by Gavin Reese
He rose, donned sweatpants and a t-shirt, and put his work cell and a sealed envelope in his pockets before stiffly stumbling toward the kitchen. Jet-lagged and sore is no way to start the day on a few hours’ sleep. Not old enough for these problems yet. Michael found the coffee pot half-filled and still-brewing. His favorite coffee mug stood in wait next to the machine with a sticky-note that read, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY! WELCOME HOME!” Michael smiled, looked around, and realized he was alone. He stuck the note to the adjacent countertop, filled the mug, and sat on a barstool at the breakfast counter to await his parents’ return.
Michael stretched his neck and shoulders, and then retrieved his new cell phone from his pants pocket. May as well check in while I’m alone. Comms have to come first, so John says. Michael first checked his personal email account and found two new messages.
Opening the first, he found a short message from Sergio with a JPG attachment: “Couldn’t help myself. Good weekend here, pretty eventful. Hope you’re having a wicked time on the beach!” Michael chuckled at the coded message and understood Sergio’s experience must have been similar to his own, including the strangely worded message from John.
Michael opened the attached photo, which he saw was a simple, very well drawn image of the traditional Catholic cross, which looked like a capital “P” with a small “x” at its center. On second inspection, Michael noticed the “x” had been replaced with two crossed capital “I”s. Ira Incorporatus! Just below the pencil-drawn symbol was the acronym “HNBC,” which Michael knew was Sergio’s reference to John’s infamous motto. I was joking when I asked him to create a subversive ‘corporate’ logo for us, but Serge hit it outta the park! How now, brown cow?!
Michael deleted the message from his inbox, and then from the deleted items folder to permanently remove it from the email server. He opened the second message, from Monsignor Hernandez, and quickly read the short paragraph: “Rec’d a call for you from a Dr. Renard yesterday. She asked me to convey a specific message to you. Said she regretted that you had to leave the way you did, but she understands you must have had a good reason for it. She prays for your safety and that your paths will one day cross again. She sounds like a woman in love, Michael, like Catherine used to sound when she talked about you. Be careful and graceful with this one.”
Michael sighed and considered what to do. As much as he wanted to save this message, he knew it could only put her in danger if someone with the right motivations ever found it and wanted to get to him. Instead, he ensured it, too, was permanently deleted from the server.
What to do? Best thing would be to put her out of my mind, but that’s not gonna just happen overnight. It’s been eight months since I last saw her, and I still think of her almost every day. I’m married to God and His Church, so there simply cannot be room for another love. I don’t know how Protestant ministers balance both.
Heavy footfalls betrayed his father’s approach, and Michael smiled and stood to greet him. He also nonchalantly locked his phone. Frank Thomas stepped into the kitchen with a broad smile and bright, happy eyes. He remained a poster boy for graceful aging and still ran at least four miles a day, ate right, and had recently taken up yoga with Michael’s mother. Michael saw he wore a short-sleeved yellow polo shirt, jeans, and loafers, which had become consistent attire in his last few years.
“Hey, pop! Good morning!” Michael hugged his dad and noticed the man had shrunk a little since he’d last seen him.
“Hell, it’s after lunch, you gonna sleep all day?” They released each other and Frank stepped over to fill his own coffee mug.
“I thought about it, but I’ve decided that eighteen hours was enough rest.” Michael facetiously smiled, leaned back against the counter, and sipped his coffee. “I thought you’d be at the office today.”
“Your mom gets her treatments on Thursday, so I only go in for a couple hours in the mornings.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Good. I think it’s just a matter of time until she’s well on the road to recovery.”
“Dad, it’s just us. I know you always wanna be positive, but it’s okay if you wanna talk about what’s really going on. I do get paid to listen, and it turns out I’m pretty good at it.”
His father reached over and placed his hand on top of Michael’s and squeezed, much tighter than Michael expected. “It’s not fair to burden you with my problems, son, that’s what Monsignor Hernandez is for. Are you going to help him with mass on Sunday?”
