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Plastering on the sweetest smile I can, I wave like an airhead and gesture a telephone at my ear. I can damn near hear the groan in his throat, as he steps out of his office and strides toward the main entrance, before unlocking it.
“Can I help you?” His eyes bounce from me to Sergio, and back to me.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but my phone died?” I hold it up for him to see the black screen. “And my brother’s car broke down about two blocks away. Can we use your phone?”
Brows pinched together, he regards me like a man who’s been duped before. “You couldn’t stop by one of the many houses between here and two blocks away?”
So much for charity, asshole. “I guess I just thought a church would be the safest bet. We won’t take up too much time.”
Another suspicious sweep of his eyes, and he gives a nod, stepping aside. “You can use my secretary’s phone. Make it quick. I was just packing up to leave.”
“Of course!” I squeeze past him, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “I loved Father Damon’s homily last Sunday. So refreshing to hear his perspective on the Bible.” I’m bullshitting, obviously. I have no idea what Damon’s homily was about. I just know the few times I’ve heard it over the years, he’s made sense.
“You know of Father Damon?”
“Well, yeah. Doesn’t everyone in this town?”
His eyes rove me again, lingering a little too long on my breasts. Perfect. “I don’t recall seeing you in church, Miss …?”
I hold out my hand, which he takes in a delicate grip. “I’m sorry, I’m Vatehfair Footrah.”
The groove in his forehead wrinkles even more. “Thats … an interesting name.”
“It’s French. This is my brother,Connard.” The smile on my face is all I can do to keep from laughing at the fact that I just called a priest a shithead and told him to fuck off. “So, where is Father Damon?”
“One of our parishioners was badly injured. He left a while ago to pray with his family at the hospital.”
“Is that where he is now?”
“I have no idea where he is now.”
I open my mouth to respond, but don’t get so much as a peep out before Sergio brushes past me, pushing the priest backward onto the desk behind him.
Father’s expression is about as surprised and shocked as my own. “What in God’s name?”
Holding up one of his M-80’s, Sergio looms over the man, looking far more intimidating than the grocery store boy I’ve chatted with the last few weeks. “You know what this is? An explosive, like dynamite. If you value your nutsack, I suggest you tell us where the hell to find this priest.”
Mouth gaping, I stare at this kid who sounds like Scarface right now. “What are you doing?”
“Getting him to talk, and if he doesn’t, I’m kinda looking forward to seeing what this does to a man’s junk.”
“You’re a sick boy, you know that?” I ask, and the panic-riddled glance of the priest suggests he’s thinking the same thing.
Sergio tugs the Zippo out of his pocket and cranks the igniter wheel. “Don’t fuck with me, Holy Man.”
“Tunnels. Th-th-they’re in the tunnels.”
“Where?” I ask, my heartrate increasing with this new information. “The rectory?”
“Yes. There are a couple rooms that were constructed to house refugees and drugs. One of them is used for … interrogations.”
Oh, God. “How many are down there? How many men does he have with him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a half dozen?”
A sigh of defeat beats through my chest. “We’ll have to call the police.”
“You call the police, and they will trip the failsafe before anyone finds them,” the priest offers, his eyes never wavering from the firework hovering over his crotch.
