Accuse

  “The Target wasn’t a predator, I’d have known if he was. The more I studied him, the more I found myself becoming envious of that teenage boy. I couldn’t help but admire his father. There was tremendous evidence of love in that family; between the parents and the children and between the husband and the wife.

  “However, I was on mission and I know how to push unwanted emotions away. When the time came to kill him, I didn’t hesitate,” I say quietly, not looking at her. My mind returns to that moment, remembering.

  It was early evening and the Target and his wife were in the bedroom. The woman was sitting a safe fifteen feet away from him, brushing her long, dark hair. The Target was looking out the window. I was counting my heartbeats and taking slow, measured breaths. I heard the sound of my weapon as it fired, felt the kick of its instant recoil, the smell of the gunpowder. I felt a detached, clinical pleasure of achieving two perfect shots fired in quick succession: heart and head.

  I ignored the wife’s reaction, as I ignored the estate lights turning on and illuminating the entire forest.

  I return from my reverie and clear my throat. “After completing our mission, we ran to the Jeep. Luis was behind the wheel when our Jeep was suddenly hit by a shoulder-fired missile. There was nothing left of him at all—it was a direct hit. That’s how I got my scars, from burning fuel and flying debris. Somehow, I managed to survive in the jungle for several days, while my enemies and their dogs searched for me.”

  “You could have been killed,” Renata whispers, her face very pale.

  “Yes,” I agree. “I certainly came close.”

  Eyes glistening, she reaches out and takes my hand between both of hers, holding it tightly. Shit. Is she about to cry? Her tears shred me.

  I’ve had so little experience with women and even less with their tears. My mother was unemotional and my sister has always been an angry screamer. Renata’s cried a few times, but I always seem to find a way to comfort her.

  I squeeze her palm. “I’m here,” I reassure her. “I’m OK.”

  “Thank God,” she breathes softly.

  Instinctively, I press her hand to my lips and release it. It surprises her, this chaste attempt at comfort from the man who doesn’t kiss.

  Renata smiles at me.

  Briefly, I return her smile. I find myself absently rubbing the scars on my neck and face—the wounds I received that night.

  “Eventually, I was found by a priest, taken to his church and nursed back to health by him.” I explain. “At least healthy enough to travel and make my way back across the border.”

  My mind returns to Padre Sigala, and to me, lying on a cot in the basement of his church. The light from a single candle hurt my sensitive eye—the one I could still see out of, in any case. The priest, a cautious and patient man, cared for me by himself.

  “I’ve never been acquainted with a priest,” I say. “People bandy around terms like ‘unconditional love’ and ‘non-judgmental’ but Padre Sigala was the real deal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I worry my lower lip between my teeth, while I try to find words to describe him. “He was slim, about my height and perhaps forty years old,” I say. “His manner was unimposing. If you passed him on the street, you wouldn’t notice him. It was his eyes I found so compelling.”

  Wisdom, compassion and serenity shined out of those dark, brown eyes.

  “He was spiritual, I guess.” I explain. “I suppose he was trying to emulate Jesus in his attributes and attitudes. Not many people can pull that off.”

  “Certainly no one I know,” she says.

  I slant her a wry smile. “I still send money to his little church—through an untraceable account, of course.”

  She grins. “Of course.”

  “Anyway, throughout the long nights I was with him, Padre Sigala and I had many philosophical discussions. He never asked for my name, and I didn’t reveal personal details. Together, we mainly talked about God and the meaning of life.”

  My mouth is dry as dust so, I jump up and snag a Coke out from the small hotel refrigerator. “You want anything? I ask Renata.

  “A 7-Up or Sprite, thank you,” she says, in her soft voice.

  I hand her a can of 7-Up. Desperately thirsty, I open my soda and take a long drink. My craving for alcohol becomes particularly intense in the face of disturbing memories.

  I take a deep, fortifying breath. “Due to the circumstances, as you can appreciate, I spent many, many hours alone and in agony. My face was hideous. I was badly injured and very near death. The man who had been my spotter for two years and who was the closest person I had to a friend, was dead. My military career was over. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to go home to—and nothing to live for either.”

  I swallow hard and confide a humiliating truth. “I could barely eat anyway, so I decided to stop drinking and to just let myself die.”

  I hear Renata’s sharp intake of breath, then she takes my hand again. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I was pretty sorry back then, too,” I quip, but neither one of us laughs.

  After a beat, I say “That was my breaking point, that moment when death seemed an easy option. It wouldn’t take much to ‘shuffle off the mortal coil.’ The Padre was great—only you or André would have been better company.” I smile at Renata and her eyes light up.

  “Still, Padre Sigala was experienced in dealing with despair. The stubborn man badgered me constantly, giving me reasons to keep living.”

  Renata squeezes my palm in encouragement. “Like what?”

  “He argued that at the very least, suicide was bad manners,” I say with a grin, squeezing her hand in return. “The good Lord gave me life, so I shouldn’t throw His gift away.”

  “So utterly de rigueur,” she chuckles. “That definitely sounds like something André would say!”

