American Shadows

American Shadows

By Lora Moore and Julie Zuehlke

Copyright 2014 Lora Moore and Julie Zuehlke

Smashwords Edition

Broken Branch Publishing

Cover Photo by Lora Moore

Cover Design by Jen Naumann

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Books By Lora Moore and Julie Zuehlke

Chapter One

Alzira, Spain

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

Go on, my son, Father Carlos Aznar Sanchez answered, curious as to who was sitting on the other side of the curtain. The soft male voice spoke broken English, dominated by a heavy Spanish accent.

The parish of Saint Mary’s Catholic Church was small, the congregation rarely exceeding twenty loyal members. Father Sanchez knew his parishioners well; by name and by voice, as they all regularly attended confession. Sanchez glanced down at his wristwatch before he could stop himself. He had a long afternoon of confessions and impatience had no place in his line of work. Besides, what else did he have to do? Nothing much, other than finishing up his preparations for the sermon he would give tomorrow at Mass.

My last confession was…. the unfamiliar voice paused, before finally saying, a long time ago.

It’s alright, Father Sanchez commented, noting an odd undercurrent to the man’s voice, almost as if the man was carefully selecting his words. What’s important is that you are here now, the priest added, deducing that the man was most likely nervous, or at least uncomfortable sitting in a confessional after what he admitted was a long time ago.

Is it?

Father Sanchez leaned forward on his elbows, his prior sense of unease quickly upgraded into something more troubling. He had spent countless hours listening to confessions of all types, people who came from all walks of life. The majority of those who sat in his confessional could be easily grouped into three different categories: the deeply sorry, the tired and defeated, or most often, the dutiful atoner of sins who felt the need to confess regularly.

The stranger sitting across from him didn’t fit into one of those categories. His soft controlled voice, even though hesitant, didn’t hold even a hint of remorse or nervousness.

Of course it is, my son, Father replied. Please, let me help you with what’s burdening your heart. Father waited in silence, feeling his own heart quickening.

I believe the burdens on my heart will have to wait for another day, Father.

Pardon me?

Today, I’m more interested in you, the voice proclaimed, still soft and controlled but now completely devoid of the Spanish accent.

Who are you?

"The answer to that question isn’t nearly as important as knowing what I am."

Father Sanchez peeked through the small gap between the curtains draped across the narrow door of the confessional. He spotted a handful of his faithful followers sitting in the pews awaiting their turn. And so, what are you? he asked, trying to keep his nerves calm in order to remain clear-headed.

If you do what I say and cooperate, you will never have to find out.

The voice had transformed. The broken English was now spoken perfectly, with an American accent. His words had lost the soft smoothness and now held a dangerous edge.

What do you want? What do you need from me? Father asked as his left hand eased toward the small shelf that held a handful of prayer booklets.

Domino.

What? I don’t understand. Father’s heart was beginning to pound and the small confessional walls were closing in on him. He felt a surge of adrenalin just as his fingers reached the cool metal of the 9mm fastened underneath the shelf.

Suddenly, the flimsy shaded screen separating himself from the confessor was shoved aside. Father Sanchez found himself staring into a pair of cold bluish-gray eyes that seemed to bore right through him. The man’s face, although young, portrayed no innocence. His fair skin was stretched tightly over his prominent jaw and strong cheekbones. The man appeared to be thin, gaunt almost, but nowhere near weak. Actually, if the priest had to guess, his visitor was in peak fighting condition.

By the time your hand wraps around that gun you’re reaching for, you’ll be dead, the man said calmly. Hands where I can see them, Father.

Sanchez slowly placed both hands on his lap.

Dominique Rodriquez Sanchez, aka, Domino. Your little brother. Ring a bell?

I, uh, I haven’t heard from him in years, the priest stuttered.

The stranger smiled slowly, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. His smile, however, did nothing to warm the ice in his eyes. Now, Father, shame on you, he stated smoothly. Lying so blatantly in a church, in the confessional, no less. Care to confess your sins?

Sanchez felt the sweat beading up on his forehead. He looked down at his hands, angry that he wasn’t able to retrieve his gun quicker and take control of the situation. There had been a time, many years ago, when he might have been able to out-maneuver this threat.

He looked up and met the American’s penetrating stare. Sanchez immediately changed his mind. Even in his prime, he would not have been able to match the lethality that the stranger’s cold eyes promised.

Father Sanchez had hoped and prayed this day would never come, but he had known it would. He knew in his heart that he would one day be forced to face the dark side of his family.

