Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

“Danny’d never fall for that scam,” Trinity said.

“He didn’t, he was on to us right away. But Father Pedro brought him down to the basement and explained the situation. Daniel wouldn’t certify a fake miracle, but he offered to conduct the investigation in slow motion, buy us some time. Once the news crews arrived, I’d be able to get the professor out. The goon squad would just have to pick another time to try and ice the guy.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“It was the best we had. But it didn’t work. The bad guys realized time was no longer on their side, and they made their assault late that night. Daniel was in the basement with me and the professor, and the basement was one large room with a staircase at either end. We heard the spray of automatic gunfire upstairs. I couldn’t cover both stairwells myself, and the professor’s brain was short-circuiting—he was rigid with fear, completely frozen. I shoved a pistol in Daniel’s hand, and we each killed three soldiers as they came blazing down the stairs.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Pat smiled grimly. “And the capper to the story, the real kick in the head…the professor dropped dead of a massive heart attack while we were saving his life.”

“God does have a sense of humor,” said Trinity.

“God needs one,” said Pat. “Father Pedro was upstairs, dead at the altar. They’d cut him in half. We’d just killed six soldiers, and I was known as the professor’s bodyguard. Daniel gave me a priest’s uniform, and we drove cross-country to Guatemala, where he arranged a private plane to get us stateside.”

“That’s a hell of a story.”

“A day at the office. Like you said, I kill people for a living.” Pat drank some coffee. “Daniel had never killed anyone, so it was…it was an adjustment for him. But I tell you, he kept his shit together like a pro.”

Daniel woke with a start, a rough hand clasped over his mouth.

“We gotta move, brother,” Pat whispered in his ear. “Visitors on the way.” Daniel sat up as Pat woke Tim Trinity. “You guys get dressed, meet me in the kitchen. Leave the lights off.” He disappeared into the darkened hallway.

Daniel and Trinity scrambled into their clothes and made their way to the kitchen by the dim blue light of dawn filtering through the windows. Pat stood at the kitchen table, shoving items into a backpack. He wore a pistol on his belt, an assault rifle slung over one shoulder. Edgar stood at attention by his side.

“I don’t hear anyone,” said Trinity.

“Motion detector at the end of the road,” said Pat. “They’ll be here in a minute.” He zipped up the backpack, tossed it to Daniel, and led them to the back door. “Wait for me in the boat, I gotta set the system.” He left them there and headed for the front entrance hall.

Trinity snapped his fingers. “Shit. Be right back.” He started back toward the bedrooms. “Gotta get my Bible.”

“Leave it,” Daniel called after him, “I’ll buy you a new one.” Trinity didn’t stop, but he was back quickly, blue Bible in hand.

They ran down to the dock and Trinity scrambled into the airboat. Daniel tossed him the backpack, then unwound the line from the cleat and held the boat in place. He could now hear a vehicle crunching along the gravel road on the other side of the house.

Pat emerged from the house, Edgar at his side. He paused to lock the door, then jogged down to the boat, picking up a long aluminum pole beside the dock. “Hop in,” he said, and Edgar jumped into the boat, followed by Daniel and Pat.

Pat used the long pole like a Venetian gondolier, pushing them silently through the water, down to the end of the spit and around, staying close to cypress trees with roots that rose from the water like skinny legs with bulbous arthritic knees. Spanish moss hung down from the branches just above their heads.

“Eyes upward, Tim,” said Pat. “You’re on snake watch.”

“Got it,” said Trinity.

Daniel resisted the urge to look up as well. He shot a quick glance back from his position in the bow, just to satisfy himself that his uncle was scanning the branches, and then focused his attention forward.

A car’s engine shut off and its doors went: thunk…thunk-thunk, thunk. At least four men. Gliding silently around the other side of the house, they could now see it. A shiny black Chevy Suburban, parked just past the fallen tree that blocked the driveway. A white man stood next to the driver’s door. Mid-forties, built like a light heavyweight, wearing black chinos and a short-sleeved Cuban shirt that didn’t do much to hide his gun.

They crouched low as Pat moved the airboat forward slowly, careful to avoid bumping the aluminum hull against a tree. They were within earshot; such a mistake would be fatal.

The man standing by the Suburban lit a cigarette.

“He don’t look like a cop,” said Trinity in a stage whisper.

“And those aren’t government plates,” said Daniel.

From the stern, Pat said, “Can you see my front door?”

“Just a little further,” said Daniel. “OK, stop.”

Pat jammed the long pole deep in the muck, held the boat fast.

There was a man crouched below Pat’s living room window, gun in hand. Two more men stood by the front door. The white guy holding a pistol, the black guy a tactical shotgun.

The black guy was Samson Turner.

“Shit,” Trinity whispered to Pat, “that’s the guy who tried to kill us. Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Pat shook his head. His face was unnaturally calm. “They’re already dead, they just don’t know it yet.”

Trinity’s eyes were wide with fear. He whispered, “No, no, we should just leave.”

“And they’ll just come after you again,” said Pat. He handed the pole to Trinity. “Now shut up, take this, hold us in place.” Then he gestured to Daniel. “Switch with me.”

As Daniel crept to the stern, Pat knelt in the bow and brought his assault rifle into position, clicked off the safety, and looked down the sight. He spoke under his breath, “Come on, look in the window, you know you want to…” The man crouching beneath the living room window started to raise his left arm. “That’s it, just pull yourself up for a little peek…”

The man started to rise, reached up to grab the security bars outside the window. He jerked against the bars, convulsing violently as a high-voltage crackle shattered the quiet. He convulsed again, his mouth open in a silent scream, and finally let go of the bars and collapsed to the ground, smoke rising from his dead hand.

The white guy on the porch said, “What the fuck?” and squared his body to the front door. He lifted his right leg and pivoted on his left foot and kicked the door handle. After a quarter-second of silence, there was a muffled pop and a thin metal blade two feet wide shot out from the door and embedded itself in the man’s abdomen. His guts came out in a shower of blood.

Pap! One shot from Pat’s rifle and Samson Turner’s head exploded. He shifted his aim to the man by the car before Turner’s body even hit the ground.

Pap! The man’s brains splattered against the black SUV.

Pat clicked the safety on, handed the gun to Daniel, and took the helm, cranking the airboat’s motor to life.

“Leave it,” he said to Trinity, and Trinity let go of the aluminum pole that was holding them in place. Pat gunned the throttle and they took off down the bayou, the flat hull of the airboat skimming over thick vegetation, Daniel and Trinity holding onto the gunwales with each turn, wind whipping their hair.