Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  They would, at last, have nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.

  46

  As the train blasted south along the elevated rail tracks that cut through the middle of Georgia 400, Anthony continually glanced at the surveillance camera.

  Lisa followed his gaze. “You keep looking at the camera. You think they can watch us?”

  “The camera is linked to a network. Networks can be hacked.”

  “Why did I ask?” She ran her hands through her hair. “Do we have to take a space shuttle to the moon to escape these people?”

  “Come on.” He grabbed their bags. “Let’s move to another car.”

  In the next compartment, there were only two passengers, both college-age guys. One was asleep, head tilted back and mouth lolling open. The guy sitting beside him listened to loud rock on an iPod and bobbed his shaggy-haired head almost violently. He looked at them without interest.

  A surveillance camera monitored them in there, too.

  “Must be surveillance in every car.” He turned to Lisa. “You have some lipstick? A dark shade?”

  “Lemme see.” She dug in her purse and handed a stick to him. “This is the darkest color I have. It’s called merlot.”

  “That’ll work.”

  He climbed onto the seat underneath the camera. Using broad strokes, he painted a thick coat of lipstick over the lens.

  The rock fan passenger was watching him. He grinned and gave Anthony the thumbs-up sign. “Fucking A, dude. Big Brother sucks.”

  Anthony returned the thumbs-up, and settled onto a seat with Lisa.

  “Now we’ve got a little bit of privacy,” he said. “My guess is that they’ll have cameras in each station, too, but maybe we can throw them off long enough for us to get away.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “To Buckhead, maybe. Somewhere we can find a car to boost. Unless you have another idea?”

  “Hmm.” She pursed her lips. “I was thinking—my baby sister’s in Houston visiting her boyfriend until Sunday night. She left her car at her apartment, and I’ve got a key to her place.”

  “Isn’t it near a station?”

  “It’s about two or three blocks from the Midtown stop.”

  “We’ll go there then.”

  While Lisa closed her eyes to doze, he rummaged in his duffel and found Bishop Prince’s book. He stared at the cover photo.

  The bishop’s face still troubled him, for reasons that continued to elude him. But there was another element of the picture that made sense.

  On the lapel of his suit, Bishop Prince wore the same golden badge that he had seen on the breast pocket of Valdez’s tracksuit. Although the picture did not provide close-up detail of the emblem’s intricate embroidery—he could make out images of a bird of some kind, a sword, and a cross—the capital letters “NKC,” in a bold, elegant typeface, were easily readable.

  NKC. New Kingdom Church.

  He pointed out the badge to Lisa and explained what he’d seen on the woman’s jacket.

  “That sounds conclusive to me,” she said. “At this point, the accumulated evidence is impossible to deny.”

  “I only wish I knew how my dad got involved with these people.” He gazed out the window, the urban landscape fleeing past in a dark blur. Sighing, he examined the bishop’s face again. “I feel like we’re missing something obvious.”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Something. Maybe in that Bible. Maybe in this book.”

  “Well, we’re both tired. Soon as we can get settled somewhere safe, get some rest, and clear our heads, things will start to fall into place.”

  “But for now, we definitely know one thing for sure.”

  “Which is?”

  He tapped the book, finger stabbing the bishop’s beguiling smile.

  “The face of our enemy.”

  47

  By the time the train pulled into the Midtown station, the two college kids had disembarked at a previous stop and left Anthony and Lisa alone in the car. They got to their feet as the locomotive slowed, Anthony craning his neck to find the camera that would be watching the area, while Lisa searched for it, too.

  “There it is,” she said, face pressed to the glass. “It’s in the middle, above that trash can. It moves left to right. See it?”

  He saw it. Suspended from the rafters by a steel arm veined with black cables, the small camera was one of a bundled pair that scanned the area. The other one was angled in the opposite direction, to monitor activity on a separate train line.

  “I see it,” he said. “Stand by till I give the word.”

