by Cherry Adair
The enormous, waist-high terracotta pots, painted a vivid royal blue, one on either side of the low wrought iron gate, were a riot of color. In the morning light, the cobbled walkway, flowers, and yes, maybe even the black clad priest tending the crimson flowers, would make a great setting for a lingerie shoot. River turned off the music, and pulled the earbuds from her ears, slowing down as she approached him. "Good morning, Father."
He turned with a smile. "Good morning, my dear, I saw you run off earlier. A little more difficult jogging at this altitude, isn't it?"
"A bit, but I like the challenge. I was up bright and early to accompany Franco and the bishop up to the plant, but I was a few minutes too late. They left without me." Intentionally, she had no doubt. Whoever had been driving was sure to have seen her in the rearview mirror as she stood on the street watching them leave.
"Do you have any idea where they might've taken my rental car? Hopefully, someone repaired the tire. I'll drive up there myself in a bit."
"I'm sorry, my dear. I doubt the car's fixed. Jorge Abano does minor repairs. He has your car, but probably hasn’t gotten to it yet. We operate on Los Santos time here." He smiled. "Franco and Bishop Daklin will be back soon. If they have anything to report, I'm sure they'll come straight to you."
River was pretty damned sure they'd do no such thing. "I’d prefer not to wait. I'll find some other form of transportation if necessary, and drive myself up to the mine."
"Why not wait a few hours and see what they have to say?" He shook his head, his smile dimming a little. "From the set of your jaw, I see that idea doesn't appeal to you. Of course, you're a grown woman and have the option to go about as you please. But I'd be derelict in my duty if I didn’t warn you that these mountains can be extremely dangerous. The road up to the mines is usually treacherously slick from the rains or overspray from the river and waterfalls along the way, and heavily armed rogue guerrillas are frequently encountered trying to gain access to the plant or the mines."
River smiled, though the idea of armed guerillas gave her pause. "I drove nine hours in the same conditions with a flat tire to get here. I'll be careful."
"I'll give you directions to Jorge's house. You can see if that pretty smile will encourage him to move a little faster."
"Thank you, Father." As much as River wanted to run over to Jorge and motivate him to hurry the hell up, she nodded at the geraniums. "You have a green thumb."
"I enjoy gardening. Franco allows me to putter in the courtyard we were in last night. It's peaceful, communing with nature. Once I finish watering these, would you like to come inside? I can make you breakfast."
"I'd love to, thank you." A few minutes of her time with the priest might give her some insight as to Oliver’s whereabouts. It was worth the delay. "Should I run up and change first?"
"No need. You're fine as you are. You didn't eat much last night and I'm sure you're hungry after that run. While I water, why don't you snip those dead blooms?" He handed her a small pair of shears from his back pocket. "Just drop them in the bucket there."
"How long have you been in Los Santos, Father?" There weren't that many faded blooms, but River did a thorough search, snipping off those she found. The sunlight tipped over the steeple, turning the spray of the hose and the puddles of water around their feet to sheets of copper.
"Just over four years. It's a good parish with good people. I’m content here." He turned the hose off at the nozzle, then started coiling it hand-over-hand, not seeming to care that his pants and shoes were being splattered. "Let me put this away, and we can go inside."
Hose over his arm, he opened the gate for her, following her into a narrow stone-paved area. The church steps were made from the same smooth terracotta-colored stone and led up to massive double doors of dark carved wood, similar to those in the hacienda next door. A smaller, plain wood door painted black was tucked to the side of the grand steps.
"This way." After dropping the coiled hose, Father Marcus led the way down to the open door of the rectory and walked inside, leading her through the small house to the tiny, 1950's style kitchen in back. A large window showed a corner of the inner courtyard, and a spectacular view of the mountains. Turning on a huge radio near the window, he indicated a small, yellow Formica topped table and chairs off to the side beside the window, then lowered the volume when it blasted out. Oldies.
Creedence Clearwater Revival belted out Bad Moon Rising just loudly enough to hear the lyrics. "Too loud?"
