False Positive

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  “You look nice, too,” she blurted out.

  She saw him smile in response and that sent her into mute-mode again.

  XXV

  A cold, brisk wind picked up, driving Dent across the same grass expanse that had hosted the potluck hours ago, back when the afternoon sun fought off the growing chill of the evening.

  He hadn’t noticed any deterrents to keep unwanted visitors from the church grounds when he had walked the entire perimeter earlier that day during the potluck. He’d searched for mundane signs — barbed wire, fences, actual posted signs — but had found none. He’d also paid close attention to any hints that an eField was active on the premises, though without seeing any blue lights indicating such eTech was in use, he had come up at a loss on that search as well. With eTech, one would be hard-pressed to realize they were being influenced by outside forces.

  Unless one was Dent. In his case, blue indicating lights or not, he would remain unaffected by eTech. Although, with Fifth, he was learning he wasn’t completely immune to outside forces.

  And that disturbed him.

  Boots slightly slipping on the freshly-watered grass, Dent veered towards the grand entrance of Saint Nicholas Parish. From what he’d gathered, those doors would be open all day and all night. Apparently people needed this place at all hours.

  The outside walls of the huge, gothic inspired architecture of the place was lit from below by a series of flood lights, bathing it in a play of dancing shadows from the trees from which the lights shone up through as the wind that whispered through their boughs.

  He checked his watch. Just past 10:45. He hoped the place would be empty by this time. Less people meant less distractions.

  As he stepped to the stone walkway leading to the front doors, a couple made their way out of the grand doors. They passed on the steps. Both greeted him. He paid them no heed, only giving them enough attention to dismiss them as threats.

  Inside the large wooden double doors, the place was lit by numerous chandeliers and wall sconces. First glance led him to believe it had been candlelight, but upon closer inspection of a wall to the side he found each light to be a bulb that flickered and mimicked an open flame.

  He counted nearly a dozen people inside, either sitting or standing in pairs, chatting or praying or whatever it was people did in places such as this. As he started down the main aisle, a few heads turned. Discreet nods and smiles came his way as he assessed them and the open sanctuary with a sharp eye.

  Any one of these people could be a threat, any of the wide pillars a place for someone to hide. Alcoves and nooks along the walls offered great places for a hostile to tuck away into the shadows, waiting for the opportune time to come out at Dent. With the ridiculous fake candlelight doing nothing to dispel the deepest of shadows, Dent tread carefully, nearly pulling his guns out to proactively deter any possible threats.

  Halfway down the center aisle, he stopped, performed a complete circle. No one following him, although more than one pair of eyes did track his movement still. Stone walls, high murals, a narrow balcony running along three-quarters of the sanctuary with stained-glass windows just above. No visible signs that this place was a front for eTech.

  Then again, it would be foolish of them to advertise that fact if it were true.

  From what Fifth had told him, Dent knew the east wing, its double doors at the far corner just off the main dais of the nave, was designated for everyday activity and housed the children under the church’s care. Therefore where he would head would be the west wing to the left of the nave.

  He continued down the center aisle, keeping his senses open to the murmuring, the shuffling steps, and the occasional cough of those in the sanctuary. And that was why, less than five seconds later, he tensed.

  The murmuring had stopped, the shuffling steps had picked up.

  As he turned, he saw the last of the stragglers exit the church. The large doors closed behind them with the sound of a coffin being shut. One man stood at the exit, hands clasped before him, and not in prayer. A woman sat straight-backed to his right halfway down the rows of wooden pews. Two men to his left, who had been causally whispering when Dent had first walked in, no longer exchanged words. Their stance was too stiff, their feet too carefully planted.

  So be it. He would have to count on this being a place of worship, that normal people wouldn’t bring violence into its walls.

  He took a deep breath, put his back to the four, and continued his stroll towards the nave. His mind played out the scenarios, four against one, and quickly discarded all predetermined plans of action. Too many variables, too many unseen corners and line of sight disruptions.

  And to prove his point, a dark-haired woman stepped out into view from behind a statue up on the middle of the dais. He’d met her earlier that day at the potluck, a chance meeting. At least, that had been what he thought at the time. Her name was Grace, though he’d heard a few people at the potluck call her Gracie.

  He continued forward.

  The woman hopped the three feet down from the dais, her dark and plain jacket flapping as she did, and waited for Dent to near.

  “Marion,” Grace said when he stopped four feet from her. “Your mac n’ cheese was deli—”

  “Where’s Father Lance?”

  She shifted her feet. He heard the others behind him do the same.

  “Father Lance has retired for the night,” Grace said.

  “Call him.”

  “Won’t be possible. You can see him tomorrow. Or, if your need is great, I may be of service to you.” She gestured to the front row of benches. “We could speak if you’d like.” Her voice was flat, even. Nothing like what he would expect of someone trying to be sincere.

  And then there was the nose of the gun strapped to her lower back that had been briefly exposed when she’d lifted briefly her arm.

  He asked, “Where do you keep the records?”

  Grace’s brows lifted. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Where is your records room?”

  Her brows settled back down. “Why?”

  “I need to find out about one of your former wards. Where he came from.”

