Finding My Faith

by Carly Fall

  Chapter 2

  Rayner came to full consciousness as the plane touched down in Glendale, Arizona, a suburb of Phoenix. It was a smaller airport and easier to get airtime in and out of than the Phoenix International Airport. He stretched, and Suzette stood up in front of them when the plane came to a stop, her hair and make-up perfectly coiffed. Like she had just put herself back together.

  Hudson strikes again.

  Rayner didn't know how the guy did it. He went through women like gasoline through an SUV, and the women loved getting a piece of Hudson. It had been programmed into the Warriors’ human bodies that if they were to ever experience the ultimate pleasure of being in love while making love to a woman, they would lose their SR44 forms and begin aging as humans did. That would be the ultimate failure to any of the Warriors. They were prideful and believed in their mission to eradicate the Colonists. Hudson had never lost his SR44 form despite all the women he bedded. But then again, Hudson had never been in love except once, and that hadn’t gone so well for him.

  Suzette smiled widely, thanking them on behalf of the company for choosing them for their travel plans, and she hoped they would see them again, blah blah blah.

  Whatever.

  Rayner guessed she just wanted another piece of Hudson.

  The three Warriors made their way down the steps and onto the tarmac, and Rayner was thankful that they had arrived in Arizona in March instead of some God-awful month like July or August. He had been in Phoenix one time during the summer and the heat felt like it was being channeled straight from Hell itself. Not in March though. No, March was a nice sunny seventy degrees with a breeze.

  They collected their duffel bags; Rayner and Cohen's were green army surplus, Hudson's a leather Gucci. They walked over to where a man was leaning against a black Hummer, waiting for them. He was short and stalky, with a head full of salt and pepper hair.

  He stood to his full height as the three approached him. “Gentleman,” he said, holding out the keys.

  Rayner grabbed the keys and tossed them to Hudson. “Thanks, man,” he said.

  They threw their duffel bags in back, and the shorter man left. They climbed in, Rayner opting for the back seat, Cohen heading for the passenger seat.

  “How come I'm driving?” Hudson asked, looking at both of them.

  “Easy,” Cohen said. “You got laid. Now you drive.”

  Rayner waited for an argument from Hudson, but none came. Hudson jammed the keys into the ignition and they were off.

  Their destination was a missile silo located west of Phoenix down toward the Mexican border. They sped west in silence on Interstate 10 with Radiohead's “Bodysnatchers” blasting through the speakers, and then headed south on Maricopa County Highway 85, or MC85 for short.

  A half hour later, they veered left onto a dirt road. After a few minutes they were surrounded by nothing but the sagebrush and Saguaro Cacti that stood tall, their shapes looking like a large Gumby’s. Rayner thought of the Snoopy cartoons each time his saw the cacti. They looked as though they were waving at them, welcoming the Warriors back to the silo.

  After approximately three miles they hit a chain-link fence with electric wiring on top of it. Cohen pulled a key fob from his pocket and hit a button. The gate came to life, hitching its way to the left, and Hudson pulled the car in.

  They got out of the Hummer and stretched. Rayner popped the back open and they each grabbed their duffle bags and headed toward the five metal steps that led up to the first door of the silo. Hudson punched in the code, and the three-foot metal door hissed then popped open. They went in, the lights coming on automatically. They pounded down ten metal steps to the second door, then tapped in another code, and then they were inside the silo.

  Rayner had to admit, since they had been on Earth, the silos were by far the smartest, not to mention the coolest thing they had done. Noah had made a fortune in the stock market, and just after the Cold War when Russia and the United States were promising they wouldn't obliterate each other with nuclear weapons, the government had decommissioned missile silos all over the country. Noah had gone in and bought six of them. The government took the missiles, and Noah had the silos made into very plush, very habitable places for the Warriors to live.

