by Paul Bishop
“Raven Three, roger. They're standing by at the command post.”
Fey was glad the thought had come to her a few hours earlier, regarding what they were going to do if they took a trainload of children into custody. The team had been so focused on Flynn and MacAlister, they had forgotten about the children.
To get DCS motivated in a hurry usually needed an act of Congress. Efficient, adaptable, fast, and helpful were not words showing up regularly in dictionaries belonging to social service organizations.
Surprisingly, Alphabet and Brindle had beaten Hammer and Nails to a solution. They had a contact at DCS who owed them a big favor. Fey was convinced the entire law enforcement and judicial super structures depended on favors. If you weren't busy calling in your markers, you were busy paying them off. However, she wasn't going to argue with success.
Alphabet and Brindle's contact came through, putting together a task force and organizing a strategy to place the expected shipment of orphans in group homes until their fate could be decided. It wasn't a perfect solution for the children, but it was far better than what they were fleeing, and infinitely better than falling into Luther Flynn's hands.
Fey acknowledged Alphabet's report. The command post was a small Mexican restaurant on a side street two blocks east of the church. It had been commandeered to stage the operation. The owners were part of the PACT organization, Police and Community Acting Together, and were more than pleased to be of assistance.
Fey spoke into her radio again. “Raven One to Raven Two and Raven Three, effect entry.”
Hammer's voice confirmed quickly, and was instantly followed by Alphabet's confirmation.
Fey looked at Monk and Groom. “Deep breath, boys. Here we go.”
FIFTY FOUR
Luther Flynn knew he was getting old. In his youth he would have handled a situation such as this with supreme cool. He vividly remembered the day he and Eldon Dodge hit the armored car. It was been thirty years or more ago. It was the first major criminal action for both of them.
Eldon had been so full of black power and doing everything for the cause. Even then, despite his immaturity, Luther believed it was crap. The reason you put yourself on the line was money. Money meant personal power. Black power was only a facade. You put yourself on the line for the big M and the jangle it gave your spine when the shotguns were blasting and the gunpowder stuffed your nostrils and caught in the back of your throat. When he thought about it, Luther could still conjure up traces of those tastes and smells.
The jangle could last for days. It was doubly intensified when there were white cops looking to put your black ass in jail. Luther knew about white cops. What he hadn't known at the time, he learned fast. They wanted the same thing as everybody else, money. The big M was the great equalizer. It didn't matter if you were black or white. If you had money, you had power. You were somebody.
It cost Luther most of the proceeds from the robbery to pay off Garth Croaker and his partner Kavanaugh. Croaker, however, had given value for money.
When Mavis split with Bianca and Cecily, Luther hadn't hesitated to sacrifice her and Eldon. Garth Croaker had proved to be a willing and formidable tool.
When Luther heard Mavis had been killed, but Eldon was still alive, he had been terrified everything had gone wrong. He sat almost paralyzed, sweating, jumping at every knock at his door, every ring of his phone.
Gradually, though, he had seen the beauty of the situation. Eldon was po-litical. He wouldn't be talking to no jumped-up white crackers. Mavis being dead solved a myriad of problems. The kids were returned to him, to do with as he pleased despite Bianca's accusations. He fixed that little bitch all right. He didn't mess with her any more, but he took gratification in rubbing her nose in his pleasuring of her sister. It drove Bianca crazy, because Cecily enjoyed the attention, responded as a woman should. Luther had loved the power, the control.
And Luther learned even more from the experience. He realized how easily he could have ended up trading places with Eldon. He quickly came to see the path of crime he was running could only lead to disaster. He had observed Garth Croaker. Here was a man more depraved and crooked than Flynn had ever imagined himself becoming, and yet Croaker would never be going to jail. Aside from being white, he was protected by the badge, protected by the system.
