by Mark Romang
He had to get inside the barricade. But to get inside the barricade he had to walk by the chip reader. And his Skymolt chip was stuck inside unclaimed luggage somewhere inside a Eugene, Oregon bus station. So he had to find a different way.
Loomis heard the crowd erupt. He saw a prisoner up on the stage. The prisoner looked like Tanner Mason. You better hurry, he told himself. Loomis increased his gait. He saw a UWC officer standing alone near the barricade and headed for him.
The officer had been standing guard near the barricade, his back facing the stage, presumably on the lookout for people trying to sneak inside the barrier. But when the crowd roared he turned to face the stage. As Loomis advanced toward the barricade, he kept his eyes on the officer. Still gazing at the stage, the UWC officer moved a hand over to rest on his sidearm grip.
“You’re just the man I need to see, Officer,” Loomis said as he walked up to the officer. The young officer looked him over. Loomis did a double take. The officer looked just like…Tanner Mason. And then Loomis remembered something. Tanner had a twin brother named C.J., or something like that.
“What do you want?”
Loomis placed a hand inside his sport jacket and removed his wallet badge. He flashed C.J. the badge and then handed the kid the manila envelope.”
“What is this?”
“Read it and you’ll see.” Loomis watched C.J. scan the document.
“It’s a stay of execution. And it’s signed by Vito Abbadelli. It looks real, but is it legit?”
“Of course not. It’s a forgery.”
C.J. looked at him suspiciously. “So is your badge a fake too?”
“No, I really am a special agent with the Global Investigative Service,” Loomis answered. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, kid. You have guts, but it’s not going to work. Violence isn’t the answer. You’re way outnumbered. So the document in your hands is the only chance you have of saving your brother.”
C.J. nodded. “Why are you doing this?”
Loomis shrugged. “I’m tired of hiding in the shadows.”
“Well, let’s go then, Agent Loomis. I’ll escort you up to the stage.”
Loomis eyed the chip reader warily. “That thing is going to sound an alarm when we walk by it.”
C.J. grinned. “We’re law enforcement. We don’t need to walk by it,” he said, and moved a section of the barricade to the side.
Loomis and his new partner moved through the opening and muscled their way through the crowd toward the center aisle. They reached the aisle and Loomis had to walk fast to keep up with the Mason kid.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a gusty wind whipped Loomis’ hair all around. He glanced at the ominous sky, half expecting a tornado to drop down from the sky onto Westlake Park. The weather had worsened so much in the past minute that a portion of the crowd began to disperse. The diehards, however, didn’t seem to mind or even notice the apocalyptic thundercloud gathering over their heads.
As he neared the stage, his heart thrashing in his chest, Loomis counted the UWC officers and government officials standing on and around the execution platform. He figured there were close to two-dozen officers and authorities there that he would need to hoodwink.
What he was about to do was akin to robbing a police station with a slingshot. I must be crazy, he thought. Stark raving mad.
C.J. neared the steps to the stage. Loomis looked up at Tanner. The condemned man’s face had been serene until he caught sight of his approaching brother wearing the UWC officer getup. Now Tanner looked horror-stricken.
Loomis removed his wallet badge and kept it in his hands. C.J. reached the stage and began talking to another UWC officer and also a man in a suit. He showed them the document Loomis had created. The two men exchanged glances and then looked at Loomis. Their eyes narrowed. He showed them his badge, and they motioned for him to follow them up onto the stage.
Loomis followed C.J. and the two men up the steps. His legs wobbled a bit. He tried to gather his courage, and prayed his voice wouldn’t crack like a pubescent boy. To pull off this scam he would need to sound convincing and in control.
Once on the stage, the two men stopped and talked to another man who appeared to be the master of ceremonies, and showed him the document. They talked in low voices. Loomis couldn’t decipher the conversation. The man in charge took a step forward. Loomis held out his wallet badge.
“Agent Loomis, my name is Ben Whitfield. I am the officer in charge of today’s executions, and I’m a bit taken back by this document you have sprung on us. It looks official, but this sort of thing has never happened before that I know of.”
