“You bastard! I’ll kill you!” Grant screamed. The shards of glass stuck in Tim’s neck cut into his hand. He didn’t care. He squeezed harder.
Tim gasped for air.
The gun felt good. Grant liked its weightiness, the composite grip, the power it now conveyed to him. His index finger closed on the trigger with enough pressure that he felt it push back. Just a flinch, a quiver of effort, and he would shoot this son of a bitch. Facing Tim this closely, Grant saw an expression he hadn’t seen in him before. Through the broken nose, bruised mouth, missing teeth, and the shards of glass now oozing blood and oil from the scaly skin, Grant recognized fear.
I could end it all right now, he thought. Justice for Kinley and the other monk. Justice for the two officers. Justice for Deepraj, for Razi, for Kristin, and for Jigme. Redemption for himself for not preventing these tragedies. The rage he felt toward this man flowed through him like a river of lava. His finger tightened around the trigger.
“Grant, no,” Kristin said from behind him.
“After what he did to you?” Grant didn’t take his eyes off the man. “What he was going to do?”
“I know.” Her voice softened. “But Kinley—”
Kristin’s words hit him like a glass of ice water thrown in his face. His narrowed perspective zoomed out from the gun pressed against Tim’s forehead. He pictured the scene from Kristin’s view: him sitting atop this bleeding man, the battle now won, but carrying out the man’s execution to quench his own rage. At once he became conscious of the anger within himself: the agony over the loss of his friends, the need for revenge, the desire to remove the pain he felt deep inside. But she was right.
Killing Tim wouldn’t take away those feelings, the dukkha.
Grant uncurled his fingers from Tim’s throat, allowing the man to gulp a mouthful of air. He stood, careful to keep the gun trained on Tim’s head. The anger and the pain still flowed through his body, but instead of letting his emotions dictate his actions, he merely observed the effects his feelings had. Two months ago Kinley had described this technique as shining the light of consciousness on one’s own suffering. Grant became aware that he’d been breathing as heavily as Tim. Slowly the fire of his emotions dwindled.
“If you move, I will shoot you.” Grant’s breathing returned to normal. He backed away from Tim, but he didn’t take his eyes off the man. He wouldn’t be the executioner tonight, but that didn’t mean Grant trusted this snake.
“Kris, grab Sangay’s radio and call up to Tiger’s Nest.”
He sensed her staring at him. He wanted to look at her, to embrace her, but he didn’t dare take his attention away from the killer. Kristin walked past him, brushing her hand across his shoulder as she did.
When she reached Tim, who lay motionless on the ground, she jumped backward.
“Grant, the other gun!”
“What?” Grant’s mind raced, trying to comprehend the new danger. He tightened his finger around the trigger again, but Tim appeared not to have moved.
“Sangay’s gun; it’s in his belt.” She pointed. Grant realized that Tim must have taken the gun off the officer after he’d killed him. He shivered involuntarily. While Tim’s right hand lay by his head where Grant had wrestled his gun from him, his left hand had slid to his side, just inches from the revolver stuck in his waistband. Grant’s lack of experience in these things had almost proved fatal again. He felt the anger warm his body again, but rather than fight it, he allowed the blood to rise to the surface of his skin. This time, however, its power over him was far weaker.
“Nice try,” Grant said. “Put both hands up on top of your head.” Tim raised his left hand and clasped both on top of his head. His face remained expressionless.
Grant debated having Tim pull the gun slowly out with his fingertips, as he’d seen on TV police shows, but he’d seen how fast and well trained this man was. He didn’t doubt that Tim could turn the gun on him and fire before he realized what had happened. Grant started toward Tim. He would remove the pistol himself, and then the knife, for that matter.
“I’ll do it,” Kristin said. “You cover him.”
Grant hesitated for a second. He didn’t want Kristin near this monster again, but she sounded determined, and he could more easily cover the killer from a distance of a few feet.
“Okay, but carefully.”