He had once vowed to always look after his younger brother, to make sure no harm came to him. He had promised to keep danger from knocking on his door. Those promises were made a long time ago, in a different time and a different place. Life had warped and reshaped any semblance of who he and his brother had been and what they had become.

While his brother had been blessed with brilliance, charm and the strength to lead people, Dominique had chosen a path full of vengeance and anger. Unfortunately, his leadership was wrought with death and destruction.

Carlos had chosen a different life. He chose to lead people as well, but in prayer and in peace. He would always love Dominique, but he attempted to put as much distance between himself and his brother’s dark, dangerous world as possible. Unfortunately, Dominique never allowed much time and distance to separate them. Father Sanchez did his best to keep his small corner of the world safe, but apparently, his best was not good enough. He would no longer be able to keep danger from knocking down the door.

Now, danger was at the door staring at him with a pair of steely eyes.

What is your business with my brother? the priest asked quietly, unable to quell the tones of betrayal from his voice.

"Your brother is responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent people. He is planning to kill thousands more. Domino, your brother, is an international terrorist. My job is to find him and kill him. You’re going to help me."

Father stared at the face of the American across from him. The man’s voice remained calm, almost soothing, yet his words spoke of murdering his brother! He couldn’t possibly be expected to help this assassin hunt down and kill his own brother, could he? Father Sanchez struggled to find the words to respond. When he started to speak, the American suddenly held up his hand, motioning for him to stay silent. Father watched as he pulled aside the curtain and glanced out into the congregation, where people were patiently awaiting their turn in the confessional.

You need to come with me, the man demanded as he shoved aside the small screen separating the two of them. We can’t talk here.

The priest looked up at the tall man and replied, I’m not going anywhere with you.

The American sighed and pulled out a silenced handgun from behind his back. Yes, Father, you are coming with me. I’m not gonna kill you, but I could make this rather painful for you. I’ll do what I’ve gotta do. Capish?

Father Sanchez, no stranger to weapons himself, quickly recognized the casual comfort with which this American handled his gun. The gun itself also spoke volumes about the man holding it. From his best assessment, the weapon appeared to be a custom 1911 pistol. This sort of weapon was common among Special Forces and the military. However, the weapon in this American’s hands hinted at several carefully constructed modifications in the sight and trigger. What caught Sanchez’s eye the most was the intricate etching of two stars and two dice on the flat side of the slide. One star was tinted blue, one a deep red and both of them were partially hidden behind the dice. He could only imagine the significance of that image to the man holding the gun, but to Sanchez, it was obvious that the weapon currently aimed in his direction would not be found in the hands of an amateur. This American was a professional killer. There was no doubt that this man would indeed do whatever it took.

Who are you? the priest asked as he stood up, noticing that at his full height, his own eyes were at the same level as the man’s broad shoulders. He figured the man had to be at least six-four.

Not here, the man answered. We need to go now.

Why?

Something’s not right out there, the man spoke softly. Look, he demanded. Look out there and tell me if there is anyone you don’t recognize.

The priest cautiously peeked out the curtain. He studied the familiar faces of his parishioners. All were elderly women, but one. The lone exception was a troubled teenage boy who came regularly to confess his dilemmas. Father was about to release the curtain and inform the American that nothing seemed out of sorts, when the sanctuary doors opened and two men walked in. They were dressed like the locals, in loose-fitting linen pants and flowery button-down shirts. The way they moved, however, told a different story. They appeared uncomfortable, eyes darting quickly around their surroundings. They walked slowly, trying to take everything in. They seemed to be looking for something, or someone.

There’s two men, in the back. I don’t know them. They look like they’re lost or looking for someone, perhaps?

The American quickly yanked the priest’s 9mm gun out from beneath the shelf and looked at the gun in surprise. It was the sort of pistol issued only to military, Special Forces or law enforcement.

A USP Compact, he stated as he checked the weapons for bullets. Finding the gun fully loaded, he added, not the kind of gun I’d expect a priest to have. Then the American began scanning the walls of the confessional. Is there any other way out of this thing? he asked.

No. Maybe if we just go out there and ask—

If we go out there, we’re dead. Those two men are looking for you. Probably me, too. We need to get the hell out of here. Now.

The American stuffed both his gun and the priest’s gun into his belt and began exploring the walls with his hands. Feeling nothing but solid brick and wood, his eyes looked up. His plan formed the instant he saw a vent and a false ceiling.

Okay, Father, looks like we’re moving up in the world.

The American clambered up onto the same small shelf that had hidden Sanchez’s gun. He began sliding away the ceiling panels and vent cover. Quickly the small escape hole was revealed. He hopped down and said, You first.

You can’t be serious.

I hardly ever lie in church, the man replied. Now go. I’ll be right behind you.

