by Tim LaHaye
“Just in case,” he said, stuffing the bag beneath the seat.
Fury had again constricted Rayford’s throat, and he could not emit a sound. He slipped the gun in one pocket and the block in another, gathered up his phone, and thrust out his hand toward Albie. They squeezed hard and Albie said, “I know. Now go.”
Rayford loped across the sand and scrub grass in the darkness, hearing his own panting. When finally his vocal chords loosened, he moaned with each breath. Then he emitted a closed-mouth growl so loud and fierce that it dizzied him, and he nearly tumbled. He was within a hundred feet of the plane when he heard footsteps angling toward him and a shout. “Rayford Steele! Halt! GC Peacekeeper!”
Rayford gave off a guttural, “No!” and kept moving, reaching into his pocket for the gun.
“You’re under arrest!”
He kept moving.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Rayford felt that tingle in his back. Had it really been that very morning that he had eluded another GC gun? He whirled, his own weapon raised.
The faint light from the road in the distance silhouetted the GC man, closing on him, weapon aimed.
Rayford stopped. “Don’t make me shoot you!” he screamed, but the man kept coming. Rayford fired at his feet, hitting the ground a yard in front of the man.
A huge cloud of sand erupted and the man flipped over backward, landing on his stomach with a loud “Unh!” His weapon clattered free. Rayford made a dash for the plane, peeking over his shoulder to see the man lying motionless.
“God, don’t let him die!” he said, yanking open the door and diving aboard. He pulled the door shut, realizing he was drenched with sweat. “I don’t want to kill a man!”
Rayford jumped over the back of the seat into the pilot’s chair and fired up the engines. The fuel tank showed full, the other gauges danced to life, and the runway lights came on. He grabbed the radio. “All clear?” he said, careful to not mention Albie’s name.
“Two bogies six miles due north,” came the reply. They could be upon him in seconds, but they would look for him to head west and climb quickly.
Rayford looked far to his left just before reaching takeoff speed. The GC man had labored to his feet and staggered as if catching his breath and looking for his weapon. The Super J smoothly took to the air, and Rayford headed south, staying below radar level until he was sure he was not being pursued. Then he gave the craft full power, and the thrust drove him back in his seat as he set the nose to the stars and the west. All he wanted was to reach maximum cruising speed at optimum altitude and get home to his comrades in one piece.
It was just after noon in Illinois as Tsion Ben-Judah stood gazing out the upstairs window of the safe house. Summer was coming on. He had just enjoyed a light lunch with Buck, Chloe, the baby, and Leah. What a strange and wonderful, warm woman she had turned out to be. He did not know what bothered Rayford so about her. Tsion found her most engaging.
He had nearly finished his message to the faithful and would begin polishing it for transmission in a few minutes. In it he warned that the closer the calendar drew to September, the forty-second month into the Tribulation, the more likely it was that the death toll of the 200 million horsemen would reach a third of the population. The gravity of his missive weighed on him, and he felt a sudden need to pray for his old mentor and fellow countryman, Chaim Rosenzweig.
“Father,” he began, “I do not even know how to pray for my friend anymore.” Tsion quoted, “‘Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. Now He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God.’
“Thank you, Lord,” he said.
And when he opened his eyes he at first thought he was dreaming. Filling his entire field of vision through the window was an army of horsemen and their steeds. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of them, riding, riding. The horses’ heads were as the heads of lions, and from their mouths poured fire and smoke.
Tsion had written of these, had heard others’ accounts, secretly wished he might get a glimpse. But now as he stared, unblinking, wanting to call the others, especially Buck, who also had not seen these, he could not find voice.
In the middle of the day with the harsh late spring sun bathing the scene, the massive horsemen looked angry and determined. Their brightly colored breastplates gleamed as the immense beasts beneath them rumbled side by side, picking up speed from trotting to galloping to stampeding. It was as if their time had come. The occasional forays had been mere rehearsal. The demonic cavalry, limited only by God’s choosing whom they might slay, stormed across the earth for what would surely be their final attack.
“Tsion!” Buck called from downstairs. “Look out the window! Quick!”
Rayford had the Super J at peak performance on autopilot. Fatigue swept over him, but he dared not doze, regardless of the technology within reach. He picked up his phone to dial home when something caught his eye miles below. Fire and smoke, billowing black and yellow, rose from a boundless stretch of millions of horsemen and horses on the run across the ocean, heading for land.
CHAPTER 19
Three Months Later
August broke hot and humid in Mount Prospect, and Rayford was nearly as motionless as the wind. The safe house was not air-conditioned, and with the death of half the world’s population since the Rapture, nothing was as it once had been.
An ominous foreboding settled over the house. Tempers were short, nerves raw. The baby was walking now and talking a bit, proving to be the only entertaining diversion. But Kenny was also cranky in the heat, and even Tsion had been known to leave the room when he fussed and Chloe wasn’t quick enough to mollify him.
