A state of disobedience

With a fatalistic, and yet slightly hopeful, shrug, the priest walked to the gate. 'What can I do for you?' he asked.

'Is this Father Montoya?' Akers queried.

'Yes. And you would be?'

'Sergeant Johnson Akers. Texas Rangers. F Company. I've come for the kids if you will let them out, Father.'

An old memory tugged at the priest. He hesitated a moment or two, straining to remember. When memory struck, his face split in a wide, happy grin, his decision already made.

'Sure, Sergeant. Can you give me a little time to get them ready? And how do I know it isn't a trick to get the gate open?'

Akers voice was deadly serious. 'I don't play games where children's lives are at stake, Padre.'

'No. I suppose you don't. Thirty minutes?'

'Thirty minutes will be fine. I'll just wait right here.' Akers leaned against the mission wall calmly, struck a match against it, and proceeded to smoke away the time.

* * *

'Oh, Sister, wait . . . just a minute . . . please?'

Sofia's face showed how she was torn. 'Won't you please go with him, Elpi? You don't have to stay here.'

The girl set her own face in grim determination. 'I will not leave the padre.' Her grim face melted as she hugged her infant son to her breast for what she was certain would be the last time. Tears welling, she very reluctantly passed the boy over to the arms of Sister Sofia.

'Please take good care of him, Sister. Please.'

'Hush child. You know I will.'

It had not been without difficulty that Montoya had persuaded the sister to leave the mission with the infants. Ultimately, though, his reasoning had prevailed. 'Get out of here, Sister. Somebody will have to look out for the little ones.'

And so the sister had formed her charges into a column of twos and let young parents like Elpidia bid choking goodbyes.

As the little ones, lamblike, followed the nun to the gate, Elpidia raced to the wall for a last glimpse.

* * *

A broadly grinning Akers met Sister Sofia as she began to lead the column of children out the gate. 'Sister,' he greeted.

Believing that Akers was one with 'the enemy,' some hundreds of whom were gathered by the operation headquarters to watch the peaceful surrender, the sister halted briefly, looked him over once, then semi-snubbed him.

'I'm Sergeant Akers, Sister. How many children do you have? And how old?'

'I have twenty-six children following me, Sergeant. They range from little Pedro, here; less than a year, up to age twelve.'

'Thank you, Sister. Now if you will follow me, please.'

'Very well,' answered Sofia. Turning her head over her shoulder she called, 'Follow me, children.'

'Sister?' asked one of the elder ones, Josefina by name. 'What's going to happen to us? Once it is over, I mean.'

Again the sister stopped, looking mournfully behind her. 'I do not know, child.' She could never have imagined the years of solitary confinement that lay before her if the FBI was to have its way.

* * *

'That nun looks about ready to turn around and go back,' announced the spotter of a two man sniper team from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team.

'What do I do if she does turn around?'

'Drill her,' said the spotter to the sniper. 'Can't let her take the kids back inside.'

'Got it,' whispered the sniper, settling his cross hairs on the sister's head, a foot or so above little Pedro's. Pedro was in no danger, however; the sniper was a master.

* * *

Crying, 'Pedro,' softly, Elpidia didn't notice that her rifle was still slung over her shoulder as she climbed the ladder inside the wall for a last glimpse of her son. Parting was more than a mother's heart, even a young mother's . . . perhaps especially a young mother's, could bear.

* * *

'Armed target, bearing eleven o'clock,' announced the spotter. 'Take it.'

'On it,' said the sniper, making the minute correction to the new target. A slim, long-haired target ascended into his cross hairs. The sniper's trigger finger had already been given the unvoiced command, 'fire' when the more conscious part of his mind realized his target was just a young girl.

The sniper flinched in surprise, but not by much. His finger still closed, the rifle still fired, and the recoil still rocked him back.