Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  Anthony glanced at the bishop’s photo again, and once more felt that coiled knot of tension in his gut.

  “What do you know about the church?” he asked.

  “They’re in Austell, near Six Flags. It’s a non-denominational church. And let me tell you, it’s gigantic. Huge. The biggest church I’ve ever visited, by far.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “I went there for a wedding, maybe five years ago. The place is literally a self-contained city. One of my girlfriends is a member, and she loves it.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “It’s much too big for me. I prefer our small church, where you can actually

  speak to the pastor. At New Kingdom, I hear they treat Bishop Prince like a movie star.”

  “He sure looks like one.”

  He picked up the bishop’s book. He traced the man’s chiseled face with his finger.

  Something about that face unsettled him. But he couldn’t put his impression into words. It was only that, a deeply troubling feeling—like smelling something burning and being unable to determine the source.

  He opened the book and skimmed the summary on the inside flap of the dust jacket.

  Bishop Emmanuel Prince reaches one of the largest audiences in the U.S. and across the world—over 280,000 people attend his churches every week, and millions more tune in by television, radio, and Internet to hear his lessons of inspiration and wisdom. His fourteen books have sold over thirty million copies and are available across the world in forty-one languages.

  In his new book, Bishop Prince lays out ten simple action steps that will help readers open the doors to the life they are born for . . . greater fulfillment in their finances, relationships, health, and spirituality. Incorporating key biblical fundamentals, personal testimony, and devotions in the easygoing, charming manner that has made him a beloved figure worldwide, Prince’s message will encourage, educate, and inspire readers from all walks of life.

  “He’s sold a truckload of books,” Anthony said. “Funny that I’ve never heard of him until now. I need to get out more.”

  “He was on the cover of Time,” she said.

  “So was Osama bin Laden, if I recall.”

  She scratched her head. “I don’t know, Tony. It’s hard to imagine that his church would be involved in murders and conspiracies. I’ve seen Bishop Prince on TV—he’s really charismatic, smooth, comes across as a nice, family guy.”

  “Hitler was a charmer, too.” Anthony put the book under his arm. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re buying it?”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  Before leaving the department, he plucked an Atlanta metro map off a rack, as he’d realized that he had no idea how to reach Mike’s rental in Roswell. In the past, he would have consulted his GPS-enabled cell for such information.

  Technology made life more convenient, but it was also a crutch.

  At the cash register, he paid for their items with cash. Although he usually used his debit card for most everything, he didn’t want to take a risk on the zealots hacking into his bank account, finding out where and when he’d used his card, and using the information to track him. Going forward, they had to operate on a cash-only basis. It might have been a paranoid measure, but it made him feel better.

  “That’s an awesome book,” the cashier said. She was a young, freckle-faced woman who seemed hyper-alert at that late hour. “I love Bishop Prince. He’s anointed.”

  “Anointed?” Anthony asked.

  Her eyes shone earnestly. “God speaks through him.”

  “Is that so? Then I guess I better read this right away.”

  She grinned. “It’ll be a blessing on your life.”

  “I could use a blessing or two.”

  Walking across the parking lot, Anthony said to Lisa, “The preacher man has a lot of fans.”

  “In the age of the megachurch celebrity pastor, he’s as big as they come.”

  In the SUV, while she reclined her seat and got comfortable, he slipped the book out of the plastic bag and once again examined the bishop’s handsome countenance.

  She yawned. “Can we go, please? I’m starting to crash again.”

  He twisted the key in the ignition and pulled away from the store, his gaze straying, over and over again, to the picture.

  30

  Mike’s property in Roswell was located in a neighborhood of modest Colonials and split-level homes on small lots, the street flanked with tall elms and oaks dripping with rain. At two-fifty in the morning, lights burned in only a couple of the residences, the glow of television sets flickering through the windows.

  Anthony pulled into the asphalt driveway. Built perhaps twenty-some years ago, the house was a split-level in good condition, with white siding, dark shutters, and a detached two-bay garage. A row of holly ferns lined the front of the house, and a live oak anchored the trimmed yard.

  He left the engine on and remained sitting behind the wheel, brow furrowed in thought. A classic Stevie Wonder song played at low volume on the satellite radio system: “Superstition.” Which summed up his state of mind. That night, he was believing in plenty of things he didn’t understand.

  He’d received no revelations about the bishop’s photo, and had returned the book to the bag for later consideration. Driving, he’d been alert for a tail, and had detected none, either.

  But he continued to feel on edge, as if the dark sky were slowly lowering to the earth like a hydraulic press, threatening to crush him beneath its weight. That sense of impending violence had once been routine to him, but years of sedentary civilian living had reduced his threshold for extreme stress. Until that day, about the most pressing decision he’d faced on a regular basis was where he and Lisa would go out for dinner.

  He had to man up. Keep it together. Be the rock that Lisa considered him to be. Get to the truth behind his father’s death. This was it. No slacking off. No excuses.

  Beside him, Lisa surfaced from a brief slumber, stretched, yawned.

