1. law, govt and politics
2. law enforcement
3. police

Susto: a cultural illness primarily among Latin cultures described as a condition of
being frightened and experiencing chronic suffering stemming from emotional
trauma or from witnessing traumatic or terrifying experiences lived by others.
1
SUSTO
INTRODUCTION
"YOU'RE COMING IN TOO CLOSE! YOUR ROTOR'S GOING TO HIT THE
TOWER--YOU'RE TOO CLOSE!" screamed Kane, trying to be heard over the noise of
the wind and the helicopter's rapidly turning main rotor.
It was as if the pilots could not or did not want to hear him. The Hughes 500 kept
sidling in closer. He could see the face of the pilot nearest him, turned toward him as it
was. The man didn't waver or evince any hint of emotion or concern; he just kept sliding
the big helicopter in sideways so that the main rotor drew perilously close to the tall steel
tower to which Kane was clinging for his life.
The steel radio tower was set high atop a concrete and glass skyscraper that
overlooked a wide river. Kane couldn't remember how he had come to be here, but was
more concerned at the moment with the danger posed by the insistent aircrew. The
aircraft kept coming closer.
Kane looked up and was shocked to see the tips of the rotor blades coming to
within a few inches of the unyielding steel of the tower. In that moment, he made the
decision to jump for his life, before there was an impact and pieces of the rotor blades
2
were sent careening through space and the helicopter itself crashed into the building.
He counted to three and then threw himself through the air. He hit the helo's skid
with his chest and barely made the grab with his arms that prevented him from falling the
vast distance to the river below. He hoisted himself up until his armpits were hooked
over the skid and his knees rose up almost to the level of the skid.
He looked toward the cockpit and watched the pilot note his arrival upon the skid
with the same dispassionate look he had worn when he had almost wrecked the helicopter
seconds before. Kane held on with all his might as the pilot transitioned from a hover to
horizontal flight.
The bottom dropped out from beneath Kane as the pilot plunged toward the river
and began to follow its meandering course in a dizzying nap-of-the-earth flight profile. It
was all he could do to hold on.
He tossed his head around under the stress of clinging to the skid as he shouted
out his breath in an effort to maintain his grip. The wind tore into his face as the
helicopter picked up speed. It seemed as though it was the pilot's intent to rid himself of
this unwelcome hitchhiker. Kane was starting to slip.
Suddenly, his grip failed him and he plunged toward the river. He instinctively
covered his face but he knew in the back of his mind that when he hit the water at this
speed, he would almost certainly be killed.
When his body impacted the surface, he felt as if he had been thrown into a solid,
concrete wall. He plunged beneath the icy surface and struggled to regain his orientation.
He opened his eyes in the cold, blackness of the river's depth.
3
Rising from the bottom of the murky scene was a stone that glowed with a
turquoise blue iridescence. It was floating up toward him and as it did so, it took on a
more familiar shape--like that of an eye. The unblinking, glowing, blue eye came closer
through the shadows of the black river until Kane's fear overcame his curiosity and he
shot toward the surface. He struggled toward the white light of day against his failing
supply of air as darkness encroached upon his field of vision from the periphery.
Just as he was starting to black out, he broke the surface with a desperate gasp and
filled his starved lungs with the cold air of the grey, sullen afternoon. His next thought
was to escape the terrifying presence he had seen through blurry, underwater vision. He
began to swim hard to shore.
He felt warm fluid gushing from his nose but ignored it, desperate as he was to
get out of the river and avoid another encounter with the water demon. The harder he
swam, however, the farther away the shore became. He struggled in the water until he
reached a point of exhaustion then lay back to float--so fatigued had he become, that his
fear had been forgotten. He felt his nose and realized that it was spread across his face
and was bleeding profusely. His eyes were swelling, and his ears were ringing loudly.
He looked down at the water and realized that the river itself had begun to glow
with a turquoise blue light and the water was swelling and frothing around him. The
ringing in his ears grew louder as he felt himself being pulled under in the raging torrent
the river had become. His hands wildly clutched the air and his eyes bulged out of their
sockets as he was dragged under the surface to meet a fate that he could not imagine.
The ringing grew louder and louder until he shouted, "FOR CHRIST'S SAKE--LET ME
DROWN IN PEACE!"
4
CHAPTER 1
1999
"Peter--Peter! Wake up, for heaven's sake. You're having a nightmare. Peter!
It's just the phone...Hello? Yes, he is--hold on a second," said Maria as she set the
receiver down on her nightstand. "Peter--are you okay? You haven't had any nightmares
for a long time. It's the station calling."
Peter Kane lay in the sweat-soaked sheets for a second looking up at the ceiling
through his one eye. She was right--he hadn't had any nightmares for quite a while. He
had, in fact, thought that they were over. Tonight proved him wrong.
He rolled over on top of his wife and grabbed the telephone.
"Hello. Yeah, what's up?"
"Pete, this is Josh. Something really fucked up has happened. I mean really
fucked up. I can't discuss it over the phone, which should tell you something right off the
bat."
"Can you give me a hint?" asked Kane, now fully awake.
"It's gang stuff, but worse than anything we've ever seen--I really can't say
anything more about it. I can't even tell you where it happened--just get down to the
station and we can head out to the site from there," said Detective Joshua Cohen.
Kane knew that Cohen was a level-headed cop with a lot more experience than he
had himself, so the cryptic nature of the conversation was cause for immediate concern.
"All right, I'll be right down," said Kane before he hung up the phone.
5
He rolled back to his side of the bed but could feel Maria's eyes on him.
"Don't worry, Sweetheart--I'm sure it's just a routine matter. You know Josh-always overreacting."
This didn't make his wife feel any better, as he knew it wouldn't. He got dressed,
strapped on his pistol, kissed Maria, and left.
Kane pulled up to the station and saw Josh waiting for him inside the glass and
steel front doors. As soon as Cohen saw Kane's Jeep pull up, he ran out and got into the
passenger side without waiting for Kane to park or turn off the vehicle.
"Head out to the old warehouses west of town, past 30th Street Station," said
Cohen without looking over at Kane. Peter went to place a red light on his dash, but
Cohen stopped him. "No lights, no sirens," he said, still avoiding Kane's perplexed gaze.
"Is everything all right, Josh? You're all pale and shit. What's going on?" asked
Kane, his concern growing with each moment.
"We can't talk about it until we get to the site. Just drive--the sooner we get out
there, the sooner you'll find out."
Kane drove west toward 30th Street, then passed the train station and continued
west to the edges of the city. On the way, they passed rows of ramshackle tenements, the
occupants staring angrily after the red Cherokee from the heat of concrete stoops. The
Philadelphia night was a dark blanket of rage.
"I hate the summer in Philly," muttered Cohen.
Kane had never seen his friend in such an agitated, upset state. He glanced over
at him. Despite the air conditioning turned on at full blast, Cohen was sweating freely.
6
His skin was ashen. Kane looked back at the road and then looked again at his passenger.
Cohen's hands rested on his knees, but trembled slightly where they sat. Kane looked
away and shook his head. If he didn't know better, he would have said that Cohen was on
the verge of a panic attack.
After driving through one battered neighborhood after another, they passed
through the outskirts of the city and turned onto one of the old trade roads running
parallel to the railroad tracks that had connected these once active, productive factories
with the bustling rail commerce center at 30th Street Station. The warehouses and
factory buildings now lay silent.
The jeep whispered past looming, empty buildings as Kane unconsciously slowed
down. Both men were silent as though they were respectfully gliding through a cemetery
filled with honored dead.
Up ahead, Kane could now see yellow police stripping in the dim light thrown
forward by his headlights. He hit the high beams and was startled seconds later as a
uniformed police officer ran up and pounded angrily on the hood of the Jeep. Kane hit
the brakes and rolled down his window. The officer had a hand on the butt of the weapon
he carried at his side.
"Shut down those goddamn lights--right now!" he hissed in an angry whisper.
Kane reached forward and turned off the headlights before looking up at the man.
His eyes were wide and beads of sweat rolled over the furrows in the porous skin of his
deeply-lined face.
"Sorry," said Kane, as he showed the officer his badge. The cop took the badge,
stepped away from the Cherokee, and radioed Kane's badge number to someone up
7
ahead. He then nodded and walked back to the vehicle whereupon he returned Kane's
credentials. Before Kane could ask the man any questions, the officer had turned away
and was waving them through.
"Goddamnit, Josh, what the fuck's going on around here?" demanded Kane.
Cohen remained silent as the jeep slowly picked its way through the darkness.
After another ten minutes or so, Kane could barely make out the forms of a
number of men at a hastily-devised vehicle checkpoint. As they drew nearer, Kane
realized that the majority of the men at the site were in camouflage military uniforms.
Two young soldiers of the Pennsylvania National Guard signaled for Kane to stop. One
of them checked his ID and radioed ahead as had been done previously, then waved a
flashlight in the direction of perhaps twelve parked cars and four military five-ton trucks.
Kane pulled up next to one of the five-tons.
Kane turned off the jeep, then, he and Cohen got out and walked over to where
the group of soldiers stood with members of the Philadelphia Police Department's and
regional FBI office's SWAT teams. All of the men were heavily armed and looked grim.
Kane walked up to a police sergeant of the Philadelphia SWAT contingent that he
recognized and showed his credentials. The sergeant nodded and told Kane to wait until
Captain Wassuk arrived. Wassuk was Kane's precinct chief.
Within a few minutes, Kane could see Wassuk hurriedly approaching. Even at
three or four in the morning, the man never seemed to run out of energy. As Wassuk
drew nearer and Kane could make out his face, he noted the same look of shocked
preoccupation as he had seen on just about every other man they had come in contact
with since he had picked up Cohen at the station. A tingling feeling of fear had begun to
8
creep into Kane's stomach and was slowly making its way along his innards to his spine.
Wassuk nodded at the sergeant who let Kane and Cohen through.
"What's up, Cap..." Kane began before Wassuk cut him off.
"Come on forward with me to the next checkpoint, where the Guard guys will
issue you chemical protective clothing and equipment that you can wear to the site. Josh-you know the drill. Pete, you'll have to get the briefing on how to use the gear, though I
suspect from your military service you already know what to do," said Wassuk.
"Chemical protective clothing? Sir, what's happened?"
"We're not sure yet--which is why all of this was handled under the utmost
secrecy. For once, the right people were on the scene from the outset so the whole thing
was kept within the precinct. I was able to organize a response locally via the Chief, the
Mayor, the regional FBI office, and the National Guard. It's been a miracle that nothing's
got out to the press yet, but that's why we've limited the number of people involved and
stayed off the radios as much as possible. There're only eight men from the precinct
involved right now, other than ourselves. The SWAT guys were hand-picked by the
Chief, and the FBI and Guard people all have clearances so they know how to keep their
mouths shut. Right now, the Guard is trying to complete decontamination of the site
prior to sunrise so that they can be out of here before one of those radio station
helicopters covering morning traffic stumbles onto all of these trucks and people, gear,
and everything else."
"No one's told me what's happened, yet, Sir," said Kane quietly as he felt his fear
successfully make the leap from stomach to spine and begin spreading through his back.
"Let's go to the site after you get the protective clothing on and we'll talk about it
9
there," said Wassuk.
The three men walked forward to a large, olive-drab tent that had been hastily
erected outside a small group of decrepit buildings that had once housed the management
offices for the factory complex that stood several hundred yards distant. Razor-sharp
concertina wire had been extended to either side of the tent so that the way to the factory
complex was channeled through the tent. Outside was hung a yellow metal sign with the
word GAS in red lettering. Kane looked up and down the length of barbed wire and
noted that similar signs had been hung about every twenty feet. He could hear the sound
of portable military-issue electric generators running noisily nearby. Two Guardsmen
stationed at the entrance to the tent checked their ID's. They consulted an access roster
before allowing the three policemen to enter.
Once inside, the familiar smell of military tentage reached Kane's nostrils. He
could also smell the pungent exhaust fumes of the generators. In the dim light thrown
from a single bulb hung in the center of the tent, Kane could see several large wooden
loading crates filled with various items of mission-oriented protective posture—known
commonly as MOPP--chemical protective gear that had been set in the near corner. A
regular U.S. Army colonel with the 7th Special Forces Group flash on his left shoulder
looked up from where he was sitting at a field desk filling out reports and nodded in
recognition at Captain Wassuk. Wassuk walked over to him.
"Colonel Montaulk--you already know Lieutenant Cohen--this is Lieutenant Peter
Kane. He's not as senior a homicide detective as Cohen, but he has some background in
military intelligence and so probably knows more about chemical weapons than anyone
else in my precinct. I don't know if he needs retraining on the gear..."
10
"Just to be on the safe side, we'd better do it," said the colonel. "What branch of
the service were you?"
"Marines," said Kane.
Montaulk looked at Kane quizzically then sat back. "Do I know you from
somewhere?" he asked.
Kane looked at him for a second. "Did you ever spend any time in Central
America?"
"Yes," replied Montaulk, "in El Salvador and San Cristobal."
"I was in San Cristobal at the Third Regiment with a guy named Delong," said
Kane, not particularly wishing to recall his experiences in that war.
“I believe I was leaving just as you got in-country," said Montaulk. "Major
Delong was a good friend of mine."
"Mine too," said Kane, without expression. "Let's get going, can we? I've got a
pucker factor of about 150 right now."
"I understand," said Montaulk. "Come on over to the gear."
Montaulk went through a brief demonstration of the proper procedures for
donning the protective clothing. Then, he instructed Kane as to how to place the gas
mask to form a complete seal around his face and clear any residual air from within
before taking a breath. Once Kane was safely suited up, Wassuk, Cohen, and Montaulk
put on their gear and the four men inspected the integrity of each others' protective suits
as a precautionary double-check.
Once all were certain that the MOPP suits were properly in place, Montaulk
motioned the group toward the opening, covered with a flap, at the rear of the tent. They
11
followed the colonel through and exited the tent into an outdoor corridor that had been
delineated by double-concertina barbed wire. This corridor was perhaps sixty yards long
and ended in another olive drab tent that stood about twenty feet from the factory
management offices. Upon entering this tent, a pair of guardsmen in MOPP suits
performed a final ID check and safety inspection. Then, the group exited the tent through
the rear flap and walked to the offices a few feet away.
The small building had once been painted white, but years of neglect and eventual
abandonment had turned the peeling, chipped paint a dirty grey-black. The sign of the
'Step-Rite' shoe company still hung over the door. Five wooden steps led up to the
entrance doorway. Kane could see that a light had been hung from the ceiling and was
being powered by a portable gas-powered electric generator. It cast long shadows that
flickered out of the window as they mounted the creaky stairs to the door. Wassuk, who
had taken the lead, stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs and glanced back at
Kane. Then he swung the door open and stepped into the room.
Kane followed Wassuk and blinked as his eyes became accustomed to the light.
As soon as he could see clearly, he involuntarily stumbled backward against Montaulk.
Kane caught his breath as, for one second, he thought he was choking. He fought to keep
his balance and stand in his spot--for his feet wanted to run and his hands wanted to tear
the gas mask from his head so he could catch his breath. He stayed where he was for
what seemed like a long time, bracing himself against Montaulk until the army colonel
patted Kane on the shoulder and asked him if he was OK. Kane didn't answer but slowly
walked into the middle of the room, stepping over bodies strewn across the floor as he
did so.
12
Every member of the '40th Street Shotgun Crew' was dead. Some sat in chairs,
some were stretched out on old, beat up sofas, and others lay prostrate on the floor. In
the center of the room lay the remains of a tear-gas grenade surrounded by shards of
broken glass from the window through which it had been thrown. The gang-members'
weapons, cash, and substantial stashes of marijuana, liquor, and cocaine were strewn
about, apparently undisturbed. Candles that they had used to light their hideout were still
in place, some of them still burning. Graffiti, absent from the outside of the building so
as not to alert police, covered the inner walls, serving as a warning to anyone who should
mistakenly enter this room. The youths themselves were puffy-faced with tongues that
were starting to swell out of their mouths, most with their eyelids half open and their eyes
rolled into their heads. One was lying beneath the shattered window with his hand on the
ledge as though he had been trying to escape with his last bit of strength. The rest had
died right where they were when the gas hit the room. Kane surveyed the room again in
a futile attempt to make the horror before him disappear.
“What in God’s name happened here?” he asked in a whisper, already knowing
the answer.
“This is the use of a chemical weapon, probably sarin nerve agent, to commit
mass murder. Whoever did it had enough expertise to either acquire or synthesize the
agent and then modify that old tear-gas grenade to release and disperse the sarin quickly
when the grenade went off. The question is, how and why did this happen?” said
Wassuk. “We’re going to need to know if there are more of these weapons out there and
we need to find out if this was gang-against-gang or some rogue lunatic. I personally am
scared shitless.”
13
“Captain, how was this—I mean, who found out about this and how did we hear
of it?” asked Kane, still disbelieving the scene.
“Let’s go back outside and we’ll talk to the guy who alerted the department to all
of this,” said Wassuk.
The group went back along the path delineated by the barbed wire and entered the
second tent. The guardsmen inside the tent directed them through a side exit where they
underwent a decontamination shower while still wearing MOPP gear. Several soldiers in
MOPP gear then helped them out of their wet gear and they were directed to a second set
of showers where they continued the decontamination process prior to getting back into
their civilian clothing. They then walked back to their original assembly point where
Kane’s Cherokee was parked.
Sitting on the hood of one of the numerous patrol cars at the scene was a toughlooking, middle-aged police officer chatting with a grizzled, bearded, unkempt man of
the same age wearing torn jeans, worn out jungle boots, and a Viet Nam-era field jacket.
He was obviously homeless. As the group walked toward them, the man in the field
jacket noted the army officer and slid off the car hood. He assumed a position of parade
rest then came to attention and saluted as Montaulk came closer. Montaulk returned his
salute and put him at ease.
Kane approached the older man and asked him to relax. The former soldier
remained at parade rest.
“What exactly alerted you to this situation Mr.—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your
name.”
“Staff Sergeant Hoffer, Sir,” replied the homeless man.
14
“Very good, Staff Sergeant. Why don’t you tell me what happened?” said Kane.
“Well, Sir, I’ve been pretty well down on my luck for the past couple of years. I
was in the army myself, back in Viet Nam. I did two tours as a combat infantryman. I
picked up a drug habit during my second tour. I came back to the world and was
undergoing training for a secondary MOS as a unit NBC specialist when I got tossed out
on my ass for drug use, insubordination, and just being a general fuck-up, Sir.
“Anyway, I just got into Philly from New York about a week ago and was looking
for a place to crash. I didn’t know that this part of town belonged to the street gangs at
all or I sure as shit wouldn’t have come down here. Anyway, I stumbled up to the door
of that old shoe factory office and looked inside. Even my old-fart brain recognized what
had happened. I high tailed it along the train tracks and almost got my ass run down by a
train in the process. When I seen a cop,” he nodded toward the policeman still seated on
the hood of the squad car, “I just ran over to him and tried to tell him what I’d seen.”
“I thought he was drunk or on drugs,” said the cop as he now stood and
straightened his uniform. “But I was in Viet Nam too, and Staff Sergeant Hoffer here
knew too much about unit deployments—including mine—to be bullshitting. When he
calmed down and told me what he had seen in detail and described his military
experience and training in NBC, I thought I better check it out. We walked down here
together and this is what we seen.”
“So me and Sergeant Jackson came down here and when he saw the scene, he
immediately called directly to his precinct. That pretty much brought us to this point,
Sir,” said Hoffer.
“Well, Staff Sergeant Hoffer, it’s a damn lucky thing that someone with your
15
experience and expertise—and level head—was the first to happen on this crime scene.
We definitely owe you a debt. We’ll make sure you get something to eat and some clean
clothes and then we’re going to have to impose on you for a full, formal debriefing. Will
that work for you?” asked Kane.
“Yes, Sir, whatever you need,” replied Hoffer.
“Good,” said Kane. “Sergeant Jackson, can you help get him squared away?”
“Absolutely, Sir,” replied Jackson.
“Thanks,” said Kane. He then returned to the rest of his group to plan the next
move.
Kane rejoined Montaulk, Wassuk, and Cohen who were quietly talking over the
situation with ashen faces.
“What do we do now?” Kane asked.
“We need to know everything about the victims, search for any possible motive,
and look into the possibility of any rival gang members with prior military service,” said
Wassuk. “There was that sarin attack in Japan on the subway a few years ago, so we need
to know absolutely everything about that. This could be terrorism, it could be a trial run
for something bigger, or it could be the beginning of an all-out gang war. Kane, Cohen—
I want you guys to get started on this right now and find out absolutely everything you
can about the chemical agent, starting with whatever information or sources Colonel
Montauk can give you. Then, I want you to dig up absolutely everything we have on the
40th Street Shotgun Crew, and get hold of anything FBI intel can give us.”
“We’ll get started right now, Captain,” replied Cohen.
“Good. Most importantly, keep this absolutely quiet…we need to get ahead of
16
this immediately so it doesn’t happen again.”
17
CHAPTER 2—A Few Years Earlier
“Staff Sergeant Benjamin Diaz Villalobos, this court finds you guilty of a string
of petty larcenies targeting your fellow soldiers. You are also guilty of having recruited
others of lesser rank within your unit by abusing the authority commensurate with your
status as a Staff NCO. You are sentenced by this court to two years’ incarceration,
reduction in rank to E1, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and a dishonorable
discharge from the United States Army. If not for your previously impeccable record and
distinguished combat service in the Gulf War, you can be sure you’d be looking at a
much heftier sentence. Do you have anything to say for yourself before you are removed
from this courtroom to serve your sentence?”
“No, Sir,” replied Diaz, standing rigidly at attention.
“Very well. I’d like the military police escort to come forward and remove
Private Diaz from the court so his sentence can be carried out. Court is adjourned.”
Diaz laughed to himself as he was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs. These
stupid motherfuckers had never figured out the half of what he had been up to. He had
dealt drugs, was running a prostitution ring and had even set up a protection racket out in
town. He used the larceny deal as a cover for all of the other more serious criminal
activity, and his scheme had worked out perfectly. Two years—what a joke! He could
do that standing on his head. With the drug money he had put away over the course of
his career in the service, he could do anything he wanted when he got out. And he had
definite plans.
