EIGHT

  February 13, 09:50am local.

  Operngasse. Vienna, Austria.

  Dedos piloted an older, fading white Renault four-door sedan south on Operngasse, just three cars behind the African’s brown delivery van. Despite the cold February temps in Lower Austria, his window was open just enough to let most of his cigarette smoke escape the cabin. He held the cigarette between his left thumb, index, and middle finger; he’d lost that pinky and ring finger to a rival street gang back in Venezuela. Dedos had traded those useless fingers for a revered nickname and street cred. Worth it.

  Dedos hadn’t been with MS13 all that long, but he had lived in Vienna for the last six of his eighteen years. His mother fled Venezuela when he was ten, and Dedos followed her to Austria two years later expecting to leave his subservient, hand-to-mouth life behind. Even though his scenery and the weather had changed, the ceiling this society imposed on the potential success of his life hadn’t budged. The Mara Salvatrucha Trece click that had been in his neighborhood long before he arrived in the forgotten outskirts of Vienna had changed all that. Dedos quickly went all-in on “the life,” and he now wore a massive MS13 tattoo centered on the front of his throat for all the world to see. He pulled a long, final drag off the smoldering butt, tossed it out the window, and exhaled smoke out after it.

  “Where’s he goin,’” his passenger, Retaco, asked in their native Spanish.

  Dedos looked over Retaco, who’d earned the slang nickname for merely being shorter than his mostly-short, fellow Latinos. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t fuckin’ need to follow him.”

  The passenger rebounded quickly. “Where do you think he’s goin’?”

  “Fuck if I know. If he is pickin’ up dope from the Tourist Office, then he’s gonna wanna take it to a stash house. Someplace he can break it down for the dealers or the junkies, right?”

  Retaco didn’t answer. He looked out his window at the glamorous, high-end neighborhoods and businesses. He seemed to stare at the life he could never have, the places he could never go, the success he could never taste.

  Dedos did the same for a moment, and he reflexively reached to zip his jacket further up over his tattoos. As his hand touched the twice-repaired zipper, he grew angry at himself for trying to hide his pride in who and what he’d become. Those racist fucks don’t want me in their restaurants, or their Opera House, or their fancy, old-ass hotels. Shit on ‘em, cause I don’t wanna go there, anyway. They ain’t good enough to get my money, even when I do have enough to get in.

  “He don’t make many package drops, ‘specially for a delivery driver.” Retaco’s realization brought Dedos’ attention back to the task at hand. “Gonna be easy to identify all his usual stops.”

  Dedos looked ahead and saw only two cars now drove between their Renault and the delivery van, a matte-white Jaguar F-type and a gloss-black BMW 8-series.

  “El Trece said the African wants to sell dope to us, even gonna give us the same price he gives the other blacks.” Retaco paused until Dedos looked over and made eye contact with him. “Wants to give us the family price. You believe that?” The smaller man looked back out the window. “El Trece wants us to make sure he ain’t a undercover cop, a snitch, but I say ‘no way.’ Those puercos whettos ain’t gonna hire a fuckin’ African. They’re too busy tryin’ to arrest all us immigrants.”

  “Don’t forget he also told us to confirm the African’s got the supply he said he’s got.” Dedos still didn’t understand how he was supposed to do that, but orders were orders. El Trece gets whatever El Trece wants.

  “Think he’s scorin’ his shit from someone back there, in that place, what was the name again?”

  “Tourist Information Center.”

  “Yeah, that one. No way there’s smack and coke runnin’ through that kinda place.”

  “That’s just it, Retaco, no one’s lookin’ here for people doin’ dirty, least not from the rich whites that are supposed to be here. Those fuckin’ pigs are just out lookin’ for us, for anyone that don’t belong here. We’re the ones they thinks the traffickers and slingers, mijo.”

  Dedos rolled the Renault to a stop at a red light. The African’s delivery van had gone through the intersection, but traffic here moved so slowly that he didn’t need to run the light and risk being stopped. He looked over at the sidewalk to his left across the narrow northbound travel lane. A cluster of women, all dressed in fashionable winter coats and tall, expensive snow boots clutched takeout coffee cups in their gloved hands. Steam rose from the cups and slightly obscured their faces, but Dedos realized all three women stared at him and Retaco. Their eyes examined the pair and their jalopy with an equal mix of fear and curiosity. He felt their gaze run over his face- and neck tattoos for only a few moments before meeting his eyes. In rapid, silent succession, all three women averted their focus to the ground at their feet. One of them, a brunette, took a step back away from their Renault, as though the extra distance could protect her.

  Dedos manually cranked his window down and fully exposed his neck tattoos. He wanted to incite fear in the women and deliberately erode their perceived safety to counter the rage he felt inside. Despite refusing to assimilate and learn the local German language, he knew enough vulgarities to loudly get his point across most of the time. “Wer ist bereit zu ficken?” One of the women dropped her hot drink, and it crashed onto the sidewalk as she rushed away. The other two froze in place and momentarily clung to each other. Inspired by the runner, they turned and urgently fled, as well.

