Three sharp spits sounded in the small kitchen, and the form slouching against the wall slid heavily to the floor. The blond man stepped away from the body and walked into the dead man’s study. On the desk was an open case into which he placed the weapon. He turned to the man’s computer and powered it up. As the machine booted, he quickly removed the outer casing, his progress rapid despite the black gloves he wore. Within seconds, he had access to the motherboard, and he returned to the case and removed a small device alongside the weapon nearly the size of a portable hard drive. With a set of connectors, he linked the device to the board and returned to the monitor.
As the login prompt waited for input, he flicked a switch on the device. For several minutes, the small machine sat perched like a tick on the motherboard of the dead man’s computer, while a blur of characters swept through the login and password fields. Suddenly, a green light appeared on the tick, and the assassin had access to his victim’s files.
In a short period of time, he had what he was looking for. Two addresses appeared on the screen, and he checked them against information on a smartphone he carried.
Lopez, Miguel. 1904 Westmore Ave, Huntsville, AL. 14 Mountain Brook Rd, Gatlinburg, TN.
The wraith’s targets had been particularly close. He had done his research. Stone would be his friend’s undoing.
He closed all applications on the computer, shut it down, removed his device, and replaced the cover. He returned to the kitchen and stepped over the pooling blood on the floor, flipping the light switch on his way out.
Everything was moving according to plan.
6
The last of the parishioners exited St. Joseph’s, and Father Lopez released a suppressed sigh. Lord, forgive me, but I’m tired today. My heart isn’t in it. Switching off the main lamps, he left only the dim candlelight near the altar to illuminate the marbled statues. Whatever confusions were boiling inside him, he did love his parish church. An unusual design, harkening back to ancient times, perhaps, with a more curvilinear shape and few windows or open spaces. Now it feels like a catacomb. He tried to imagine the early Christians worshiping, hiding from Roman and Jewish persecution. Those were saints. He put away some of the prayer books that some parishioners had discarded haphazardly and inhaled deeply. What have we become?
His eyes were caught by something across the pews. In another tribute to older ways, he saw that the stone by the confessional had been moved. He stood up straight. At this hour? But there was no denying it. He saw a shadow within.
Father Lopez left the prayer books for later and walked over to the booth. He entered the side reserved for the priest and sat down. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” He awaited the petitioner.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirty years since my last confession.”
Father Lopez gasped. “Miguel? What—”
“Francisco, just do it.”
Lopez paused a moment, shocked at the turn of events. His missing brother, here? His brother hadn’t been to church since they were children. Why was he here?
“Miguel, I think another priest would be a better choice. Talk to me outside as your brother. Maria’s worried sick.”
“I can’t go to anyone else, Francisco. That’s impossible.”
His brows furrowing, Father Lopez leaned forward. “Why can’t you go anywhere else?”
The shadowy figure on the other side let out a sigh. “Look Francisco, I know I gave you hell for your choices in life. I know this is hard for you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all that. I really am. I was young, and I thought you were a fool.” A grim laugh coughed through the divider. “Lessons are often taught harshly.”
“Miguel, I don’t understand.”
“I can’t go anywhere else, Francisco. I can’t talk to anyone about this. I shouldn’t even be here. I’m probably putting you in danger.”
Danger? What in the world was his brother talking about?
“Some things should never have been done, Francisco. Whatever the fear.” His brother paused, and Father Lopez could almost feel the weight under which the words were spoken. “The world seemed to be falling apart. I just wanted to protect us all, Francisco,” came an intense whisper and then a deep breath. “We crossed lines.”
Confession wasn’t supposed to be a transference of guilt, but it felt as if he had always absorbed the transgressions of others. He felt part of the confession and shared in the torment of their soul. Perhaps it was a small taste of what the Lord had known on the Cross. Father Lopez felt the weight of his brother’s sin descend upon him.
“I can say we were following instructions, because we were, but I know that’s a cop out.”
Father Lopez had always wondered what his brother did working for those contractors in Washington. Everything was top secret; at family gatherings the older Lopez child was the source of constant guessing games. Some thought Miguel simply played the security-clearance card because of ego. Father Lopez had disagreed. He had grown up with his brother. He knew when he was lying, when he was honest. Before seminary, when Father Lopez had been an idealistic young man unsure of his path, the brothers had fought vehemently. They had polarized themselves and mocked each other’s pursuits, almost defining themselves in carving out opposing lives. The priest. The soldier. God or country. On so many issues, the two seemed in conflict.
At this moment, he felt no triumph at what his brother was confessing. Miguel, what have you done?
Miguel Lopez shook his head. “We had choices. Like anyone. I can’t run away from that.” He laughed grimly. “Looks like there is no running away now. At least I drew one line in the sand.”
“What choices, Miguel? What actions? What line in the sand?”
“There’s not much time left, Francisco. I had to come. To tell you — you as a priest, in case there can be some forgiveness for me. And, finally, to tell you as my brother.”
“To tell me what, Miguel?”
The shadowy figure coughed the words out, forcing through pride or tears, Father Lopez couldn’t tell. “That you were right, Francisco. In the end, after everything, you were right.”
The door to the confessional swung open abruptly, and footsteps rapidly moved away. Father Lopez rose and exited, but not quickly enough. His older brother was too fast. A dim shape shrouded in a flowing coat was all he could see exiting the church. By the time he reached the church doors panting, the lot was empty, and his brother was gone.
The stars shone coldly. He felt a chill, like a cold voice whispering, telling him that the figure would not be coming back, telling him that what his brother had really come to say this evening was goodbye.
7
Miguel Lopez noted that the air was thinner and that the vegetation had begun its subtle change from pure deciduous to a mixed pine character. The mountains around Gatlinburg, Tennessee were not very high, but even at this altitude, he could sense the changes — changes in the air, the smells, the soil and rock, trees and game. Miguel Lopez was unusually good at sensing his environment. It was what had kept him alive for so many years when others had died. In street fights, in war, and in many dangerous circumstances ruthlessly concealed from public knowledge.
His shiny SUV rested in front of a dilapidated gas station. Two young attendants waited on him. They flashed him hostile looks as they filled the tank and cleaned the windshield, telling him more than the camouflage pants and Confederate flag on their caps. For men like this, his Central American good looks were anything but welcome. For them, I should be pumping their gas, he thought with a chuckle. That’s why he always insisted on full service.