by Mark Romang
“I would have done it John Wilkes-Booth-style. Put a large caliber pistol up against Skymolt’s head, preferably a loaded pistol, and then pull the trigger again and again and again.” Anderson turned his attention to the UK prime minister. “Your man could’ve done that already. He works in Skymolt’s inner circle. He has access.”
Loring shook his head. “My agent is afraid of Skymolt. He makes a point not to get any closer than eight feet from the man. He says Skymolt isn’t human, that he can’t be killed.”
“That’s what Liam Kelvoy used to say when he was a part of these meetings,” Deidrick Braun said. “Where is Liam, anyway? Not that I miss him at all. The professor’s apocalyptic rants could get so tiresome.”
“I can answer that,” General Bradley Morris said. The chairman of the joint chiefs held a tumbler of bourbon in his right hand. “Liam was involved in a car wreck only a few hours ago. It was a terrible accident. He perished.”
“I won’t shed any tears,” Estelle Duval said. “But I will drink another glass of wine in Liam’s memory.”
President Dixon cleared his throat. “I fear we’re getting sidetracked. We need to make plans for a world without Henrik Skymolt. The challenges are many and daunting. Foremost is, how are we going to end the water crisis? Rebuilding nations and their infrastructures is second in importance? Thirdly, how will we maintain world peace? And just as importantly, do we go back to the old monetary systems, or introduce a new, one-world currency?”
“Those are complex decisions that we can make at a later time. Skymolt may still be with us,” George Anderson said. “And if he is still alive our most pressing decision will be to cover our tracks and shift the blame of the bombing to someone else.”
“I fear the Canadian may be right for once. Until I watch the news conference, I say we just stay here and get plastered,” Estelle Duvall said.
“I think you already are plastered,” Trina Davis said.
Duvall brushed aside the secretary of state’s comment and rose to her feet. She staggered over to a makeshift bar consisting of square hay bales. Libations of every kind balanced on the hay bales. Duvall poured herself another glass of wine. She giggled and raised her glass skyward. “To the deaths of Liam Kelvoy, Henrik Skymolt, and Vito Abbadelli. Rest in peace, gentlemen.”
Chapter 39
Seattle—three hours later
GIS field office
Special Agent Nick Loomis sat alone and unmoving in his cubicle. He pointed his hazel eyes toward his computer screen, and formed his hands into a tent over his keyboard. To a casual observer, Loomis appeared to be working on something requiring deep thought. But in reality he was praying. And out of necessity, he’d learned to disguise his petitions to God.
Should he be caught, he would be arrested on the spot and eventually executed. And Loomis wasn’t nearly as brave as the prophet Daniel, who refused to adhere to an ordinance established and signed by King Darius that anyone who made a petition to another man or god during a thirty-day period would be thrown into a den of lions.
Loomis hated his lack of courage. The former FBI agent had faced down dozens of hardened criminals, even survived a cat and mouse shootout with a Satan-worshiping serial killer named Tucker Stiggs. But when it came to worshiping the one true God, he’d become a spineless coward, a timid Christ follower. He did everything he could to cover up his beliefs.
More and more though, he felt compelled to give up the charade and boldly live out his faith. The twenty-sixth verse in the ninth chapter of Luke terrified him. “If anyone is ashamed of me and my message, the Son of Man will be ashamed of that person when he returns in his glory and in the glory of the Father and the holy angels.”
The seven-year Tribulation period was about to end. But Loomis wasn’t excited about Christ’s return as he should be. He was running out of time to make his stand for Jesus.
So as he sat at his desk, a little before his working shift started, he prayed for boldness and audacious courage. And most of all, he prayed for an opportunity to tell the world he loved Jesus.
Almost every day he heard and read about a rebel publically executed by one of Henrik Skymolt’s execution squads. Most often the rebels were Christians who refused to be implanted with Skymolt’s marking chip. Loomis had a chip, but it wasn’t implanted in his wrist or forehead. He got by on a technicality.
