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

by Gavin Reese

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Training Day 113, 0600 hours.

  Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  Michael bounded upstairs to meet everyone out on the porch for the morning run. When he reached the landing next to the kitchen, he saw John sat alone at the table with his ever-present mug of coffee.

  “Hold up, Andrew.”

  Michael slowed and stepped toward the table. “Morning, John, what’s going on?”

  The lead instructor leaned back in his chair and rested both forearms on the table. He glared at Michael in a way that felt like some unknown consequence was imminent. “Stand fast, we gotta talk.”

  “Sure, John, what’s up?” Goddammit, what does he know?

  “I make it a rule to never tell any of the other students about why other candidates fail, quit, or get dismissed, but I think I need you to understand that there’s sometimes unintended consequences for your actions.

  “Everyone knows that Zeb and Haggamore got dismissed the same day, but I thought you oughta know why Zeb had to go. One of the deputies contacted him in their parking lot and accused him of tryin’ to steal a large badge magnet off-a one of their SUVs. Zeb had to give up his real name and date of birth, so that sealed his fate. No paper trails that tie your name to this area, right? Even though I’m sure he was doin’ exactly what they accused him of, I started wonderin’ how they knew what he was up to. Did a little diggin’ and found out someone told the S-O secretary about transients stealing badge magnets. That’s a helluva coincidence, right?”

  “Seems almost impossible, John.” I won’t deny my part, but I’m not gonna just offer up anything he hasn’t asked to know, either.

  “That’s what I thought. Thing is, like we talked last week, that’s an impossible task given the R-O-Es and our morals. If he’d succeeded, he would-a gained, what, a little personal benefit in a training program, and that’s even ignoring the petty theft? But, that would-a put that deputy and the public at risk if people couldn’t recognize that SUV was a cop car. I thought you oughta know, whatever put this in motion, I’m glad to find out now that Zeb didn’t have the logical thought process to succeed.”

  “Good to know.” Sensing the end of the conversation, Michael stepped toward the door.

  “Oh, one more thing. Keep in mind that everyone failed that exercise, Andrew, even you. Now get the hell oughta here. Y’all got Combat First Aid today, gotta learn how effectively edged weapons lacerate pork.”

  “Pork?”

  “They letcha cut into a simulated forearm made outta P-V-C, pork filets, and plastic wrap to show how deadly edged weapons are. Then you getta jam tampons and combat gauze into simulated bullet holes. All kindsa shit that might come in handy on some bad day.”

  “Thanks, John,” Michael hesitantly offered, “and, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want your apologies, Andrew, but I do want you to change your goddamned behavior and think about what the hell you’re doin.’ Make tracks.”

  Michael stepped out onto the porch, collected his morning run assignment from Jane, and hurriedly headed out to his appointed trail. No coincidence my runtime today is ‘almost impossible,’ either. Goddammit.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Training Day 114, 0730 hours.

  Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  Michael occupied his usual flimsy, plastic chair when John predictably strode through the classroom’s back door at 7:30am. Wonder what kind of retribution John & CO have in mind for me today. It was easier just dealin’ with Haggamore, actually, because I only had to worry about one asshole then. Now, I’ve got five, maybe six, that’re gunnin’ for me. If they’d just come straight at me, we could get this shit over with. This constant anticipation is goddamned killin’ me.

  Instead of walking straight up to the front as he usually did, John stopped in front of the large Matthew and Proverbs scriptures and turned to face the remaining eight students. “Morning, shitheads. Been a while since we brought these up. First time, y’all basically called Matthew the ‘good guy traits’…” He slapped each oversized panel as he spoke about them.

  smack

  “...and Proverbs was the ‘bad guy traits.’”

  smack

  John looked about as though awaiting an epiphany. “Y'all got any new thoughts, ideas, about how these apply to you? To your calling, maybe? Perhaps, even to the work we’re struggling to teach here?”

  Michael grimaced. I’m still missing the point here. He focused on the words themselves and tried to read and absorb the verses as though he’d never considered them before. An unexpected correlation struck him, and he had to stifle his laughter.

