by Gavin Reese
“Do you want some water?”
He smiled broadly before replying. “That would be great.”
“I’ll grab a couple bottles for you.”
I love small town hospitality, Michael thought. Reminds me of Silver City. Nobody’s really a stranger there. Within a few minutes, he’d acquired two bottles of water and confirmation that the paper delivery should be along any minute. At 06:58am, a rusted, early 1980’s Chevy truck pulled up in front of the café with a sixteenish-year-old driver behind the wheel. She stepped from the two-toned olive-green and white pickup and retrieved a bundle of papers from the bed.
“Good morning,” Michael called out and approached the truck.
“’Morning, sir,” the papergirl replied. “If you’re looking for today’s paper, I just gotta see you drop change in the bin, they don’t want me to take cash anymore.”
“Well, actually, I was hoping you might have a copy of yesterday’s paper.”
She tossed the bundle down on the sidewalk next to the bin and grimaced in thought. “Gimme a second, lemme look.” The young woman scanned the bed and then moved into the cab. Finding nothing obvious, she leaned down and stuck her arm under the bench seat. “Got one, but it’s kinda rough.”
“Not worried about the condition,” Michael replied. “You want anything for it?”
The papergirl handed over a thin, tri-folded paper with grease smeared across the front page. “No, sir, you’re helping me clean the truck out by takin’ it.”
“Thank you, have a great day.”
“Yes, sir, you do the same,” she replied and resumed her appointed task of restocking the bin.
Michael started off toward the compound but quickly turned around when a question struck him. “Out of curiosity, does this bin usually sell out?”
“No, sir,” the teenager laughed. “Not sure I’ve ever seen one of ‘em empty before. There’s almost always six-to-ten papers left in the bins, but, every one's been dry this morning, though. Must really be somethin’ in there worth readin’ about for a change.”
“Thanks, again,” Michael replied and started off again. He rolled the paper up tightly and carried it like a relay baton. Interesting. John or his instructors either set us up to fail or forced us into a creative solution. He rechecked the time. I can be back there by 9-30 if I keep a ten-minute pace, with a week of immunity and a few hours to stretch and recuperate before the Body Language Interpretation class. Michael intentionally leaned forward and increased his cadence to about 150 steps-per-minute. Time to see if this gamble pays off.
THIRTY-TWO
Training Day 100, 0300 hours.
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
BANG BABANG BANG
Michael awoke with a start at the loud sounds of metal striking metal, and something falling down the stairs into the complete darkness of the trainees’ basement dormitory. Subsequent, hurried rustling told Michael his equally panicked classmates also worked to get out of their beds. At least one of them fell hard onto the floor somewhere to his right.
BANGBANGBANGBANG
The bright interior lights turned on and stung Michael’s eyes, just as a large metal trash can finished crashing down the stairs and John stomped down behind it. He forcefully struck the garbage can’s lid with a pipe wrench. Michael finally freed himself from his bedding, stood, and glanced at his watch. 3am. Fuck me.
“Wakey wakey, shitheads! Drop your cocks and grab your socks! F-N-S-R-F-N!”
“What the hell’s that,” Sergio asked, probably louder than he realized.
“Front and center right fucking now,” John shouted back downstairs in response.
“There’s no ‘S’ in center,” Thomas grumbled.
“The last man up here owes me a hundred burpees,” John proclaimed, “along with every asshole that gets up here after Thomas! Make damned sure you land up here ready to work!”
Further chaos erupted as the trainees strove to individually make it upstairs before Thomas and, collectively, to slow his progress. Sergio grabbed one of his running shoes and threw it into the shower at the opposite end of the room.
“Fuckers,” Thomas blurted out as he hurried to put himself together and beat anyone upstairs.
Michael understood that John frequently targeted different classmates and used them as scapegoats for persecution and discipline. You don’t have to do anything wrong, everybody eventually gets a turn in the barrel. Seems like he wants to normalize his ability to turn us on each other with no explanation or cause. Keep his subordinates ready to cannibalize each other on command. If it’s not a benign training point, there could be some goddamned-dark reasoning for it. Either way, he succeeds in constantly reinforcing that this is a solo sport, whatever it is.