He also knew he'd found a kindred spirit. Garth Croaker hadn't even thought twice when he returned Bianca and Cecily to their father. His only response had been a leering look and a reminder to leave no evidence. Garth Croaker had taken Flynn's money, but had given him something far more precious, an education. From then on, Luther trod the straight and narrow corkscrew of influence and corruption.
For years he had been very shifty. He had power, influence, and money. His depravities had eventually grown beyond his control, his corruption becoming absolute. But he was determined to beat the executioner again. Selling the shipment of orphans would give him everything he needed to relocate and live out an old age filled with leisure and young children. In Taiwan, they understood the needs of the rich.
Though he hated to admit it even to himself, Luther was scared. Too much easy living had made him soft. His corruptions had become too open. His backers had deserted him. He was furious when Devon Wyatt had insisted on Flynn's personal participation in the operation. In earlier years, he could have crushed Wyatt without even thinking about it. But that was then, and this was now. Wyatt had the power, and Luther had to acquiesce to get what he wanted.
He didn't want to be standing in the parking lot of Union Station with MacAlister, a man he knew was a maniac. But he had no choice. He tried to focus on his goal, but his knees still felt weak, and he couldn't shake the foreboding filling his mind.
“Little jumpy there, judge?” MacAlister asked. The sneer was clear in his voice.
“Shut up,” Luther said. He didn't like the way his voice sounded. From behind the raised courtroom dais, cloaked in the importance of his black robes, his voice was sonorous. Out here on the street, it was nothing more than a squawk in the dark.
MacAlister chuckled as he opened the passenger door of the van. “Come on, Padre,” he said to Father Romero. “Out you get.”
Father Romero stepped down, and MacAlister slammed the door behind him. Looking around, Father Romero could see there were two dozen cars in the parking lot. Presumably they belonged to employees, or to people waiting for the ten o'clock Amtrak from San Diego to arrive.
The Mule Run, as rail employees referred to this particular journey, was not a commuter flyer. It was a slower train running only occasionally from the Mexican border to San Francisco. It carried its share of passengers, but its main function was the transportation of freight. When there was enough freight built up to justify the outing, a trip was scheduled. The train stopped at every station, dropping off or picking up parcels, larger freight, passengers, extra cars, and anything else paid for in advance.
Many non-perishable goods from Mexico and other Central American countries made entry into America attached to the slow moving, rail-bound, caravan. Father Romero had used it often to smuggle political prisoners across the border as part of the Sanctuary movement. When Bianca Flynn had proposed rescuing orphans from across the border, Father Romero realized the Mule Run was the perfect vehicle.
Twice, they had successfully smuggled over twenty orphans into the country and dispersed them to American homes through the underground. It was a minuscule number compared to the risks involved and the total number in need.
This did not overly concern Father Romero. He lived by a credo where he believed one man's efforts could make a difference. The effort might not make any difference in the total amount of children suffering in third world countries, but it made all the difference in the world to the orphans who had actually made the journey to a new world.
This latest shipment was to be bringing fifty young orphans to a brighter future. Except, now, their future looked bleak. MacAlister's brutalization had made Father Romer
o more determined to salvage the situation.
He had gone this far with MacAlister because of his faith in Hammer and Nails. He cursed himself for not confiding in them from the beginning, but he could not change what was past. Now, he clung to the belief they would never let MacAlister beat them.
In the parking lot, he searched for any sign of a police presence. He saw nothing, and began moving his lips in silent prayer. His faith in the Lord was strong. His faith in Hammer and Nails was solid. And his faith in the switchblade, that hung on a lanyard down his back, was absolute.
Father Romero was a practical man. Years of missionary work in South America had left him prepared to handle all contingencies. He had never been easy with the commandment, Thou shall not kill. Father Romero's god was a god of vengeance, and he was but a tool of that vengeance. He might die in the service of the Lord, but so would the Lord's enemies.
“Where does this train of yours pull in, Padre?” MacAlister asked.