  Retaco laughed aloud as all three panicked women hurried away from them. “Don’t look like none of ‘em’s ready to fuck, Dedos!” He brashly cat-called after them.

  Dedos’ instant gratification from dominating the uppity women gave way to his understanding of their reality. Again self-conscious about their appearance and surroundings, Dedos scanned the immediate vicinity for anyone else who seemed interested in them. “We can’t stay here, Retaco, los azules here ain’t gotta have a reason to stop us, and ain’t nobody else around that looks like us. Ever’body that sees us knows we don’t belong.” He zipped his jacket over the front of his neck and rolled the window back up.

  The elder gangbanger proudly offered a solution. “I’ll call us some back-up. Got a couple light-skinned mugs with no ink that can tail this muthuhfuckuh ‘round for a few days. They’ll tell us what we need to know, and we’ll pass that on to El Trece, just like we got it our own damned selves. Cain’t quit yet, though, still gotta see if this African’s got another drop today.”

  “Yeah, no shit.” Dedos sped away when the light changed. One quick glance down the sidewalk showed all three women had disappeared into nearby storefronts to escape his presence. They wasn’t good enough for me and mine, anyway.

  NINE

  February 12, 06:12am local.

  Southbound I-25. Larimer County, Colorado.

  Father Michael Thomas navigated the rented Chevy truck along the snow-packed interstate. Ira slept peacefully on the passenger seat beneath his fleece blanket while a local rock station kept Michael company. I can’t believe my high school soundtrack is now ‘classic rock.’ Van Halen sounds weird between Led Zeppelin and Steppenwolf. He’d left Wyoming only after stopping into a Cheyenne vet’s office to get Ira checked out. After his new best friend got a mostly clean bill of health and a new box of all-natural peanut butter treats, Michael pointed them south to Santa Fe and San Miguel Chapel. His father had just emailed to remind Michael he should try to help Monsignor Hernandez with Sunday mass preparations. The celebration starts in just over twenty-four hours, and the nav system’s telling me I need almost twelve to get back home. I should’ve known better than to drive through Colorado in the winter. You can almost always make it through, you just can’t predict the travel times.

  The Knight Rider theme song played from his cell phone, which Michael had set as his ringtone. Restricted number.

  “Hello?”

  “Mikey-T, Brandon, man, how’s the priest gig goin’ for you?!”

  Michael smiled at the sound of his old friend’s voice. A wealth of memories of their work together in the Silver City Police Department flooded back to his mind. “Brandon! Great to hear your voice, brother! I’m good, man, great, in fact. How’s things in S-C treating you and the Wrecking Crew?”

  “Same shit, man. I think they ran out of new bullshit to throw against the wall and they’re back to picking up the fallen splatter and tryin’ to make that stick again. Nothing changes but the names of the guilty, ya know?”

  “I remember, B.” More than you know. “What’s goin’ on, everything alright? Haven’t heard from you troublemakers in a while.”

  “Yeah, everything’s good, man, just busy working in the Salt Mines, right? I feel like a total dick that I haven’t hit you up for a bit, but, it’s just hard to make time for anything but the job and the family. Nothing personal, Mikey.”

  “I remember that, too. I think most cops are lucky to have anyone remember their name six months after they leave.”

  “Naw, there’s no chance of that, nobody’s ever gonna forget about you, man. Cops leave here all the time to go be a cop somewhere else, but you’re the only sum-bitch that left here to go be a priest. Some folks were surprised you wanted to trade uniforms, a few were surprised they let you be a priest in the first place, but either way, nobody’s forgot about you.”

  “I figure the only guy in patrol that didn’t have a wife and a girlfriend could at least get some benefit of the doubt.”

  “Yeah, that’s still the subject of occasional speculation,” Brandon replied, “but I always knew you really were the virgin you claimed to be. Nobody’s that uptight and nervous around women after they’ve touched the boobies!”

  Michael laughed aloud. “Glad nothing’s changed, but I am sorry to hear that my prayers for your soul have been a waste of time. Not sure if I need to double-down or abandon the efforts altogether.”

  “Give that shit up, brother, spend time on the ones that gotta chance of makin’ it upstairs. The way I see it, if I’m gonna go to Hell anyway, I may as well get backstage passes, ya know? That’s where the real party’s gonna be, the one with all the cocaine and call girls.”

  Michael shook his head at his friend’s facetious antics. “So, seriously, Brandon, what are you hassling me for?”

  “Getting married in about a month, and I hoped you might be able to make it out for the wedding.”

  “A month? Does she know about this?”

  “She better, she’s the one that asked me!”

  “Who’s the unlucky lady and why the hell are you makin’ this happen so fast?”

  “She’s awesome, Mikey, her name’s Catherine, but she goes by ‘Cat.’ Super cool chick, man, finishing up her Masters at the U in Special Education. Graduates next December. We met over the summer, and neither one of us see any reason to put this off any longer.”

  Hearing Brandon’s fiancé’s name reminded Michael of his longtime girlfriend, Catherine Bustamonte, and how hard she’d taken his decision to enter the seminary instead of marrying her. He consciously shook the memory from his thoughts. “So, two questions, B. First, does she know she’s marrying one of her students? Second, when’s she due?”

