Game ON (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 2) (Redemption Thriller Series 14)

by John W. Mefford

  Six hours.

  I raced out of the building still with a trace of hope that within a matter of hours, somehow, some way, I’d be able to finally hold my daughter in my arms.

  30

  The door to Joseph’s hut opened, and Cecelia walked in, interrupting his moment of peace.

  “Please tell me you have a good reason for doing this.” His voice was monotone as he stared at a cross on the wall, his heart beating at fifty-four beats a minute.

  She held out a hand. “We’ve received the call. Here.”

  Without looking at her, he took the phone and brought it to his ear. “Good news, Charlie?”

  “It happened just like you said it would, Joseph. He arrived right after we left. We watched him from the forest.”

  Charlie’s voice sounded like a kid who’d just ridden a roller coaster. “Calm down, Charlie. Let’s not get too excited. But this does indeed sound like good news.” He could feel Cecelia’s eyes on him, but he chose to continue studying the cross. “Charlie, are you sure he didn’t see you or Tovar, or that Jeep of yours?”

  “Uh, no sir. No way. We were long gone.”

  “Very nice.”

  “It was just so surreal, sir. You said he’d leave her behind. He did. You said he’d figure out a way into Camp Israel. He did. You said he’d grieve over her loss. We were able to see him through my high-powered lens as he discovered her body. We saw him staring into the camera viewer. He was clearly devastated. Just like you said.”

  Joseph nodded. “Are you saying you had doubted me?”

  A pause.

  “No, no sir. It’s just, uh, great that it all happened according to plan, that’s all.”

  “Very nice work, Charlie. How does it feel to contribute to the cause of the Kingdom?”

  “Me and Tovar, we’re just so excited. I mean, killing that girl. Well, of course, she actually killed herself. You were right. It felt…I don’t know, exhilarating.”

  Joseph could hear the pair giggling like school children.

  “Now, Charlie, we don’t need to celebrate the death of another human being. Even if she was a sinner and will surely end up in hell. We cannot mock those who refuse to feel the blessings of the Lord.”

  “True, Joseph. Thank you for the reminder.”

  “You left the note?”

  “Just as you said, yes.”

  “Very well. So, on we march to the next phase.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Charlie?”

  “Me and Tovar…well, we were wondering if there is some way we could contribute to this phase. We know we’d have to boogie over to—”

  “Charlie, I appreciate your desire to contribute, to be one of the leaders of this effort. But we all have a role to play in His world. Me, you, Cecelia. Everyone. You have played your role. Others will prepare to execute their tasks. And soon, oh so very soon, Charlie, it will all come to fruition. When it does, we will all celebrate. And that celebration will spread, soon covering this earth like a giant tidal wave. People will see the will of Him, and they will follow and open their hearts, just like you and the others in the Kingdom.”

  Charlie sang his praises for another two minutes as Joseph opened a magazine and thumbed a few pages. Finally, he grew tired of the lavish compliments and ended the call. He lifted to his feet, put on a coat.

  “Where are you going?”

  He didn’t respond to Cecelia. He knew she would follow, just like the others. He left the hut and circled to the back. The sun was peeking through the clouds. There was a chill in the air, but there were only patches of white from the snowstorm a week earlier. A few of the other members who were working on chores bowed their heads when he passed. Joseph walked into the woods, Cecelia close on his heels. They knew they would not be followed—Kingdom members knew this was Holy soil and required special permission to enter.

  They walked another two hundred yards, crossed a creek, and then trekked up the bank of a small hill. They stopped where two boulders marked the spot.

  “Move the leaves,” he said.

  “Why do you want to do this?” she asked.

  He shifted his eyes to her. She quickly looked away and did as he commanded. Under the leaves was a fatigue-green tarp. She pulled it back, unveiling a hole that was ten feet by six feet. He gazed upon the stack of bodies. For some reason, he enjoyed counting them. One, two, three, four, five, six. Young men, young women, even one child. Sacrifices, he knew, were an inevitable step in the process of redemption. Of finding the one whose blood carried the essence of Him.