“I don’t know if I’ll still be here, pop.”
“You plannin’ on getting called away on an emergency, or something? They gotta rush you to put out a fire at the Vatican, or what?”
Michael chuckled at the unintended truth in his dad’s jest. “Something like that. I’m just glad I got to be here for my birthday. That hasn’t happened for four, maybe five years?”
“Thanks for reminding me. Your mom and I thought about going down to El Pinto for dinner tonight. Our treat for your birthday.”
“Speaking of birthday money,” Michael offered, “I have something for you.” He removed the envelope from his pocket and set it on the counter in front of his dad.
“What's this?”
“It’s a small token of my gratitude for all the help and sacrifice you and mom made over the years.”
“Whatever it is, I can't accept it.”
“Dad,” Michael quietly protested, “it’s $15,000, and it doesn’t even begin to repay you two for everything I’ve borrowed or used over the last ten or fifteen years.”
“I can’t take your money, Michael,” he exclaimed, clearly flabbergasted at the notion. “You’re a priest, where did you get that kinda money?!”
“Dad, they do pay us, it’s just not much. I don’t need it for anything, and I thought you and mom could do something better with it.”
“No, son, I can’t accept it, I won’t.”
“You’re looking at this the wrong way, pop. I’m not giving this to you and mom, I’m investing it with you. If you use it for mom’s medical expenses, I’m getting more time with her. Hell, we both are! If you wanted to use this to pay down the house, or pay off the cars, then it’s going toward my inheritance. It’s not a gift or charity, and I already have everything I need. It can only make me more comfortable if it takes care of you and mom.”
His father’s eyes welled up, and Michael stepped forward into his embrace. “I’m so, so very proud of you, son!”
“I know, pop, even though you’re still a better man than me.”
His father scoffed as they released each other and both leaned against the kitchen counter. Holding the open envelope with its small stack of currency visible, his father chuckled. “Your mother’s never gonna stand for this, you know that, right?”
“Why does she have to know?”
“And just what, exactly, do you propose I say when she finds it someday?”
Michael smirked as if the answer was obvious. “Just tell her you took a night job, and went back to playing piano at the brothel.” Though he tried, Michael couldn’t keep a straight face as that imaginary conversation instantly played out in his head. “She’d understand once you tell her you’ve been busy making money the hard way, $14-at-a-time!”
“She’d see right through that,” his father dryly replied, “she knows how much I hate the smell of nursing homes.” His dad briefly smiled at their banter and then changed topics. “Did I tell you that I saw Catherine at the grocery today? She asked about you, just like she always does.”
“How’s she doing, pop?”
“She’s good, still single. Just moved back to town, and, I thought it was very sweet of her to ask about you after all these years.”
“I’m a priest, pop, I can’t have a wife. Hell, I can’t even have a girlfriend. Catherine needs to find someone who can give her what she needs in this life.”
“I know, I know, but, I’m sure you can understand, too, that after dating you for all those years i
n college and while you worked as a cop, it’s kinda left her in a tough spot.”
“How so?”
“Well, she’s in her late twenties, Michael, and there’s not a lot of men, even inside the church, who’re willing to stay celibate until marriage. Catherine might be the only virgin left in the chapel’s singles group.”
“That’s not my problem, pop, I gave her plenty of chances to leave along the way and go find someone else. She hung around and waited despite me telling her I wasn’t ready to be married and might not ever make it there. It’s weird, right, like almost as if my subconscious knew this is what I would be doing with my life.”
“Yes, Michael, and we’re very proud of you, son, it warms my heart every day that my wife and I raised a son with enough character and compassion in his heart to do what you do, and what you did before. I just, you know, as I’m getting older, I’m really starting to like the idea of grandkids, and I think your mother would, too. So, if you ever felt like you’d done enough, and wanted to live a normal life, we’re okay with that. Actually, it’d be really nice to have you back home.”
