by Brenna Lyons
Blake wanted one thing besides the money, the element of surprise so he could take on Harris and expect to win. Simmons had no problem with that, and Blake became his ace in the hole. Most of their men were the religious devout recruited by Cole. Blake had been recruited by Simmons himself.
Like Simmons, Blake was a businessman. Both of them were being paid handsomely for their role in this game.
“You can have a crisis of faith, but gold never loses value,” Simmons once told Cole.
Billings was one of Cole’s men, as was Stacie Miller. Dealing with them was always taxing, since the religious rhetoric they spouted endlessly annoyed him. Simmons had settled on saying “God’s speed” at the end of conversations and filtering out most of what they said automatically. Only a fool runs at a gun without even being paid for it, he decided.
It wasn’t that Simmons was against people having faith, but he was a firm believer that they should keep it to themselves. In his years facing down both the right and wrong side of the barrel of a gun, Simmons hadn’t found any power in his corner, even when he’d still believed in it and begged it for help.
He’d decided, if there was a higher power in the universe, it either didn’t care or had a great sense of humor. Either way, Simmons had no use for someone who couldn’t be bothered to cover your back once in awhile.
As they approached the window with the flag out, they slowed. There was still no sign that anyone had seen them coming. Either the people inside were busy gearing up to meet the assault from the east, they really had gone unnoticed, or something was very wrong here. They stood to the side of the window and waited until they heard the commotion start to the east. Simmons threw his leg over the sill and ducked into the room beyond.
The stately sitting room seemed out of place, even for the extravagance of a Roman Catholic showplace. The room was decorated in opulent red and gold brocade fabrics. The tieback drapes were a rich red velvet, and the shelves along one wall were full of old hardbound books.
Simmons shook his head in disgust.
He glanced back at Cole, who was smoothing out his pristine Levi 501s. From his Lands End shirt down to his Timberland hiking boots, he was GQ. Simmons had never seen Cole in an outfit that cost less than two hundred dollars, and usually it cost much more. Who said these churches were so different?
Billings was in, and Simmons motioned for them to follow him. Cole pulled up his gun and nodded to the two other men. Cole’s gun was handled with an ease that belied his standing as a man of God.
Billings was uneasy, and it was obvious to Simmons that he wasn’t happy about this part of the job. Whether it was because he feared what he would have to face or because he simply didn’t know if he could kill another being, even an evil one, was a mystery to Simmons. He wished, yet again, that Cole had sprung for more paid muscle and relied less on “devoted warriors of God.”
They moved toward the door. Simmons turned the knob and started to pull the it open a crack. The door crashed open, hitting him solidly in the face and throwing him backwards. He felt the floor rush up to meet him. A warm splash hit his cheek, and he wasn’t certain if the blood came from his split lip or from his nose.
A crushing pressure settled onto his chest and his right arm. Startling colors danced before his eyes.
His vision started to clear. A black man about his own age straddled his chest and had his weight pressed painfully on Simmons’s ribs and his right elbow. Simmons’s left arm was pinned to his body. The man’s gun was locked solidly on his forehead.
“Drop it,” he requested simply.
Simmons was no fool. His 9mm thumped to the carpet. He glanced back toward the others. Cole was pinned to the bookshelves with Harris’s gun planted under his chin. Cole’s gun was already on the floor. Cole wasn’t much of a fool, either.
Billings hopped from foot to foot excitedly, his gun still clutched in his hands but useless in his panic.
“Just drop it,” Harris ordered. “You can’t win.”
Billings looked back and forth between the four men in a wild, unhinged manner. He dove for the window. He wasn’t fully out when a shot rang out; Billings slammed into the wall below the window and slid the rest of the way out onto the grass.
Harris looked at the other man and raised an eyebrow. “That was Liz?” he asked.
The man on his chest nodded.
“Can I borrow her?”
* * *
Mark Timms watched the incoming zealots in a mixture of amazement and amusement. Four of them left the relative safety of the trees and advanced to the bushes and wall to get a better shot. The situation was so laughable that, had these men not technically been his adversaries, Timms would have succumbed to the urge to yell out pointers to them.
Timms was hooked into the radio that Harris’s men were using, as was Rob Cason, Harris, and Stacie. Everyone else was on the system that Harris and Eric had dubbed “pagan radio.” Given time and the expertise of one of their snipers, they might have found a common frequency at the edges of the bands, but time was their true enemy. It was a lousy system, but they simply didn’t have enough of either radio to go around to everyone. Communications often had to be routed through Harris and Eric. Timms cursed the system again.
“Harris.”
“Yeah?”
“Contact their man in the woods. Four of these idiots are clueless, but those two in the treeline could be dangerous. What’re the odds of him taking them both out and fading away?”
“I’ll check.” There was a long pause from the other end. “He’s only got a good lock on one of them. Will that do?”
“Anything that levels the field.”
What Timms wouldn’t give for a good rifle and scope. This was an indoor job, and they really hadn’t expected any company. The men Harris brought were only armed with handguns.