18
Diaz had always felt certain that he was smarter than just about anyone he knew
but had become convinced early on during his time in service that he would never be
given the opportunity to prove it. His initial excellent service record and successful
combat tours had prompted more than one of his commanding officers to suggest Officer
Candidate School, but Diaz didn’t like officers and had decided that it would be a waste
of time. He would never be able to play politics or do what he imagined he would have
to in order to succeed as an officer. Instead, as he became more and more frustrated, he
put his talent and intellect to use in nefarious ways, making substantial amounts of money
in the process, but always easily covering his trail. He lived in the barracks and drove a
very plain automobile, never spending extravagantly, living lavishly, or doing anything to
draw attention to himself. He also made sure to always perform his duties in an
exemplary fashion and attend professional training whenever possible as well as taking as
many military correspondence courses as possible in his spare time. He had easily made
staff sergeant and was on his way to additional promotion, even as the service was
attempting to cut back after the Gulf War.
Despite outward appearances, however, Diaz harbored festering resentment
toward the officers and senior staff NCO’s appointed over him and toward the military in
general. In his mind, someone of his capabilities should be well-paid for his
contributions and not have to resort to crime to put away enough money to eventually
live comfortably. In this manner, he blamed the army for his criminality and used this
rationalization to justify his behavior.
All had been going well until one of the civilians in his crime ring had been
arrested for an unrelated larceny. It had gotten back to Beni that this guy had spoken
19
with police after his arrest and had indicated that he had information on much larger
criminal concerns, which he would be happy to share with them for a lighter sentence.
Beni had sent his lawyer to see the small-time crook in prison and had been able to
convince him that any information given to police would, of course, implicate the crook
himself in crimes of a much larger scale. Before any offers of immunity had been made,
the guy simply quit talking. Beni then went so far as to pay for his lawyer to represent
this man who had ended up receiving only a light sentence in the end.
This experience, however, had spooked Diaz, especially when police began trying
to follow up on the initial information they had received and had begun looking into
some of Beni’s concerns out in town. This chain of events was what had led Diaz to
commit the series of petty crimes that had eventually led to his trial. He had talked it
over with his lawyer and had decided that it would be better to spend a few years in jail
than risk being caught and tried in civilian court for his larger criminal concerns. His
nest egg was very substantial at this point, and he didn’t need anyone snooping around or
looking into his bank accounts and finances. He had known that the military would take
things at face value and not dig too deeply, so he committed a series of small thefts in the
most obvious, inept manner he could with the full intention of getting caught. Even then,
it had taken the military police almost a year to arrest him. He had had to laugh when his
superiors offered him psychological counseling as a potential alternative to jail time.
‘No,’ he had said with practiced sincerity and tears in his eyes, ‘I’m ashamed of what I’ve
done, and I’ve brought dishonor to the service. I should pay for my mistakes.’ Everyone
had believed him. His unit leadership had even appeared at his trial as character
witnesses! When the verdict came down, he had almost stood and thanked the judge,
20
realizing what he had gotten away with and how much money he would walk into when
he left military prison.
His time in the stockade had gone quickly, as he had known it would. Diaz had
been very careful to stay out of trouble and had been released at the end of his full twoyear term. Now he was walking out of the airport terminal area to where his cousin
awaited him. He stepped outside of the building and looked around. He instantly
recognized the younger man waving at him, though it had been years since they had seen
each other.
“Beni—how the hell are you, Man?” Diaz’ cousin Carlos was holding the car
door open as he greeted him outside the terminal at the Philadelphia airport. “How was it
on the inside?”
“No big deal, it was restful, like a vacation,” said Diaz without smiling.
“All right, Man, well, welcome back, Primo.”
“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
They followed Interstate Ninety-five to Frankford Avenue and then headed
northeast until Diaz felt he was finally really coming home. Carlos parked the car on the
street in front of the row-house where Benjamin Diaz had grown up. His father and
mother had worked themselves to the bone in local factory jobs so he could have a good
education and make something of himself. He felt a brief flush of shame when he
thought back on how proud they had always been when he visited home in uniform. He
silently thanked God that they had both passed away before any of this shit had
21
happened; before they knew what he had become. He slowly got out of the car and
pulled his small duffel bag after him. He stood for a moment and looked at the small,
tidy townhouse that was his parents’ only legacy after a lifetime of sacrifice on his behalf.
He shook his head and looked down at his feet, again feeling a moment of shame. Then
he walked up the stairs behind Carlos who soon was fumbling with the key to the front
door.
As they stepped inside, the familiar odor of the place hit him. Even though his
parents had been dead now for almost four years, he still felt he could smell his mother’s
cooking.
“I’ve been taking real good care of the place for you, Beni,” smiled Carlos as he
made a sweeping gesture for emphasis.
“You been living here?”
“Someone had to take care of it, while you was in the can. Old Mrs. Rodriguez
was renting for a while, but then her sister got sick so she moved out. I had the spare
key, so I moved in. I didn’t mess nothing up, and I didn’t have no parties or anything like
that. It’s just like your parents left it.”
“You got a place to stay, other than here, I mean?”
“I could move back in with my parents, I guess, but I was kinda hoping I could
stay here with you,” said Carlos as he looked his cousin in the eye. He didn’t like what
he saw, so he looked away in the next instant.
“No, man, I got plans and I don’t want to get you all messed up with that shit.
You’re a good kid, you don’t need trouble.”
“Beni, I could work for you, you know I work real hard.”
22
Beni looked around the room again. “No, it ain’t gonna work, Primo. I’ll call
your parents and set things up. I’ll even help you move. I love you like my brother and I
don’t want you to get your life screwed up. That’s it.”
23
CHAPTER 3
“Beni Diaz,” he said as he extended his hand toward the man seated in front of
him.
“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Roland Simpson. This is Tony; this here’s
Jamal, and this big dude is Perkins,” said Simpson cordially while he reached out and
took Diaz’ hand, shaking it firmly. He looked straight into Beni’s eyes and briefly smiled
at him while they shook.
Diaz looked at each member of the group seated at a booth in the ‘Hole and a
Half’ bar. He met each man’s level gaze as he firmly shook hands with each of them.
It had been relatively easy for Diaz to buy his way into this meeting with one of
the foremost drug-runners and extortionists in Philadelphia. He had made a point of
making contacts in the Philly area on every one of his trips home and had made money
and time available as much as he could to help finance criminal operations or assist in
money-laundering, even while he was stationed in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. His plan
had always been to return home, insinuate himself into a larger criminal organization, and
then work his way up the food chain until he had laid aside enough money to comfortably
quit working and maybe leave the country permanently. He no longer had any ties to
keep him in the U.S. and was hoping to work these contacts as hard as he could while the
business was good. The military had given Diaz organizational skills, a sense of goal
orientation, and a relentless drive toward mission accomplishment, which he had repaid
with spite and criminality.
24
“Tell me about yourself, Diaz,” said Simpson.
“I’m originally from right around here and lived here up until I graduated high
school. I enlisted in the army out of school and went Ranger and then SF. I was an EOD
guy and also had a secondary in NBC weapons.”
“Dude, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to say that I don’t know much about that alphabet
soup you just threw out at me—what does all of that mean?”
“SF is the Special Forces. EOD stands for explosive ordinance demolition and
NBC stands for nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. I was in Kuwait for the Gulf
War and saw a lot of action.”
“Yeah, but you ended up in prison, what’s up with that?” asked Simpson, with the
hint of a smile as he looked straight at Diaz.
“Man, I was always working an angle and never got caught. By the time I was a
Staff Sergeant, I was running drugs, hookers, and a protection racket. I set up a smalltime larceny operation in the barracks and got some of the junior enlisted to work it for
me. I figured if I got caught, the sentence would be pretty light and it would divert
everyone’s attention from the bigger fish I was frying. It worked great, ‘cause I got two
years but nobody ever found out about the big pot of money I had stashed and I got clean
away with everything else. All of my seconds were just as happy to keep running things
when I got sent up, and I figured, if they got caught while I was in prison and ratted me
out, I could just say, you know, I was in fucking prison—how could I have been running
any of this shit?” Diaz settled back with a satisfied smile.
Simpson sat back and looked at Diaz for a second. This was unbelievable. This
guy knew weapons, explosives, and had already been a successful, clever crook. He
25
knew tactics and probably ways to screw people that Simpson himself had never even
thought of. It was a no-brainer.
“Welcome to our little corporation,” Simpson said with a smile. “We’re small
right now, but we intend to grow. I think you could not only be a part of it, but help
make it happen.”
Diaz felt excitement well up within him. Everything was working out exactly as
he had planned. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. He felt it was important to
maintain his composure in front of these guys and not let them know how excited he
actually was. He didn’t think he could afford to look like a kid getting his first bike—
though he supposed, in reality, he might have actually felt that way! He coolly rose from
his seat and, without a hint of a smile, shook hands all around before turning to Simpson.
“You won’t regret it,” said Diaz, with the deadliest look of earnest he could muster.
Diaz stepped off the plane and descended the ramp until he had reached the
tarmac. He felt the cool, clear air of a Peruvian winter caressing his face and hair and
then billowing the loose, cotton shirt that he had chosen for the long flight. He had only a
small carry-on bag with him as he had been instructed by his contact. He began to walk
toward the terminal building when he was intercepted by two large, dark, unsmiling men.
“Are you Diaz?” asked the bigger of the two.
“Yeah, Beni Diaz,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. Neither of the two
took it.
“I’m Triste, your contact. Follow us.” With that, the two turned their backs on
26
Diaz and began to walk away from the terminal building toward a waiting black SUV.
When they had reached the vehicle, they opened the doors and Triste grabbed
Beni’s bag and threw it inside. “Get in, we’ve got a long trip,” he said and then got into
the front passenger seat as the other man got in on the driver’s side and started the
vehicle. Beni did as he was told. Soon they were leaving the airport and driving east
skirting around Lima.
Within an hour they were on lightly-travelled roads and eventually were pulling
down a private drive to a country estate that sat alone on a plateau with a commanding
view of the local terrain. They parked the vehicle and Triste got out. He opened the door
for Diaz, who grabbed his bag and jumped out.
“Nice digs, but when do we eat? I’m really hungry,” said Diaz.
“You can eat on the plane,” said Triste who was walking along a secondary trail
from where they had parked the SUV. Soon they crested a low rise and Diaz could see a
small, private airfield situated in a depression in the terrain. A twin-engine turboprop sat
at one end of a short runway. There was a small concrete building with a windsock
outside which Beni took to be a sort of jury-rigged control tower. The propellers on the
airplane were spinning as the engines idled in anticipation of the group’s arrival.
They walked up to the plane and climbed inside. The second of the two men who
had met Diaz in Lima remained outside. As the aircraft door was shut and sealed, Beni
looked out the window and noticed the man crossing himself before turning away from
the plane and walking back toward the rise which concealed the airfield from view.
27
It hadn’t taken Diaz long to move quickly forward through the ranks of his group.
Within six months he was Simpson’s second. He had had to bash in a few skulls to get
there, but it was definitely worth it. Beni was efficient and a ruthless leader, and his
abilities and talent had quickly caught the attention of some of the top suppliers in the
Philadelphia drug trade. When the chance had come to work for Simpson’s principal
supplier directly, Diaz had jumped at it. His expertise with weapons, tactics, intelligence
and counterintelligence had come in handy and he had soon occupied a senior position as
weapons and tactics instructor as well as enforcer. He was feared and respected within
this new group and he had very quickly carved out a niche for himself as the Boss’s righthand man. When it finally came time for a direct liaison with one of the top producers in
Peru, Beni had been chosen for his viciousness, flawless Spanish, and expendability. The
Boss knew the sort of people he was dealing with in Peru--when previous liaison trips
had gone badly, his people hadn’t returned. He had confidence in Diaz, however, and
hoped this trip would open up some new sources of cocaine to supply the ever-growing
demand the Boss was facing. Even at his level, he had people to answer to and wanted to
keep all of the dealers in his network happy, or they might try to find another supplier.
Diaz looked down at the dense jungle below the aircraft. They were flying low,
probably to avoid radar, he thought to himself. It was a little strange how everything was
out in the open, however. The estate with the airfield was close to Lima and the
country’s main airport. Though the airfield itself was hidden from the sight of anyone
approaching on foot or in a vehicle, it would have been easy to spot from the air. The
men who had met him at the airport had picked him up outside the terminal and very near
28
the aircraft deplaning area. He had left the plane and the airport without passing through
customs or showing anyone his passport. It was a system he really hoped he would
become more familiar with, based on his brief experience.
Diaz was comfortable in South and Central America and knew his way around.
As a member of the 7th Special Forces Group, he had traveled to El Salvador, Colombia,
Honduras, Belize, and Ecuador as a member of various mobile training teams.
Fortunately, he had never been to Peru. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a special ops
or DEA type by someone who chanced to recognize him from a prior SF mission. Either
way, he was really excited about how things had gone since he had left the service. His
illicit activities during a long active duty career had netted him a fairly large stash and his
work since his time in the stockade had nearly doubled his savings. The townhouse left
him by his parents was more than adequate and he had already bought himself a new car
and a new wardrobe. Things were definitely moving along exactly as he had planned and
this trip was all part of the deal.
He had been well-fed as soon as they had taken off and was able to use the head
near the front of the aircraft’s cabin. Though the ride was a bit choppy at times due to the
low altitude, Diaz was comfortable overall. The airplane’s destination and course had not
been revealed to him, but he was fairly certain that they were heading generally northeast
toward the region of Peru bordered by Ecuador, Colombia and Brazil in the Loreto
Department. His study of the situation in preparation for this trip had revealed a system
in which a regional Jefe was essentially in charge of a large network of local cocaine
29
growers who were kept in line and often forced to grow narcotics by militant antigovernment guerrillas, often following a Marxist line. Many of these gunmen had long
ago given up any real aspirations of establishing a ‘workers’ paradise’ and eventually lent
themselves over to the regional bosses as an armed paramilitary enforcement mechanism.
This was extremely efficient and was easily funded by the multi-billion dollar cocaine
trade. Diaz felt confident he could fit in with this system and hoped that he could perhaps
set up his own supply line and strike out on his own. He wanted more than anything to
be independent of the Boss and eventually set up his own network, which he felt certain
would be the largest, best-run, and most profitable in Philadelphia—if not on the East
Coast--with himself at the helm. Of course, he hadn’t revealed any of this to the Boss.
Loyalty just wasn’t part of Diaz’ makeup.
Before long, he was dozing comfortably, lulled to sleep by the droning of the
aircraft’s engines and tired as he was from the long flight from the States. He had finally
lapsed into a deep sleep when he was roughly nudged into wakefulness by Triste.
“Wake up, we’re about to land,” said Triste without looking at Beni.
“Thanks and what’s your problem? You’ve been a real asshole since I got here
and I’m getting sick and tired…” Diaz’ voice trailed off as Triste took off his sunglasses
and turned to look him straight in the eye. The eyes that met Beni’s were absolutely
vacant, looking almost like the eyes of some of the corpses he had seen in Desert Storm.
A cold chill crept out of the pit of his stomach and into his spine as he shrank into his seat
before the icy gaze of the big man seated across the aisle from him. Triste put his
sunglasses back on and turned back toward the front of the plane.
30
The airplane soon had its landing gear down and before long was skidding to a
stop on a rough runway in the middle of the jungle. ‘This airfield would have been very
difficult to find from the air,’ thought Diaz as he let go his grip on the armrests and took
off his seatbelt. The hatch opened and he went to climb down onto the tarmac. For a
second he thought of turning to Triste and saying ‘no hard feelings’ or words to that
effect, but thought better of it. Once he was on the ground, his duffel bag flew out of the
airplane door and hit him in the face, knocking him to the ground. He recovered himself
and looked up to see Triste pulling up the ladder and closing the aircraft door behind him.
‘Good riddance,’ thought Beni as he got to his feet and brushed himself off. He stepped
back as the airplane taxied to the end of the runway and then turned one hundred-eighty
degrees before quickly gathering speed and taking off. He thought he caught a glimpse
of Triste peering out the window at him and briefly thought of flipping him off, but
immediately thought better of it. No need to piss anyone off, he told himself, though in
reality, he was petrified of the somber, dangerous-looking man with the dead eyes. Triste
was an appropriate nickname, Beni thought as he watched the plane climb into the sky.
He dropped his bag at his side and looked around. No sign of life whatsoever.
The sun was starting to sink slowly behind the horizon and as it did, it cast a
magnificent spray of red-gold light across the deep green of the jungle foliage, making it
appear vibrant and alive with a shimmering radiance. It was like everything was on fire
with fading sunlight and the jungle was proudly donning its most magnificent garb in
protest and defiance against the oncoming night. This was the most amazing sunset Beni
had ever seen and it made him forget the long, unpleasant journey he had just completed.
31
He was completely absorbed by it until the sky began to gradually turn from orange to
red to purple and he realized that night was falling. This shook him from his reverie and
he felt a sudden sense of alarm as he realized he would be stranded here alone in the
darkness without even a flashlight. Alarm soon turned to fear and was bordering on
panic when he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. He jumped forward in surprise.
“Who the fuck is there?” he asked with clear edge of fear in his voice.
“Shut your mouth, pendejo. We’re your guides. We heard you were some sort of
hot shot, American super soldier and you didn’t even hear us,” said a voice in the
darkness. Beni could make out the form and the silhouette of an AK-47 assault rifle, but
nothing else.
“Sorry, amigo,” Diaz tried to lighten his tone and croaked out a hoarse laugh.
“You just startled me is all. How many of you are there?”
“Twelve of us, and you didn’t hear nothing; we walked right up to your stupid
chingazo ass and could have cut your head off, but you still just stood there looking at the
sunset like some worthless society bitch from Lima. Who the fuck are you and why
would anyone send a clown like you down here?”
“Beni Diaz, from Philly, here for a liaison trip with the production end,” Diaz said
as warmly as he could and extended his hand. The man he was facing looked at Diaz’
hand, turned his head to the side, spat and started to move off into the jungle along a trail
that heretofore had escaped Beni’s notice. Now Diaz could see the other members of the
heavily-armed group coming out of the shadows and turning to follow their leader up the
trail. Diaz dutifully picked up his duffle and followed along.
After roughly thirty minutes of picking his way along the trail behind the last man
32
of the group, Diaz found himself entering a clearing with dimly-lit huts at the very edges
of the space, set back into the encroaching jungle. He walked into the center and set his
bag down, not knowing what to expect next. As he looked around, he realized that the
group of twelve men who had met him at the airfield had vanished just as silently as they
had appeared.
Before long, a dark, hulking figure emerged from the darkness and stood close to
Beni. “Are you Diaz?” asked the man.
“Yes, I am. Beni Diaz from Philly. Can I ask who you are?”
“They call me El Matador. I’m pleased you could make it out here. We’re a
fairly secretive bunch and not long on introductions, so I apologize if anyone was less
than cordial on your trip out.”
“Pretty much everyone was less than cordial, especially this guy called Triste,”
said Diaz, a bit angry but more relieved that he had finally met someone who would talk
to him.
“Triste is an unusual man, but extremely good at what he does. There are many
more like him around here. Come, let’s get you something to eat and a place to rest.
We’ve got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Matador, I appreciate someone finally showing me a little courtesy.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Diaz was rousted from a sound sleep as light was just beginning to creep into the
hut where he had bedded down. He was shaken awake in unceremonious fashion and
only caught sight of the back of a heavily-armed man in military fatigues walking out
33
through the entryway of the mud structure. ‘So much for VIP status,’ thought Beni as he
slowly rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He got dressed and when he had pulled his shirt
over his head was surprised to find Matador standing just a few feet away. Diaz hadn’t
heard him come in.
“Come on, Diaz, we need to get moving, we’ve got a lot of work to do,” said
Matador, without the slightest hint of impatience in his voice.
Diaz nodded and the two walked out together. The first impression Beni had was
of frenetic activity.
The central clearing surrounded by mud huts which had been empty last night was
piled high with raw coca leaves in massive bundles. These were guarded by armed men
wearing khaki or camouflage uniforms with armbands emblazoned with the letters ‘SL’
on their sleeves.
“SL—Sendero Luminoso—I knew about these guys when I was in the 7th Group.”
“Yes, they’re very effective in helping us move both our raw materials and the
finished product. They’re also quite good at getting the locals to cooperate with our
business efforts,” said Matador, with a trace of a smile.
Diaz casually sauntered up to one of the men and tried to strike up a conversation.
“Things look like they’re going pretty good for you guys around here. I would’ve
thought it would be rough going since your leader got arrested a few years back. What
was his name? I remember this from my time in the military,” he said as he looked back
at Matador who was no longer smiling. “Abimael Guzman! That’s the guy—he’s in jail
now, right?”
“Who in the fuck is Abimael Guzman, and who in the fuck are you, you filthy
34
little piece of shit…” said the man standing in front of Beni who had turned to face him
and was looking directly into his eyes. The eyes were completely vacant, like Triste’s.
“Whoa, I didn’t mean anything…I was just asking, making conversation, that’s
all…”
Diaz felt a strong grip on his collar and was quickly jerked away from the
potentially violent confrontation as Matador whirled him around. His look was deadly
serious. “Don’t speak to anyone here unless I tell you to…got it?”
“Ok, Ok, Goddamnit, and what the hell is going on around here? I thought this
was supposed to be for business, but every motherfucker I meet looks like he wants to
kill me!”
Matador dragged Beni away and took him quickly behind a hut. “Listen to me,
you young idiot. I don’t give a shit if you were some kind of tough soldier in your world.
You’re in our world now, and your life isn’t worth a hill of snake shit to these men.
Can’t you see what’s going on? Come with me.”
