I raised my weapon, aiming it at his forehead. I should kill him, but something stilled my hand. Pull the trigger, I demanded of myself, but I just stood there staring at him.
Long, dark lashes against unlined skin, the dusting of a mustache on his top lip, his thin shoulders rising and falling gently with each breath.
I couldn't kill him.
Sydney
The stink of him filled my nostrils as I sucked in a breath moments before he cut off my windpipe with one hand.
Blue wrestled with another man, the sounds of their struggle fading as my heartbeat filled my ears.
My gun, empty of bullets, lay pressed between me and my attacker.
Bearded, with long, matted hair, the Isis fighter's dark eyes stared into mine, his face close, and his breath on my cheek.
Raising himself up, Dark Eyes pressed his full weight against my throat, his mouth pulling into a frown of concentration. Stars danced across my vision as he pulled a blade from his belt.
By lifting his body to leverage his weight against my neck, Dark Eyes left my hands free. Fumbling, my fingers numb, I pulled out my own knife.
The rough-textured handle, the way it fit into my palm, brought me a surge of relief even as my lungs screamed for air. I stabbed up into the fighter's side with all my strength. Dark Eyes bent around the blade and grunted with pain, dropping his own knife but not releasing his hold on my neck.
More black spots.
I yanked the knife free and thrust it in again. Warm blood flowed over my hand as he whispered a string of curses yet maintained his hold on my throat.
My vision narrowed to a pinpoint.
I had to get him off me.
I brought the knife up again, this time slicing it along his forearm. Blood poured from the cut, racing down his arm to his fingers and my neck, but Dark Eyes’ grip did not loosen.
Blue's bark joined the rushing of blood in my ears, and as my vision began to fade, Blue slammed into Dark Eyes, knocking him off me.
The man gave a terrified scream—they were up against the boulder, Blue's body over Dark Eyes, his teeth searching for the man's bearded neck.
I rolled onto my side, coughing, sucking in air, my knife still gripped in my hand.
I rose onto my knees as Blue found purchase on the man's throat. Dark Eyes struggled furiously, punching at Blue and thrashing beneath him. Blue bit down and yanked back, ripping open a wound in the man’s neck. The fight drained out of him, and those dark eyes dimmed into nothingness.
The soft sound of footsteps behind me brought me to my feet, my knife up, knees bent.
Robert appeared from the other side of the boulder, his hair dusted in sand, his clothing disheveled, blood seeping from his shoulder. "Let's move," he said, striding past me toward the motorcycle, ignoring the bloodied body Blue still stood above.
I nodded, my throat raw.
Robert kneeled next to the American, checking his pulse. “Dead,” he said, rising and moving to the motorcycle. He grabbed a pack off the bike, then pulled me toward the rocks. Blue leapt up after us, finding purchase with his nails and scrambling up to the top of the first boulder, then leaping to the next.
We reached the top of the ledge and found a narrow plateau. Another cliff face darkened the horizon. Blue tapped his nose against my hip as Robert led us along the flat plain.
Lightning sizzled in my vision, and the sound of thunder mixed with the thropping of a helicopter.
I heard machine gun fire behind us. "That's the calvary," Robert said, his voice tight as we ran.
We reached the cliff face, and Robert began to scramble up the rocks, Blue moving with him. I followed, the intense exercise burning my muscles and shooting sharp pain through my side.
Flagging, my breath coming in harsh pants, I pushed myself on. There was no time to stop. No time to rest. We had to keep moving if we wanted to survive. We had to keep moving if I wanted to find the prophet.
Robert paused for a moment and looked back at me, his eyes narrowing. Then, he glanced up and pointed. "A cave. We can hide in there."
I nodded, saving my breath. We moved into the cave, it was pitch black and Robert pulled a penlight off his belt, lighting it.
The bright beam cast over the walls, the undulating stone shaking something inside of me.
We all have our purpose, a voice reverberated in my head. Her voice.
