A state of disobedience

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

'Old friend,' whispered the priest. 'Old friend, I have need of you now.'

Quivering hands seemed to steady slightly as they took a once familiar grip on a once all-too-familiar implement. Even as his left hand lifted the canvas case, the fingers of the right ran a zipper along the side. Zipper undone, the priest's fingers scooped the rifle's butt from the pocket formed, took a grip and pulled it from the case. A simple twist and the serial number was exposed. Habit long unpracticed still caused the priest to read softly, '120857.'

* * *

Deciding to take up a rifle again had been difficult for the old priest. His first instinct had been to send Elpidia and Miguel out of the mission, to take the blame for the shootings upon himself. He'd realized quickly that that would never work, certainly not so long as one of the agents had survived. Even if he hadn't stopped Miguel, he had no faith in either Sister Sofia's or Father Flores' ability to withstand rigorous interrogation.

Still he had tried to send the two far away. He had several thousand dollars stashed away; enough, surely, for two nice kids to get a fresh start.

Miguel had been reluctant, but willing. Not for his own sake; he would never desert his priest for that, but for the girl's.

Elpidia had killed the notion. With a will and determination to match even Montoya's, she had simply stated, 'No. Never. Not for anything.'

Her large, innocent brown eyes flashed fire at the priest's insistence. 'I WILL NOT GO!' Would she have stood up so firmly without the careful building of strength of heart and mind under the priest's tutelage? Montoya thought perhaps not.

In any case, naturally, Miguel couldn't leave either. Pride would have forced him to stay if love had not.

With Miguel staying on—again, naturally—none of the other boys would leave either . . . nor the girls.

Even Sister Sofia refused the priest's command. With eyes filled with tears and rabbit-frightened, fast-beating heart she too said, 'I stay here.'

Resigned, head shaking, the father had limped to his quarters to pray for guidance.

It was difficult to pray, what with the shriek of sirens and the flash of blue lights through the narrow mission windows. If true guidance had come, it had been only in the form of one flash of such light. This, glancing off an icon, had caused the priest's eyes to come to rest on a closet door. A locked door.

* * *

'Old friend,' he whispered again setting the rifle down and patting it.

Beneath where the rifle had lain rested two bandoleers of ammunition, 140 rounds each of 5.56mm, and seven 20-round magazines, empty. These joined the rifle, the beret, the jungle fatigues, the boots, the web gear.

Beneath all lay a green plastic folder, the Department of the Army crest emblazoned on it. Montoya opened it and began to read, silently:

The Distinguished Service Cross is presented to SSG Jorge Montoya-Serrasin for courage in action above and beyond the call of duty, Qui Nhon province, Republic of Vietnam. . . .

* * *

Austin, Texas

Schmidt gave a little bad-boy nod. 'Ummm . . . yeah . . . I did. His very own rifle, too. And let me tell you, it was no easy thing getting an M-16 through customs. But a few thousand piastres to an acquaintance in the South Vietnamese foreign ministry . . . a diplomatic pouch . . . and . . .' He shrugged.

'Oh, Jack,' Juanita half moaned. 'He's gonna get killed.' Her shoulders shuddered as tears filled her eyes. 'My only brother . . .'

'Then let me go save him now, Juani. Call off the cops and I'll put a cordon around the mission the First Cav Division would think twice about forcing, let alone the FBI.'

'It isn't just the FBI, Jack. BATF—well, Treasury including BATF and the IRS—want him for tax evasion . . . the guns . . .'

'Oh, what fucking—pardon my French—absolute bullshit! He's got a church. Church property used for church purposes is not taxable.'

'You think they care, Jack?'

* * *

Washington, DC

Rottemeyer sat at her desk in deep consultation. Around her, at a conference table perpendicular to the desk, sat her wheelchair-bound attorney general, Jesse Vega, and Caroline McCreavy—the President's lover and also the new Chairperson of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Likewise notable were Rottemeyer's surgeon general, the head of the Treasury Department, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Louise Friedberg.

'I don't care about the kids,' said Friedberg, furiously. 'I don't care about any outmoded, patriarchal Catholic church. I don't care about the governor of some backwards state down by Mexico. They killed my people and I care about that. I care that they end up dead. I want their grandchildren to have nightmares about what comes from fucking with the FBI. I want these people's ghosts to be sorry and afraid.'

Wilhelmina stared stonily. She could not, not quite, gainsay the director. After all, it was her Bureau that had uncovered (the irresponsible press said 'fabricated' . . . well, they used to say 'fabricated,' the American press was brave only when they were not pressed) the charges of statutory rape against former Senator Goldsmith. Goldsmith's suicide, following his exposure, show-trial and conviction, had been icing on the cake. Fortunately, the senator had been old and only two federal agents had been required to hold him down and