Whitfield had heavy-lidded eyes that Loomis found unnerving. But he forced himself to look the lawman in the eyes. “I understand your skepticism, Mr. Whitfield. Truth be told, I am also having a hard time understanding why Tanner Mason is being granted a stay of execution. He has been a highly sought after fugitive for quite some time. But this document is hot off the fax machine at the GIS Headquarters Building. And it comes directly from Vito Abbadelli’s office in Tel Aviv. He even signed it. So I hoofed it over here to make sure you don’t put Mr. Mason to death.”
Whitfield looked over at Tanner, then back at Loomis. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Reverend Abbadelli. He’s a man you don’t want to anger.”
Another man in a charcoal suit, who had been standing quietly with his back turned to the crowd, turned around to face them.
Loomis felt his jaw drop. His bladder nearly voided. William Trestman, his boss, glared at him smugly. Trestman held a gun in his hand. He pointed it at Loomis. “Nice try, Nick. I give you high marks for creativity, but your little charade ends now.”
“I don’t understand, Bill. Why are you behaving this way?”
“I’m kind of thinking the same thing about you, Nick. I gave you a straightforward assignment to find Nathan Banks, but you end up here, lying through your teeth to keep a rebel from losing his head. But I have to say, I’ve sensed a change coming over you for quite some time. You’ve been acting sympathetic toward rebels. That’s why I’ve been tracking you. And that’s why I came here. I could tell this is where you were headed.”
Loomis was too stunned to respond with a snappy reply. But it didn’t matter. There was no sense lying any longer. Trestman was on to him. “How did you track me? I got rid of my chip at a bus station in Tacoma.”
Trestman smiled cruelly. His thin lips curled back over coffee-stained teeth. “Do you remember when I called you into my office and gave you a new wallet badge?”
Loomis kicked himself inwardly for not inspecting the new badge. “I take it the badge has a chip hidden in it?”
“That’s right, Nick. And it’s a good thing I gave you that new badge. That was a pretty slick maneuver you did at the bus station in Tacoma. Unfortunately for you, it didn’t work.” Trestman looked over at C.J., shifted his gun over onto Tanner’s brother. “Take off your cap, son. I have a feeling you are in on this hoax.”
C.J. took off his UWC officer’s cap. His floppy brown hair spilled out. The crowd hushed in shock at his identical resemblance to the condemned Tanner Mason. Trestman’s toothy grin broke into a full-fledged smile. “Well, if it isn’t C.J. Mason. Looks like you’re going to have to add another name to the execution roster. Ben,” Trestman said to Officer Whitfield. “I’m sure the crowd won’t mind.”
Whitfield clapped his hands gleefully. “The crowd won’t mind a bit. But I may have to call in an additional executioner. The one we have will wear out before he executes the last prisoner. And it can get so messy when that happens.”
Trestman shifted his steely gaze back onto Loomis. “Nick, I’ve always liked you. I probably shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to give you a chance to save your head from going on the chopping block. So be a smart guy and do what I ask you to.”
“What are your terms?”
“Don’t negotiate with a devil like him,” C.J. spat. The words had hardly left C.J.
’s mouth when he was grabbed by two officers, his sidearm confiscated.
Unfazed by the outburst, Trestman continued. “Nick, I want you to take Officer Whitfield’s microphone, turn and face the crowd and confess that Henrik Skymolt is the Lord God of the universe. And then I want you to bow down to the statue of Henrik Skymolt positioned at the end of the stage. If you do these two things, I will make sure your life is spared. Regrettably, you will be imprisoned for the rest of your life, but at least you will still have your head. You’re a handsome guy, Nick. But you wouldn’t look so good without your head.”
Loomis held out his hand to Officer Whitfield. “Give me the microphone and I will speak to the crowd.”
“Wise choice, Nick. I was beginning to think you’d completely lost your mind,” Trestman said.