  “You must’ve got somethin’ worth throwin’ out there, Andrew,” John impatiently offered. “Get to it.”

  “Well, John, it’s not really, what I think you might be looking for,” he hesitantly explained.

  “Not what I asked. Just answer my goddamned question.”

  “Right, sorry. Have you ever seen Pulp Fiction?”

  “The movie?”

  “Yeah, it’s just that, well, the Proverbs verses kinda strikes me now like the Ezekiel 25:17 quote that Jackson’s character throws around the whole movie. Maybe our Proverbs verses should’ve immediately preceded the Ezekiel quote, like they’re explaining what the wicked have done, and Ezekiel is following that up with what's gonna happen because of it.”

  John quizzically looked back at him. And, here comes some consequence, Michael thought.

  The instructor turned to the Proverbs sign, examined the words for several seconds, and nodded his quasi-agreement. “I suppose I can see that. Sure as shit ain’t perfect, but that’s a damned sight better’n last time, with nothing but ‘good’ and ‘bad’ outta y’all intellectual cavemen. Keep ponderin’ these scriptures. Rest assured we’ll come back to ‘em.” He stepped to the front of the room to begin his instruction.

  “Normally,” John explained, “it might make more chronological sense for us to teach you about knife fighting before going over combat first aid. However, now that you saw the damage edged weapons create yesterday, I think you’ll have more respect and appreciation for the defensive and offensive tactics we’re goin’ over today. Y’all go ahead and get all the tables and chairs up against the walls, we’re gonna need some room to fight and move in here.”

  Michael stood up, folded the flimsy chair, and helped the other students move their spartan furniture aside.

  “Just like everything else,” John advised the group as they worked, “today’s class is just an introduction to knife fighting, and specifically to Silat. And, it’s just that, an intro, a beginning. I can’t make you competitive knife fighters in the time we got to cover this, but you oughta pick up some defensive skills, a better recognition of what blades can do, how they're used, and how they move in the hands of a competent practitioner. We’ll come back to this topic over the next few months, so I just want y’all to leave today with a real goddamned sincere appreciation for how dangerous these tools are. There are skilled knife fighters in the world, but blades don’t require skill to kill. Simple gravity makes ‘em dangerous.

  “If you have some previous experience,” John continued, “I hope you take this chance to improve your avoidance and takeaways. That’s the kinda skill you’ll need if some street urchin ever pulls a knife on you in a dark alley. You gotta make sure they know right quick they picked the wrong victim.” John held eye contact with Michael after his blatant reference to the Bogotá killing.

  Michael glanced around the classroom and saw curiosity and confusion from his fellow students. Fucking asshole!

  The instructor smugly grinned and stayed focused on Michael. “Let’s get started. Andrew, step up and be my bad guy.” He retrieved a concealed training knife from his back pocket and expertly flipped it around in his right palm. “Promise not to hurt ya, well, too bad, anyway.”

  FORTY

  Training Day 115, 0303 hours.

  Rural Compoun
d. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  These are the hours of the day I can never decide are ‘too late’ or ‘too early’ to be up. Whether it was a college final or a search warrant, I’ve never slept well knowing I had a major event early the next morning. With only a few hours of fitful rest, Michael looked out the bus window as the tall, moonlit grass fields around him swayed in the ever-present wind. He shifted a large backpack in the seat next to him and below the bus’s window, and hoped his tightly-packed gear would soon make a decent pillow. It doesn’t have to be ‘good,’ it’s just gotta be ‘good enough.’

  As the off-white, repurposed school bus lumbered and swayed up the training compound’s long driveway toward the adjacent county road, John stood just behind the driver. Holding on to the two nearest seatbacks to keep himself upright, he addressed his trainees in the predawn darkness. “This field trip’s gonna take a few days, and you might be glad to know you’ll get outta the wind for most-a that. We're headed up to the mountains so y’all can learn how to survive away from asphalt and Starbucks. If any of you ever find yourself stuck outside the urban sprawl, I need ya to understand Mother Nature can’t easily kill the well-prepared. The same is not true of the arrogant and ill-equipped.” He glanced at Michael just long enough to make eye contact.