  Counting under his breath, he began to clock the speed of the camera’s arc.

  With a screech of brakes, the train drew to a halt. The passenger doors rattled open.

  Lisa hung back from the doors. Anthony waited until the camera had ratcheted away from the train, and said to her, “Now. We’ll go across the platform and stand by that trash can. We’ve got about five seconds before the camera swings back our way.”

  Lugging their bags, they hurried off the car and onto the platform. There were only a few passengers boarding or leaving the rails at that hour, and those that wandered past ignored them in that familiar way that urbanites did, immersed in their own little bubbles.

  Standing close together beside the wastebasket, almost directly beneath the camera, they waited. The lens pivoted to the left, sweeping over the train they had exited, and moved its cyclopean gaze to the stairwell beyond the platform.

  When it had reached the limit of its leftward scan and resumed the rightward rotation, he nudged Lisa.

  “Now.”

  They took off at a jog. They reached the stairwell and pounded up the steps.

  Halfway up the stairs, he grabbed Lisa’s arm.

  “Wait. Step down. There’s another one at the top.”

  She turned away, descended a step. A young woman brusquely rushed by them

  He waited until the swiveling camera had raked past. “Go.”

  They streaked up the staircase and cut right, to the doors. Finally, no more cameras.

  They ran outside into damp air, a cool drizzle, and the drone of the city. The vaulted sky had yet to release sunshine; dawn was an hour away yet.

  A few vehicles grumbled past on Tenth Street, but none of them were black Suburbans. That didn’t inspire a sense of security, however—an urban environment offered countless hiding places.

  “Where’s your sister’s apartment?” he asked.

  “Not far.” She took his hand, and they crossed the street.

  They were in the heart of Midtown. High-rise condos and apartments. Skyscrapers housing corporate headquarters. Fashion-able boutiques. Trendy restaurants. Yesterday afternoon, he and Lisa had met for lunch at a brewpub only a few blocks away. Their lives had changed so much in the past twelve hours they might have been in a different universe.

  But if this nerve-shredding ordeal ended with the justice his family deserved, it would have been well worth the pain, stress, and exhaustion. Worth everything. A day or two of sheer hell could never compare to the past fifteen years of misery—or the prospect of a future without closure.

  They traveled two blocks south down a wide, glistening sidewalk, and stopped at a towering condominium called, “The Summit.” An awning protected against the rain. Beyond the dual set of glass doors, there was a small vestibule; one needed a keycard to gain entry to the lobby, or you had to be buzzed in by a resident or doorman.

  As Lisa combed through her purse for the keys, Anthony looked around. Most of the storefronts were dark. A weekend athlete in an orange rain-licker jogged along the other side of the street, a black Labrador keeping pace with him.

  Also across the street, fixed atop a lamp post, he noticed a camera.

  Midtown was under surveillance, too.

  “Shit.” He spun away to hide his face.

  “What’s wrong?” She had the key and accompanying keycard in her fingers. />
  “This neighborhood is being monitored by security cameras.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “They’re supposed to keep you safe from the bad guys. Other cities have a similar set-up, I’ve read. The problem is when the bad guys are the ones watching the cameras.”

  They stepped inside the vestibule, and she swiped the keycard through the reader. They entered an air-conditioned lobby with polished stone tile, soft lighting, and potted ferns. Ansel Adams prints, probably reproductions, hung on the walls.

  A black man with jug-ears and snow-white hair sat behind a crescent-shaped granite desk, bifocals balanced on his nose, a book resting near a folded newspaper.

  “Morning, folks,” he said. “It’s a mess out there, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is,” Anthony said, and Lisa muttered agreement. They headed toward the bank of stainless steel elevators.

  “You look familiar, young lady,” the doorman said. “You got kinfolk here?”

  “My baby sister lives on the ninth floor.”

  “Knew I wasn’t blind yet.” He cackled. “Y’all have a blessed day now.”