  Hands spreading wide, Grace replied, “Unfortunately, I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  Her eyes flicked over his shoulder and her right hand floated up, putting her gun within quick reach. That was warning enough.

  With a twist, Dent had both Glocks out in a heartbeat, one pointed at her chest, the other aimed at the man who’d come down the center aisle. The other three hostiles were further down the aisle, closing off Dent’s escape.

  “Call Father Lance,” Dent told the woman, trying to keep an eye on all parties.

  “Whoa, now, Dent,” Grace said in what Dent assumed was intended to be a soothing tone. “You don’t want to—”

  “Call Father Lance.”

  Grace gave a subtle nod to her comrades down the aisle and slowly reached into her pocket to pull out her phone. She tapped the screen and began to lift the phone to her ear.

  “Put it on speaker,” ordered Dent.

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but she did as told.

  The ringing echoed loudly in the church. After the third ring, someone picked up.

  “Hey, Gracie. What’s up?”

  It definitely was not Father Lance’s voice on the other end.

  “Hey, Julius,” Grace said evenly. “Remember what we spoke about in the control room?”

  There was silence, then, “Is the problem not resolving itself?”

  “No.”

  “Got it.”

  Julius clicked off.

  Grace’s lips spread in a predatorial grin.

  Dent wasted no time.

  He fired both guns almost simultaneously, turning the hallowed sanctuary into a battlefield.

  Grace was struck in the side of her chest, her phone dropping to the soft red carpet a few seconds before her body
. Back along the center aisle, Dent’s other bullet tore through the shoulder of the man closest to him, spinning him to the side and down to his knees. That man fired twice, one bullet tearing into the statue up on the dais on the other side of Dent, the second pinging off of marble somewhere near the balcony above.

  Before the retorts of the first fired bullets had died down, the remaining three gunmen further back retaliated. Diving forward to seek shelter behind the wooden pews, Dent fired once blindly back down the center aisle, hoping to drive the three gunmen into hiding. Splinters showered Dent as the back of the pew he ducked in front of was chewed up by gunfire.

  To the left of Dent, Grace’s body bled out on the carpet. To the right, looking beneath the rows of benches, Dent saw two pairs of feet, one set perhaps eight rows away, the other perhaps ten. That left one gunman unaccounted for somewhere on the other side of the aisle. First things first, handle those threats he could see.

  Staying as close to the floor as he could and twisting his hips and shoulders, Dent brought both his guns around, one for each pair of slowly shuffling feet. Both barrels held steady under the pew, Dent chose his first target — the gunman furthest away — and squeezed the trigger. The man screamed as one of his ankles exploded and he collapsed to the floor. Dent didn’t get a chance to finish him off as, just as Dent had planned, the closest gunman, the woman, instinctively dove to the floor at the sound of gunfire. She had a split-second to realize her error as her eyes focused on Dent’s gun, which was now centered on her forehead.

  He killed her with one shot.

  Ignoring the agonized screams coming from the man with the ruined ankle, Dent brought his knees up, preparing to locate the remaining gunman. Three seconds passed, and Dent had no idea if the other man was closing in or staying put. With the chance of reinforcements arriving, Dent needed to get out of the open. Bringing his knees completely up and preparing to hop up and dash across the center aisle, Dent suddenly froze. The doors to the east wing opened and closed.

  But when Father Lance’s voice came from that direction instead of gunfire, demanding to know what was happening in his house of prayer, Dent changed his plan of attack.

  Firing blindly in the general direction of the remaining gunman, then rolling under the first pew, Dent came up in a crouch between the first and second row and rushed to where Father Lance stood on the other side of the dais. Dent had a moment to take in Father Lance’s expression — red-faced, open-mouthed, one hand to his forehead — before thrusting a gun barrel into the man’s stomach and pivoting around his body, using him as a shield from the remaining gunman.

  Father Lance coughed and sputtered as Dent hooked one arm around his neck and roughly pushed him forward. The remaining gunman, five pews back on the other side of the center aisle took a marksman’s stance. Spreading his feet, free hand coming up to steady his gun hand, the man looked to be deciding if risking Father Lance’s life to get to Dent was an option.

  “Dent!” Father Lance snapped, even as he tried to halt his forward momentum.

  Dent ignored him. Bringing up his left Glock, Dent sighted the gunman across the aisle. Dent suspected the man wouldn’t be willing to fire and was proven correct. Though the barrel continued to track Dent and Father Lance as they crossed the front of the dais, no shots came forth.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Father Lance demanded, doing his best to squirm free, never mind the gun Dent had pressed into his neck.

  “Getting answers,” Dent replied.

  “What could possibly call for such atrocious actions? This is a place of worship!”

  As they neared Grace’s body, the gunman steadily tracking their progress, Dent pushed his knee into the back of Father Lance’s, forcing them both down into a crouch.

  “Pick up the phone,” Dent ordered.

  “I will not!”

  Before Dent could properly motivate Father Lance to do as told, the remaining gunman said, “It’s okay, Father. Just do as he asks for now. He won’t harm you. He won’t be leaving here alive.”

