Damage Control by John Gilstrap Page A

black-rimmed glasses, a Denver Broncos T-shirt, and cargo shorts.
    “I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t watching where I was going. Here, let me help you up.” He extended a hand.
    Dom waved him off as he rolled to a sitting position on the ground. “No, I’m fine. No harm done.” Good news: his trousers were still intact.
    “Let me help you up, Father D’Angelo,” the man said in a barely audible voice.
    Dom’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. Something changed behind the tourist’s eyes. It wasn’t frightening, exactly, but there was a look of urgency.
    “Okay.” Dom grasped the man’s hand in a power grip that involved their thumbs, and as he did, he felt something pressed into his palm.
    “I’m so sorry, Father,” the tourist said aloud. As Dom found his balance, the tourist dusted him off. When he was very close, he said, “Don’t look at the note till I’m gone. Wait fifteen minutes and follow the directions exactly.”
    Dom just stared.
    “You’re sure you’re okay, right, Father?” the tourist asked, loudly enough to be heard by others. “I really am sorry. Hope it doesn’t keep me out of Heaven.” With that, the man turned away and headed toward the Freer Gallery.
    He never looked back.

C HAPTER N INE
    J onathan climbed out of the Toyota and waited for Tristan to join him. “Stick with me like a shadow,” Jonathan said. “Remember ... do exactly what I say exactly when I say to do it.”
    Jonathan and Boxers spread out as they exited the vehicle, allowing a distance of fifty feet between them. The separation increased the effectiveness of their surveillance while at the same time making it harder for any hidden bad guys to take them out. At this distance, a bad guy would have to be a great shot twice, and even if he hit the first target, he’d likely die while preparing to shoot the second. This game was as much about intimidation as it was about marksmanship, and the more the bad guys second-guessed themselves, the better it was for the good guys.
    The residents of the village were slow to catch on to them. It started with the kids in the game. The goalie on the far end pointed and said something Jonathan couldn’t hear, and a kid from the other team booted the ball past him while he was distracted, bisecting the wheelbarrow and the tricycle that served as goal posts. The scoring team started to celebrate, but then they followed his eyes, and they, too, started to point.
    The stoppage of the game drew the attention of the adults, who stood and watched.
    Jonathan keyed his mike. “Watch their hands,” he said. “If they don’t go for weapons, we keep our weapons down.”
    Boxers tapped his transmitter.
    The villagers seemed more curious than frightened, though Jonathan noted that two of the adults held their hands out to their sides and splayed their fingers to show that they posed no danger. For their part, the children just stayed put.
    “ Oye ,” one of the older kids yelled to his friends. “ Jugamos! ” Hey, let’s play.
    Like the flip of a switch, the children returned to their game.
    “Keep an eye on the adults,” Jonathan said into his radio. “I’ll watch the church.”
    Boxers tapped again. Ultimately, the adults would be behind them, which meant that Boxers would have to walk backwards, but there really was no other way.
    In thirty seconds, Jonathan was at the church door. He turned to Tristan. “Stay out here with the Big Guy,” he said. “Stick close to him.”
    Jonathan considered knocking, but decided that that was unnecessary. The door swung open to a rush of cool, musty air. The sun shining through the glass on the far wall nearly blinded him. Instinctively, he looked to the left and to the right, just in case there might be a lurker in the shadows.
    More a chapel than a church, with neatly aligned folding chairs taking the place of pews, the sanctuary had the look of a work in progress. Framed pictures along the outer walls depicted the suffering