Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  17

  Lying low against the seat, half-wishing she could be absorbed like oil into the leather, Lisa braced herself for a bullet plowing into her spine, for the SUV to tip over and hurtle her through the windshield, for a car driven by an innocent to strike them head-on and crush them inside. The night, already troubling since Anthony had shared his account of his communications with the enigmatic Bob, had become more terrifying than anything she had ever imagined, a menacing new world where worst-case scenarios seemed not only plausible, but likely.

  How could this be happening to them? They were ordinary people. They lived quiet lives. How had they gotten sucked into this?

  Anthony handled the Tahoe with cool intensity, spinning the wheel with authority, hitting the gas and the brakes crisply, as if being shot at by maniacs was an everyday occurrence. Although he rarely spoke of it, she knew he’d completed combat missions in the Marines, had been in situations where his life was on the line and the lives of others rested in his hands, but she had never seen this side of him. The Anthony she’d fallen in love with was gentle--strong, too, yes—but mostly gentle and thoughtful, with an acute awareness of the frailty of life and a quiet commitment to making the most of each day, never taking his loved ones for granted.

  But this man so weirdly calm in the face of peril was foreign to her—and she was, she had to admit, thankful that he was around.

  He shifted the truck into Reverse, and the tires chewed through dirt and rocks and climbed a slight, bumpy hill. She turned her face to the windshield, and from her vantage point, saw only leafy trees against a black sky.

  “Where are we?” she whispered.

  “You can pop up and look.”

  The truck rocked to a stop. He shut off the lights and the engine.

  Heart knocking so loudly it seemed to rattle the windows, she rose in the seat. They were at the terminus of a driveway crowded with weeds and shrubbery. The cracked, canted lane curved around a gigantic maple and a spray of tall weeds, and emptied into the quiet street beyond.

  Behind them stood a Craftsman-style home in disrepair, shingles faded and draped in kudzu, windows boarded over with plywood. A chain-link fence festooned in vines bordered the yard, holes torn through the link fabric.

  “We’re only about five or six blocks away from home,” he said. “I figured we could lie low here for a few minutes, till the coast is clear.”

  “What the hell is going on, Tony? Who were those people? Why were they shooting at us?”

  “They saw me with Bob. Bob betrayed them, I think, and they probably figure that he and I are working together.”

  “Working together on what?”

  “Bringing them down.”

  “Bringing down whom? Who are they?”

  “Sorry, I don’t have many answers, Lisa. Bob was vague. But this group after us—they’re powerful, well-connected.”

  “You mentioned they might be some kind of cult?”

  “That’s what Bob said.”

  More questions stormed through her thoughts, but hard shudders suddenly wracked her, and she hugged herself. The night was warm, but she was drenched in perspiration, freezing.

  Anthony took one of her hands in his. His steady strength and his warmth were what she needed.

  “I feel like I’m about to fall to pieces, but you’re so composed,” she said. “I guess you’ve been in situations like this before.”

  He laughed softly. “Not quite like this.”

  “These people after us . . . you think they murdered your dad?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” he said, eyes hard as gunmetal.

  “But how—“

  He brought his finger to his lips, and she left the question unfinished. He pointed toward the street.

  Through the trees and shrubbery, she glimpsed the Suburban. It lurked past the driveway like a panther sniffing for prey.

  Involuntarily, she held her breath.

  “There’s only the one vehicle,” Anthony whispered. “I’d worried that they might have dispatched a whole squad after us.”

  Past the driveway, the truck halted.

  She let out a rush of air, swallowed. “They know we’re back here.”

  Nodding, Anthony gripped his pistol.

  “You may want to duck again,” he said.

  18

  Cutty had commanded Valdez to stop the Suburban in the middle of the street.

  “Thorne’s around here somewhere, Valdez,” he said. “I can feel him.”

  Cutty perched on the edge of the passenger seat, clasping the Glock. After their failed attempt at preventing Thorne from leaving his residence, he had ordered Valdez to drive so he could have his hands free to shoot.