The two walked back around the hut so they could watch the activity in the
clearing. The man with the SL armband had gone back to impassively guarding the coca
leaves as though nothing had happened. He glanced in Diaz’ direction but seemed to take
no notice of him at all. Local peasant farmers were bringing more coca leaves into the
small square and it was then that Beni noticed something unusual. Every man’s and
every woman’s hair was white. Beni felt a cold chill creep up his spine. He watched
closely and caught a glimpse of the eyes of one of the peasants unloading bag after bag of
raw coca leaves into the clearing from a horse-drawn cart. The man’s eyes revealed that
he was absolutely terrified.
35
“Can I talk to that guy?” Beni whispered to Matador. Matador silently nodded
approval.
“Sir…Sir…” Diaz caught the man by the sleeve of his tattered jacket.
“Aaaggh,” said the man as he jerked around and looked up at Diaz. He was
cowering in fear. His hands flew up in a gesture of surrender and remained raised and
trembling.
“What are you afraid of? What’s going on around here?”
The man’s face was contorted and his eyes bulged out of his head. He just shook
his head and then pleaded to be allowed to continue his work.
“I’m not going to hurt you, just relax. Your face is awfully young-looking to
have a head of grey hair…do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
“Twenty-seven,” whispered the peasant. “Please let me go, I beg you, please let
me get back to work!”
Diaz noticed the man with the SL armband appeared to be taking notice of the
interaction and now had turned his lifeless eyes on the two of them. The peasant’s eyes
bulged out even further and he slowly turned his head in the direction of the armed man.
He looked back into Diaz’ eyes, his face even more desperate. He mouthed the words
“leave this place.” Diaz let him go and walked back over to Matador. Beni was now
truly afraid.
“Come on, I’ve some people I want you to meet,” said Matador.
There had been a long journey in a beat-up old jeep over some of the worst roads
Beni had ever seen. After hours of this, Diaz and Matador had abandoned the jeep and
36
hiked through several miles of jungle along trails and deer paths that were barely visible.
Matador never stopped to rest and didn’t even break a sweat. After hard going over
extremely difficult terrain, they finally reached a clearing and looked down onto a neat,
well-organized native village. Matador turned to Beni.
“Don’t speak a word to these people, unless I say you can. I need you to
completely understand this: No matter what happens, keep silent. Is that clear?” There
was no emotion in the way he said it, just matter-of-fact instructions. Beni was very
much afraid.
“I understand, I won’t say anything unless you tell me to,” said Diaz, fear
creeping into his voice.
“Come on, let’s meet the Moche,” said Matador, who had already turned and was
heading down a thickly-overgrown trail that descended toward the village.
As they entered a central plaza surrounded by adobe and thatched roof huts, Diaz
felt a chill. There were no people present and the air was still. The village was
completely silent in the waning sunlight of the jungle evening. He looked around
nervously. He turned back toward Matador and realized with a start that he was face to
face with one of the village elders. The man had just appeared and Beni had jumped with
surprise and fought to stifle a shout, remembering barely in time the warning he had been
given by Matador. Now the elderly villager was looking him over closely, only inches
from his sweat-covered face. Diaz fought not to meet the older man’s eyes, but just stood
with head and eyes forward as he had been taught to do at boot camp, ranger school and
special forces training. The man was clearly amused as he surveyed Diaz, but Beni was
certain that there was a malicious air to it. H e fought down his fear and discomfort and
37
remained still. The old man said something to Matador, then spit and turned to walk
away. Matador looked at Beni and nodded at him, signaling him to follow along behind.
Beni nodded back and waited until Matador was moving ahead of him to fall in behind
the two.
They left the village plaza and walked along a wide, well-maintained trail for a
few hundred yards until they came to another, larger clearing in the jungle. At one end of
the clearing was a pyramid made of giant blocks of stone. This structure was perhaps
two-hundred feet tall. Stone stairs ascended to the summit where sat a stone figure with
an elaborate head-dress, an axe in one hand, and a human head which he was holding by
the hair in his other hand. The statue had the same malicious visage as Beni had seen on
the old man’s face back at the village.
Seated in a semi-circle facing the pyramid was a group of people in native garb
numbering perhaps three-hundred. A group of old men with more elaborate clothing
adorned with beads and river stones wearing ceremonial head-dresses sat in front of the
group with their backs to the pyramid. Their guide walked through the seated people and
sat in the lone empty chair at one end of the group of elders. In the center of the elders
sat a man whose chair was elevated slightly above the rest and whose head-dress was
distinguished by bright-feathered plumage and gold. There was an open space between
the elders and the assembled crowd.
Beni looked around anxiously until he saw Matador who was averting his eyes,
looking at the ground. He briefly looked up and caught Beni’s eye—Diaz saw real terror
for just an instant before Matador looked back at the ground. Beni looked back up at the
elders and noticed they had fixed their gaze on him. He began to shake slightly as he
38
broke out in a cold sweat.
“Back in the time before time, the People were of four beliefs,” said the man in
the center in perfect Spanish, smiling as he spoke over the heads of the villagers to Beni.
“The People had one mind with which to love our great King and the cult of the warriorpriest; the People knew of our magical Shamans as healers, health givers, and speakers to
the Spirit; They knew of our great legends, stories, and history; but They refused to know
the learned Dead—this great knowledge and power They left to us,” he said as he
gestured with a sweep of his arm and open hand at the people before him. “We are the
People of the mighty and learned Dead.
“With what we discovered and what we could learn from our waking demons, we
grew powerful and even threatened our great King and his court. He and his army grew
fearful and learned to dread us and our presence. Finally, and it is with great sadness that
I say this, our beloved King banished us from our homes at the beautiful rivers and great
waters. We fled across the land—across plains and deserts, across rivers and through
jungles—until we came to this place, far from our homes. Here we have remained since
before the time of your people, waiting, still waiting for word from our great King that
we may again return home,” he said as a tear trickled down his cheek. “We know that he
still loves us as we love Him, even if we had to kill many of his warriors along the way to
gain their knowledge. It is how we survived.” The other elders were nodding in
agreement.
Diaz was stunned. These people knew nothing of the outside world. They
actually believed that their kingdom from who knew how long ago was intact and
standing somewhere probably in western Peru. Even more astounding, was that they
39
thought their king was still alive and on the throne. Who were they?
“We have been called Moche by many, though our real name in our own language
would be beyond your ability to understand,” said the old man, as if he had read Beni’s
thoughts. “We occasionally meet outsiders such as yourself and invite you as guests to
learn our ways. Watch as our fires are lit…” he said with a benevolent smile.
Diaz looked about and saw several fires being lit at the periphery of the crowd,
with generous quantities of raw coca leaves being used to increase the height of the
flames. Other plants and herbs were thrown in and soon the smoke from the fires was
thick. Beni began to feel light-headed when he noticed a young man slowly, solemnly
walking toward the open space in front of the elders. He slowly turned to face back to
the crowd and sat down on the ground cross-legged. He closed his eyes. The old leader
closed his eyes and spread his arms to the heavens throwing his head back and opening
his mouth wide. To Beni’s shock his mouth seemed to open until it was like a gaping
cavern and his teeth formed the stalactites and stalagmites of the hollow. Slowly the
edges of the cave moved and formed words that came out thickly with a substance of
their own like the smoke from the fires. The words hung in the air with a malevolence
and spite that gave new meaning to the word hate. Beni covered his ears and clenched
his mouth shut so he wouldn’t scream out in blind terror. He could not take his eyes
away from the old man’s mouth until he sensed something happening to the young man
seated on the ground. His eyes bulged from his head as he witnessed what his mind told
him simply could not be happening. As the transformation was complete and the scene
was bathed in a spectral, turquoise blue glow, Diaz fainted and crashed to the ground as
his fear overcame him.
40
Now, he was running hard with a rifle in his sweaty hands. Periodically, he
turned to look over his shoulder as he knew his pursuers were close behind. The lowhanging branches and vines slapped into his face as he ran in blind terror from the terrible
fate that he knew awaited him if he slowed down even for an instant. He turned briefly
and loosed a quick volley of automatic fire back down the trail in the direction of the
Moche. He ran on, his heart beating insanely in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears,
the only thought in his head was to avoid the fate he had just witnessed. He knew his fear
could drive him on and if he could just get back to the village and then past it, he would
be okay. There it was! He felt a sense of elation as he neared the adobe huts and crashed
through into the plaza. He stopped for an instant to catch his breath and wondered, which
way led back? Back to where? Where was he going and why? Suddenly, he realized
that the mud beneath his feet was no longer solid, but had turned to thick quicksand. A
turquoise blue glow descended from the center of the sky to the edges of the horizon and
seemed to bath the village in its filthy light. A sense of panic arose in Diaz’ breast as he
looked around helplessly. The villagers had appeared at the edges of the plaza and were
slowly walking toward him with arms outstretched and clutching hands. Their eyes were
dead, just like Triste’s. Their hair was white just like the peasants he had seen. As they
came closer, their eyes began to glow blue just like…
He felt his arms being grabbed as he sank into the quicksand. He began to
struggle against the strength of the hands that were holding him, as he thought he would
rather die a slow agonizing suffocating death sinking in the mud than become what he
had seen. His body suddenly betrayed him and went slack as his mind told him that
41
struggling would do him no good. He was dragged out of the mud and shaken and
then…he opened his eyes.
He looked around with startled eyes wide open and realized he was still at the
clearing before the pyramid. Several of the men had picked him up by his arms from
where he had fainted and were dragging him toward the center space in front of the
village elders.
The figure in the center smiled a mirthless grin. “You fool, you can’t run from us,
even in your dreams. You have come to know our ways, now you must walk as a demon
and learn.”
Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Diaz remembered Matador’s
admonition to keep his mouth shut. So it was all the more surprising for him when he
heard a terrified scream of protest and realized it was his own voice. He knew at this
moment that he would rather die than go through what he had just witnessed. Then, as
the searing heat tore through his body and his mind, he wondered if it was just the same.
42
CHAPTER 4
It was almost unbelievable to Kane. Out of the blue, he had been reactivated and
returned to active duty in the Marine Corps. There had only been a post-card; no formal
letter, no phone call, no report date, no in-processing. Just a post-card. As he pushed
through the thick jungle and swatted away mosquitoes, his mind was dark. He pulled out
a large machete and hacked away at the foliage with fury and abandon that was much
greater than necessary for the task at hand. It was a good outlet for his frustration. At the
moment, he couldn’t even remember saying goodbye to Maria. He was only able to
focus on the vegetation and terrain before him and was totally absorbed by his mission.
He was part of a special-operations group that had been assigned to find a downed
pilot still thought to be missing and in need of rescue in Southeast Asia. There had been
reports of heavy enemy activity in this area, but Kane didn’t care. He was so infuriated at
the current situation, he couldn’t think of anything else. He just kept hacking and cursing
and fighting off the bugs.
As he moved through the jungle, he could only occasionally make out the back of
the camouflage utility uniform of the man to his front. He had no idea if anyone was
behind him. Suddenly he broke into a clearing and realized he had come to a large river’s
edge. There before him, half in and half out of the water, was a wrecked scout type
single-engine propeller plane. It had obviously been in the same position for many, many
years. The windows were broken out and the doors to the cabin were stuck open,
hanging off their hinges and partially submerged in the water. The entire aircraft was
coated in rust and filth.
43
The other members of his team had gotten busy taking off their gear and setting
up perimeter security. Kane couldn’t make out their faces or hear any conversation.
Reason slowly began to intrude on the situation. The plane had obviously been here for
many years. How could the pilot possibly still be alive? What the hell was he doing out
here?
“Hey…Hey! What’s going on here? Wait…Viet Nam’s been over for
like…twenty-five years, hasn’t it? Somebody answer me…What the hell is going on?
What are we doing here? God damn it, why the hell are we here?” Kane was starting to
feel uncomfortable, even scared. He suddenly realized that he was alone, the rest of the
team having moved out of this position…or perhaps just disappeared. He felt afraid, as if
his loud voice would rouse something, he wasn’t sure exactly what. The sun played long,
silky shadows that crept up toward him than quickly slid away. He was having trouble
looking away from the hypnotic shadow dance when suddenly he heard a loud, startling
noise. The door to the plane had fallen off its hinges and crashed into the rocks on the
shore of the river. A grisly pair of hands with rotting flesh falling off of them reached out
of the cockpit and grasped the edges of the open hatch. Slowly, an even more grisly face
attached to an exposed and cracked, jagged-edged skull slowly poked itself out into the
sunlight and blinked the one remaining eye as it scanned back and forth, surveying its
surroundings. A patch of filthy blonde hair fell across the deathly, grim visage. Its gaze
fell upon Kane. Kane felt his breath catch in his throat and he fell backward before the
terrifying apparition. Now it stepped out of the wrecked airplane and stood fully erect,
still wearing the torn and tattered pilot’s jumpsuit from some distant past time. It
continued to look around, carefully taking in everything for what seemed to Kane like
44
hours. Suddenly, it began to run in circles, skimming across the water, splashing and
breaking the tranquil, previously peaceful scene into chaos and riot. Kane was stunned
and his startled mind couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing. He involuntarily took
several steps back then fell backward against the shallow bank of the river.
“Dead men can’t run…dead men can’t run…DEAD MEN CAN’T RUN!” Kane
kept repeating to himself as he watched the foul apparition run faster and faster as if by
virtue of its speed, it could bring itself back to life. Then, it began to slow down. Its pace
slacked off until it sank into the water and stopped under the surface, its head just below
the sunlit river, which had now returned to its previous tranquility. Kane could see the
head turning to and fro as though looking for something. Then, it turned toward him.
Slowly, it began walking toward Kane until the ruined head broke the surface of the
water. It continued its relentless march toward him as it rose completely out of the water.
Kane crawled backward on his elbows, fear gripping him like an icy vice around his
throat. The ghost kept moving closer until it stood towering above him, dripping filth on
Kane’s terrified grimace. A shining, glowing turquoise light filled the empty left eye
socket and the still jungle was bathed in blue. The monster reached down, grabbed Peter
by his face, and pulled him toward its malicious countenance. It stared at him with the
blue glow from its left eye socket until Kane felt his very soul being drawn out of himself
toward the vast blue lake floating inches above his own quivering lips. As his soul was
pulled away he felt a deep, thundering scream well up inside him and escape in parallel to
his soul, as if the sound of his own voice could stem his fate. The scream that came out
of his throat was terrible, long, and loud and seemed to jerk him upright with its power—
until he realized he was sitting bolt upright in bed and letting loose with a primeval noise
45
that shook his very insides. He was jolted awake by the horrible sound of his own voice
and his bulging right eye raced around the room, desperately trying to reaffirm the reality
of his surroundings. His vision settled on his wife and began to clear.
“My God,” said Maria from the far corner of the room shaking, with a look of
blank shock on her face. “What the hell was that?”
“I wish I knew,” said Kane as he fell back onto the bed and covered his face with
a bedsheet. Maria slowly got back into bed next to him.
Kane had not been able to go back to sleep, and so had gotten up early. He had
first gone to the station where the atmosphere was extremely tense. No one had yet made
sense of the chemical weapons attack and the full resources of the FBI, ATF, DIA and
CIA had been mustered in a very rare incident of full cooperation between various
government agencies. The cover story had been that an old industrial pipe had burst
bathing the unfortunate inhabitants of the building in toxic fumes while they were either
asleep or heavily under the influence of drugs and alcohol, so that they had never known
what hit them. No connection to national or international terrorist organizations had been
discerned, and no one had come forth to claim responsibility. The entire event remained
a mystery to everyone. Since Kane was heading up the city’s police investigation, he
decided to spend part of his day at the library to research any possible history of other
similar attacks.
The internet was still new to Kane and he didn’t care much for the technology,
though his department had been using electronic record-keeping almost exclusively for
several years now. He stubbornly tended to default to the card files and microfiche which
46
were already nearly obsolete. He remembered news reports of a chemical weapons attack
on the subway system in Japan, so he attempted to cross reference with various key
words. He was rapidly becoming frustrated going through old stacks of newspapers
when a librarian who must have seen the futility of his efforts approached him from
behind.
“Can I help you, Sir?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Hmm? Oh, well, yes you can. I’m looking for information on an incident that
happened in Japan a few years ago. I need to search by news titles.”
“Have you tried the internet? It’s a lot faster.”
“I’m kind of new to it, in truth…maybe you could help,” said Kane, feeling more
relaxed as he looked into the kind, pretty face of the librarian.
“Sure, why don’t you come with me?” she smiled.
Kane followed her to a bank of computers. She showed him a seat at an open
computer, which he took. She leaned over him and began to type as the monitor came to
life. When the internet search prompt appeared, she instructed him to just type the
subject of his search and hit ‘enter’. He thanked her for her help, and she nodded politely
with a smile, then stood and quietly walked away.
Kane typed into the prompt the words, ‘Nerve gas attack on Japan subway’ and
hit the ‘enter’ key as instructed. A list of articles immediately appeared.
‘I need to get more familiar with this whole deal,’ he thought to himself, while his
gaze drifted to the librarian who was now assisting another patron just a few feet away.
She briefly looked up, caught his gaze, and smiled. He nodded, mouthed the words
‘thank you’ and went back to the screen and clicked on the first title. The article came up
47
for him to read.
SARIN GAS ATTACK ON THE TOKYO SUBWAY SYSTEM CAUSES PANIC
The sarin nerve agent attack on commuters using the Tokyo subway system has
been deemed an act of domestic terrorism by security officials in Japan. The
attack occurred on March 20, 1995 during morning rush hour. Thirteen people
were killed, fifty injured, and nearly a thousand others experienced temporary
vision problems that, in some cases, lasted for hours afterword. The incident was
perpetrated by members of the group Aum Shinrikyo in a series of five
coordinated attacks with devastating results. The group had apparently used sarin
nerve agent previously in 1994 in Matsumoto which resulted in seven dead and
five-hundred injured. The leader of the group, Shoko Asahara, has claimed
through his defense attorneys that senior members of the group had planned and
executed the attack without his knowledge or approval, but given the ultimate aim
of the attack—to hasten the apocalypse, bring down the Japanese government,
and install Asahara as emperor--defense has yet been unable to prove this. At the
time of this report, the details of how the terrorists obtained the sarin and their
method of releasing it into the subway system has not yet been released by
Japanese authorities. There is some speculation…
Kane shook his head slowly. How on earth could something like this have
happened right here in Philadelphia? Who would have the knowledge to put an attack
48
like this together and why would they have targeted a bunch of low-level gangbangers
who didn’t have a pot to piss in? This just opened up more questions in Kane’s mind, but
he knew he had to move quickly on this, as the cover story might not hold up forever and
if one such attack had taken place, certainly others could as well. He closed the internet
page, pushed back his chair and walked briskly out of the library, heading toward the
station house.
“Josh, what were these kids into?” Kane asked Cohen at a meeting of the task
force he had convened.
“Drug running, prostitution, petty theft, the usual.”
“These are some of the questions we need to answer as quickly as possible. Had
they run afoul of any of the bigger fish in the local candy-land? Who were they dealing
to? Who were their suppliers? Did any of their suppliers have military chemical
weapons experience? Let’s put together a list of the usual suspects and then start looking
around for anyone new to the game. Someone is responsible for this, and it really doesn’t
look like terrorism. It looks like taking payback to a new level, and we’d better find out
who’s responsible before people start dropping like flies. I’ve printed out some
internet…”
“Whoa…hold on…you? On the internet? No way,” laughed Cohen, in a futile
attempt to lighten the pervasive sense of gloom that had overshadowed the precinct since
finding the dead bodies in the abandoned factory.
Kane didn’t change his expression, as though the interruption hadn’t even
happened.
49
“…articles for you to read about a similar attack on the Tokyo subway system in
1995. I’m sure you all remember that. We need to try to figure out if there are any
similarities, what are the differences, where could the nerve agent have come from, and
any other details you can think of. Remember, those kids were killed by toxic fumes
accidentally released from an old rusty pipe…keep your efforts regarding the true nature
of this attack secret and don’t discuss the investigation with anyone except those that
have been read in. Absolutely continue full cooperation with the military, FBI and
anyone else with the resources to maybe shed some additional light on this incident.
Questions? Good, let’s keep working this.”
After weeks of investigation and basic police work, the task force was starting to
uncover some useful information. The ‘40th Street Shotgun Crew’ had been running
cocaine for a number of larger dealers and had served as the means for facilitating some
of the cocaine and marijuana entering Philadelphia. Their gang headquarters had served
as the perfect location for receiving, measuring, and accounting for incoming shipments
and they had had enough manpower and firepower to provide security for various dealers
on what amounted to a contractual basis. They had received both money and drugs for
their efforts.
What the task force could not have known, was that one of the main networks that
the street gang had worked with had recently taken on some new personnel, including a
former Special Forces soldier named Benjamin ‘Beni’ Diaz. Diaz had quickly risen
through the ranks of the network that was owned and operated by a hood named William
Shotson, who was also now known (or perhaps more accurately referred to himself) as
50
‘The Boss.’ Shotson had discouraged violence in his organization and was well known
for being able to work cooperatively with other dealers in Philadelphia. It was his
organizational skills, dependability, and eye for talent that had enabled him to become
one of the principal suppliers and dealers of illegal drugs in Philadelphia. This was also
why he had hired Diaz.
The Boss had also very effectively established excellent working relationships
with the major suppliers in South America, eschewing networks in Colombia in favor of
direct interaction with smaller producers and suppliers in Peru. Though the Peruvians
were a scarier lot, they were a lot more dependable and attracted less attention. The need
to interact directly with the Peruvians was another reason Shotson had hired Diaz. He
had lost two previous couriers he had sent to Peru and felt confident that with Diaz’ SF
training and toughness, his new employee would do well.
Diaz had, however, come back from his trip a changed man. He had started
disappearing for days at a time and responded to questions with only a very few words if
at all. His eyes seemed soulless and dead and whenever he looked at you, it was as if he
was looking at an insect that he would sooner crush with his foot. Shotson didn’t scare
easily, but since his return from Peru, Diaz scared him.
