Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  “They’re similar, I guess,” he said.

  “Small, family churches don’t have teams of assassins on call, though.”

  “We’re clearly talking about a larger group here,” he said. “Aren’t there a lot of big churches here in Atlanta? Megachurches, or whatever they’re called?”

  “There sure are. I don’t even know where to start.” She sifted both hands through her hair, a familiar sign that she was exhausted, and she yawned again, too. “Damn. I feel jumpy and totally wiped out at the same time. But you look as if it’s only another day at the office.”

  “Not how I feel, though,” he said. He added: “I feel like our island has been invaded.”

  “Our own little comfortable island, where we don’t give a damn about what happens beyond it,” she said, repeating a sentence from his tirade.

  “It’s pretty late, Lisa. Why don’t you let back the seat and relax?”

  “I can’t relax when every time I look up, I see a bullet hole in the windshield.”

  “Point taken.” He unclipped his iPhone from his belt. “I think it’s time we find somewhere to crash for a while.”

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “The only guy I can call this late: Mike Alfaro.”

  22

  Sitting at the round, cherry wood table in the breakfast room, Cutty and Valdez enjoyed a late-night snack of turkey-and-Swiss sandwiches on wheat, celery sticks, and ice cold milk.

  Cutty sliced his two sandwiches into quarters, and halved the quarters, too. He’d also chopped the celery into quarter-inch nuggets. A bunny rabbit could have consumed larger portions, but those were the proper bite sizes for easy digestion.

  “These sandwiches are excellent, Valdez,” he said.

  “Gracias.”

  Her plate held only half a sandwich. She nibbled at it daintily and dabbed at her lips with a napkin after each bite, which he found adorable.

  “Do you enjoy cooking?” he asked.

  She glanced at him. “Si.”

  “I approve of that. Where I grew up, the women did all of the domestic duties and light farming, while the men folk did the strenuous farm work, fishing, and hunting. Those are the roles God intended for us.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes sparkled.

  She was so agreeable. As a woman should be. She reminded him of Mother, who had always deferred to Father in family matters, always placed his needs and the needs of their nine children above her own. What a godly woman she had been. He missed her.

  Valdez chewed a miniscule bite of her sandwich. He observed the gentle undulations of her slender throat as she swallowed, and wondered how it would feel to lick her there, just once, and taste that smooth, pliant skin.

  He said, “Do you want to get married someday, Valdez?”

  “Someday. Si.”

  “Do you want children?”

  She nodded. “Someday.”

  “How many children would you like?”

  “Cuatro.”

  He smiled patiently. “Translation, please?”

  She held up four fingers.

  He laughed. “Four children? Really? I want four children, too!” His grin was so wide that he had to put a napkin to his mouth, as if to keep all of his excitement from spilling out of him at once. “Isn’t it amazing that we got paired together? It proves the hand of God at work in our lives, wouldn’t you say?”

  She didn’t return his smile. “We cannot marry. It is not for us.”

  “Of course, that’s true. Marriage isn’t allowed for servants in our division. But, God willing, I don’t intend to serve in this capacity for the rest of my life. Do you?”

  “Ah . . . no.”

  She lowered her gaze to the table. She had stopped eating.

  He realized that he had embarrassed her. Once again, his inexperience with the fairer sex had betrayed him.

  “I apologize,” he said. “We hardly know each other and here I am discussing marriage and children.”

  She kept her gaze on the table, twisting a napkin around her finger.

  “Excuse me.” He picked up his food and milk. “I think I’ll go back to the library to ah, check out the books Thorne wrote.”

  She appeared relieved that he was leaving.

  Walking away, he chastised himself. He had to be careful what he said to her, or else when this mission concluded, she might request a re-assignment. If that happened, it would break his heart—because he was sure he was falling in love with her.

  In the library, he placed his meal on an end table and resumed his perusal of Thorne’s work. Although he had originally intended to search the entire residence, as was his habit, the books could tell him everything he needed to know about his mark, since the title character, Ghost, was obviously Thorne himself. The books were maps of the man’s tormented soul.

