by Rhona Weaver
Trust Him. The clarity of the man’s simple message brought Win almost immediate calm. Trust Him. How odd, he thought, to be reminded of my core faith by someone who robs banks for a living.
The man spoke again after a few seconds. “The end of your trail won’t be a lonely one. . . . I’ll be going over with you tomorrow, probably several of us will, so you won’t be alone in this.”
“What?” Win stammered. He was shocked at what the man was implying.
Two cleared his throat, as if emotion had suddenly taken hold. “Not much time left. Maybe that’s why I’m so talkative. I ain’t usually a talker, you see. That’s probably why I’ve stayed below the cops’ radar all these years—I ain’t a talker. But I don’t have many more hours here than you do.” Win didn’t know how to respond. The man blew out a breath. “For me, it’s a good thing. . . . I’m ready, been ready for a long while. I’ll see my family—had a daughter who’d be nearly your age, she’d be mid-twenties. My fault they’re not here . . . drunk when I went off that road. I know God has forgiven me, but I still suffer with it nearly every day. Forgiveness and forgetting ain’t the same thing.”
Win could hear the pain in the man’s voice. Then, a more hopeful tone. “The Federals will take notice of me tomorrow! Prophet says we’ll be martyrs for the cause. I can end my suffering, strike out at the Zionists, and see my family again. Can come into Glory! You’re a believer; could see it in your eyes back in that shed when I was holding your little Bible.”
“Yes, I’m a believer . . . I’m a Christian.” Win was afraid to say more. It was some sort of suicide mission. How has their faith become so twisted?
Win had to try to convince the man to help him, but it was becoming hard to breathe under the Kevlar blanket. He struggled to form his argument. “You don’t have to go through with this. . . . It doesn’t have to go down this way—” A whistle from the woods interrupted him.
The cold air hit Win in the face as Ferguson quickly threw the blanket off, took Win’s arm, and pulled him to his feet. As he stuffed the thermos and blanket back into his pack, he leaned toward Win and got in the last word. “Remember what I said, son. I’ll see you on the other side tomorrow and neither one of us will ever have to look back in sadness again.”
The man steered him back onto the trail, and for the next two hours he hardly took his firm hand off Win’s jacket. Escape wasn’t looking promising. But after having teetered on the edge of emotional breakdown, Win spent a good deal of those two hours preparing himself for what was to come. He turned his focus inward, and instead of the regret and fear that had dominated his thoughts most of the night, he found himself reflecting on the people and places he loved. He once again had the detached feeling of floating above it all, but this time it wasn’t the anxious, frightened sensation he’d felt earlier—this time there was peacefulness to it, as if an invisible hand were gently holding him there. There was a deep assurance that even in his failures, God would create some good.
Chapter Thirty-Four
He recited the Scripture again softly under his breath, and prayed once more for God’s hand to move against the Zionists and their pawns. He raised his head and leaned back against the frame of his heavy backpack. It was less than an hour before dawn, and so dark in the cave that he couldn’t even see his breath as it rose in the cold air. The cavern smelled of damp canvas, sweat, and gun oil—and something else. What was it? Ah, the sweet, putty smell of the Semtex. Twenty pounds of it resting against his back.
Brother Luke had shown them this place. Far off the public trail system, in what the Park Service had designated a bear management area, a 50,000-acre restricted zone that made it easy for them to operate without the fear of stumbling onto a bunch of hiking tourists. They’d been using the cave as a staging point since early April and had brought supplies in gradually. Within its thick walls they were invisible to the enemy’s heat-seeking drones and aircraft. Rock overhangs at the entrance and alongside the adjoining granite cliffs allowed the men to get some fresh air and to watch the heavily used game trail that snaked through a small clearing just a hundred feet below the cave’s mouth. A spring provided fresh water to the shelter. No one had to leave the hidden sanctuary; it was self-contained. There was no cell service for miles, but that wasn’t critical. They were less than seven miles northwest of the site where the Zionists and the Feds would dedicate a monument to a Jew in less than twelve hours. He was thinking what a disgrace that was for our once-great nation.