The girl’s group was fighting a different type of fight. They had snipers outside with rifles. They also had handguns and two pump shotguns inside. They left one of the shotguns with Connor and entrusted the other to Timms. It wasn’t the weapon he would have chosen for this fight, but it was better than the handgun.
A shot rang out from deeper in the woods. One of Cole’s men fell. The other ducked deeper into the underbrush and fired a few shots back into the woods before deciding he was wasting ammo.
The effect on the four up front was startling. Two left the security of their positions behind the wall, forgetting the threat in the other direction. They were only twenty yards away, so the handguns were sufficient for Cason and Timms. The other two seemed intent on burrowing themselves under the bushes.
Cason’s voice interrupted his chain of thought. “Maybe this won’t be a siege after all.” His laughter was cut short.
The sound of a rifle shot answered the question before it was even asked. The other man in the woods was a crack shot, and Cason had been too far up in the window.
“Cason? Damn it, if you’re there, answer me.”
There was no response for several seconds.
Harris’s voice called back. “Check him.”
“On my way.”
“Keep your head down.”
“Yeah, I know,” Timms snapped at him.
“So did he.”
Timms had to admit that Harris had a point. He moved down the narrow staircase to the window Cason was covering. The shot took him through the neck. He was gone long before Timms got to him.
He radioed out. “No good. He’s out of the picture.”
“How’s it look?” Harris asked him.
“We went from two to six to one to three. No improvement.”
“Hang tight. I have something to take care of.”
Timms grabbed Cason’s jacket from the table next to the window. He placed it neatly over the other man’s head and shoulders. “I’d say a prayer for you, but it would probably offend you. Safe journey, old friend.” Timms sighed. He moved to another window a few yards away.
He waited in silenc
e for Harris’s next message and checked the men outside several times. They were in a deadlock for the moment. That was fine with Timms. A single shot sounded out, then the radio cracked to life again.
“Keep your head down for a few minutes,” Harris instructed.
“Okay, why?”
“You’ll see.”
There was silence for a few long seconds. Then, Timms heard a rifle shot. And a second. He glanced over the window. He couldn’t see the man in the treeline. One of the men in the bushes was dead. The other was running toward the convent with his rifle out ahead of him. Timms raised the shotgun. One shot and the man was down.
Timms ducked and radioed out again. “Any word from their man in the trees about the second professional?” he asked.
“She said she missed.”
Timms grinned. That was one woman he’d like to meet.
* * *
Reverend Cole was pushed along by an older man that Simmons had informed him was the infamous Mr. Harris. Blake hadn’t been there to meet them inside, but surely he would aid them once they got to her. They turned a corner, and Cole could see Blake crumpled against a wall.
Simmons looked back at him and spoke, as if reading his mind. “Guess you can file that chance away. I’ve been expecting something like this ever since the ambush.”
Cole stopped and reached for the fallen man, but Harris grabbed him by the shoulder. “Don’t try it,” the older man growled at him.
“I need to pray for him,” Cole protested.
“Pray for yourself.”
Simmons rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. He wouldn’t have appreciated it. He wasn’t much of a God person.”
Cole turned an angry red. “Maybe that’s why he’s dead.”
Simmons raised an eyebrow at the irate pastor. “Not likely. He just got sloppy.”
Eric grinned behind Simmons’s head. “As much fun as this is, it’s time to move out.” He nudged Simmons down the hallway. “If you’d please...” Dutifully, he started walking.
Cole squared his shoulders and kept walking. It wouldn’t end here. From the first time he saw the ancient text filed in the Church basement, he knew God had charted his path for him. No one was going to stop him now.
* * *
Joe sat beside Kyla on the couch. She had given up trying to untangle her curls without a brush and tied them into a ponytail with a strip of cloth that was used to hold back the heavy drapes decorating the doorway that separated this reading room from the library beyond.
Now she lay curled against the arm of the couch, fast asleep. Considering her day so far, Joe couldn’t blame her for wanting some sleep.
Eric’s voice came over the radio. “I have a surprise for you,” he said happily.
“Really? We can leave?”
“No, not yet, but almost as good. See you in a few minutes.”
Joe leaned and brushed a kiss against Kyla’s forehead before standing to meet Eric, unwilling to disturb her sleep. When he heard footsteps on the marble floor, Joe readied his gun. Always prepared, right Gram? The door opened and Joe saw Simmons enter with Eric close behind.
Joe smiled widely. “I like your present.”
“That’s just the half of it.” Eric moved to the side.
Reverend Steven Cole was steaming mad and he wasn’t about to pretend he wasn’t.
Harris elbowed in past Cole and pushed him at an open chair next to the bishop. “Have a seat.”
Eric guided Simmons toward another chair across the room. Joe noticed that he had bound Simmons’s hands with the zip strips from his pocket.
Joe nodded at the assembly. “Isn’t this a cozy bunch?”
The two priests looked only slightly uncomfortable with the new arrivals. Rev. Cole glared at everyone in the room. Joe could almost guess at the thoughts going through his mind. Joe was sure Cole was evaluating his own righteousness against the various demons of Catholicism and paganism he found himself surrounded by. That was completely inappropriate considering the diverse group they actually were but wholly believable for Cole.
“Comfortable?” Joe asked.