  Picking a chapter at random from Ghost Hunter, he found himself in the middle of a grisly, yet richly detailed interrogation: Ghost was using a pneumatic nail gun to drive carpet tacks underneath the fingernails of a murder suspect, to compel the man to admit to his role in a crime.

  Each lurid sentence crackled with fervor. Thorne believed in what he was writing, which meant he was a profoundly evil man.

  Barely able to take his eyes away from the novel, Cutty slowly chewed a sandwich morsel.

  After several blood-saturated, obscenity-laced pages, the violent scene ended. He flipped forward in the book and soon found another. This one featured Ghost pummeling a police officer who was described as “corrupt.”

  It made Cutty laugh out loud. Corrupt? These books were corrupt, and were precisely why censorship of mass media was not only desirable, but necessary. A society that allowed the distribution of filth like this was destined to sink into moral turpitude.

  He wanted to speak to Thorne and demand to know why he felt the need to channel unadulterated depravity into the pages of a book and offer it for popular consumption. He wanted to know why he was glorifying violence. Why he was advocating disobedience to established authority. Why he had rebelled against God’s plan.

  When Thorne supplied satisfactory answers to those questions, Cutty would kill him. No one who earned his living producing such degenerate tales was fit to live in God’s Kingdom.

  A text message arrived on his cell phone. It was from the dispatcher: the auto service had been completed. Mission support had kept their promise to complete the repair within an hour.

  He ate a few more bites of the sandwiches, chased the food with the milk, and returned to the kitchen. He brought Thorne’s book with him, as evidence to present to his superior.

  Valdez had cleared her dishes off the table. She sat there, quietly reading her pocket Bible.

  She gave him a lukewarm smile. He had fallen out of her good graces, and somehow, he would have to redeem himself.

  He took his plate and glass to the sink, washed them, and placed them in the dish rack. Although he was in the home of a spiritually unclean man, he’d been raised to observe good manners at all times.

  He cleared his throat. “Mission support got in touch. We’re ready to go.”

  “Si. I see them outside just leave.”

  “I didn’t hear them from the library. Those guys operate with mucho stealth, huh?”

  His use of an authentic Spanish word, one he’d not realized that he knew until it came from his mouth, summoned a genuine smile to her face.

  He opened the patio door.

  “After you, senorita.”

  She bowed slightly, and walked out of the house. He didn’t know where that Spanish word had come from either, and he interpreted it as proof that God planned for him and Valdez to be together someday. Everything was going to be fine.

  At the Suburban, he tossed her the keys, and she deftly plucked them out of the air.

  While she drove away, he powered up the MDT and logged on to Genesis.

  The background report on Thorne had arrived.

  23

  Mike lived in
Duluth, a suburb about thirty minutes northeast of Atlanta. The city was a case study of the rapid growth that had swept across the region a decade ago. Strip malls, restaurants, and assorted retail stores blanketed the streets where not long ago there had been only fields and forest. Signs advertising various housing communities bristled from the ground at seemingly every intersection.

  The area’s boom phase had ended, unfortunately. These days, many of the strip malls were full of empty stores that had gone out of business, and among the signs touting new subdivisions were nearly as many ads promising deals on foreclosed properties.

  “I hope he doesn’t think we’re crazy,” Lisa said, as Anthony turned into a residential neighborhood.

  On the phone, Anthony hadn’t given Mike the full scoop, only told him that they were in trouble and needed somewhere to crash for a short while. Mike had readily agreed, as Anthony had known he would.

  “He’ll be cool,” Anthony said. “You know Mike. This’ll sound like the plot of a movie to him.”

  “It would sound like one to me, too, if we weren’t living it for real.”

  The neighborhood in which Mike lived was so new that many of the houses were still under construction. Several home sites were merely square plots of red clay with “Under Contract” signs sticking up from the ground. Bulldozers and backhoes lay like sleeping giants on other properties, and construction debris littered sections of the road.