  The silos sat nine stories deep into the ground. In all the silos, the top two floors were the communal living space, and then each Warrior could pick a floor. The silos were circular in nature, and Noah had installed an elevator going down the middle where the missile used to be that stopped at each floor.

  They entered through the kitchen and went for the fridge.

  Hudson took a brief inventory of the food that had been stocked in there for their visit.

  “Looks like we got some Heinies. Anyone?” Cohen and Rayner both agreed it was a fabulous idea and Hudson tossed them each one.

  “So, based on what we have in the fridge, how about some steaks and baked potatoes for dinner?” Hudson asked.

  Cohen and Rayner again agreed. Hudson loved to cook and got busy in the kitchen. Cohen made his way to the game room for a little Xbox 360, and Rayner got on the elevator, shut his eyes, and pushed a button. He heard the door close and felt the elevator making its way downward. He didn't open his eyes until he felt it stop. The doors opened and he looked at what floor he was on.

  Okay. Floor five was his.

  He made his way into the quarters, dropped his duffel bag on the floor, and sucked down the rest of his beer in three large swallows.

  He had never stayed on the fifth floor in Arizona. It was nice. There was no doubt Noah hadn't spared any expense when it came to the decorating and comfort of the Warriors.

  The room was done in a couple of different shades of brown with black accents. The carpeting was plush dark brown, the walls a lighter brown. The huge California King bed, with its brown and black comforter and black silk sheets, called to him, promising comfort while he watched the sixty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall. There was a large, black Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom, and a brown leather couch next to the small end table. Definitely a nice, comfortable place.

  The first thing he needed was a shower. Then he would go upstairs, eat, and they would get a game plan together. He was exhausted, but a game plan was necessary.

  As he showered in the black marble stall, he began forming strategies to discuss with Hudson and Cohen. He was always working, always planning one step ahead. Yeah, he was the workhorse. He always volunteered to travel when it was needed, and he was the one who stayed up studying the maps and murder scenes long after the others had gone to bed. He knew why he put so much effort into the hunt of the Colonists. He wanted to go home, and when he was idle, he felt he wasn't taking steps in that direction. Sure, every now and then he allowed himself some downtime, but nothing like the other Warriors.

  He got out of the shower and pulled out some sweats and a sweatshirt from his duffel bag, slipped them on, then proceeded to do a little Tai-chi to get the kinks worked out of doing a whole lot of nothing all day.

  Fifteen minutes later his phone rang.

  “Dinner's ready, my man,” Hudson's low voice came through the receiver.

  “Sounds good, Hudson. After dinner, I want to sit down in the War Room and get a game plan. I'm hitting it first thing in the morning.”

  “You got it,” Hudson said.

  Rayner took a minute to debate wearing shoes or not, and decided against it. He did a couple more Tai-chi moves and headed for the elevator to placate his howling stomach.

  Chapter 3

  Charles El Asesino Taylor wrapped his hand around the brown cardboard coffee mug and took a sip of his double shot vanilla latte as he watched the girl behind the counter. Well, frankly he wasn't sure whether to call her a girl or a woman. She would be celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday soon. To him, that made her a neophyte, nowhere near a girl or a woman as he was seven hundred years old.

  He ran his other hand through his trimmed jet-black hair, then over the front of his
crisp, white button-down shirt. He hated creases on his clothing.

  Charles had gotten his nickname El Asesino, or The Killer, from the kingpin of one of the fiercest drug cartels in Mexico. As Charles loved to kill, he figured it would be a good match for him to work for the cartel. He would have the protection of the group, and he would get to do what he wanted to do. Sure it was dangerous, and there was always the chance of him getting caught or killed, but it had worked well for him the past ten years, and if he had to assign a word to himself, it would be happy. But whatever. He was never truly happy—it just wasn't in his DNA. He did, however, feel alive when he took the life of another.

