handle this.”
“But—” said Bunny.
“No buts,” replied Gabriel. “Remember our agreement: my church, my rules.”
“No offence, Father,” said Smithy, “but these guys are packing serious heat. I’m not sure a stern talking-to will cut it.”
“Go and get our guest and bring him up behind the altar so we know where he is. All I need you two to do is press some buttons.” With a quick jab of his foot, Gabriel broke the head off the broom. “I will handle the rest.”
Santana looked around at the snow, which was now coming down hard. Snow could make anywhere look clean, even Coopersville – at least for a little while. It was beautiful, if that was your kind of thing. “Looks like that blizzard they were talking about is finally hitting.” He looked around at the trio of his men, standing in front of the large wooden doors to St Theresa’s Church. “Y’all should ring your moms after this, check they’re OK.”
They greeted this advice with unenthusiastic nods. Santana guessed they were trying to psych themselves up for what was about to happen. Santana wasn’t wild about this either, but the reality was that after what had happened over at Philpott, the word was out there that some Irish priest dude was making Los Diablos Rojos look like fools, and they couldn’t afford that right now. With Pocket out of the picture, the Diablos were primed to make a move on New Bloods territory, and the last thing they needed was anything that compromised their power. It was just business, and this guy was just some guy – his Friar Tuck get-up didn’t change that. Santana was out money and dope; this was always going to have to be dealt with – but the incident earlier in the day had made it priority number one.
Father Gabriel had miscalculated. He thought his associate being a priest, or whatever he called him, made him untouchable because of the attention it would bring. Heat from the cops was bad, sure, but being made to look like fools was way worse in the math of Coopersville.
Marcus reappeared from the side of the building, a baseball bat resting on his shoulder.
“Well?”
He nodded. “All handled, boss. The gym is empty and locked up tight. I chained up the side door of the church. Ain’t nobody getting out of there and there ain’t no other way out but this one.”
Santana gave a curt nod and withdrew the Colt .45 pistol from inside his jacket. His men mirrored his actions, giving their weapons one final check. Trip had brought the Kalashnikov.
“You sure you know how to use that?”
“No doubt,” replied Trip.
“Yeah,” said Santana. “Still though, stay in front of me. Alright, this is gonna be smooth. Everyone just do what I say. The sooner we handle this, the sooner we can get back to business.” He pointedly looked at Marcus. “Nobody shoots until I say.”
Marcus was looking down at his gun.
“Marcus?”
“Sure. Whatever you say, boss.”
“OK. Let’s go.”
Santana slipped in through the doors and stood to the side, the four others following him in. The stained-glass windows threw weak pools of patterned light over the rows of pews that stretched up to the front, the falling snow outside creating a rippling effect. There was also some diffused red light above the altar, illuminating the large crucifix that hung over it. Santana looked up at the face of Jesus – it had been a while since he’d been inside a church. He’d given up attending funeral services. You didn’t retain a position like his for as long as he had by letting people know where you’d be. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty much these days, but with a war on the horizon, he needed to send a message to his own troops as much as anyone else.
Santana touched his finger to each man’s chest in turn and pointed, sending Trip up one side of the church and Dex up the other, keeping Marcus in the middle aisle so that he could keep an eye on him. Marcus was becoming a problem, but again, with a war coming, a hothead was less of a liability than in normal circumstances. Such men had the ability to cause a lot of damage before inevitably ending up in a box themselves.
Santana left Sergio to guard the door because he was dependable, and he didn’t seem to have much stomach for the nasty stuff. It was all good man management, knowing who fit which role best. They’d had a kid positioned outside all week, so they knew the priests were in here. He just needed to make sure they didn’t get out until what needed to be done was done. Santana didn’t want to drop a body unless absolutely necessary. A message could be sent without a fatality. Fear spread could be more powerful than a life extinguished. Ultimately, everything was a business decision. What happened next would all depend on what answer they received, and Santana was prepared to back up the question with as much force as necessary.
They moved up the church in line, slowly. They had reached just shy of halfway when the head of someone Santana didn’t recognise popped up from behind the altar.
“Howerya, lads. If you’re here to confess your sins, I’m afraid we’re closed.”
“We ain’t,” replied Santana. “Come out nice and easy.”
“No, thanks. I’ve already got shot once today, and I didn’t care for the experience.”
“You must be the Irishman. It’s you we’ve come to see.”
“I’m touched. By the way – fair warning – I’ve got a hostage.”
Santana looked around and back, checking all of his men were in place. “What?”
“I mean, you don’t know him, so he’s not a hostage so much as an innocent bystander. I just didn’t want any of you lads to be racked with guilt at shooting an innocent teenager while you were attempting to shoot a man of God. He’s behind the altar here, tied up. It’s a long story.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Marcus. “Or we’re going to blow you to pieces.”
Santana glowered at Marcus in the dim light. “What did we talk about?”
Marcus shifted awkwardly. “Sorry, boss.”
“Is that Marcus?” said the Irishman. “I’ve not seen you since you tried to mug me. How’s it going, fella?”
Santana held his finger to his lips to silence Marcus’s response. “My name is Santana. You have something that belongs to me. This is your last chance to come out and play nice.”