I grabbed onto Robert's arm to steady myself. My vision flickered, and I grit my teeth, desperate to regain control. But it was like trying to hold onto a snake, slippery and strong, my mind twisting away from me. Suddenly I found myself in two places. I was in this cave but also in another.
I was two people. I was me, and I was Her.
Chapter Fourteen
Everybody has a Voice
April
Red blotches broke out on his cheeks, throat, and chest.
His shirt was unbuttoned so that I could see the hair growing there, sprinkled with gray now. He dyed the hair on his head black, but his body betrayed his age.
"April, you can't do this."
"I'm already doing it. This is what God wants."
He stood up, his fists balled. We were in the lobby of the Omni Hotel in mid-town Manhattan, so he couldn't go too crazy. He couldn't hit me or scream at me. Not if he wanted to maintain his reputation. "April, I will not let you use my position to spread these lies."
I looked up at him, as cool as a cucumber, my heart rate just as steady as it was before he joined me here.
Before I laid out the facts for him.
"Bill, sit down. You're acting hysterical." I glanced over at Cynthia. She had her phone out and was recording us. His eyes followed mine, and when he saw it, his face grew even redder, but he sat down. "You're recording this." His voice came out as a hiss.
It was the snake that gave the apple to Eve.
"Of course I am. I'm determined. I'm not sure why you're fighting me."
"Because you will be spreading lies," he ground out.
"Lies? So you don't believe that she is a prophet from God?"
"Of course not. That's absurd." He sat back in the chair, crossing his legs and shaking his head. Bill knew what he knew. And he knew that I was a fool.
But he was wrong. Wrong about so much.
"You will introduce me tonight, and I'm going to give a sermon. And the people in that arena are going to love it. They're going to hear the word of God. Because God will speak through me."
Bill barked a laugh. "God will speak through you?" He leaned forward and licked his lips, his dark brown eyes bearing into me. "You're a loser. Without me, you're nothing."
A smile pulled at my mouth. "Do you know what I found? While downloading the photograph of my passport and driver's license from our Cloud account?" I'd lost all my paperwork and was totally destitute when I met Cynthia and the other women on their mission. But Bill always kept our important documents in the cloud for easy access…just in case of an emergency.
"You found nothing," he said, but I could see his mind racing around inside that skull of his, trying to figure out exactly what he'd left in that Cloud.
"You were so smart to keep all our paperwork online," I said as I pulled out my new phone. Cynthia had bought it for me. She and her friends had paid for everything that I wore.
Of course, as soon as I'd gotten back into the states, I'd headed to the bank and repaid them with the nice, big wad of cash I’d taken from the ATM. Bill hadn't bothered removing me from our accounts. He underestimated me so greatly that he was making this almost easy. God was on my side.
"Bill." I clucked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "I can't believe you left this for me to find. But then again, God wants me to be able to control you. To use you for this mission."
I unlocked the phone and navigated to the photos. He and his secretary taking selfies…wouldn't be damaging if either of them were clothed.
You couldn't see that they didn't have pants on, but it could be assumed by the fact
that they didn't have shirts on, her pert young breasts and their tight pink nipples pressed together for his inspection as he held the camera out and took the shot.
"You let the devil in Bill, and now God has come to correct it."
He flipped through the photos, his face growing redder. "This is blackmail. You're as horrible as your daughter. As sinful."
"This is what God wants. He wants this message spread. We decide our own value, Bill."
I took the phone back from him and stood up. "I'll be backstage. See you soon."
It wasn't until I was waiting for the elevator back to my room that my heart started hammering. Cynthia stepped up next to me.
"He'll introduce me." I nodded, feeling the truth in my bones.
"Do you know what you're going to say yet?"
"I'll let God speak through me. The message will be spread." I nodded again, the words soothing my rapidly racing heart. "I had to manipulate him. It was vital."
"God wouldn't have given you those photos if He didn't want you to have them. If He didn't want you to do this."