  He turned back to the girl. Woman. Whatever. As he had made his way up the ranks of the cartel, he became the right-hand man to the kingpin, Diego Salvador. Diego resided in Mexico, and because of Charles's all-American, boring boy next-door looks, he didn't have any trouble at the border. Border Patrol didn't pay attention to the American guy with the trimmed hair and terrible average looks and body. He stood at five-foot-nine; he wasn't fat, he wasn't thin. He had no idea how much he weighed. He was usually let through the border both ways with nothing but a flash of his passport, a wave, and a “have a nice day.”

  Charles became the go-to guy for Diego, and Diego had shared with Charles that he had a special place in his heart for red-headed women. There weren't many redheads in Mexico, so with Charles's easy access to the States, he was sent to make the trips. Unfortunately, Diego also had a panache for taking women against their will, and they usually ended up dead in a short period of time, which made Charles's trips more frequent. He had gone to Texas numerous times, but this was his first trip to Phoenix.

  Charles had done his homework on the girl behind the counter. Watching her for weeks, he had even written up a tally sheet of pros and cons on her. He slipped the paper from his pocket that was folded neatly and precisely into six squares. He opened it carefully, laid it out on the table, ran his hand over the folds, and looked at it.

  Down the middle of the page was a thick, black line dividing the page in two, each side equal. He was certain of that because he had measured it when he had drawn the line. On the left side at the top he had written “Pros” in neat block letters, and “Cons” on the right. He gazed over the Pros.

  She was what Diego considered the perfect height for a woman, somewhere between five-foot-four and five-foot-six.

  Charles guessed her weight was also what he considered perfect, about one hundred twenty to one hundred twenty-five. Her body was proportionally nice, except her breasts were a little too large. Diego was an ass guy. He liked his breasts small, high, and tight. He had marked that as a Con.

  She had clear skin, which went into the Pro category. Her teeth were white and straight, which meant she had good dental hygiene, which was terribly important to Diego. So a Pro there.

  Her eyes were brown, which Diego preferred, and her long hair was also a Pro. The biggest Pro was that her hair was a flaming red color. Diego would be very happy with all the red hair to grab onto.

  How she had all that red hair and the tanned skin of a Native American was beyond him. Diego usually liked very pale skin, but the color looked good on her, so Charles debated on what category to put it in.

  He had followed her to where she lived and had gone into her apartment when she wasn't home. Her living space was clean and tidy, which pleased him immensely. Diego liked his women to not only serve him sexually, but to make sure the place was kept clean as well.

  He watched as she washed her hands for the fourth time since he had been sitting at the table, which was two hours and three minutes, to be precise. He took a pen from his breast pocket and wrote "hand washing" in the Pro column, making each stroke of his pen accurate so that the letters and the spacing between them were exact.

  "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

  He looked up to see another barista leaning over the table, her hands planted on it. She was smiling at him, oblivious to the wrong she committed. She had short, blonde hair and a bad complexion. She was slightly overweight and her shirt was wrinkled. He thought he might have an aneurism at the interruption.

  The many different ways to kill her for invading his personal space floated through his mind. Pen through the eye or throat. Snapping her neck with his bare hands. Gutting her with the spoon from his coffee. The list went on. One thing was certain was that he knew he wouldn't be killing her, and he needed her to get away from him. He liked his personal space kept free of other people. He hated crowds, hated people close to him. This woman was way, way too close, and he had killed for lesser infractions into his personal space.

  Anger raced through him, but he smiled back. "No, thank you."

  "Okay! Just let us know if you need anything else!" she said in a much too cheerful tone, and then she left.

  He inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. He had gotten much better at controlling his kill impulses.

  He looked at the girl behind the counter once more. Yes, Diego would like her. He would put her in his holding cell with the others. He had five other redheads, and he would snap pictures of all of them and send them to Diego. Diego would choose which one he wanted, and Charles would kill the rest.