  “Everybody got on the bus together this morning,” John continued and briefly held Michael’s gaze. “I expect most of you to return in the same manner. Y’all oughta get some rest. We got about five hours to our drop-point. If more-a y’all had had the decency to quit by now, the rest of us coulda taken a comfy car.” John paused as a few tired chuckles subsided.

  “You shitheads just got instruction in Combat First Aid. We’re gonna add additional stress and reality to have you care for wounds and injuries out in the wilderness. Gonna be a good few days to be the hell outta that shit-ass classroom. Hope ya enjoy it, but, frankly, I don’t give a damn either way. Father Harry’s joining us in a few hours after the sun’s up. He’s gonna help us celebrate a ‘mobile mass’ on the way, just to make sure we don’t deprive anyone of their dogma. Never had mass on a school bus before, but I imagine y’all are resourceful enough to find a way to kneel. Get some shut-eye if ya can, you’ll wish ya had before the day’s out.”

  Five hours later, after a fuel and restroom stop bookended Father Harry’s modified mass celebration, the bus passed through Dubois, Wyoming, and entered the Teton National Forest. The bus pulled into a deserted campground where Michael and his colleagues disembarked with their respective large-frame backpacks. Without even pausing for a headcount or instructions, John immediately led them into the dense pine forest. Michael turned back and briefly watched the bus drive away from the unidentified site. Guess we’re not getting back on at the same place. He scanned the group ahead to identify Thomas’ position. After John dismissed Haggamore ten days ago, the problem-student remained the only concern Michael felt he had much control over. I can’t limit my interactions with the training staff or John, but I can at least keep Thomas in front of me.

  John spent the morning leading the trainees through overland navigation, waypoint identification, and compass and map work. Michael noticed that only Sergio and Phillip didn’t struggle to maintain John’s mandated pace. Maybe we’re running late for the Death March?

  John stopped the group for lunch in a clearing that Michael believed was precisely in the dead-center of nowhere, and they all broke out MREs from their packs. I haven’t had to eat one of these since my last lunch with Merci. I hope she’s safe, warm, and happy.

  In less than thirty minutes, Michael had eaten, powdered his feet, changed into dry socks, and again donned his own backpack. John led the group through a series of practical exercises to demonstrate proficiency with the morning’s topics. Along the way, he pointed out how to improve their wilderness first aid and survival skills, such as never drinking from still waters or downhill from pastures and open rangelands.

  By late afternoon, Michael estimated they’d traversed ten-to-twelve miles and John had kept up their blistering pace despite the terrain. They paused briefly at the crest of a small rise to drink water, and Michael noticed a wisp of smoke rising above the trees ahead. Maybe two, three miles out. Hard to tell distance out here. “Hey, John,” he called out. “Looks like a fire up there.”

  “Better be,” he replied without looking at it for himself. “That’s where we’re headed, and the Molasses Brigade’s got us near twenty minutes behind schedule.” With less rest than Michael wanted, John led them another hour deeper into the Teton National Forest and stopped at a collection of established tents around a large fire ring. John’s four remaining instructors sat around a popping campfire in plush, reclining camp chairs. It looked like everyone else gets to choose between rocks and logs.

  “Place looks good,” John congratulated them, “glad y’all made it out here so far ahead of us.”

  “It’s no problem,” Tex replied, “but, woulda been easier with five of us.” He eyed Michael for a brief moment before turning back to the fire and lifting a can of beer.

  John ignored the comment and turned around to address the class. “Most students don’t make it this far, so y’all oughta pat yourselves on the back tonight. If you don’t take your steak ‘medium,’ you’re gonna tonight ‘cause that’s the only way I grill it. Got some cowboy beans and buttered corn on the cob to go with it. Take a load off until supper’s ready. Get some grub, put your feet up, enjoy the cold night air. If you look real hard, you’ll find a grip of beers in the cooler by my tent. You’re welcome to ‘em. You boys could use a night off, and this is about the best I could arrange given the short timeframe we got to work with.

