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Prologue
The flaming bottle arched thru the sky, leaving a trail of ash behind it. The sound of breaking glass filled the night and the contents of the bottle started to burn. The thrower and his friends laughed as they prepared another bottle. This one crashed thru a stain glass Jesus and someone inside screamed.
Inside the church Father Michael MacCally ran from his back room, dressed in his pyjamas. Upon seeing the fire, the priest quickly over-turned the gold plated vat that held the majority of the church's holy water. Quenching the flames. The children, ranging in ages 6 to 17, looked at him with bewildered eyes. He shouted to the older ones, "Quick, get everyone out of here and call 911!" The priest began to herd the kids outside where they could see flames crawling up one outside wall.
A brief glance at a group of teens revealed the arsonists. They were dressed in their full gang gear. Ignoring them and their laughter, the priest grabbed the hose and turned the water on full force, doing his best to battle the flames. The gang laughed and high-fived each other as they piled into their car and left.
There wasn't enough pressure in the hose to put out the flames, but the priest was able to keep them from spreading too badly before the fire trucks came and finished the job. Half the church was burned and the police had to take the children to various over-crowded shelters. Michael found himself in a parishioner's house. Sleeping in borrowed clothes.
This was the fifth attack in the past month on a church or Synagogue. The gang always seemed to avoid getting arrested just by the skin of their teeth. This time though more then just a priest or Rabbi's life had been at risk. For years now the good Father had been running a run away shelter out of his church. Many of the children had been abused in their own homes. Some came to him pregnant or with a STD - given to them usually by their own fathers or their mother's boyfriends. And sometimes they'd come to him with HIV or full-blown AIDS. The priest had more then his share of children die in his arms.
But never before had he nearly lost any to random violence. It ate at the priest. Plagued him. When he woke up his brown-grey hair was plastered to his head with sweat and a fire burned in his normally mild brown eyes.
The time for turning the other cheek had past. It was time for the gang to reap what they had sown.
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Once upon a time there had been a war. The war took place in a far away land called Vietnam. During the last two or three years of this war a young man, barely 20, was sent. This man was Michael Francis MacCally. The private didn't care about anything except having fun. He did his job only to earn the "right" for a night of fun with the local girls. Then one day while on a long march "Charlie" got the drop on them. Mike watched in horror as the men around him fell. Dying at his feet. Then there was a burning in his leg. He fell, clutching the inside of his upper thigh. Everything was a red haze. Something hit his chest hard and he fell....
When he woke Michael was in a hospital bed. He barely heard the doctor as he spoke. Something about never having children of his own. No more women. Then there was a glint of gold. Something spun in the air, dangling from the doctor's hand.
"You would've died if not for this." The doctor handed the private a rosary. The gold plated Jesus was mangled where the bullet hit it.
Michael clutched his mother's rosary - her last gift to her son - and cried. Something was born in him. Or perhaps he was just born anew himself. Rising like the phoenix from the flames that had taken his youth as well as his manhood. When he went back to the states the little toy solider became a priest.
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These thoughts flashed thru Michael's mind as he opened the shed. With shaking hands he unlocked the trunk. Each little part had been packed in oil to keep them from rusting. Sitting on the floor, he began to clean them and put them together. He polished and sharpened the blade.
A quick tug freed the drop cloth from the bike beneath in a puff of dust. The bike in question was a WW2 motorcycle complete with side car. It had been painted black a long time ago, a cross painted on the bike and a phrase written in Latin on the side car.
Michael had dressed completely in black. The only spot of color was the white square on his collar, marking him a priest. From his belt he hung his weapons - the gun, bullets, a knife, and his own addition, a long, thin whip. His face was painted in camouflage. His brown eyes were hard, cold. Mumbling quickly in Latin, the priest tore out of the shed and into the raging night.
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The girl's breath shot out of her lungs as she was pushed against the wall. She whimpered a bit as the blade was pressed against her throat. A dribble of blood trickled down the pale column of soft, vulnerable flesh. Bright copper red staining the light pink skin. "Please," she begged, her voice quavering with legitimate fear.
"Shut up and be a good girl," the boy growled. His fingers began to fumble with her clothes while the knife was kept pressed against her flesh. Like a snake tensed to strike at any moment.
Suddenly, the boy was yanked away and found himself slamming into a wall. It was his turn for the breath to rush from his lungs. A knife was pressed to his own throat and he stared into cold brown eyes looking from a camo-painted face. The voice that came from the mouth seemed so out of place. "I want information, and I want it now." It was like he was preaching, not holding a knife on a wanna-be gang banger.
"Su-sure man, whatever you want," the boy said, catching the girl running away out of the corner of his eye, "just please don't kill me."
"Thou shall not kill," the strange priest promised.
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The reporter looked into the camera as he spoke. "Police report yet another crime was averted by the "Vigilante Commando Priest." As usual the crime was being committed by a teen believed to be involved with a gang...."
