Gather The Seekers

by Vince Milam

  “Drop it!” he cried and the man, his face shining with focused malevolent intent, refused to acknowledge him or the gun. Cole pulled the trigger without hesitation.

  The massive boom of the pistol signaled the instant death of the attacker. Brain matter and blood sprayed across the driveway, and Francois’s push back of the knife—now meeting no resistance—rolled the killer onto the concrete driveway.

  Cole crouched to scan the area for other attackers, holstered his weapon, and dropped to a knee. Francois looked up at him, almost peaceful, sanguine. Another battle over, finished.

  “You’re bad hurt, bud,” Cole said. He ripped open his dear friend’s shirt and viewed a deep, gaping chest wound where the knife had done its work. A crucifix dangled from a silver chain down his side.

  “Oui. This is so.” The priest made a move to fish in his ripped shirt pocket for a smoke.

  You gotta be shittin’ me, Cole thought.

  “Francois!” Nadine yelled. She ran to them and dropped to both knees, cradling Francois’s head in her lap. “Oh, Francois, don’t move. Please, don’t move, and we’ll get help. Please.”

  “Closest hospital?” Cole asked close to Nadine’s face so she would concentrate on that one answer.

  “St. Luke’s. Close. Maybe three minutes.”

  Cole stood and jerked off his shirt, bunched it, and pressed it over Francois’s wound. “Here, Nadine. Keep pressure on it. Push. Hard.”

  She took his place and applied pressure. He rushed to the backseat door of his rental car and swung it open. “We’ll take him. Quicker than an ambulance if the hospital’s close.”

  As he returned to his fallen friend, Francois stretched a hand toward the dead man—a gesture of compassion and forgiveness.

  You really, really gotta be shittin’ me, Cole thought.

  Nadine held back sobs and kept kissing François’s face.

  “Okay, bud. We’re gonna haul ass to the hospital. You’re gonna be alright. Nadine, I’ll lift him, you keep pressure on the wound.”

  And so Francois Domaine was placed in the backseat, Nadine with him, repeating over and over, “It’s okay, Francois. It’s okay.”

  Cole slammed the vehicle in reverse, tore down the driveway, hit the street, and made it to the hospital in well under three minutes. His hands gripped the steering wheel with fury, telling Francois the whole way to keep talking, keep talking.

  He raged as never before. Leave my friends out of it, you demonic pricks. Come after me. Cole Garza. Bring it on, you sumbitches. Bring it on.

  Chapter 40

  A cool fog lay across San Francisco as Jean and Jude pulled into the six-space back parking lot of St. Peter’s. Most of its congregants walked, took public transportation, or rode bikes to services. The old stone church, muffled and still under the city’s gray blanket, now offered refuge.

  They had driven toward San Jose when Jude insisted “something” lurked close by. Jean’s faith in the pastor’s unique sense remained strong, but today’s outing had demonstrated Jude’s ability was not fully developed. They meandered and burned gas. Jude puffed her e-cig and provided indistinct directions.

  “Just keep going,” Jude said.

  “Straight?” Jean asked, appreciating the sparse Bay Area traffic.

  “Yeah. Maybe,” followed by, “And stop doing that.”

  “What?”

  “Those sidelong glances at me. Like I’m nuts or full of it,” Jude said. “It’s a look telling me to pull it together. Well, I’m trying. And the crappy little looks don’t help.”

  “Okay.” Jean didn’t bother a further response as she had, indeed, thrown regular glances of mild irritation. It would be nice if she had the sense better synched, like the French priest. Jean’s irritation also stemmed from her lack of personal contribution to the effort. More people murdered today in the northwest region, and Jean Murphy couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  “I’m trying,” Jude repeated.

  “I know.”

  “You think this is bullshit, don’t you?” Jude asked.

  “No. No I don’t, Jude. It’s an effort. We’re trying. Beats sitting around.”

  “I don’t have Francois’s development. His better sense of time and place where this stuff goes down.”

  “I know.”

  Banjo settled on the backseat once he’d relaxed sentinel duty, feet on the front seat divider. He sat back and scratched his ear, his collar tags jingling.