Michael would’ve had empathy for Thomas if the man didn’t take such zealous pleasure to help punish anyone else John identified as the man to beat. Without explicitly working against Thomas, Michael ascended the stairs with three men still behind him, including the intended scapegoat.
“Your mission,” John announced before everyone had arrived, “which you have no choice but to accept, is to get into town without being seen and break into the Blue Bonnet. You will take an item from the cafe and bring it back here to me without being caught. I will, of course, return it later when the boys and I go back in there for lunch. So, just like the last field trip for a local paper, you’re not stealing, you’re just borrowing, for the purposes of better developing the skills necessary to serve God in these intended assignments. Also, you can’t come back here until you lay hands on The Blue Bonnet Cafe. Last one here without something to show for his efforts will ride the pine tonight.
“My standard rules of engagement apply,” John continued. “Getting caught and arrested gets you kicked out, tellin’ the cops anything about what you were doing will get you excommunicated if I have my way about it. If I were in your goddamned shoes, I’d sure as hell wanna be headed back outta there by dawn, which gives you almost three hours. It pays to be a winner, gentlemen.”
A portion of the group took off running toward town before John even finished the statement. The adrenaline Michael felt from John’s choice of alarm clock had subsided, and he felt a corresponding crash as his biochemistry automatically worked to normalize itself. As he left the house and jogged off into the early morning, Michael noticed how bright the night actually was. A harvest moon shone down upon them and lit his familiar path up the driveway and out toward the county road. If this wasn’t mandatory fun, it’d actually be nice to be out here. I could enjoy running without perpetual, looming consequence.
Although he started off near the middle of the pack on this “interrupted marathon,” Michael worked to put himself closer to the pack leaders. Need to be among the first ones to the cafe so I can get in, get out, and get gone before someone spots a half-dozen strangers trying to break into the place. Plus, the breakfast staff’ll probably start showing up around five o’clock, so only three, maybe four of us even have a shot at getting there in time without being seen and identified to the local deputies. Pretty clear John wants most of us to fail or abort this one.
The moral quandary of committing burglary-on-command briefly bothered Michael, but only until he considered his task in light of the intended purpose. These skills must truly be necessary in these ‘special assignments,’ and I can see there really isn’t another way for John to realistically test and evaluate our command of them. Getting into a place you’re not supposed to be, finding the evidence you need inside, and getting away unnoticed isn’t just something that criminals and burglars have to be good at. It’s clearly something that the good guys have to accomplish, especially if we’re going after scum like organized crime, rapists, and terrorists. He picked up his pace a little further as the notion of finally working in a real counterterrorism unit buoyed his spirits and lifted his feet. Besides, I’ve found a creative way to win several field problems, and this one’s gotta be no different. Got a coupl
e hours to figure out how to win without committing sin, crimes, or violating the R-O-Es.
THIRTY-THREE
Training Day 103, 1018 hours.
Cattle King’s Grocer. Lusk, Wyoming.
From the front passenger seat of a rundown, grey Toyota RAV4 SUV, Michael watched the front doors of the town’s one grocer and patiently awaited the return of their target. He chewed on a red plastic straw that had been a vital part of their fast food breakfast an hour ago. Z lightly drummed on the steering wheel even though no music played in the SUV. Because Michael had driven the last time they teamed up on a field exercise, Z seemed excited to get behind the steering wheel on this one.
“What’d you think-a that ‘stop-n-rob’ exercise a few days ago,” Z asked, “the ‘Great Blue Bonnet Burglary Caper?’”
Michael snickered and decided against asking how Z knew “caper.” Nobody says that but cops. “Yeah, I dunno. Part of me thinks these things are stacked against us, part of me thinks that John’s trying to force us to look for creative solutions. Another part thinks they’re designed to make us fail.” He stared at the grocery entrance and thought about the failed exercise. “I’m just glad no one called the sheriff.”