"No, it’s perfect." River smiled. Even at the decibels he'd clearly been listening to, it wouldn't be too loud, but it would make conversation difficult. "It reminds me of my mom. She used to sing with the Petals, a not-very-successful girl band in the sixties. We both loved the music and my parents played oldies day and night in the convenience store they owned. Good memories."
"Please, sit down." He turned on the tap and washed his hands. "Do you have her voice?"
"Not really, but I sing anyway."
He looked over his shoulder. "Would you like tea or coffee? Scrambled eggs and burnt toast are my specialty. How hungry are you?"
Charmed, River's smile widened. "A few drops of coffee in a cup of sugar would be perfect." A floating shelf held a collection of whimsical salt and pepper shakers and a thriving pathos plant. "I love scrambled eggs, and I'm starving. What can I do to help?"
He brought the steaming pot from the two-burner gas stove over to the table, then went to get a mug and spoon. "Sit and enjoy your sugar. You can talk to me while I cook. The kitchen isn't big enough for two cooks, and I don't want you to show me up."
"Trust me, I couldn't." She poured coffee into both mugs, taking his over to him and placing it beside the stove as he pulled out a pan. "I'm the worst cook. I go out or order in most of the time." She returned to the table to doctor her coffee.
“Sofia Martinez brings me a loaf of her freshly baked bread every two days. She delivered this loaf about a half hour ago.” He cut four thick slices of the dense white bread, then lay them on a pan and slid it under the broiler. "I hope that your husband or boyfriend knows how to cook. It's a good skill; one I wish I'd mastered earlier instead of later."
"I'm not married, and my boyfriends are happy to feed me when necessary."
He held up an egg for her to see. “Camilla Ruis’s fine chickens.” He broke the eggs directly into a buttered pan and stirred them with a fork. “"Boyfriends? Plural?"
She shrugged as she took a sip of scalding coffee. Strong, sweet, and perfect. The eggs started to burn, but she didn’t say anything. "Nobody serious."
"I've been to Portland, Oregon. Pretty place. Nice people." Turning down the flame under the pan, he scowled at the eggs. “What do you do there with all the time you save by not cooking?"
River laughed. "I'm a clothing designer. Lingerie to be precise. I have a company called El Beso, based in Portland and New York."
"Hmm, so you mentioned last night. Sorry, I was striving not to melt in the heat inside the house and wasn't listening with both ears. The Kiss?” Taking out the pan, he used his knee to close the oven door, sliding the bread onto two plates. The slices were as thick as a doorstep and toasted a golden brown. “Why Spanish and not French or Italian?"
"Because it's an American company for American woman. And I liked the sound of it."
"And are you successful, River Sullivan?"
"I am. Yes." She smiled back at him. "My lingerie sells in the best department stores. People know and trust my brand. It's functional, pretty, and affordable. Classy sexy is extremely lucrative, but perhaps I shouldn’t tell you that.”
Father Marcus brought over a saucer holding a massive block of butter and gave her a slight smile. "People say all manner of things to a priest. Jimena Cortez churns this with her own two hands.” His brown eyes twinkled. “Why both Portland and New York?"
"My ex-husband is my business partner, and that's where we met and I went to school. It's where he now lives with his new wife and daught
er."
He raised a dark brow as he set their plates down on the bare table. "Sounds amicable."
"It is. We weren't right for each other romantically." She waved a vague hand, “No--magic I guess. We're much better friends. He found the magic with Beth about a year after our divorce. I'm godmother to their daughter, Arabella."
"And what about a husband and children for you?" he asked, sitting opposite her as she buttered a piece of the toast.
"One day. I'm not in a hurry. When the right man comes along, I'll know.” The priest was easy to talk to, enjoyable enough that River forged on to eat every scrap of rubbery eggs and heavy bread. “What about you, Father? What led you to Cosio and Los Santos?"
"I have a somewhat checkered past, I'm afraid. A lot of violence, a lot of death. I had the kind of job where I never knew from one day, no, one hour to the next, if it would be my last. I lived fast and hard with no thought of tomorrow. Then twelve years ago, I was in Portugal, barricaded behind a shipping crate on the docks, with people shooting at me.”
