Gather The Seekers (Challenged World Book 3)

by Milam,Vince

  Back in the pew, she sat with Jude and pressed gauze against the wound until it stopped bleeding, and smeared antibiotic cream on it. “You won’t even notice it in a few days,” she said.

  “Sure, Jean. Sure. Just like the last time I was shot in the head!”

  Jean started to chuckle, failed to hold it back, and laughed with relief and the surety it was over for now. She wrapped an arm around Jude and hugged the pastor while she continued to laugh long and loud. We’re alive and safe. And it really isn’t Jude’s fault for being so freaked out. Still. Pretty damn funny. Banjo nuzzled her and wagged his tail. Over. Thank God. It’s over.

  Chapter 41

  Cole’s phone call arrived as Nick Capellas approached Culpeper and Bishop Sikes’s church. Zuhdi had directed him to cover the bishop, an edict that pissed him off more than a little. We’re right in the middle of dropping a ton of bricks on eighteen terrorists and the boss wants me to babysit. Great. Just great.

  Nadine’s information had set off a firestorm of activity within minutes of its receipt. Zuhdi had played no turf battles with this one. He’d alerted everyone and their cousin, and now—from Vancouver, Washington, to San Antonio, Texas, to Silver Springs, Maryland—law enforcement pursued the terrorists. Pursued by everyone but him, the babysitter.

  Nick tapped the phone’s speaker function and said, “Hey, Cole. I suppose you’ve joined everyone else taking the bad guys down. Not me. No, sir. I’m off to Culpeper, as per my boss. To hang with the bishop. How’s that for active engagement?”

  It came across as whiny, sure, but all the action whirled elsewhere.

  “Good for Zuhdi. Move your ass, pronto. They’re coming after us.”

  “What? Who’s coming after us?”

  “You know damn well who. Cover Luke. He’s a target.”

  Nick was sucked right back into their weird world, just when he’d begun to settle on firm, logical, DHS ground. Don’t start, Cole. Jeez.

  “No disrespect, but where are you getting this information?” Nick asked.

  “I’m getting it from having just blown away a man who tried to kill Francois,” Cole said.

  “What?”

  “He’s in surgery. I’m at the hospital now. Go to Luke. I’ve already talked with Jean.”

  It made no sense unless you bought into the whole demonic force thing, and Nick only waded in the shallow end of that deep pool. Still, where was the motive for an attempt on the Frenchman’s life? Nick fought against the option of dark forces at play.

  Cole’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Son, have you floored the gas pedal yet?”

  Culpeper was minutes away, so Nick did just that. “On my way,” he replied.

  “And call Luke. Tell him to lay low. Don’t be farting around with this, Nick. It’s serious.”

  He didn’t need a lecture from this rube sheriff. “I said I’m on it, Cole. Bye.” Nick pressed the end call button and dialed Bishop Sikes, tired of being told what to do.

  Luke Sikes answered after one ring. “Young Nick! I was on the verge of dialing you. I’m afraid evil lurks. Nearby. I feel it.”

  Nick heard Luke take a slurp of iced tea. He flew along the highway and passed light traffic, the accelerator pressed to the floor.

  “I’m heading your way, Bishop. There was an attempted murder on the Frenchman. I need you to stay inside, behind locked doors. I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

  “Brother Francois? Is he alright?”

  Nick flew off the highway and slowed to maneuver through Culpeper. “I don’t know. Cole Garza said he’s in the hospital. But that’s not the point. The point is, you may be in danger.”

  Another loud slurp of iced tea, followed by, “I will pray for Brother Francois. And I will call Brother Cole for an update on his condition.” Luke paused. “Terrible. Terrible, horrible events. Attempted murder!” The bishop’s voice filled with anger and righteousness.

  “Cole thinks they’re going to come after you, too. And Jude.” Nick whipped around a slow vehicle. “So please hide, Bishop. Hide until I arrive.”

  “I do not hide from the Enemy. I have already sent the staff home, as well as the members of the congregation who volunteered today.”

  “Okay, good. I’m almost there.” A brief pang of guilt registered at having doubted his boss. The bishop’s radar and the sheriff’s call made for a potent combination of impending danger.