  He felt a tingle pass through his arms as he considered the mass grave.

  A moment passed, and then he heard a sniffle. He looked at Cecelia, who was staring into the hole, wiping a tear from her cheek.

  “Why are you sad?”

  “Seeing people die…it just seems unnecessary.” Her voice was weak, as though she questioned whether she should have spoken those words. But he was glad she’d shared her thoughts. Now he knew her position.

  “When you joined me on this journey, Cecelia, we knew that as mere mortals we could not lead our flock. I did not choose this path,” he said, holding a finger in the air. “It was chosen for me.”

  She looked into his eyes. For a moment, he saw the impressionable young girl he’d met when she’d worked as a guide in one of the many museums in DC. Her unassuming nature had hidden a beautiful young woman. Her features were soft, her skin buttery smooth. It wasn’t long thereafter that he could sense her need for divine guidance. To hold a real purpose in life.

  He knew, at some level, everyone had that need. But for many, it would be almost impossible to unearth. It was buried under so much false pretense. So many people in the world were self-absorbed. Not just the obvious ones, the loathsome hedge-fund managers, the politicians, the slimy salespeople. No, the ones who really boggled his mind were the ones who pretended they were all about making the world a better place: the doctors who cared only about making history, not about curing the sick; the lawyers who cared only about winning, not finding the path to innocence and salvation. Nurses, preachers, teachers…on and on and on.

  Every facet of society was devoured in this endless race to accumulate stuff, to show off their trophies of success. They knew nothing of how to sacrifice for each other with humility, without shouting their self-righteous success to the world. But Joseph had become enlightened. He had looked inward and felt something touch his heart. Something that he couldn’t deny or turn away from. He went through a period of self-reflection on a level that very few could claim. Through his evolution, a vision came to him. It was clear, peaceful, at least at its core. Through divine guidance, he’d been chosen to carry the torch, to develop a flock of followers who would carry out the will of Him. But Joseph knew he was not without flaws. To be the leader of the flock, the one who the world would eventually see as the spiritual trailblazer, it required a sacrifice of the person who carried the blood of Him.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, “Let it be written, let it be done.”

  “Seven is a very biblical number,” he said to Cecelia, whose eyes were once again on the bodies in the grave. “This was fate, my dear, that it took seven times to find the right one.”

  She pressed her lips together and gave a single nod. “He still hasn’t made it all the way yet.”

  “You are so very right, Cecelia. While it is close, we cannot completely predict human behavior.” He gently touched her arm.

  She looked at his hand, then put her hand over his. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was doubting you, our purpose. I understand that to rid the world of hate and greed, to wake people up to follow our path of enlightenment, the path is not always easy or smooth.”

  He smiled, and she moved closer. “You make me proud, Cecelia. You have grown so much since I first met you.” He brushed the side of her cheek. “You are beautiful from the inside out. And if I see it through my eyes and my heart, then God sees it. We will reach our
goal. I feel it.” He put a fist against his chest. “And once we do, the rest will follow.”

  Hand in hand, they walked back to the camp, and his mind momentarily pictured life after the sacrifice. His spirit would be whole. He would break down barriers, bring people together, and lead this growing Kingdom.

  He’d been chosen. He was ready.

  31

  By the time I reached the main road, my lungs were on fire. Which, in and of itself was a strange sensation, because the rest of my body felt like it had been frozen in a glacier for the last eighty years.

  Hands on my knees for a few deep breaths. The video of Denise played in my head, the beating she took, her unwillingness to take her own life and then realizing there was no way out—the plunge of the needle into her arm. I wanted to vomit. But more than that, I wanted to find these fuckers who’d killed her and do the same to them. Even worse. And I wanted to find Mackenzie. I had to find Mackenzie. Denise wouldn’t want me to spend time mourning her death—that much I knew with certainty.