He salted his eggs. “Suddenly, I seemed to go outside myself, and I felt this incredible warmth as I was engulfed in light. I heard a voice, a pure, gentle feminine voice that was both inside me, and outside. I felt liquid light pour over me and a profound feeling of pure maternal love."
River leaned forward. "Like Franco's apparition?"
For a moment, the bliss left Father Marcus's eyes, and his lips tightened. It was almost too quickly for anyone to notice, but River didn’t miss it. She was intrigued by his story, and they were sitting so close, his expressions were hard to miss. "No, nothing like Franco's apparitions."
His features smoothed out. "The voice said, 'Markie, this isn't the life for you.' Markie was what my mother used to call me. With things blowing up, bullets flying, and people yelling around me, I'd never felt so peaceful. It was as though my mother held me in her arms. I fell asleep there, on the filthy ground behind the dockside container. Just fell into a deep restful sleep."
He got up to return with the coffeepot, then sat down again. "The phenomenon I experienced is called locution cordis, interior locution, the mystical grace of hearing a spiritual presence-—in my case, Our Lady. I flew home the next day, quit my job, and went to study at the Franciscan University in Steubenville, Ohio, earning my B.A. in theology and philosophy."
"No people shooting at you here, at least. But there was an explosion at the plant a few weeks ago, right?" She took a mouthful of her eggs, and despite the burned bits, which she tried to convince herself looked like pepper, they tasted half-decent. Okay, better than she could have made.
He took a bite of his toast and swallowed hard. "An accident. A hideous, unfortunate accident. So that’s my life in a nutshell. That happened twelve years ago, and now I feel as though I’ve come home."
"That's fascinating. It’s good to belong. Even though I haven't seen him in years, Oliver is all the family I have. I didn’t realize how much I depended on his regular phone calls.”
“I’m sure he’ll contact you when he can.”
She gave him a curious look. “When he can? Do you know something you’re not telling me, Father?”
He smiled with his lips, but his kind, brown eyes were somber. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.”
River pretended to be content with that. A priest with a shady past, who also quoted Shakespeare? Father Marcus was an interesting man. But that only made her wonder what he hadn’t told her.
Seven
Daklin gritted his teeth, silently enduring the bone-jarring ride up the mountain as the vehicle rooster-tailed through one of several streams washing across the narrow winding road. They'd passed a large, water-filled, open mining pit two clicks back on the left. Thick vines overgrew a single story building and covered several large pieces of unused mining equipment, indicating the water-filled pit was no longer in play.
Around the next bend, vegetation had been cut back ruthlessly, the trees felled and removed. Not a tree, shrub, or blade of grass remained. Just rocks, sand, and gravel. He noted that Xavier had men hidden in ghillie suits, sniper rifles trained on the vehicle as it passed.
The barren mountainside, surrounded by lush vegetation and scattered Brazil nut, chinaberry, Cuban cedar, and sixty-foot tall Ecuadorian walnut trees, resembled a monk’s tonsure.
They approached a sentried gate on the fenced property.
Cement guard towers two stories tall flanked the wide front gate. Vine-like razor wire, from top to bottom, wrapped the towers and the gate. The twin towers had three-hundred sixty degree visibility. There were six sentries, as well as snipers, stationed on various levels on each. There was one tower positioned on the eastern side of the fence, the other on the western side. The dark bulk of the sheared off mountain behind the compound was an unscaleable, impenetrable fourth wall.
Getting inside undetected tonight should be fun.
Daklin’s intel had given him the stats on the top-track, galvanized speed gate. The open-close cycle took less than seven seconds. It was electrified, with motion sensors.
“Is there a reason the trees and vegetation have been cut back here? Is there danger of fire?” Smart move. No one could approach the mine without being seen. "Clearing the land surrounding the mines is standard operating procedure, Your Excellency,” Xavier told him. "We sell the lumber, or allow villagers to take what they need. The cleared land, stripped to bare earth, makes blasting more efficient, and of course, dissuades thieves from entering the area."