The priest carefully squeezed up into the vent shaft and crawled slowly into the dusty darkness. He heard the American stifle a sneeze right behind him.

Kick it into high gear, Father. This isn’t the time to slow down and smell the roses…and the dust. Shit, doesn’t this place use air filters, for Christ’s sake, he added, stifling yet another sneeze.

As they scurried along in the ventilation system, they heard increasing commotion from the sanctuary below. At one point they heard a woman scream, bringing them to a momentary halt in their climbing. The American, however, quickly pushed on.

What are they doing down there? Father asked, feeling panic well up in his chest.

Don’t think, Father. Crawl.

Finally, a shaft of light filtered down upon them and when they saw the large metal grate that led to the outdoors, they both felt a sense of relief. That is, until they saw that it was bolted firmly in place.

I don’t suppose you have any tools tucked away in your pockets? the American asked sarcastically.

The priest said nothing, feeling zero sense of humor about this predicament.

Well then, maybe start praying. You have a direct line to the Big Guy, right?

I’ve been praying since the minute I laid eyes on you, the priest answered seriously.

Good. Thanks. I need all the help I can get, the man answered lightly as he fidgeted with something in his pocket. Goddamn tight spaces, he mumbled before suddenly realizing what he had said. Sorry. I’m just a little claustrophobic. Tends to make me swear. I’m sure it will happen again. I apologize in advance.

The priest felt his breathing slow a bit and his curiosity rise. This man crowded beside him, whose first impression was deadly and intimidating, was somehow not as scary anymore. Father Sanchez wasn’t completely convinced that the man wouldn’t kill him if he deemed it necessary, but he was feeling a glimmer of hope that the American wasn’t as cold as his eyes first indicated.

The American mumbled a few more swear words before he pulled out a black steel utility knife. He flipped open the small wrench triumphantly. He adjusted the wrench to fit onto the bolt and twisted.

Good God, he uttered when the bolt didn’t budge. He put forth another massive effort into the wrench with the same result. He glanced at the priest and said, Are you still praying? Maybe you could amp it up a bit, Father, because if I can’t get this grate open, we’re screwed.

The man adjusted his body and gripped the wrench with determination. He pushed down as hard as he could and finally, the bolt groaned as it twisted. Just a little. A few more stubborn turns of the wrench, and the bolt was loose. The American quickly focused on the next bolt, seemingly oblivious to the increased screaming in the sanctuary below them.

Are those men killing everyone down there? the priest whispered loudly, already knowing the answer in his heart.

The American only focused on loosening the remaining bolt. Sweat dripped down the man’s face, and he grit his teeth as twisted the wrench one last time.

There, he said and folded up his knife. He pushed on the grate. It didn’t move. The man repositioned himself while grumbling about everything being so difficult. He pressed his back against the vent shaft and used his legs to kick at the vent. After two solid kicks, the grate finally gave way and tumbled to the ground below. The American stuck his head out and stated dryly, Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.

What?

The good news is there’s a possibility we might live through this.

And the bad news?

"The bad news is that we have an equal possibility of not living through this."

Father Carlos only stared at the American.

Well, let’s think positive, eh? the American stated with a smile. We’re two stories up. Guess we’ll just have to tuck-n-roll our landing. You first. I don’t want you chickening out on me.

The American shifted so the priest could get to the opening. Father Sanchez peaked out and hesitated. Suddenly, the sounds of screams below were covered up by the loud booms of explosions.

No time, Father! Out you go! the American shouted as he shoved Father Carlos out of the small opening.

The American immediately squeezed through the hole and prepared himself for the hard landing. He truly did tuck-n-roll as he protected his knees and head from serious damage. Still, the impact jarred his bones. He didn’t take time to evaluate as he quickly grabbed the priest and dragged him along toward the wooded grove near the cemetery.

Before the two men could reach the safety of the trees, the small explosions gave way to an eardrum-shattering, intensely hot, blast that left the once sturdy little stone and brick church, a pile of rocks and rubble. Ironically, the only part that remained intact was the steeple that housed the bells. Despite the chaos and destruction, the bells chimed beautifully as the sunshine was slowly blocked out by the black billowing smoke.

* * *

Father Sanchez forced his eyelids open. His ears were ringing and his head throbbed. He wasn’t sure what had happened. He only remembered being pushed out of the second story escape hole. Everything after that was a bit murky. Did the American make it out?

