Covenant (13 page)

            He unzipped the case.  It contained a Remington 700, the police version, a bolt-action rifle outfitted with a Leupold riflescope that gave it an effective range at night in excess of three hundred meters—the length of almost three football fields.  A zippered compartment held Winchester .308 match grade ammo. 

            “Keep him in sight,” he said.  “I’ll take care of the rest.”    

19

            Anthony had hoped that blowing out one of the goon’s tires would bring an end to the chase, but then he watched the vehicle careen around a corner about a hundred yards behind them, slowed but still in the hunt.  

            “These people are relentless,” he said.   

            Grant Park, the Cyclorama, and Zoo Atlanta were on his right, all of them dark and gated at that late hour.  He steered over the curb and plowed down the wide, steep expanse of thick park grass, the bumps and valleys tossing them about in their seats.     

            Bouncing around, Lisa dared to peer over the dashboard.  “Where are we going?”

            “To the park.  It’s a nice night.  I figured we could get out, take a stroll under the moon and stars, maybe spread out a blanket for a picnic.”

            “Picnic?  What?” 

            She looked at him as if he were crazy.  So much for trying to lighten the mood with a joke.

            “I’m taking a shortcut,” he said.  “They won’t be able to get their truck up to speed ‘cause of the tire, so I want to try to shake them off.  Sit tight.”

            Teeth clenched, Lisa braced her arms against the dashboard as they knocked about.  He had to give it to her—she was hanging tough.  He had seen grown men who pissed their pants under enemy fire, but she had kept her emotions in check.   

            They reached the bottom of the hill and entered a huge parking lot.  The Suburban was above and behind them, racing around on the adjacent road.  It would have been too risky for the maniacs to navigate a hill with a blown tire.

            He drove across the parking lot, heading to the opposite side of the park, which faced Boulevard Avenue.  Cloaked in darkness, a trio of teenagers was huddled surreptitiously in a circle, maybe smoking something illegal, and when they saw him rolling up they dropped their glowing contraband to the ground and took off running.

            “Kids up to no good,” Lisa said in a motherly tone.  “Their asses need to be at home.”

            “Makes me wonder what Reuben is doing, at home with no supervision.”

            “We hope he’s at home.”     

            “I’d rather not think about it.”         

            They reached grass again and climbed the incline, though this one was not as steep as the one they had descended.  He swerved to avoid smashing a set of wooden benches and a trash can.

            Behind them, the Suburban had reached the side street that intersected Boulevard, orange sparks dancing around the tire’s exposed rim.  They were at least three hundred yards behind.

            “We’re gonna lose them,” Anthony said.

            A rifle shot cracked the night.  Bark exploded like shrapnel from an elm tree on their immediate left.

            “Shit, he’s got a rifle,” Anthony said.  “Get down!”

            Lisa dropped low again, and he dipped, too.  Cold sweat bathed his face.  A sniper could hit a target from a mile away with the right weapon and in good conditions, and in a moving vehicle at night, this guy had barely missed them from a few hundred yards distant. 

            What the hell kind of religious organization did these people work for, anyway? 

            He wrenched the wheel to the right, to present a tougher angle to the shooter and to gain cover from a row of wide oaks.  But the move offered only temporary security.  The Suburban was on the prowl and the guy would be working to get in position for another shot. 

            They reached the top of the incline.  They rolled over the sidewalk, bounced across the curb, and jumped into the four-lane street, landing amidst a thin stream of southbound traffic. 

            He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the Suburban had reached the corner of the intersection.  The rifle jutted out of the passenger window.   

            He jerked the wheel to the left and swung across the median.  An oncoming car blared its horn and braked, the driver shouting obscenities. 

            “Sorry, my bad,” Anthony said.

            He turned off Boulevard and onto a downward sloping street that led into a residential area.  At the next intersection, he made a left, and found himself on a house-lined road that ran parallel with Boulevard. 