If the Rapture had brought a collective global wail over the loss of loved ones and all children, and the great wrath of the Lamb earthquake had changed where people lived and how they moved about, the judgments since had been even worse. The temporary darkening of the sun, moon, and stars, the scorching of a third of the earth, the poisoning of a third of the water, and now the slaying of more than a billion people . . . well, Rayford thought, it was a wonder anyone remained sane.
Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they had all gone mad. Rayford entertained thoughts he knew were ludicrous. Might he still wake up beside his precious but neglected and unappreciated wife Irene, with Raymie down the hall, only twelve, Rayford still with time to become the husband and father he should have been? Had this all been a Scrooge-type dream giving him a glimpse of what life would be like if he didn’t change his ways?
Could he wake up a new man, ready to give his life to God, to be the right kind of influence on his daughter, his wife, his son?
It was possible, wasn’t it? Couldn’t it still have been simply the worst imaginable nightmare? Rayford knew his finite brain had not been programmed to assimilate everything he had been through. He never again wanted to catalog all he had seen, all he had lost. It had been more than a mortal could endure, and yet here he was.
The world had been invited to the Global Gala a month hence in Jerusalem. How dare Carpathia do it? How dare he deem it acceptable to celebrate when more people had been slain in the latest plague than had been raptured three and a half years before?
Tsion warned his audience not to go, to not be tempted by the prophecies that pointed to that date as the downfall of the one-world faith, the due time for the two witnesses, and the death of even Carpathia himself. Though he lived in the same house, like everyone else who resided there, Rayford also read Tsion’s missives each day. On the subject of the despicable Global Gala, Tsion had written:
Strangely, I have been invited as an “international statesman.” All has been forgiven, amnesty declared for dissidents, our security guaranteed. Well, dear loved ones, friends, and brothers and sisters in Christ, I shall not attend.
An earthquake is prophesied that will wipe out a tenth of that city. I do not fear for my own well-being, as my future is secure—as is yours if you have trusted Christ for forgiveness and eternal life.
But I do not choose to personally witness even such unique, historic events when it is clear by their very nature that Satan himself will make his presence felt. My own family was butchered in retaliation for my “sin” of going public with my belief that Jesus is the long-sought Messiah. During my flight from my homeland and even all the way to where I am exiled, I was oppressed by the awful presence of the author of death.
Death will be in the air in Jerusalem next month, my friends, regardless how the event is packaged and sold to the world. It is an outrage that a festival is the excuse given to bring these parties together. On the one hand the so-called world potentate decrees an end to sacrifices and offerings in the temple, because they violate the tenets of tolerance espoused by the Enigma Babylon One World Faith. On the other he aims to celebrate the agreement between the Global Community and Israel. How do these figure together? While it is true he has intimidated the impotent world and kept potential enemies from attacking Israel, he tramples upon her centuries-old traditions and betrays her heritage and religious autonomy.
Like the rest of the world, I will follow the proceedings on the Internet or on television. But no, dear ones, I shall not accept the invitation to attend. This event portends the second half of the Tribulation, called the Great Tribulation, which will make these horrific days seem languorous.
Even the GC-controlled news media can no longer sugarcoat what we know to be true. Crime and sin are beyond control. The necessities of life are in short supply due to lack of a workforce and ways to manufacture and distribute them. Yet there is not a neighborhood on earth that does not have a brothel, a séance and fortune-telling parlor, or a pagan temple expressly for worshiping idols. Life is cheap, and our fellow citizens die every day as marauders loot their homes and businesses and persons. There are not enough Peacekeepers still alive to do police work, and the ones who are on the job are either overwhelmed or corrupt.
With people simply gone from every walk of life, it is amazing what continues to flourish. New movies and television programming are virtually nonexistent, but there is no shortage of pornography and perversion on the hundreds of channels still available to anyone with a receiver.
We are not surprised that these are dark days, brothers and sisters, and I pray you would hold on and maintain and continue to try to share the truth of Jesus until he comes. Merely surviving from this point will occupy most of your time. But I urge you to prepare, have a plan for what you will do when that inevitable day arrives where it is not just illegal to tap into this Web site or declare yourself a believer. Be ready for that day when the insidious mark of the beast is required on your forehead or hand for you to legally buy or sell.
And above all, do not make the fatal mistake of thinking that you can take that mark for the sake of expediency while privately believing in Christ. He has made plain that those who deny him before men, he will deny before God. And in later teachings I will elucidate on why the mark of the evil one is irrevocable.
If you have already trusted Christ for your salvation, you have the mark of the seal of God on your forehead, visible only to other believers. Fortunately, this decision, mark, and seal is also irrevocable, so you never need fear losing your standing with him. For who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? In all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. With the apostle Paul, I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
In spite of and in the midst of every trial and tribulation, let us continue to give thanks to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. And as the Scriptures say, “Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.”
