I say, “The cartels went after his grandchildren, didn’t they?”
Father Crisanto nods.
“Yes, but not just his grandchildren. They went after the entire family.”
“What did the cartels do?”
This was what cartels did, Father Crisanto says:
They sent sicarios, or hired killers, to take out Cortez’s son and his family. They raided Alejandro’s house one night. They stormed inside and put a gun to Alejandro’s wife’s head to force Alejandro to do as they said. But still Alejandro tried to fight them. For his trouble, one of the sicarios took out a knife and cut off Alejandro’s wife’s little finger. Her strangled cries echoed throughout the house. After that, Alejandro agreed to surrender.
They tied him to a chair. They brought his wife in and stood her in front of him, completely naked. And then they proceeded to rape her. The men took turns. After that, they brought in Alejandro’s daughter, who was no older than ten years old. They raped her too. Finally, they brought in Alejandro’s young son and raped him as well.
After the men were done, they tied Alejandro’s wife and children to chairs and doused them with gasoline. They doused Alejandro, too.
The gasoline had dripped from each person, making a trail, so when one of the sicarios lit a match and threw it at Alejandro’s wife, the fire began to fan out toward Alejandro and the children.
Father Crisanto pauses, shaking his head again. He’s told the story so far in a stunted, toneless voice. Merely relaying events. Doing everything he could not to think too much about those events.
To nudge the priest along, I ask, “When did Cortez learn that everyone died?”
Father Crisanto takes a deep breath.
“The next morning word finally got to Cortez about what happened. He rushed to his son’s house to see for himself. They were still in the room, their charred bodies still propped up on those chairs. The two children, the two adults. To Cortez and anybody else, it looked as if his son and his family had burned to death.”
I glance at Nova and frown before I turn back to Father Crisanto.
“What do you mean, it looked as if his son and his family had burned to death?”
“Because”—Father Crisanto looks at me as if for the first time—“Alejandro survived.”
Forty-Seven
When the sicarios broke into the house, Alejandro knew his family was going to die. It was not something he wanted to believe—or wanted to accept—but deep down in his heart he knew it was true. That was why he fought them at first. Did everything he could to give his family a chance. But once they cut off his wife’s finger, once they rounded up the children and put guns to their heads, Alejandro knew he had no choice but to surrender.
Had he known just what the sicarios intended to do, he may have tried to kill his wife and children himself just to spare them.
After the men had beaten and raped his family, gasoline was poured on them, the scent so pungent it caused his muscles to tense. The next thing he knew his family was on fire, just like that, first his wife was in flames, then his children, and then the flames came for him.
The sicarios stood watching for maybe a minute before they left.
By that point, Alejandro was also burning. His legs completely on fire, the flames working their way up his body toward his face. He had been working at the ropes binding his wrists this entire time, trying to loosen them as much as possible without the sicarios noticing, so once the fire began to consume his hands, the rope became weak enough to break apart.
His entire body now on fire—the flames burning off patches of skin while parts of his clothes melted and fused to his body—he ripped his ankles free and fell to the floor, rolling back and forth to extinguish the flames. Then he slowly climbed to his feet and stood there for a moment, watching his wife and children still burning alive. They had been set on fire first, and he knew there was no saving them. The only thing he could do now was put them out of their misery.
Alejandro hurried out of the room into his office. He grabbed the lockbox out of his desk, managed to punch in the right combination, and extracted the already loaded pistol.
When Alejandro returned, his wife was no longer bucking in her chair. Neither was his daughter. His son had gone completely motionless, and Alejandro knew that he was probably already dead.
Cursing the sicarios and God and everything else that was holy and unholy in the world, he fired a bullet into each of their heads—his wife, his daughter, his son—and then he fell to his knees, most of his nerve endings already exposed, his entire body feeling more pain than it had ever felt a day in his life.
Outside, one of the sicarios had heard the shots. That sicario hurried back inside while the others prepared to leave. The sicario raced into the room, his weapon raised, not sure what to expect. He most certainly had not expected to find Alejandro standing there in the burning room, waiting for him.
Alejandro shot the sicario in the head.
He set the gun aside and grabbed the sicario and dragged him over to the empty chair. He propped the sicario in the chair and then quickly hurried over and grabbed his gun and ran for the closest exit.
Alejandro forced himself to work through the pain. The sicarios had done this to his family, and he was going to be damned if he let them get away with it.
He found the two remaining sicarios outside in an SUV. They saw him coming but thought he was the third sicario. They didn’t recognize him for what he was until he was only feet away, and by that point Alejandro fired two shots into one of them and then used the butt of the pistol to smack the other across the face before he could raise his own weapon. When he was certain the driver was unconscious, Alejandro climbed into the SUV, pushing the man aside, and sped away.
Father Crisanto pauses again. As before, his voice has been stunted and toneless, though the more he went on, the easier it was for him to tell the story.
I ask, “How do you know all of this?”