The priest softly felt his head to search for any outward signs of injury. He tried to take a deep breath but the weight on his chest made it nearly impossible. Slowly, ever so slowly, his senses were returning. He smelled smoke and saw shafts of light filtering through the tall evergreen trees. The cool damp earth felt as though it was trying to swallow him whole. He tried to lift his head to see why he couldn’t move. Had the blast rendered him paralyzed? Maybe a tree had fallen on him. Trees? He remembered running toward the trees when everything went black. The explosion must have propelled him into the grove.

He lifted his head slightly and looked at his chest. There, lying on top of him, bleeding and unconscious, was the American.

Father Carlos slowly and carefully shimmied his body out from under the man’s significant weight. True to the priest’s first assessment of him, even though thin, the man was built like an elite athlete. Nothing but knotty, lean muscle.

The priest sat up slowly and inhaled a few careful, deep breaths. He looked back at what remained of the church: Stones, broken bricks and plumes of black smoke. Then he looked down at the unconscious man lying next to him. He had a nasty gash above his right eye that was the source of most of the blood. However, he had several smaller cuts and abrasions that were adding to his blood loss.

He reached for the man’s wrist to find a pulse. The slow strong beat was easy to find. Father Sanchez couldn’t help but notice the odd shaped scars scattered along the man’s forearm. This obviously wasn’t the man’s first time in a detrimental situation. Father Sanchez wondered if he should try to move the man and arrange his lanky body in a more comfortable position. As he studied the man, he noticed the two black handguns jutting out from his belt.

Quickly deciding that guns in his own possession was a far better situation than guns in the mysterious American’s possession, the priest reached for them. Before he could lay a finger on the cold steel, a hand with a vice-like grip intercepted his reach.

The American had regained consciousness.

The priest met the piercing eyes that were staring up at him. He tried to pull back his hand, but the man only gripped tighter.

Please, I, uh, I only wanted to protect myself, the priest stuttered. The American continued to stare at him. The priest noticed something flicker in his eyes. Confusion? Fear?

Are you okay? the priest asked, softening his tone.

The man released his hand and carefully sat up. He wiped at the blood streaming down the side of his face. After inhaling deeply, he glanced at what was left of the church. Then his eyes, once again, fell on the priest, whose face was black and sooty from the blast.

What happened? the man asked, his voice scratchy.

They blew up the church, the priest answered. Thank God you got us out of there or else we’d be dead.

The man rubbed his eyes and wiped again at the streaming blood. He appeared to be struggling with clearing his head.

Are you sure you’re okay? There’s a clinic a few blocks from here, the priest stated, feeling more and more concerned about the American’s state of mind.

The man leveled his eyes once more at the priest, and again, Father Sanchez caught a flash of something enigmatic in those strange eyes. The frosty distance was gone; however, a wary vulnerability that the priest would have never thought to be possible had taken its place.

Can you walk? I’ll take you to the clinic, the priest stated firmly, deciding there was something seriously wrong with this stranger.

No. Wait, the man replied. He shook his head slowly then winced, as a fresh round of stabbing pain shot through his skull. He waited for his vision to clear once again, and then looked at the priest, And who are you?

Chapter Two

Langley, Virginia

Gabrielle O’Connor poured herself a third cup of coffee this morning. She was accustomed to working on little sleep, yet after three days of working nearly non-stop, she was beginning to lose her edge. She gazed out the window of the small non-descript farmhouse, at the rolling hills dotted with beautiful oak trees. The leaves were tinged with colors that would erupt in only a few weeks. Soon, those hills would be painted in golds, yellows and reds as autumn descended onto the land. This seemingly remote farm was conveniently located an hour outside the city limits. The owner listed on the deed of the house, Tom Warner, was an elderly man, a third generation farmer who had also worked part time as a Ford mechanic at a local dealership. He was currently retired and resided in an assisted living facility near his family in Georgia. Tom Warner had lived a wonderful life and was now enjoying his twilight years near his four children, six grandchildren and two great grandchildren.

There was one more interesting fact regarding Tom Warner; He didn’t actually exist, outside of papers, files and documents. Mr. Warner was a complete and total fabrication created in the minds at work in the secretive halls of the CIA. The truth of who really owned, and occasionally occupied, that small white farmhouse tucked in the hills of rural Virginia was known to only a handful of people, people with the highest of governmental security clearances. Miss Gabrielle O’Connor was one of those few people.

She watched as the dust swirled behind the speeding tires of the white Chevy pickup truck as it approached the house. The truck skidded to a stop and out stepped a long-legged, rangy cowboy with dark hair that would match his current mood. He quickly strode up to the door and entered without knocking.

The door slammed behind him as he shouted, You better damn well have some good news for me, O’Connor!

Gabrielle sighed and took one last sip of the coffee before she faced the angry man approaching her.