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him this man was no healer.  
    Weirdly enough, he didn’t feel afraid. After witnessing the massacre in his church the other day, his capacity for fear had changed. Like a captain insisting to go down with his ship, he’d wanted to join his congregants in death. But the demonic soldier had let him live. One lone survivor to spread the dark tale of what had happened that day, forced to carry the guilt of having been spared when others perished.
    Cabrera hadn’t talked with anyone yet about what had happened back at the church. He’d been in and out of consciousness ever since they brought him to the hospital. The last time he woke, an FBI agent had dropped by to check in on him but he’d still been too groggy to talk. The agent – what was his name again, Doyle? - had promised to return later but the man standing in his room wasn’t him.  
    “Who are you?” Cabrera asked.
    The stranger took a step toward the bed. The sneakers of nurses would squeak on the rubber floor but the stranger made no sound as he closed in, displaying an almost preternatural economy of movement. He eased from the shadows and rough-hewn features complemented by a lean, wiry build came into focus. The gray eyes were those of a killer, even though Cabrera sensed that the man hadn’t come for that purpose. If the stranger wished him ill, he never would have awoken from his slumber.  
    Cabrera wondered for a second if the man might be another FBI agent who worked with Doyle, but a special agent wouldn’t wear scrubs. Only one reason explained his attire. The stranger was trying to blend in and avoid undue attention from the hospital staff. Requesting a formal visit would have meant answering questions, and this man looked like he cherished his privacy.
    “I’m sorry about what happened at the church.”
    “Thank you, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
    The man’s gaze lingered on the scar that the demonic soldier had etched into Cabrera’s forehead — an inverted cross. Branding him with the mark of their cause and ensuring that he could never again offer comfort or forgiveness as a priest. He had only been allowed to live as a reminder of their ungodly power.
    “All you need to know is that I’m trying to stop the men that attacked your church. What did they want from you?”  
    Cold determination shone in his eyes. There was a grim certainty in the stranger’s voice, and bleak commitment. That’s when it hit Cabrera. The man had to be military. It seemed so clear now. His ramrod-straight posture, his no-nonsense bearing, the way he’d positioned himself where a stray nurse wouldn’t spot him if she should pop in unexpectedly. Watchful, alert, one with his surroundings. And this insight brought another question to Cabrera’s mind. What kind of war was this soldier fighting?  
    Cabrera sensed that this man would never share his secrets, but he also knew the soldier was telling the truth. For whatever reason, he wanted to avenge the dead congregants.  
    Cabrera took a deep breath and spoke. “I believe these killers were soldiers.”
    The man grew pensive as he processed this information and arched an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
    This was the first time Cabrera had discussed the massacre and waves of anxiety washed over him. He thought of the woman the demon soldier was looking for. She was in terrible danger. Someone had to warn her…
    “There were about fifteen of them, all following the orders of one man,” he said. ”The way they moved, the way they killed… I’ve done missionary work in Somalia and I’ve confronted my fair share of armed militia. These men were professionals.”  
    The stranger considered this for a moment before he said, “I know about the training you received in Rome. Two other priests with the same training were murdered within the last week. Why are you alive?”
    I was spared because the devil knew death would be a mercy , Cabrera thought, but instead he said,