Two or three of his men were snoring, and more than one was tossing in the night. He and this team of ten men had hiked to the cave in separate small groups over the last few days. Most should be well rested. One of his men hadn’t been able to shake his FBI surveillance team near Gardiner; he’d returned to the compound yesterday—he couldn’t take a chance on being followed inside the park. Everyone else had arrived at the cave on time, except for two of Ron’s newer recruits. Apparently those boys had decided this outing wasn’t for them. Even three men short, they had more than enough men and weapons to carry out the mission. The Lord knew the men he needed. Didn’t the Scripture say in the Book of Judges that God trimmed Gideon’s army of ten thousand down to three hundred men to defeat the Midianites? He smiled to himself at the thought of that miracle.
The men bringing Tyler should be within two miles by now. They’d taken a much longer route in order to meet the other brothers on Sepulcher Mountain and confuse the Feds. And the FBI should be convinced that Agent Tyler was tucked away at the church. He smiled when he thought about how shocked the enemy would be when their man wasn’t to be found. He was hoping for a direct raid by the Federals on the church this morning, hoping for the greatest amount of violence and its accompanying publicity. A terrible shame that some of the innocent sisters and children living at the church might be harmed, but the nation’s press would not respond in numbers unless blood was spilled. The more blood spilled, the greater the media coverage, and the greater the media coverage, the sooner the battle would be won. There were patriots across the country who would rally to their cause, who were just waiting for a bold Christian leader to emerge. Collateral damage—the deaths of innocents—was just an unfortunate part of revolution. He would pray for those innocent martyrs to have their rewards in Heaven.
The sentry had reported a helicopter several miles to the northeast nearly two hours ago. But there was no reason for concern; God’s strong staff was guiding them. Tyler would be brought to him at dawn, and he’d do what he should have done in the first place. He’d made a mistake and obviously displeased the Lord by hiring a pagan to kill the FBI agent. Richter had been a godless man whose only interest in the thing was the money. Daniel Shepherd would not dishonor God again. He would handle it according to God’s leading.
He sighed a little as thoughts of Ruth suddenly filled his mind. He felt the familiar emptiness in his chest as the pain stabbed at his heart. It had been nearly three years since she’d passed—nearly four since Dennie was shot by the Feds. The grief had never lessened. The government hadn’t just taken his son, they’d taken her as well; she was never the same after the shooting. Their youngest son gone—he knew she’d died of a broken heart.
And he’d known it was a sign from God the moment he saw Winston Tyler’s picture in the newspaper back in late March. The resemblance between the FBI agent and their boy was uncanny. The Fed had been sent here to ease his suffering, to restore God’s order—an eye for an eye. Ruth would approve of this, of his taking another young man’s life from the oppressors to atone for their taking Dennie’s life. He wanted to please her, and he prayed it would ease his aching soul. For many long years, nothing else had.
He sat up and turned on a tiny green glow light. He rose on aching knees and carefully made his way among the prone figures littering the floor of the cave. The eerie green light bounced off the rock walls. As he stepped over the small stream that originated somewhere in the depths
of the place, he twisted the tiny light off and moved near the man standing guard at the entrance.
“Brother Jeffery . . .” He said it in a whisper from ten feet behind the sentry, so as not to startle him. Even in the dark night, he could make out the armed man silhouetted against the opening of the cave.
“Prophet? Is something wrong?” the young man answered with concern.
“No, no . . . just finished early prayers and wanted to stretch a bit. You know we’re standing on the edge of glory! I’m just rejoicing in the day. It’ll be daylight soon. How are you doing, brother?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” The guard sounded strained; he didn’t sound fine. “Sir, you know, I haven’t had the combat experience of most of the brothers. I only drove trucks over in Afghanistan.”