Kristin knelt by Tim, a look of revulsion on her face. Grant gripped the gun with both his hands and aimed at Tim’s chest, where he was sure not to miss. Kristin’s hand shook as she withdrew the revolver from his pants.
“Good,” Grant said. “Now slide it on the floor to me, and then do the same with the knife.” Kristin leaned over Tim and slid the gun, which skidded over the rough-hewn planks of the floor until it stopped by Grant’s feet. He didn’t look at the gun or kneel to pick it up; he kept his gaze on Tim, who returned the stare without blinking.
The mistake happened, as it had on the river many weeks earlier, unexpectedly, and at the most inopportune time. When Kristin straightened to her knees after leaning over to slide the pistol, her body passed in front of Grant’s line of vision for the briefest of moments. It was enough time. Tim’s unblinking expression never changed when he struck. Before Grant’s brain could react, Tim simultaneously kicked a leg, sweeping Kristin off her knees, and shot both hands from behind his head.
By the time Grant realized he needed to pull the trigger, Kristin had fallen on top of Tim. One of the man’s arms wrapped around her neck and pulled her tight against his body. Grant had lost the shot.
Kristin screamed, kicked, and threw elbows.
“Let her go!” Grant yelled.
He shifted the barrel of the gun but couldn’t find a clear target in the thrashing of bodies on the floor. He took a step toward them.
The glint of steel flashed through the air. Grant and Kristin froze at the same time. Tim pressed the tip of the commando knife into the flesh of Kristin’s neck. His other hand moved from her throat to her head, where he grasped her hair, twisted, and pulled her head back into him.
“Don’t fuck with me!”Tim screamed. “I’ll slice her open just like I did those cops.”
Kristin’s eyes widened. The tip of the knife drew a pinpoint of blood.
“Okay. Just take it easy,” Grant said.
“We’re going to stand. Don’t shoot your girlfriend.”
Tim rolled himself to the side, holding Kristin tightly as he maneuvered himself, and then her, to a crouched and then standing position. He kept her body in front of his, and only a portion of his face was unprotected. That was where Grant aimed the gun, but he wasn’t a marksman. He couldn’t risk either shooting Kristin in the head or missing outright and having Tim cut her throat.
“If you hurt her, I’ll blow your head off,” Grant snarled.
“Oh spare me. You had your chance earlier. I knew you were a pussy. You should’ve shot me.”
“That’s the difference between us.”
“You’re right. I win. You lose. I’m walking out of here, and she’s coming with me.” Although his voice was calm, Grant heard the strain. More disturbing was the wild look in his eyes; Tim was barely holding it together.
Grant’s mind screamed at him. He couldn’t let Kristin out of his sight. This guy had outmaneuvered them at every opportunity, and he’d never hesitated to kill. The fear inside Grant threatened to consume him, but he couldn’t afford to let it. Instead, he concentrated on the dilemma at hand.
“You can go, but Kristin stays here.”
“I don’t make deals!” Tim’s face flushed.
“The others will be here any minute. If you run now, you might escape.”
The knife quivered against Kristin’s skin. “One more word from you and I open up her neck.” He jerked Kristin’s head back, eliciting a squeal.
Tim backed toward the door. He was parallel to the large window, and almost to the bar. Suddenly Tim’s scheme unfolded to Grant. The killer would continue backing up until h
e bumped into the swinging door, never allowing Grant a clean shot. Then he would draw the blade across Kristin’s throat, severing her carotid artery and opening her windpipe. A shove on her back would send her flying into the room toward Grant, while he vanished through the door. Grant would have no choice but to go to Kristin, although saving her life would be impossible. Tim would escape through the woods. Grant had already seen a variation on this tactic at the Taj Mahal when Tim shot Jigme. Now Grant stood mere feet from the same killer, and Grant was the one with the gun, yet he knew he didn’t have the skills to do what he needed to do.
