A state of disobedience

would have been a wonderful vacation. Bayoneting stragglers on the Bataan Death March? Just a pleasant walk in the woods. But for being short of stature—and having the wrong shape of eye— Musashi would have fit right into Himmler's Waffen SS.

Not that he would have enjoyed the killing. All Musashi ever felt from killing was recoil. Though he did derive considerable personal satisfaction from a job well done.

This job was made for him. The orders were simple, amazingly so considering they came to him from Washington, DC: 'Assume that the occupants found at the headquarters of that terrorist organization known as 'Catholics for Children' are armed and dangerous. Kill or capture them all.'

* * *

Returning from lunch, Father Flores turned the corner to see an even dozen plain-clothed men—police of some kind, so he assumed, based on the drawn pistols and locked and loaded machine guns—crouching by the main door to his organization.

Unseen by the agents, themselves intent on their mission, Flores ducked back behind the building corner, one eye only watching the event. His heart began pounding wildly as he saw four of the agents draw back a large battering ram then smash it once, twice, three times against the front door.

He heard muffled screams.

* * *

The door collapsed inwards, torn off its hinges. Musashi ordered, 'Go! Go! Go!' and the first team of four burst over the shattered door and through the empty frame. Inside a woman screamed with fear and shock. Automatically, she reached for her purse.

A gun? The agent who saw her could not take the chance. A burst of submachine-gun fire punched through the woman's body, spinning her in her desk chair while inertia made her head do an imitation of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The woman fell, bloody and torn, to the floor.

As if the initial shots were a signal, the other three agents in the first rush likewise opened fire on the office workers, cutting them down in a welter of gore. Fired. Fired. Fired again. There were no survivors.

When Musashi looked into the woman's purse, he found a cell phone. He left the phone, but added to the purse's contents one small-caliber pistol.

* * *

Unseen, Father Flores, olive complexion turning pale, turned and ran; ran for his car, for his life.

Chapter Three

From the transcript at trial: Commonwealth of

Virginia v. Alvin Scheer

DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED

BY MR. STENNINGS:

Q. So tell the court how it was for you, Alvin, how it became?

A. Like I said before, life was hard. And it kind of hurt, you know; me—a man that worked all his life—having to take welfare parcels and charity just to feed his family. But pride didn't count for much. And besides, near everybody in that part a town was in the same boat, mostly.

Always remember something my daddy used to say, 'Ain't no such thing as a free lunch.' The breakfasts and dinners weren't free neither. They come with a 'social worker' . . . and she done come every damn week.

First time she come around she stuck her pointed up little nose into every little nook and cranny in the house. She told my wife—yeah, she'd started feeling poorly again—that if she didn't clean house better she was going to lose her children. Talked down to us, you know, like we were some kind of lower life form. I confess, I kinda lost my temper.

That was a mistake too, no two ways about it. Next week, week after too, we found that our food allotment's been cut. Got cut again the week after that, then again.

Like I said before, I ain't no educated man. Don't mean I'm a dummy though. I swallowed my pride; made my apologies so my family wouldn't starve.

But I never could see the justice in giving that woman that kind a power over us. For a long time, I couldn't see what I could do about it, neither.

* * *

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

In the dimly lit cloister, Miguel strained to hear the reclined priest's weakly spoken words. Mostly they had to do with things the mission needed done, but that Montoya lacked the strength, in his current condition, to do anything about. ' . . . and I want you to do something about the rabbits in the garden, Miguel. I was able to walk—a little—earlier today and I noticed they had been at the new shoots.'

Montoya had taught Miguel to shoot—and well—a year earlier. He had, in fact, begun teaching him shortly after having administered Miguel a fairly painful and quite salutary drubbing over a no-longer- to-be-mentioned breach of mission rules. At the time Miguel had thought, He whips my ass . . . then teaches me how to kill him. What a man!

Miguel, too, was now rapidly approaching manhood; just as Elpidia had long since reached practical womanhood.

'Father,' he asked, hesitantly, 'would it be all right if I took Elpidia along, taught her to use the rifle?'

Montoya smiled, knowingly—he had stood in as 'Father' of the bride on more than one occasion since opening his mission doors. Miguel's interest was plain and, frankly it would be a good match. He thought about it briefly and answered, 'I think that might be a good thing Miguel. She's had little enough control over her own life so far. Maybe giving her a little . . . what's that word the politicians like to use? Oh, yes, give her a little 'empowerment.' It might be good for her. Yes . . . I think so. Do it.'

Miguel felt a little surge of . . . of something. He wasn't quite sure. But this was something he knew how to do—the priest had taught him well—and also something that would give him an excuse to be alone with Elpidia. 'Si,