Cole turned a deeper shade of crimson.
Simmons, on the other hand, kicked back with his legs propped on the other end of the couch Kyla was sleeping on. His legs were crossed at the ankles, and he stretched his back lazily despite his bound hands. He looked at Joe and smiled. “You must be Joe.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “You have pretty good intel.”
Simmons jerked his head toward the hallway. “You seem to have a way of taking out my help, though. I guess that’s one paycheck the Rev isn’t going to have to write.”
Cole muttered under his breath. “Looks like I hired the wrong group of men.”
Simmons smirked at him. “Maybe, or maybe you should have listened to me and hired more. Your devout Boy Scouts didn’t seem to last long out there.”
Cole scowled at him. “At least my men aren’t for sale. How much did you pay Blake to get him to change sides? How much would I have to pay them to get them to do the same?”
Eric laughed a rich, deep laugh. “We’re not for sale,” he informed Cole.
Simmons chuckled. “Come on. Top notch guys like you must have a high price tag. Tell me. What are they paying you? No pro runs at a gun for free.”
Eric gave him a scathing look. “No amount of money is worth running at the wrong gun.”
Simmons’s surprise showed in his face. “Honor among thieves, huh?” He decided to switch targets. He looked to Joe next. “I suppose you’re just in it for the nookie you get from your girlfriend over there. Hope she’s good enough to make it worth your while.”
Joe wanted to punch the smug look off Simmons’s face, but a better idea came to him. He didn’t even crack a smile. “She happens to be my wife.”
Simmons searched the faces in the room, and Joe followed his gaze from person to person. Only Rev. Cole looked surprised. By the end, Simmons had turned a sickly shade of green. He swallowed a lump in his throat, and Joe could imagine the sour taste that had settled into his mouth.
Simmons looked at Cole and smiled weakly. “Boy, did you pick the wrong target.”
* * *
Stacie was stationed on the other side of the library, and she heard Rev. Cole come in. She sat and rocked as she listened to the argument that followed. A guilty pang assaulted her when Cole asserted that his men weren’t for sale. Stacie felt a sudden desire to put down her gun, to throw herself at Cole’s feet.
Then what? Are you planning on begging his forgiveness? Are you planning to actually do what you know he wants you to do?
She reasoned that she had chosen a course and reminded herself why.
Besides, Stacie had nothing to be ashamed of. She hadn’t sold out. She’d simply made a moral choice. The fact that it didn’t mesh with Rev. Cole’s grand plan didn’t make her course the wrong one. After all, being a Lamb of God didn’t mean Cole had to be her shepherd. Did it?
Stacie felt a warm resolve. Her inner voice brought her peace. If someone had suggested to her that the voice wasn’t coming from within, she would have laughed. Her turn was to come very soon. Stacie only hoped she would make the right choice.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Ten am - noon
Cory Osborn crawled and scurried well out of range of the second sniper. That one was dangerous. He had to equalize the situation. He had to follow through for Rev. Cole.
Cory scanned the wide lawn. There was no hope for the others. Why they left the comparative safety of the trees in the first place baffled him. He had tried to warn them back, but they’d been frozen with fear. Then, the shooting had started. Cory had expected the others would have some problems. He hadn’t expected that the entire complement would be taken out so quickly.
They had been told there were only four men standing against them, there was someone helping on the inside, and no one mentioned those damn snipers. This was nothing like the scenario Cory had been b
riefed for.
He knew there were two snipers, north and east. There was also the man in the east window, but Cory saw no sign of anyone to the south. There was a large garden that would afford him cover on that side.
He laid low and waited for the movement he spotted in the trees to repeat. One of their snipers moved. The shooter was probably trying to find him. Cory took aim carefully. He only had one shot at this. More than one shot would allow them to pinpoint him. He squeezed the trigger and the man in the scope spun away sharply and lost his footing in the tree. The sniper disappeared into the brush and didn’t reappear.
Cory moved into garden. As he’d expected, the thick foliage afforded him near-invisibility. As the minutes passed, the convent loomed closer and closer.
When the heavy wood door was in front of him, Cory reached up, expecting that it would be locked and he would have to choose between making noise by breaking a window or moving along until he found another entrance.
He was shocked to find that it turned easily in his hand. Cory held his breath and shouldered the door open. No one was in sight. He slid inside and closed the door. If someone did screw up, he wasn’t going to sneer at it. If it was opened on purpose, he was going to shake Blake’s hand.
* * *
Kyla opened her eyes to the vision of Rev. Cole sitting judgment on her. A flash of a dream invaded her mind. “Suffer ye not a witch to live.” She startled and flipped off the couch. Kyla rubbed her hands over her eyes, but the vision of Cole didn’t disappear, like it should have.
Then Joe was beside her, comforting her. “It’s okay. Consider him Eric’s wedding present.”
Kyla stared at him in disbelief. “Can I trade it in for something I like?” she asked. Eric laughed heartily, and Kyla turned to face him. “Sorry, Eric. I appreciate the thought, but it doesn’t match the décor.”
“No problem. Want me to shoot him, stuff him, and put him in the game room?” Eric asked.