Whitfield didn’t immediately hand over the microphone. Instead he addressed the crowd. “Ladies and Gentleman, please give a warm welcome to Nick Loomis. Nick is guilty of committing treason against our Lord and savior Henrik Skymolt.”
The crowd jeered loudly and pressed forward. “Nick wishes to say something to all of you.” Whitfield handed over his mic to Loomis.
Chapter 56
The crowd heckled, booed, and taunted him. Loomis closed his eyes and waited for the abuse to wane. He took a deep breath, and then another one. But he found it impossible to relax. At least two-hundred people hurled insults at him.
The name-calling invective lasted for at least a minute before it died down. Loomis opened his eyes. He glanced upward at the sky. And for just a second he couldn’t tell which frightened him more, the ominous sky or the angry mob calling for his head.
For nearly seven years Loomis kept his Christianity a secret, all the while longing to live his faith openly. He could’ve at any time announced his faith long ago and faced the same fate confronting him now. Unfortunately, he’d chickened out time and time again, always choosing to go the safe route.
But now he’d been backed into a corner.
A scripture passage from Romans 10:9-10 entered his mind. He’d read the passage so many times that he’d memorized it. The passage had been haunting him for some time. If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is by believing in your heart that you were made right with God, and it is confessing with your mouth that you are saved.
Loomis had the belief part down pat. But he’d never confessed with his mouth that Jesus is Lord. It was the only thing left for him to do.
Loomis brought the microphone up to his mouth. He was scared out of his mind, but determined to finally make a stand. Loomis marshalled his courage and opened his mouth. In his strongest voice he said, “My Lord and Savior is Jesus Christ, the Son of God. I am an adopted child of Jehovah, the one and only God, who spoke the universe into existence. Jesus Christ is my brother, and I refuse to bow down to that hideous statuary.” Loomis dropped the mic on the stage for added effect.
The crowd erupted in a chorus of angry boos and catcalls. UWC officers grabbed him roughly by the arms. He was led over to the execution rack. Before they strapped him in, Trestman spoke to him. “You’re a fool, Nick. You’re throwing your life away for an ancient legend.”
“Jesus laid his life down for me. Now I’m doing the same for him,” Loomis answered.
Officers shoved him down onto his stomach and onto the rack—a low platform bolted to the stage. The execution rack contained a forehead strap, a waist strap, and arm and leg straps. The officers strapped him in, cinching his arms and legs so tight he couldn’t even flinch.
Loomis could see old bloodstains on the stage inches from his face—sacred blood spilled from martyrs that went before him. He closed his eyes, tried his best not to scream. With his last few seconds he wanted to demonstrate courage to the other prisoners.
The crowd let loose a volley of cheers. Loomis felt heavy footsteps vibrate the stage. He assumed it was the executioner, a hulking bruiser with a crazed mind.
I am ready to meet you, Lord. I wish to worship you face to face. Please make my death a quick one. Loomis heard the crowd grow deathly silent. A powerful grunt shattered the silence a moment later. And then he felt a bludgeoning blow crash against his neck, severing his head. An instant later, probably less than a nanosecond, Loomis sat on a great white horse, a saint among untold millions of other saints, all riding white horses like his.
The mighty army of Heaven, enormous and unstoppable, raced along at a full gallop. And he was a part of it.
Chapter 57
Tanner wished now that he’d turned his head, or simply closed his eyes. But he found he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gruesome spectacle. He’d watched every moment of the decapitation. Only when officers and stagehands began removing Nick Loomis’ headless body from the execution rack did he finally turn away.
Tanner glanced over at his brother. C.J’s hands and feet were shackled like the rest of them. C.J. winked at him. Tanner flashed a halfhearted grin back at him. Tanner wondered what the story was behind C.J. wearing a UWC officer’s uniform.
It doesn’t matter. He was never one of them. C.J. is the ultimate revolutionary. He would never join Henrik Skymolt’s gestapo-like police force.