  He supposed another man would have just taken the opportunity to have a little fun with Diego's castoffs. He rarely had any interest in sex, and none of the girls in his holding cell got him the least bit excited. Most of the time he considered his dick nothing more than a tool to empty his bladder, and he was totally fine with that. Now when he got to kill others…that would be his excitement.

  He sighed. Killing, human trafficking...the job of tracking and hunting redheads wasn't a big deal. It did, however, keep him secure in the wings of Diego's massive power.

  He finished his coffee and decided that he would grab her tonight. Then he would keep her drugged just as he had the others, because he sure as shit wasn't going to sit around and listen to a bunch of females whine and cry.

  Chapter 4

  Faith Cloudfoot locked the door the coffeehouse and looked around the street. She hated the closing shift, but needed the money, so she had worked a double shift tonight. The sky above was clear, but the stars weren't exactly shining brightly. That was what happened in the big city, though, and she found herself missing the mountains of Arizona where she grew up.

  She unsnapped the clasp that held her waist-length red hair in a ponytail, shook it out, and wished she had brought a light jacket. Her brown t-shirt with the company logo on the breast and her mandatory black shorts weren't really doing enough to keep her warm. She inhaled deeply, and even though the sky was clear, it smelled a little bit like rain. Rain in Phoenix was a treat, and she relished every blessed drop.

  She exhaled slowly, trying to calm her jittering nerves. The past few weeks she had felt as though someone was watching her. She could never pinpoint a specific person; it was just a feeling she had.

  She began her short two-block walk home, trying to keep her thoughts on happy things. Like her upcoming trip home to her parents and the hiking and fishing they would do in the forest. She couldn't wait to get back into the fresh air of nature. It did something to her—it was some type of renewal for her spirit, for her soul. She loved her father with a fierceness, but he did tend to be over-protective and a little overbearing. She also missed her mom, and she was excited to feel her mom's arms around her in the big bear hug she knew was coming when they saw each other. And then there was the party her and her roommate, Terry, were throwing—Boas and Baseball. They had thrown theme parties before—Fedoras and Football, Bathrobes and Basketball, Capes and Coyotes, which was the pro hockey team. Those parties were a blast.

  Faith had moved to the big city of Phoenix two years ago. She had wanted to explore how the city folks lived. Her father often described her as a bit of a hell raiser, and he had been especially hesitant about her moving away. She remembered one time, when she was eighteen, she had been caught going skydiving.
Her father had just about had a stroke, and yelled that she needed to be protected…from herself. Yes, she was a bit of an explorer, and he didn’t want her exploring anything but the four walls of his house. Eventually, she had worn him down, and he let her move to Phoenix. Her mom had actually been pretty supportive in her need to experience something besides what a small town had to offer. She loved the city life—the clubs, the parties, the concerts that came through town, but she always looked forward going home.

  She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and scratched them to hopefully make the feeling go away.

  Her experience in the city had been…interesting. That was a good word. Faith knew she was different from most women. First, there was her upbringing. Her parents were Navajo Indians and kept the old legends and customs alive. It was as though they had one foot in the past and the other in the present. She fingered the silver necklace at her throat that her aunt had made for her. It was a bear claw, which symbolized inner strength. Her aunt and her mother continued the old Navajo tradition of making jewelry, as well as spinning and weaving wool to make blankets. Faith didn’t participate in these traditions, but respected them.

  Faith’s facial features were strong and bold as those of her ancestors. Her skin was brown, her lips full, her wide eyes a deep brown. Her long, wavy hair, however, was something that you would see on a full-blooded Irish woman. She smiled, thinking about the time when she had asked her mother where she had gotten her flaming red hair.

  Her mother had grinned and said it meant that she was special, then told her of the legend of The Woman With Fire for Hair.

  “Once every twenty-five years, there is a red-headed woman born to the tribe," her mother had said with a smile. “One day one of these women will meet with a man who has red eyes and a warrior wolf spirit—the Red-Eyed Wolf Warrior—and they will produce a child that will help heal the Earth.”