his grip on his weapon.
The priest turned and smiled back at the guard.
‘My mistake,’ he said as he removed a heavy metal cross that hung from his neck on a silver chain and handed it to the guard. This time as he passed through, the machine was silent. The guard handed the cross back to the priest and the two continued their journey deeper into the bowels of the prison.
The stench in the corridor near the cells was overpowering.
The guard was in a philosophical mood. ‘You know, you’re wasting your time here, Father. These animals have no souls to save.’
‘Still, we must try, my son.’
The guard shook his head. ‘I tell you the gates of hell are waiting to welcome both of them.’
The priest looked at the guard in surprise. ‘Both of them? I was told there were three who needed confession.’
The guard shrugged. ‘We saved you some time. Zamora died in the infirmary this morning. Heart attack.’
The men had reached the two farthest cells.
‘Here we are, Father.’
The guard unlocked a cell door, then stepped cautiously back as the priest entered the cell. The guard locked the door again, and stood in the corridor, alert for any sign of trouble.
The priest went to the figure lying on the dirty prison cot. ‘Your name, my son?’
‘Ricardo Mellado.’
The priest stared down at him. It was difficult to tell what the man looked like. His face was swollen and raw. His eyes were almost shut. Through thick lips, he said, ‘I’m glad you were able to come, Father.’
The priest replied, ‘Your salvation is the church’s duty, my son.’
‘They are going to hang me this morning?’
The priest patted his shoulder gently. ‘You have been sentenced to die by the garrotte.’
Ricardo Mellado stared up at him. ‘No!’
‘I’m sorry. The orders were given by the Prime Minister himself.’
The priest placed his hand on the prisoner’s head and intoned: ‘Dime tus pecados …’
Ricardo Mellado said, ‘I have sinned greatly in thought, word and deed, and I repent all my sins with all my heart.’
‘Ruego a nuestro Padre celestial por la salvación de tu alma. En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo …’
The guard listening outside the cell thought to himself: What a stupid waste of time. God will spit in that one’s eye.
The priest was finished. ‘Adiós, my son. May God receive your soul in peace.’
The priest moved to the cell door and the guard unlocked it, then stepped back, keeping his gun aimed at the prisoner. When the door was locked again, the guard moved to the adjoining cell and opened the door.
‘He’s all yours, Father.’
The priest stepped into the second cell. The man inside had also been badly beaten. The priest looked at him a long moment. ‘What is your name, my son?’
‘Felix Carpio.’ He was a husky, bearded man with a fresh, livid scar on his cheek that the beard failed to conceal. ‘I’m not afraid to die, Father.’
‘That is well, my son. In the end none of us is spared.’
As the priest began to hear Carpio’s confession, waves of distant sound, at first muffled, then growing louder, began to reverberate through the building. It was the thunder of pounding hoofs and the screams of the running mob. The guard listened, startled. The sounds were rapidly moving closer.
‘You’d better hurry, Father. Something peculiar is happening outside.’
‘I’m finished.’
The guard quickly unlocked the cell door. The priest stepped out into the corridor and the guard locked the door behind him. There was the sound of a loud crash from the front of the prison. The guard turned to peer out the narrow, barred window.
‘What the hell was that noise?’
The priest said, ‘It sounded as though someone wishes an audience with us. May I borrow that?’
‘Borrow what?’
‘Your weapon, por favor.’
As the priest spoke, he stepped close to the guard. He silently removed the top of the large cross that hung around his neck, revealing a long, wicked-looking stiletto. In one lightning move he plunged the knife into the guard’s chest.
‘You see, my son,’ Jaime Miró said, as he pulled the sub-machine-gun from the dying guard’s hands, ‘God and I decided that you no longer have need of this weapon.’
The guard slumped to the cement floor. Jaime Miró took the keys from the body and swiftly opened the two cell doors. The sounds from the street were getting louder.
‘Let’s move,’ Jaime commanded.
Ricardo Mellado picked up the machine gun. ‘You make a damned good priest. You almost convinced me.’ He tried to smile with his swollen mouth.
‘They really worked you two over, didn’t they? Don’t worry. They’ll pay for it.’
Jaime Miró put his arms around the two men and helped them down the corridor.
‘What happened to Zamora?’
‘The guards beat him to death. We could hear his screams. They took him off to the infirmary and said he died of a heart attack.’
Ahead of them was a locked iron door.
‘Wait here,’ Jaime Miró said.
He approached the door and said to the guard on the other side, ‘I’m finished here.’
The guard unlocked the door. ‘You’d better hurry, Father. There’s some kind of disturbance going on out –’ He never finished his sentence. As Jaime’s knife went into him, blood welled out of the guard’s mouth.
Jaime motioned to the two men. ‘Come on.’
Felix Carpio picked up the guard’s gun, and they started downstairs. The scene outside was chaos. The police were running around frantically trying to see what was happening and to deal with the crowds of screaming people in the courtyard who were scrambling to escape the maddened bulls. One of the bulls had charged into the front of the building, smashing the stone entrance. Another was tearing into the body of a uniformed guard on the ground. The red truck was in the courtyard, its motor running. In the confusion, the three men went almost unnoticed. Those who did see them were too busy saving themselves to do anything about them.
Without