“Can’t win ‘em all,” Z surmised. Silence enveloped the cabin, and he started quietly drumming on the steering wheel again. “How much did you get to drive,” he absentmindedly asked. “Before here, I mean, wherever and whatever you did, ya know—”
“Yeah, I gotcha, no details,” Michael confirmed his understanding of his teammate’s question. “I trust you, Z, I don’t think you’d try to weasel personal details to get me thrown down on the floorboards tomorrow night. Not much, I didn’t get to drive much at all.”
“I miss the shit out’ve it,” Z replied and, grinning, wrung the steering wheel in both his hands.
I bet he raced cars, Michael thought. “Hey, Z, so, whaddaya call it, when you start into a corner, let’s say a sweeping left. You start on the inside, then steer to the outside, light brakes, and then steer into the turn, and—”
“And then stomp the gas,” Z finished the question, “that’s a Scandinavian Flick. Manipulates the car’s weight transfer going into the turn and lets you explode through it. Why?”
“No reason,” Michael coyly replied, “except I figured you probably raced cars in your former life. I figured you’d know the answer if you did.”
“What? No, that’s somethin’ we went over in EVOC here, and—”
“No, Z,” Michael laughed and chided his colleague, “we didn’t ever talk about anything like a Swedish flip, or whatever you called it—”
“The Scandinavian Flick, you ass-hole,” Z replied with disbelief in his voice. “At least get it right if you’re gonna throw it down on a damned ole ‘Guess What’ card.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I fell for that shit.”
“That’s like, some ice-racing stuff, right,” Michael asked to continue ribbing the man he considered a friend. “Nobody’d ever believe you learned about that at a secret, priest EVOC school, Z!” I know more about the quality of his character than most people I’ve ever known in my life, and I can’t even know his real name.
“Well, since you got my manhood in a sling anyway, it’s also a great technique for dirt track and rallycross, too, not just ice racing.” Z shook his head again, disappointed in himself. “At least, that’s what I hear.”
“Relax, Z, your secret’s safe with me, and my secret is that I know your secret. John’d hang me up just as high if he ever knew that I knew.”
“You're not gonna trade me some piece of your past, even though you just suckered that outta me?!”
“Naw, that seems like a bad idea,” Michael joked, “I trust you, Z, but I don’t trust you that much!”
“Had to happen eventually,” Z offered between chuckles. “Momma always said I’s too trustin.’ This’s just more proof-a that, I suppose.”
“Well, bless my heart,” Michael offered in a fake Southern accent to further bait him.
“Pound sand, Andrew, I ain’t got a clue what that means.” His smirk confirmed his lie. “You ain’t gettin’ me twice,” Z scoffed. Looking back at the store entrance, he sighed and glanced down at this watch. “Whaddayou think he’s doing in there?”
“Hell if I know,” Michael replied, “buyin’ out the whole store?”
“He’s had enough time.”
Michael had decided his partner had grown up in North Carolina and guessed he’d probably lived in a rural area and spent a lot of time outdoors. He knows how to really drive, not just to operate a vehicle. His work on the abandoned airstrip had made the rest of us look like we’d never sat behind the wheel before. I bet I’m not the only one making up presumed backgrounds for the other trainees. Wonder what they think they might know about me. Michael knew one of his biggest regrets about eventually leaving John’s training program would be losing contact with Z. I’m sure John’ll specifically forbid us from exchanging personal information, and I don’t wanna put him in a bad position by offering mine, but I sure as hell hope he passes me his. Maybe I can sneak something into his duffel bag later and hope he decides not to wave it around to John. Pretty sure we’ve got a lot of program left to survive. Seems like every instructor talks about how they’ll be back to teach more in-depth classes later. Maybe this is a four-year-degree program and the graduates all walk away with a Bachelor of Science in Espionage Arts.
“I can’t believe Matthias left after that surveillance exercise,” Z offered, as though striking up small talk to pass the time.
Or, Michael thought, he wants to see if I’m willing to risk an actual, personal conversation. I’ll bite. “Yeah, but, I guess if he really felt frightened by that low-level work, then it’s probably best that he goes back to his parishioners.”