“Ah, Mr Santana. What’ve you lost? Your book on copyright law?”
“OK, enough of this.”
“I agree,” said the Irishman. “This is your last chance. Leave now and there won’t be any trouble.”
Santana laughed. “Funny man. You won’t be laughing in a minute.” He pointed at Marcus. “Go get him.”
“Hold on,” said the Irishman, standing up. “Calm down, lads. I’m coming out. Try not to shoot at the altar. You’d want to be real confident in your atheism to do that.”
Santana watched as a figure emerged in the dim light and stood with his arms outstretched.
“This?” said Santana, turning to Marcus. “You were caused all
that trouble by this fat fuck?”
“Hey,” said Bunny, “for the last time, ’tis the portion sizes.” He waved his hands. “Can everyone see me clearly?”
“Yeah.”
“Grand. In that case… Hallelujah!”
On the word hallelujah, a lot of things happened at once.
Bunny dived out of the way a split second before dazzling lights positioned around the altar burst into painful, blinding life. Simultaneously, the church’s PA system, cranked up to a deafening volume, belted out the “Hallelujah” chorus. This unexpected turn of events was surprising to everyone except Sergio. That was because, five seconds previously, a black-clad figure in a balaclava had dropped down from the ceiling beneath the choir balcony and delivered a neck chop made popular by the US Marines, which resulted in him losing consciousness and then his gun, in that order.
As quickly as they’d come on, the spotlights died – leaving Santana with close to zero vision in the darkness.
He heard a thump to his left. “Trip, you OK?”
Santana crouched behind one of the pews, with Marcus hunkered down before him. “Trip?”
“I can’t see a fucking thing,” said Marcus.
Santana turned at a scream from his right.
“Dex?”
A yowl of pain issued from where Dex had been. “My knee!”
“Fuck this,” said Marcus, standing up beside Santana. He got off one shot before he collapsed into a heap on the ground. Santana’s own rising gun hand was met with a sharp blow from some kind of wooden object which shattered bone and caused him to release his grip. Then a fist smashed full force into his face, quickly followed by a foot slamming into his knee with a sickening crack. Before Santana could crumple to the floor, a hand grabbed him by the right shoulder. The sensation of flying was with him briefly before his body somersaulted in the air and landed full force on top of the supine Marcus.
And then, all of fifteen seconds after it had begun, the music stopped, and the floodlights came back on.
Santana’s attempt at crawling towards the doors was cut short by a heel slamming firmly into his neck, sending his face crashing down to meet the marble floor. His mouth filled with blood, and as he gasped for air, he felt his two front teeth tumbling out from between his bloodied lips.
He lay there struggling to breathe, his body trying to decide whether losing consciousness was a good idea. Pain screamed from several places at once. Around him, the groans and expletives of those of his men who were still conscious mingled with the sound of footsteps coming down the church towards him at a casual pace, accompanied by the cheerfully hummed melody of “Hallelujah”.
“’Tis a cracking tune, that.”
A hand grabbed Santana by the hair and pulled him upright. He held onto the side of a pew to steady himself, as his shattered right knee meant standing on that leg was impossible.
“Mr Santana – Bunny McGarry, at your service. Lovely to make your acquaintance. I’ve got all your albums.”
Santana tried to form words, but his semi-concussed state and his shattered mouth were making it difficult. “Fuck…”
“Now now, has nobody told you not to swear in church? If I was you, I’d watch your manners. Your hand isn’t the strongest.”
Bunny turned Santana painfully around so he could see the rest of the room. His men lay crumpled or unconscious on the floor, all taken out with ruthless efficiency.
When Santana was turned back around, he saw a man in a balaclava standing behind Bunny. Calm eyes stared at Santana through the eyeholes. Later, Santana would wonder if he had imagined that. Certainly, the memory of a dwarf appearing beside the figure must have been from a fevered dream. The most disconcerting part was how the man in the balaclava wasn’t even out of breath. He held in his hand what appeared to be a broomstick.
“Who the…?”
Bunny glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, what? Him? Funny you should ask. This gentleman is Mr Roy Keane. He is a lawyer for Manchester United Football Club. He has come to inform you that any unauthorised use of the brand ‘The Red Devils’ is strictly prohibited.”
Santana tried to focus on McGarry’s face. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, never mind. Time for your nap.”
Something hit him hard. Santana was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Twenty minutes later, Santana regained consciousness with an EMT and a cop standing over him. He and his men were Mirandized and charged with breaking and entering before being loaded into two ambulances. They had to double and triple up, as the snow was coming down hard now and no other crews would reach them. Santana was in no state to argue. Luckily, there were no gun charges, as their guns had all disappeared – along with the Irishman, the dwarf and whatever demon they had conjured up to wreak their vengeance.
Chapter Forty-Two
Zoya sat in her seat and Dionne stood behind her, a phone pressed to her ear.
“Damn it,” said Dionne, “there’s still no answer from either Father Gabriel or the number Bunny left with us.”