  I trudged over to my car, crawled in through the open window, and grabbed my phone. I knew my car was useless until I found someone to pull me out of the snowbank. I only had six hours, though. Actually less than six hours. That trek back to the road had taken forty minutes. I stared at my phone for a second, wondering who to call first.

  The latest riddle flashed across my mind again—it was on a continuous loop in my brain.

  If you want to see Mackenzie you will follow the trail: where the Prophet was first swaddled, the birth of a nation first formed, and the Old Sandwich reaches the State.

  Prophet. Jesus? My parents were Jewish by birth, me by adoption, but none of us really practiced Judaism. I was raised to believe Jesus was a prophet. In reality, I had no clue or any urge to pick apart religious minutiae. I only wanted the answer to this part of the riddle. Maybe the writers of this riddle were referencing another religion. Or, it could be Moses or one of Jesus’s disciples, Mathew, Mark, Luke, or John.

  The third part of the riddle, speaking of an Old Sandwich reaching the State, made absolutely no sense. The middle piece—the birth of a nation first formed—seemed more straightforward. I assumed it was talking about the United States. If that was the case, the location had to be on the East Coast somewhere. I could think of a handful of cities—Philadelphia, DC, Boston. Or, depending on how they looked at history, one of the early American settlements. Jamestown, Virginia, came to mind. Other than that, I’d need to check other sources for the information. Or get some damn help.

  I looked up and saw a car rounding the bend on the main road, headed my way. I practically fell out of the car, dropping into a pile of snow. I crawled to the road and stood up, waving my arms.

  As it moved closer, I could see it was a blue pickup, a Ford, at least ten years old. Something was sticking up from the bed of the pickup, but I couldn’t make it out.

  The vehicle started to veer across the yellow line in the middle of the road. Dammit, he was trying to go around me.

  “Hold up! I need your help!” I jumped up and down and pointed at my car. “Stop!”

  The driver either didn’t see me or he did and was trying to avoid me. The pickup was now completely in the opposite lane. I shuffled over to the other lane.

  Nice move, Oz. You want to play a game of chicken with a two-ton object moving at sixty miles per hour? That’s not something you’ll win. And if you lose, then Mackenzie loses.

  The pickup still didn’t slow down. In fact, it moved back to the original lane. And so did I. The pickup was now a hundred yards and closing fast. Rational thoughts were not making their way to my frontal lobe. In my mind, I had only one choice to not delay this any further. I reached behind my back, pulled my gun out, and aimed it right at the windshield.

  The pickup slammed on its brakes, launching a chair from the bed right at me. I dove into the snow as the chair crashed to the pavement. Somehow it didn’t shatter into a hundred pieces. Whatever. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the driver’s-side window. An older man was practically hugging the steering wheel, his sunken eyes unblinking. Raccoon eyes.

  “Roll down the window,” I said.

  He didn’t move. He looked scared but also defiant. I realized I was waving the gun around like it was an extension of my hand. I was starting to rethink my decision.

  “Can you please roll down the window? I need help.” I flipped around and pointed at the car stuck in the snow. When I turned back around, I saw his hand slowly making its way toward the console.

  “Put your hands where I can see them,” I said quickly, instantly realizing how cliché that sounded. I raised my gun again and aimed it through the window. The man’s arms went up so fast he banged his hands off the roof.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. I just need your help.”

  His eyes were frozen on me.

  “Did you hear me?”

  A single nod.

  “Again, I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t hurt you.” I paused, looking for an acknowledgement. Nothing. I wondered if he was literally experiencing some type of shock or nervous breakdown.

  I glanced up and down the road. No sign of more cars. I looked to the man. “Please, sir, I really need your help. I’m desperate. Someone has kidnapped my daughter, and I have no way—”

  Before I finished, the window slid down. “Why didn’t you say that to begin with?” His voice matched his appearance, that of an old codger.

