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

by Gavin Reese

  “For me personally,” Michael offered, “the sniper’s by far the best option.”

  “What about that man’s soul, Andrew,” John unexpectedly challenged him, “don’t we have an obligation to show him God’s compassion, mercy, and forgiveness in this lifetime, along with the additional moral obligation as Catholic priests to try to absolve his soul of its worldly sins? How is your solution not murder?”

  Michael cleared his throat and saw most eyes of the room had now fallen upon him. This is what I get for being the first to speak up. “The bomber’s ideologically driven, John, and he made all his decisions long before he started the car that day. He’s speeding toward Saint Peter’s to murder all the infidels he can, even though they’ve done him no harm. Logic is no match for ideology, and he’d never accept confession and atonement no matter who offered it. My only moral obligation, based on his actions, is to protect the innocent from predators, from the suicide bomber, the rapist, the pedophile, all the true evils that can’t be rehabbed. Killing him is my only moral option to stop all the murders he intends to carry out.”

  “So, you’d murder him?”

  “It’s not murder, John, it’s just a killing,” Michael replied. “And I’d happily shoot him right in his goddamned face, maybe twice, just to be sure.”

  John scanned the room to see how everyone else assessed the scenario before speaking. “That’s right, Andrew, it’s not murder,” he repeated, “it’s just a killing. I’d never train anyone to murder. But, for me and those like me, just as war is a viable political engagement, killing is a viable and sometimes necessary solution to the worst problems of humanity and the greatest evils that walk among us. You show me a righteous stack-a bodies, and I’ll show you a collection of assholes that’s truly been rendered harmless.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Training Day 42, 1105 hours.

  University of Wyoming campus. Laramie, Wyoming.

  The school bus driver individually dropped the trainees off around the outskirts of UW’s campus. Because he’d drawn drop-off point “3” out of the black felt cowboy hat, Michael was among the first to dismount the familiar jalopy and proceed toward his objective. He strode south on the Laramie sidewalk about four blocks north of the main university grounds. Michael smirked as he walked past the UWPD station. Maybe I’ll stop in and grab an app if I flunk out today.

  Today’s field training required Michael to demonstrate his skills in foot surveillance and counter-surveillance, and, if possible, to beat out the rest of the trainees. John’s simple directives had been to find and infiltrate the student union building on campus, lawfully acquire independent proof of the incursion, and provide the location and observation angle on every surveillance camera in the union’s public areas.

  The hard part is gonna be slipping past the five instructors roaming the area, Michael surmised as he walked onto the college campus. The harder part might be avoiding them without making some paranoid eighteen-year-old feel like they’ve gotta call the cops. Just like every other trip off the compound, getting I-D’d by the cops’ll win us a seat on an outbound bus. At least it’d be a shorter trip home from here.

  Dressed in shorts, sneakers, and his favorite Western New Mexico State sweatshirt, Michael did his best to blend in with the younger, student population as he approached his target. Even though John made the instructors wear their normal ‘dad clothes’ this time out, I bet we won’t get that benefit on the next field exercise. Hell, he might even make us wear the plaid button-downs so it’s even harder for us next time. Despite their advantages, Michael knew the exercise's requirements had already been set pretty steep for most of the trainees. I’ll be surprised if anyone wins. Pretty sure me and Serge are the only ones with prior surveillance training, and I don’t even have much of a chance on this one. The camera requirement’s gonna kill us. It’ll take too long to get that much intel from inside the structure.

  As he walked by the Education Building, Michael noticed his whole body was a little sore and fatigued from the morning run and parkour obstacle course races. And, my knees still ache a little from mass. Maybe I could convince John to let Amazon deliver some kneepads. Shouldn’t have left those in Columbia, Monsignor Medina probably threw them out as soon as he sent me packing. The pain reminded him of a conversation he’d overheard that morning between John and Tex, and it brought a smile to Michael’s face. ‘Our Stepmother of Perpetual Suffering,’ that was some funny shit. John’s doing a good job making sure our experience in his part-time chapel lives up to the name he gave it.

  The density of the crowds around him increased as he reached Penny’s Pasture and the Wyoming Union building came into view about seventy yards ahead and slightly left. Michael looked around and realized he needed a backpack to blend in better. I’ve got eight hours to win this before the bus picks me up, though, so there’s plenty of time to do it right. The realization reminded Michael of an expression his father frequently said, and he immediately heard the man’s voice in his head: There’s never time to do it right, but there’s always time to do it twice. He smiled again at the facetious work ethic mantra. Not this time, pop, this one I gotta get right the first time. Michael looked forward to speaking with his father later that night. Getting to call home is the second-best part of the days we celebrate mid-week mass.

  Michael followed most of the students around him toward the student union building and tried to conceal himself among them as best he could. Gotta really start paying attention now, the instructors will probably expect us to beeline to the area. They know we’ve been trained to start with a wide external assessment before moving inside. Michael briefly considered that, and realized most of the Op-For searching for them would work the building's exterior approaches. There’s only five of them, at most, so, if I can get inside now, only one might be working the interior halls. Their typical goal is to punish and embarrass us as soon as possible, so, they probably put one guy on each side of the building, and one’s floating around. If it were me, I’d keep the floater outside for the first hour. If I can get by the external team, I might get the interior cameras mapped before the op-for moves inside.