Then there was the matter of the Shotgun Crew turning up dead to a man. The
story had made the news, and it had turned out that there was a leak of toxic chemicals at
the old industrial plant which they had been using as headquarters, killing them as they
lay about either asleep or in a drugged stupor. But something about the whole affair
didn’t add up in Shotson’s mind. Was that a hint of a smirk on Diaz’ face every time the
subject came up? The Boss was an excellent judge of character and had razor sharp
51
intuition that had served him well in the dangerous game he played so well. Something
told him that Beni was somehow involved in those deaths. After the gang had been
killed, Diaz had become a wealth of information regarding shipment arrivals, quantities,
organizations, and had, almost overnight, gained greater inside knowledge of the
Philadelphia drug trade than even Shotson himself. Diaz seemed to show up at all of the
right moments and was bringing in more business than Shotson had ever seen, but it
seemed that occasionally, business associates of his were turning up dead or going
missing. It wasn’t a huge number or a consistent pattern, and it almost always seemed
accidental or simply a complete mystery. It didn’t make any sense that Diaz, a relative
newcomer who the Boss essentially trusted, could be orchestrating all of this, but it gave
him the creeps, nonetheless. He knew he would eventually have to deal with Diaz, but he
had no idea how he was going to do it. The situation was becoming unnerving for
Shotson, who normally operated with the utmost of confidence.
Kane and Cohen had taken a day with their people and reviewed all of the
information that was available. They had set up a spread sheet of sorts on a large cork
board with names, dates, and contacts since the finding of the dead gang members. One
name did seem to come up more than others: Beni Diaz. For someone with a
newcomer’s status, he had very quickly turned himself into a major player, and people
were afraid of him. The other possibility lay with a former member of Shotson’s group
who had a few years back split from the Boss and formed his own group.
“We’ve gone through just about everything here and there’s not much background
work left to do, it seems to me,” said Kane after thoroughly reviewing the information
52
and organizational structures that had been pieced together. “I think we need to try and
get close to this Benjamin Diaz, he stinks to high heaven, but hasn’t really done anything
specific that we can bring him in for at this point. My plan is that since I’m not well
known on the street at this point, I can do some undercover work to try and get more
information before any more mass murders take place, as it’s become fairly clear that this
was motivated by the drug trade. I’m going to see if I can somehow get inside with Diaz
or someone else in the group. Josh, you know a lot of these characters since you’ve been
in narcotics a lot longer. Why don’t you start with Shotson and then maybe slide over to
his former cronies, Bob Bass and company, and see if any of them are willing to give up
anything,” said Kane.
“I know all of those guys pretty well at this point, so, yeah, I can give it a shot.
Shotson’s usually pretty cooperative but extremely slick, so he can afford to give that
appearance. His fronts work really well and turn a profit, so we’ve never been able to put
him away for a long time, only briefly here and there when he slips up. I’ll get right on
it,” said Cohen as he got up from his chair and turned to leave the task force meeting.
“And Josh, be careful,” said Kane looking his friend in the eye.
“You too, especially you. This ain’t San Cristobal, My Friend, and you can’t be a
war machine out here. Watch out for this Benavidez fucker, his type is the worst…he’ll
kill you in a way that won’t arouse suspicion,” said Cohen without even a trace of his
normal humor.
“I will, and thanks. The rest of you, I’ll divide up your assignments. I’m going to
have to spend the rest of today and tomorrow clearing the op with Captain Wassuk and
getting all of the necessary clearances for covert. Let’s get started.”
53
CHAPTER 5
Diaz walked up the steps to his townhouse and noticed that the door was
unlocked. He put his hand inside his jacket and closed his fingers around the .45 caliber
pistol he always kept on his person. He silently slid open the door and stepped inside.
He heard voices that he immediately recognized to be his cousin Carlos and his aunt and
uncle. He quietly opened the door to the room where Carlos had stayed in Diaz’ absence
and saw the three of them packing up the last remaining things from his cousin’s
extended stay at the house while Diaz had been in prison.
“Welcome,” said Diaz, which startled his three relatives and caused them to jump
at the sound of his voice.
“Holy crap, Primo, you scared the living shit out of us,” laughed Carlos, whose
father immediately gave him a stern look. Carlos’ mother was looking at Diaz
quizzically and not without a little fear. Diaz looked directly into her eyes, which
suddenly widened before the older woman looked away.
“Come on, fellows, let’s finish up here and get moving, Beni must be very tired
after his long day,” she said with just a hint of tremulousness in her voice. Her hands had
begun to shake.
Carlos’ family finished packing the remaining items and then carried them out to
the car, which they had parked a little way up the block. Diaz hadn’t noticed it when he
had come home. He followed them to where they were placing the last boxes in their car.
“Leaving so soon? Don’t you want to talk about the family or make some other
light conversation?” he asked with subtle sarcasm, but not a hint of a smile. He had seen
54
the look of fear on his aunt’s face.
“No, Beni, we’re going to have to get moving because I have dinner cooking at
home,” she said, avoiding his gaze, which had turned malicious.
“What’s the rush, Mom? Why don’t we stay a while longer?” asked Carlos.
His mother gently but firmly held his shirt sleeve and said, “Because I don’t want
dinner to burn! Now let’s get into the car and go.”
Diaz had already turned and was walking back to his townhouse without so much
as a ‘goodbye.’
Carlos turned toward his mother. “Mom, what the hell was that all about? You
just insulted him,” said Carlos with an indignant air.
His aunt looked at him and into his eyes for just a second then looked in Diaz’
direction before crossing herself and saying a silent prayer. As Diaz strode away down
the street toward his house, she grabbed Carlos by the sleeve and, with terror in her eyes,
she whispered, “He’s been taken…taken by El Susto!” before hurriedly getting into the
car.
“So, what’s going on?” Kane looked down at Carlos who was sitting next to him
at the bar.
“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?” Carlos said with a smile.
“I know you’ve heard of me, and I just got into town, looking for some guys to
move with, maybe who need some muscle; nothing small time,” said Kane, knowing well
the psychology to use on the younger man.
“Hey—we may be a lot of things, but we ain’t small time, Pal. We’re going to be
55
running things in this town before too long, mark my word,” said Carlos, full of
confidence and pride.
“Oh really, how so?”
“My cousin is the smartest guy around here, the smartest guy in the trade; plus,
he’s got tons of army time, even in the Special Forces—he can kick serious ass,”
concluded Carlos with a satisfied look on his face. He leaned back on his barstool and
folded his arms for emphasis while nodding his head.
Kane looked straight into the eyes of the man sitting next to him. How in the hell
did a basically decent, soft kid like this ever get mixed up with a vicious animal like
Diaz? The more Kane learned about Diaz, the more he feared him. Diaz had no
conscience whatsoever and the small group of men he was running with were no better.
Word was that even solid fixtures on the Philadelphia drug-running scene like Shotson,
Simpson, and Bass were afraid of Diaz, but didn’t know how to deal with him. Diaz was
always one step ahead of everyone—the police, the FBI, and the other criminals in the
city. And many of those criminals were either turning up dead or disappearing
altogether. Organized crime in Philadelphia was in a state of flux, and the center of the
maelstrom that kept coming up again and again was Diaz.
“Why don’t you hook me up with this guy, maybe see if he thinks I can help out
with his plans or whatever…” suggested Kane while he drank his beer, not looking at
Carlos.
“I’ll have to talk to him and see what he says, not everyone can run with us,” said
Carlos with feigned smugness.
“Thanks, Man, see what you can do for me. Here’s my cell number, it’s on
56
twenty-four/seven.”
“Alright, I’ll let you know,” said Carlos.
Kane nodded, paid the tab, and got up to leave. Carlos grabbed his shirtsleeve.
“We’re gonna do some serious shit…we’re taking over,” said Carlos with gravity
as he looked straight into Kane’s eyes.
“Then I’ll look forward to hearing from you and getting up with your people,”
said Kane with equal seriousness before he turned and walked out of the bar.
It had taken several months for Kane to hear from Carlos, during which time
Kane had been forced to remain in cover as an out-of-town thug-for-hire, living in a
cheap motel away from his wife with nothing to do but think. This was not a positive
pastime for Kane, who had enough baggage from his past that depression was never
terribly far away. He had gone through the motions of visiting all of the seediest bars and
strip clubs and appearing to be working on setting up meetings as he suspected he was
being watched but was never certain. He had lived throughout these long months with an
ever-present vague feeling of discomfort that he couldn’t quite put his finger. His dreams
were often framed in a bright, turquoise blue that he couldn’t get out of his head. He was
beginning to consider calling it quits when his cell phone rang. It was Carlos.
“You free?” asked the younger man with some forcefulness.
“Of course, tell me where you want me,” replied Kane with mixed feelings of
satisfaction and trepidation. His patience had paid off.
Carlos set up a meeting with Diaz just a few days after Kane received the call. It
was clear to Kane that Carlos was still trying to ingratiate himself with the thugs as a
57
means of perhaps eventually achieving membership in their tight, closed circle. Carlos
recruiting Kane was, in Carlos’ mind, a step in that direction. From where Kane stood,
however, it seemed to be taking Carlos a long time to complete the process. Maybe there
was still hope for the younger man.
“So what the fuck does a limp dick like you think he can bring to this
organization?” Diaz said as he leaned back in his chair with his hands folded behind his
head.
“I don’t think you’re gonna find anyone with my combination of skills and
experience just walking in. I was a Marine Corps intelligence officer and spent a lot of
time overseas as well as a year in combat in San Cristobal. I know weapons, know how
to fight, know how to plan operations, and would be happy to prove myself any way
you’d like,” said Kane, looking directly into the arrogant gaze of the younger man.
“The time will come for that, don’t worry, but it isn’t as easy as you think. You
won’t have to fight or shoot or anything you’ve ever seen or heard of. You just have to
give up yourself and, when the time comes, do what we ask of you. Can you do that,
Johnny Hard-ass Jarhead?” said Diaz in a quiet voice that made Kane’s skin crawl.
“Count me in,” said Kane with just a moment’s consternation over the meaning of
‘give up yourself’.
“Carlos—get your little pendejo ass in here and show our new associate around.”
Carlos extended his arm in the universal ‘after you’ gesture and walked briefly
through the small townhouse. In the living room, a group of young women were seated
on the aging furniture. They avoided Kane’s eyes and polite nods in their direction.
58
They clearly appeared uncomfortable.
Carlos showed Kane the group’s extensive weapons collection, mostly held in the
garage and adjoining laundry room. Kane looked this over with feelings of obvious
concern. There were enough weapons and ammunition stored in the house to hold off a
tactical police unit for an extended engagement.
After they had been through the house, Diaz grabbed Carlos by the arm and led
him toward the doorway with the rest of his men. “Come on, Pendejo, we’re going out
on business,” he said, roughly. Carlos was jerked after him.
Kane got up to accompany the group. Diaz turned toward him and said, “Not
you. You can stay here with the bitches and stare at the ceiling. Until I figure out how I
want to use you, just hang around. We’ll be back in a few hours, so don’t go nowhere.”
With that, Diaz, Carlos, and the rest of the group walked out of the townhouse.
Kane was left alone with the groupies, who clearly didn’t wish to engage in polite
conversation. ‘What do I do now?’ he thought to himself, as he took a seat in another
room.
Diaz and the group took a series of back routes to the docks and warehouses along
the shipping area of the Philadelphia waterfront.
“What are we looking for, Primo?” asked Carlos.
“Shut the fuck up, you’ll know soon enough,” was the reply.
They drove through back alleys for a period until they reached an older,
abandoned warehouse at the edge of an industrial area. There was a roof-access ladder
along the side of the building. They parked next to it, got out of the car, and started to
climb. Once they got to the roof, they took a lower posture so as not to be seen from the
59
ground below. They crawled to the edge of the building and peeked over the ledge. The
area below was quiet and shadows began to lengthen in the gathering dusk.
“What’s going on? What are we waiting for?” asked Carlos, clearly getting
nervous. He had never before been involved in any of the group’s illegal activity other
than just keeping books or perhaps setting up meetings. He was not sure what to expect.
“Just shut your hole and wait. No more questions, you little shit…” Diaz turned
away and scanned the vacant lot below his vantage point atop the abandoned warehouse.
“Hold it, Jefe, here comes someone,” said Jamal, pointing in the direction of an
arriving automobile. The car pulled into the lot and sat with the engine running. Before
long, another vehicle approached and pulled up alongside. The windows rolled down but
no one got out of either vehicle. Both cars were nondescript and the light was fading, but
Diaz, through binoculars, was able to discern that the profile of the man in the first car
was Shotson. Diaz figured Bob Bass was probably with him. He had never seen the man
in the second car before.
“I think I’ve made Shotson and Bass, but who’s the clown in the other car?” asked
Diaz tentatively.
“I don’t know, Jefe, I’ve not seen him around before,” replied Simpson. “He
looks dirty, though.”
“Yeah, fuck it, he does, doesn’t he? We’ll set it up to kill all of them when they
come back here to meet again. Jamal, keep tailing those pricks Bass and Shotson. The
other guy’ll wish he’d never known those two losers. Alright, come on, I’ve seen
enough.” Diaz quietly moved away from the building ledge and crept back toward the
ladder as his group got up to follow.
60
Cohen looked around while seated in the driver’s seat of his sedan. He couldn’t
shake a vague feeling of discomfort that something wasn’t right. He looked at Bass and
Shotson who were already out of their car and looking around nervously. Bass kept
looking over at Josh and beckoning him to get out with a decided look of agitation.
Shotson mouthed the words ‘Come on, get out for God’s sake,’ while looking at Josh
with wide eyes. These two had called him and set up the meeting—their tone on the
conference call had been concerning. He had never heard either of them so fearful or
worried.
Cohen opened the door and got out.
“What’s up?” Cohen said with a smile. “You guys look like you’ve seen a…”
“Shut the fuck up, Goddamit….” Bass had cut him off in midsentence.
“Something’s really not right and I’m pretty much scared shitless,” he said while looking
around nervously. Josh fell silent.
“We have completely lost control of the trade,” said Shotson, “which has the
potential to be a bad thing. We’re pretty sure we know who’s running out of control.”
“Alright, who are you talking about?” asked Cohen. He felt a surge of excitement
as he always did when hard, dangerous police work was about to pay off. This may be
the lead they had been working toward.
“About a year ago, we hired a new guy named Beni Diaz. He was straight out of
the army, Special Forces, Ranger, that kind of thing. He had spent some time in the joint
but spoke perfect Spanish and had focused on Latin America so he was a perfect fit. He
was doing great until we sent him down to Peru…”
61
“Wait…you guys have connections in South America? Since when? I thought
you were pure local?” said Cohen, his excitement building.
“You don’t know the half of it and I’m not about to go into all of it here,” said
Bass, somewhat cryptically. “Anyway, as soon as he got back, it was immediately
obvious that something had changed. All of my guys were afraid of him and pretty soon
people started disappearing. Before long, that thing at the shoe factory happened…all
those poor kids getting gassed.”
Cohen’s mouth fell open. How the hell did Bass know about that?
“What are you talking about? There was an incident at an abandoned shoe
factory, but it was an accident—an old pipe burst and there was a chemical spill. It was
just bad luck, nothing more…” said Cohen.
“That’s what you’ve been told because it was kept quiet. You may believe that,
but it ain’t true for shit. Those kids were gassed to death and I’m dead sure it was Diaz
and some of my former guys who did it. There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever,” said
Bass with finality. “After that, a lot of people started coming up missing. People from
all over the trade and in all kinds of positions. Diaz and his guys just seemed to keep
showing up at the right place and the right time. Nobody could put any kind of finger on
them or anything. They’re like ghosts. We’re not even sure where they live or how they
operate. We don’t know everyone in their group. I tried to have Diaz tailed and my
driver and his muscle disappeared. Shortly after that, I lost, like, five or six shipments in
a row and a bunch of money. It’s been happening to pretty much everyone. We tried to
have one of our guys infiltrate the group and now he’s running with them. I won’t even
go near him, ‘cause he scares the living shit out of me. I’m convinced that Diaz and his
62
crew have absconded with enormous amounts of cocaine and money and I’ll bet they
have it warehoused and are laying low, just distributing small amounts for now until
they’re running the show. When they have enough money and muscle, they’re going to
take over the city and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop them. They always seem to
be two or three steps ahead of everyone else and they’re causing panic and havoc, but
their profile is so low, they’re off the radar. Like I said, nobody even knows when they
come and go or where they stay and anyone who tries to find out disappears. We can’t
touch the bastards,” said Bass as he again glanced nervously around.
Cohen couldn’t believe this. Not only were these guys pretty much admitting to
wrongdoing on a huge scale, they were essentially offering to provide him with the
means to take down a massive operation even including a major South American
connection. He made a mental note to speak to Wassuk and suggest bringing in the DEA
and FBI when he got back to the station. This was big.
“Look, Man, I know I’m not an upstanding citizen or anything, but I want to be
taken into custody and I’ll give you shit you just ain’t ready for,” said Shotson.
“Ditto here. Believe it or not, I’ve actually got a family and people I care about
and I don’t want to see them go up in smoke like some kinda’ disappearing act. God
knows what’s happening to everyone but I don’t want it to happen to me or my people,”
said Bass.
“Your work has destroyed a lot of people, a lot of families, and made this city a
hell of lot worse to live in for everyone. Now you’re worried and you expect me to help
you? You’re going to have to turn evidence and allow for full interrogation and
debriefing which could take months. We’re gonna want names, connections, places, drop
63
schedules, modes of transportation—anything and everything and then some. Even all
the info on operations in other cities and this South American connection, no holding out,
no legal maneuvering, nothing except the whole ball of wax. In return, we’ll put both of
you and your families in witness protection. Will that work?”
“Anything you say, Man, it’s your game now. Can you take us in now?” asked
Bass, looking around nervously for the twentieth time.
“No, not right this second but maybe in a few weeks, hopefully sooner. I have to
get all the paperwork and arrangements made and speak with the higher ups at the
District Attorney’s office and get it all set up. You can keep in touch until then. I’ll call
you when we’re ready,” said Cohen, who had, himself, begun to look around nervously,
though he wasn’t sure why.
“Alright, I guess that’ll have to do, but make it quick or we could easily be next,”
said Shotson with an air of finality and mounting fear in his voice.
Cohen nodded and then got into his car and drove away as Shotson and Bass
hurriedly got into their own vehicle and quickly took off.
At the house, Kane had decided to take advantage of Diaz’ absence to look
around. The young women in the living room didn’t seem to be interested in his activity
and, in fact, mostly just sat looking down at the floor. Kane couldn’t quite figure it out.
First, he went upstairs, mumbling something about going to find a bathroom.
There was nothing out of the ordinary, just three bedrooms that were relatively neat in
appearance with very few personal items. The dressers and nightstands housed more
weapons in the form of pistols of varying sizes and calibers. Certainly this was not
64
unexpected. After a brief look around, Kane went into the bathroom and flushed the
toilet before going back downstairs. As he descended toward the small foyer he looked
into the living room and smiled briefly saying, “Found it.” None of the young women
looked up.
He walked down the narrow hallway toward the back of the townhouse, again
mumbling to the women, this time about going to the kitchen to try and find something to
eat. He entered the yellow room and looked around briefly before his gaze stopped at a
door that was just to his left.
The townhouse was laid out with an entry foyer that opened into a hallway to the
left. At the right of the hallway was the stairway leading to the second floor. To the left
of the hallway and immediately to the left of the foyer was the large living room where
the women were sitting. Behind this was the dining room at the back of the house. The
dining room was to the left of the kitchen, also at the back of the house. There was a
small, fenced backyard. Kane was carefully taking everything into account and trying to
commit the layout to memory so that, when the time came, he could give the tactical
assault team every possible bit of information. Standing in the kitchen looking at the
closed door, he began to experience an odd feeling of dread which was familiar to him.
He couldn’t imagine a reason for this—it was just a door. He tried to look away and
continue his mental inventory but found he couldn’t; his gaze was drawn back to the
door. He turned and faced it. He suddenly felt an upwelling of fear and adrenaline, as
though the door was somehow throwing down a challenge and he was in some sort of a
confrontation with whatever it represented. What profound challenge could possibly be
on the other side? A pantry? How could this benign, ordinary object provoke such
65
extraordinary emotions and such a sense of acrimony? It didn’t make any sense. He felt
as if he was being challenged to open the door by whatever lay on the other side. His
hand reached out for the knob then hesitated…What on earth was going on here? What
had he gotten himself into? He was about to turn and leave when, seemingly of its own
volition, his hand suddenly flew forward, grasped the knob, turned it, and flung the door
open. He peered into the darkness. Before him, lay a staircase leading down into the
basement.
‘Get hold of yourself, Kane,’ he thought to himself as he reached out and quickly
threw the light switch, illuminating the staircase and handrail to the left. He quietly
descended the stairs, tightly gripping the handrail as he went. When he reached the
bottom of the stairs, he turned on the lights that threw the finished basement into white,
drab, fluorescent relief. Again, nothing unusual. The room was paneled with
inexpensive faux oak paneling; there was a linoleum tile floor. There were a few old,
worn pieces of furniture. At the back of the basement, a small closed room had been
built. Another closed door. In his mind, the words, “You can’t come in, you’re not
welcome,” seemed to form of their own volition. The impression was so strong that
Kane quickly looked around to make sure he was alone and nobody had said them. The
basement was empty. Slowly he walked toward the closed door with a sudden
overwhelming sense of fear chilling his spine and causing him to feel a cold stone in the
pit of his stomach. He stopped before the door.
He looked down and saw that his hand was extended toward the knob and
trembling. What the hell was wrong with him? What harm could come from simply
looking into an empty room? It was probably full of papers or old clothes, nothing more.
66
Still, he hesitated. He knew if he didn’t open the door soon, his fear would overcome
him and he might never get another chance to look in. There could be evidence
inside…Suddenly, without realizing it, his hand flew to the knob and he threw the door
open.
He peered into the darkness, afraid to venture inside. Suddenly, he became aware
of a strange, overpowering odor that wafted out to him from somewhere within the
darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the light from the basement slipped inside
and dimly illuminated the room. He stepped inside, his mind blank.
There was nothing, save a single wooden chair facing the back wall of the room.