  Mike’s home was in a cul-de-sac, a ranch with a red brick front, white fiber cement siding, bay window, and attached two-car garage. An elm sapling strained to grow in the front yard, young leaves shuddering in the night breeze, and a United States flag rippled on a pole beside the door.

  Slowing in front of the driveway, Anthony tapped the horn.

  He’d also told Mike that they needed to hide the Tahoe—and promised that he would know why when he got a look at the SUV.

  “I can’t believe we’re coming to his house at one o’clock in the morning,” Lisa said.

  “Mike’s a night owl. I bet you he was watching a movie he’s seen a thousand times.”

  “I hope you’re right. I feel bad about disturbing him.”

  “Don’t feel bad. He won’t.”

  The garage door rose. A late model, metallic blue Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked inside. Alongside the jeep stood a red Ducati motorcycle, sleek as a rocket on wheels.

  Mike wandered outside the garage. He was in his early thirties, short but powerfully built, with dark hair trimmed in a high and tight cut. He wore a Raiders of the Lost Ark t-shirt, blue sweats, and sneakers.

  Mike’s family had emigrated from the Philippines to the United States before his birth, and had wanted him to pursue a career as a physician, an attorney, or, failing those, a nurse, a popular vocational choice in their family. Mike had shocked them when he enlisted in the Marine Corps after graduating high school. He had grown up idolizing American action movie heroes and wanted to live the dream.

  He had lived the dream, all right. During his six-year active enlistment, he had logged more time in combat zones than any other grunt Anthony knew, with the exception of himself. Like Anthony, he’d suffered only minor wounds, which considering the action they’d seen, seemed downright miraculous sometimes.

  Mike waved them into the garage.

  Anthony parked next to the bike. He pulled the digital voice recorder out of the stereo and pocketed it.

  “Let’s take the Bible with us, too,” he said to Lisa. “While we’re here, maybe we can start reviewing it, try to make sense of things.”

  Nodding, she slipped the Bible in her purse—next to the .357 he’d given her.

  Guns and Bibles, he thought. A strange combination if ever there was one.

  “Evening, ladies and gents,” Mike said. He grinned. “Don’t you know I love having visitors in the wee hours of the morning? Usually booty calls, though.”

  “Hey, Mike.” Lisa hugged him. “Thanks for letting us come.”

  “No doubt.” Anthony gave Mike a handshake and a pound on the shoulder. “I really appreciate this, man. It means a lot.”

  Mike waved off their praise. “Hey, all I was doing was having a Hannibal Lecter marathon. Manhunter to Hannibal Rising. I’m at The Silence of the Lambs so far. ”

  Anthony winked at Lisa, and she smiled briefly.

  “Yo, AT, was this damage caused by gunfire?” Mike examined the Tahoe’s shattered right tail light, dents on the bumper, and the ragged hole in the rear windshield. He shuffled around the side and saw the rupture in the front window, too.

  “What does your expert opinion tell you?” Anthony asked.

  “My opinion?” Mike put his fists on his waist. “I think you been in a scuffle with a rifleman, AT.”

  “We’re on the retreat from a rifleman—a whole bunch of them, we think.”

  “And you haven’t bagged them all yet? You’re slipping, dude.”

  “What can I say? Married life has made me soft.”

  “They track you here, you think?” Savage interest glinted in Mike’s eyes, and he glanced out the garage at the dark street beyond.

  “We don’t think so,” Lisa said. “Tony gave them the slip. You should’ve seen him in action.”

  Anthony shrugged. “I did what had to be done.”

  “Damn, I was hoping I might see some action, too.” Mike punched the button beside the doorway to lower the garage door. “Let’s head in. I can’t wait to hear what this is all about.”