  “Since you are coming to see me, Nick, there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on Meadowbrook I’d like you to stop by. Blueberry butternut donuts. Oh, my, yes. The Lord’s blessings are many.”

  “I’m not stopping at some damn donut shop, Bishop! Get inside your office and lock the windows and doors! Understood?”

  “No need to curse. And again, I am aware danger approaches. And you had best put on the full armor of God, young man, so you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. Now, back to those donuts.”

  Nick slowed at two stop signs, rolled through them, and stepped on the gas. The Tabernacle of the Divine Spirit was three blocks away. Zuhdi will kill me if something happens to the bishop. A sense of misplaced priorities and guilt washed over him. Alright, alright, I really like the big guy. A card-carrying member of the weird league of supernatural chasers. But I like him. A friend. By God, he’s a friend.

  “Please, Bishop. Please. Head down, doors locked. I’ll be there inside a minute.”

  A silent pause, then, “I sense this is her.”

  “Who? Who, Bishop?” Nick yelled toward the cell phone.

  More uncomfortable silence, then, “I’m looking out the window, Nick. I do believe the Enemy has arrived.”

  Nick whipped around a corner, wheels squealing. The church was dead ahead. “I’m here, Bishop. For God’s sake, stay low!” Her? A woman? Coming to kill the bishop?

  He slammed to a stop, flew from the car, and sprinted to the front entrance of the Tabernacle of the Divine Spirit. He gripped the holstered pistol and prepared to open the door, then pulled the weapon, released the safety, and entered the church.

  His pistol hand led the way as he moved through the entrance hall and took a right toward the bishop’s office. He had taken several steps on the carpeted floor when Luke’s voice, low and rumbling, said, “You’re too far away. Do you even know how to use that, child?”

  It had come from the nave. Nick turned and approached the double doors, pausing to glance through one of the small windows set in each portal. Bishop Sikes stood in the center of the nave between the two large sets of pews, less than halfway down the aisle. He faced the pulpit. Afternoon sunshine glowed through stained glass, casting soft hues and glistening where striations lay embedded in the cut panes. Near the pulpit stood a young woman in a headscarf with a semiautomatic pistol that was raised and pointed at the bishop.

  His mind kicked into overdrive and his heart pounded. A shot through the small door window at the woman was less than optimal to begin with, and she stood a good thirty yards away—a long shot for a pistol. And she’s a young woman! Am I going to pull the trigger on a young woman?

  Nick pushed open one of the doors. The action drew both the woman’s attention and her aim. The bishop didn’t change position and remained, arms at his side, facing the woman.

  “That you, Nick?” Luke asked, his voice directed toward the woman but reverberating throughout the enclosed high-ceiling space.

  Nick entered a few feet, paused, and began a slow deliberate walk, unsure as to the best move. He kept his weapon trained on the young woman. “Yes. Yes it is, Bishop.”

  The woman shifted aim from Nick to Luke, and settled back on Nick.

  “Drop it! Drop it now!” Nick called, his voice louder than he intended and a higher octave than he would have liked. “I mean it, lady. Drop it!”

  She squinted along the barrel of the pistol and sighted his slow approach.

  “The Enemy has you, child,” Luke said. His voice began low and escalated to a loud, booming command. “The Enemy ha
s filled you. Lied to you. Touched you. Reject the devil! Stand before God! Stand before God and be redeemed!”

  The ear-splitting gun blast rolled off the walls and high ceiling. The angry bee buzz of the bullet whistled past Nick’s ear before the thunderous clap of the shot reached him, and he snapped a shot back, missing. Nick dropped to one knee and huddled against a pew to steady his aim. She fired again and the bullet slapped the back of the wooden pew in front of him. He began to squeeze off another shot when Bishop Luke Sikes filled his line of sight. He’s charging her!

  Luke dashed at remarkable speed toward the woman and she shifted aim to him, snapping off shots that echoed and rolled across the nave, rattling the stained glass windows.

  Nick couldn’t shoot, couldn’t do anything from his position, except watch Luke sprint. So he stood and ran forward as well, his weapon pointed toward the woman hidden behind the bishop’s running body.