  “Is this the place?” she asked in a scratchy voice.

  He nodded.

  “Then let’s go in. What’re we waiting for?” She reached for the door handle.

  He touched her arm. “Wait.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I’ll be right back. Sit tight.”

  Brandishing the Beretta, he let himself into the house. As Mike had promised, it was furnished—Spartan furniture much like that in Mike’s own home—and tidy. A flip of the light switch and a turn of the kitchen faucet confirmed that the utilities worked.

  He swept around the first level. All clear. On the upper level, he checked to ensure that the three bedrooms were empty, and returned to the master bedroom.

  One of the windows faced the street. He turned on the bedside lamp and moved it closer to the glass, which was veiled with plastic Venetian blinds.

  Then he walked out of the house and locked the door behind him. He climbed inside the Jeep.

  “All clear?” Lisa asked. “Can we go in now?”

  “We’re not staying here.” He pointed to the bedroom window, where the lamp glowed warmly behind the blinds. “But I wanted it to look like we are.”

  “You’re worried that those people might track us here?”

  “Let’s not underestimate them. They might’ve determined that we were staying at Mike’s place in Duluth, pulled him up on their super database network or whatever they’re using, and got a listing of all his properties. It’s reasonable for them to assume that Mike might let us hide out at one of his rentals.”

  “But he has something like ten places that he rents out. How would they figure out it’s this one?”

  “Process of elimination.” He reversed out of the driveway. “We don’t know how many people they’ve got searching for us. They could have a team of a dozen operatives combing the city.”

  “You think?” She gnawed her bottom lip.

  “I happen to think we’
re dealing mainly with the nutty guy and his female partner,” he said. “But if we’re going to stay ahead of them, we have to outfox them.”

  “Where are we going to stay then? A hotel?”

  “Right here.”

  He swung into the driveway of a ranch with brick exterior and a “For Sale--Under Contract,” sign in the yard. It was across the street and a few doors down from Mike’s split-level. The place was dark, several plastic-wrapped newspapers were scattered across the sidewalk, and a lockbox was secured to the doorknob of the front door.

  She was nodding. “Ah, Mike recently put a contract on this house. He mentioned something about getting a good deal on a place near the rental.”

  “Since he hasn’t officially closed on it yet, this property shouldn’t show up in the cult’s super computer, either.”

  “I also thought he said the owner’s already moved to Florida. It should be empty.”

  “Compliment me on my brilliance later. Meantime, scoot behind the wheel and get ready to pull into the garage when I wave you in. I’m going to go around back and open the door.”

  “You mean you’re going to break in.”

  “That’s such a crude way to put it.”

  He fished his flashlight out of his duffel and found a crowbar in the cargo area. Before heading to the back, he pulled the “For Sale” sign out of the grass. If neighbors happened to spy them inside the home and noted the sign in the yard, they might suspect a break-in and contact police.

  He walked around the back of the house, feet swishing through the damp Bermuda grass. The houses on either side had tall wooden privacy fences around the perimeters of their yards, shielding him from prying eyes.

  He panned the flashlight across the back of the house. Plastic lawn furniture on the concrete slab patio. Back door with a simple lockset, no deadbolt.

  The crowbar was unnecessary. He used a video rental store card to disengage the lock, set the real estate sign against the doorframe, and entered into a kitchen.

  The house was furnished with basic, economical pieces, was clean, and appeared to have been painted recently, in soft neutral colors. Evidently the owner had made an effort at staging the home to appeal to prospective buyers.

  The utilities were still on, too.

  He entered the attached garage. It was broom-clean, and empty. He hit the button to activate the garage door opener, and the sectional door slowly climbed.

  Lisa nosed the SUV inside.

  He pushed out a deep breath.

  He dared to believe they were safe. For the time being.

  31

  By following the GPS signal transmitted by Thorne’s cell phone, Cutty had traced him to a residence in Duluth, a home owned by Michael Alfaro, an individual whom had appeared on Thorne’s known associates list. Shortly after their telephone chat—which had, frustratingly, revealed little about Thorne’s iniquitous motives—Thorne had left Alfaro’s and gone to a fast food establishment within two miles’ proximity of his friend’s house.

  They canvassed for Thorne at the burger joint—and found his cell phone in a garbage can at the edge of the parking lot, along with another phone that apparently belonged to his wife.

  It appeared Thorne had figured out that he could be tracked via the cell, and had ditched it, whereupon he had either gone to an undisclosed location, or returned to Alfaro’s. He was proving to be a most resourceful adversary.

  Using a map of the housing community that Genesis pulled from a publicly accessible database, Cutty determined the placement of Alfaro’s home in relation to the rest of the neighborhood. The house stood on a cul-de-sac, fronting a parcel of dense forest that separated the various building phases of the subdivision.

  He did not risk having Valdez drive past the house, for Thorne or his friend could be conducting surveillance. Instead, he instructed her to park on the other side of the woods, in the driveway of a home that was under construction. None of the surrounding homes had been completed, either. Theirs was the only vehicle on the block, conspicuous, to be sure, but there should not be any traffic through that side of the community.