“Pop, where’s this coming from? All my life you wanted me to become a doctor or a priest, and now you’re telling me it’s okay to walk away from this kinda calling?”
“You’re my only son, Michael, and there is no prouder moment in my life than when you told us you wanted to join the seminary. I knew I’d raised you right, and that my mistakes as a parent had to be minimal. But, you’ve been gone ever since, and we’ve been sharing you with the world. Actually, it’s more like the world took you away and, maybe once a year or two, you get a few days off for good behavior and come home to see us. You may as well work in Antarctica, or on the moon, for all we ever get to see you. We’re getting older, and, even though I try to always look at the positive side of your mother’s diagnosis, it’s probably not ever gonna get any better. M-S is a life sentence right now, and I know, statistically, she won’t live long enough to see a cure. Maybe in your lifetime, but almost certainly not in hers.
“And, I know how much Catherine meant to you, and probably still does, and it’s obvious she’s still in love with you. I do think she’s holding out hope that you’re gonna ride back into town one day, get married, and make a house full of babies.”
“Have Jack and Jacqui been hassling you about not having grandkids again?”
“No,” his father chuckled, “your aunt and uncle haven’t mentioned it, lately.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m probably just becoming a selfish old man, but I’d like to get to spend time with my adult son before I die. I’d like to be better acquainted with the man he’s become, and see him more than a couple days a year. Is that so wrong?”
“No, pop, I can’t hold it against you, but I’m doing really important work. My heart’s in it, actually maybe now more than ever.”
“Oh, really? What do they have you doing now, you were kinda ambiguous about it when we picked you up at the airport.”
“I’m gonna be moving around quite a bit, I guess you could say that I’m a troubleshooter.”
“Troubleshooter? Sounds mysterious, or maybe a little like James Bond!” He again chuckled at his own joke, clearly intending it to be ridiculous and impossible.
Michael’s cell phone vibrated on the counter and interrupted their conversation. Seeing John had sent an email, he opened that application. “Sorry, pop, gimme a second. Work.”
“Yeah,” his dad suspiciously replied, “another church emergency?”
“Maybe.” Not gonna give him the explanation or argument that he wants. He’s too curious about my job. Need to figure out a decent cover story that’ll be just boring enough that we don’t have to talk about it all the time. He opened the email and found it was a single paragraph:
“Your urgent assistance is required to aid a parishioner. Meet your transport at Ohkay Owingeh Airport in Española, New Mexico, at 2000 hours on Saturday, 03-Nov. You are requested to meet Monsignor Tamany at Saint Michael’s Church-Highgate, South Grove, London N6 6BJ, at your earliest opportunity. Time is of the essence. — John.”
“Not gonna make mass on Sunday, pop. Gotta leave late Saturday evening.”
“More troubleshooting, huh? So, what does that mean, exactly, like what kinda Catholic troubles are you called to shoot?”
Michael kept a straight face while responding. “Whatever they ask me to, pop,” he dryly offered, “whatever they ask me to.”
THE END
Author’s Note
As mentioned in the Foreword, I’ve based this fictional series on a strong foundation of reality. After hundreds of hours of research, I’ve fictionally used many actual places, events, and realities to try to present a possible, but still fictional, series. For that reason, it will be much easier to identify those elements entirely of my imagination.
First, the secret Absolvers cabal Sergio nicknamed “Wrath, Incorporated” is a product of my own imagination, as it its copyrighted logo. The Absolvers name is also entirely fictional (thanks, Tim!), as is the Division of Intelligence and Counter-Espionage, Lifelong Solutions, LLC., and The Powerful 99.
