Chapter One

Chapter one

I furtively dart up a narrow alley. The old bricks on the backs of the buildings are surface checked. They are slowly disintegrating into a grainy mix of crumbled red clay and very old white lead paint. It crunches loudly when it is stepped on, especially by anyone in a hurry.

I have no doubt that right now I am top priority to the killers that left my cab riddled and disabled in the street with a dead Rabbi in the back seat. I listen carefully to every sound!

This alley is cluttered with a ragged line of dumpsters leaving barely enough room for a truck with a dumpster fork and hopper to thread its way through the green steel obstacle course. How the Hell did I wind up here, I asked myself?

I duck between two dumpsters, trying to blend with their shadows; it is good cover for an escape. I need to rest. The heavy bag I lug is trying its best to pull my shoulder out of joint. Under any other circumstance, I would pitch the superfluous weight into the first dumpster available, but I had just watched a man sacrifice his life for the contents of this bag! I have a nagging feeling that many lives have been lost gathering its contents as well as at every stop the bag made on its journey to me. Death is just one part of the price of possessing the information that is in it. I almost laugh out loud when I think about the fact that I cannot read one word on the pages contained in the files. When the Rabbi showed them to me, all I saw were the graceful curves of an unknown (to me) alphabet.

I think my pursuers probably have not abandoned their RV yet. I took ahead, and behind, moving my head in a survival sweep; taking in everything around me and on the three to five floors above me. Fire escapes would be a last resort, because I will not lug this fifty pound bag up or down any more than absolutely necessary. I want to avoid taxing my already overloaded heart. The air is so humid it is like trying to breathe thick chocolate pudding! The muscles in my chest are working painfully at maximum capacity now. The breeze is coming onto land; steadily picking up more substance adding to the viscosity of the barely breathable toxic soup. The alley smells of garbage, thickening the already choking air. I have to stop; my eyes are burning from the airborne mix of chemical effluent from the chemical plants and refineries along the ship channel.

I set the bag down, as yet unsure which direction to go; I‘m listening for the powerful roar of the RV. I constantly scour my field of view for anything or anyone that doesn’t belong. I have no desire to become yet another casualty of the black bag.

I hear the bells of the old church a little way up and across the street from where I am resting. I have memories of going to Mass there as a child. I even went five years to the school a little way farther up the street. I wonder if it is still open.

I hear the sound of a heavy vehicle. I peek out. It looks like the one that shot up my cab. Taking no chances, I melt into the space between two dumpsters. I wait for the RV to get out of sight and then decide to go to Mass.

It has been more years than I can count since I’ve been inside a church, but the smartest man I ever knew was a priest. They probably won’t look there unless somehow they see me go inside carrying the bag.

I don’t think pursuit will be so fierce they start a building to building search, yet. Besides they the number of my cab, know where I live, and probably know what the Rabbi and I ate for breakfast. The three thousand dollars I have stashed under my sink in a 33.9 oz Folgers plastic container and the two semi automatic pistols I have carefully hidden under a loose floor board in my closet are essential to my survival. Yet I have no idea how I can get to them. All my pursuers have to do is wait patiently for me to go home and my goose is cooked.

If any one comes into the church I doubt they would check the confessionals. Besides I need someone I can trust. I think the seal of confession still means the priest won’t rat you out to anyone. I hope so, anyway.

I think about the Rabbi and the strange documents charts and maps that are in the bag. When he pressed the bag into my hands as he lay dying in the back seat of my cab, the Rabbi took control of my life.

Perhaps he had taken over when I picked him up at the airport. I did not know then that my taxi would be attacked with a machine gun two days later! The attackers pulled their massive SUV into the left lane eased up alongside me and opened fire from the front passenger window. In a tiny fraction of a second at least 10 rounds had pierced the door where the Rabbi was sitting. The Rabbi was reduced for all purposes, to a worn suit full of hamburger that leaked blood all over the back seat.