  24

  Mike’s home was decorated in a style that could have been called, “Contemporary Bachelor.” There was no furniture at all in the living or formal dining rooms. In the kitchen, there was a basic, hardwood dinette table and chairs. In the family room, where Mike watched his movies, there was a black leather loveseat and armchair, beech veneer coffee table, steel side tables, stainless steel floor lamps—and the centerpiece of it all, the theater system: sixty-inch, flat-panel plasma HDTV standing on a thick wooden stand. Surround sound speakers positioned for maximum cinematic effect. Two tall, black cabinets that stored hundreds of DVDs.

  Everything was squared away as if in preparation for a barracks inspection. No embellishments, no artwork, no plants. The only photographs were his recruit graduation portrait, pictures he’d taken with members of his platoon, and a few photos of his parents and older sister.

  “Nice place,” Lisa said. “It could use a woman’s touch to soften the ultra-masculine vibe, though.”

  Mike grinned. “Got a girlfriend who likes to decorate?”

  Anthony said, “Lisa knows only quality ladies, Mike, not the kind of girls you’d go for.”

  “Here’s to you.” Mike gave him the finger. “Anyway, you guys want coffee? I brewed a fresh pot.”

  “Coffee sounds good,” Anthony said. “I need to keep my edge.”

  “You?” Mike asked. “I doubt it. You live on the edge.”

  “That was eons ago.”

  “Bullshit,” Mike said. “You’ve got warrior blood, man, like me. That never goes away.”

  “I hate to interrupt the macho posturing here, but where’s the powder room, guys?” Lisa asked. “I need to wipe the dew off the lily pad.”

  “You need to do what?” Mike asked.

  “My wife’s being a lady—I know you aren’t used to those,” Anthony said. “First door on the left in the hallway, sweetheart.”

  Lisa left the kitchen.

  “Hey, I can appreciate a good woman,” Mike said. He got three coffee mugs from the kitchen cabinet. “She’s gotta have a little swagger in her, that’s all. She needs to be ballsy enough to keep me in line.”

  “Your warrior princess is out there somewhere.” Anthony leaned against the counter. Although the dinette chairs beckoned, he wanted to get a blast of java first, to counteract the exhaustion he knew would hit him once he got off his feet.

  A key rack hung on the wall beside him. Several sets of keys dangled from the hooks, each assigned to rental property that
Mike owned; printed address labels on each key ring identified the residence. After his honorable discharge, Mike had gotten into the business of purchasing foreclosed properties or those in need of renovation, buying them outright, doing whatever rehab was necessary, and then renting them out or selling them.

  He had pulled back from the business about a year ago. Confessed it had become too much like work, and he was determined not to spend his life running on the career treadmill. He kept ten of the properties as rentals, used a property management company to collect rent and manage tenant issues, and lived off the rental income—which financed his desire to purchase collector’s editions of his favorite movies, entertain countless women, travel, and sleep in till noon if he so wanted.

  Mike passed him a coffee, black. Anthony drew a sip of the rich brew and immediately felt more awake.

  “This is good stuff,” Anthony said.

  “Jamaican Blue Mountain,” Mike said. “Expensive as hell, but well worth it. A lady I met in Negril turned me on to it.”

  “Figures. She turn you out, too?”

  Mike winked. “On the serious tip, what kind of shit are you in? You know I wanna be involved, whatever it is.”

  “I don’t know if you want to wade into this one. I haven’t figured out yet what kind of animal we’re up against, but it’s something truly hairy.”

  “Try me.”

  Anthony produced the voice recorder. Switching it on, he placed it on the dinette table and turned up the volume.

  As the tinny voices crackled from the small speaker, Lisa returned to the kitchen. She took coffee as well, and the three of them sat around the table.

  When the recording ended, they filled Mike in on what had happened that evening, and their theories.

  “If these fanatics are responsible for what happened to your dad, you know I’m in,” Mike said, eyes burning. “Shit, I’m in anyway, just ‘cause of what they’ve done to you guys, but if this Bob dude is right—“