  Michael slowed his pace just slightly and scanned the crowds and people ahead of him without obviously doing so. Not exactly what Nietzsche meant by watching the watchers. His stomach and chest tightened as he moved closer to the objective, despite his logical understanding that he’d taken the best course of action. What are they capable of, what are they most likely to do, Michael reminded himself. Going against my own training and penetrating straight in helps address both considerations. While gravitating between clusters of students, all of whom seemed to have some kind of device out in front of them, Michael realized he didn’t have a phone to replicate their behavior. I do have a wallet, though, that oughta be good enough. He retrieved his brown leather trifold wallet, held it out in front of him to look consistent with most everyone around him, and also slowly thumbed through its contents as though searching for something. Won’t look so out of place if someone takes notice of me. Even though his sunglasses and head faced slightly down and to the front, Michael’s eyes scanned from his ten-to-two-o’clock positions, searching for the instructors he knew had to be close by.

  There. Michael saw a tall black male in a red plaid shirt standing off to his right. He glanced over at the man and recognized him as Big Country. The instructor had placed himself beneath a stand of trees across from the building’s main entrance, which concealed his position from three avenues of approach toward the primary doorway. Good position, he’s just facing the other way right now. Because his greatest risk was in being spotted scanning his environment, Michael kept his face oriented toward the building, slowly thumbed through his wallet for another few steps, and deliberately matched the speed, trajectory, and posture of those closest to him. Don’t do anything to stand out, human brains are designed to subconsciously see and identify movement and differences before anything else. Match the crowd, match the cr
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  Michael passed through the central doorway, just below large letters that identified the building as “Wyoming Union.” Once inside, he quickly worked his way to the right and found a place to stand a few feet inside a large plate-glass window that offered him a view of Big Country. The bright sunlight outside will keep him from seeing more than a foot or so through the window. Still there, still looking the other way. Doesn’t seem like he saw me. Michael felt vindicated by his luck. Divine intervention, really. Luck is for the weak, and moderation is for cowards. He felt further gratitude for his timing when Double-Time walked up to Big Country and spoke with him. Of course, he’s the roamer. He’s the one that most wants to send us home. Hard not to take it personally, especially when he spends so much time and effort making it feel that way. Glad he backed off a bit. Don’t think he’s tried to pick a fight for a couple weeks.

  The two instructors spoke for a few moments, but both of them maintained watch in opposite directions, neither of them looking at one another. Most people that saw them wouldn’t realize what’s going on. Americans are hardwired to look at people as we talk to ‘em, so that’s a substantial tell for someone who does know what they’re looking at. Absent any normal pleasantries, Double-Time walked away from Big Country’s spot under the trees and stepped straight toward the doors Michael had just entered. He crashed through the aimless, distracted students around him, which only made him all the more noticeable. He’s still searching. If they’d seen me or knew I already entered the building, he’d be moving with a purpose. All he’s doing right now is showing his ass. If I stay hidden and let him pass, I can tag along without much worry of having him sneak up behind me.

  Michael risked moving closer to the window and found it had a lower ledge just wide enough to sit on. He calmly turned his back to Big Country and left his sunglasses on. It’s bright enough next to the window that I won’t seem weird. After grabbing a copy of the student-run newspaper from a nearby rack, he opened it up just as Double-Time entered his peripheral field of view. Based on the doorway’s position about twenty yards to his left, Michael estimated at least four or five dozen people moved about between them at any one moment. It helps that I’m seated below the crowds and his line of sight, too. He caught only brief, intermittent glimpses of the man’s blue-plaid shirt through the student horde, which revealed his opponent had stopped. He’s scanning, looking for anomalies. He doesn’t know what we’re wearing, well, probably doesn’t, so he’s looking for other tells. Safe to assume he’s decent at finding people, even if he doesn’t give a damn about hiding from us today.

  Michael inhaled a deep, calming breath and tried to keep his stress in check. The potential for winning the field exercise was so remote, and the consequences for finishing last were no minimal that his only real objective was avoiding confrontation with Double-Time for the next seven-and-a-half hours. Unless we finally have it out, what’s the worst outcome? I sleep on a floor until someone else messes up in a day or two? After patrol work, lying to Ecuadoran drug traffickers, and nearly being stabbed in a Bogotá back-alley, the possibility of a bad night’s sleep just isn’t that exciting. For the first time in his life, Michael realized how liberating his past traumas were and how effectively they worked to shield him from new stressors and anxieties. If only I’d been shot at before, then I suppose that wouldn’t have the same impact today, either.