  The gunman was wrong on both accounts, but as Father Lance scooped up Grace’s phone there was no need to prove it. Pulling Father Lance back into a standing position, Dent pushed forward towards the east wing doors, careful to keep the man between himself and the gunman. At the heavy double doors, Dent adjusted his hold on Father Lance, pointing one gun at the gunman while reaching back and turning the handle.

  It twisted, but the doors were locked.

  “Key,” Dent said.

  Father Lance’s head shook minutely. “It’s electronically sealed.”

  “Open it.”

  After a moment of hesitation, Father Lance said, “I’ll need my arm free. It’s locked biometrically.”

  Refraining from putting a bullet into the man for delaying, Dent merely nodded.

  Father Lance reached over, pushed aside a small oil-painting of some religious icon, and exposed a palm ID reader. With a heavy sigh, Father Lance placed his hand on the biometric scanner and as soon as Dent heard an electric whirring and click he twisted the handle and dragged Father Lance into the west wing.

  Now, Dent thought, comes the hard part.

  He kicked the west wing doors closed and threw Father Lance back against them. Whatever mechanism locked the doors — Dent figured it would likely be magnetic — gave a soft click but he doubted that would stop any determined pursuers.

  There were slide bolts at the base of each door and he stomped those into the floor. Then, as an added measure, he shot the digital palm reader to the side of the doors. He didn’t know if that would render the digital access to the lock inaccessible from the other side, but at this point, anything was better than nothing.

  He held the barrel of his gun up before Father Lance, and when the man tried pushing back into the doors, Dent knew he had his attention. “Where is the control room?”

  Father Lance shook his head. “I told you, I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

  Someone hit the doors from the other side and Father Lance’s body shook with the impact.

  Dent was tempted to simply drop the man and forge on ahead, but he had no clue what surveillance was in place and a hostage may come in handy before this was over. Grabbing a fistful of Father Lance’s shirt, Dent pulled him further down the wood-paneled hallway and slammed him up against the wall. With the barrel to Father Lance’s neck, Dent grabbed Grace’s phone from his hand and scrolled through it. He hit redial, put the phone back in Father Lance’s hand, and raised his gun up to the man’s temple.

  “Ask for Julius,” Dent ordered, as the line began to ring. “Tell him he has a visitor and that we are heading to wherever he is.”

  The man looked like he was about to say something to Dent, but the pressure to his temple stopped him. On the other end of the phone, a man answered.

  “Gracie! What the hell is happening up there?”

  Dent increased the pressure on Father Lance’s temple, to the point that the man had to tilt his head to the side.

  “Julius …,” began Father Lance. He swallowed, tried again. “Julius, I need to know if there is something called a ‘control room’ here.”

  “Father Lance? Wait, what? Why?”

  “Just … Julius, please, do as I ask. I have a man here who is highly delusional and—”

  Dent drove his fist into the man’s stomach.

  “Father? Father Lance?”

  Father Lance let out a cough and stared at Dent with what was likely anger. “I’m fine, Julius. Please, do as I ask. Tell this man that there is no such thing as a control room.”

  The line was silent for a moment. Then, “Father, that man with you. His name is Marion Dent.”

  “I know who he is.” Then something passed over Father Lance’s expression. “How do you know who he is?”

  “It’s my job to keep him from … from the control room.”

  Father Lance’s face went white. “Julius! You mean to tell me that there is some tru
th to this man’s ravings?”

  “Father. Security is on the way. Dent cannot be allowed down here.”

  Again Dent used his gun to keep Father Lance on track. But instead of a wide-eyed expression, the man now furrowed his brows. Dent was unsure, but perhaps Father Lance was indeed unaware of what was transpiring beneath his church.

  “Julius,” Father Lance said, keeping his eyes on Dent’s. “This man is holding a gun to my head. I don’t think he will take no as an answer. Please, just do as he asks.”

  “I know he does. But I have orders, Father. I’m sorry.”

  Julius knew Dent was armed. How? Searching the ceiling and corners of the hallway, Dent noticed pin-pricks of red. The place was wired into a security feed. More proof that this church was not as it seemed.

  Dent grabbed the phone, put it to his ear. “Julius, I will kill this man if you don’t give me what I want.”

  “Then it’ll be harder on you, Dent. Your best choice is to let Father Lance go. Surrender and this will go easier for you.”

  “If I have to do this the hard way, you will regret it.”

  No answer, but Dent could hear the man typing rapidly on the other end of the line.

  Dent hung up.

  “Move,” he ordered, pushing Father Lance down the hall. The man stumbled forward but did eventually start walking.

  “Where are we going?” Father Lance asked over his shoulder. “What do you plan on accomplishing by doing this?”

  “I plan on shutting this place down.”

  “This is a place or worship!”

  “This is a place of manipulation.”

  “How dare y—”

  “Shut up and walk,” Dent said, using his gun as incentive. “The control room would need to be someplace that you or your people wouldn’t stumble upon. The only reason you’re still alive is to help me find that room.”

  “And after?”

  Dent didn’t bother answering.

  They turned right and Dent couldn’t help but to look up at the red lights at the corners of the hallway further on. Any minute, more security would appear. He pushed Father Lance on.