He was born with dermatographic urticaria, a rare skin condition he once thought of as a curse. His skin was super sensitive to foreign objects. He could take a pen and write his name on his arm, and in seconds the signature would pop up in angry 3-D welts.
So instead of being implanted with Skymolt’s chip, he wore a necklace with a locket that housed the chip. With the chip he could buy and sell where other Christians couldn’t. He could move about in freedom and work a job, live in a house or apartment, go to restaurants.
Yet he couldn’t read his Bible or worship in public.
He always told himself that before the end came and before Christ returned he would come out of the closet and declare his allegiance to God.
That time had come.
And yet here he sat, still living a secret life.
A milquetoast Christian too terrified to proclaim his faith.
Loomis ended his prayer. He sighed heavily and clicked his mouse. A page on his desktop monitor opened. This page listed the unlucky people slated to be executed tomorrow. The executions always took place on Thursday for some reason. Loomis perused the list. Six names were on the list—four men and two women.
Loomis leaned closer to the screen when he saw a name he recognized: Tanner Mason. Mason had developed a following all over the world. Using a HAM radio, he became the voice of the resistance, broadcasting defiant messages against Henrik Skymolt. Mason also broadcasted evangelical sermons with equal fervor.
Understandably, Mason had been a highly sought-after fugitive. Loomis wondered why Tanner’s twin brother C.J. wasn’t on the list, or his sister Brooke.
Loomis had once met Brooke Mason. Three years ago he’d been tracking a fugitive named Nathan Banks. It turned out Banks had been living with the Mason twins and their sister in the Olympic Mountains.
The phone on Loomis’ desk rang. He looked at the screen ID and saw his boss’s number. Loomis picked up the receiver. “Hello, Bill.”
“Nick, I have something for you. Come up to my office, will you? And bring your wallet badge.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be right over.” Loomis closed the page on his computer. He got up, grabbed his badge and left his cubicle. He walked down a corridor, passing other cubicles and doors and rapped on William Trestman’s open door. He walked inside the room.
His glasses riding low on his nose, Trestman looked up over the frames and held out his left hand. “Your badge, please.”
Loomis handed over his wallet badge. “Are you firing me, Bill?”
“Nah, we’re all getting new badges.” Trestman took the old badge and handed Loomis a new one.
Loomis took the new wallet badge and flipped it open. He scowled. “I like the old one better.”
“Me too. But you know how it goes. We have a new director here at the Global Investigative Service. And this new director wishes to put his stamp on everything.”
Loomis slipped the wallet badge into an inside pocket on his sport blazer. “Is that all you wanted?”
Trestman shook his head. “Sit down, Nick.”
Loomis eased into a chair. He sensed something coming. And he began to sweat.
“I’m pulling you off the case you’re working and putting Rogers on it.”
Loomis frowned. “Why? Am I doing a lousy job?”
“You’re doing a fine job. But something came up that demands your attention.”
“Okay, you’ve got me curious, Bill.”
Trestman sipped coffee from a faded blue mug that once sported a Seahawks logo. He set the mug down, balancing it precariously on a cluttered desk. “I’m sending you out into the field.
Nathan Banks escaped from prison yesterday evening around five.”
Loomis felt his heart skip a beat. Even though he apprehended Banks and brought him back to civilization three years ago, he thought highly of the man. “No kidding? How did Banks manage that?”
“He had help. A guard gave him a UWC uniform. The two walked out the front door together as pretty as you please.”
“Why do you need me? They probably microchipped Banks while he was behind bars. Anybody with a tracking app could follow his signal.”
“You have experience with Banks. You know how he thinks, how he operates.”
“But it’s all such a waste. Banks wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a nerd, a computer geek. Let me go after a real criminal. There are plenty of low-life thugs and killers out there.”