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Father Paulson was dozing in the confessional when he heard something on the other side. Quickly he jerked his head up and sputtered out the usual phrases, trying to make out the features on the other side of the screen.
The voice on the other side was smooth, calm, and unemotional. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It's been 8 months since my last confession. I - I have forsaken the cloth, Father, and turned against my fellow man...."
"What do you mean, my son?" The old priest asked. His voice quavered a bit. Was there a murderer next to him?
"I am the one they jokingly call the "Commando Priest." I use threats to get information on gang related activities and then put a stop to them. I shot two boys last night. I didn't kill them, thank God, but I shot them."
"Why did you shoot them, son?" Paulson tried desperately to see the man's face. Could he know this fellow?
"They were going to beat up an old woman." The man let out a humorless laugh. "I didn't mean to use my gun, but then they pulled one on me. Then I told them as they laid there, bleeding, that if they didn't tell me who was behind the attacks on the churches and Synagogues I'd let them bleed to death." There was a shaky breath drawn. "I'm becoming a monster, a demon. Do not look upon me, Father, for thou eyes will surely burn from your head."
Father Paulson crossed himself, unable to bring himself to listen anymore he gave the man on the other side absolution. He waited until he knew the man was gone. Then with weak knees he left the confessional. "I need a drink," the priest said for the first time in his 50 plus years.
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Rabbi Jonah Gitlin yawned. Well, he was only human after all and human beings get tired. Even in the middle of writing out what he'd be speaking on tomorrow. It was late and he really wanted to go home to his wife. Yet here he was. Writing. Going thru the hundreds of books to find something he hadn't talked to death yet.
As he reached to pick up his pen again the sound of breaking glass and the smell of burning gas filled the room. It seemed like in a matter of seconds the entire room was filled with smoke and flames. The Rabbi ran for the door, only to be confronted by a sudden rush of flames. He fell back, covering his eyes.
Someone grabbed him from behind. Yanking him to his feet. "Come on, this way." Gitlin was pulled towards the window and out of it. He rolled a bit, then stood, letting out an uncharacteristic curse. Then he turned towards his savior.
To see a priest with a face painted in camouflage. "You -" he said before overcome with a fit of coughing. The sound of sirens drowned out the Rabbi's smoke-caused hacking for a moment. When he looked, the priest was gone. Shaking his head, he spoke out a quick blessing in Hebrew and hoped the big man upstairs was listening.
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Michael cursed and slammed his hand into the wall. If that Rabbi hadn't been in there Michael could've followed and caught up with those kids. Why was it that as soon as he thought he had the gang cornered something interfered?
Mentally, the renegade priest went over what he knew about the gang. They fancy themselves tough like all gangs did. They weren't Satanists or Nazis. There was involvement with drugs, of course, though nothing huge. It seemed all they really wanted was to become infamous. So they attacked religious buildings. In the last month 3 churches of various faiths had been burned, one Scientology building had nearly burned to the ground, even a woman trying to start her own religion found her house on fire.
So they were kids, looking to make a name for themselves, searching for their 15 minutes of fame. Only instead of sneaking guns into their school or doing drive by shootings, they looked to attack houses of worship.
Well, it was time to find their house and do a little re-decorating of his own.
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"This is a very stupid thing to do," Rabbi Gitlin said to himself as he entered the alley. "And yet, here I am."
A boy, probably no older then 17, pushed away from the alley wall. "Well, what do we have here?" There was a snikt of a switchblade. The boy's friends chuckled and elbowed each other. "Okay, old man, hand over the wallet or I gut ya like the catch of the day."
"You know, fighting, it's not a good thing," Gitlin said with a pleasant smile. "Still, a man cannot stand around and let himself be gutted, so -" The Rabbi's foot lashed out, catching the boy's hand and sending the blade flying. The others then surged forward. Turning a simple mugging into a melee of fists and feet.
The sound of a cracking whip and one of the boys crying out in pain filled the air. The others stopped. Rabbi Gitlin grinned and gave the lead boy a round house to the chin even as the imposing figure of the Commando Priest filled the others' vision. The boys left standing turned and ran, leaving behind their cold-cocked friend.
"Can't keep yourself out of trouble, can you, Rabbi?" The priest said, coiling up his whip and placing it back on his belt.
"I was looking for it, actually," Gitlin said. "I was hoping to find you, Father MacCally." The Rabbi chuckled at the priests stunned expression. "It wasn't so hard to figure out. Our Lady Of Mercy nearly burns down, Father MacCally vanishes - Father MacCally who happens to be a Vietnam veteran and owns a rebuilt World War 2 motorcycle complete with sidecar. I believe it says - in Latin if the reports are right - "There for the grace of God, go I." You leave a lot of clues behind, if people look."