“Ah yes, but you served. Never forget the significance of that—so tragic for our nation, for our government to be run now by the Jews, by internationalists who have created a puppet state. You couldn’t have known that when you joined the Army. The Federals are well practiced at deceit! Masters at evil! But we’ll take it back. We’ll take America back,” he whispered urgently. “We take the first step today toward taking it back! Think of how proud your wife and son will be of you.” He sensed the young man pulling himself up straighter. “Your son, Colby, he’s a precious little man. So spirited! Think of how proud he’ll be when you see him. And aren’t you and Sister Hannah expecting another little one? When?”
“In October.” The young man was smiling in the darkness.
The Prophet reached out and touched the man’s arm. “Let me pray for you, Brother Jeffery, for you and your family—a special blessing for you that the Lord is putting on my heart . . .”
After a time, the Prophet followed the faint green glow back to his sleeping bag near the rear of the large cavern. He lowered himself and felt his right knee give a little. Ah, I’m getting too old for this.
“Can’t sleep?” The man beside him moved in the darkness.
The Prophet drew in a deep breath of cold air. “Ah, you know I’m always restless before a mission.”
“Worried that they didn’t get the agent?” Chandler asked.
“No, no, Eriksson’s a good man. They’ll bring him. Something’s nagging at me, though. I’ll have to give Tyler the chance to claim the Lord’s salvation before he dies. . . . If he accepts or is already a believer, it could unsettle the men if I kill him outright.”
His friend shifted beside him and quietly replied, “You know for the longest I didn’t think killing that FBI agent was a good idea, not with the mission going on. But it’s turned out to be downright helpful. Caused them to scatter in lots of directions. It’s been a major distraction to the enemy—lots of positives there.” Chandler paused for a moment. “If you get the least concerned that the blood doesn’t need to be directly on your hands, I’ll take care of it for you.”
Even in the pitch blackness, the Prophet knew Ron Chandler was grinning an evil grin as he continued talking. “You know, that might actually work to our advantage tomorrow. We need the boys to see you as living above the fray, full of compassion and mercy. We need them seeing me as the damn wrath of God!”
* * *
It was thinking about gettin’ light. His whole life he’d gotten up before sunrise. Often he’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of school or work that he’d miss the changeover from darkness to light. He’d miss the dawn. That wasn’t happening this morning.
It got light early in Yellowstone, and the sun stayed longer during the early evening. The park was so far north that it got nearly an extra hour a day of spring sunlight compared to the southern places Win was accustomed to. He wasn’t used to the quick transition to daylight at 5:30 in the morning in mid-May.
Two had taken the night-vision goggles and helmet from him as the first hint of yellow hit the tops of the mountains to the east. They’d stopped at a sharp whistle from somewhere up ahead, and Candyman had moved forward to meet the camp’s sentry. Win could smell coffee and hear muffled voices in the distance. It was still too dark to make out anyone’s features, but Win could sense a change in Eriksson’s demeanor. There was a different intensity, maybe anticipation or an underlying anxiety.
The big man towered over Win on the trail. “The brothers are at prayer so we’re gonna wait before we move into camp. Drink a little water?”
Win swallowed some of the offered water and tried to reason with the man again. “You know this isn’t right. You can’t tell me you don’t know that.”
“This is between you and the Prophet, Agent Tyler. I’ve got nothing against you, but you’re on the wrong side in a war. We’re taking back America, or at least our piece of America. The government has failed us. It’s our right—hell, it’s our duty—to take it back.”
“We vote to change our government. We don’t wage war. We’re both Americans! C’mon, you’re not a criminal—look at what you’re doing!”
The deep voice was threatening. “You bring it up with Prophet Shepherd! Say another word to me and I’ll gag you! You hear me?”