I have looked into the face of death up close and personal, in fact I guess death and I are estranged friends! I tried so hard to leave him behind in the streets of Bagdad. Now even though I am 30 pounds heavier and out of shape from driving a cab; my war honed skills are still sharp albeit somewhat slowed by the passing of time. Somehow some way I will get out of this mess. So far I have been lucky. Now it is time to be smart and get lethal. I have to get back to my hotel. I have money, and a couple guns, but they are no match for a the armament of my pursuers.

When the SUV opened fire, there were a lot of pedestrians pouring into the street School just let out, and cars were pouring out the exit from St Theresa’s Academy. After the initial burst of fire The SUV paused just long enough for the trigger man to squeeze off one more round, which narrowly missed my rapidly moving head by less than an inch. The SUV swerved to miss a cluster of students and disappeared into traffic. Luckily no children were injured.

I have been shot at before; my training surfaces and takes control as soon as I smell the Rabbi’s blood mixed with the acrid smell of the powder that had pushed ten 10mm caliber slugs through the door into the Rabbi. My survival instincts kick into high gear. I am positive that as long as I have the black bag or knowledge of where it is; I am in deeper jeopardy than I have ever been before.

I need cover! I need to hide somewhere they will not look for me. Money is a problem. I have only my change; $200 cash and a roll of quarters. I have on occasion used a roll of coins as a fist load. Certainly it is no match for weapons like they have! The money almost jumps into my pocket as I evacuate the front of the Cab in milliseconds. When I opened the rear door it is obvious that the Rabbi is not repairable by any medical team, bloody froth pushes out his lips. “You are their target now, R u n run!” I had no idea of how he was even able to gasp out that much. He had virtually bled completely out. It was everywhere. That old man had way more grit than one ever would have imagined.

My armpits are sweat stained; my breath is ragged from running and from carrying a fifty pound bag. I am not used too this sort of exercise. The old stone Catholic Church in the oldest part of Houston, Texas may provide temporary shelter. I look carefully up and down the street before I duck inside through the heavy oak doors.

I can smell residual incense. I find a seat next to a high pillar that supports the heavy structure of the high ceiling and dome over the main altar. It offers some shelter from anyone looking in through the main entry doors. I slide the heavy bag under the massive pew ahead of where I kneel, trying to look inconspicuous. A young priest begins celebrating Mass for at one of the side altars for a dozen or so old ladies.

At the front left of the main altar a small light announces the presence of someone hearing confessions in the old closed confessional. Both sides are open for penitents. I look around again; the front door has not opened in the time I have been inside the church.

The humidity is high in spite of the air-conditioning I can hear straining even through the thick walls of the church. It has been nearly half an hour since the last penitent had sought the council of the old priest sitting in the closed confessional. It had been a young girl of around 11 years of age. The combination of the heat index of the and previous two hours spent hearing the predictable confessions of a steady stream of middle school girls with fertile imaginations and too much time on their hands; had made the eyes of the priest heavy. The half hour pause had afflicted him with the “heavy head” syndrome. It was to prove an embarrassment to us both as my voice intruded into his semiconscious world. The priest’s head jerked up, knocking against the oak woodwork behind him with an audible thump! He experienced a rush of pain from his right temple.

“Forgive me Father, I don’t know where else to go, please help me!” My voice on the other side of the screen was a plaintive cry for help from deep within my tortured soul. I gasped for breath, radiating my anxiety like a force field. “I do not know where to begin, Father, I am in a very serious situation and I seriously need your guidance.”

The priest was fully awake now and still smarting from what he regarded as a slight reprimand from the Holy Spirit! He gave his undivided attention to me, though I was obscured by the divider screen in the confessional. “Just begin at the beginning; we can take as much time as you need.”

Whatever the burden on my heart, it was obvious to the priest that I had stepped far outside of my comfort zone in coming to him, indicated my pressing need for help. A confessional is one place you rarely would find an adult male in the Houston Barrio. The macho world I inhabit eschews anything to do with church, and would never allow a man to betray any emotion besides anger.

The priest listened patiently for me to open my heart.

I took a deep breath and began telling the confusing story of the last couple days.



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