            He ignored a Stop sign.  As he passed through the intersection, he saw, a couple of blocks down on his left, the Suburban waiting at the same intersection at which he had last seen it. 

            “Damn,” he said.

            “What’s wrong?” Lisa asked.

            “They know I want to get to the highway.”

            “They seem to know a whole lot.”

            “I’m guessing they’ve done this kind of stuff before.”

            He sped three blocks, racing past parked cars and houses, and then he hung a hard left, climbing up the road back toward Boulevard. 

            At Boulevard, he cut to the right, but looked to the left, where he had last seen the Suburban.

            The guy had gotten out of the vehicle.  He crouched at the rear corner of the SUV, rifle at his shoulder, the scope at his eye.

            Anthony stood on the accelerator.

            The rear windshield shattered: the bullet flew through the interior of the truck in a smoking streak and exited through the front windshield, leaving a ragged hole.  

            Bent so low in the seat he could barely see over the dashboard, Anthony ran a red light—thankfully there was little traffic at that hour—and forged ahead at sixty miles an hour. 

            Behind them, the Suburban dwindled into darkness.      

            “Can I get up now?” Lisa asked.

            “I think we’re out of range.”

            “Jesus, that was close.”  Sitting up, she blotted perspiration from her brow with her jacket sleeve.  He noticed that some of the color had drained out of her face.  “God.  I feel like I could vomit.”

            “Need to?” he said.  “There’re napkins in the glove compartment.”

            She winced, drew in deep breaths, shook her head.  “I’ll be okay.”

            “Thanks for keeping it together,” he said.  “I know this is a helluva lot more than you signed up for when you married me.”

            “”Right.”  She laughed sourly.  “I’ll be fine, really.”

            “Do you want me to drop you off with one of your sisters, or at your parents’?”

            “Drop me off?” 

            “Lisa, I don’t know where this is going to lead.  It might get much, much worse.”

            “But they had to have seen me back there,” she said.  “And keep in mind, if they found our address, they could easily find out that we’re married.  They’ll assume I’m as involved in this as you are, and in a sense, I am.”

            “Good point.”

            She touched his knee.  “I’m staying with you.  There’s no safer place for me to be.” 

            “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

            He took the entrance ramp for I-20 East, and they hurtled like a missile through the night. 

20

            In Thorne’s haste to flee his residence, he had left open the driveway gate.  Valdez urged the crippled Suburban inside and parked in the turnaround.  That section of the drive was flanked by a dogwood with pinkish flowers that offered concealment from the front of the house.

            Valdez cut the engine and let out a long, low breath that Cutty interpreted as disappointment.

            “Thorne’s escape is only temporary,” Cutty said.  “Clearly, Satan was assisting him, but we have God on our side, Valdez.  God won’t allow us to fail.”

            Valdez gave him a weary smile.  “For we are faithful, si.”

            “Yes.  We are the Lord’s faithful servants.  He will deliver the wicked into our hands.  We must not doubt.”

            “Is sin.”

            “Yes, doubt is sin.  And I never doubt—
ever
.”

            Leaving her with those words of wisdom, Cutty hopped outside and assessed the damage to the vehicle.  Thorne’s gunfire had left a couple of pebble-deep dents around the grille, as well as a scratch on the windshield, but the right front tire was ruined. 

            The vehicle included a full spare, but he wouldn’t perform the repair himself.  That was mission support’s duty.

            He phoned the dispatcher on his cell phone, gave his location, and requested the appropriate auto service.  The operator assured him that a mechanic would be sent within an hour.

            He also informed the dispatcher that area residents had likely phoned Atlanta police and reported shots fired, and might have included a description of the Suburban.  The man promised to take care of that incident, too. 

            The dispatcher did not inquire about what had become of the Judas, and Cutty did not volunteer an update.  He stated only that the mission was in progress.  He was not accountable to the dispatcher; he was accountable only to those God had placed in authority above him—his division superior and their anointed leader—and the Almighty himself.

