Covenant (5 page)

            The door at the end of the hall opened, and their quarry entered, feet thumping across the stone tile.  Cutty glanced at Valdez, and nodded.  He would handle this.

            When the mark reached the end of the hallway and turned to go toward the kitchen, he saw Cutty.  He yelped in surprise.

            “Who the hell are you?” he said, voice crackling with shock and indignation.

            The mark was in his late forties, about six-two, with thinning brown hair and bronzed skin that could have only been gained from hours on a tanning bed.  He wore golfing gear: white shirt and khaki shorts.  According to the dispatcher, he had returned home from a trip to the local country club.

            His name was David Wright.  Cutty had never met him before or heard of him until he’d been given the mission that morning, but it didn’t matter. 

            “Good afternoon, Mr. Wright,” Cutty said.  “You’ve spread lies about us.”

            “What the—“

            Cutty shot Wright in both knees.  The gun, muffled by the sound suppressor, made soft pops.

            Wright screamed, collapsed to the floor. 

            “It is written,” Cutty said, “ ‘Touch not mine anointed.’  Do you understand what you’ve done?”

            Curled up in fetal position, Wright moaned in agony.  Blood pooled around him, staining the travertine.

            Valdez watched quietly, her perfect face expressionless. 

            “Bring me a chair from the kitchen,” Cutty said to her.

            She looked at him, gaze muddled.

            “A
chair
,” Cutty said.  He traced the shape of the desired object with his hands.  “El chairo?” 

            He knew only two words of Spanish, the proper term for “chair” not being one of them.  But Valdez said, “
Si
,” and hurried to the kitchen.

            Their organization operated throughout the world, and servants hailed from every nationality and spoke dozens of languages.  Still, Cutty wondered why he had been paired with a woman who had a weak grasp of English.  It sometimes seemed like his superior was playing a joke on him.  

            She brought a ladder-back chair.  Cutty swung it around so he could face Wright, and sat.  Valdez hovered behind him. 

            Face shiny with sweat, Wright said, “Who the fuck are you people?”

            “Please, Mr. Wright,” Cutty said.  “Is that proper language for an allegedly Christian man?”

            “Give me a fucking break . . .” 

            Cutty shot the man in the shoulder.  Another muffled pop.  Wright howled, rocked against the floor. 

            “No more of that obscene language,” Cutty said.  “It offends me.”

            Tears streaming from his eyes, words coming in quick gasps, Wright said, “Please . . . tell me . . . what’s this about?  You . . . want money?  You-you here to rob me?  There’s a . . . safe in the bedroom . . . closet . . .“

            “I have no interest in your material possessions, you filthy, drunken heretic,” Cutty said.  “I’m storing my treasures in heaven, where thieves do not break in and moths and rust do not destroy.”

            Although considerable agony wracked Wright’s body, he managed to look bewildered.  “I don’t understand—“

            “You publish a well-circulated magazine that claims to report on matters of relevance to God-fearing people,” Cutty said.  “For the past several issues, you’ve run a vicious smear campaign against our organization, reserving your worst venom for our anointed leader.”

            Wright’s gaze clarified.   “But . . . freedom . . . of speech . . . my rights . . .“ 

            “There are no such inalienable rights.  Not any more.  Freedom to express opinion exists only within the strict regulations of the God-focused society that we are bringing to fruition.”

            “Right . . . you’re right.”  Chest heaving, Wright bobbed his head in acceptance.  But it was much too late for that.

            “You were warned to cease your blasphemy, Mr. Wright.  Twice, in fact.  You’ve been boldly unrepentant in your sins, and need I remind you how God deals with unrepentant sinners?”

            “I’m . . . sorry,” Wright said, babbling now.  “Forgive me . . . please.  The devil . . . the devil made me do it . . .”