Steadfast in love for you all, your friend,
Tsion Ben-Judah.
Hattie was in prison and without knowledge of her sister’s death, and Rayford felt responsible for her.
The murders of Dwayne and Trudy Tuttle had broken his heart.
The reaction of Bo Hanson to the loss of his brother served only as another nail in the coffin that bore Rayford’s despair. Rayford and T had agreed that T should break the news to Bo. T had befriended him, despite their differences, while Rayford had estranged him. Rayford hoped that T might open a door of witness to Bo by compassionately bearing the awful news. Then perhaps Rayford would be able to apologize for his behavior and have a part in seeing Bo come to Christ.
T had returned encouraged from his meeting with Bo. He had called him, met him in his apartment, and told him what had happened. He reported that the tearful Bo had asked, “What about the note I got from Sam?”
“I told him it had been forged by the GC, Ray,” T said. “He seemed to be all right. He cried a lot, blamed himself. Said he sold his brother out just for money. But he hadn’t sold him out. He had merely made the mistake of getting him involved in an ill-conceived plan. He was down when I left him, but he let me pray with him. I thought that was a huge step.”
“I’m sure it was,” Rayford said, “but you didn’t ask to see me so you could give me good news. What happened?”
T sat back and sighed. “Bo killed himself last night, Ray. Drank himself sick at a bar, waved a gun around, cursed Carpathia and the world, and shot himself.”
Rayford had been inconsolable for days. “I might as well have pulled the trigger myself,” he said.
The rest of the Trib Force offered the usual “can’t blame yourself” speeches, and in the end he came to agree. He turned the blame on the one who had all the blame he needed: Nicolae Carpathia.
Rayford immersed himself in the prophetic passages about the death of Antichrist, never seeking Tsion’s counsel or interpretation. In his feverish state he interpreted the Scripture the way he wanted to, shoehorning himself into the agent God would use to do the deed. When he read that “He who kills with the sword must be killed with the sword,” and knew that even Tsion believed this was a reference to Antichrist, Rayford shuddered. Was this a message just for him? A later verse referred to “the beast who was wounded by the sword and lived.” That had to be a reference to one of the heads of the beast “as if it had been mortally wounded, and his deadly wound was healed.”
He didn’t understand it all. Who could? But without Tsion’s analysis, Rayford believed he had figured out these verses. Carpathia was to be mortally wounded in the head by a sword and then come back to life. A sword? What was it Albie called the superb killing machine Rayford had stashed behind loose bricks in the basement? Saber.
Could he—would he do it? Was it his duty? He shook his head. What was he thinking?
Mac missed Rayford. He had been the voice of reason, a mentor, a spiritual model. Mac enjoyed David and Annie. Great kids. But hard to identify with. Abdullah was a good first officer and a wonderful flyer, but he could go days without saying anything except in response to Mac.
Life was interesting, but it sure wasn’t fun anymore. Flying to the major capitals and listening in on Fortunato’s incessant courting of the ten kings was as sickening as it was fascinating. Behind a podium on the tarmac at the airport in Nairobi, Leon grandly welcomed to “His Excellency Nicolae Carpathia’s cabinet of esteemed regional potentates, the honorable Mr. Enoch Litwala. How this great leader and renowned pacifist was overlooked during the initial search for a regional potentate of the United States of Africa will go in the embarrassment file of the history of the Global Community. We may have come to him late, but we found him, didn’t we?”
The crowds cheered their
favorite son. Leon continued, “His Excellency sends his heartfelt greetings to Africa and his highest compliments on your achievement of international goals. And it is my singular pleasure, on his behalf, to personally invite your new potentate to Jerusalem in September for the Global Gala!”
After waiting for the crowd to quiet, Leon affected a serious tone. “We have endured rough times and much loss of life. But His Excellency is sparing no expense for an international festival like nothing ever seen before. Besides celebrating the halfway mark of the agreement with Israel, and I am so pleased he has given me permission to share this publicly with you, His Excellency is guaranteeing—you heard that right—guaranteeing an end to killer plagues. You ask how can he do this? The potentate is on record that if the two so-called witnesses at the Wailing Wall do not cease and desist their torment of Israel and the rest of the world, he will personally deal with them.”
This message was repeated in every capital to enthusiastic response. Mac believed people were so tired of death and devastation and so addicted to their own sin that they looked forward to a return to life before the two prophets of doom had seemed to unleash the anger of heaven. Was it possible Carpathia would literally kill the pair? Hadn’t he threatened to do that before? They had made a fool of him. But now he was making a guarantee. And he was also pledging to help people get to the Gala in spite of the disastrous loss of public services due to the decreased population.
“We are about to see a dramatic turn back toward our goals and ideals for a utopian society,” Fortunato quoted Carpathia, and the Global Gala would mark the first step.
Bizarre, Mac thought, to see Antichrist himself in a public relations nightmare, trying to salvage his image.
