American border by the time we promised.”
Chapter 8
Acapulco, Mexico
1:44pm, March 14 th
The TJG team came in on six different flights. Cal opted not to bring their own transportation, much to the chagrin of MSgt Trent. Top loved flying in TJG’s swanky Gulfstream. It was one of the few aircraft that the huge Marine could fit in comfortably. Instead, he and Gaucho paired up and routed through Dallas, Los Angeles, and finally down to Acapulco International Airport.
After a twenty minute taxi ride out of the city, the mismatched duo stepped out into the blazing sun. A weathered iron gate awaited, and a nondescript two story house lay inside, weeds tumbling over long untended flower beds.
“Nice place,” Trent said, grabbing his carryon bag from the back of the taxi.
“It may not look like much, but at least it’s safe,” Gaucho replied, handing the driver a fifty dollar bill.
Trent didn’t know what Gaucho meant by safe. Hell, the rusted gate looked like he could kick it open without trying very hard. Trent was also surprised there wasn’t anyone guarding the entrance. His questions were answered when he heard a tapping and looked up at the prominent second story window. Daniel Briggs waved to Trent, cradling his newly delivered M40A5 sniper rifle, a gift from a friend at Quantico. Trent relaxed and smiled up at his friend.
The gate squealed in protest as Trent swung it open. It really did feel like it would fall off its hinges at any moment. When they stepped inside, the pungent smell of incense greeted them.
“You think they’ve been holding mass?” Trent asked.
Gaucho shook his head and pushed past his friend.
“Hey, boss, we’re finally here,” Gaucho called down the narrow hallway.
Cal’s form appeared at the end of the hall.
“Shhh,” Cal said, holding a finger to his lips.
It was only then that Trent heard the chanting, low and even like worshippers praying in perfect sync. When they came into the far room, Trent’s eyes took in the spectacle around the fireplace. There were four robed forms, all on their knees, facing a crude wooden cross that looked like something a child had pieced together from a fallen tree. Incense burned in a tiny bronze vessel that was shaped like a miniature teapot, a thin line of smoke reaching up to the stained ceiling. Cal was the only other person in the living room.
“What’s going on?” Trent whispered to Cal.
“This is how we found them. They’ve been at it for almost an hour.” Cal’s lack of patience tinged his reply.
“Where are the rest of the guys?”
Cal pointed upstairs. “Getting comms up and unloading our gear.”
“Briggs in charge of security?”
Cal nodded without taking his eyes from the four monks who had just completed a simultaneous bow.
Trent sensed that the prayer was coming to an end and a few seconds later, it did with a collective, “Amen.”
The cloaked figures stood, threw back their hoods, and turned to face the newcomers.
“Mr. Stokes?” the largest of the four men asked, his accent slightly European, although Trent couldn’t place where. His eyes were calm, but Trent could tell that under the bulky robes, this man was probably built like a body builder. He wasn’t as tall as Trent, but the Marine estimated that the guy was probably at least six foot five.
“That’s me,” answered Cal.
The monk stepped forward, offering his hand. “I am Brother Hendrik. Thank you for coming.”
Next, a smaller version of Brother Hendrik came across the room. This one’s eyes were stone gray, piercing like a hawk’s. “I am Brother Zigfried,” he said in heavily accented English. This guy was either German or Austrian. Trent guessed the former.
The third man to come forward was Cal’s size, and had the easy-going smile of an old friend. His hair was light brown and just beginning to bald. “I’m Brother Aaron,” the monk said, nodding to Cal, Trent and Gaucho. He spoke in perfect American
Chapter 8
Acapulco, Mexico
1:44pm, March 14 th
The TJG team came in on six different flights. Cal opted not to bring their own transportation, much to the chagrin of MSgt Trent. Top loved flying in TJG’s swanky Gulfstream. It was one of the few aircraft that the huge Marine could fit in comfortably. Instead, he and Gaucho paired up and routed through Dallas, Los Angeles, and finally down to Acapulco International Airport.
After a twenty minute taxi ride out of the city, the mismatched duo stepped out into the blazing sun. A weathered iron gate awaited, and a nondescript two story house lay inside, weeds tumbling over long untended flower beds.
“Nice place,” Trent said, grabbing his carryon bag from the back of the taxi.
“It may not look like much, but at least it’s safe,” Gaucho replied, handing the driver a fifty dollar bill.
Trent didn’t know what Gaucho meant by safe. Hell, the rusted gate looked like he could kick it open without trying very hard. Trent was also surprised there wasn’t anyone guarding the entrance. His questions were answered when he heard a tapping and looked up at the prominent second story window. Daniel Briggs waved to Trent, cradling his newly delivered M40A5 sniper rifle, a gift from a friend at Quantico. Trent relaxed and smiled up at his friend.
The gate squealed in protest as Trent swung it open. It really did feel like it would fall off its hinges at any moment. When they stepped inside, the pungent smell of incense greeted them.
“You think they’ve been holding mass?” Trent asked.
Gaucho shook his head and pushed past his friend.
“Hey, boss, we’re finally here,” Gaucho called down the narrow hallway.
Cal’s form appeared at the end of the hall.
“Shhh,” Cal said, holding a finger to his lips.
It was only then that Trent heard the chanting, low and even like worshippers praying in perfect sync. When they came into the far room, Trent’s eyes took in the spectacle around the fireplace. There were four robed forms, all on their knees, facing a crude wooden cross that looked like something a child had pieced together from a fallen tree. Incense burned in a tiny bronze vessel that was shaped like a miniature teapot, a thin line of smoke reaching up to the stained ceiling. Cal was the only other person in the living room.
“What’s going on?” Trent whispered to Cal.
“This is how we found them. They’ve been at it for almost an hour.” Cal’s lack of patience tinged his reply.
“Where are the rest of the guys?”
Cal pointed upstairs. “Getting comms up and unloading our gear.”
“Briggs in charge of security?”
Cal nodded without taking his eyes from the four monks who had just completed a simultaneous bow.
Trent sensed that the prayer was coming to an end and a few seconds later, it did with a collective, “Amen.”
The cloaked figures stood, threw back their hoods, and turned to face the newcomers.
“Mr. Stokes?” the largest of the four men asked, his accent slightly European, although Trent couldn’t place where. His eyes were calm, but Trent could tell that under the bulky robes, this man was probably built like a body builder. He wasn’t as tall as Trent, but the Marine estimated that the guy was probably at least six foot five.
“That’s me,” answered Cal.
The monk stepped forward, offering his hand. “I am Brother Hendrik. Thank you for coming.”
Next, a smaller version of Brother Hendrik came across the room. This one’s eyes were stone gray, piercing like a hawk’s. “I am Brother Zigfried,” he said in heavily accented English. This guy was either German or Austrian. Trent guessed the former.
The third man to come forward was Cal’s size, and had the easy-going smile of an old friend. His hair was light brown and just beginning to bald. “I’m Brother Aaron,” the monk said, nodding to Cal, Trent and Gaucho. He spoke in perfect American
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