A state of disobedience

power of a church to grant. He didn't know if it still was and said so.

As Flores was about to speak, the faint but distinctive crack of a rifle sounded.

* * *

The shot was audible even at the several hundred yards from the mission's entrance where Musashi and his team waited. Like his agents, Musashi tensed, then relaxed. 'Just some kid with a .22,' he told his assistants, dismissively. 'Let's move in five . . . but slowly and carefully. The file says this is a peaceful group. No forcible entry. The Kevlar T-shirts we're wearing should be more than enough. And, boys . . . we can't afford another major shoot-up. Go easy.'

* * *

In through the back entrance came Miguel, rabbit in one hand and his other arm around a softly weeping Elpidia. The rabbit, despite the use of hollow points, had not died instantly. Lacking confidence—well, she was new to firearms—Elpidia had aimed center-of-mass. The rifle had cracked; the rabbit—corkscrewing through the air—had given a single, decidedly human-sounding scream, kicked twice and died.

'You have got to aim for the head, Elpi,' Miguel had shouted. He needn't have raised his voice; the girl was hurt enough as it was.

Miguel had quickly apologized and led her away, shotgun slung and the rabbit—destined for the stewpot— clutched by the ears in Miguel's right hand.

* * *

At the rifle shot, Flores stiffened and lost his train of thought, or argument, completely.

'That's just one of my boys taking care of a rabbit problem,' calmed Montoya. Continuing, 'In any case, though, I don't know enough about canon law and sanctuary to offer them, Father.'

'I do not know either, Jorge. I know they will kill me if you do not offer it, though.'

* * *

'We can't simply kill the priest in the mission,' Musashi cautioned his cohorts as they approached the front door. 'Too many witnesses and two Catholic groups in as many days would be a bit much, even for the media. We'll just take him and then he will try to escape after seizing a weapon.'

* * *

'Did you clear those weapons, Miguel?' Montoya demanded, sternly, as the boy-turning-man walked into the foyer with both arms otherwise occupied. It was expressly forbidden to enter the mission with a loaded weapon.

Miguel's mouth dropped open as he tried to stammer out a reply. He had been thinking more about Elpidia than the rules for firearms. 'Oh, Father, I am sorry. No. I will . . . right away.'

'Go outside with them then.'

Still leading Elpidia, Miguel began to turn away. They had reached the small, shallow and dark alcove that led to the exit when . . .

* * *

Just outside the door, Musashi and his team halted. Though readied, their 'knocker' was placed to the ground. Musashi reached up a hardened hand and knocked briskly, twice.

Sister Sofia turned away from the two priests, likewise turned the inside door knob and asked, 'Who is—'

She didn't have time to finish as Musashi's assistant pushed her roughly aside.

In burst the agents. 'FBI! FBI! Hands in the air,' they shouted.

'What is the meaning of this?' Montoya demanded. 'This is God's place. You have no right here.'

Musashi didn't answer immediately. Scanning the area quickly his eyes came to rest upon a quailing Father Flores. 'We're here for him. Stay out of the way and nobody gets hurt.'

'I'll get hurt, Jorge,' Flores reminded with trembling voice.

Montoya looked at Musashi, measuring him. The agent reminded the priest of certain Viet Cong he had known in the past, however brief such acquaintance may have been. Montoya looked and knew then that Flores did not exaggerate. He was a dead man unless given sanctuary.

'You will take nobody,' Montoya announced, interposing himself between Flores and the FBI.

Musashi snorted at the idea of some silly old man trying to gainsay him and began to push the obviously injured and ailing priest out of the way. . . .

And found himself, breathless and stunned with his back against the thick adobe of the mission walls. Instinct long honed took over. Musashi's right hand leapt towards his left breast.

* * *

In their darkened alcove, Elpidia and Miguel stopped instantly as the main door smashed inward and three strangers entered with shouts and alarm. A fourth remained, faintly perceived, by the mission door. While the girl's hands merely tightened on her small caliber rifle, the boy instinctively unslung and drew his shotgun to his shoulder. He took a general aim, muzzle pointed downwards. Miguel had had 'dealings'—often quite unpleasant ones—with law enforcement agencies before.

Elpidia stood frozen for long moments as she watched the priest, the father she had never had, put his own body between an unshaven, unkempt man and the one who had announced he was part of the dreaded FBI. She stood frozen as she watched the injured father pushed to one side. She stood frozen as she watched him smash his assailant's back to the wall. She watched as the FBI agent's right hand slipped into his suit. She saw, as if in slow motion, as the butt of a pistol began to emerge.