The room was paneled in a fashion similar to the basement. There was the same
linoleum tile flooring and a single light bulb hung suspended from the ceiling directly
over the chair. Kane moved further inside to try and find a light switch when he heard a
sound that made his blood freeze. He halted dead in his tracks.
A low, guttural, vicious growl was coming from directly behind him. His mind
registered only stark terror. Did Diaz keep some sort of attack dog for security? How
could he have missed such a threat? Kane’s fear mounted as the savage sound from
behind him rose in intensity and volume. He could feel the presence of a terrifying beast
closing its distance and coming closer to his back. Despite his fear, he knew that he had
only one choice—to turn and face the animal and try to force it to back down or shoot it.
He mustered all of his courage, closed his eyes and wheeled around, settling into a low
crouch to meet head on whatever he felt certain was about to leap upon him full force.
But there was nothing there. The growling had immediately stopped. He was
covered in sweat and realized his hand was on the pistol grip of his handgun. Nothing
67
there. He tried for a moment to laugh over this irrational episode and his lingering sense
of dread, but no mirth came. He quickly stepped out of the room and shut the door
without looking back.
At that moment, he could hear the garage door opening signaling the return of
Diaz and company. He quickly bounded up the stairs, shut the light and closed the door
at the top of the stairs.
When Diaz walked into the kitchen, he saw Kane bent forward into the
refrigerator rummaging around, as if looking for something to eat.
Diaz walked up behind Kane and kicked him in the ass.
“Get the fuck out of there, Bitch. If you ain’t puttin’ nothin’ in, you ain’t takin’
nothin’ out!” Diaz and the others had a hearty laugh at that. In reality, Kane had been
trying to cool down before Diaz saw him so that nothing would seem out of the ordinary.
Kane bumped his head as he pulled out of the refrigerator in surprise. This brought more
laughs from the group.
“Maybe you’re smarter now,” laughed Diaz. “Anyway, come on, Jarhead, we’re
going over to the mall to eat. You can actually tag along, and if you’re not too much of a
prick, we’ll let you pay!”
With that, the group turned and left as Kane followed them out.
Maria had come from work a little early and was taking the opportunity to
straighten up the apartment that she shared with her husband, Peter Kane. He had been
gone on his undercover assignment for several months now and she knew that until there
was a resolution of the case, she wouldn’t see him. It was really lonely here by herself,
68
but there were times it was almost as lonely with her husband at home. His taciturn
demeanor, though by no means impenetrable, was often off-putting enough that days
could go by without them sharing more than a few casual acknowledgements. She had
gotten used to it with time and, despite this, she loved him very much. She even missed
him when he was gone.
Maria had always known that Kane was extremely moody and also knew of what
he had done in San Cristobal. She would never forget the night of his friend Major
Delong’s funeral and the look on his face. It was like cold stone in a frozen river. When
she had heard of Peter’s injury when the Third Brigade where he was serving as military
advisor had been overrun, she felt that she would die. She hadn’t realized how much she
loved him or wished to be with him. She had been his first visitor at Walter Reed Army
Medical Center. The military physicians in San Cristobal had taken excellent, first rate
care of him prior to his transfer to the States, but they had been unable to save his eye.
She remembered like it was yesterday walking in to see him on the med-surg
ward. She had been so afraid that the man who had last seemed so emotionless would be
even more so after his terrible ordeal. Instead, he had greeted her with happy abandon
that seemed so forced and untrue, she hadn’t been sure whether to laugh or cry. After he
had left the hospital weeks later, they saw each other increasingly infrequently until she
began to worry about him. She had finally walked in on him sitting alone in the darkened
filth of his small apartment holding a pistol to his head and getting ready to pull the
trigger. It was only with the greatest of care and the most honest, genuine expression of
her love that she had been able to talk him out of it, finally taking the pistol from his
shaking hand. From that moment on, she had refused to leave his side.
69
Little by little, he had begun going back to some of his regular activities. He
started exercising and reading, learning to cope with his missing left eye and compensate
for it. His outlook began to improve and soon he began to speak of going back to work.
He was on medical recovery leave from the Marines at this point, but began to attend
rehab and counseling at Maria’s urging. He eventually put in his discharge paperwork as
his service commitment was up, and when the Corps determined that he was fit, he
returned to civilian life.
It wasn’t long before a close relative of Maria’s began to speak to him about the
Philadelphia police department. He was a high-ranking officer and felt that despite
Kane’s missing eye, if he could pass all physical and firearm requirements, he might be
able to get a waiver to join the department given his outstanding combat record. After
months of tests, interviews, initial rejections, and disappointment, the right strings were
pulled and Kane was accepted into the academy. He had excelled. The day he
graduated, he felt that he had rejoined the human race. He and Maria were married
shortly thereafter.
It had never been easy being in love with Kane and now that he had become a
police officer, it was harder still. He became totally devoted to his calling and threw
himself headlong into his new career. She was glad for him and new that this was the
most therapeutic thing for him. The wounds he had received in San Cristobal ran much
deeper than the visible scars and the eye patch. Still, she began to settle into their life
together and knew that they were happy.
Now this undercover assignment had come up. Ever since the late-night phone
call a few months back, Kane had once again become distant. It was as if there was a
70
storm brewing inside him and something he had seen had brought back the agony of his
time in the war in San Cristobal. She knew he deeply internalized the conflicts he
witnessed both as a policeman and as a Marine before that. Nevertheless, it always made
her concerned about him and ambivalent about the future. She knew she would have to
get used to this too.
After cleaning up and fixing a light supper for herself, she decided she would go
shopping to take her mind off things.
She pulled into the Frankford Mall parking lot and was lucky to get a space near
the entrance. As she got out of her car, she noticed a group of men walking toward the
Ruby Tuesday’s just inside the mall entrance. They were converging toward her as both
she and the group headed toward the same sliding doors.
She couldn’t help noticing that there was something strange about these men.
Their eyes seemed lifeless and their faces were stony without even a hint of emotion.
One of them had a patch over his left eye—‘oh my God—it’s Peter!’ she thought. She
briefly let out a small gasp before stifling a cry of fear. What the hell kind of people was
he mixed up with? She quickly looked straight ahead but could feel him looking at her
back. She was terrified. A voice called her from behind.
“Hey, hot bitch—why don’t you join us for a drink? We could use some
entertainment,” the voice was mirthless and none of the group was laughing at this crude
joke. She turned and looked at them, stopping in her tracks. They had encircled her.
“What’s the matter, too many of us?” the same quiet, mirthless tone.
“You heard the man, sweetheart, answer him,” said Peter quietly.
71
She said nothing, but instead, walked up to Peter and slapped him hard on the
face. He didn’t move. Part of her action was an act to insure none of the group could
connect them and blow Kane’s cover. Part of it was an emotional response to the
hardness of her life with Peter and her underlying resentment at being alone so much.
Either way, it was convincing enough.
“Jesus, big tough Marine, you gonna take that?” chided Diaz, without a hint of
humor.
“I guess she just gave us her answer, didn’t she? Come on, let’s go inside—the
cold beer’s hotter and more fun than this bitch,” said Kane casually as he turned with the
group to go into the bar.
Maria stood there in stunned silence. Then she ran back to her car, got inside, and
began to sob.
It was late when Peter got back to the cheap motel where he was staying. He was
about as pissed off at himself as was possible and deeply regretted the encounter with
Maria. He knew that she was smart and thought quickly on her feet. That slap was
perfect to maintain his cover and keep the animals from getting suspicious or following
her up. Still, he felt somewhere inside himself that there was a hint of genuine anger and
resentment—maybe more than a hint—that lent such an air of credibility to her action. It
was thoroughly convincing to Diaz and company but also to Kane. He knew that she
wasn’t just acting. His face still seemed to sting though it had been hours since their
chance encounter.
72
Peter lay down on the double bed and stared at the ceiling. What kind of life had
he made for himself and his wife? Since his parents had died so many years ago, there
had never been anyone he cared so deeply about as Maria. She had literally saved his
life. In many ways, she had done so figuratively as well. She was the reason he got up in
the morning and he knew it.
All of this made the thought that he had hurt her even more painful and difficult to
bear. He had lost so many people in his life—his parents, Major DeLong and others—
that he couldn’t stand the thought of losing Maria. His mood became black.
‘What the hell is the matter with me? I’m such a worthless prick,’ was his first
thought as he plunged toward a dark depression. ‘Nothing I’ve ever done will ever make
a shit’s bit of difference to anyone. My life has been one big waste of time. I can’t seem
to ever get anything right and now I’ve just fucked up the one thing that I care about…’
His thoughts were like a downward spiral and, in his mind, he envisioned himself
circling a big drain, like being flushed down a toilet. When would he ever begin to enjoy
his life? When he saw images of people on television or ads or even the internet on the
very rare occasions he used it, they all seemed so happy. He knew all of this was
contrived—his tenure as a police officer in Philadelphia had shown him almost as much
human misery as he had witnessed in San Cristobal—but it affected him nonetheless. He
knew he’d never get rich as a cop but he didn’t care about that. He just wanted to feel
like a normal person and be able to stop fighting. So much of what he experienced on a
day-to-day basis felt to him like failure. It didn’t matter that he had actually been a good,
successful student in college; that he had been a top-flight Marine officer; or that he had
73
married a truly wonderful person in his wife. He still felt empty and black inside. His
present company wasn’t helping the situation.
What had been the presence in that simple, paneled room in the basement of Diaz’
house? Was it his nerves getting the better of him? Was the pressure of working with
these dangerous criminals getting to be too much for him? Was he finally losing control?
If the GREP attack on the Third Regiment in San Cristobal and the savage melee that he
was thrown into hadn’t been enough to finish him, why was this situation so impossibly
hard to deal with? He didn’t know what on earth Diaz was into, but Kane had begun to
literally fear for his mortal soul. He hadn’t been to church for decades and wasn’t sure he
even believed in God, but was beginning to sense something demonic about Beni Diaz
and his thugs. Life was so short—why should he be wasting it associating with people
like this? Especially if it might mean the end of his marriage. No police work was worth
this, no matter what the potential impact on public safety. His mood continued to darken
as he slowly came to the decision that he would go in to the office at the first chance and
recuse himself from the case and, eventually resign from the department. Even if it
meant greater feelings of failure, he couldn’t bear living like this anymore and knew that
if he was to keep his marriage intact, he would have to change. He vowed to himself that
he would. He slowly drifted off to a dreamless sleep.
It had been an exceedingly long day full of confusion and loss. One of Shotson’s
principle suppliers had gone missing and, shortly afterward, the promised shipment of
cocaine had never arrived. It was the same pattern that had been repeating itself over and
74
over again during the past few months and, if things didn’t come to a head soon, it would
put Shotson and Bass out of business.
Shotson was having increasing trouble finding men to serve as security and he
was also having trouble contacting his usual suppliers and distributors. He and Bass were
becoming like a couple of pariahs—nobody wanted to have anything to do with them.
He still had reserves and some loyal men he could count on, but the numbers were getting
fewer and fewer and he didn’t like the odds. He also didn’t like the feeling that he was
being observed. It was just an uncomfortable feeling like a nervous tic but he couldn’t
shake it. He drove his car slowly away from the old fruit and vegetable market that he
used to front his drug dealing. He often felt a twinge of shame when he drove away after
he had completed his day’s business. This fruit and vegetable market was still a
successful business even though he used it as a front for the much more profitable drug
trade. His grandfather had started the company and his father had grown the business
before handing it over to Shotson just before he died. Both men would be mortified if
they could see what he had become. The men that had come before him had been
hardworking and honest to a fault. It was just that he had grown up seeing the endless
toil and hard hours of back-breaking labor to make this market work just enough to get
by. Nobody in the Shotson family had ever wanted for anything thanks to his grandfather
and father, that was true, but they had never really been able to get ahead either. To both
of those men, an honest day’s work was, in many respects, its own reward. They had
both believed unfailingly in the American Dream which was represented to them by this
successful business.
75
Shotson had known from early on that he wanted more out of life. He had
married young and knew that he wanted to give more to his wife and then his kids then a
row-house in the city of Philadelphia and public school education. His family had never
asked for anything more, but he had wanted to give it to them anyway. As money grew
tight, gas prices rose, and food prices fell, Shotson began to look around for other
opportunities. It was during this period that Bob Bass had come into the market and
introduced himself. He had said that the market’s location near the waterfront was
perfect to help move some of his shipments of manufactured items into the city without
paying excessive customs and duties or the union wages of the dockworkers. Shotson
had initially rebuffed him, but Bass was persistent and the cut he offered kept increasing
until finally Shotson relented. He had given Bass and his men access to the market after
hours and they had moved their goods through by storing the contraband in the freezers
and warehouse areas in boxes marked as fruit. Shotson’s workers didn’t pay particular
attention and the boxes always were gone within a day or so. When the money started
rolling in, Shotson saw no reason to complain.
This went on for several months with bigger and bigger shipments that amounted
to larger and larger payments. The market for fruit had increased and everyone at
Shotson’s business assumed he had shrewdly compensated for the lower prices by
increasing volume and moving more goods. It wasn’t until Shotson had accidentally
knocked over one of the boxes after hours that he had discovered the real contents.
He had immediately called Bass to complain—Shotson had kids in school! A
little skirting of the rules for imported toys or clothes was one thing, but drugs? That was
a whole other ball of wax. Shotson had told Bass he wanted no part of it.
76
Bass had responded by telling him it was too late, he already was part of it and
that he had better accept it and move forward. This was working too well and everyone
was making too much money. Even the market had been thriving while all of this was
going on. Shotson gave it a lot of thought and finally called Bass back and said he
wanted to continue, even increase his share and responsibility. That was how he had
gotten started and at that point there really was no turning back. Eventually, he had
acquired the muscle and the knowledge to split from Bass and run his own operation,
though the two still worked cooperatively when necessary.
Now he had gotten used to a great lifestyle that included a beautiful field-stone
house in Ardmore up the Main Line, private school for his kids, and several fine
automobiles. The few times Shotson had been detained by police, he had told his family
that it was over unpaid taxes or mistakes inventorying shipments. They had never put
two and two together to link him to the drug trade, but perhaps they hadn’t wanted to.
Either way, Shotson had always maintained an air of complete legitimacy and
respectability that was convincing, though perhaps superficial. Neither he nor Bass had
ever had to resort to any serious violence and they had found plenty of ready manpower
to help the business—both the cocaine and fruit—grow steadily. It had been going along
like clockwork for several years with Shotson’s bank account having grown so steadily
that he had actually been considering retirement and turning the legitimate fruit and
vegetable business over to his son in a couple of years. He dismissed his guilt at running
drugs by rationalizing that nobody made anyone take the drugs, it was the user’s decision.
He only provided something that they would get somewhere else if not for people like
him and Bass. Still, when he drove out of his parking space behind the market at night,
77
he could not help feeling that his father and grandfather were somehow watching with
disapproving eyes.
He usually took the back streets that paralleled the waterfront before picking up
76 on his way to Ardmore. As he approached a quiet intersection, an old Ford Taurus
suddenly pulled out in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and, fearing for his life,
threw his Audi in reverse to try and get the hell out of this situation. Before he could do
so, however, another vehicle had come up behind him and blocked his route of egress.
He pulled out his handgun and opened the door to his vehicle to try and escape with a
mounting sense of panic. Just as he was stepping out of his vehicle, he felt a heavy blow
to the back of his head and saw a flash of white before he fell to the ground, the pistol
falling from his hand. His hands instinctively went up to his head as he rolled over on the
wet asphalt of the street, his knees drawing up so that he was curled into a ball. He was
roughly picked up and thrown into the back seat of his own car as someone slid into the
front seat driver’s side and put the still-running vehicle into drive. He was thrown into
the seat as the vehicle lurched forward and his head began to throb.
All three vehicles came to a stop in a few blocks, having turned to go to a deserted
pier. The men from the two vehicles got out as did the man who was driving Shotson’s
car. Shotson, still a bit drowsy from the blow to his head was dragged out of the back
seat and allowed to fall to the ground.
“Well, if it isn’t ‘The Boss’,” said Diaz with a sarcastic sneer on his curled lips.
His visage eschewed pure hatred.
“Jesus Christ, Diaz, are you trying to get yourself killed? You know Bass isn’t
going to let you live after this,” said Shotson, though he wasn’t even convincing himself.
78
“Fuck Bass, and fuck you, motherfucker, neither of you is gonna do shit except
die,” said Diaz with a calm air of finality. Shotson saw a small fire being lit and smelled
something burning that he couldn’t identify. He heard Diaz begin to chant in a language
that was unfamiliar to him but scared the living shit out of him. The words
seemed…malicious…and full of hate, even though Shotson couldn’t understand them.
“Beni, stop, please. I’ve got a family, we can work this out. I’ve got plenty of
money. Do you want more of the business? Is that it? You can run all of our networks
and interface with all of our suppliers…we can give you a bigger chunk…” Diaz, who
had been standing and chanting with his arms uplifted to the full moon that had risen over
Philadelphia harbor, suddenly stopped. Shotson managed to weakly smile to himself.
“So that’s it…you want more of the business! Well OK, why didn’t you say so?
We can work something out…we can…”
“No we can’t, Shithead, we can’t work anything out. I don’t want more of the
business, I want all of the business and I pretty much am on my way to gettin’ it,
especially with you out of the way.” He pointed his pistol at Shotson’s head.
“Wait, Goddammit, wait a second! You can’t just shoot me!”
“Can’t I? Just watch and see,” smiled Diaz.
Shotson looked into Diaz’ eyes and was shocked—there was nothing there. Once, when
Shotson was a kid, some of his father’s workers had fished a corpse out of the harbor near
the market. Before they could cover it up, Shotson had seen it—its eyes had been glassy,
dull, grey and lifeless. Diaz’ eyes looked exactly the same. A wave of terror and nausea
swept over Shotson.
“What do you want from me, Diaz?” he screamed with his last breath.
79
“Your soul,” said Diaz quietly just before he pulled the trigger.
80
CHAPTER 6
Carlos’ time had come. He was feigning confidence but there was fear in his eyes
and in his voice. He had not seen what was to happen, and he had no idea what lay in
store for him. He thought back to when Diaz had just returned to Philly from doing time
in the stockade and how Beni had told Carlos that he didn’t want his cousin mixed up in
any trouble. Since Beni had returned from South America, though, things were
completely different. None of the family wanted to have anything to do with him. Many
of his former contacts had died under circumstances that were difficult to explain away.
His eyes were dead and so was any semblance of conscience, morality or ethics he may
have once had. Diaz scared Carlos, but Carlos was tired of being just another bum who
couldn’t make anything of himself. He still lived at home with his mother and father for
Christ’s sake and he wanted respect and power—like Beni had. At this point, he knew he
would have to do whatever Diaz told him to get it. Now he was going to be brought into
Diaz’ circle. He just didn’t know what that involved.
The group entered the small house and trooped down the stairs. There were
young women in the living room who were sitting around not talking much. They rose
from the overstuffed sofas and followed dutifully down the stairs to the door of the room.
The group stopped outside. Kane felt his bones chill at the sight of the wooden paneling
and the simple wood door with the brass knob. He had stood alone outside this room and
had even gone inside before his fear overcame him. He grabbed Carlos by the
shirtsleeve.
81
“Listen…you don’t have to do this. Let’s go out and have a beer or something…”
but before Kane could finish, Carlos had been roughly shoved through the open door as
he looked back over his shoulder with terror in his eyes and sweat pouring down his face.
“What, are you going to help? Are you going to save my little cousin, you
fucking pussy? You can come inside and see the whole thing for yourself,” sneered Diaz.
“This piece of shit—he’s uninitiated.”
The way he said the word ‘uninitiated’ sent fear spiraling through Kane’s mind.
The group had turned its attention from Carlos and was now focusing its dead eyes on
Kane as one.
“Yeah, stay and watch, and let’s see how tough you really are,” said Simpson
coldly.
Carlos was forced into the chair in the middle of the small room and the door was
closed. He began to beg for release, claiming he had made a mistake and that he didn’t
really want to go through with it, though he still didn’t know what it was.
“Beni, you said you would take care of me and you didn’t want me mixed up with
the shit—let me go, Man, please!” shouted Carlos.
“Shut the fuck up, Primo, this is what you wanted so this is what you get. Jamal,
Perkins, hold him down and tie him to the chair.”
They did as they were told and Kane could only watch helplessly as Carlos’ eyes
bulged bigger and threatened to pop out of his head. They flitted back and forth rapidly,
as tears ran freely.
Diaz closed his eyes and began the unearthly chant. Simpson had lit a pipe and
blew the foul-smelling smoke of whatever burned in the bowl into Carlos’ face. His eyes
82
began to get bleary and the lids slowly lowered to where they were just half-open. He
had stopped struggling. Diaz voice grew louder until he threw his hands up as if in
supplication and then leveled his gaze at Carlos who sat still, eyes half-closed in the
chair.
Diaz closed the distance between himself and Carlos and bent to touch Carlos’
left cheek with his extended index finger as he shouted curses in a language Kane had
never heard.
Slowly, a slight blue turquoise glow sprang up beneath the skin of Carlos left
cheek. It rapidly grew brighter and seemed to form a more focused point of light below
his left eye. It seemed to be moving to the surface as blue veins coalesced around the
light, seemingly urging it to break through the skin. Finally, a glowing blue stone of
turquoise light erupted through the skin of the man’s cheek as his face seemed to peel
away from the ghastly brilliance like wilting flower petals. Carlos’ mouth opened in a
hideous scream that sounded to Kane like all the tortured souls of hell crying out at once.
The glowing blue light had now fully broken through and seemed to sit on Carlos’ cheek.
Soon, it began to migrate toward his left eye, cutting a furrow through the skin as it
cleaved a trail of smoking, blighted face behind it. It disappeared momentarily from sight
as it reached the lower lid of the left eye, then resurfaced in the eye itself. The screaming
stopped and the figure in the chair was now sitting upright, stock still as the glowing
blueness of the left eye, which was now a featureless, turquoise orb, slowly spread to the
right eye. Both eyes now glowed blue and the room was bathed in sickening turquoise
light as silence descended on the terrible scene. The face of the man in the chair was no
longer that of a man, but had become that of a departed soul—the Boss had returned to
83
this earth from the fires of hell.