  “Wow, just like old times,” Brandon nervously chuckled. “I thought the priesthood was gonna soften you up a bit, brother.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “August 29th. We were already talkin’ about marriage, though, so she wants to hurry up before she shows in the photos.”

  “Can’t have another bastard kid runnin’ around, right? How’s Little Brandon doing, anyway?”

  Brandon laughed aloud. “I forgot why I liked you so much, but it’s all comin’ back to me now! I admire a man who won’t pull punches for his friends. You gonna make it out for the wedding, or what?”

  “Eat shit, a wedding? I can’t be part of you desecrating one of God’s holy sacraments! When’s the bachelor party? I can be there for that, I mean, you gotta want a priest to keep watch on you and the boys for the night, right?”

  “Well, yeah, uhh, I figured, you’d, ya know, kinda wanna pass on the strippers and booze, but, I can see about—”

  “I’m messing with you,” Michael exclaimed. “I got no desire to watch you assholes spend two days in Vegas trying to out-sin each other! I’d be honored to be there for your wedding. If I can be there at all, I will absolutely show my face and meet your next ex-wife.”

  “You just made my day. There’s still a few guys from the old Wrecking Crew pushin’ bumpers around town, they’re not gonna believe it when I tell ‘em. Most-a the guys we worked with embody that old expression, ‘I trust you with my life, but not my money or my wife,’ ya know?”

  Michael smiled at the adage. “I remember.”

  “Yeah, so, you and the few other cops I’m inviting are the only ones I trust with all three. ‘Specially you, Mikey.”

  “I appreciate that, B, it’s always been mutual. How’d you meet the lucky lady?”

  “Who?”

  Michael laughed aloud at the ridiculous response. “Your fiancé!”

  “Which one? I’m down to a couple candidates, but I’ll letcha know the winner as soon as I figure it out myself. Think it’s probably gonna be a game-time decision.”

  “Nothing changes with you, B. Send me the info and I’ll work on getting there.”

  “You’re the best, Mikey. Talk to you soon, brother.”

  “Be safe out there.” Michael disconnected the call and pondered his memories of working as a street cop in Silver City, New Mexico. What would they think of my role now? Would they understand why I’m doing this, or would they see me as just another murderer with irrational reasoning? He gazed out at the road ahead for several long minutes. Regardless of what they would think, I know what they’d do. It’s their job to make sure men like me stand trial, even if they agree with me. They couldn’t ever endorse what I’m doing, even tacitly, and I can’t ever ask them to do so. They might go home and bury their feelings at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, but they’d drop me off at Booking just the same.

  That’s the problem with integrity and ideology. No flexibility for either of us. We would both fall asleep that night knowing we’d done the ‘right thing,’ but I’d be the only one who didn’t have intrinsic reservations about my actions. My arresting officers won’t enjoy the same moral clarity.

  TEN

  February 13, 07:14am.

  Training Compound. Esmerelda County, Nevada.

  John knelt on the floor of his private, locked bedroom and worked through his daily morning prayer recitations. Even though he wasn’t an ordained priest, he’d prayed the Liturgy of the Hours for several decades and saw no reason to stop now. As part of his usual habit when he was training a recruit class, John had risen early enough to dress for the day and send the candidates off on that morning’s workout assignment. He used their workout time to pray and meditate in uninterrupted solitude. Helps me stay focused, and it keeps the recruits from thinkin’ the years’ve slowed me down. Nobody wants to follow a man that’s sleepin’ in while they’re out bustin’ their ass in the dark and cold.

  Dressed in his typical plaid button-down shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, his King Ropes baseball cap sat on his dresser. John deliberately wore the cap for everything but praying. The massive, shiny bald pate over the whole top of his head embarrassed him, but the shame of publicly admitting the problem was surpassed only by any attempted medical solutions to it. He expected that most everyone who’d met him in the last ten years had no idea he didn’t have a full head of long hair. They just think I love hats, and that’d seriously help me change my appearance and disappear if I ever had to.

  Annoyed by the unexpected ringing of his cell phone, John rose from the floor to answer it. Good news never comes this early on a Sunday. He roughly grabbed the device from his nightstand, silenced its ringer, and glanced at the caller ID. Should’ve put the readers on first. Guess it don’t really matter who the fuck it is. “Yeah?”

  “Good morning, it’s Harry.”

  John grimaced as soon as he heard the apprehensive voice, which immediately identified the caller. No matter how many times I tell his dumbass, he keeps on usin’ names. He sighed at his superior’s incompetence. “Is it a ‘good morning?’ Publisher’s Clearing House never calls this goddamned early on a Sunday. How do you intend to ruin this one for me?”

  “It is only because of your extreme proficiency that I’m forced to tolerate and forgive your transgressions. You should understand that I’m only human, and my capacity for forgiveness is not unlimited.”

  John heard Hoffaburr’s frustration and stopped himself from further responding like he wanted. Instead, he breathed deep and worked to end the interaction in the shortest time possible. He adopted a wry smile he hoped would translate through his inflection. “What can I do for you, Father?”

 

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