Zoya was scrolling through the day’s surveillance footage from the cameras she had placed around the church. She had done this every night for the last week. Outside of a rather exciting bit when three heavy-looking dudes had turned up and had an intense-looking chat with Father Gabriel on the steps of the church, it had just been a lot of normal comings and goings. An incredibly dull watch.
Zoya slowed the footage to real time when a taxi pulled up beside the side door and the dwarf who had assisted Bunny in his ill-fated break-in attempt – Smithy, he had called himself – leaped out, ran around the car and assisted Bunny in getting out. There were bloodstains on the bottom half of his robes.
“What is that?” asked Dionne.
Zoya shrugged.
Five minutes later, Father Gabriel and the woman who worked there appeared, with a truculent-looking teenager in tow, and went inside too.
“I wish we had cameras inside,” said Zoya.
“Don’t worry about that now. Just see if Gabriel and McGarry leave again at any point.”
Zoya scrolled forward, seeing another lady arrive at the side door and enter. Then the kid left, followed by the two women.
Zoya went back to normal speed when five men walked up the front steps. One of them had a baseball bat resting on his shoulder. Zoya and Dionne watched in silence as the baseball bat guy went around to the church’s side door and chained it closed.
“Oh hell,” said Dionne. “How long ago was this?”
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
They watched as the man rejoined his colleagues and then they all pulled out weapons and entered the church.
“Oh Lord,” said Dionne. “Who’s in there now?”
“Far as I can tell, the priest, the Irish guy and the little dude.”
They looked at both screens as nothing happened.
“This is torture,” said Dionne. “Wind it forward.”
They wound it forward fourteen minutes and stopped at the first sign of life. Smithy returned to the taxi parked at the side of the building. He looked at the door, then went to his trunk, took out some bolt cutters and removed the chains. The door opened and Father Gabriel and Bunny, both having abandoned their Franciscan garb for ordinary street clothes, came out and looked around.
Zoya let go of a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
“Thank God,” said Dionne. “They’re OK.”
Smithy cleared some stuff out of the trunk and placed it in the back seat. Bunny and Gabriel went back inside and re-emerged a few seconds later with what appeared to be a bound and gagged teenage boy, who they shoved into the trunk.
“What in the hell?” said Dionne.
“Who is that guy?” asked Zoya. “He’s not one of the guys who just went in. And where are those guys? Damn, we really need cameras inside. This is insane!”
Bunny went back inside again and came out carrying a duffle bag which appeared to c
ontain a few bulky objects. The handle of a baseball bat stuck out of the top of it.
“How did those three…?” started Zoya.
“I don’t know,” said Dionne. “But we know McGarry is resourceful, and Father Gabriel…”
“What is his deal?”
“I don’t know. Dorothy just told me he had a complicated past.”
They watched in silence as Gabriel opened the trunk and checked on their prisoner, then he closed it and got in the car, and they drove off.
“Complicated past?” echoed Zoya. “It sure looks like his present and future are going to be a tad colourful too. I mean – what in the what?”
“Well,” said Dionne, “wherever they’re going, they’re apparently not answering calls. I’d better go tell Dorothy. She is not going to be happy.”
Zoya started typing furiously. “Give me the numbers.”
“What?”
“Their cell numbers. I can track them.”
“Really?”
Zoya rolled her eyes at Dionne, who immediately gave her the numbers.
Chapter Forty-Three
If it wasn’t the most surreal drive of Smithy’s life, it had to be right up there. Through the heavy snow, he’d taken them out of the city and north onto the I-95 while Bunny – who was sitting in the passenger seat, perched on a cushion to take some of the pressure off his wounded buttock – explained who the priest in the back really was and why they had a teenage boy tied up in the trunk. He was driving with gloves on because the car was freezing, thanks to the trash bag that was doing a dreadful job filling in for a passenger-side window. All of this, and they were on their way to Wonderama, a deserted theme park, which a quick Google had revealed was scheduled for redevelopment but was currently stuck in stasis due to a series of legal disputes involving owners, former owners, the IRS, property developers and an organisation representing the rights of wading birds.
It would have been an hour’s drive out of the city in normal conditions, but these weren’t normal conditions. The police were advising against undertaking unnecessary journeys and the snow was coming down so hard that it would soon be impossible to make any kind of journey, necessary or otherwise. In an hour, even the interstate would be the exclusive preserve of the foolhardy or hard-pressed. The whole eastern seaboard would be snowed in by morning. Normally, Smithy wouldn’t drive in such conditions, but Bunny had asked, and, well, the man had asked. Smithy didn’t owe him anything, but you did for friends. Still, he kept his eyes on the road, only occasionally lifting them to look in the rear-view mirror and glance at the priest, who sat wordlessly in the back seat, staring out the window, lost in thought. He sure didn’t look like the killer that Bunny described, but from his position as switch-flicker back in the church, Smithy had seen the destruction the man had wrought, taking out five armed assailants with brutal efficiency and a broomstick. Smithy had collected up the weapons, which now sat in a gym bag in the back seat beside the priest. The five unconscious or otherwise incapacitated thugs would be keeping orthopaedic surgeons busy for a while, assuming that Los Diablos Rojos had a good healthcare plan.
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