I looked over at Cynthia. She’d become a close friend and confidant in the last two weeks. Had gone with me to the consulate to get my new passport, had flown back on the same flight as me. Our rooms were next to each other at this hotel. Her friends had all needed to return to Florida at the end of their mission, but Cynthia had no obligations.
She was a widow, and her children were grown. She had nothing more important to do with her life than help me. God had brought us together, and together we would change the world by spreading Her message.
I pushed my palms together, feeling sweat between them. Bill paced the stage, his voice booming over the crowd. He would announce me at any moment.
I'd been on the stage with him hundreds of times, but never given a sermon. I'd always said something simple and brief, something about the importance of donating, the importance of letting God into your life.
But I'd never brought forth the word before.
I felt it welling inside me though; it pressed at the inside of my skull. My limbs tingled with anticipation, and I stepped from one foot to the other, trying to release some of the nervous energy.
Cynthia stood next to me, her eyes riveted on Bill.
"I've got about five minutes," I said, needing to fill the silence.
"Have some water." Cynthia offered me an uncapped plastic bottle.
I took a sip, and had trouble swallowing. Nerves were choking me. What if my voice abandoned me? That couldn't happen! I steeled myself against the thought.
Cynthia took the bottle back and nodded. "You're going to do great. He is with you."
I nodded again. "Yes. I know."
And then Bill was introducing me. "Now, as I mentioned, I have a very special guest. Many of you know her already—my wonderful, beautiful, faithful, amazing wife, April Madden." People applauded. "She's just returned from a mission to the Middle East." The crowd grew quiet. I squinted against the stage lights, trying to make out faces in the audience, but I couldn't see them. "While in Syria, she met a prophet."
Bill's voice went quiet, solemn; it was his 'this is very important, lean closer so you can hear me better' voice.
He was doing it perfectly. I knew he would. Bill was a showman. And he wasn't going to let the show be ruined just because he was being blackmailed.
"Now, I want you all to listen to her. You don't have to necessarily believe her."
A murmur ran through the crowd. What did that mean? Why would he say such a thing?
"God is in your hearts, and he will tell you what is truth. But she needs to testify to all of you."
Bill moved out from behind his pulpit, striding across the stage, casual and sleek. For a big man he moved lithely—as if the spirit helped carry some of his weight.
"April has been a woman of God for many years now. He lifted her out of alcoholism." Bill's voice rose. And a murmur of assent went through the crowd with a few amens rising up. "He carried her through the loss of her son and daughter."
Sympathetic noises now; many in the crowd knew my story. How Jesus had saved me from so much sin and misery.
My heart squeezed. Had Jesus saved me? Or had the devil led me into that pit of pain? I shook my head. I needed to keep it clear, keep it open for the Lord to speak through me.
"So you know she has Jesus in her heart." More amens. "And you know she's a woman of God." The crowd grew louder; they liked that kind of thing. A woman of God.
"So please, listen to what she has to say. And make up your own minds. Let God help you decide."
Bill turned toward me, and I stepped out onto the stage, my low heels clicking on the wood, the lights hitting me in the eyes. I forced myself not to squint into the glare. A smile spread across my face as I approached Bill.
I belonged here.
Bill reached out, taking my elbow, and leaning down, he brushed a kiss against my cheek. His skin was slick with sweat.
"Thank you," I whispered against his ear. He stepped back and held my gaze, cocking his head slightly—as if he was seeing me for the first time. Maybe he was. Maybe it was the first time I'd ever revealed myself to him.
I stepped up to the pulpit as Bill left the stage.
I must reveal myself to this crowd, strip away all pretenses, and let the truth shine through me.
"Good evening." My voice boomed back at me, and I pressed on. "I traveled to the Middle East, looking for my daughter."
The crowd shifted toward me, liking the story. They always like a narrative.
"I loved her very much. But I had forsaken her." I took the microphone from its stand and walked out from behind the pulpit. Pacing helped the words move through me.