  As the elevator transported them to the upper floors, Anthony said, “Did you notice the old head’s book?”

  She shook her head. “What was it?”

  “Another book by Bishop Prince.”

  “He’s everywhere, Tony, like I said earlier. You’ve only lately begun to notice.”

  “The old head seemed like a sweet guy, sort of reminded me of my granddad. I wonder if that’s what it’s like when dictators take over countries—ordinary people blindly following tyrants.”

  “That’s a disturbing thought. And probably all-too accurate.”

  The elevator arrived at the ninth floor. Lisa led him to the door of her sister’s unit and unlocked it.

  “Let’s make this quick,” he said, thinking about the camera that had spied them entering the high-rise. “I don’t know how much time we’ve got before they track us here.”

  48

  Cutty had lost his visual on Thorne and his wife on board the train—they had entered another compartment and cleverly painted over the camera lens—but it was not going to save them. Traveling into the thick of the city, there was no way Thorne could avoid the Kingdom’s omnipresent eyes.

  Valdez pushed the SUV down GA 400 South at eighty-five miles an hour, the tires churning up rain from the pavement. Based on the camera images transmitted to his MDT, Cutty knew the train had a lead on them. It had already passed down the highway and pulled into the Buckhead station, near Lenox Square Mall.

  They sped through a toll plaza without slowing, the Cruise Card scanners reading the transponder mounted on the windshield. Ahead, there were exits for Peachtree and Piedmont roads, major arteries that ran through the heart of Buckhead, one of the biggest commercial and residential districts in the city.

  “Get off on Peachtree here,” he said, “and stay on it. We’ll keep pace with the train and catch them when they leave the station.”

  Nodding, she veered off the highway.

  He watched the screen, following the action at the Buckhead station. The range of vision shifted as the surveillance camera pivoted. A handful of passengers disembarked from the train, but not Thorne.

  “Keep going south,” he said.

  They rumbled down Peachtree, the typically busy thoroughfare virtually deserted at that early morning hour. They blasted past Lenox Square Mall, and a row of swanky restaurants and hotels.

  The train stopped next at the Lindberg Center. On the camera, he watched one person disembark, and it was neither Thorne, nor his wife.

  Next, the Arts Center station. Two young men left the train.

  He toggled to the Midtown station. The train had about a five-minute lead on them, but Valdez was closing the gap, skillfully navigating the wet roads and cautiously running through red traffic lights.

  At Midtown Station, three passengers disembarked. But he saw something that sent him bolting upright in the seat.

  Two shadowy shapes waited inside a passenger car, staring out the window. The camera continued its revolution to the right, and the figures slid out of view. But when the camera panned to the left again, the silhouettes had vanished.

  Son-of-a-bitch.

  “They got off at the Midtown station,” he said. “Peachtree and Tenth Street. Go!”

  Mashing the accelerator, Valdez ran a red light at Seventeenth Street.

  Cutty shoved the keyboard off his lap. He withdrew the Glock from the holster, and chambered a round.

  They bumped and swerved along Peachtree. The road was not a straight thoroughfare—it had a series of curves that prevented Valdez from reaching a high speed, lest she throw the big SUV into a tailspin.

  He rolled down the passenger-side window. Cold raindrops trickled down his face, but he was so focused on his intent that he barely registered the wetness.

  He was thinking about cutting Thorne down, drive-by style.

  They swung onto Tenth Street and thundered toward the Midtown station. He didn’t see Thorne or his woman in the vicinity, but if they had gotten off the train only five minutes ago, they could not have traveled far.

  Valdez braked at a light. “Where go now?”

  “Circle the area. A hunch tells me they’re on foot. They’ve got to be within a six-block radius of the station.”

  “Si.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll check surveillance video. This entire section of town is saturated with cameras.”