            From the outside, Thorne’s home was impressive.  He wondered what kind of work Thorne did for a living.  He found it dubious that a man so skilled with firearms and combat tactics served in an ordinary nine-to-five desk job.        

            Avoiding the front, where bright lights shone, they approached the back entrance.  The big French doors stood locked, moonlight shimmering on the glass.               

            “Would you do the honors, Valdez?” he asked. 

            She indicated the white sticker on one of the window panes, warning that the home was secured by an alarm system.           

            “Go ahead and pick the lock,” he said with a grin.  “I’ve got a hunch.”   

            She removed a lock pick gun and tension wrench from a waist pouch and knelt to work on the cylinder pins.  Within fifteen seconds, she sprang the lock. 

            He had expected her to take longer.  For a rookie fresh out of training camp, she was unusually skillful. 

            When they opened the doors, the security system beeped once, and then quieted.

            “Ah, I was correct,” Cutty said.  “They were in such a rush to get out of here they didn’t bother to arm the system.”

            Her eyes sparkled in awe at his keen instincts.  

            With a generous sweep of his arm, as if they were entering his own home, he beckoned her to go in ahead of him.  He lightly brushed his fingers across her ponytail as she swept forward, just a quick, innocent touch, and the feel of her hair across his flesh gave him a warm, tickly sensation.      

            He put his fingers in his mouth for a moment, tasting her essence, and followed her inside.

            They were in a large kitchen furnished with ultra-modern appliances, granite counters and island, and hardwood floors.  It was meticulously clean, the cooking surfaces, sinks, and countertops spotless and gleaming.

            Then he saw the bottle of alcohol on the counter. 

            “Look at this, Valdez.”  He read the label.  “Hennessey?  This looks like hard, vile stuff.  Thorne must be an alcoholic.”

            He screwed the cap off the whiskey and upended the bottle over the sink drain.  The pungent fumes drew tears from his eyes, but he didn’t stop until he’d poured all of it out.  He tossed the bottle in a wastebasket.

            “Alcoholic beverages are a lure of the devil,” he said.  “The nectar of the damned.  But of course you know that.”    

            “
Si,
” she said.  “Is very bad.”

            The refrigerator was a stainless steel behemoth, and actually built into the wall.  He pulled open the doors. 

            It was stocked with temple-fortifying foods: fruit, vegetables, milk, juice, bottled water, a tub of butter, deli meats, cheese, condiments. 

            “Uh oh,” he said.  “Look what we have here.”

            She peered over his shoulder as he pointed out a lower shelf that held a six-pack of bottled beer, and a twelve-pack of a caffeinated cola.

            “Not only is Thorne an alcoholic—witness more alcoholic drinks—he drinks caffeinated cola, too.  Caffeine is another drug, Valdez.  We’ve got a serious addict on our hands.”

            “Ah, si.”

            Clucking his tongue, he removed the beer and the soda and methodically poured the contents of each bottle and can down the sink drain.  He returned to the refrigerator and opened the freezer door.

            The racks were stuffed with meats, fish, more vegetables, and, disappointingly, a pint of gourmet vanilla ice cream, which he promptly trashed. 

            The pantry beckoned on the other side of the room, and he saw a wet bar off the kitchen that surely contained a whole storehouse of poison, but he had done enough.  Continued exposure to Thorne’s addictions would have only nauseated him, and he couldn’t afford to be ill.  He needed to keep up his energy and eat a proper meal of his own, as he had a busy night ahead of him.   

            “Would you mind preparing sandwiches for us, Valdez?”

            A frown.  “Eh?”

            “Sandwiches.  I prefer turkey, Swiss cheese, lettuce, and mustard.  I’m sure there’s fresh bread in the pantry, but be careful in there.  Doubtless it’s full of all manner of unwholesome things.”

            She hesitated, and then went to the pantry doors.

            “God bless you,” he said.  “You know, I bet you’ll make some godly man very happy one day.  You’ve got so many wonderful, wifely qualities.”