For my scenes and locations, I relied on my own travels, experiences, open-source research, Google Earth, and Google Maps. The real-life locations that contributed to this book and series also far outnumber the fictional, so the shorter, entirely fictional list is as follows: Capilla de San Benedicto (Ecuador), La Iglesia de San Francisco (Bogotá), Rural Training Compound (Niobrara County, Wyoming), The Blue Bonnet Café (Lusk, Wyoming), La Cucina della Russia (Rome, Italy), West Texas Wildcatting (Loving County, Texas), and the actual locations of the residences of both Jordan Miller and Pietro Isadore. I might have missed one or two entirely fictional elements, but I believe the remainder of the book’s locations are, to varying degrees, based in reality and are used fictionally.
All characters in this book are entirely figments of my imagination. Any references to actual persons are used fictionally and have been clearly identified (e.g., President Lincoln).
I’ve never worked as an international spy (that’s what we all say, right?), but I found my thousands of hours of patrol, investigations, and specialized police training incredibly useful in designing John’s training program. I’ve also never been Catholic or a priest, so I partnered with a technical advisor and spent the bulk of my research hours here. I tried not to give away LEO tactics and worked to respectfully include Catholic ritual, paradigm, and dogma. Any errors in either are entirely my own.
I relied most heavily on the following as reference materials: my personal Bible, Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas, Catechism of the Catholic Church (Second Edition), The Real Story of the Catholic Church by Steve Weidenkopf, Emotional Survival for Law Enforcement by Dr. Kevin Gilmartin, and Murder for Hire by Jack Ballentine. I also read dozens of open-source articles from sites that included National Catholic Register, Ask a Catholic, Vatican News, TVTropes.org, US Department of State, and Open Democracy.
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PROLOGUE
February 11. 0445 hours.
Niobrara County, Wyoming.
Surrounded by bone-chilling predawn darkness, Father Michael Thomas slowly drove his rented Chevy pickup truck northeast on County Road 15 with all its exterior lights turned off. As the truck crawled toward his objective, he shifted its transmission into Neutral and idled to a stop without touching the brake pedal. Having driven in complete darkness since turning north off Bruch Road more than a mile ago, Michael had taken the truck and its warm interior cabin as far as he dared. This’s close enough to walk in, far enough to keep ‘em from seeing my approach. He slipped the transmission into Park, shut off the ignition, and set
the parking brake. Everything fell silent but the howling winds, which gusted and gently rocked the Chevy four-door. Lucky to be here between storms, so I just have to deal with old snow blowing sideways. Only place in the world I’ve ever been that folks store dead tires and kerosene in their trunks to keep from freezing to death on the side of the road.
Keeping his gaze toward the black void to his northwest, Michael subconsciously nudged the inside of his right elbow against the back of his Glock 19. Still secure and in its holster. God, please don’t make me need Roscoe today. He consciously planted his feet against the floorboard and away from the truck’s brake pedal and the unwanted consequence of its telltale bright red LED brake lights. With the cabin’s interior temperature already noticeably dropping, Michael grabbed his Mountainsmith sling bag from the passenger seat and quickly ensured its contents were in place. Tourniquet, quick-clot, and super-max tampons, just in case I get into real trouble. After donning a pair of midweight gloves from his coat pockets, Michael had to remind himself that they were the best available compromise between the warmth he definitely needed and the trigger dexterity he absolutely hoped he didn’t. He inhaled a deep, calming breath and deliberately exhaled a portion of his stress before covering his face and neck in a thick white-and-gray shemagh. Fuck it. We’re doin’ it live.
Having already shut off the interior door-light switch, Michael stepped out into the ever-present eastern Wyoming wind and zipped his heavy barn coat up until its collar covered the bottom of the shemagh and fell just below his nose. This bullshit might help the ranchers by keeping the snow off their cattle’s grass and feed, but I’d hoped to never feel this constant goddamned wind again. He gently closed the door and smirked at his own cautiousness. Wouldn’t matter if I slammed it shut and set the alarm off, no one’s gonna be close enough to hear it. Not in this wind, not even if they were with me.