“Why have you summoned me?” the demon-cursed soul quietly questioned.
“Why have you called me forth from the hell fires to which I consigned myself with my
earthly evil deeds? My soul still burns…”
As if to lend credence to the claims of the demon, Kane thought he could detect
smoke and vapor subtly rising from the figure as it sat impassively in the middle of the
room. Kane’s mind began to reject this…it simply couldn’t be real…couldn’t be
happening…what kind of sick trickery was this?
“We’ve called you forth because we seek information and you are bound to give
us what we seek…it is as it has been since the time before time…listen, answer, and
reveal all,” shouted Diaz, his arms still raised and his head still thrown back.
“Ask what you will,” responded the tortured soul.
“The big shipment that you were arranging when I killed you, where and when is
it coming in, and who’s in charge since you departed?”
The ghostly figure in the chair began to answer as the group crowded closer. As
places, names, times, amounts, and specifics that only Shotson could possibly have
known were revealed, it slowly dawned on Kane that this was no trick…Diaz and his
group had figured out how to use their own bodies as vessels to bring back the souls of
the dead so they could extract information—information they would then use to commit
further murders, get even more information, sell greater and greater quantities of drugs,
and eventually become extraordinarily powerful. With each criminal that Diaz murdered,
more information could be obtained so that a vicious circle of murder, information, more
murder, more information, and eventually domination would take place. This terrifying
84
cycle gave unprecedentedly nefarious meaning to the old catch phrase ‘knowledge is
power.’ It was Diaz who had murdered those gang members with a chemical weapon.
Imagine how much information he had obtained just from that one action! It had surely
been enough to put him on the path to total control of the Philadelphia drug trade. Where
had Diaz come up with all of this? How--where the hell did he learn to perform these
ghastly rites and do this terrifying insanity? Where would it all end? Kane knew as he
slowly backed toward the door of the room, that he didn’t want to find out. As the men
pressed closer to the blue glow, Kane silently opened the door and slipped outside of the
small room.
His eyes wear tearing and he couldn’t catch his breath. The light coming in
through the small basement window hurt his eyes. He took a moment to try and
reconnect with reality as he looked around the basement at the shoddy, well-worn
couches and the young women occupying them. The first girl was staring at the door to
the room and whispering to herself, tears streaming down her face. Another was talking
to herself in a little girl voice as she made circles on her knees with her fingers. Kane
started backing toward the stairway when someone shouted, “Look! Look at this!”
Kane whirled around and was confronted by the third young woman who had
been standing behind him and was now blocking his way. She was smiling broadly but
her hands shook. She held a crayon drawing such as a child might make that depicted a
red house under a bright blue sky with white, billowy clouds. On the green lawn were
two parents holding hands with a small, blonde-haired girl. A brown dog completed the
scene.
“It’s me, my mommy and daddy and my doggie, Jones. Do you like it?” Her
85
shaking hands now raised the childish picture up and thrust it into Kane’s face, as she
smiled vacantly, the light of sanity having left her eyes.
“Jesus Christ, I’m getting the hell out of here!” he shouted as he pushed past her
and sprinted up the stairs and out of the house.
Kane got behind the wheel of his car and fumbled desperately with the car keys.
His hands trembled as he tried to place the key in the ignition and get the hell away from
here. The late afternoon sun was slowly sinking behind a pall of grey clouds and haze.
The street was dead empty. Kane shook with terror—the terror that had driven him to
blindly seek escape from the desperate lunacy he had just witnessed. What if the demons
came for him? Through the fog of shadow swirling in his brain he somehow managed
finally to insert his key in the ignition and start his car. Without thinking he pulled away
from the curve and screeched off into the gathering gloom without even glancing in his
mirrors.
He drove without seeing until he had entered the city and continued fleeing
aimlessly as night fell and enshrouded downtown Philadelphia which was
uncharacteristically empty of pedestrians or traffic. He drove down empty street after
empty street until—what was that? Up in the distance, soft lights glowed with gentle
colors, speaking solace to Kane’s tortured brain. A massive, somewhat dilapidated
church loomed into his vision as he instinctively followed the lights to their source.
Without thinking, he pulled up in front of the old building and left his car half on the
sidewalk. He flung himself out onto the sidewalk and ascended the stairs to the front
entrance three and four at a time until he reached the heavy doors. For a moment he
86
hesitated: Would he no longer be welcome in God’s house after what he had seen?
Slowly, tentatively, his hand reached out. With trepidation and a shaking hand, he
touched the great brass knob on the church door. When he found that he was unharmed,
he turned the knob and threw open the door in one swift movement.
The soft warmth of the church’s interior immediately enveloped Kane as he
stumbled blindly inside. His eyes were wild as he stumbled up the aisle grasping the
edges of the pews as if he were climbing a ladder. The very few parishioners in the pews
turned to look and see what the commotion was all about.
“What are you looking at?” Kane shouted out to nobody in particular. “Have I
disturbed you? Have I done something wrong? Oh yes, oh hell yes I have! I’ve beaten
other men into the ground over a few words in a bar! I’ve fucked every whore from San
Cristobal to the Philippine Islands! I’ve killed men with a fucking entrenching tool until
I was swimming in blood! I’ve sinned, and sinned, and sinned again! But what I’ve seen
tonight—holy fucking shit—there is a devil and I fucking saw the son of a bitch this very
afternoon!”
Kane stood there staring at the altar, waiting for—he wasn’t sure what. Suddenly
he felt a presence behind him, a massive figure looming at his back. A giant hand gently
clasped his shoulder in a gesture of solace that Kane sensed hid the strength of ten men.
Kane’s eyes bulged out of his head in fear as he turned his head and looked at the
massive hand on shoulder. ‘First the devil, now the Angel of Death…’ he thought in his
despair.
87
“What is troubling you, My Son?” asked a soothing voice from behind him.
Kane’s terror and shame were suspended in a moment of disbelief. Could it be? Was it
possible? How could this be happening?
“Caballo…” whispered Kane, almost fearing to speak the name out loud. His
eyes bulging out of his head, not daring to believe it to be true, he slowly turned to face
the quiet voice that had appeared as if by magic as a lifeboat of sanity and memory to
cling to after the mental anguish of seeing young Carlos turned into an apparition from
hell.
Caballo, the mightiest warrior from the hell of San Cristobal; the one man who
had consistently chosen right in a war where right and wrong weren’t even considered by
most combatants; Caballo—the terrifying guerrilla fighter whose name had struck fear
into the hearts of the bravest FASC soldiers and then, when he had abandoned the GREP
insurgents, evoked the same terror amongst his former comrades. Caballo—the most
honorable man Kane had ever known was here, now.
Kane slowly looked up into the bigger man’s eyes and then, almost involuntarily,
let his gaze come to rest on the priest’s white collar that Caballo now wore.
“It can’t be you…how did you…you’re a priest?” the words tumbled out of Kane
in confusion and disbelief.
“Yes, My Son, it is me, and, yes, I am a priest…a man of God,” smiled Caballo
down at Kane. “My name is Ernesto Jimenez, which I don’t believe anyone ever actually
used when we last knew each other,” said Caballo, smiling gently.
Kane stared up at him for a moment longer, and then buried his face in his hands
and began to sob. Caballo gathered his old friend to his breast and held him for a
88
moment. Then, he gently turned Kane around and slowly walked him toward the rooms
behind the altar.
“Come, Peter, my friend, we have much to speak about,” said the priest as he
guided the younger man toward the safety and sanctuary of his offices.
“What happened Cab…Father Jimenez? Why did you choose the priesthood?”
“Did I not have enough of a tally of sins which demanded absolution? You
remember the killing we went through. As I recall, at our last meeting, you were
standing in a pile of gore, covered in blood from the men you had just killed and I had
just assisted the Regimental Commander in leading one of the bloodiest, most vicious
counterattacks in the history of that long and tragic war. We utterly routed the GREP and
left none that crossed our paths alive—many of those that died were my former
comrades-in-arms. I knew at that point, and have told myself since, that it was the right
thing to do to finally end the war and that thousands of lives were saved in the long run,
but I still live with doubt. I question everything I did in that war every day of my life and
always will. I knew that the only way I could find peace was to turn to the Lord and my
savior, Jesus Christ. My faith has helped ease the pain and guilt of what I’ve done, even
though I still believe—or at least tell myself—that I had no choice at the time. By
ministering to the spiritual needs of my parishioners, I feel that in some small way I can
make up for what I’ve done in the past,” said Caballo with the same gentle smile he had
worn earlier as he settled into his soft, well-worn leather chair. Despite all of the hell he
had gone through, thought Kane, here was a man that was finally at peace.
“But, Father, how did you end up here?” asked Kane, finally feeling safe and
beginning to relax here in the priest’s offices, secluded behind the holy sanctuary.
89
Caballo shook his head. “It was a long journey, to be certain. At first, I spent
several years working for the FASC, who gave me a field promotion to Coronel and even
offered me a regimental command at one point. I didn’t see the sense of it by then,
however, as the war was almost over, and the fighting that was still ongoing had basically
become a means of acting out one petty vendetta after another. Little by little, I began to
reconsider thoughts that I had entertained during our last engagement at the Third
Regiment that I would never be good at anything other than fighting and killing. I used a
training deployment to the States as a means of securing first a work visa, then
successfully argued that there were too many enemies of a political nature in San
Cristobal for me to safely remain there. That gave some highly placed personnel in the
State Department who felt that American foreign policy in San Cristobal had been greatly
advanced in no small part because of my actions an excuse to allow me to come here
permanently. I did work briefly for the Department of Defense and then the State
Department before finally realizing my life’s calling. Peter, I was empty and dead inside
before I came to know and love Jesus Christ, my savior. I learned through prayer, study,
and introspection that this was what I was meant to do. The road I travelled to arrive here
only made it all the more relevant in the end,” said the priest, with some earnest in his
voice.
“Now tell me, Peter, what brought you to me and put you into such a state of
panic and fear?” asked Caballo as he braced for what he knew would be a terrible answer.
“I saw something a little while ago—something that simply can’t be true, but it is.
I watched a group of criminals led by a vicious thug named Benjamin Diaz Villalobos
use a demonic rite with a language I’ve never heard and a ceremony I can’t describe, to
90
bring a soul from hell into the body of a living man. They do this to gain the information
and secrets that only the departed soul can tell them, and then use the knowledge to
increase their power and control over other criminals and the drug trade. They murder
their enemies, and then bring back the dead men’s souls from Hell using their own bodies
as temporary vessels. The dead seem compelled to answer any questions put to them, so
Diaz’ gang is using this insanity to learn about their enemies’ plans, shipments,
personnel, organizations, and everything and anything else that they think will give them
an edge.
“You know the hell I went through in San Cristobal, because you were there. But
this—this is by far the most shocking, terrifying experience I’ve ever faced. I’m done
with this…I’ve got to go back to the station and figure out a way to stop these guys
without everyone thinking I’ve lost my mind, which maybe I have. In the morning,
I’ll…”
“Peter, my friend, you must go back to these men and finish your work,”
interrupted Caballo, as he fought to keep the fear for his friend’s safety out of his voice.
“Wha…Why? Why should I? I don’t want to go to hell,” whispered Kane.
“You must because you are the only one who can stop them and they MUST be
stopped! These unholy rites and bringing the devil’s minions to earth will continue and
multiply. The adherents to this deviltry will grow in number. There is nothing beyond
the reach of this power—they could one day hold the whole earth in their grasp, and yes,
there are enough evil men and enough hunger for power to cover our world and our lives
in shadow. You are the only one who can stop this,” said Caballo, his voice quiet but
firm.
91
“I can’t, I can’t do it, I’m too afraid,” Kane had begun to sob.
“You can and you must. You need have no fear of hell, my friend, of that I can
assure you. I can also assure you of one other thing—when you need me, I will find you
and I will protect you.”
“But how? How will you know where I am? How will you know when I need
your help?”
“I will know,” said Caballo, believing what he said with all of his heart.
“But it’s the devil, how can you defeat the devil himself?”
Caballo looked directly into Kane’s eyes and said, “I have before.” He thought
back to his fellow guerilla El Buitre in San Cristobal and how he had taken care of that
little bastard. A smile curled the corners of the priest’s lips as he stared off into space
remembering how good it had felt to…
“What are you thinking of?” Kane asked, his fear replaced by curiosity as he
noted the odd look of satisfaction on Caballo’s face.
“Nothing, my friend, just an old acquaintance who I was reminded of,” smiled the
priest. “Now go, do what you must and know that I will be with you and I will be there
for you when the time comes.”
It had taken Kane several days of soul-searching and girding himself to return to
the group and try to re-ingratiate himself in the way he had prior to his terrifying
experience. He looked at the group differently at this point. Prior to seeing the truth of
what these men were, he had considered them simply brutal, vicious thugs without
conscience. Now, he understood their true nature.
92
Carlos had become particularly vicious since his initiation. It seemed to Kane that
the nicer, better a person was before going through the rites, the more profound the
personality change after. Kane did everything he could to avoid the young man with the
dead eyes and hate-filled countenance, but it seemed that the more he tried to stay away,
the more their paths crossed. Each time, Carlos gave him a look of suspicion and hatred
that made Kane’s skin crawl. Kane knew it was only a matter of time before they
demanded he go through the initiation, and was unsure of how he would react or what he
would do when the time came. He knew with more certainty than he had anything else in
his life that he didn’t want to. His turn arrived sooner than he expected.
93
CHAPTER 7
“We need to find out what’s going on. I’m getting the feeling that we’re not
staying below the radar and that people are asking around,” said Diaz, nodding at his men
as he spoke. “Someone is trying to tie us into some of the deaths of that pig Shotson’s
people. If they can do that, they can tie us into his death and then maybe even figure out
that we’re starting to set up shipments and everything else. They may figure out that
we’re taking control. We can’t have that,” concluded Diaz.
“No we can’t, and I think I know where to start,” said Carlos, who turned to level
his gaze on Kane.
“What in the fuck are you looking at me for? I don’t have any idea what you’re
talking about,” said Kane, concentrating hard to keep the fear out of his voice.
“It’s just that we really don’t know that much about you, and the way you showed
how chicken-shit you are when Carlos went through the ceremony, we’re starting to think
that maybe we can’t trust you, is all. I don’t know—maybe the ceremony will straighten
him out. What do you think, boys?” said Diaz, with a malicious smirk on his face.
“Yeah that’ll work, even if he is a rat, after his initiation, he’ll be one of us all the
way through,” concluded Carlos, still looking at Kane with a venomous expression.
Kane involuntarily began to stumble backward and stammer. He felt strong arms
grab him as the group held him firmly. His legs had gone to rubber.
“Come on, Pendejo, let’s get you downstairs so you can restore our confidence,”
Diaz laughed, as he followed the group literally dragging Kane toward the door to the
finished basement.
94
Once downstairs, they opened the door to the small room and threw Kane roughly
into a chair and tied him into place with strong rope. The panic was rising in Kane’s
mind as he began to beg and mindlessly plead with the group for his release. He had seen
what these men had gone through and he had seen what the experience had turned Carlos
into and he knew that he wanted to live, not have his humanity die and finish life as a
walking, dead, soulless demon. He struggled hard against the ropes and tried to tip the
chair and lash out any way that he could, but this only brought on bouts of malevolent
laughter from the group. The lights seemed to dim and fade, and Kane smelled the
intoxicant burning and knew that his time had come. He began to pray as he shut his
eyes tightly, hoping that somehow, his soul would be saved but knowing his inevitable
fate. The strange and terrible chant had begun.
Suddenly, Kane’s surroundings simply fell away and he was floating above a sea
of blue, luminescent turquoise color. It seemed endless, and was infinitely peaceful and
he experienced a momentary sensation of weightlessness and a feeling of complete bliss.
His mind lost track of what he was going through and of his circumstances and he
suddenly found himself back in the familiar green of the San Cristobal jungle. He was
following a small child over the most rugged terrain he had ever seen, along twisting,
steep trails that were barely visible. He did this easily, now, however, not with the effort
it had taken him the last time he followed a little girl through this jungle.
As before, they came to a clearing and looked down on the village below, neatly
arranged and peaceful. Kane had the feeling of coming home. He moved out of his
position and descended along the steep slope until he reached the outskirts of the village.
95
He briefly looked behind him and then, when he returned his gaze to the front, the ancient
Tiche chief he had known so long ago was standing in front of him.
“It is good to see you again, Tihuete, you have travelled very far.”
“You remember me—was it a long time ago?” asked Kane of the much older
man.
He shrugged. “Not as long as you might think. You have come to the wrong
place with this journey,” said the Tiche with a gentle smile.
“How do you know?” asked Kane, somewhat fearfully.
“Look,” commanded the elderly chief with a sweep of his hand.
The village had disappeared and in its place a purple-black creep that had a
leaden, unreal quality about it. Periodically, a tortured, mutilated, disfigured body would
jut up out of the ooze and the apparition’s face briefly looked up at Kane’s. His eyes met
the eyes of each horrifying figure for just a moment before it disappeared from sight.
Many had been impaled, many hung, and many flayed. Kane couldn’t take his eyes away
from the nightmare vision.
“What is this?” he asked of his host.
“It is what they want you to see. I told you many years ago that the Tinoc were
foolish and brought about their own demise. So are the Moche, just as foolish. I told you
that we are the people, we are timeless, and we control. Now you know it to be true. As I
guided you before, I will guide you again,” said the elderly man without any trace of
doubt or lack of confidence in his voice.
Now, Kane began to experience the sensation of being engulfed in searing heat
and flame, and he began to scream. The sensation grew more intense and encompassing
96
until he felt he was burning alive. The weight of all of the tortured souls consigned to
hell since the beginning of time crushed him. He could see now all of the ritual torment
and cruelty being visited upon hell’s victims that had led them to become the anguished
figures breaking up through the purple-black morass. It cut through his heart and soul
like cauterizing steel. Kane’s agony was unabating pain. He continued to scream and
struggle as he felt his skin char and peel away.
The group had now stood back to watch the transformation process take place.
The blue glowing stone erupted through the skin of Kane’s left cheek after festering
under the surface interminably, almost as if it had had to make up its mind. This had
caused consternation in the group, as they had never seen anything quite like this before.
Finally, though, the blue, glowing stone had broken through Kane’s skin and begun its
malignant migration toward his left eye. It slowly ascended toward its target as Kane,
from his vantage point overlooking hell, screamed continuously. It rose, cleaving a
furrow through the skin of his cheek and, just as it reached the bottom of the eye patch
Kane wore, stopped.
The blue stone wavered in its position for a moment, seeming to vibrate with
uncertainty. It began to ascend again for a moment then stopped and actually, to the
shock of the watching group, retreated back down the cheek. Another attempt to ascend
into the eye stopped short at the eye patch. This continued for a few more minutes before
the blue, glowing stone, as if in defeat, disappeared back into the skin of Kane’s cheek.
97
The pain stopped. Kane was standing before a small river deep in the jungle of
San Cristobal with the Tiche beside him. He said “Your fate is not to become a demon. I
will guide you to safety. You saved one of our people once and so, we must always
follow your spirit and see your return to the living. We will never fail you in this, so
have no fear. As you have been told, you must defeat the arrogant, heartless Moche or
the world could fall. This is your task, and now you know you can do it.”
“I think I may be able to,” said Kane.
“From here, cross the creek, follow the trail on the other side straight and walk
until you are out of the jungle and in a field of light. I will be with you as I have
promised,” smiled the old man who turned and disappeared into the jungle.
Kane looked after him for a moment then started on his way.
He slowly opened his eyes as he came back to the small room in the finished
basement of the row house in Philadelphia. He looked up and noticed, with some
consternation, that the group was staring at him and—was that fear on their faces?
“What’s going on?” Kane asked with indifference—he knew he could face them
and do whatever he needed to in order to take these bastards out of circulation. He would
do it even if meant his own life; it would be worth it to send them all to hell where
demons belong. “How about getting me out of this shit RIGHT FUCKING NOW, YOU
BUNCH OF WORTHLESS PRICKS!”
They actually jumped to do what Kane said. All of them, that is, except for Diaz.
98
CHAPTER 8
It was dark, cold, and miserable on the night Benavidez had taken Kane along
with him and several others of the group to the docks. No one had told Kane the meaning
of the trip, and he surmised that they there to either arrange the arrival of a shipment of
narcotics, or to meet smuggled drugs coming off a container ship. Either way, Kane
figured he would have enough information to arrange to bring out a swat team and arrest
them at their safe house. Despite his suspicions and the knowledge of their unholy
rituals, he really didn’t have any solid evidence of wrongdoing; they were extremely
tight-lipped and still didn’t fully trust him.
As he lay on the roof of a building overlooking a clear loading area, he saw two
figures emerge slowly from the shadows and approach each other. Even in the dim light
he thought he could make out Bass. Bass was alone, which, in and of itself, was unusual.
He seemed in a hurry and nervously approached the second man. Kane couldn’t make
out the second figure but thought that there was something familiar about the easy,
athletic gait and the man’s apparent fitness. As the two moved into a dim light cast by an
overhead lamp, he still wasn’t sure about the identity of the second man who wore a
brimmed hat against the cold. Still, Kane couldn’t help feeling there was something
familiar about the man’s appearance. Then, he heard it.
“Come on, God damn it, let’s get going and get the fuck out of here. I’ve got a
terrible feeling about this,” said Bass whose voice was shaky.
Cohen looked at him with concern. He had known Bass for quite a while and had
never seen him this unnerved. Could it have to do with Shotson’s disappearance? That
99
would be order of business number one when they fully debriefed Bass back at the
station.
“Simmer down, Man, I’ve got you,” laughed Cohen, “my car’s right over there.”
Cohen turned and pointed to his vehicle parked in the darkness.
