Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  Anthony not only hated windows in combat situations—he hated stairs, too. It was easy to get pinned down on a staircase, easy to be surprised by the enemy, easy to get killed.

  He hoped the elevator trick worked.

  A few steps above Anthony, Mike rounded the corner at the same moment the elevator chimes sang, signaling the car’s arrival on the second floor.

  “Oh, shit . . .” Mike started, and his words were cut off by the unmistakable sound of a fierce blow, and a grunt of pain.

  Anthony’s heart clutched. Legs pumping, he hurried around the corner.

  The elevator diversion had failed—the third bodyguard had been waiting for them. The guy, perhaps in his mid-twenties, bald-headed, well over six feet tall, so wide and muscle-bound he could’ve played the role of Goliath in a Biblical story re-enactment, had grabbed Mike and flung him across the floor. Mike was on his knees, spitting up blood, and the guard stood over him, about to twist the rifle strap around Mike’s throat and snap his neck.

  Anthony raised his gun to fire, and the agent dropped Mike and rushed him. He was snarling like a beast, absolutely fearless, and Anthony remembered what Valdez had said about Cutty, that he wasn’t the only lunatic in their division. Here was another one.

  Anthony shot the guy in the leg. It didn’t even slow him—he was so high on adrenaline it was as though he were immune to pain. He smashed into Anthony head-on, hauled Anthony off his feet and slammed him against the wall, and Anthony’s skull banged against the plaster, broke away big chips and sent stars wheeling through his vision.

  “Fear the Lord!” the man bellowed, bright blood spreading across the thigh of his white tracksuit. His breath smelled, crazily, of spearmint bubble gum, and his eyes shone with manic glee. “Fear him!”

  Anthony slumped to the floor on watery knees. His gun had dropped out of his hand.

  The agent grabbed Anthony by the collar of his shirt and snatched him upright as easily as if Anthony were a child. He swung Anthony around and lifted him up high, above his head, like a pro wrestler posing for a promotional photo, and then he viciously body slammed Anthony onto the hard marble floor.

  Anthony felt the crushing impact in the deepest core of his bone marrow. His vision wavered, head pounding.

  “Praise God!” the giant zealot shouted. “He is a mighty God indeed, worthy to be praised!”

  Somewhere behind him, as if from a great distance, he heard Mike shout, a familiar sound of rage. Then there was a loud smacking sound, and Mike’s battle cry dropped into a gurgle of pain.

  “I am the lion of the Lord!” the giant declared.

  By then Anthony had regained some of his bearings. So when the Goliath bent over him, his nostrils flaring and sweat glistening on his crazed face, Anthony sprang upward and lunged for his eyes. He dug his thumbnails deep into the guy’s sockets.

  The guard roared in agony.

  Moving fast, Anthony seized one of the guy’s tree-trunk legs and drove him back toward the staircase railing. Mike had staggered upright by then, and he grabbed the guy’s other leg. Together, they shoved, like buddies trying to push a car out of a ditch.

  Howling, off balance, blood leaking from his injured eyes, the agent hammered them with his big fists, but they grunted, lowered their heads, and forced the man over the railing. He plunged to the marble twenty feet below, crashing against it with a wall-jarring boom. He lay lifeless on the floor like a broken doll.

  Silence settled over the house again.

  The back of Anthony’s head throbbed painfully. He massaged the swelling knot, winced.

  “You all right?” he asked Mike.

  “I’m solid.” Hunched over, Mike spat out a mouthful of blood. “Damn, that was one tough sonofabitch.”

  “Three down, one more to go.” Anthony retrieved his pistol off the floor, looked toward the second-level hallway beyond the landing. “I want to handle this one alone. You understand.”

  “Figured you would.” Mike chambered a round in his semi-auto. “I’ll hold it down here.”

  Anthony started toward the eastern wing of the house, where he hoped to bring this to an end at last.

  81

  Bishop Prince did not fear Thorne. He feared no man. Only God was worthy of fear.

  But, fear or not, he was prepared for Thorne.

  Upon the breach of the gates, Bishop Prince had retrieved two things: his sweet angel. And a .357.