Father Crisanto offers up a somber smile.
“I grew up with Alejandro. We were best friends. We entered the army together. I served only a year before I realized it was not for me. I told God I understood what he wanted for me and left the army to become a priest. I had kept in touch with Alejandro ever since.”
Father Crisanto pauses again, and sighs.
“He showed up at my home one night. When I opened the door, I thought it was a monster. His face … it was unrecognizable. I wanted to take him to the hospital, but he refused. I didn’t understand why at first, but once he told me what had happened, I understood his plan. He asked me to help him, and I told him that I would.”
They had tied up the remaining sicario and left him for several days. Didn’t feed him, didn’t give him any water. Didn’t even let him use the bathroom. During that time, Father Crisanto treated Alejandro the best he could with the supplies he found at the store. What Alejandro needed was professional medical care, but he refused. He told Father Crisanto that as far as he was concerned the world should think he was dead. It was even broadcast on the news that Alejandro and his family had died (the sicario’s body had been burned so badly everybody believed it was Alejandro). His father made a statement. The election was days away. His lead in the polls increased even more.
When Alejandro felt well enough, he met with the remaining sicario. By then the man was barely conscious. Alejandro fed him some food, gave him some water, just enough to help him focus, and then he started the questions. At first the sicario refused to answer any of the questions, and that was when Alejandro became physical.
Father Crisanto now shakes his head and says, “I don’t like to think about what was done to that man. Especially as a servant of God, I know what Alejandro did was wrong, but … the man deserved it.”
“What did Alejandro learn?”
“He learned that certain families within each cartel had come together to discuss his father and how they were going to keep him from becoming president. He
learned the names of each of the men who were at the meeting, especially the man who initially came up with the idea. After he had learned everything there was to know, Alejandro killed the sicario and buried him out in the mountains. When he returned, he told me what he planned to do. I told him that he shouldn’t. I pleaded with him because I knew it would damn his soul if he went through with what he intended. But Alejandro … he no longer cared about such things. He only had one focus, and that was to avenge his family.”
“He decided to kill the wives and children of the men who sent the sicarios after his family.”
Father Crisanto nods.
“Yes. But it wasn’t just that. Alejandro wanted to mock the cartels. He knew they would try to hide the murders from the public. They did not want the public to see them as weak. When we were younger, I had excelled at computer programming and I wanted to be a journalist. They were two things Alejandro had always encouraged me to do. As you can probably tell, I had many ambitions when I was younger. And Alejandro remembered this and told me I should start a news hub like many around the country. He said that it would be the best way to get the word out. I must admit the idea interested me. I wondered if I could make it successful. Part of me knew what I was doing—reporting on the murders Alejandro committed—was wrong, but another part knew that the cartels were even more evil. Somebody needed to stand up to them, and I thought perhaps my website could do that.”
He pauses again, staring off toward the front of the church.
“Every day I ask God for forgiveness for not stopping Alejandro. I feel the weight of all those deaths on my soul. But I kept telling myself that even if I wanted to turn in Alejandro, what would I say? Who would believe me? As far as everybody is concerned, Alejandro died that night with his wife and children.”
Father Crisanto keeps staring off toward the front of the church, and then his brow starts to furrow.
“How did you find me?”
“How do you think we found you?”
“Considering that you came to this church and not to the rectory, it must be because I used the computer here to take down the video of Gabriela.”
“The browser wasn’t secure. That’s how we were able to trace it.”
Father Crisanto takes off his glasses and closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I was too upset to think clearly at the time. I wanted to take that video down as soon as possible. It was only this morning when I realized my mistake.”
“Which was why you had the gun.”
Father Crisanto nods.
I say, “Father, you realize that if we managed to track you down, others might too.”
He nods again, this time more solemnly.
And because God has a cruel sense of humor, it’s at that moment the rumbling of several engines approach outside.
Without a word, Nova immediately hurries toward the entrance.
My gun in hand, I quickly stand up and make my way toward the aisle.
Father Crisanto asks, “What’s wrong?”
Nova, having peeked out a window by the door, hurries back toward us. The look on his face says it all, but still I ask.
“What is it?”
“Narcos.”
“How many?”
“From what I can see, at least a dozen. They have us surrounded.”
Forty-Eight
Father Crisanto jumps to his feet. For a moment he just stands there, frozen, and then he hurries toward the middle aisle and then toward the front of the church. He calls back over his shoulder as he runs.
“Follow me!”
We follow him through the door leading to the back of the church. Down a hallway to another door which opens up on a set of stone stairs. Father Crisanto flicks a switch and a faint light comes on. The priest hurries down the steps and races past wooden shelving until we reach an empty bookcase leaning against the wall.
Nova asks, “Why are we here?”
Father Crisanto says, “Help me, please.”
The priest grabs one end of the bookcase, and Nova grabs the other end, and they push aside the bookcase to reveal a door.