  Still wanna keep Double-Time from cornering me, though. What’s he capable of, and what’s he most likely to do. I don’t trust that he’d make it a fair fight, or that he’d have the integrity to give John an honest version of events. I think the extent of his lies would directly correspond to the extent of our injuries. If he got the chance to put a blade on me, I’m sure his version would involve me cutting him first. As Michael considered the admittedly remote possibility that the instructor had such intent, he continued to see occasional glimpses of the blue-plaid shirt. He hasn’t moved yet. Most humans aren’t willing to surveil an area for this long, so he’s either paranoid or informed.

  Slowly flipping through the student paper as though bored and waiting for a friend, Michael kept his face down and his sunglass-hidden eyes cast toward the Op-For. Finally. The glimpses of blue-plaid moved deeper into the building and farther away to Michael’s left. He looked down at his watch and noted the second hand. I’ll give him a minute head-start. He’ll be much easier to find in here than me.

  After his desired time lapsed, Michael stood but examined the area where Double-Time had disappeared before moving. Don’t see him. Blending back into the throngs of students moving about the building’s interior, he started down the wide, well-lit corridor. Small, hanging placards projected out from the uppermost portion of the walls to identify school offices, businesses, and resources above their corresponding doorways. Black Student Association. Cowboy Tech, gotta be an electronics store. WYO Bookstore, ahead on the left. Cowboy Credit Union up on the right. I’d bet most everything in here’s got ‘cowboy’ tied to it somehow, but—

  Dammit! Michael swore at himself for not having anticipated Double-Time’s path. His opponent stood inside the Bookstore, about fifteen yards ahead and to Michael’s left and watched the crowd from just behind a large glass display window. He scanned the crowd around Michael, but didn’t specifically focus on him. As he reached the credit union entrance about fifteen feet before passing Double-Time’s position, Michael veered slightly right, turned his back to his adversary, and strode into the branch as though he belonged there.

  Michael nonchalantly pulled the door closed behind him and paused once inside to assess his next action. Tellers to the right, no one’s in line there. Can’t kill time waiting my turn. Writing station and blank form table’s just ahead, one dude there. He glanced to his left and saw about five students standing in a single-file line about fifteen feet away. Don’t care what they’re here for, that’ll allow me to stay a few minutes without drawing attention. Bankers don't like strangers hanging out in their office for some reason. He stepped behind the last person in line, a petite female with a UW backpack and long blonde ponytail. She stood just tall enough that her head fell just below Michael’s chin. Wow, she’s pocket-sized. Michael stopped and faced slightly toward Double-Time so he could simultaneously watch his Op-For and the line ahead of him.

  The petite woman’s incredible fragrance struck Michael and reminded him of Catherine. He deeply inhaled the familiar scent and memories of his long-time ex flooded the forefront of his mind. Same perfume, but I couldn’t tell you what it’s called anymore.

  “Sir?”

  Michael looked up at the female voice somewhere ahead and saw six people staring back at him. The middle-aged woman behind the counter had clearly been speaking to him. “Yes,” he hesitantly asked.

  “Can you take off your sunglasses, please? It’s a safety policy in here,” she explained and pointed toward a sign near the door he’d just entered. “No hats, no sunglasses, please.”

  “Of course,” Michael apologized and pushed them up onto the top of his head. He felt himself blush at the unexpected attention and made eye contact with the petite blonde. Michael saw she seemed annoyed by his obvious error. “I’m sorry, new here,” he muttered. Without a word, she turned back around toward the counter and immediately put on headphones.

  “I really didn’t wanna talk to you, either,” Michael quietly offered.

  “I think she likes you,” a familiar voice softly announced from behind him.

  Michael cautiously turned to look around and saw Sergio standing behind him. His face was turned down, and he focused on some papers in his hands. The dude from the deposit station. To avoid drawing more attention to himself, Michael turned back around without responding. He saw a stack of pamphlets and forms on a counter to his left, just below a window that looked out to the interior walkway. Michael stepped forward past the blonde, but just enough to reach out and retrieve one of each.

  She stepped a little farther ahead and to her right,
undoubtedly to create distance from him.

  “Like, really, likes you,” Sergio quietly razzed him.

  Michael turned his back toward the teller stations and faced the window. He held the documents like he was reading them, and angled them to help project his voice toward Sergio and away from the antisocial blonde. “Think he can see through these windows?”

  “No, they’re one-way, got bank ads on the outside glass.”

  “How long you been in here?”

  “About seven minutes. I ducked in when I saw D-T coming down the hall toward me, and didn’t think I’d get trapped in here.”

  “Any idea what this line’s for,” Michael asked.

  “Student I-D cards. They tie ‘em to a credit union account. Read the literature four times over at the table. Seems like a good idea, couple nice incentives if you're lookin’ for a new bank.”

  “You’re lucky nobody called the cops, suspicious Hispanic man like you hanging out in here.”

  “You didn’t see him,” Sergio hesitantly stated.

  Michael assumed Sergio referred to a cop but didn’t remember seeing one. The blonde moved forward as the line in front of her decreased, and Michael stepped back behind her. Even at this distance, he heard country music from her headphones. “Who?”

  “The cop. At my seven, behind the teller counter. Got here before me.”