“Fine, let’s get going, I ain’t waiting around to disappear like fucking Shotson…”
The unholy, rhythmic chanting of the hushed incantation that Kane was now
becoming familiar with, began to quietly emanate from Diaz, who was lying next to
Kane. Kane involuntarily shifted away in repulsion. When he turned to look at Diaz,
Diaz was aiming down the telescopic sight of a high-powered rifle. Kane looked back at
the two men in horror. The second man had taken off his hat and was thoughtfully
running his hands through his hair as he listened intently to Bass who seemed to be
ranting and raving and was gesticulating his arms wildly about. The second man was
Josh Cohen. Kane desperately turned to reach over and try to grab the rifle from Beni but
it was too late. The round went off and Kane numbly stared back at the two men. Cohen
took a step backward, staggered and fell to the ground just as additional shots rang out
and felled Bass. Kane had just seen his best and only friend shot down in cold blood and
had been unable to do anything about it. He felt as if his very soul had shriveled into his
shoes. He reached out his hand toward the two fallen figures in a helpless gesture of
desperation and despair. Then he turned to Diaz with blood and fury in this brain.
“What the fuck have you done, you mindless piece of shit!” Kane screamed as he
grabbed Diaz by the throat. Diaz was still laughing and Kane looked down to see the
rifle pointed at his chest. He slowly let go.
100
“So, I finally got a rise out of you, eh? There’s no way I was going to tell you
why we were coming out here, because you wouldn’t have come. I have no idea why we
couldn’t initiate you, but now we can trust you, because you’re accessory to murder.
Hey, they were just scumbag drug dealers like me, right?” Diaz laughed into the dark
night.
Kane put his head into his hands and began to shake. Diaz looked at him
quizzically.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you. I thought you were some kind of hardassed killing machine.”
Kane said nothing. He wanted to tear Diaz apart but now knew he would have to
wait for the right moment. He got up and tried to walk away, nearly losing his balance.
He climbed down from his vantage point and walked to the vehicles where they had been
hidden in an abandoned warehouse. The whole way, he could feel the scoped sight of
Diaz’ rifle on his back. When he got back to his car, he got in, closed the door, drove
back to the safehouse, and parked out front. Then, he began to sob. He was startled by a
sudden rapping on the driver’s side window. It was Carlos’ mother.
“Open the window, please. I want to speak to you,” she said in voice heavy with
sorrow.
Kane wiped the tears from his eyes, opened the door and stepped out of his
vehicle. “What is it?”
“Please help me, I am begging you. My poor Carlos—he’s not the same. He’s
angry and vicious. He’s so full of hate. He’s my only child—my only son. Can’t you
help him?” she pleaded with him
101
Kane took her by the shoulders and looked into her dark, brown eyes, which were
tearing up as she spoke. He held her gently as tears fell from his own eyes.
“I can’t. He’s been taken—taken by El Susto.”
102
CHAPTER 9
It was time to reap the harvest of the murder they had committed. The vessel sat
in the chair, already becoming intoxicated while Diaz muttered the terrifying incantation
that would raise the soul of the dead for interrogation. Kane stood in the corner, still
terrified by this process. Only fate had intervened and kept him from becoming a living,
waking demon like the others and his mind still had difficulty accepting what his eyes
saw.
Now the spell was complete and stillness hung in the air. The group still had not
learned of Cohen’s true identity and sought to raise him first. For enemies killed without
a known name, the spell used special words along with the place of the murder. In this
case, however, try as they might, the vessel was not to be filled. Their fellow murderer
sat still in the chair, his head lolling about, unaware of his surroundings. Diaz tried again
and again to raise Cohen, unknowing that the police officer’s fate was not consignment to
hell. Finally, in frustration, Beni began again from the start, this time with the intention
of bringing Bass from his place in hell. He was successful.
“Why have you summoned me from the hellfires to which I consigned myself?
My soul still burns and will burn forever. There can be no peace for me, so ask me what
you will,” said the stony figure, glowing blue, eyes blank, featureless, and alight with the
turquoise fire that was so familiar to all of the men in the room.
“We tried to raise the man who was with you when you fell—we could not. Who
was he and why will he not appear?” demanded Diaz.
103
Diaz was answered with only silence.
“You must answer, me, I command you, where is the bastard who was with you
that night?” shouted Diaz, his voice only slightly betraying fear.
“He is not with us. He does not dwell in the depths,” was all that was said.
“Who was he? Was he a cop? Answer me!”
Only silence.
“Have we been betrayed? Who can we trust?” fear was now apparent in Diaz’
voice. The group began to hurl questions at the seated figure, pacing back and forth,
shouting nonsensical questions, and becoming more and more frightened and agitated by
the moment.
Still they were met with silence.
Finally, Carlos, who had been quietly leaning against the wall, himself stonily
silent, gave Kane a hateful glare and lunged at the seated figure, grabbing the glowing
figure and pushing his face close to the likeness of what had been Bob Bass. He shook
him viciously and screamed into his face, “Tell us what we want to know you dead
motherfucker, or I’ll follow you to hell and kill you again!”
The group fell into stunned silence. Carlos eyes bulged out of his head and his
veins stood out prominently on his forehead. He looked like he had taken complete leave
of his senses until, for just a moment, his eyes cleared and he looked back at Kane with a
quizzical, uncertain look. When he looked back at the apparition, he saw with horror that
instead of staring blankly ahead, the ghost had fixed its deathly gaze directly on him. The
eyes of the unholy thing in the chair burned into his. To the astonishment of the group,
the vessel, filled as it was with the tortured soul of Bob Bass, slowly rose from the chair,
104
its eyes never loosening their crushing grip on Carlos. It rose to its full height as the
walls and ceiling seemed to disappear and blue flame engulfed the two figures in the
center of the room. Carlos’ face was contorted with terror, but he seemed unable to let go
of the figure as it continued to grow out of proportion to the confines of the small room
where the horrifying spectacle was taking place. When the figure had fully stood, Carlos’
feet dangled limply in the air, his eyes still fixed by the malignant glare of the blue figure
before him. With only the slightest nod of its head, Carlos was flung to the floor as the
figure continued to fix his eyes with its own. Unable to break its gaze, Carlos began
crawling backward toward the corner of the room begging for mercy the whole time as
the rest of the group rapidly moved away from him in fear. It was too late.
The apparition, with vicious hatred in its eyes, slowly reached its hand toward
Carlos’ cringing figure as he continued to back away along the floor. The giant had
grabbed Carlos as his eyes bulged from his head and his mouth formed a guttural scream
of helplessness. Carlos’ face lengthened and his form seemed to become elastic as fluid
color seeped from his body and was drawn toward the blue giant. His last earthly act was
to break the giant’s gaze and turn to look at Kane, his eyes pleading for just a moment.
His soul was pulled first toward and then into the towering blue form. When it was over,
the giant retook his seat. The likeness of Bob Bass slowly vanished.
The light came up in the room, as the terrified occupants were unable to move,
still not fully comprehending or believing what had happened. The vessel was starting to
come around, still seated in the chair. Carlos lay dead in a corner of the room.
The vessel slowly shook his head free of cobwebs and, as his vision cleared, he
looked around the room. The members of the group—to a man—were pushed against the
105
wall and staring at him in open-mouthed horror.
“What happened?” was all he could muster.
106
CHAPTER 10
It had gotten out of control. Having witnessed Cohen’s murder and the terrifying
incident with Carlos had convinced Kane that it was time to bring Diaz and his thugs
down for good. He had attempted to contact his department, but became convinced that
he was being watched and tailed. He didn’t dare leave the demons for too long. God
only knew what they would do to him if they were able to blow his cover and find out
who he really was. He felt certain that they were deeply suspicious and distrustful of him
no matter what he did at this point, and he was scared.
He had been unsure of whether they had discovered his attempt to contact his
superiors but had finally overheard them surreptitiously voicing suspicions about him and
knew his time with them was up. His only choice was to flee.
He had slipped out of the townhouse muttering some pretense to the assembled
groupies and jumped into his car. He had driven toward Philadelphia in a panic, feeling
certain that it was time to bring this horrible experience to a final close. He had chosen a
less-travelled route into Philadelphia and was attempting to insure that he had not been
followed.
As he slowly cruised down the quiet streets, the neighborhood began to take on a
familiar look, but Kane couldn’t quite place it. He was beginning to feel a bit less shaken
and starting to calm down a bit. It would be irrational to think that he had been followed.
What was it about these streets that seemed familiar?
Suddenly, his forward progress was blocked by a large SUV that had seemingly
appeared out of nowhere. Before he could back up, he was blocked from behind. It had
107
to be Diaz! Kane opened the door, jumped from his car, and ran for his life into a blind
alley just ahead of where he had been stopped. The demons jumped from their vehicles,
chased him to the end of the short alley, and quickly surrounded him.
The group of men that had cornered Kane in the alley had drawn their weapons
and encircled him. He looked up at Diaz as his mouth went dry.
“Beni, I fucking swear, you got this wrong,” said Kane, though he knew he was
less than convincing.
“Fuck you, man, we’re gonna beat the crap out of you until you talk, and then
we’re gonna kill you,” said Diaz without emotion. “Give it to him, Chicos.”
The group descended on Kane and began to savagely pummel him as he saw
bright flashes with each blow to the head. He was beginning to lose consciousness when,
out of the deepest recesses of his mind, he thought he could make out the words of the
Lord’s Prayer. First, it was recited in English; then in Spanish; then in a language Kane
couldn’t understand, but which sounded familiar in his dazed state. Heavy footfalls
sounded in the alley as the source of the prayer was evidently coming closer. Kane
struggled to look in the direction of the commanding voice, whose sound echoed power
off the walls of the alley, filling the area with a kind of thunder. The beating stopped.
Kane looked up through half-closed eyes and could make out the dead eyes of the
group staring in terror toward the approaching figure. A blinding brilliance of pure white
light suddenly flashed forth from behind the giant man, illuminating his silhouette. His
arms were raised toward the dark heavens. In his left hand was the Holy Cross. His eyes
shone forth with blazing fury from his skull as he fixed the cowering criminals in his
gaze. He wore a short-sleeved black shirt with the priest’s white collar revealed at the
108
neck. His trousers and boots were black. His belt was shining black leather with a
gleaming silver buckle. His long black hair and the black cape he wore blew back wildly
in the swirling wind that had come up seemingly out of nowhere and was now beginning
to beat the frightened group with detritus from the alley floor. Kane stared in disbelief.
The white light had turned the faces of the men of the group into contorted, twisted
visages as they cowered in fear at the vision of the approaching giant. Only Diaz was
unafraid.
“Let’s see if you’re bullet-proof, motherfucker,” he said as he aimed at the
priest’s chest.
As he began his controlled trigger pull, the wind kicked up and blew an empty
soda can into his gun hand just as he fired a round. The bullet hit the raised cross and
dropped harmlessly to the alley floor. The cross didn’t move an inch. Caballo looked at
the cross in his raised left hand then looked back at Diaz whose face registered shock and
disbelief. The mighty guerrilla fighter covered the short distance between himself and
Diaz instantly, and, before Diaz could recover and re-aim, Caballo grabbed him by the
throat. The priest lifted Diaz into the air by his neck as the terrified criminal dropped his
weapon and flailed his arms and legs helplessly, before clutching Caballo’s outstretched
right arm with both of his hands.
“The power of almighty God has defeated you, Evil Demon! Your foul magic is
no match for the might of HEAVEN ABOVE!” shouted the priest as he flung Diaz out of
the alley and into the street. “Be gone Demons—Hell awaits you! Leave this good man
in peace or you will all be destroyed!”
Kane looked up at the massive figure towering above him and registered shock
109
and disbelief as he realized that the cross still held aloft in Caballo’s left hand was now
glowing white and was framed with a brilliant orange and red fire. He shielded his eyes
and began to sob. Caballo stood over him waving the fiery cross at the criminals,
ushering them away from the scene as they desperately shot out of the alley and into the
night.
Caballo’s gaze followed after them long after they were gone. He remained
standing protectively over his friend and former comrade-in-arms for a long time before
he kissed the cross and hung it around his neck. He knelt down and tenderly put a hand
on Kane’s shoulder. “My friend, you are going to be alright. I must get you to a doctor.”
“How could you have known? How could you have come here?” spluttered Kane
through bloody lips.
“I often walk these streets to see if any of my flock need tending. One of them
did,” Caballo answered softly.
Kane remained curled up in a ball sobbing quietly into his hands. Caballo waited
until Kane quieted, then, he carefully, lovingly picked him up and hoisted him on his
shoulder. He walked the few blocks to the nearest emergency room with his old friend
hanging limply over his shoulder.
110
CHAPTER 11
The time had finally come to take down Diaz and his gang of murderous thugs.
Though his chief had told Kane that he could be excused from the raid given all that had
happened, Peter had insisted on leading the tactical team. Though his boss had had
reservations—Kanes’ very nature had seemed to change since he had gone undercover
and witnessed Cohen’s death—he had relented under the hard gaze and apparent cold
indifference demonstrated toward his friend’s murderers by his subordinate. Nothing
could have been farther from the truth; it was simply that Kane’s experience had given
him the ability to completely mask his emotions. This had helped him survive his unholy
ordeal. The other thing was that since returning to the station, Kane scared everyone a
little, and his boss was intimidated enough to want to avoid a confrontation.
So it was that at 0500 on a Wednesday, the police very quietly cordoned off both
ends of the block where Diaz’ safe house was located and evacuated the houses on either
side. The tactical vehicles pulled up in front of the house, which was quiet at this hour as
Kane had told the team it would be.
From a covered position, Kane pulled out a bullhorn.
“Diaz…you’re completely surrounded and cut off. Slowly open the front door of
the house and you and your men come out with your hands in the air. This is the only
warning and opportunity to surrender you will receive.” Kane put down the megaphone
and waited for an answer.
The answer was not long in coming as automatic weapons fire poured out of the
windows facing the police vehicles. It came from both floors. Kane thought that since he
111
had left the group their numbers must have grown. He calmly gave the order to return
fire.
Since he had thoroughly briefed the tactical team on what to expect, the men had
taken covered positions and had their automatic weapons trained on the small house. The
police returned a vicious volume of fire that tore through the windows, door and siding of
the house.
Inside the house, Diaz was genuinely calm and did not demonstrate even the
slightest trace of fear. He poured well-aimed automatic weapons fire at the police
positions, forcing some of the officers to duck behind hastily-erected barricades. Diaz
laughed inwardly, his deviltry having given him a sense of invincibility—until he saw
something…
Out of the corner of his eye, Diaz thought he saw a flurry of motion, almost a
shadow where one of his men was standing returning fire at the police. He didn’t want to
take his eye off the pinned-down target to look, but, for the first time since the Peruvian
jungle, he actually began to become afraid. There it was again!
He lowered his weapon and looked to his right, where he realized with a shock
that two of his men were dead. The third man with him on the second floor was still
firing at police, apparently oblivious to the deaths of his fellows.
Suddenly, this man lurched up, clutched at his throat where a froth of blood was
jetting out, and struggled to turn and look at Diaz. As he faced Diaz, his eyes looked
down to the floor and, in an instant, a massive pair of bestial and hairy arms that
terminated in sharp claws smashed up through the floor in a shattering of splintered wood
before burying their talons deep in the man’s face, neck and chest. He screamed in agony
112
and terror before being dragged into the floor by the apparition. In as quick of an instant,
the arms were gone and the lifeless, soulless body of the villain laying on the floor in an
ever-enlarging pool of blood was all that remained.
Diaz’ eyes went wide with fear and terror. This was his fate. He dropped his
weapon and crawled across the floor to the stairway leading to the first floor. As he
slinked down the stairs amid the maelstrom of violence in the safe house, he watched
from the top of the stairs as his two remaining men were hit and suffered a similar fate to
what he had just seen.
There was no more fire coming from the house and Kane gave the order to
ceasefire. The police waited tensely with their weapons trained on the house for any
further violence of action. There was none.
“Don’t shoot, PLEASE DON’T FUCKING SHOOT ME! I surrender…I
FUCKING SURRENDER…DON’T KILL ME…I DON’T WANT TO GO TO
HELL…MY GOD…please let me live…” came a voice from inside the house.
“Open the door and come out with your hands behind your head,” commanded
Kane. He knew it was Diaz, but was surprised to hear the fight having gone out of him to
such an extent.
The door slowly opened and Diaz stepped into the early morning light of the
sunrise. There was a look on his face like none Kane had ever seen. A few of the
officers stared at Diaz in disbelief. A few even turned away, themselves stricken with
fear at the expression they had seen.
“Is anyone else in there?” Kane called. No response. “I said, is anyone else in
there?”
113
“Wha…no…all dead…in hell…what the fuck have I done?” Diaz wailed as he
fell to his knees on the stoop, buried his face in his hands and began to sob.
Kane walked forward without even carrying a weapon. He placed the handcuffs
on Diaz who looked up at him with staring, bulging eyes.
“Peter…what the fuck…” was all he could muster before he stared off into space
and began to mutter incomprehensibly.
“Take this piece of shit away before I puke,” was all Kane could manage.
114
CHAPTER 12
Peter and Maria had just moved into a new apartment in an older part of the city.
It was almost like living in the country out here, with tall trees, lush lawns and gardens,
and little traffic on the cobblestoned streets. Kane knew they would love living here.
The apartment was still nearly empty, only their bed had been set up, and the
wood floor was still bare and a little dusty. The brass headboard was a little tarnished,
but he could smell the fresh laundry scent of the sheets as he looked around at the boxes
and clutter. He smiled to himself as he thought of how important this move and a fresh
start would be for them.
He was standing near the door to the left of the bed, which led directly out into the
empty, somewhat dark hallway of the building where they had found this beautiful old
apartment with the high, ornate ceilings and weathered hardwood floors. For a moment it
struck him as odd that the doorway from their bedroom led straight into the hallway of
the building, but just then, his thoughts were interrupted by loud music coming,
perhaps—he wasn’t sure, from inside his own apartment and echoing loudly in the empty
hall outside their bedroom.
“Honey, that’s awfully loud, can you turn that down? Honey?” he called out to
Maria. No answer.
“Maria, can you turn that down?” he shouted. He realized at that moment that he
was alone.
His confusion was suddenly compounded by a tapping sound coming down the
hall toward his open door. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
115
Without warning, a young woman, a teenager really, dressed in a ballerina’s outfit
twirled violently through the open door leading into the hall and began twirling a course
past him and around his bed. She had dirty blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail and
her outfit suddenly seemed out-of-date to him for a reason he couldn’t fathom.
Her feet kept up the incessant tap-tap-tapping as she spun clumsily, her feet
hitting the floor in a random, rhythm-less pattern. Kane’s eyes widened and his heart
filled with fear as the grayish tone to the girl’s skin and the closed eyes revealed to him
her true nature. She was dead—a ghost. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. She spun and spun as she
described awkward circles on the floor in her course around his bed. Somehow, in a
manner he couldn’t quite discern, she passed through the bed to stop and come to rest
between him and the door from his bedroom into the hallway.
She stopped before him, her eyes still closed and her body swaying as her head
lolled to one shoulder, before she fell, faint and exhausted, toward Peter. Without
thinking, he caught her frail young body as she fell. Her head and shoulders draped over
his left arm as he looked down at her with fear and consternation; she never opened her
eyes. She drew no breath. She was dead. Could a dead girl die? How was it that he—
that anyone—had not been able to save her? How could this have happened? The room
turned pitch black. Something stirred in the corner of the room, something terrible.
Formless, shapeless, threatening, unseen, hideous.
“Stay away from her, you filthy beast, haven’t you done enough?” he still held the
corpse in his arms. “Let’s see if you’re bulletproof, motherfucker!” Where had he heard
that before?
His right arm pulled away from the dead girl he held tenderly and he swept it back
116
along his rib cage, brushing his sport coat away, before sliding his hand down his side to
the .45 caliber pistol in its holster. His thumb released the safety in the smooth, practiced
motion that had become muscle memory for him by now. He felt the pistol grip and grip
safety wedged between his thumb and fingers and withdrew the pistol, bringing it straight
up along his side until it was at the level of his chest before turning it toward—what?
Whatever he knew to be looming toward him in the total darkness.
He presented the pistol with the front sight at eye level and began pushing it
toward his target while beginning his controlled trigger pull. But he couldn’t do it; he
simply couldn’t get his index finger to pull the trigger. What the hell was wrong with
him? His hand felt like it was frozen, or perhaps like it was somebody else’s hand and he
had no control over it. Why couldn’t he squeeze that goddamned trigger?
Sweat began to pour off of him as he still held the body of the girl with his left
arm and pointed his pistol into the darkness with his right. Though there was no light, he
somehow saw his front sight. The deadly presence came nearer, but still he couldn’t pull
the trigger.
“What does this mean?” came a silky, guttural voice from the dark. Kane lowered
his pistol. The girl was gone. “What does this mean?” it demanded again.
“It means you don’t get him. You can’t have your way anymore. I have nothing
to fear from you,” Kane spoke quietly, defiantly to the darkness.
“You have everything to fear from me, everyone fears me, even the Moche know
me and fear me. You are nothing. You have betrayed everyone. You have betrayed
yourself. You have always failed at everything you’ve tried and you will continue to fail
at everything. You’ve seen what I can bring you, or what I can take away. How can you
117
not fear me? You’re nothing.”
“I’ve defeated you and your minions. I have nothing to fear from you because I
believe in God. When a man believes in God, you are powerless and even more useless
than someone like Diaz. I am not afraid of you now, nor will I ever be afraid of you
again. You have lost, I’ve won,” said Kane, finally.
“I can still destroy you and everything you care about, I can…”
“Shut your mouth and stop trying to take credit for simple misfortune. Don’t tell
me what I’m like or who I am and don’t ever threaten me, you malignant bastard. I’ve
never failed at anything I’ve tried, certainly not because of you. You want to throw my
own doubts and uncertainty in my face, fine. I faced you down and wiped you out in San
Cristobal and I kicked your ass in Philadelphia. You can’t have Diaz, I’m not finished
with him. Now kindly go fuck yourself.”