  “I’m sorry for pulling the gun. Really, I am.” I looked at his console. “You don’t have a gun in here, do you?”

  “Would that make a difference?”

  He was still testing me. “I just don’t want you to shoot me. I’m going to put my gun in my waistband, okay?” I did what I said, then rested my hands on the car, where he could see them. “Do you have a chain or rope in your truck? I need someone to pull my car out of the snowbank.”

  “Nope. Sorry. As you can see, my truck is full of furniture.”

  I glanced at the pickup bed and saw chairs, tables, a few boxes. They didn’t seem to be very organized. Then again, that might have happened when he’d skidded to a stop. Thanks to me.

  “One of my chairs is now in the middle of the road, thanks to you,” he said.

  Thanks all around. “Okay, no chain. Uh…” I looked to my right, trying to think what I should do next. Staying in this exact spot seemed like it would only waste more time. My eyes went to the chair in the road. I ran over and picked it up. One of legs was broken, hanging on by a few splinters. I brought it back to the truck. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve said that enough. Throw it in the back, then get in the truck.”

  I was in the passenger seat in seconds, looking right at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Virgil, and I’m headed into town. You can fill me in while I drive. Better put your seat belt on. My wife says I drive like a bat out of hell.”

  32

  Virgil’s wife knew what she was talking about. We hadn’t traveled more than a mile when Virgil hit a patch of black ice and the pickup fishtailed. For a brief moment, I thought we were headed straight for a tree at more than fifty miles per hour. Somehow, he kept the truck on the road.

  “Damn, that almost gave me a heart attack,” I said, a hand to my chest.

  “The Beast survives all.” He patted the dash and cracked a smile. I saw more gaps than teeth. He waited a beat, then said, “Nice coat.”

  I looked down at my yellow raincoat and back up at him. He was still grinning. I said, “Uh, yeah. Very funny.” I decided to take advantage of the lighthearted moment, if you could call it that. “Say, what do you know about what went on at Camp Israel?”

  “I know a few whackos held a bunch of people in the compound. They treated women like slaves, raped them, beat them. I believed they even killed kids.” He shook his head. “Just sick, that’s how it made me and Ida feel. And for what? Religion? I’m tired of hearing about how religious conviction was some kind of justific
ation for hurting, even killing another person. I don’t give two shits what religion they’re talking about, either.”

  I wanted to give Virgil a fist bump, but I doubted he knew what one was, and I didn’t want him thinking I was being aggressive toward him. I also needed fresh information; what he’d told me was basically what I already knew. Of course, that was what I’d asked him—to tell me about what had gone on at Camp Israel. And he’d answered the question straight up and with passion. But I wasn’t sure exactly what to ask him. Hell, he could be one of them. I let it go for the moment.

  “Is there a car-rental place in town?” I almost cringed when I asked, knowing the answer.

  He chuckled. “You’re joking, right? We have one motel. One church. One donut shop. Well, there used to be a couple of others, until Fred started acting like he was some hifalutin real-estate mogul.”

  The donut-shop wars. I wasn’t going there.

  “So, no place to rent a car. Maybe I could buy a cheap used one.”

  “Hmm,” was all he said. He draped a wrist over the steering wheel, his gaze looking out across the road and wilderness. I assumed he was thinking of places to help me find a car.

  I decided to take a chance that this guy was okay. “Hey, while you’re in deep thought, I need to make a call.”

  He moaned something and nodded.

  I punched up Brook’s number. As it started to ring, I added, “Okay, so, I’m calling a friend of mine in law enforcement. Some of this stuff you’re going to hear might blow your mind. But it’s real, and if I don’t figure this out, someone is going to kill my daughter.”

  “Well, quit wasting time. Hell, get on with it.”

  I nodded, the phone pressed to my ear.

  “Ozzie…hey.” It was Brook, and she sounded out of breath.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “No, just had to run to get to my phone. Just got out of my shower.” I checked the time on my phone. It was just after six o’clock in the Eastern time zone.