“Platform eight,” Father Romero replied. “It is close to the largest of the catacomb entrances. We'll take the children off the train and move them quickly to the entrance. Make sure you follow me.”
MacAlister took a fistful of Father Romero's black shirt, popping loose the right side of the white collar tab at his throat. “And you make sure you do as you're told, or I'll kill you and every last one of those poxy, illiterate, homeless bastard orphans, which are so precious to you.”
Traffic around the mammoth art-deco edifice of Union Station was too light to mask the rumbling of the rails and the sound of tortured brakes as a long train lumbered into the station.
Flynn put a hand on MacAlister's shoulder. “Enough,” he said. “The train is here.”
FIFTY FIVE
The church doors had yielded to the application of what was affectionately referred to as an Arkansas toothpick — a four foot long, three inch diameter, steel spike with a point on one end and a claw at the other. Alphabet needed a single blow to bury the spike deeply in the seam where the heavy wooded entrance doors met. Using his considerable bulk as leverage, he pried at the doors until the lock snapped with a resounding crack.
Hammer led the charge through the door with Rhonda close behind. Monk and Fey followed, with Brindle and Alphabet behind them.
Winchell Groom had returned to the command post where he would wait with Whip Whitman and another team of RHD detectives. Even though he liked to be involved in all phases, Groom was not a point man. His job would come in court.
The smart thing would have been to throw a visible police presence around Union Station and search the train for the refugees when it pulled in. But in doing so, they would possibly lose Flynn and would certainly lose MacAlister. Even if they could catch up with Flynn later, the evidence against him would only put him away for a handful of years. Fey wanted the whole pie — molest, kidnapping, conspiracy, murder. Goodbye and throw away the key.
The rear of the church was dimly lit. Near the alter, the only light came from a wrought iron rack of candles guttering in the breeze from the now open door. Hovering above the alter was the sculpture of the black Madonna, arms outstretched to embrace and enfold. Fey fleetingly wondered what Brink Kavanaugh would make of the effect. He'd probably argue there should have been three arms instead of two.
The fittings of the small church were poor. Suitable to the people to whom Father Romero ministered. He ran the church with volunteers. As she followed Hammer and Nails past the worn wooden pews, Fey acknowledged the dedication and sacrifice Father Romero applied to keep the church open.
“Over here,” Hammer called, indicating the path he and Rhonda had taken when following Ferris Jackson. He ran his fingertips around the wooden panel, which hid the entrance to the catacombs. While he fiddled, trying to find the hidden lever, everyone stood quietly but anxiously. There was nothing to be gained by pushing Hammer. He was the team's gadget man. He would find the trick before anyone else.
Alphabet was moving to strike the panel with the Arkansas toothpick when there was a distinct click. Hammer swung the panel aside.
The team followed Hammer down the dank corridor. The jerry-rigged electric lights gave off a ghastly glow, something out of a gothic horror show. Fey fancied she could hear an invisible audience yelling, “Don't go into the cellar!”
As they entered the central holding room of the catacombs, the team fanned out. The rows of bunk beds lining the walls offered scant comfort.
“How long did people stay here when Romero was running the Sanctuary program?” Fey asked.
“Some for days, others months,” Rhonda replied. “It all depended on how much fuss surrounded the individual.”
Fey looked around. “It's more primitive than prison.”
Hammer ran his hand along a sagging armchair. “It's no more primitive than where the Sanctuary refugees come from. Plus nobody here is trying to kill you.”
“Where do these other tunnels lead?” Monk asked.
Hammer pointed. “We took the middle tunnel when Father Romero led us to the far side of Union Station. I don't know where the others go.”
“You think Father Romero will be bringing the orphans back down the middle passage?”
Hammer shrugged. “It would be my best guess.”
“What did Wyatt tell you about the plan to distribute the orphans?” Fey asked.
“They were to be held here overnight. Tomorrow, Flynn would bus the group to his buyers in Vegas.”
