The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  Too much confidence.

  Parker whipped his head to the right to see that Melon was pinned down by the two goons who’d been trying to outflank him. Bullets were exploding everywhere around him. Parker turned to give Melon cover, knowing this would jeopardize his own safety and not caring one bit. Melon needed no coaxing. Seeing his opening, he jumped to his feet and ran full tilt to the Escalade to join Parker.

  “I’m not sure that was your best move, buddy,” Parker said with a grimace.

  “Only move I was going to make,” Melon replied.

  “That truck is full of women, I think.”

  “I know. And it sounds like a lot of them.”

  “They locked in?”

  “Yeah. Those doors are latched tight.”

  “Dammit!”

  “You said this guy traffics them, right?”

  “Yeah. But why here? What’s there to traffic here?”

  “I dunno, man, but we gotta do something to save our own asses before we can save theirs.”

  Parker nodded and made his decision. It was a reckless one, but the only one left. I’ve gotta make a run for it. And soon! But this time he wasn’t speaking to Melon. Instead, he was speaking to Napoleon, who he sensed was nearby somewhere.

  He moved effortlessly, his mind off, his body on autopilot. The way he’d been trained. The way he’d spent hours practicing.

  The men before him were the enemy. He came at them with his M-4, laying down a line of suppression fire at their feet. Then, when he was close enough and his clip was emptied, he came at them with his hands. Under normal circumstances, this would’ve been suicide. But these were not normal circumstances.

  Big Boy was to his left, and as the biggest and strongest of the bunch, he had to be neutralized first. The man was just advancing on the front of the Range Rover when Parker jumped up, knocked his gun sideways as he fired, and struck him with a vicious throat punch, his larynx collapsing under Parker’s knuckles. He fell to the ground gasping in panic.

  The goons nearest him now had him dead to rights. They took aim and fired . . . but their guns did not go off. They just clicked and clicked. Not like they were jammed, but like they were empty, and the look on their faces was so far beyond shocked, so far beyond this being even within the faintest realm of possibility, that it was almost comical.

  With Parker advancing, and now having no other choice, they charged him, screaming with rage. Parker spun sideways and slid through a spot directly between them. As he did so, he brought his left elbow up, around and down on the back of the neck of one goon, sending him to the ground unconscious. The other goon tried to turn around, but Melon shot him twice in the side. He went down in a heap.

  “This is taking too much time,” Parker shouted to Melon.

  “Affirmative.”

  They both knew that in any hostage situation, it was crucial to get to the rescue stage of the operation as quickly as possible. But this was not happening, and with a guy like Güero, each second that passed was another second closer to him putting a bullet in the head of the girl, or Kincaid, or both.

  Just then, a barrage of bullets came Melon’s way, pinning him down against the rear wheel of the Escalade.

  Another delay.

  Maggie watched in wonder as the sad-eyed man stepped forwards and, using his hands like a conductor, began to move things telekinetically about the room. First, two chairs were sent crashing into Meenie, the first to his chest and the second right to the back of his head as he tried to flee the house. He went smashing into the wall and then down to the floor, unconscious.

  Meanwhile, all around her, the crucifixes began to glow white, yellow and gold, as if each one was tearing a seam not only in the house, but in the universe.

  Was she dreaming again? Had she fainted? Was this all just another vision in her mind?

  No. No. And no.

  “My God,” she said under her breath.

  The ground began to shake as Eenie ducked a wave of candles from the small altar in the living room, their flames aglow, their hot wax exploding upon hitting a crossbeam and the far wall. Maggie looked at his face for proof. Proof that he was seeing this, too. That she hadn’t lost her mind. His face was a mask of awe and panic as he dove behind the altar.

  Luisa was still bound to the altar by her wrists and ankles. Anastasia was coming at her with one of the daggers, perhaps to kill now what could not be brought forth. It didn’t matter. A dome of pure, white energy covered her instantly. Anastasia, undeterred, was trying to stab through the dome when the sad-eyed man clenched his right hand, clutching her with the same invisible power, and threw her up and through the ceiling.