  As gunfire rang out across the grounds, he’d found the girl hidden in the closet in her room, shuddering, tears glistening on her cheeks. Crooning to her, he’d picked her up and carried her out of there as easily as if she were a kitten, her arms slung around his neck, head snuggled against his chest.

  He’d kissed her on her tear-damp forehead and taken her to his safe room.

  The door to the chamber was concealed behind a blast-proof panel of one-way glass in the master suite. From the outside, it appeared to be a simple full-length mirror, but a corner of the bronzed frame flipped away to reveal a fingerprint scan panel. Once the mirror-door swung open, a carpeted staircase ahead descended deep beneath the ground floor of the house.

  A holy man of God, the Lord’s anointed prophet, had to protect himself against the machinations of Satan’s minions. In the event of a kidnapping attempt, bombing, or assassination plot, the safe room would serve as a refuge against the wicked, an oasis from the damned.

  The area resembled a penthouse apartment, and was as lavishly furnished as the other areas of the mansion. A back-up power generator kept the lights, closed-circuit security monitors, cable-equipped television, and appliances running. There was enough food in the pantry and freezer to sustain him for several weeks, a buried phone line to facilitate contact with the outside world, wall-panels reinforced with Kevlar—and a weapons arsenal in a steel cabinet.

  From the cabinet, he’d retrieved the Smith & Wesson .357 and loaded it with frangible ammo. He returned to the top of the staircase, clasping the angel’s hand, pulling her along with him.

  At the threshold of the door, he stared through the window at his bedroom beyond, and waited.

  Weeping softly, the girl wrapped her slender arms around his waist, clutching him as if he were the only stable anchor in the world. He stroked her silken hair.

  “Hush, my angel,” he said. “You are in God’s unchanging hands. You are safe.”

  The chamber was sound-proof; there was no danger that Thorne would hear them. But her crying perturbed him, for it implied doubt in God’s promise of deliverance for his servants, and such doubt was sin.

  He did not harbor any doubt whatsoever. God had not appointed him as the leader of the Kingdom only to revoke the position before the work was done. The Kingdom was young yet, and he was its crown prince.

  Greatness was his destiny, glory his reward.

  82

  Gun drawn, Anthony moved across the long, wide, marble-tiled corridor. From outside, he heard commotion, someone barking into a megaphone.

  A window was ahead, dark silky curtains admitting only a thin slice of grayish daylight. He peeled back the curtains and peered through the glass.

  The FBI had arrived at the estate gates, two black Bureau utility vans and four unmarked sedans blocking the driveway. About a dozen agents were busy rounding up several Armor of God soldiers. Valdez, wearing a vest that read FBI across the back in yellow letters, was shouting orders into the megaphone.

  In a few short minutes, the feds would trample inside to demand the evidence they believed he was going to find for them. He dropped the curtain, kept moving.

  Past the window, a door ajar on the left claimed his attention. He nudged it open with the toe of his boot. Swept the gun from left to right. All clear.

  It looked to be a girl’s bedroom. Everything was white—walls, carpeting, furniture. The effect was almost blinding.

  He moved inside. Across the room, the door to a walk-in closet door hung open. He went toward it.

  Inside, he found schoolgir
l uniforms, leotards, spandex, string bikinis. All the pieces of clothing were in sizes fit for a teenage girl.

  On a shelf atop the hangers, there were jars of lubricant and bottles of scented oils.

  His stomach lurched. This must have been a room in which Bishop Prince lodged his so-called angels.

  Never in his life had Anthony wanted to get his hands on someone so badly. To think of what the bishop had done to his sister, to so many other young girls . . . Anthony was intoxicated with rage, could feel it blowing through him like a hot summer wind.

  He backed out of the room. Around a bend in the corridor, he found a set of ornate double doors with glimmering gold hardware. The lever gave at his touch.

  If Bishop Prince had been hiding in his bedroom, he would have locked the doors. He must have gone to ground in another area of the house. Such a luxuriously appointed home probably included a panic room.

  Anthony pushed open the doors and scanned left to right. Clear.