  They climbed out of the SUV. Valdez carried her .38. He had drawn his Glock, and had the Remington rifle slung over his shoulder, too, and the night vision binoculars dangling around his thick neck.

  He led the way across a newly sodded yard, wet grass squishing beneath their sneaker soles, and they entered the woods at the rear of the property.

  The cold, persistent drizzle had dampened the forest. Overhanging leaves dripped water onto their heads. Higher above, the pale moon peeked like an observing eye through a cheesecloth of clouds.

  “God is watching us,” he whispered to Valdez over his shoulder, and indicated the moon with a nod of his head.

  She glanced from him, to the heavens. Said nothing.

  “It’s what the Prophet teaches,” he said. “God is always watching, always judging, to see if we are fit for the kingdom or deserve to be cast into hell. The Prophet has God’s ear, Valdez. More than that, he’s God’s mouthpiece—so we can rest assured that everything he teaches comes directly from the mind of the Almighty. You do believe that . . . don’t you?”

  “Si.” She nodded vigorously.

  He smiled. “Of course. I knew you would. Or else, you wouldn’t be working with us, would you?”

  “No.”

  “Sometimes I have to ask these things. It is written that those who are not with the kingdom are against the kingdom—and hell will be their reward. That goes for all of us. None is spared divine judgment.”

  She nodded again. The sincerity in her eyes gave him a warm feeling. She was a true believer. Their future in the coming kingdom—together as husband and wife, he prayed—was assured.

  Others would not be so blessed. The unbelievers. The worshippers of false gods. The hedonists. The unrepentant sinners. Although those unfortunates would be present in the kingdom, they would not enjoy the rights to which servants were entitled. They would be outcasts—some day, literally confined in camps on the most barren edges of civilization.

  He looked forward to that day. The world would be a cleaner, happier place without such people staining the earth.

  They neared the edge of the forest, and stopped behind a large maple.

  After another ten yards or so, the woods cleared, and gave way to Alfaro’s neatly trimmed back yard. The house stood about twenty yards away.

  Plastic chairs, a table, and an umbrella occupied the slab of concrete that served as the patio. A sliding glass patio door led to the kitchen, but the view beyond was obscured by a set of vertical blinds, the long slats only partially open.

  There was another window at the back of the house. The blinds were partly open, a ghostly glow coming from the room.

  He raised the binoculars to his eyes. The night vision display was a luminous green, and significantly improved his view of the house’s interior. Beyond the patio door, through the vertical blinds, there was a kitchen.

  It appeared to be empty.

  He scanned to the room from which the glow emanated. From his vantage point, he didn’t get a full view, but he saw the edge of a computer monitor, desk, and chair. No people, though.

  He lowered the binoculars. Valdez looked at him expectantly.

  “I don’t see anyone inside,” he said.

  “Thorne and wife is gone?”

  “That’s what we’ll have to find out. Let’s move.”

  Moving low and fast, he led Valdez across the lawn, to the patio. There was no house yet built on the left, and the home on the right was under construction, no nosy neighbors presenting a threat, and the entire neighborhood was quiet, the only sounds the plinking of rain, and water trickling through gutters.

  It took Valdez less than ten seconds to quietly spring the lock on the sliding patio door. She was so skilled that he almost asked, as a joke, if she had been a burglar prior to joining their organization, but he doubted she would appreciate his attempt at humor. Women w
ere so mysterious, so easy to offend, that he had to be careful.

  The door vanquished, they slipped inside the house as silently as ghosts.

  32

  When the Jesus freaks arrived, Mike had been in the unfinished house next door for about half an hour, camped beside a first-floor window in a dark, dusty space that would one day be someone’s bedroom. He had no intention of waiting for the loonies to ambush him in his own home. He’d found himself a perfect fighting hole and hunkered down to wait.

  He had a Winchester 1200 pump-action shotgun, a Taurus .44 magnum, plenty of ammo, binoculars, a pillow to cushion his backside, and a canteen of cold water. Using the binoculars, he kept a vigil on the wooded rear perimeter of his property, as he was certain that was the direction from which they would approach.

  He wasn’t disappointed. Sometime past three in the morning, two black-clad figures stealthily scrambled across the back yard, easily defeated the lock on the patio door (it was cheap anyway), and entered his house. They moved with the swift efficiency of highly trained professionals, and both of them were armed.

  He’d had them in his sights. Had the Winchester loaded and ready to blow. Only one thing had stopped him from spraying them with buckshot before they’d breached his home, and he was almost ashamed to admit it to himself.

  It was the woman. She was absolutely stunning. Latina, long midnight-black hair woven in a ponytail, jewel-like dark eyes, and though it was difficult to tell from the tracksuit she wore, looked like she had a hard body, too.

  He’d always had a weakness for beautiful women. That was why he hadn’t settled down yet, in spite of his family’s endless chiding about when he was going to give them grandkids. There were too many hot women out there for him to turn in his bachelor card and miss out on all the fun.