Win turned his head away from the man and shifted his attention to the new day’s arrival. The trail was on a high bench on a mountainside, and he could see the sharp outline of the mountains forming to the east. He watched the far horizon through the trees as color returned to the world. He could see his breath in the air; he knew it was cold, but other things had pushed that discomfort away. A bird was calling somewhere in the forest. Win tried to place it, but this western bird’s call was new to him. He made a mental note to research it, then smiled to himself at his foolishness. It wasn’t lookin’ like he’d be in this place long enough to learn its birds.
He shifted from one foot to the other and tried the bindings again. He’d tried with all his strength to break them, but these men hadn’t skimped, they’d bought the heavy plastic flex cuffs rated to withstand six hundred pounds of pressure. His wrists and hands were sticky again with blood. It wasn’t working. Dawn was breaking and he now knew with certainty there was no escape.
Chapter Thirty-Five
They hiked in just as the prayer meeting was breaking up. The group was gathered under several large spruce trees at the uphill edge of a small clearing below the black, gaping mouth of a cave. The men appeared as dark shadows as they rose to their feet under the gloom of the overhanging trees. The early light was too dim for Win to clearly make out any details, but he heard the distinct clatter of long guns being shifted as they stood. This was Prophet Shepherd’s army.
The man Win assumed was Shepherd was bareheaded, dressed in a heavy coat, and carrying a thick book. He stood a little apart from the others, and although he wasn’t a tall man, his bearing conveyed his distinction as their leader. He and a stocky man, who Win guessed was Chandler, walked away from the group and along the slope to meet Eriksson. They both gave him approving nods and handshakes. They traded words Win couldn’t hear, then the Prophet walked through the short grass on the slight slope toward Win with an expectant, purposeful stride—he was coming to him. The other men followed Shepherd at a respectful distance and formed a loose circle around Win. He sensed as much curiosity as hostility in their manner.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Daniel Shepherd stood just above him on the slope near the trail. The faint light was falling on his features, and Win could see a mixture of satisfaction and mania there. His eyes were too hooded in the early light to read, but Win had no doubt he’d see fanatical madness in them—this man was crazy in a distinctly dangerous way. There would be no reasoning with Daniel Shepherd. Win would have to appeal to the others.
“Why don’t you tell me? You’ve broken the law by bringing me here.”
“We don’t recognize the laws of the United States any longer, Agent Tyler. Our revolution begins today, and you have the distinction of being the oppressor’s first casualty of that war!” He said it loudly and wit
h authority. There was a shifting and a slight murmur within the group of men. Most of them hadn’t expected this.
Shepherd raised the book, a large black Bible, over his head for effect. “God’s Word in Deuteronomy 19:21 tells us to not show pity, to take a life for a life, and an eye for an eye! My youngest son, Dennie Shepherd, died at the hands of the FBI four years ago! God has brought this man, this agent of the FBI, here so that I can avenge that death—to bring balance and order to His Kingdom and to bring justice to me and my family!”
Win wasn’t gonna go down without a fight—at least a verbal fight. His voice was loud enough for them all to hear. “I’m sorry Dennie Shepherd died. But he was killed robbing a bank—after he’d shot innocent bystanders! He chose the wrong path! What does Christ say in the Book of Matthew about your ‘eye for an eye’ quote? He tells us to turn the other cheek—not to repay evil for evil. We have laws for that . . . for justice.” Win took a breath. He couldn’t believe Shepherd was letting him have his say, but his voice was strong as he finished his plea. “You’re trying to justify a murder—these men know that! I’m a Christian and you’re going to murder me? You’re tying all these men to your evil plans by making them accessories to murder—to this crime! You’re turning them into criminals and you’re twisting our faith! You’re a false prophet! Nothing but a false prophet!”
That didn’t go over so well. Ron Chandler stepped toward Win and backhanded him hard across the face with his gloved hand. The strike snapped Win’s head back. He tried to dodge to avoid another blow, but the two men behind him held him firmly in place.