  At the third shot from the woman’s pistol, the bishop dove and rolled. A football move, quicker and with more ferocity than Nick could conceive. Luke executed two incredibly quick rolls as the woman continued to fire. She shot high as the bullets zipped over Luke’s tumbling body to dig small trenches into the aisle carpet.

  Luke’s forward roll afforded an upper-body glimpse of the woman. Nick slammed to a stop, aimed at her torso, and began to squeeze the trigger when Luke’s massive body sprang up from the second roll and landed on the shooter, sending them both to the ground. Her pistol flew off to the side.

  “Hold her!” Nick screamed, running toward them. “Hold her!” Luke sprawled on top of the woman, both arms wrapped around her with a tight grip. Luke held a wildcat as she thrashed and twisted her body, emitting sharp sounds of fury.

  Luke’s body blow had knocked off her headscarf, and her dark hair splayed across the pulpit area carpet. As she hissed and struggled, Luke Sikes talked to her.

  “Be redeemed, child. Reject evil and be redeemed.” He spoke softly, inches from her twisting face. “Reject the Enemy. Fill your heart, child. Fill your heart with the glory of God.”

  The ragged cloth edges of an exit wound showed on Luke’s back shoulder, and a dark stain spread. Nick knelt next to both figures, holstered his pistol, and said, “Flip her over, Bishop. Flip her over, and I’ll cuff her.” Adrenaline still surged, and his hands shook as he reached for the handcuffs. He tried not to vomit.

  Luke stared deep into the young woman’s eyes and slowly shook his head, resigned. He exhaled sadness and defeat. The huge man sat back on his knees and the woman attempted to struggle free as she scrambled, clawed, toward her pistol that rested several feet away.

  Nick leapt and knelt on her body, grabbed an arm, twisted it behind her, repeated the action, and applied the handcuffs. Her struggles never ceased, nor did the animal-like noises, so he pulled a large zip tie from a front pocket and secured her ankles as well. She twisted again to lie on her side. Her breath blew hard through her nose, and she stared first at him and then at Luke with an all-consuming hatred.

  “You’re shot,” Nick said and turned as Luke rose to his feet. “Sit in a pew, Bishop. Please. Sit down.”

  Luke Sikes stared at the woman as she cast hatred toward him, hissed, and strained against her handcuffs and foot strap. “Lies. Lies and deceit and insinuation. The Enemy is clever. She is consumed, young Nick. Consumed.”

  Nick dialed 911 and asked for an ambulance and backup, then attempted to move Luke toward a pew. He might as well have strained against a mountain. “You really ought to sit down. Please. For me.”

  “Are you injured?” Luke held a look of deep concern.

  “I’m trying not to vomit. Sit down, please.”

  “If you will join me.”

  Luke sat on the front pew and prayed, lifting his unwounded shoulder and arm to the heavens, palm flat. The young woman continued to struggle against her bindings, her breath ragged and sharp.

  Nick took off his suit jacket and tossed it on the pew. He unbuttoned and removed his shirt for use as a bandage to staunch Luke’s bleeding, then sat and applied pressure to the entrance and exit wound. He lowered his head and gently pressed his forehead against the top of the bishop’s wounded shoulder. Sunlight glistened through the stained glass, and Nick shuddered with relief and acceptance.

  Chapter 42

  Zuhdi Kouri received continuous field reports during the nationwide hunt for the eighteen terrorists. Most had left their cell phone GPS function active, and law enforcement tracked their locations within an hour of receiving Nadine’s information.

  As reports arrived, a pattern developed. Each terrorist, when stopped or surrounded, had no intention to surrender. Case after case filtered back to Zuhdi of individual jihadists committed to their version of suicide. They opened fire on law enforcement as well as any citizens exposed, hell-bent on killing as many as they could prior to their own death. Those who used knives or clubs for their murderous activities would charge toward the law officers, only to be gunned down. Ugly, fanatical business. Human perversions of my faith.

  Nick had just called him with an update on the attack on Bishop Sikes. Jean and Cole had both called earlier about their attacks. The sheriff had asked him to send a team to Nadine’s house and clean up the mess.

