A state of disobedience

Padre. I'll teach her the .22.'

'Fine, but you take along the shotgun. Snakes look for rabbit too.'

Said Miguel, 'Si, Padre. Thank you, Padre,' as he took the keys to the father's—which is to say the mission's— meagerly stocked (it held no more than the shotgun, two .22s, and one scoped hunting rifle often used to supplement the mission's food stores) gun rack from Montoya's pale, weak and trembling hand.

* * *

Interstate 35, Texas

Musashi still smarted from the intense down-dressing he had suffered at the hands of the United States Attorney General, Jesse Vega, for his failure to get 'that damned Catholic fanatic priest, Flores.' Vega had not cared in the slightest about the office workers massacred in the Catholics for Children offices, as Musashi had known she would not. But the possibility of someone escaping to tell a story in any way different from the official truth was intolerable. Musashi had no doubts that his orders were to kill the priest, even though Vega had not used the word, nor any that could be construed like it. So he intended to do that.

While one of his agents drove, Musashi studied the map, compared the files on anti-abortion activists, noted the prominence of Father Montoya . . . and came up with 'Dei Gloria.' He finagled a bit with the GPS cum map display in the car. Finagled some more. A bit more. Then Musashi smiled broadly, the satisfaction and anticipation he felt beaming on his face.

'I think I know where to find our arsonist priest, boys.'

* * *

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

'Father Flores? Can that be you?' asked a startled Sister Sofia of the unkempt—now collarless—Dallas priest. The priest bore the look of a hunted animal.

Breathlessly, Flores demanded, 'I've got to see Father Jorge. I must see him, now.'

'Father Montoya is still very badly injured,' Sister Sofia announced, not at all sure but that seeing the condition of his colleague wouldn't hurt the good father's recovery.

'He will see me.' Desperately, 'He must see me.'

'Well . . . I don't know . . .'

'What is it, sister?' called a weak voice. A limping and bandaged Father Montoya turned a corner to enter the small Mission vestibule.

'Father Flores?'

Relaxing ever so slightly—he had faith that in a world turned hostile Montoya would never cast him out—Flores sighed and forced a slight grin. 'Bless me Father, for I have sinned.' Then, more seriously, he said, 'I need sanctuary, Jorge. They're after me. They killed all my staff and they want to kill me.'

'Killed? Who killed? Sanctuary?' Father Montoya had not yet recovered his full senses from the beating he had received from the riot control police.

'I don't know who it was. But they went into my offices and shot down everyone there like they were dogs.' Tears sprung to Flores' eyes. 'Jorge, they just massacred everybody.'

Montoya forced himself to think clearly; as clearly as he could. 'Why?' he asked.

Taking in a deep breath then exhaling forcefully, Flores admitted, 'Probably over that abortion clinic that burned down.'

'It didn't just burn, did it, Father?'

'You wouldn't ask me to violate the sanctity of the confessional, would you, Father?'

* * *

'Sight carefully . . . squeeze the trigger,' murmured Miguel to little Elpidia. In her sights the unsuspecting rabbit continued placidly munching cabbage from the mission's neatly kept vegetable garden.

Miguel himself cradled the mission's sole shotgun, a semi-auto 12 gauge that looked older that the Priest, not beaten up but rather aged with dignity. There were snakes on the Mission grounds, though they were not visible.

Elpidia sighted down the barrel of the other firearm, a much newer Ruger 10/22—22 for the caliber, 10 for the number of shots the magazine held when full, which it was. In this case, the magazine held hollow points, much deadlier to a rabbit than round-nosed bullets.

The rabbit looked her way with large innocent eyes. Elpidia closed her own eyes. Her head slumped. 'I can't do it,' she whispered.

'Yes, you can. You must. He's eating our food.'

The girl sighed. Steeling herself, she again took aim at the hapless, albeit greedy, rodent. But it's such a cute bunny.

* * *

Montoya shook his head. Unlike lawyers in the same firm, Priests could not share such confidential information. 'No, of course not.'

'Then all I can tell you is they—the government—murdered my people and are coming to kill me. I need sanctuary.'

Montoya was a simple enough priest, no expert in canon law. He knew that sanctuary had once been within the