Trestman pushed his glasses up his nose. His icy-blue eyes grew large behind the thick lenses. He shot Loomis a hard glare. “Nick, you’ve always been one of my finest agents. But lately I’ve noticed a change in your attitude. Your heart isn’t in your work anymore.”
Loomis shrugged. “Once upon a time when we were still the FBI, you and I used to fight real crime. We busted up drug rings and mafia families, investigated public corruption and uncovered civil rights violations. We solved violent crimes and stopped domestic and international terrorists from carrying out terror plots. But now all we do is find people who haven’t taken Henrik Skymolt’s chip.”
“Are you through venting?”
“I guess. But you know I’m right. We’re not lawmen anymore.”
“You tracked down Banks once before, Nick. And you’ll do it again,” Trestman said curtly.
Loomis said nothing and stared at his shoes. He felt like a child getting a tongue-lashing from a parent. At one time he and Trestman got along fine. But that had been back at the LA office, before they both got promoted and sent here to Seattle.
“I trust you have the tracking app on your phone?”
Loomis patted his phone in his front pant pocket. “Yeah, I got it,” he said
Trestman nodded. “Banks is on the move. We lost his signal in downtown Seattle for a few hours. But then his signal reappeared and we followed it to Tacoma. Now it appears he’s headed for Eugene.”
“He must have a vehicle if he’s in Oregon.”
“That’s a logical assumption.”
“Is the guard accounted for?”
Trestman shook his head. “We might also assume Banks is still with the guard.”
“Do you have a picture of the guard.”
“I asked for one. But for some reason no one at the prison can find a photo. But supposedly he’s well over six feet in height and has golden hair. And he looks neither young or old. His name is Jimmy.”
Loomis rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well last night; tossed and turned until 3 AM. “When do you want me to start?”
“Immediately.”
“All right. I’ll be out of the building in less than five minutes. Is that soon enough, Bill?”
“I’d be happier if it only took you three minutes.”
“I’ll go back to my office and shut down my computer, grab my duty gun and leave.”
Trestman shot him another hard glare. “I knew you would see it my way, Nick.”
Loomis turned and left the room, sure he would never see Trestman again.
****
Trestman waited until Nick Loomis had left the room and was out of earshot. He picked up his desk phone. He speed-dialed a number and spoke quietly into the receiver. “I need you to follow Loomis. I fear he’s lost his way. He’s sympathetic toward the rebels.”
“How much latitude do I have?” the husky voice on the other end asked.
“All that you need or want. Just be ready to act quickly. Loomis is already paranoid. And he’s threat to go off the grid.”
“It won’t come to that. I’ll be a shadow Loomis can’t see.”
“Confidence is good. Overconfidence is useless.”
“I’ll be careful, Bill.”
“You better be,” Trestman said, and hung up.
Chapter 40
Tel Aviv—that same moment
The press corps from the Skymolt News Agency had been flown to the blast site by helicopters. Dropping in from above was the only way to get to ground zero. All streets, avenues, roads and highways remained impassable.
Television cameras were positioned strategically around the blast crater to take in maximum destruction, while a drone camera hovered silently overhead and provided even more carnage.
A producer wearing headphones counted down with his fingers, and then gave the cue.
Sporting a beautifully tailored, cobalt-colored suit, and wearing a wireless headset microphone, Henrik Skymolt walked sternly toward a crystal podium placed incongruously amongst the rubble. Vito Abbadelli waddled close behind him, and wore flowing white vestments and a gold-lined tiara. Abbadelli took a subservient position beside Skymolt and did his best to maintain a holy pose.
Towering over the crystal podium, Skymolt looked into a camera. His blue eyes matched his cobalt suit and blazed defiantly. “Citizens of the world, I greet you with sadness. As you can see all around me, tragedy has struck the beautiful city of Tel Aviv. Tens of thousands of innocent people have died needlessly. Men, women, and children gasped their last breaths in agony, many of them crushed in the rubble, their limbs amputated.