Father Crisanto opens the door and motions us forward. His eyes are wide, and he keeps looking back toward the stairs.
“Hurry. This will lead you to an entrance to the sewer two blocks away. From there you can climb out.”
I dip my head to enter the tunnel but pause.
“Aren’t you coming with us?”
Father Crisanto shakes his head.
“No, I must stay here. The narcos expect to find somebody. I must be that somebody.”
The meaning of what he says hits me at once, but still I stare at him like I’m not sure what he just said.
Still watching the stairs, Father Crisanto says, “Alejandro is wounded. Two days ago he was shot and stabbed. He does not believe he has much longer to live.”
The priest pauses to look directly at me.
“There is only one name left on the list. The man who initially came up with the plan.”
“Fernando Sanchez Morales.”
The priest nods.
“Alejandro has been saving him for last. Typically he waits weeks or months between attacks, but now …”
Father Crisanto lets it hang there. He doesn’t need to say the rest.
Nova pulls out his cell phone, uses the screen to light the tunnel.
“Come on, Holly, we need to go.”
Before I can follow Nova, Father Crisanto speaks again.
“Alejandro is suffering. He has been suffering ever since the sicarios killed his family. I’ve tried repeatedly to stop him from killing, telling him how it will damn his soul, but he does not care. Please, if you can, make sure his soul is at peace.”
I nod and start after Nova who’s already several yards farther ahead. Behind me, Father Crisanto shuts the door and starts pushing the bookcase back in place.
Three minutes later we’re out of the tunnel and back on street level. Nova starts toward where we parked the car, but I head back toward the church.
“Holly, stop.”
I don’t stop. I keep going. My pace slow at first, just a walk, until it speeds up into a jog.
I pause on the corner a block away. There are at least a half-dozen pickup trucks and cars from what I can see. More than a dozen narcos are standing outside the church. A few of the townspeople watch from a safe distance, but for the most part it seems like the town doesn’t want to witness what will happen next.
Father Crisanto is currently on his knees in the middle of the street. He has his hands on his head. Three narcos are standing around him. One has a cell phone to his ear, nodding and speaking. Another narco steps forward with a cell phone, holding it in a way which either means he’s taking pictures or filming. A third narco keeps asking Father Crisanto something, but Father Crisanto doesn’t answer. I can’t see his face, but I imagine his eyes are closed and his lips moving soundlessly in prayer.
It’s clear what these men intend to do, and I can’t let it happen. I even reach for my gun, start to take a step forward, when a heavy hand grabs my arm.
Nova says, “Don’t.”
I glare back at him.
“Get your hand off me.”
“A good soldier knows when not to fight.”
“I’m not a soldier anymore. Neither are you.”
“You go out there, you’re dead.”
He’s right, of course, but I don’t want to admit it. An innocent man—a priest—is about to be killed in front of his church. It’s not something I can let happen. Not something I will let happen.
Except it doesn’t matter anyway, because at that instant a single gunshot echoes through the air.
I turn back to the street just in time to watch Father Crisanto’s body collapse in a heap.
My grip on the gun tightens.
Nova’s grip on my arm also tightens.
“Let’s go, Holly.”
I don’t move.
H
e says, “Alejandro is going after Morales next. We need to stop him.”
Without a word I turn and start back down the street, pulling my arm from Nova’s grip.
He hurries to keep pace beside me.
“How long will it take us to get to where Morales lives?”
“It’ll probably take us ten hours. Nine if we drive fast.”
“If we drive all night, we’ll make it there by morning. For all we know, Alejandro plans to attack tonight, if he hasn’t already attacked.”
We’re a block away from the car now, and I slip the gun in my waistband, pull out the disposable phone.
“I think there’s someone who can help us with that.”
“Who?”
But I don’t answer Nova just yet. Instead I punch in the number and hold the phone to my ear, hoping that Ramon’s wife isn’t the one who answers this time.
Forty-Nine
Alejandro didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.
He had only managed to wrap up the wounds so much, but the bandages kept bleeding through to the point he gave up trying to change them. Usually, walking several miles carrying equipment would be no sweat at all, but now he moved at a slug’s pace. What he needed to do was rest. Just take a couple days off, get some sleep, let his new wounds heal as much as possible. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not with his mission so close to the end.
It was almost midnight now as he lay in the woods almost three hundred yards away from Fernando Sanchez Morales’s house. The equipment he had dragged along—the rifles and extra ammo and RPG launcher—lay on the ground beside him. He currently used a riflescope to watch the men Morales had hired to maintain the perimeter. So far he had counted eight, though there were undoubtedly more inside the house.
Morales had kept his wife and son holed up in that house for over a year now. As far as Alejandro knew, the man hadn’t once let his family step outside the gates. He had forced them to become prisoners in their own home. There was something about the idea that gave Alejandro a perverse sort of pleasure, especially considering Morales was the architect behind his own family’s demise.
Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 44