  Miney had just run into the house and saw her body exploding through the wood. “Dios mio!” he screamed, falling sideways. On his hands and knees, he crawled back outside.

  In the middle of it all, Delva seemed thoroughly unimpressed. She simply stared at the sad-eyed man as he moved in on Güero, who stood, with full machismo, his chest out, in the center of the living room.

  As the sad-eyed man lifted his hands, a red and orange grid formed in front of Güero, who was now grinning widely. “Your God’s got nothing on my girls,” he taunted.

  “Is that so?” the sad-eyed man replied. He glanced at Misha.

  “Delva?” Misha cried out, the concern in her voice betraying the fact she did not have nearly the same amount of confidence as Güero.

  “Hey!” Delva yelled, distracting the sad-eyed man. “Psst! Looky here!”

  The ground was undulating and a whir from some other place was echoing across the air. Maggie looked to the cracks in the walls, but they were too bright to see through.

  The sad-eyed man glanced her way and that was probably his first mistake since arriving. Because Delva’s face flashed with a revelation. “Ah!” she said, with a grim smile. “Crows, is it?”

  Immediately, a small black portal opened up over the man and . . .

  No. This isn’t happening. I am dreaming. It’s a nightmare. Yeah. All I have to do is find the Latin here, to prove it. Someone. Please. Speak to me in Latin.

  But no one did.

  Instead, a flock of twenty or thirty crows came pouring through the portal and attacked the sad-eyed man. The same hands that had been wreaking havoc with his telekinesis were now rendered mute as he struggled to protect his face and neck. His response to the attack was beyond panicked. As if Delva had looked inside him and seen one of his greatest fears and made it manifest itself, here in this little adobe house. The crows blotted out the light with a cacophony of squawks and cackles.

  “Parker!” the man yelled suddenly.

  Who is Parker? Maggie wondered, looking around and seeing no one else with him.

  “Don’t do it!” he yelled. “Don’t! You won’t make it!” But his shouts were muted, as if they were being warped by the beating wings of the crows.

  Delva laughed. “He can’t hear you. I’ve seen to that.”

  The man was glowing a brighter beige in the face of the attack, as the birds came on and on, in undulating waves, pecking him all over as he flailed at them, doing all he could to protect himself.

  He pivoted and began to cast shattered pieces of furniture, candle holders, chair legs and bookshelves in all directions. It was no use. Finally, one of the crows bit him in the face, just below one of his eyes. Screaming, he stumbled backwards and nearly fell. Instead, he slammed into the wall and knocked one of the crucifixes loose.

  It began to fall to the ground but the man caught it just in time with the invisible force. He brought it to him, and a globe of light erupted with such power around him that it was nearly blinding. In a wave of terrified squawks, the crows disintegrated in midair.

  The room grew momentarily quiet as the battle turned.

  But, incredibly, the sad-eyed man was still concerned about something else. “Parker! Stop!”

  No, not something, Maggie thought. Someone.

  He flung the crucifix back to its spot
on the wall across the room, and running past Delva, the man violently knocked Güero sideways and then fled out the front door.

  Delva looked at Güero. “We have time now,” she said, desperation in her voice. “Grab the girl and flee. Get to the house outside Tijuana. Misha, do you have the ointments?”

  But Misha did not reply. Instead, she was pinned against the wall, gurgling blood.

  With all the commotion, no one had noticed that a piece of the furniture the sad-eyed man had flung across the room, a shattered dining chair leg, had impaled Misha just below the heart.

  Anguish came over Delva’s shocked face. “Sister! No!”

  “What do we do now?” Güero asked.

  Delva did not answer for a moment. Instead, she crouched, like an animal, her wrinkled fists balled up in front of her as her eyes burned with anger. “Get the girl out of here and go where I told you. Wait for me there. I will join you . . . after I avenge my sisters.”