“I didn’t feel that way at all. The whole thing to me felt like I’s gettin’ to play adult hide-and-seek, or Spy-Versus-Spy, or somethin’ really cool from when I’s growin’ up.”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed and smiled at the analogy. “There’s just enough danger to it that it makes you really feel alive, right, energized. I kinda like it, too.”
“You really think that’s why Matthias quit?”
“I dunno,” Michael replied as he wondered how much to reveal. “Jude seems like a trustworthy guy, and he was with Matthias all day. If he says that’s what happened, then I guess I gotta take him at his word.”
“Yeah, that’s about the long ‘n short of it for me, too. There’s a couple fellas that might rub me the wrong way if they got the chance, but, Jude seems like he’s good people.”
The best, Michael wanted to say. Silence returned to the cab, and Z again checked his watch. He’s not well-programmed for surveillance work and long-term boredom. Maybe they didn’t have ADD medication where he grew up in rural North Carolina.
“So, I got a theory,” Z slowly announced, “about what we’re really here to do.”
“What’s your take?”
“I know I already told you about how I’m into conspiracy theories, and, I guess it’s not so much a theory, as more a kinda hope, that we somehow end up deep inside this secret society that’s totally devoted to covertly workin’ in the shadows to fight the forces of evil.”
Michael smiled and nodded. “I can see the appeal of that. Doing all the rough work that others aren’t willing to do.”
“But, only the work that’s necessary to promote and preserve human dignity and service to God.”
“That’s a tall order, Z. Does it come with capes and masks, or do we have to supply our own?”
“Well, like I said, it’s more a hope than a real theory. I expect I’m gonna end up workin’ some kinda personnel security detail somewhere. I just don’t wanna hafta learn a new language to get along with my coworkers.”
Michael laughed aloud at how concerned Z sounded. “That’s one of the things I’m kinda looking forward to!”
“Not me, man, I’m terrible with for
eign languages. I took a semester of Spanish in high school, and it actually made my brain hurt.”
I could easily become good friends with Z, Michael thought. He considered how the past few months that they’d spent together would generally have already made them friends, if only they knew anything real about one another. That’s not entirely accurate. I’ve spent enough time with these guys to know who I’d wanna take into a street fight. Jury’s still out if I’d want more than Sergio for a gunfight, but I’m confident I can trust almost everyone here to step into an arena with me.
Michael’s mind followed a logical tangent back into the recurring topic of what, exactly, it was that John and his staff trained them to do. Even though John won’t explicitly confirm what we’re training for, every reasonable indication is that we can expect to spend some time in gunfights and close-quarters work. The only thing that makes clear and definite sense is that the Vatican and the Holy See are training us to work in their Division of Intelligence and Counter-Espionage. All the skills we’re picking up only make sense in that kind of work. Security forces don’t need to follow people around, and they don't need to sneak into places undetected, or to know about underlying spiritual and psychological motivations for sin and crime. At least, I don’t think so, do they? He chuckled at the realization that his cop experience in small-town New Mexico and priest experience in South America might not give him all the available information on how security and protection details might operate in Europe. It’s fair to think that things might be a little different over there.
“There he is,” Z quietly called out and nodded his chin toward the grocery store’s entrance.
Michael looked at the distant doorway and saw Tex walk out carrying a single brown paper grocery sack under his left arm. That’s not a natural way to carry bagged groceries. Bet cash money he’s got a gun concealed on his right side, and he wants to keep that gun hand free. Tex momentarily nudged his right elbow down against his right hip as he walked. Michael immediately recognized the tactic and saw what few others would. Yep, he just checked to make sure the gun’s still secure and in place. Probably not holstered inside his jeans if he feels like he’s gotta check to make sure it’s still there. They only recently taught these guys body language interpretation, so I'll have to be careful how I word this to Z so he doesn't realize I've taken several masterclasses on the subject. The only people with that kinda knowledge are cops and crooks. He’ll easily assume I wasn’t ever a crook. “Alright, Z, let’s see how long we can tail him. We only gotta stay on him for another two hours to call this a win. When he came outta the store, did he move kinda suspiciously to you?”