Tanner’s thoughts were interrupted when Officer Whitfield picked up the microphone Nick Loomis dropped on the stage. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we now proceed with the executions. Tanner Mason is guilty of spreading malicious lies and religious propaganda against our Lord, Henrik Skymolt. Tanner is also guilty, along with his brother C.J., of murdering two UWC officers in the territory once known as British Columbia, Canada. For these crimes, Tanner and C.J. must forfeit their heads.”
The crowd erupted, chanting, “Off with their heads, off with their heads,” over and over again. Whitfield waited for the rhythmic chant to die down. He then walked over to Tanner. “Mr. Mason, is there anything you would like to say to me or to the crowd. Please keep your reply short.”
Tanner thought for a moment. He found himself at a loss for words. Whitfield motioned for the stagehands to take him to the rack. “Wait! I have a request.”
Officer Whitfield held the mic up to Tanner’s lips. “Go ahead, we are all waiting to hear your final words.”
Tanner glanced once more at C.J., and then fixed a defiant gaze onto the crowd. “I wish to lay on my back, face-up on the execution rack.”
The crowd roared their approval. When the noise finally died down, Whitfield spoke. “Are you sure you want to do this. This is unprecedented.”
Tanner looked at Whitfield and nodded. He spoke into the microphone. “I want to see the clouds part and Heaven open. I wish to see Jesus’ smiling face and outstretched arms welcoming me home.”
“Very well, Tanner. This is one request I happily give. But I assure you, all you’re going to see is an axe-head coming down at you.”
The officers took him to the rack and positioned him over it. Tanner sat down on the stainless steel platform. He nearly slipped off the rack. The surface was slick, wet from Nick Loomis’ spilled blood. The stagehands hadn’t bothered to clean it.
Tanner reclined onto his back. One by one the straps were cinched tight and locked. They started with his head and moved down toward his feet. When the stagehands finished he was frozen in place and as immobile as a quadriplegic.
Tanner fought against an urge to gag. The coppery smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. He looked into the sky. An enormous thundercloud filled the entire sky. The dark cloud hung unnaturally low. And if his arms were free, Tanner thought he could reach up and touch it.
Tanner sensed movement. The stagehands had left. So he figured it was the executioner. Tanner swallowed over a lump. Don’t cry out. Don’t let them know you’re afraid.
The executioner loomed over him. From Tanner’s perspective the executioner looked like a giant. Thick muscles covered his arms and legs. Tanner heard a sudden commotion from within the crowd—a scuffling noise.
And then he heard a woman cry out. He recognized the voice. “I love you, Tanner! You’re too good for this world! I’ll see you soon when Jesus comes!”
Tanner felt his heart constrict. The voice belonged to Brooke. He had so hoped that C.J. and Brooke would remain at large until the end. But now it appeared his whole family would be executed on one fateful day.
Unable to move his head and look to the side and see Brooke, Tanner looked up, the only direction available to him. He ignored the executioner and focused on the thundercloud. Jesus, please come. If you’d only come now, the whole world would be made right in an instant. Every tear would be wiped away. And there would be no more executions.
The crowd suddenly roared. Tanner saw the executioner adjust his grip on the axe. The professional killer took a few deep breaths, followed by a series of growls. And then the executioner suddenly lifted his axe behind his head.
Tanner’s eyes bulged but didn’t blink. And he saw certain death plunge from the sky.
Chapter 58
The hailstones were unlike any hailstones to ever strike the planet. Weighing a hundred pounds or more, they easily collapsed roofs, crushed vehicles flat, and killed every human and beast they struck.
No continent escaped the drubbing, and Westlake Park in downtown Seattle wasn’t spared the icy onslaught either. Tanner watched a hailstone strike the executioner’s uplifted axe, driving the axe-head into the man’s skull, splitting his head like it was a piece of firewood. The badly disfigured executioner slumped across Tanner’s legs. The colossal hailstone that killed the man turned half the plywood stage into splinters before it bounced to a halt.
Tanner briefly heard screams ring out from the crowd. But the anguished voices were quickly snuffed out by the clamor. The concussive sound the hailstones made on contacting the streets and buildings drowned out every sound.