  Then, screaming with rage, she ran out the front door.

  Chapter Thirty

  Father Soltera sighed mournfully. Incredibly, impossibly, after everything, he was going to fail. So close. He was so close. Her room was just down the hall and to the left. As he slid down the wall, completely spent, it occurred to him that maybe this was the price for his sins. Perhaps this was the hand of God, pressing down on him with the weight of his transgressions, like Job seated in refrain, like David fleeing Absalom. And his despair was so deep that it threatened to obliterate him.

  He went completely weightless, like how the moment of death is always described. When you become light as air and the world goes sideways, and suddenly you’re up above, looking down on yourself, on the shell of what you used to be.

  But no. That was not what was happening here at all.

  What . . .?

  It was Michiko.

  She had picked him up in her arms and was carrying him the rest of the way. “My turn,” she said, looking down on him with a tender smile.

  “You’re back,” he said weakly.

  “I would never leave you for long, tomodachi,” she replied.

  Tears began to form in his eyes and roll down his cheeks in a baptism of relief as his chest shuddered with sobs of relief. Slowly, quietly, they made their way. The hall was empty. No one was around. Not even the light seemed to move. When they passed by the check-in desk, he could see Jessica and Carlos, like he usually did. But now, they were frozen in place: Jessica on the phone, Carlos in the corner, the pages of the file he was flipping through caught in an unmoving blur. It was as if time and space had come to a halt.

  “Am I dying?” he asked Michiko.

  The question seemed to impact her. Michiko trembled with emotion as a look of stunned sorrow came over her face. Then, without answering him, she pressed on through the door of Gabriella’s room.

  He felt the somberness of the place again; the dim lights, the solitary bed. How many times had he been to this room, lonely and conflicted, desperate and so very afraid? Too many times to count. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. All he ever wanted to do in this life was to help people. To guide them to God and a greater sense of purpose in their lives. To show them how feeding a homeless child on a cold day was more rewarding than any annual raise ever could be. Or how listening to someone on the suicide hotline, letting them talk as they eased their pain, would send you home with a better appreciation of the complexities of life. He wanted to show as many people as he could that, really, when you think about it? We’re all priests. Each of us with our own confessional—the coffee shop, the office water cooler, the sidelines of a soccer game—where we can listen, witness and inspire.

  Yes, he’d gotten sidetracked. But not by lust. At least not initially. No. The lust came after the shame of Joaquin Murietta and those he had murdered. That same shame had pried open the door to doubt. About his faith and about his place in that faith. Until the Holy Spirit was paralyzed enough within him for his defenses to drop . . . and for Gabriella to walk into church that day. Father Soltera could see it now, how lost he was by that point. And when you’re lost? You seek. Sometimes in the wrong places. Or with the wrong person. Or in the wrong way. And when she had come into his life, he had looked at her . . . and simply been unable to look away.

  He glanced over to her bedside; there was the quilt her mother had sown, right there at her feet. He was happy to be here and not be so confused and tortured for once. It felt good to come in this time with a pure heart, and a true purpose.

  The machines beeped and forced air into Gabriella’s lungs as her coma-ravaged body laid frail and waiting. He could somehow see her, far away, on that island, reaching out to him.

  Reaching. Desperate to be free. Desperate to come home.

  To her mother’s loving arms, and gallons of soupa de pollo, and healing. Oh, so much healing. She’d be fine. He knew she would. If he could just finish his task.

  “Closer . . .” he whispered. Michiko brought him nearer, one step at a time, until at last Gabriella was finally within reach.

  Then, easily, hopefully, Father Soltera reached out, touched her hand and uttered one last prayer. It was good to just love somebody for what they were. Father, please bless her. She is a good person. Good to love them for what they could become. Please help her reclaim her life. Not for what they meant to you or could give to you. Restore her health and help her chase her dreams. No. But for what they could someday mean or give to others. Help her be a light in this world.