“Early this morning a cowardly plot was carried out. This plot involved a massive, non-nuclear bomb. The bomb was dropped on the precise spot I now stand, and the bomb was intended to kill me.
“As you know, this isn’t the first time someone has attempted to assassinate me. And each time my enemy has failed to end my life. They refuse to believe that I am eternal, that I am God, that I have no beginning and no end, and that I cannot die.
“Rest assured I will not rest until the savages who perpetrated this senseless attack are wiped off the planet.” Skymolt paused dramatically. Despite the heavy storm clouds gathering in the west, a dreary sun kissed his features, illuminating his skin and golden wooly hair. “You may be asking yourself what kind of vermin would drop a bomb of this magnitude on a heavily populated area. I will not leave you guessing. I will tell you.
“My intelligence people have informed me all evidence points toward a large contingent of unchipped Jews living in Jerusalem. For this reason, I will destroy Jerusalem. When I am done not one building will remain standing.
“The Jews have been a thorn in my side since I created them. They have rejected my love, killed my prophets, and turned their backs on my forgiveness countless times. They are a stiff-necked people who have continually worshipped false gods and idols. But now their blood will run deep and fast, as high as a horse’s bridle.”
Skymolt walked out from behind the crystal podium. He stooped down and picked up a jagged chunk of scorched concrete. He then stood back up, stretching his six-foot-eight-inch frame to its fullest. “I realize there are many of my faithful children living in Jerusalem. To those who have accepted my marking chip and worship me, I am giving you a chance to flee the city. You have 24 hours to get out. Take advantage of this opportunity and you won’t come under my judgement.”
Skymolt walked up to the nearest camera. “But to the rebel Jews living inside Jerusalem, this will be your fate.” Skymolt lifted up the concrete chunk, and with one hand squeezed the rubble until it became like sand and poured from his hand. “From the dust you came, and to the dust you will return.”
Chapter 41
Jerusalem—that same moment
“There used to be many more trees on the Mount of Olives,” Vallen said, looking all around at the hillside geography. “The Romans cut them down for their siege engines. I watched them do it.”
Michael pointed at the nearby garden. “But the olive grove in the Garden of Gethsemane still stands.”
“Surely those aren’t the original trees that stood while Jesus prayed and sweated drops of blood?” Coleton Web
b suggested.
Michael nodded his regal head. “Olive trees live a very long time. But some of these trees were just seedlings poking up through the dirt the night Jesus was arrested.”
Andrew Maddix didn’t look at the trees, or lack thereof on the Mount of Olives. He kept his eyes peeled on vast army of demons gathered on the ridge. He didn’t want to estimate their troop numbers. It was a boggling sum that continued to grow by the minute.
From the east a colossal black swarm polluted the sky. Demons from all over the spirit realm flew in to Jerusalem and landed on the sacred hill deemed a mountain, even though it only rose 2,684 feet above sea level.
The black cloud fluttered and pulsed like a massive colony of bats returning from a nighttime hunt, and the cloud gave off a stench Maddix found repulsive.
Near the bottom of the mountain, the Church of Mary Magdalene stood next to the Garden of Gethsemane. Maddix stood outside the church and watched the demonic army swell to an uncountable number.
Michael’s angel army was using the Church of Mary Magdalene as its operational base, while the demon army led by Zarkien used the Seven Arches Hotel up on the mountaintop as its operational base. “I hate that our enemy has acquired the high ground,” Maddix muttered. Because the demons occupied the mountaintop, they had an elevated advantage and enjoyed a wide field of view. They’ll see us coming, he thought.
“We will overcome their position, Andrew,” Michael said confidently. “If the demons tremble at the mention of our Lord’s name, what do you think will happen when they see Jesus descending in the clouds?”
“Where did Zarkien find all these demons? It looks as if he emptied the abyss,” Vallen said.
“They probably did come from the abyss, and are likely the very same army that carried out the sixth trumpet judgement.”