  49

  The apartment was a tidy one-bedroom decorated in warm, earthy colors, furniture with smooth lines, and lots of photos of family and friends. A floor-to-ceiling window in the living room granted a jaw-dropping view of the Midtown skyline.

  “Car keys,” Lisa said from the kitchen, and tossed Anthony a set of keys. “As soon as I powder my nose, we can go.”

  While she headed down the short hallway to the bathroom, he approached the living room window, and looked to the road below.

  Passing through a pool of light cast by a streetlamp, a large black SUV crawled south along the road at a deliberate pace, like a lurking spider. It crept by the condominium, rolled to the corner, made a right, and disappeared from view.

  A charge of adrenaline leapt through his heart. He ran to the bathroom and pounded the door.

  “Lisa, we’ve gotta go now. I think they’ve found us.”

  “I’m coming!” The toilet flushed, and the water turned on.

  He raced to the coat closet in the foyer. Inside, he found a red silk scarf, and snatched it out.

  He returned to the living-room window. The SUV had doubled back and was drawing toward the condominium again.

  This time, it would stop.

  Lisa came out of the bathroom. He handed her the scarf, and the car keys.

  “Wear this,” he said. “You’re going to drive.”

  50

  Cutty instructed Valdez to park in front of a high-rise condominium called The Summit. A surveillance camera posted across the street had observed Thorne and his wife entering the building only ten minutes ago.

  He didn’t know why they’d come there—perhaps an accomplice of theirs resided in the place—but it was irrelevant. He would eliminate them, and anyone who dared to assist them.

  “Circle to the other side of the block and keep an eye on the parking garage exit,” he said. “They try to run out, drive away, whatever, you stop them.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Holstering his gun, he climbed out of the truck, and Valdez pulled away.

  In the vestibule, a keycard reader restricted entry. He removed a laminated card with a special magnetic strip from his wallet, and slipped it through the device.

  The system flashed a green light, and he was inside.

  Knock, and it shall be opened to you. God rewarded his loyal servants with the keys to the Kingdom.

  “Good morning, mister,” an elderly doorman said from behind a desk. His name tag
read Jim.

  Cutty gave the guy and his desk a quick, appraising glance, and saw the book lying at the man’s elbow.

  “Great book, isn’t it, Jim?” Cutty asked. “I’ve read that one eight times, and all his others more than ten.”

  “Is that so?” The man’s eyes danced. “Bishop Prince is the prophet, he sure is. I been serving the kingdom six years now, myself. Best years of my life.”

  “I’ve been serving for twelve wonderful years. Praise God.”

  “He’s worthy to be praised, ain’t he? Deserves all the glory.”

  Cutty had been prepared to show his fake U.S. Marshall badge, but it would not be necessary here in the company of a fellow kingdom servant.

  “A young man and woman entered about ten minutes ago,” Cutty said. “Did you see them?”

  “Sure did. Didn’t catch their names, but the young lady, she’s a sister of one of our residents.” He grinned. “Pretty young thangs, both of ‘em is.”

  “Which unit does the sister occupy?”

  “Lemme look here.” Jim pushed up his bifocals on his nose, licked his finger, and paged through a three-ring binder. “All right, here it is. Nine oh-seven. Ninth floor, that is.”

  “God bless you, sir.” Cutty hurried to the elevators and punched the button to summon a car.

  Jim shut the binder, dark eyes troubled. “Mister, is you some kind of police officer?”

  “A police officer? Yes, of a sort.” Cutty smiled. “Better to consider me a faithful servant like yourself, humbly doing the Lord’s work.”

  Leaving the old guy with a befuddled expression, Cutty boarded the elevator, and got off on the ninth floor. He checked both ways along the corridor, and then stalked toward unit 907.

  He kicked in the door. It flew away, smacked the wall.

  He charged inside, crouched low, sweeping the gun around the shadows, finger tingling on the trigger.

  The unit was quiet, and felt empty.

  Nevertheless, he checked every area, switching on lights: kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom, closets.