“Who are the buyers?”
“Wyatt didn't know?”
“That’s crap.”
“He claimed Flynn was secretive about that end of the operation. Wyatt planned to have MacAlister follow the bus and find out everything he could. You know Wyatt. He'd store the information until he could use it.”
“We'd better get ready,” Alphabet said. He was riding the dragon big time, eyes ablaze, blood pumping. “They could be coming through any time.”
“Hale will let us know,” Fey said.
“What if our rovers don't work underground?” Alphabet pointed out.
Fey gave him a look, but brought the radio up to her lips. “Raven One to Raven Four.” Silence was her only reply.
She tried again. “Raven One to Raven Four.” Static crackled quietly on the airwaves. “Holy hell!” Fey rolled her eyes. “Hammer and Nails, you take the passage on the right. Alphabet and Brindle on the left. Monk and I will pull back toward the church. Everyone stay out of sight until they are all in the holding area, then try to take MacAlister first. We don't want hostages.”
FIFTY SIX
Father Romero opened the door to the freight car, but was forced back by the stench. There was the sound of soft crying and a woman's soothing voice. “It's okay,” Father Romero called out softy in Spanish. “You are here.”
The freight car was lined with stacks of clothing, the center hollowed out for its special cargo. Located at the back of the train, followed only by the empty caboose, it was far away from the bright lights of the platform. The door Father Romero opened was on the off platform side, providing even more concealment.
Sophia Ungarte poked her head around the door and smiled at Father Romero's reassuring presence.
“Hurry,” Father Romero told her, reaching up to help her exit.
Quickly, she turned and began lifting children down onto the darkened siding. There were five other women with her. MacAlister's eyes brightened when he saw them. He wasn't into kids, but women were different. There could be a larger bonus than he anticipated from this operation. After he was done with them, he would turn them over to a pimp. There was always a way to make a profit.
Holding the hands of two children, Father Romero led a double file line of the ragtag refugees along the track and over a dirt embankment.
“This way, this way,” he urged in Spanish. The children were tired and filthy, but their short lives had trained them in the realities of stealth and survival. They were quiet and docile.
Flynn too
k the hands of several children, helping them stumble through the darkness. He thrilled to the touch of the young. He would treat them and love them as his own.
In the rear, MacAlister helped the last of the women out of the foul smelling freight car and slid the door closed using both hands. Brushing them on his jeans he turned to follow the retreating figures.
Up front, Father Romero's mind was racing. He’d hoped Hammer and Nails would be here to take charge of the situation. Perhaps they were not as good as he judged. Once in the catacombs, he would have no choice but to take matters into his own hands. He would not let these children suffer any more than they had already.
Reaching up to his neck, Father Romero loosened his collar and pulled on the lanyard there. The switchblade resting in the small of his back was pulled up until he was able to grasp it and transfer it to his pocket. He steeled himself internally for the assault ahead.
The children never questioned Father Romero's directions. For most, it was a trip to be endured. When Father Romero led them in to the catacombs through the wash floodgate, it neither surprised nor delighted them. They were too tired from the journey, too numb from what life had handed them, to see it as part of a grand adventure.
From the flood tunnel, Father Romero led them down and then pulled them up to the higher ground of the catacombs. The darkness was only broken by the light of the lantern Father Romero picked up at the entrance, and the flashlights brought by Flynn and MacAlister.
Father Romero's heart was pounding as he followed the intersecting tunnels with an unerring sense of direction. Before long, he entered the holding room. The electric lights were welcoming, and he set the lantern on the floor before stepping to the side and allowing the children to filter through.
Following the children, Sophia Ungarte and the other women immediately began to take charge. Flynn entered the underground cavity, looking about him in amazement.
Pressed against the wall, Father Romero held his breath, waiting. The switchblade was in his hand, held down by his leg. He snicked it open. Flynn turned to face him, not recognizing the intense expression on the priest's face as a danger sign.