Michael chuckled softly, even as he picked the boy up and hoisted him over his shoulder. "So why did you want to find me, Rabbi....?"
"Gitlin. Jonah Gitlin. Because I never got to thank you, Father. And because I thought you might want this." The Rabbi held out a piece of paper. "I should've been a detective. It's an address our attackers are known to hang out at."
The priest took the paper and pushed it into his pocket. Then he shook the Rabbi's hand. "Thank you, Rabbi Gitlin." He turned for a moment, then turned back around. "Could you do me one more favor?"
"You saved my life twice, I owe you a few more favors."
Michael chuckled softly, though his tone was serious. "One of the kids I use to take care of, Mary, I heard - that she's dying. She had HIV when I last saw her, but now - Could you go see her for me? Let her know I'm thinking about her?"
Gitlin nodded and smiled. "Of course, Father." Placing a hand on the priest's shoulder, he quickly spoke again the blessing he had before. The priest smiled and returned the blessing in Latin.
"I have to go drop off junior here at the police station. When this is all over, if I'm not in jail, let's have coffee sometime."
"I'll warn my wife." Gitlin joked.
With that, Michael was gone.
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"Hey hey hey! Robby's in da house!" Robby shouted to his friends. Hands slapped together and boys and girls called out greetings. The boy, barely shaving, swaggered to his usual seat. People parted for him like the Red Sea before Moses. Plopping down, Robby propped his feet up on the table. Bottles clattered together with the jarring. One fell and rolled towards the edge. Caught as it fell by one of the other boys.
"So where are we hitting tonight, Robby?" The bottle catcher asked, picking up a gas can.
Robby stared. Then looked around the room. This use to be a youth center until the mayor had it shut down. Now about 10 kids milled around, waiting for their leader to speak up. "You know, I've been thinking - we've done the religious thing too long. We need to go bigger. Attack somewhere that even atheists care about." He smiled. "I'm thinking - the children's hospital."
"Ya mean we're going to kill kids, Robby?" One of the girls asked. Her face was a mask of horror and the others behind her began to mutter, backing away.
Standing, Robby walked over to her. Enjoying her cringe as he stroked her cheek. "They're sick. They're dying already. We're just going to send them to their reward a little sooner is all."
"You're the sick one, Robby, I ain't gonna have no part of this." The girl said, pushing Robby away. She spat at his feet and turned, walking away from the angry young man. She never saw the fist coming, but she felt it. Robby began to wail on her. Grinning like a mad man as he heard her screams. Once he was thru he spat on her.
"Those of you too weak to enjoy the fun, get her out of here." Robby turned his back as five of the kids - all female - gathered the girl up and took her out. Perhaps it was their natural mothering instinct. Or the fact that at one time or another they or a friend had a child in the hospital. Maybe it was just because they couldn't stand Robby's abuse. No matter what the reason. The girls abandoned the boys that night.
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As a man, it bothered Michael that another had gotten the information he had been searching for so long. As a priest he was grateful. Sometimes it took a gentler hand, he knew. Now the rebel priest hid in the shadows of the old youth center. Waiting for the girls to leave. As soon as he saw them gone, he pulled out the gun and fired. An empty bottle exploded. The teens turned towards Michael's hiding place, weapons drawn.
The whip snaked out, striking the boy closest to him. The gun fell from nerveless fingers. The others rushed and for a moment Michael was over-come. Feeling young fists beating down on him. He was drowning in a sea of punches and kicks.
With a surge of adrenaline, Michael threw the boys off. Even though blood dripped into his eyes, the priest saw well enough to kick, to cut. His whip cracked over and over again. Until finally all but Robby laid on the floor, crying out in pain.
Robby's blade flashed in the dim light of the room as he rushed the priest. Michael side-stepped the boy and tripped him, sending him flying. With a growl, Robby stood up and rushed the priest again. This time the whip coiled around his wrist and yanked Robby off his feet. The floor rushed up to meet his face, and Robby was out like a light.
Michael sighed softly and plucked a stolen cell phone from the pocket of one of the boys.
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"The gang members were found tied up in the center of the youth center, when questioned about bottles and cans of gas they admitted they were the arsonists that have been burning churches...."
Jonah turned off the tv and looked to his wife, then their company. "Are you sure you don't want to go the hospital?"
Michael smiled and shook his bandaged head. "No thanks. This coffee is wonderful." The priest took another sip. "And no, I don't plan on returning to the church. So how did you get that address?"
The Rabbi chuckled. "I asked."
"That's it?" Mike's eyebrows raised.
"That's it. Sometimes fists don't work, Father." Jonah chuckled. "So what now?"
Michael sat back in his chair and sighed. "I go on being the commando priest. Of course, I could use a partner.... Someone who can get information by just asking rather then using his fists. And who's wife makes a fine cup of coffee."
"Father," the Rabbi said, lifting his cup to toast him, "if I may quote Bogart.
‘This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"
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