  “I pray about it constantly. And I didn’t ask for this special thing. This talent, if it can be called that,” Jude said.

  “I know. The thing is, Jude—and believe me, I know I’m speaking as an outsider with this chasing living evil stuff—murders are happening now. Right now. And you’re receiving scattered signals, I think, because it’s so widespread.”

  They drove in silence. Jude pulled e-cig vapor and exhaled through her nose, fiddling with her stainless steel eyebrow barb. Banjo readjusted his backseat position. They approached San Jose.

  “I felt it a little stronger back there. Near Palo Alto,” Jude said. She contorted her legs and assumed a sitting yoga position. “Now it’s pinging around. I wish I could explain it better, Jean. Sorry. The whole thing is sorry.”

  “You’ve added pink,” Jean said, causing Jude to give a half-smile and touch one of her short hair spikes, the purple now tinged with pink.

  “A girl’s gotta try,” Jude said. “Crap. Let’s turn around. This is stupid.”

  Jean exited, looped under the freeway, and headed back to San Francisco. Banjo sat up at the change of direction and kept vigil.

  “You stay in touch with the feds. Or at least you talk with Nadine. Anything new?” Jude asked.

  “Not since the three terrorists were taken out by citizens. But I’ve got high hopes. Between Nadine and the rest something should pop.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jude said. “We were engaged, then nothing. It’s like demonic forces taunt us. I don’t get it.”

  “Me either. I do know the danger is real and deadly. That’s going to have to do for now.”

  They approached Palo Alto, traffic minimal. “Feel anything?” Jean asked.

  “No. Whatever it was, it’s passed. Gone.”

  Without another word they made their way back to San Francisco and maneuvered toward Jude’s church. Jean had talked with Nadine that morning and news was mixed. The ISIS leaders were clever. They kept electronic communications decentralized, used one-time-only cell phones, and performed face-to-face activities in the States. She caught herself unconsciously touching her holstered pistol.

  But Nadine had come across with less despair and less depression during the morning call. Jean had never before encountered anyone similar. Nadine was a genius, tenacious as they came, and with an attitude of personal responsibility that weighed heavily during this crisis. Jean had worked with computer and intelligence geeks before at the Oakland PD, but the common thread among them had been distance. Clinical distance from the events and horrors they helped track and discover. Not Nadine. That woman carried the weight of the world, and the change of her tone this morning sparked hope in Jean. She had alluded to a clandestine effort, far removed from the streets of the Bay Area. Jean knew better than to dig, but Nadine’s tone held possibilities. Jean didn’t divulge this observation to Jude. There was no point raising expectations. Whatever Nadine and her connections worked on would play out—the sooner the better.

  Jean’s cell phone buzzed and Cole’s number appeared on the caller ID. She enjoyed talking with the lanky lawman; her original suspicion he’d be chewed up and spit out on the mean streets of Oakland had dissipated as she got to know him. Too taciturn for her taste—and that accent of his grated, dropping g’s like an old western movie—but the man had grit, and steel in his backbone. They both lived law enforcement. She understood him, and he, her.

  She hit the speaker button to allow hands-free driving. “Hi, Cole. We’re cruising weirdly quiet streets. What’s
going on?”

  “Francois was attacked. He’s in the hospital. Surgery. Knife wound to the chest.”

  Jean processed this as delivered. Facts. Street cop stuff.

  “He going to make it?”

  Jude turned to her and leaned over, deep concern on her face. “How? What happened, Cole?”

  Jean and Cole both ignored her as they ascertained knowns and unknowns and formulated an action plan.

  “Don’t know if he’s going to make it. The docs are working on him now. Do know this—they’re coming at us. Watch your ass,” Cole said.

  “Single perp?” Jean asked.

  “Yep. No guarantee there’ll be only one with you folks.”

  “Understood,” Jean said. “You talk to the bishop?”

  “My next call is to Nick. Y’all lay low. Be prepared. Locked and loaded.”

  “So what happened?” Jude asked again.

  Jean raised her hand, palm out. Details would come later. They were under attack and preparations had to be made. The attempt on Francois with a knife had been close quarters. That wasn’t to say their attacker, or attackers, wouldn’t make a long-distance shot with a high-powered rifle.