  En route to Thorne’s residence, he had used Gen to dig up Thorne’s home phone number. The number was unlisted, but the system spat it back to Cutty within seconds of his request. He’d hoped to get Thorne on the phone, to confirm his presence at home and talk to him for a few minutes—until he arrived and put a gun to Thorne’s head and demand he explain his role in the Judas’ treachery.

  By running, Thorne gave Cutty license to kill him. Only a man guilty of sin sought to avoid God’s justice, and the wages of sin is death.

  Gloved fingers clenching the steering wheel, Valdez was silent, rosy lips pressed together. In the pursuit, she’d handled the big truck with considerable, unexpected finesse, and he wondered what other skills she possessed.

  He opened the glove box and removed a pair of night vision binoculars.

  He hadn’t received the results of the background check on Thorne, but he was growing antsy to get it. Thorne wasn’t behaving like the typical gutless sinner who rolled over at the first sign of violence. The guy had an unusual amount of daring.

  “Make a U-turn and go by the driveway we just passed,” Cutty said. “I want to get a closer look at what was in all that thick undergrowth.”

  “Okay.”

  She executed a textbook U-turn. A handful of houses stood along the street, homes that appeared to have been built decades ago, with trimmed shrubbery and well-tended lawns. The homes were in good condition except for the one on his right, a lot so overgrown with weeds, shrubs, and trees that the residence itself was almost completely concealed.

  A crumbling driveway gave access to the back of the property, and that was where he wanted to inspect more closely.

  He lifted the binoculars to his eyes.

  Like a chariot commandeered by the devil himself, Thorne’s SUV thundered out of the darkness. The high-beams flashed on, searing the interior of the Suburban.

  Blinded, Cutty dropped the binoculars and fumbled for the Glock.

  “He has gun!” Valdez shouted.

  She slammed into Reverse, flinging Cutty forward in the seat.

  Although disoriented by the sudden glare, Cutty saw it, too. Thorne had opened the driver’s side door and popped around the side, and he was gripping a gun in both hands and holding a stance like he knew what he was doing.

  Who was this guy?

  Gunfire shattered the night. Rounds hammered the grille and windshield, and thank God, the vehicle was equipped with bulletproof glass, or else Cutty knew he would have taken one in the head.

  But he thought he heard a tire blow. When he felt the truck veer hard to the right and heard Valdez’s anguished cry, he knew his suspicions were correct.

  They hurtled across the street, vaulted the curb, and sideswiped an elm. Valdez brought the truck to a stop before they mowed down a picket fence in someone’s front yard.

  The commotion alerted the neighbors. Porch lights switched on at a few residences, and a house-robed old woman with wild hair wandered onto her front porch with a phone pressed to her ear.

  The prospect of nosy neighbors calling police didn’t concern him. The understaffed and overworked Atlanta Police Department typically took nearly an hour to respond to emergency calls. Cutty

  would need only to notify his dispatcher, and the
dispatcher would see to it that law enforcement’s response would be further delayed. When you were doing God’s work, all obstacles were removed from your path.

  Ahead, Thorne climbed back into his vehicle and exploded down the street.

  “Go, go, go!” Cutty said.

  She mashed the gas, and the Suburban leaped forward.

  Cutty opened the sun roof. He rose through it, planted his arms on the roof, and fired at the truck from a distance of about fifty yards. His first shot grazed the vehicle’s rear bumper, and his second and third shots missed entirely.

  The Tahoe hauled around the corner, tires screeching.

  Cutty dropped back into his seat. “Stay on him, Valdez!”

  “But the tire—“

  “Forget the tire! Keep driving!”

  “Si,” she said, voice taut.

  Rubber flapping from the ruined tire, the exposed steel rim ringing as it ground against the pavement, Valdez gave chase.

  “I need more firepower,” he said. He reached into the back seat and snagged his rifle, stored in a black nylon case.

  Before his current assignment, he had been a member of the sniper unit, and like he was everywhere else, he’d been the best. He’d once nailed a target between the eyes from half a mile away, a record in the division that still stood.

  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.