  “Just don’t let this shit go to your goddamned heads, now,” John cautioned. “You’re all still worthless to me, and you got a damned long way to go to complete my program. That said, I’ll holler when supper’s ready.”

  Michael and the other candidates just looked around at each other in stunned amazement for a moment. I think we’re all afraid to trust it. I feel like the dog in ‘To Build A Fire,’ and I can’t believe the harsh master has benign intentions. Most of the group strolled together toward the beer cooler as though their safety existed in their numbers. Michael noticed that Sergio stayed behind with him.

  “Whaddayou think of all this,” his friend quietly asked.

  “Don’t know,” Michael replied, “but I’m pretty suspicious that tomorrow’s gonna be somewhere between ‘bad’ and ‘terrible.’”

  “Count on it. Those lambs are just following a trail of sweet grass toward the slaughterhouse.”

  Michael chuckled and considered his options. “Want a beer, anyway?”

  “Absolutely. One can isn’t gonna throw salt in my game tomorrow.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Training Day 116, 0402 hours.

  Teton National Forest, Wyoming.

  Startled awake by the sound of loud, rapid metal clangs, Michael urgently sat up in his sleeping bag and reflexively prepared to defend himself from some unknown threat. He turned on a flashlight he’d placed next to his cot and saw that The Baptist and Z, who shared the three-man tent, had done the same. With no exterior light source, Michael couldn’t discern the sound or its source despite having only one suspect in mind.

  “The hell is that,” Z exclaimed.

  “Alarm clock,” Michael grumbled.

  “Wakey, wakey, you sleepy shitheads!” John’s unmistakable voice filled Michael with dread. “Get out here, F-N-S-R -F-N!”

  “Still ain’t no ‘s’ in ‘center,’” The Baptist quietly protested as he climbed from his bag.

  “And, ‘and’ doesn’t start with an ‘n,’” Z added while hurriedly donning his running shoes.

  “Anyone wanna tell him that,” Michael asked, hoping to lighten the impending doom. They won’t try to kill me, and I’ll be damned if they drive me to quit. Not fuckin’ happening.

  “Hell, no,” The Baptist quietly replied, “I’m not that smart, b
ut I’m ain’t that stupid, either!”

  “Let’s go,” John yelled from somewhere outside their tent. “You shitheads are burnin’ daylight God ain’t even granted you yet! MOVE!”

  The group formed up around John so quickly that Michael assumed everyone had worn their running clothes to bed. Like we expected early-A-M reindeer games.

  “Good morning, shitheads. Today’s training evolution is specifically designed to separate those who want to be here from those that don’t, and, for my own personal satisfaction, to punish anyone that had too good a time last night. I was a little sad, angry, disappointed even, when I went to my beer cooler last night and found I had too few cervezas to offer my dedicated and deserving associates. Since we couldn’t relax like we wanted, I’m sure you can imagine that we spent our evening inventing new and creative ways to put your asses through a knothole today. I mean, we added some hurdles to ensure you boys got all the training value possible. That sound P-C enough for ya?

  “In addition to the navigation exercise, we’re also gonna work on your evasion tactics, your ninja skills. Treat the instructor cadre as armed adversaries. They’re the cops, the military, the enforcement you wanna avoid. Our normal R-O-Es apply so you may not harm or assault my cadre, just as you can’t ever assault a cop or law enforcement official. Remember two things as you navigate today’s evolution: one, we’re doing all this for your benefit, and, two, you assholes made us do it. We could-a done the nice little nature hike and koom-by-yah singalong I scheduled, but y’all wanted to do this shit instead. Hope you’re happy with your choices.”

  John passed out specific maps to the students, and Michael saw each had a trainee’s name at the top. “Matthew, here. Baptist, this one’s yours. Phillip, yours. Alpha, here ya go.” He continued to pass out maps until only one remained in his hands. “And, last but not least, Andrew.” As he handed the paper over, John maintained eye contact with Michael and grinned.