Kane slowly awoke from a deep, troubled sleep and a disturbing, frightening
dream, which he remembered vividly. He lay for a moment with his eyes closed
breathing deeply, realizing he was now completely awake. He opened his eyes to the
kind gaze and gentle smile of his wife, Maria.
“Come on, Kiddo, I know this is going to be tough, but you’ve got to get up and
get going or we’ll be late,” she said.
Now he knew exactly what he must do. He smiled back at her though a tear ran
down his cheek.
“I know. I’ll be ready.” He knew he would be. He also knew nobody would
understand, but he had to finish this on his terms. He slowly got out of bed, then he
118
started getting ready.
“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I believe that we’ve laid out in no
uncertain terms what the defendant has done over the past year. He has pursued a
criminal course of murder, destruction and narcotics trafficking that has made our great
city categorically unsafe. Though we have been unable to prove his direct involvement
in the chemical weapons attack on members of a rival drug-running gang, evidence does
indicate that he may have made use of his extensive knowledge of these weapons gained
during his military service available to those who did carry it out.
“We have proven definitively that he and others in his group, now all deceased,
were directly responsible for the murders of a number of members of other drug gangs
and organized crime and that they had held, at least for a time, these other groups under a
reign of terror from which the only escape was death.
“We know with certainty that Mr. Diaz was directly responsible for the murder of
police detective Joshua Cohen, though he clearly did not know of Detective Cohen’s
status at the time of the murder and counsel for the defense has argued that Mr. Diaz
believed he was shooting another drug dealer. Still, he is guilty of murder. Our city
mourns the loss of an exemplary police officer killed by this heartless, conscienceless
murderer who thought only of his own personal gain and power and, if not for the efforts
of men like Joshua Cohen and,” he looked over at Kane sitting in the first row of
observers’ benches, “Detective Peter Kane.”
A number of the police officers and even the judge looked briefly at Kane with
nods of approval. He really didn’t even notice but was lost in thought and was, at that
119
moment, far away.
How did all of this happen? Where had this journey taken him and to what end?
He now believed what Caballo had told him—that the power of the Moche really could
lead to mankind’s enslavement. Only their isolation and persistent belief that somewhere
in distant lands their empire still existed kept them from more malicious expansion of
their cult of the dead. Diaz had honed this profane art to near perfection, killing solely
for the purpose of bringing the tortured souls to earth so as to learn what they knew—the
men he had killed and brought into the bodies of the vessels via the Moche spell had been
obligated to him, just as they had told him during his fateful visit to Peru. With each
session the vessel became more hateful, more vicious, more willing to kill. It was as if
with each event, the man became less of a man, his soul less of a soul, until the vessel
became a living, waking demon himself.
Kane thought of Cohen and knew the vision of what had happened on that rooftop
and the sight of Cohen falling to Diaz’ sniper rifle was one that would haunt him for the
rest of his life. He would never recover from the loss of his friend or from the terrible
things he had seen. Hell was real.
The trial droned on in the background. Kane’s testimony had put the nail in the
coffin and the defense was feebly appealing for a sentence other than the death penalty.
Kane had omitted any details of the reason for the murders, saying he had not been privy
to the specifics, but had assumed that the killings were basically for power consolidation
except in the cases where Diaz could get hold of a rival criminal and beat the information
he needed out of his captive before killing him. Kane had never told anyone other than
Caballo—not even his wife—about what he had seen.
120
“Detective Kane—Detective?” it was the judge. “You had asked for and been
granted permission to speak during the closing arguments. This is unusual and not
typical procedure, but because of your intimate and personal knowledge of the case, and
because of your personal loss in this instance, I felt it appropriate in this instance. You
may proceed, if you wish.” The judge settled back to listen.
Kane stood and approached the front of the courtroom.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, honored guests. I know what
everyone here is thinking at this moment. You’re all thinking, ‘that big cop is gonna tell
us to fry Diaz, so why bother listening to anything he has to say? Let’s just find the bad
guy guilty so we can all go home.’ Am I right? Well, if that’s what you’re thinking,
you’re dead wrong. I’m not going to say anything of the sort. You see, I know Diaz. I
know all about him. In some ways, I am him. Not a murderer of other crooks and, yes,
even of a police officer who happened to be my best friend,” Kane paused for a second
and looked at the floor. Then he continued.
“But I have killed many, many men. I was a military advisor in a small country
called San Cristobal where I happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and
barely got out with my life, only by killing I don’t know how many people. I still carry
the scars,” he pointed to his eye patch.
“Diaz has been through much of the same during his SF years. There was once a
time when he served his country with honor. Maybe he saw too much during those years
or maybe the stress of losing comrades, or the loss of his parents drove him to this. Who
can say? Yes he’s a malicious, cold-hearted bastard, but is it all his fault? Look at
him…” Kane pointed at Diaz, who sat stock still with the same look of shocked terror
121
that he had had on his face when he surrendered to police. “Does he really constitute any
kind of a threat to anyone at this point? I know it’s shocking to hear this from me, who
has more reason to want to see this man die than anyone in here, but maybe there’s a way
to salvage something here. Maybe he can still turn away from evil and at least learn to
repent what he’s done.
“I’ve learned from some of the terrible experiences I’ve had in my life that every
human life has enormous intrinsic value. Even the life of a man like Benjamin Diaz. I
know that Josh felt the same way because we talked about it often,” Kane was lying and
felt the hot, redness of shame creeping up his neck from under his collar.
“I ask that you honor the memory of the men that Diaz killed in the only way left
to you at this point—by sparing his life and attempting to rehabilitate him, if that’s
possible.” Kane concluded his statement and retook his seat. He was careful not to look
toward Cohen’s widow or Captain Wassuk.
The judge leaned back in his chair with a look of stunned amazement. He leaned
forward to say something, but, thinking better of it, looked down at his hands for a brief
moment.
“The jury will now go into deliberation and return with a verdict. I ask that each
and every member carefully consider the facts and information that has been presented
from the opening arguments to the closing statements. Keep in mind that a man’s life is
at stake and that unless you believe that his guilt has been proven beyond a reasonable
doubt, he is to be considered innocent. Court is adjourned for the jury’s deliberation,”
with that he banged down his gavel.
It didn’t take long. The jury returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty. The
122
judge had already decided on his sentencing.
“As many of you know, I am not generally predisposed to the death penalty,
although in this case, it would seem appropriate. Still, I was moved by Detective Kane’s
arguments and have similar sentiments in that regard. Benjamin Diaz, stand and receive
sentencing.
“Benjamin Diaz, you have been found guilty of multiple counts of murder
including the murder of a police officer who was serving in an undercover capacity at the
time. While I do believe that the death penalty would be appropriate in this case, because
of Detective Kane’s statement and his obvious personal involvement in so many aspects
of this terrible case, I will not sentence you to death, but rather to life imprisonment
without any possibility of parole. Because of the extraordinary risk you pose to the safety
of other inmates and to yourself. I am recommending you serve your sentence in solitary
confinement in a maximum security facility where you will spend the rest of your life in
solitude, where you will have plenty of time to contemplate the atrocities you have
committed. I remand you to custody of the bailiff, bailiff, please carry out sentencing.
Court is adjourned,” said the judge who banged his gavel down while he briefly glanced
over at Kane. Kane was looking at Diaz with a mirthless smile curling his lips.
The courtroom was buzzing with excitement and disbelief over what had just
happened. Kane got up to leave and immediately found his path blocked by Wassuk.
“What in the fuck have you just done, Kane?” demanded Wassuk angrily, his fury
causing him to shake.
Kane looked down at the smaller man. The look in Kane’s eye caused Wassuk’s
self-righteous, indignant anger to melt away and be replaced by fear.
123
“I’ve just consigned that little piece of shit to a fate so horrible, you simply
couldn’t understand. Neither you, nor that stupid motherfucker judge. Now get out of
my way,” said Kane in a quiet voice laced with threat. What he had been through, having
to lie, dishonoring himself in so many ways, the loss of Cohen, all of that put him at
extraordinary risk of violence. It didn’t matter at that moment who would be the object
of it. Wassuk knew Kane’s history and what he had been capable of in combat, so he
stepped out of the way. Kane moved to leave the courtroom. Before he could, he felt
someone grab his sleeve. It was Cohen’s widow.
“What the hell was that all about? Josh never said any of those things…you lied
to save his killer’s life! Are you out of your mind? You were his friend! How could
you?” she trembled as she spoke and tears welled up in her eyes.
“It’s not what you think. What Diaz just got is the worst possible thing that could
happen to him. Did you see his face? There’s a reason he looks like that…he’ll have to
live with it alone, in solitary confinement for years, maybe decades. Imagine your worst
fears and nightmares…then imagine them real…then imagine yourself living alone with
them in deep rock with no possibility of escape. The only thing worse than every day is
the hell that you know with absolute certainty awaits you when you die. He’ll live like
that for years before he dies and goes to hell,” Kane said, more to himself, as he again
smiled without mirth and his gaze drifted off into space. He snapped back to reality and
looked down at her. She stood staring at him with her mouth agape in dumbfounded
shock. He gently put a hand on her shoulder.
“Someday, if you ever really want to know, I’ll explain to you exactly what I’m
talking about.” He turned to leave and then stopped and looked back at her.
124
“One thing I know for certain and without question…Josh is in heaven,” said
Kane.
“How can you know that for certain?” she said as tears began to stream down her
face.
“Because a demon told me.” Kane turned and walked out of the courtroom.
“You want to visit this asshole after he killed your partner?” the guard at the
holding facility where Diaz was being kept prior to his transfer to the state penitentiary
looked at Kane with a mixture of disbelief and contempt.
“That’s right, I do,” said Kane without feeling and without even looking at the
guard. Then he turned and looked full into the other man’s face. “And, by the way, I
know exactly what this piece of shit did and I don’t need someone like you to remind me.
Do your job and open the gate.”
The guard flashed momentary anger and tried to stare down Kane, but lost his
nerve and turned and opened the gate. The long, dark corridor to Diaz’ holding cell was
empty. For his own safety, Diaz was kept alone, in solitary confinement.
Kane walked slowly down the hall past empty cells followed by silence. As he
neared the end of the hallway, he could make out Diaz’ hands gripping the bars of his
cell. Even from here, he could see the sweat dripping off the fingers and down the bars to
where small pools had collected on the floor.
Kane stopped before Diaz. Diaz’ shirt and trousers were soaked with sweat. His
hair was matted to his head with sweat. His eyes were open wide with great, dark circles
beneath, indicating a profound lack of sleep. His head was partially turned, looking over
125
his left shoulder into the darkened corner of his prison cell. Kane looked after his gaze
but saw nothing.
“Diaz,” said Kane in a quiet voice.
Diaz’ hand flew up and he fell backward onto the floor of his cell with a look of
shock and surprise. Just as quickly he bounded back to his feet and grabbed the bars of
his cell. He reached one hand through the bars toward Kane who was standing out of
arm’s reach.
“Peter…oh my God…Peter…you gotta get me outta here, man, I swear it…please
help me…” his voice pleaded. “We were friends, right? Please get me out, I’m sorry
about all of it, I didn’t mean it. HELP ME!” begged Diaz, before he slowly turned his
gaze back over his left shoulder to look toward the corner of his cell. Kane again
followed Diaz’ eyes…and his heart nearly stopped. Was that a shadow? Had there been
a flicker of movement? Something silent, furtive, lurking? As Kane’s eyes adjusted to
the darkness, he peered into the corner of the cell despite his fear. Nothing, nothing
there.
“Look at you. What a hardass…is there a friend in there with you? Someone
over in that corner there? Something only for you?”
Diaz slowly turned his haunted gaze back to Kane.
“Please, Peter, get me out. I can’t live like this…I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, no one
believes me. But you know…YOU KNOW…it’s waiting for me…just waiting…they’re
all waiting…help me…” tears mixed with sweat streamed down Diaz’ face as his eyes
bulged from their sockets and he stared at Kane. For a moment, that is, until whatever
apparition waited for Diaz in the corner of the cell drew his fevered gaze again.
126
“Well, it seems that you have company and I don’t want to take up any more of
your valuable time. You and your friend have a very long time to get to know each other,
so I’ll leave you alone—well, not exactly alone, but you know what I mean. Was it
worth it, you piece of shit? Think about that while you’re in solitary confinement for life
with no possibility of parole and your only company is whatever it is in that corner that
you’re so afraid of. Goodbye, Diaz.”
Kane turned and walked off the cell block as Diaz called after him, screaming,
begging, pleading for help. Kane didn’t even look back.
Diaz, now alone, looked back at the object of his obsession and terror—an object
only he could see. There, in the darkened corner of his cell squatted a small, feral
creature with a swine head, razor sharp fangs, and hideous talons where hooves should
have been. It stared back at Diaz maliciously, without mercy, knowing it had all the time
in the world to torment his black soul until the day he died, when the torment would
begin in earnest.
127
CHAPTER 13
Kane walked slowly with Carlos’ parents and Maria along the dusty street,
avoiding the litter and keeping his eyes on the pavement. He knew the way well to the
old Catholic church. It was Sunday.
As they walked up the chipped stone stairway, Kane nodded recognition at the
massive, powerfully-built priest who stood at the door greeting the few parishioners who
still worshipped at his church. Caballo nodded back, with the briefest expression of
pleasure at the sight of Kane.
“Father, I want to introduce my wife, Maria, and the parents of a friend who
recently passed away. May we worship with you today?”
“Peter, I would be honored to have all of you in our church today. Welcome, it is
a great pleasure to meet you,” said the priest with the warmest of smiles. “Has Peter told
you of our history together?”
“No, he hasn’t,” smiled Maria looking over at her husband and gently nudging
him.
“Another time, we will all sit and talk. But now, please step inside and find a seat
so that we may worship our Holy Savior together, as family.
The service began and was really beautiful and moving. Maria sat next to Carlos’
mother and comforted her during the times of the service when the inevitable tears came.
Father Jimenez stepped up to the pulpit and the assembled congregants leaned
forward in anticipation of his sermon. Many people in the community and some from
outside including many who otherwise wouldn’t attend church services came just to hear
128
this giant of a man. His words never failed to inspire and uplift. Kane looked up at the
massive presence before him and their eyes met briefly.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, may God bless you and please allow me to extend my
own sincere thanks for your attending our service in this simple House of Worship.
Many of you have come today to hear my thoughts and words and I am humbled by this.
I hope that I may, with the strength of my faith as the basis for my thoughts and the help
of my Savior to guide me, provide a message of comfort and support in troubled times.
“These are troubled times we live in, perhaps more so now than in recent
memory—at least my recent memory. The forces of evil remain a constant in our lives
and our experience. One must only watch the news or read the paper to see man’s
inhumanity to man played out globally on a daily basis. Even here in our beloved city,
the forces of good and evil are locked in mortal combat all the time…” his voice lowered
as he looked at Peter for the briefest of moments.
“But even knowing this, it is not as important what it is we may face on a day to
day basis, but how we face these sometimes terrible challenges. And the how of which I
speak, is strength and resolve. When we are confronted with evil, it is normal to be
afraid. I have, in a past life, confronted evil and, although I was afraid, I did what I knew
I had to do. So must you—each and every one of you. When you face evil, you must do
so with strength and resolve. Many of you here, recently in your lives, have done just
that and I am proud of you. Jesus knows the sacrifices you have made for good and He
never forgets.
“What I want to talk about today, therefore, is strength. There is an incredible,
indomitable, unfailing strength in each and every one of you. And you can be sure that
129
your strength is multiplied tenfold in the face of evil by your Lord Jesus Christ.
“I knew of a woman in a small country some years ago who stood her ground
against the forces of evil in defense of two small children—one her own, one a complete
stranger. Though she faced certain death, she refused to back down, knowing that her
final stand was the right thing to do. Fortunately, her faith prevailed and she was saved at
the moment of her impending death by the very hand of God, who providentially sent a
person who could defeat the evil-doing, would-be murderers before they could perpetrate
their heinous act of hatred. In so doing, this brave woman saved the cherished lives of
two little children.
“She knew, better than anyone I’ve ever known, that every human life is of
enormous intrinsic value and must be considered sacred! Because of her, two such lives
were saved and her place in the Lord’s Kingdom of Heaven assured. We must all be able
to find such strength inside of ourselves when the time comes, as it must in each of our
lives.
“I know that no one is perfect. We are all flawed in so many ways. We may
spend hours or days in self-recrimination; finding fault with ourselves; dwelling upon our
regrets; thinking only of our failures and not of our successes! I myself have spent many,
many dark hours in this unproductive endeavor. How many of you find yourselves
constantly asking the question—what good am I? What use am I to this world? What
have I ever done that’s worthwhile? What will I ever do that has any meaning?
“I beg you—do not despair! You are of incalculable, inestimable value just by
the very fact of your existence! You are a person made in the image of the Creator and
the Creator is perfect! By standing for what’s right, we become closer to God which
130
brings us—each and every one of us—closer to his ideal. No, none of us are perfect. But
God’s love is perfect, and we are blessed to be able to rejoice in the perfection of that
love!
“I have spoken of having the strength to stand up to life’s challenges and, yes,
even to evil when we see it unfolding before us. Our Savior, Jesus Christ, knew that the
way to have that inner strength is to be able to forgive. We must learn from Him, that
before we can be able to forgive others, we must be able to forgive ourselves first! Then,
and only then, we can face troubles and overcome them—we can win our battles together
with the strength of God, of our wonderful community, and in ourselves.
“I want to finish with a short story, not from the bible, but from history. It is from
a story titled, “Lincoln Prays with a Dying Confederate Soldier” written by Albert H.
Griffith in his work The Heart of Abraham Lincoln, Man of Kindness and Mercy, written
in 1948.
It was on the last Saturday of Sept., 1862, after the second battle of Bull
Run. The forty odd hospitals in Washington were full of sick and wounded
soldier boys of both contending armies, the wounded Union and
Confederate soldiers lying side by side on adjoining cots.
Early that morning, President Lincoln left the White House, determined if
possible to visit every hospital in the city before the day was done, in order
that he might bring to the sick, wounded, and dying the comfort and
consolation of his own presence. And so, early in the morning, beginning
at the Georgetown University Hospital, in the far western end of the city
of Washington, he continued all day on his tour of mercy and love. Late in
131
the afternoon, when the sun was fading over the western hills, he knelt
beside the cot of a Confederate soldier-boy in the Navy Yard Hospital, in
the eastern end of the city, and there he prayed for the badly wounded lad,
little more than a child, who lay dying.
Then, weary and worn, the tired President stepped into a waiting carriage.
There came a nurse calling to him to say the dying Confederate lad was
pleading to see him again. Then, perhaps, that radiance lighted up the
face of the weary Lincoln, that radiance that some have described as
having seen on his face on some occasions, that light which was never on
land or sea. Weary and worn though he was, he returned at once to the
dying lad's bedside, and asked, "What can I do for you?"
" I am so lonely and friendless, Mr. Lincoln," whispered the boy, "and I
am hoping that you can tell me what my mother would want me to say
and do now."
"Yes, my boy," said Lincoln, as he again knelt beside the dying lad. "I
know exactly what your mother would want you to say and do. And I am
glad that you sent for me to come back to you. Now, as I kneel here, please
repeat the words after me."
Then, while the lad, facing eternity with the recollections of a good
mother, rested his head on the arm of Abraham Lincoln, he repeated after
his only present friend the words that his mother, then praying at home
for her boy, had taught him to say at her knees before bedtime:
Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
132
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
And this I ask for Jesus' sake.
“Our great President, who faced the greatest evil of all—war—and had the strength
to defeat this evil even at the cost of his own life, knew that the ultimate source of the
strength he needed to win this terrible battle came from God. He also knew, perhaps as
well as anyone in history, that prayer is a gift from God. It is a gift from God because it
gives us the strength we need in difficult times. It is also God’s gift to us, because it gives
us something that we can do to help others even when it seems there’s nothing we can do
to help. So, I ask that you pray with me now…”
After the service was completed, Caballo returned to his position at the door
wishing his parishioners well as they left. Kane and his small group were the last to
leave. They approached Caballo and thanked him for a moving, lovely service. Caballo
nodded his head courteously in thanks. As they moved to descend the stairs, Caballo
reached out and gently laid a hand on Kane’s shoulder.
“Isn’t there something else you came here to do, My Son? To your wonderful
friends and family, I bid fond farewell and am certain I will see all of you next week. If
you will please excuse us, however, Peter and I have some unfinished business to
address. Come, Peter, come back inside with me.”
Maria and Carlos’ parents nodded, smiled, and walked down the stairs together.
Kane walked back inside the church with his old friend.
“You have seen so much ugliness in your short life. Often, all we are shown in
life is ugliness. It surrounds us in the news, in pictures, on television. Children are raised
on a steady diet of all that is ugly in life. Is it any wonder that our youths seem lost?
133
“But there is great beauty in the world—more beauty than ugliness! Now is your
time to see beauty in the world and, more importantly, in your life.
“You have suffered much, my friend, it began when I first knew you. The hell of
the war in San Cristobal; the hell of losing friends; the hell of the demons you faced. But
now, thanks to all merciful God, it is over. Your long journey of life and peace can now
begin. There are no more demons to terrorize you—you have faced them and won. You
have triumphed where most men would have failed and become a spirit of hell. Now you
must look to yourself, your family, and your friends. You can be as a son to those who
have lost; you must be a husband to your wife. Now it is to be your time. And here is the
place to start your new journey,” said Caballo with a broad, warm smile. His hand upon
his friend’s shoulder, he had, while conversing, surreptitiously guided Kane to the
confessional. With his eyes, Caballo bid Peter to enter.
Peter stopped in fear. What if God no longer wanted to know him? What if his
sins were unpardonable? What if being accepted by demons as one of their own was too
grave a transgression even for Jesus?
“Do not worry, my old friend,” said Caballo in a reassuring voice as though he
had read Kane’s thoughts. “The Lord still loves you. Please, step inside. All are
welcome.”
Kane hesitated a moment more, even after he knew the priest had taken his
position to hear Peter’s confession. Finally, with tears welling up in his eyes, he entered
the confessional.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been…I’ve forgotten how long since
my last confession…
134
135