  “What else?” Jean asked.

  “Nadine’s done it again. She acquired, with help from over in the sandbox, the phone numbers of the other eighteen jihadists. Every law enforcement resource is tracking them now. Most of the killers, from the little bit she’s told me here at the hospital, kept their cell phone GPS engaged. Location detectors.”

  Jean slammed the steering wheel several times in exultation. “Yes! Yes!” Banjo came to full alert and stood on the front seat divider, his head cocked to inspect Jean, ensuring she was well. “That is great news! Yes! Please, please, let me help chase these bastards down.”

  “You’ve got your hands full, Jean. They’re coming for Jude. Jude and Luke. Right now,” Cole said. “I wish they’d come after me. But that ain’t the point. Jude’s a target now.”

  “I’m more than a little tired of being treated like a lump of catshit!” Jude blurted. “That’s great news from Nadine. Yeah. Thank God. Thank you, Lord. But what happened to Francois? Talk to me!”

  “Single attacker, Jude. Sent by one of them, I have little doubt. Not much more to it,” Cole said. “I gotta call Nick. Lay low. They’re coming for you.”

  “I know where to hole up,” Jean said. “The church.”

  Jude nodded and squirmed in her seat. “Anything I can do regarding Francois?”

  “Pray,” Cole said.

  “Will do. Of course. Are you sure they will be coming after us? Or more specifically, me?” Jude asked.

  “Pretty dang sure, Jude. Pretty dang sure. I’ve dealt with these creatures from hell before. They aren’t exactly quitters.”

  “Call Nick, Cole. I’ll be back in touch,” Jean said. She ended the call and turned to Jude. “We have a bull’s-eye on us, Jude. Plain and simple.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Jude retrieved her e-cig and took a deep inhale.

  “Lay low. At your church. And prepare to deliver lead poisoning.”

  “Lead poisoning?” Jude asked.

  “From the barrel of my pistol. Get down on the floor,” Jean said. It was a command and brooked no discussion.

  “We’re driving. Moving,” Jude said. “Let’s make it to the church.”

  “Get on the damn floor. Now. ”

  The rest of the drive passed in silence with the exception of Jude, head bowed, as she prayed for Francois’s recovery with low mumbles and lots of amens, scrunched on the passenger floor. Jean contributed her own prayer for the tough little Frenchman and added a few for her and Jude. She drove fast, slowed at red lights to assess the light traffic, and accelerated through intersections. Get to the church, fast. Don’t give some lowlife jihadists a clear shot at us in this car. Move. Move.

  And now at the church parking lot, facing the refuge of the old church and surrounded by thick neighborhood trees and landscaping, Jean relaxed a bit. Cole had been right. They would come after Jude. It wasn’t hard to piece together. Eighteen terrorists soon to be captured or shot resisting arrest. But three new killers, unknown at this point, would have been recruited and pointed at Jude, Francois, and Luke. There was no doubt. What if one of those hellish demons comes along for the ride? I’ll have to rely on Jude’s mojo. Oh, sweet Jesus. Her heartbeat kicked back up and her sense of relaxation departed.

  “Stay in the car, and on the floor, for just a minute,” Jean said. “I’ll be right back. Going to let Banjo do his business before we go inside.”

  “Pick up his poop,” Jude said, her voice muffled as she spoke toward the floor mats. “You have a plastic bag?”

  “He just needs to pee.”

  “Did Banjo tell you that, Jean?” The stridency of her voice increased. “Give a descriptive of his bowel movements? If so, it makes you some kind of top-tier dog whisperer.”

  It was to be expected, and Jean let it slide. Jude had never been a target before. Jean had spent twenty-five years on the streets of Oakland. A callus developed around the fear, a passing acknowledgement of a target pinned to your back. But for first-timers like Jude an element of overreaction and gut-wrenching fear was to be expected.

  She opened her door and called Banjo, who bounced out and headed for the surrounding trees and bushes. Almost over, Jean thought. Thank you, Nadine. She followed Banjo as he dashed, sniffed, and peed around the perimeter of the church, marking his territory. Almost hard to believe it’s ending. Eighteen. Without doubt the largest manhunt in the history of the US is happening now.