"We hadn't spoken in years. But a mutual friend called and told me my daughter was in trouble. So I went looking for her."
More murmurs. They understood; of course you went looking for your child.
"I thought that she had fallen in with the devil."
More murmurs. The crowd felt my fear…they had experienced the same thing themselves. "I thought that because we didn't see eye to eye, she was a sinner." I stopped pacing and turned to the crowd, growing very still. "And I was right, she was a sinner…" A beat of silence. "But so was I."
Some amens rang out in the quiet hall. "I was a sinner for many years. The devil whispered to me, and I listened. With the help of Bill and the strength provided by Jesus, I was able to ignore his call to drink, to booze it up, and hide from the pain inside of me." My voice rose, taking on some of that swing and swagger that Bill had. The crowd moved with me—beginning to dance to my beat.
"So," I began to walk again, looking down at my feet, gathering my thoughts. "So I went looking for my daughter, to save her." I turned to the crowd, staring into those bright lights again, letting them catch my irises so that they'd glimmer for the crowd. "And what I found… what I found was true salvation."
An excited murmur. They all craved true salvation.
"See, my daughter was a sinner. But she was saved. Saved by a prophet."
Whispers traveled through the crowd. No one talked about modern-day prophets. No one believed in prophets anymore. As if God couldn't reach us now so directly, in this world of sin.
"I didn't go looking for a prophet; I didn't go looking for a renewal of my faith. But I found it. This prophet. She saved my daughter. She brought her back from death!" The words poured out of me, effortless and true. I stepped forward, to the edge of the stage, and raised one hand to the sky, my palm opened toward the crowd.
"And I have witnessed. I have witnessed miracles. And I have seen the work of God." The crowd leaned forward. I had them enthralled.
No, it wasn't me.
It was God.
"This prophet is a woman." Voices in the crowd reached me. What did she say? Impossible. Liar.
"A woman who covers herself from head to toe to remind us that we are all one. That we are all Her. Men and women. We decide our value." I
pushed against their doubt. "It is not up to the people around us; it is not up to society. It's up to each individual to know their worth. To know that inside them is God. To know that we are all his children. That we are all equal."
An uncomfortable edge filled the room. Everybody equal? That's not how this worked. There were sinners, and they were saved. There was white, and there was black. There were men, and there were women. There were Christians, and there were Muslims.
There was God, and there were humans.
"I sense you don't understand me. Or you don't want to understand me. And I get it. God has been saying this since the beginning of time. But we have been ignoring him. We have misunderstood him for human history. Our own egos, our own need to place something above another, has led to this time we live in. The sins of man have ruined our planet, have caused war and strife. And chief among those sins, ladies and gentleman, is our refusal to acknowledge our value."
"Now." I stepped back, my voice dropping. "I know this is hard to believe. But let me tell you what I saw. Let me tell you everything..."
The crowd leaned closer. I had them. The word was reaching them.
Anita
I gripped my phone, staring down at the screen. Messages continued to ping.
"Anita, what's wrong?" Tom asked, his hand at my waist, warming me through my thin T-shirt.
I stepped away from him, sucking in my bottom lip and grinding it under my teeth.
"Anita, talk to me, please." I tore my eyes off the screen and forced myself to look at him. His hair was tousled, his lips plump, his cheeks reddened.
"I need a minute." I stepped further away from him.
Tom reached out, but I quickly left the small kitchen. "I just need a minute," I said again, running to the bedroom.
I closed the door and sat on the bed, scrolling through my phone.
There was mention of the Miracle Woman, and the prophet and her “war against men,” as some far-right groups were calling it. But Joyful Justice and the name Sydney Rye had not appeared yet.
That could only be a matter of time. Someone was going to realize the connection—they'd figure out that Sydney Rye aka Joy Humbolt was the Miracle Woman in the video.
Flock of Wolves Page 13