Yeah. That.
On the grounds, guards accompanied by sleek Doberman pinschers patrolled the high, electrified perimeter fence. There wasn’t a shrub or tree inside the fence either. Nowhere to hide. He’d seen less security at nuclear power plants and maximum-security prisons.
"Of course. That makes perfect sense." Daklin added a touch of admiration to his tone. His men had told him that half a dozen patrols, each two dozen men strong, crisscrossed the compound, twenty-four seven. A patrol passed on the other side of the gate as they approached.
Wearing camo military fatigues, an expressionless Kai Turley, with an Enfield LSSAI assault rifle slung on his back, and holding a Berretta 92FS pistol, peered into the car. He turned to activate the ten-foot tall, electrified gate. It slid aside and Ortiz drove through. The gate almost clipped their rear bumper as it closed.
“Is there an issue that requires such armed force?” Daklin looked at Xavier. “The Church does not support the use of guns. Perhaps the apparition of our lady is cautioning you against such potential violence?”
"That is, of course, for you to determine, Your Excellency. But I don't believe that's the message she is conveying." Xavier’s skin flushed. “The emeralds we process are invaluable, and I use them, of course, for profit. Those profits enable me to be very generous to the Holy Church. Such valuable assets must be protected,” he informed Daklin as two of four guards ran up to open the vehicle’s doors. Each had an assault rifle and the same type of pistol that Turley carried.
"The guns are an unfortunate necessity, Your Excellency. We merely use them to defend ourselves if, and when necessary.”
Bullshit, fucker. You kill people on a grand scale every time you sell E-1x to a terrorist.
Bringing his prayer book with him, Daklin swung his legs from the car and rose to his full height, trying not to wince as he stretched and stood on his injured leg. The guard on his side of the vehicle--not an undercover T-FLAC operative--stepped back.
Daklin waited for Xavier to round the front of the truck. "To one who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from one who takes away your cloak, do not withhold your tunic either. Luke 6:29."
"Indeed, Your Excellency." Xavier indicated that they should cross the graveled parking area toward the front of the building. Daklin fell into step with him. Ortiz followed. "If only everyone followed the scriptures," Xavier said piously, absolutely no irony in his tone. "Unfortunately, we live in a world where other
s want to steal the fruits of our labors. When they come, we deter them, as we must. And the Church is happy to accept my checks, which I could not provide if people robbed my mines."
The mountain, dark, craggy, and devoid of vegetation, rose as a backdrop directly behind the low building. "Cosio has been a country divided and war-torn for many years. The ALNF and SYP guerilla groups, right-wing paramilitary groups, and various drug cartels frequently make raids in an attempt to steal our product."
Daklin called bullshit again. There was no current threat. Six months earlier, T-FLAC had taken out the heads of both the ALNF and the SYP. Both terror groups were out of the picture. It was ironic that he was supposedly arming himself against terrorists, when terrorists worldwide were clamoring for Xavier's "product." The demand exceeded the supply Xavier dribbled onto the market. He kept his customer base eager, and the price sky high. Los Santos was the only place in the world where the raw material was found and mined. It was highly unlikely tangos were aware, or gave a flying fuck, where their product originated. But even if the bad guys discovered where E-1x was mined, they were shit out of luck unless they knew how to process the ore from here, and how to turn the raw material into the powerful explosive. Either they paid the fortune Xavier demanded, or they came and helped themselves, by whatever means possible, to the finished product at the plant.
As far as T-FLAC knew, Xavier and his biochemical engineer, Oliver Sullivan, were the only ones who knew how to convert the mined material into E-1x. The only way for two people to keep a secret was if one of them was dead. Could it be that Oliver Sullivan was out of the picture? Had Xavier used him for his expertise, and then killed him? Xavier was screwed. He desperately wanted to share the miracle of his apparition with the world, and at the same time, he couldn't afford to draw undue attention to Los Santos.