  I laugh. “True,” I agree. “To André’s mind, there’s never a good excuse to be impolite.”

  We grin at each other.

  Grant licks his lips and averts his gaze. “There was a moment when I lay sick and half-dead in the basement of that church. For the first time in my life, I honestly prayed.

  “You were brought up as a Christian and never prayed before?” Renata asks. “I thought you went to church every Sunday.”

  I give her an ironic smile. “I did and each time I went through the motions, but none of it was real. I wasn’t a believer.”

  “Oh.”

  I smile. “Still, there’s something about near-death that makes you think of God, I guess. So I thought, ‘Jesus, this has to be rock-bottom. I can’t get any lower. If I’m going to keep living, I can’t go on like this.’”

  “That’s when I made a pivotal decision. If I was going to live, I had to change my life. So, when I returned to the States, I eventually looked for help and was lucky enough to find André.”

  “The priest saved your life,” Renata says.

  “Yes, he did.” I smile and add, “Twice.”

  Chapter 41.

  “Prohibition... goes beyond the bounds of reason in that it attempts to control a man's appetite by legislation…”

  ― Abraham Lincoln

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  I inhale deeply. “My whole life may have been screwed up, but I had one thing I was certain of: As an American soldier, I was a patriot and one of the good guys. I came to Mexico expecting to do the world a favor by killing a bad guy.”

  The thought that I might have been wrong, almost destroyed me.

  “The good Father had to know I killed the head of the cartel, yet we never discussed it. When I was well enough, he drove me around, pointing out the good things my Target’s organization was responsible for. Do you know that the Knights prevent drug sales in their own communities? They even offer free treatment programs for addicts.”

  Incredulous, Renata shakes her head. “That seems… counterproductive.”

  “Not for them,” I explain. “They wa
nt the communities that support them to be healthy and happy, with as many family ties to their organization as possible.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re well-integrated with hundreds of social programs. They employ half the community, providing them with excellent wages and benefits—better than a soldier in the Mexican army receives. They even prevent domestic violence and petty crime.”

  “Unbelievable,” she says.

  “It’s a hell of a thing. They deeply favor the Pope and consider themselves good Catholics! Do you know what the motto of the Knights Templar is? Every new member has to take this vow, ‘I swear and promise to always fight to protect the oppressed, the widows and the orphans.’ Can you believe that?”

  Renata’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “They see themselves as heroes?”

  “Oh, yes,” I assure her. “Protectors of the church, family and community. They have legitimate business interests, yet they mainly import and distribute cocaine.”

  “I haven’t had much experience with alcohol or drugs,” Renata says.

  “I have,” I tell her. “Every party I attended as a teenager had cocaine flowing like a river of snow. Politicians, celebrities, NFL players—people with money use and abuse cocaine. It’s a party drug, but I’ve met my fair share of addicts.”

  Renata shrugs. “Addicts often end up living on the street.”

  “Of course, you’d know about that first-hand.” I give her a faint smile. “I’m sorry you were homeless in your teens.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” she says.

  “Miss Positive.” I grin at her. “Rich and educated addicts often camouflage their addiction,” I say, thinking of my father, brother, sister… and myself.

  “Yes,” Renata agrees. “Except sometimes they act like two-year-olds—they want what they want and they want it now!”

  We both laugh because it’s funny, even though it really isn’t. Renata’s clearly thinking about her alcoholic father and I’m thinking about mine.

  You’ve got to admire the community business model,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s genius.”

  “But they push drugs!” Renata protests. “Look at your brother and sister-in-law, they’ve lost their son. Drugs are the root of so much evil!”

  “Good or evil isn’t the issue—the issue is big business. The United States is the largest consumer of cocaine worldwide. This one cartel probably makes between forty and sixty billion dollars a year. Do you know who else makes sixty billion a year?”

  “No.”

  “Microsoft,” I tell her. “That’s the kind of money I’m talking about.”

  Renata frowns. “What are you trying to say?”

  I shrug. “Prohibition doesn’t work. Too many wealthy and influential Americans enjoy cocaine and will find a way to get it.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “You think public servants and government officials turn a blind eye to the sale of cocaine?”

  “I don’t know. Is there another explanation?”

  “Human nature?” Renata suggests. “It’s forbidden, therefore people want it?”

  “Maybe,” I reply. “But that doesn’t explain the exponential growth in sales.” I shake my head. “No, drugs are actively being pushed. Some companies spend over a billion dollars a year on advertising—that’s one thousand million dollars. If you think about it, you’ll know who they are.”

  Renata’s brow furrows in concentration. “Wal-mart?” she suggests.

  I laugh. “Good guess,” I congratulate her. “Wal-mart don’t pay their staff a decent wage yet they can afford a billion dollars a year in advertising—go figure. Promotion is big business. Do you know why people buy that new car or that brand of insurance? Because advertising told them to!”

  “I never see cocaine advertised.”

  “Drug pushers don’t promote on TV or billboards,” I explain. “Their promotions are more subtle, yet they still spend millions marketing their product. You know how they sell drugs in schools?”

  “No.”