  The master suite was enormous, and as opulently decorated as the rest of the house. The vaulted ceiling was at least twelve feet high, and there were lots of windows, yet all of them were darkened with blinds and heavy curtains. Another set of doors led to a covered balcony.

  The massive bed, a four-poster model carved from mahogany, panels inlaid with gold and diamonds, sat on a raised platform. It was larger than the ordinary king-size, to accommodate the bishop’s great height, and so wide it could have comfortably slept three average-size adults. It was draped in a silk, burgundy-and-gold duvet.

  As he regarded the bed, the two Bible scriptures that had led him to this room reverberated through his mind. He had mulled over them so often that he had memorized them both.

  The first was from 2 Samuel, 4:7: For when they came into the house, he lay on his bed in his bedchamber, and they smote him, and slew him, and beheaded him, and took his head, and gat them away through the plain all night.

  The second was Micah 2:1: Woe to them that devise iniquity, and work evil upon their beds! When the morning is light, they practice it, because it is in the power of their hand.

  It was the reference to a “bed” in each respective passage that hatched the idea that had brought him there. Bishop Prince’s bed. Where he devised evil works.

  Where one could behead him.

  Bob had selected perhaps the only location on the campus where no one would ever think to look for the evidence that could destroy the church: the place where the great man slept.

  It was such an audacious plan that it had to be true.

  Anthony approached the bed. His knees trembled so badly that he tripped on the platform steps, just managed to keep from falling. He caught a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror across the room, and almost laughed at his clumsiness.

  Sweat drenching his brow, he deliberated for a moment. Where to begin? Where could you conceal something on a bed so that even the man who slept on it every night would be unaware of its existence?

  Under the mattress seemed too obvious. But how about under the bed frame . . .

  He holstered his gun, and got to his knees. Starting at the footboard, he began to trace his fingers underneath the frame. The wood was smooth and cool. He moved from the footboard and over to the left side, sliding his hands all the way up to the headboard.

  Come on. Please. I know you’re under here.

  At the headboard, he lay flat on his stomach, so he could run his fingers underneath the complete length of it. Near the center of the headboard, his right arm extended so far that his entire shoulder was wedged between the bottom panel of the frame and the marble tile, his fingertips brushed across a slight ridge.

  Heart knocking, he tried to pull it away. It didn’t come, so he scraped along the edges of the object. Felt like plastic. Or maybe tape.

  He found the end of the strip, and carefully, peeled it off.

  A small, lightweight object dropped into the palm of his hand. It felt like a flash drive.

  He clenched his fingers around the item and extracted his arm from underneath the bed.

  The room was full of murky shadows, but his tactile impression proved correct: it was a USB flash drive, swaddled in masking tape.

  “Thank you, God,” Anthony whispered.

  He placed the device in his waist pouch with his extra ammo, and zipped it closed.

  “So that’s where the Judas concealed his betrayal,” a stentorian voice boomed behind him.

  Anthony spun, reaching for the gun on his hip.

  Bishop Prince shot him.

  83

  Thorne lay sprawled and motionless beside the bed.

  The revolver held loosely in his hand, Bishop Prince emerged from the doorway of the safe room.

  “I ought to thank you, Thorne,” he said. “You’ve succeeded where all of my other servants have failed.”

  Thorne did not respond. His eyes were shut, but it was difficult to tell if he were still breathing.

  After the chest shot, he had should have expired and gone to hell where he belonged.

  Beside Bishop Prince, the girl was crying again. She gripped his free hand so tightly that the blood had drained from his fingers. The violence had frightened her. Such an innocent one, she was.

  He spoke a command to activate the room’s recessed lights. Pulling the girl along, he advanced toward Thorne’s prone body.

  In the light, he saw, quite clearly, that the man wasn’t breathing.

  “You died as I hear your father died,” Bishop Prince said. “One bullet to the chest, and his fate in hell was sealed.”

  Bending, Bishop Prince reached for the nylon pouch around the dead man’s waist, where the sinner had pocketed the flash drive.

  Like Lazarus, Thorne snapped awake.