Grant struggled to think of an option that didn’t involve him shooting inches from Kristin’s head, but nothing came to him. Tim shuffled backward toward the door. I’m going to lose my chance, Grant thought. He closed his left eye, and sighted with his right down the barrel of the gun. He focused on nothing but his target—the steel gray eye, now swollen and bloodshot. But the gun wouldn’t remain still. He thought his hand was steady, but the target danced around the sight at the tip of the barrel. Most disturbing was the way Kristin’s dark hair bounced in and out of the sight as well. Grant drew in a deep breath and held it. He tightened his index finger.
The sound of breaking glass startled Grant. His finger paused on the trigger, and he opened his closed eye. Tim appeared confused as well; his face had the wide-eyed, open-mouth expression of someone surprised by a most unwelcome occurrence. What transpired next shocked Grant. Tim released Kristin and dropped the knife, which clattered to the floor. With the blade no longer cutting into her neck, she sprang away, flinging herself to the ground in front of him. Grant now had a clear shot, but rather than take it, he relaxed his finger from the trigger. He saw that Tim was no longer a danger to them.
Rooted in place, Tim moved his hands, plucking at the metallic diamond poking out from just below his shoulder. A low moan escaped his mouth, as he rotated his torso. The graphite shaft of an arrow stuck out of his back. The shattering glass had come from the large window beside the bar and directly behind Tim—the one that faced Tiger’s Nest.
Jigme! Grant thought, remembering the young monk’s passion for the national sport in which he was forbidden to participate. He’d found a better use for the arrows that had killed Kinley.
Tim silently clawed at his back.
“You’re going to make it worse,” Grant told him.
Tim dropped his arms and hung his head. He had lost. If their assailant was lucky, he would live to be carried down the mountain and then spend the rest of his life in a Bhutanese jail. Shouts from outside filtered through the walls. The tension finally drained from Grant’s neck and back muscles. He lowered the gun. They had the texts, and the man who had pursued them was finished.
Kristin was still on all fours, breathing heavily. She rose to her knees and wiped her hands, which were covered in the sticky yellow oil from the broken lantern, on her jeans.
“They’re coming,” Kristin said.
“Can you poke your head out and yell to them? I’m not leaving him.”
“Sure.”
As she began to rise, Grant noticed a subtle movement from Tim. The killer held something small and silver in his hand.
The butane lighter!
Once again, the killer’s plan unfolded before Grant’s eyes. He was standing and Kristin was kneeling in the broken lantern’s puddle of oil that had spread out on the old wood floor. In a second they would be engulfed in flames.
Grant felt the cool weight of the gun in his hand by his side. He raised the weapon, but it seemed to move too slowly. Tim’s thumb flicked the cap off.
Then another blur of movement flashed before Grant. Kristin lunged toward the man who had kidnapped, tortured, and almost killed her. She must have seen the lighter as well. A glint of silver arced through the air. She’d picked up Tim’s knife when she rose to her knees. Before Tim could ignite the lighter, Kristin plunged the eight-inch blade into his chest.
Tim’s body collapsed to the ground, convulsed, and went still.
Grant ran to Kristin and lifted her from the floor. She threw her arms around him as the doors to the restaurant burst open. Jigme and the other officers poured inside.
It’s finally over, Grant thought.
CHAPTER 54
NEW HOPE CHURCH BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
WILLIAM JENNINGS PACED back and forth in front of his office desk. It was nine thirty at night, and he was alone again. He eyed the metal trash can beside him. The strips of paper that had just come from his portable shredder were clumped in a pile like a nest of black-and-white pasta.
Maybe I should burn it too, he thought.
Staring at the trash can, he felt that it might soon serve another purpose: he was on the verge of vomiting into it. The unease in his gut was caused by neither food poisoning nor a virus but the disintegration of his future. Why the hell did I ever agree to use to Tim Huntley? All his careful planning was falling apart.
While his boss might have been a visionary thinker, Jennings made things happen. Without him, the church that Brady had envisioned would never have existed. Without him, Brady’s bid to lead the NAE would be nothing more than a dream. As head of the NAE, Brady would be the voice that would lead the people out of the darkness and into the light. He had that gift. But Jennings would be right behind him, running the finely oiled machine of salvation. They were so close too: construction of the New Hope Community was under way, Brady’s book was a best seller, and Brady had no challengers for the upcoming election.