  “Dealers find the most popular, good-looking and well-dressed kid in the school and give him cocaine to share with his friends. That’s the kid they recruit to move their product. Why? Because everyone wants to be him. If the popular kid sells cocaine? Well, he makes experimenting with drugs cool. When you’re an adolescent, you want to be cool, don’t you?”

  “You really think that happens?” Renata asks with alarm in her voice. She’s probably imagining Briley going to school and being sold drugs.

  “Yes.” I pause. I’m trying to remain calm, but I’m not having much success. “Did you know you can send a text and have cocaine delivered to your door in thirty minutes or less anywhere in the United States? Think about it. What organization can meet that criteria? Who are these faceless criminals who distribute drugs? They’re people we know—housewives, teachers, white-collar workers and students.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I killed a good man,” I tell her, fisting my hands in a sudden spike of fury. “He was a better father than either of us had. I murdered him in his home around his family. And why did I do this? For my country? No! I don’t know who benefited from his death!”

  “But he sold drugs!”

  “So did my brother!” I roar, and my rage echoes loudly through the room.

  Renata visibly flinches and I feel like an ass. The angry moment hangs thick and heavy in the air between us. I’m mortified that I’ve shouted at her. Breathing heavily, I stop for a long moment to collect myself.

  “Does Alex deserve to die?” I finally manage to say quietly. “Should I kill him?”

  Her features light with understanding. “Oh.”

  I run my hand through my hair, touching the edge of my scars. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  “It’s OK.”

  I reach over and take her hand. “No, it’s not OK. There is no way on God’s green earth I’d ever believe that losing my temper with you is OK, especially with your history. Are you sure you’re alright?

  “Yes,” she says. “The subject is very personal to you.”

  “It is,” I admit. “I spent weeks brooding in that damned basement. The same thoughts went round and round my head. Am I a good guy? Killing is a sin. I killed, but it was my job. Yet, it’s OK if I kill bad guys. My Target was a good father—was he a bad guy? Of course he was a bad guy! He sold drugs. Yet, my brother sold drugs and it was my father that really deserved to be shot. Do you see why I became so damned confused?”

  Renata’s compelling blue eyes soften with understanding. “Yes,” she says quietly.

  “The Knights Templar are still going strong. Luis is dead and a mother and her three children have been deprived of a husband and father. What was it all for? I always believed I was a monster—I had so little self-respect as it was.”

  I drop her hand and avert my gaze. “That one mission took away what little self-respect I had.”

  “You’re not a monster and I respect you like crazy,” Renata says.

  “Thank you for that,” I say with a sigh. “More and more American kids discover the pleasures of cocaine every day and someone has to meet the ever-growing demand. Meanwhile, soldiers are sent to do jobs that make them doubt everything they ever believed in.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Yes,” I agree. “What’s the point in going after Mexicans? Our real enemies? The people who are selling cocaine? They’re Americans and they live next door. In truth, Los Caballeros Templarios are simply providing a product to the American people.”

  We both remain silent for a long moment. Finally, Renata asks, “Grant, did you ever write to the priest to thank him?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be safe for him… or for me.”

  “That’s too bad. I’d like to thank him,” Renata says quietly.

  I shake my head, still amazed after all this time. “Padre Sigala really was a saint,” I tell her. “I’m still astonished he didn’t turn me in.”

/>   “Why?” Renata asks. “Because he risked his life by saving yours? That sounds like something a priest would do.”

  “Yes,” I say, “but not only that. The man I killed was the chief financial supporter for Padre Sigala’s church. Without fail, the Target went to the priest for communion every Sunday. After services, he always played a quiet game of chess with the good Father.”

  Renata’s blue eyes widen in surprise and confusion.

  I give her a sad, ironic smile. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. The man I murdered?” I explain. “He and Padre Sigala grew up together. My Target was the priest’s best friend.”

  Chapter 42.

  "Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are."

  — Chinese Proverb

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  I’m still reeling from the sniper story Grant shared with me. That was intense. He’s such an amazing man. I’m madly in love with him, but I also I can’t help but like him.

  Also, it doesn’t hurt that the sexual chemistry between us is off the charts. I don’t know if it’s his hot all-muscle-body, his heady male scent, his pheromones or what. Either way, he makes my knees weak, my nipples hard and my panties wet.

  I crave him.

  The hotel phone rings and Grant answers it. “Thank you, I’ll be right down,” he says, and hangs up. “That was the front desk, our pizza’s here.” He smiles boyishly and adds, “Right on time. I’m starving.”

  My lips part and I gape at him like an idiot. I’m pretty sure my heart just stopped. Who could resist him? Not me! I melt every single time Grant smiles at me.

  I follow closely behind him, through the living area to the front door. Damn, that man sure can fill out a pair of jeans. I love the long, lean length of him and his confident, sexy stride.

  “Thank you, for listening,” he says, leaning over and kissing me on my cheek.

  “It was my pleasure,” I say. “Thank you for sharing. It means so much to me.”

  Grant smiles, nods, opens the door to our hotel suite and leaves, shutting the door behind him.