  The three recovered phones from their assailants confirmed the attackers as new recruits, not on Nadine’s provided list, and brought the number back to twenty-one. And there hadn’t been a copycat killing in three days. It’s ending. Finally, it’s ending.

  Two of the eighteen terrorists, both having turned off their phone’s GPS function, remained at large—one in Houston and the other somewhere near D.C. Zuhdi stretched and paced his office. DHS agents walked past his open door with grim smiles. A few provided him a thumbs-up gesture as the manhunt wound down. For the first time in two weeks, hallway voices sounded a positive note. But Zuhdi wasn’t satisfied. This entire attack—this declaration of war against America and everything he believed in—left a knot of anger and uncertainty. What drove these people? Reports and analysis would flow like a river when it was over, but this information would lack a deeper rationale. As a Muslim, he had to know, to understand.

  During any Islamic-related terror threat, he was subject to quick side-glances from his troops and his peers. Looks that asked, “What’s the deal, Zuhdi?” The glances and voice inflections had grown more intense the last two weeks. His anger at this reality wasn’t pointed toward his coworkers. It was focused on the jihadists. Answers and explanations had to be found.

  Zuhdi called the DHS agent in charge of tracking the lone D.C. terrorist. “When he or she uses their cell phone, I want immediate notification. Understood?”

  The agent assured him he would be among the first to know.

  “Let me make this clear. I’m not looking for an update. I am going to be part of the arrest. Part of the takedown team. Not among the first. The first.” Zuhdi had already pulled his bulletproof vest from his office closet and draped it over the back of his chair. His service pistol remained on his hip. He continued to pace and to ponder the mindset of the jihadists.

  The apocalyptic perspective of ISIS—final grand battles against the West and the return of the worldwide caliphate—lacked a basis in reality. A commitment to return global society to a seventh-century social and legal environment had no relation to rational thought. The world was not going to turn the clock back to a medieval religious structure. So what drove this behavior, this madness?

  Their prophetic mission to purify the world through mass slaughter infuriated Zuhdi. Most of their victims were Muslim—apostates, in the perverted view of ISIS. And their fixation on a great final battle on the plains of northern Syria against the armies of the West—where was some semblance of a reasoned perspective? Madness, collective lunacy, and…and something else.

  He reflected on Bishop Sikes and the others associated with him, including Nadine. They contended that evil—real, active evil—drove the terrorists. Who was to say something o
f the same kind hadn’t propelled the growth of ISIS?

  Whatever the cause or reason, Zuhdi had a very personal stake in seeing this force stopped. As a proud American, Army Ranger, DHS chief, and Muslim he understood the cultural ramifications of ISIS. Their actions, their slaughters and beheadings and crucifixions, painted his faith and all of Islam with a nasty and brutish brush. They would be crushed, and he would do anything in his power to speed the process.

  His cell phone rang. “We have a contact point,” the agent said to him. “It’s a male. We captured his voice. He used his phone at the intersection of Virginia and Constitution Avenues.”

  His office was blocks away from that location. The terrorist had called next to the vast mall area, near the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. Zuhdi grabbed his bulletproof vest and dashed from the building, his pistol and DHS radio on his hip. He flagged one of the few working taxis—the fastest conveyance to get him to the last known point of the jihadist—and three minutes later left the cab and radioed his location to the pursuit team.

  Night had fallen and the mall area, with its memorials and monuments, stood empty. People stayed inside and tourism had ceased as part of the D.C. landscape during this crisis. The pursuit team scoured the streets and buildings north of the Virginia-Constitution intersection. They stopped everyone they encountered on the almost empty streets and entered the few open buildings to do the same. Zuhdi walked south, into the grassy mall.

  His path took him past gardens and to the reflecting pool. He stood alone with the exception of a single figure, discernable in the moonlight, who walked along the reflecting pool and toward the Lincoln Memorial. Zuhdi scanned the area, observed no other people, and followed.

  The quarter-mile walk afforded him an opportunity to close the gap with the striding stranger. The dark figure’s movements and stature indicated a young man. His stride was quick and flowed as an athlete’s, even with his hands shoved into a light jacket.