But now their futures were on the verge of unraveling. The bank was threatening to freeze their loan and stop construction. The cost overruns from Brady’s extravagant tastes combined with the slow economy had wrecked the pro forma projections that Jennings had presented to the bankers when they’d initially approved the loan. And then there was the matter of the Issa texts.
When they’d first appeared, Jennings had turned the destructive potential that they would have on Brady’s book and the faith of millions into a PR gold mine. Just as he’d been the one to encourage Brady to write a book, even securing the ghostwriter for him, Jennings had orchestrated the spectacle at Emory. The debate, the press, the humiliation of Grant Matthews had been his doing—all to wonderful results. But that strategy also depended on the real texts’ never seeing the light of day.
When Tim Huntley had offered his services, Jennings had seized on what seemed to be the perfect solution to that problem. Tim was a professional, but he was also a believer. The initial misgivings Jennings had about the mental stability of the parishioner who sent weekly emails filled with all sorts of conspiracy nonsense were outweighed by the man’s commitment to the cause and his military training. Jennings knew that God had provided them with a tool that they were meant to use.
What exactly Tim was doing overseas to obtain the texts, Jennings didn’t want to know. War could be a messy business, especially when fighting for God. The plagues visited on Egypt, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the violence predicted in Revelation—each revealed that God recognized that force was needed to overcome evil. Jennings understood that they were in a critical time. The End Times were nearing. These heretical texts about Jesus were just another piece in the puzzle.
But now everything Jennings had worked for was in jeopardy. When Tim had called three days ago requesting a private jet to take him to the location of the texts, Jennings had originally resisted. Not only was the cost outrageous, but it would also tie the church directly to whatever the violent man did. Jennings had been careful to provide Tim only with cash that couldn’t be traced back to the church. But at that point he was too far in, and Tim’s insistence that he would beat Grant to the texts finally won him over.
As he continued pacing by his desk, Jennings wished that he’d listened to his initial reservations. Thirty minutes earlier, he’d received a call from the nervous pilot of the plane he’d chartered. Tim was three hours late for their six AM departure time, and the tower had radioed t
he pilot asking if he would come into the terminal. The police were on their way and wanted to speak to him about his passenger. Something had gone terribly wrong. Jennings asked the pilot if he could take off right then. Not wanting to get involved in a controversy in a Third World country, the pilot readily agreed.
Now Jennings had to cover his tracks. Tim would be on his own in dealing with whatever trouble he’d caused. Fortunately Jennings knew better than to charter a plane with the company that operated the fractional jet ownership program the church used. He’d turned instead to a charter service in Dubai that had grown rapidly during the boom times and were desperate for business in the slow economy. They wouldn’t ask questions as long as they received the wire for forty-five thousand dollars. He’d used funds from a Panamanian trust he’d formed ten years earlier to help certain wealthy patrons of New Hope who had moved their assets offshore. These supporters could donate money to the Panamanian trust without the greedy minions of the U.S. government ever knowing that their money was offshore. Jennings would then periodically wire “contributions” from the trust to the church.
Now that he’d destroyed the copies of the faxes from the charter company confirming the deal, he had to focus on the next threat. What am I going to do about the texts now?
CHAPTER 55
PARO, BHUTAN
GRANT LISTENED TO THE gurgling jade current splash over the small rapids of the Paro Chhu. Lining the riverbank, thirty monks stood in silence. Their crimson robes fluttered in the breeze as they waited to witness the ashes dissolve in the cold water. Jigme stood on the end. He held a black plastic bag—the type the women used to bring a month’s supply of rice from the market. The bag held Kinley’s ashes. In some cultures the ashes would be stored in an ornate box or decorative vase, but Grant knew that the monks viewed using a fancy container for ashes to be dumped into the water a waste. Another monk beside Jigme held a similar bag.
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