  She understood this wouldn’t end it. The ISIS animals would try again, although she had a strong sense they were soon to feel major pain at their world headquarters. She had little doubt Nadine knew people overseas. People with large high-explosive party tricks.

  Banjo dashed farther away, she called him back, and turned to check her car. Fog drifted, the vehicle and the wet facade of the church just visible.

  And now the Frenchman. She hadn’t asked Cole what had happened to the perp. The terrorist. The cowboy would have provided a final solution to that little problem, and good for him. Banjo began to dash past her, tail wagging. Then the dog froze, hair raised along his backbone, a low growl sourced deep in his chest.

  Jean turned toward the car and the direction of the dog’s focus. A lanky man, plain looking, stood next to the passenger side door and stared inside—down at Jude, huddled on the floor.

  His movements slow and casual, he reached into his jacket pocket—almost as if he relished the moment-by-moment experience of this vignette. Jean moved quickly and pulled her pistol, Banjo in front of her, his growls louder.

  The fog drifted and obscured the surroundings, cleared, and obscured again. The man raised a pistol and pointed at the passenger floor. He ignored Jean and Banjo, detached from his surroundings, focused on his mission. Then he tapped the window with the barrel of the gun. He intended for Jude to witness her murderer, her own death.

  Jean stopped, aimed, and fired one, two, three times. The retorts boomed, echoed off the church. Each bullet hit the killer as pops of jacket fabric showed at impact. The killer never took his eyes off his target and pulled the trigger. He fired through the closed window at Jude curled on the floor.

  Jean pulled the trigger twice more and the killer finally reacted. Slumped over the side of the car, he held on to the side mirror and looked at her. He smiled, eyes shining, a raw animal look.

  Her semiautomatic pistol held twelve bullets, and she used them all. The next three shots boomed in rapid succession as the killer slid along the side of the car, legs collapsing. She continued to fire as he fell. Each bullet hit and she approached for the final two shots, delivered to the dead man’s head. She dropped the empty ammo clip from the pistol and slammed a fresh one home before scanning the area for more assailants. Banjo joined her effort.

  She stepped over the dead man, opened the passenger door, and reached f
or Jude. “Are you hit? Jude?”

  Jude trembled on the floor, one hand holding her head above her ear. “Gone? Gone? Is it over?” Jude asked. Her voice bordered on hysteria.

  Jean grabbed her arm, firm but gentle, and guided her from the car. Jude continued to hold her head while Jean leaned to inspect the area her pastor friend clenched. No blood showed, and she led the hunched-over pastor to the back of the car for further inspection.

  “I’ve been shot in the head!”

  “Let me see.” You’d be on the ground if it was serious, Jean thought.

  “Shot! In! The! Head!” Jude yelled and pulled her hand away from above her ear to stare at a thin layer of blood smeared on her palm.

  Jean held her hand and prevented it from coming back up. Next to them, Banjo peed on the dead body, hackles still raised. A low guttural growl sounded as he surveyed the area.

  “One lucky pastor,” Jean said as she inspected the wound to find a light crease in the scalp above the ear with minimal blood. “Grazed you.”

  “Lucky? You call getting shot in the head lucky?” Jude’s voice carried far, loud, and insistent.

  “Calm down.” Jean pulled a tissue from her pocket and pressed it against the furrow in Jude’s scalp. “Hold this. There’s a first aid kit in the car. It’s okay, Banjo. Good boy. It’s okay.”

  “First aid? First aid? I’ve been shot in the head! Are you nuts?”

  Jean pulled the dead man’s wallet. William McPherson, Palo Alto, with a company ID from a high-tech corporation. Jude continued to mutter, “Oh my Lord, oh my Lord,” while she leaned at the waist, hand again pressed against her scalp.

  Jean popped the trunk, removed a first aid kit, and called Banjo to follow. She led Jude into the sanctuary of the church. She locked the door behind them, sat Jude in a pew, and walked the interior of the building to ensure the doors and windows were locked. Then she called the San Francisco PD, explained she was part of the nationwide manhunt, and the dead perp in the parking lot was associated with the terrorists—a new recruit.