The church was dark except for the light that came from the altar, and it cast only a faint glow out into the pews where the parishioners knelt. There weren’t many, and again it was mostly older women. Emilio liked that. It gave him a sense of security.
He watched the priest move about the altar, preparing to offer his final benediction. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips. It was amusing, this final benediction. It would be final in more ways than the priest understood.
Emilio was seated near the front of the church, close to a side door that led into a small garden that sat between the rectory and the church proper. When the service ended, and the priest and altar boys went into the sacristy to disrobe, he would enter the garden and wait. He had watched once before, and he knew it was the route the priest would take when he left the church. It was a good place, a quiet place.
Emilio sat back in the pew and immediately took comfort from the pressure at the small of his back. A 32-caliber Beretta was tucked into the rear of his waistband, replacing the one he had left behind in the woman detective’s apartment. He touched his side pocket, assuring himself that the three-inch-long suppressor was there. Once it was fitted to the Beretta, the sound of each shot would be no louder than a small book falling against a table. This would be his weapon of choice from now on. There would be no more special instructions from Charles, no more variations that made the job harder. There were only a few priests left, and he intended to put them away as quickly and quietly and safely as he could. Then he would leave the country.
He had not yet decided if he would return to Colombia or, if he did, if he would continue to work for the Chavarría cartel. He had not liked the look in Estaves’s eyes. The man had stared at him as though he were already in his grave. But he could stop that from happening. There were others he could work for whose own power would forestall any punishment Chavarría might have planned. His failings had not been so great that Chavarría would risk warfare with a rival group.
A stirring in the congregation brought him back from his reverie, and when he looked toward the altar he saw the priest and the altar boys moving toward the door that led to the sacristy. He slipped from his pew and quietly walked to the side door, glancing back once, then again, to be sure no one was watching him.
Outside, the air was sultry, trapped as it was between the church and the three-story rectory. There was also a smell of roses. He followed the scent to a large bush, momentarily thought about using it for concealment, and then noticed a small stone bench slightly to its left. It was situated in a dark comer, perfect for his purposes. He could sit and wait. It would all be so easy.
He had barely seated himself, the thought of how simple it would be still in his mind, when the door of the rectory opened and another priest started down the path to the church. This one was older than the one he had targeted. He had a full head of gray hair and a slight stoop to his walk.
Emilio muttered an oath under his breath as various scenarios rushed through his mind. He could kill this old priest, pull his body off the path, and wait for the other. Or he could let the priest pass, hope he did not notice someone resting in his garden, and then hope again that he would not return with the priest he was waiting to kill.
Emilio rejected the first two ideas. He had no interest in killing anyone he had not been paid to kill. It was a waste of effort, and it also brought additional danger. Every killing, he knew too well, offered the possibility that clues to his identity would be left behind. The fewer the killings, the fewer chances that would happen.
But allowing the priest to enter the church also presented dangers. The church would be his route of escape when he left the garden, and having this priest inside raised the possibility of a confrontation. If that happened, and if any old women were left inside, it would be even more dangerous. Then, if the old priest confronted him about his presence in the garden, he would have to kill everyone present.
As the priest tottered toward him, Emilio made up his mind. He eased back into the darkness of the rosebush and allowed the priest to move past. Then he came up quickly behind him. A solitary blow from the butt of his pistol dropped the old priest like a stone.
Just as quickly Emilio returned to the shadow of the rosebush. Now the old priest was not only out of the way but provided a service as well. Now he was a decoy. With any luck he would distract the targeted priest and make Emilio’s job that much easier.
Five minutes later the priest he was waiting for left the church through the side door and started across the garden. Halfway down the path he came to an abrupt halt, uttered a quick, “Oh, my God,” and rushed to the fallen body.
Emilio stepped from behind the bush and moved forward, the noise of his steps hidden by the sound of the priest’s voice as he tried to rouse his fallen comrade.
Emilio stopped behind him and raised the pistol until the end of the suppressor was only inches from the priest’s head. Then something happened that he had not anticipated. Somehow the priest sensed his movement and spun around, one hand striking the side of the pistol. The silenced shot made hardly a sound, but the bullet went harmlessly past the priest’s shoulder and plowed into the garden.
The priest was on him immediately, his eyes filled with rage.
“What did you do to him?” he hissed. “What did you do?”
The priest’s hand had clamped onto Emilio’s wrist, and twisted the automatic away. It was a fierce grip, stronger than Emilio ever would have expected. Desperately, he brought his knee up into the priest’s groin, but the man only grunted and held fast to his wrist.
Emilio drove the crown of his head forward, striking the man squarely in the face: once, twice, then a third time. Finally the grip loosened, but almost instinctively the priest’s hand shot out, his fist connecting with the side of Emilio’s jaw.
The next thing Emilio knew, he was on his back, staring up at the man. The pistol was still in his hand, and he raised it and fired two quick shots. Each struck the priest in the chest, and he staggered back and finally dropped to his knees.
Emilio was up immediately. He raised the pistol until it was again only inches from the priest’s forehead.
Blood and bone and tissue flew from the back of the priest’s head. His entire body jerked and then he slumped forward like a rag doll, all muscle control gone as every nerve in his shattered brain shut down.
Emilio didn’t wait. He bent and fired an insurance round into the back of the priest’s neck. A chill went through his body, and his arms and legs began to tremble. He was unable to move for several moments. Finally, he turned and walked haltingly back toward the church. The man had almost had him—this man, this maricón. The realization frightened and then disgusted him, and it sent another involuntary shiver through his body. He glanced back, almost fearfully, almost as though he expected the dead priest to rise and come at him again. The man was still lying there, put away for good. Normally Emilio would take pleasure in that—pleasure in another job done well. This time he was just grateful to have escaped. This time he had no reason to admire his work, no reason at all.