  84

  Bolting upright like a coiled spring, Anthony swung his fist at Bishop Prince and connected solidly with the man’s jaw. The crunch of shattering cartilage and bone was the most satisfying sound he’d ever heard in his life.

  The bishop tumbled backward. An exotic-looking teenage girl at his side released a shrill scream.

  Getting to his feet on wobbly legs, Anthony drew his gun.

  The bishop crawled backward, gasping for air, a .357 in his grasp. His eyes were stunned, as if he’d witnessed Anthony climbing out of a grave.

  “Body armor, man.” Anthony tapped his chest. “You think I’m crazy?”

  The bishop sneered. He hugged the girl to his side.

  Then, he put the gun’s muzzle against her head. She let out a thin mewl of terror.

  “Take . . . care,” the bishop said, words slurred by his injured jaw. “You wouldn’t want me to . . . harm this sweet . . . angel.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt her. She’s one of your prized girls.”

  “What do I . . . care?” Bishop Prince grinned smugly. “I have hundreds . . . like . . . her.”

  Anthony did not lower his gun. “You’re sick.”

  “Great men . . . of God have . . . great appetites. But . . . what would you know of that? Little men like you, weak in faith . . . nursing foolish vendettas.” Bishop Prince spat blood at Anthony’s feet. “You envy the rewards . . . bestowed on the anointed.”

  “If you’re the anointed, I wouldn’t want anything to do with God.”

  “God doesn’t want you, either, Thorne. Neither did he want your father. Your father . . . he’s burning in the hottest furnace of hell.”

  Anthony shot the man in the shoulder. The round knocked Bishop Prince flat onto the floor. Shrieking, the girl scrambled out of his arms.

  “Leave,” Anthony said to her, and nodded toward the doorway. “My friend is outside, and help is on the way. They’ll take care of you. Go.”

  Hugging herself, sniveling, she fled out of the room. Bishop Prince called after her in a blood-choked gurgle that was a hollow imitation of his normally resonant voice, but the girl didn’t look back.

  Bishop Prince turned his glare on Anthony. Although his shoulder bled from
the gunshot wound, defiance seethed in his eyes.

  “Strike me down, Thorne,” he said. “Dare to touch God’s prophet, and see—“

  Anthony kicked him in the ribs, cutting off his lunatic rant. The bishop winced and curled into fetal position. He coughed up blood.

  Anthony placed his boot at the base of the bishop’s long neck and pressed down. Wheezing for air, the bishop squirmed like an insect nailed to a board.

  Millions followed this vile man. He would not have been fit to serve as the spiritual leader for a congregation of cold-blooded killers. Anthony would have taken pure pleasure from placing a bullet in his brain.

  But there was something he had to know.

  “Who killed my father?” Anthony asked. “You were behind it, but I want to know who pulled the trigger. I want to know who I saw at the lake.”

  In spite of his agony, Bishop Prince managed a cruel smile. “You . . . don’t know?”

  “Tell me who did it, asshole.”

  Malicious pleasure brightened the bishop’s eyes.

  “A loyal . . . servant of the kingdom.”

  “Tell me!”

  “It could have been any . . . of my faithful servants. I command . . . legions.”

  “You know who did it.” Hot tears streamed down Anthony’s cheeks. “You know!”

  Bishop Prince grinned, though half his face was red and swollen and blood wetted his lips.

  Anthony dropped to his knees and drove the muzzle of the gun into the bishop’s mouth, jammed it in so deep the bishop gagged on the steel, hands batting futilely at Anthony.

  Anthony screamed at him: “Talk, motherfucker, tell me who killed my dad, you fuckin’ tell me, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you sick fuck!”

  The bishop’s skin had begun to turn blue. Yet his eyes, full of secret knowledge, were mocking.

  Anthony curled his finger around the trigger. Although the bishop’s face was beneath him, he saw the shadowy figure darting away from the banks of the lake, and felt a rifle, not a pistol, in his own hands, felt his finger around the trigger, saw the mystery man in his sights, and all he had to do was pull the trigger and avenge his father, avenge him, do it for his family, kill him now . . .