  “She will be,” Michiko whispered to him. “She will have a life, tomodachi, and she will always remember the priest who believed enough in her to sacrifice everything. She will. I promise.”

  He nodded weakly, with a faint smile, then stayed just long enough to see Gabriella’s eyes open and look around. First, with confusion. Then, awe. Until, at last, she looked his way . . . and saw him, too.

  They shared that one, last moment together.

  Deep eyes of appreciation that looked both ways.

  Slow blinks, to say goodbye, for voices too weak to speak.

  The world turned and the universe tipped as the monitors blinked.

  A hush fell over the room as an angel wept.

  Father Bernardino Soltera closed his eyes and slipped into bliss.

  The Black-Veiled Nurse was staring at him. “Well?”

  Hector gritted his teeth. “I won’t do it.”

  She nodded like a patient professor. “So. For him, you will let all these men around you die a torturous death?”

  Hector hesitated.

  “I mean,” she continued with a small wave of her hand, “look at them.”

  He didn’t want to, but he did. To his right, one of the inmates was actually trying to strangle himself, his fingers having gone white at the knuckles for the effort, his face flushed with the blood being squeezed into it.

  Hector looked to the ground.

  “Still . . . no?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Really? Well then, I guess it’s time that we finally meet face-to-face,” she said with resignation in her voice. She levitated across the floor to him with blinding speed, grabbed his chin with one hand, and lifted her veil with the other.

  Her face greeted him again. All four of her horrible eyes were staring at him intensely and the large gash that was her mouth was open wide, revealing rows of piranha-like teeth that glistened with saliva as she stuck her long, sharp tongue into the air and waved it at him. “Want a kiss?” she said.

  He shook his head vigorously as the buzzing in the room spiked again, so high and loud that it pierced the blue shield in his ears. He tried to cup his hands over them but it was too late. Somehow, a piece of her had gotten inside his skull, like a sonic leech, attached to his brain and was now . . . sucking.

  “Ahhhh!” Hector screamed, dropping to his knees.

  “Gray?” he cried out. “Help me!”

  “Aww, isn’t that sweet? Still calling for help? We’ve barely even begun.”


  The room began to fade, the sound of screaming guards and prisoners, all in agony, coming from every direction. How long could he last, vulnerable like this, in such a place? Surely, not long at all. He looked over at Curtis, still pinned to the table. He was shouting to Hector, but Hector couldn’t hear a word.

  “He’s saying you should do it, little pup,” The Black-Veiled Nurse said as she stood over him. “So?”

  From a corner in his mind, he heard The Gray Man. Hold on, Hector. I have to help elsewhere right now. I’m coming as quickly as I can. But try to do this on your own. Once I intervene, the battle will only multiply, and she will call on even more evil.

  “What are you talking about? I can’t do this. I’m not ready! She’s way too strong.”

  Yes. You can. And remember, her strength is her weakness. She’s far too arrogant, Hector. That will be your edge.

  The Black-Veiled Nurse cocked her head to one side. “Curious,” she said. “What was that? You kinda drifted away on me there, boy.”

  “N-nothing,” Hector stammered.

  “So? Are you ready to take care of Curtis?” she pressed.

  Again, Hector shook his head. “No,” he barely managed to get out. “I won’t do it.”

  She nodded, but that horrible face tremored with a bit of frustration this time. “Fine,” she said curtly.

  His brain seemed to lurch against the inside of his skull as nausea overtook him. His mind became a pliable, porous thing. And the thoughts he had were not under his control anymore.

  Yessssss, The Black-Veiled Nurse whispered into his mind. Just give in, boy. Do the deed. You can’t beat me. I mean, seriously? You? Someone who doesn’t even know his own power, much less how to wield it.

  “Get out of my head. Leave me alone!” he cried, trying to channel the blue from his hands to his head, knowing that there must be some way to do it but not having the slightest idea how. Why? Why had The Gray Man left him like this? Alone. Doomed.