            “We are taught to resist temptation,” Cutty said.  “Personally, I think the reason for your demise lies in your selection of reading material.  I saw a rather pricey collection of volumes in your library. 
The Lord of the Rings?
  I’ve not read them, but I can tell from the titles that they are pagan works.  Surely you know the commandment not to worship false gods.”

            “But they’re . . . only stories, books—“

            Cutty laughed harshly.  “Only books, eh?  Kingdoms have been built and destroyed based on books.  Do not trivialize the power of the written word—you, of all people, should know better.”

            “Please.”  Wright sniffled.  “I’m begging . . . begging . . . you to forgive me . . .”

            “It is not in my power to forgive sin.  You should know that, too.  Or have those books about pagan gods and rings muddled your grasp of the fundamentals?”

            “No, I—“

            Cutty shot the man in the head, placing the hollow-point bullet precisely between the eyebrows.  Wright’s skull knocked against the floor, and he twitched in death throes.

            Cutty rose off the chair and fired another round into the man’s throat.  He lowered the muzzle, and pumped a third round into his heart. 

            Wright’s death spasms ceased.  His dead eyes gazed blindly at the ceiling. 

            Valdez approached the body and tested the pulse on his wrist.  Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross over her chest.

            Cutty holstered the Glock in a shoulder rig underneath his jacket.  “Don’t mourn for him, Valdez.  The unrepentant sinner got what he deserved.  As you sow, so shall you reap.”

            Admiration glimmered in her dark eyes.  “You are a wise man.”

            He smiled.  “Thank you, but I’m only a humble servant, doing the work I’ve been called to do by the Lord.” 

            He removed a cell phone from his pocket and made a call on the encrypted line.

            A male voice answered:  “Yes?”

            He had never met the dispatcher, though the man worked out of their campus headquarters in metro Atlanta.  Likewise, he doubted the dispatcher could identify him on sight.  For their important duties, secrecy was crucial.

            “The work is done,” Cutty said. 

            “Excellent.  We value your service.”

            Upon placement of the call notifying the dispatcher of the successful completion of his mission, a crew waiting on standby would be sent to the mark’s residence to dispose of the body.  Wright’s house might be torched and burned to the ground, his remains incinerated.  His cadaver might be weighed with stones and dropped into the Atlantic.  His corpse might be ground to mulch and buried in a landfill—from dust you came, to dust you shall return.

            “Our work is our joy,” Cutty said.  “We are faithful servants.”

            “There is more work for you.  An especially sensitive assignment of utmost importance.”

            Cutty’s heart rate quickened.  A special mission?  It sounded like a task that could boost his standing in the ranks.

            “We are ready to serve,” he said.

            “There is a meeting tonight in the Armory.  It commences at twenty hundred hours.  Bring your partner, of course.”

            A key reason why servants in their division were not allowed to marry was because of the work schedule.  It was not a nine-to-five job.  Servants of their kind were always on call and expected to render service at a moment’s notice.

            “We will be there.”

5

            Upstairs, Reuben had moved into Anthony’s former bedroom at the end of the hall.  The door was closed, and a large black and white sign posted on the door warned: RESTRICTED AREA - NO HATERS ALLOWED.  Hip hop rumbled inside, vibrating the door, the walls, the floor.

            Anthony knocked.  No answer.  With the music cranked that loud Reuben wouldn’t have heard a space shuttle launch in the driveway.

            He knocked again, harder.  “Hey, Reuben!  Open up, man, it’s your uncle!”

            The music’s volume dropped.  The door opened a crack. 

            Anthony stood an even six feet, but his nephew had gained a couple of inches on him.  Every time he saw the kid, it looked as if he had grown taller.

            Reuben regarded him with languid grey eyes.  “Hey, Unc.”

            “Can I come in, or do you have a girl in here?”

            “Man, I wish.”  Reuben smiled, exposing teeth bracketed with braces.  He pulled the door open wider.  “I’m just hangin’ out, you know.”

            Although Reuben was tall, he still looked and dressed like the teenager he was.  He wore a long white t-shirt and baggy denims that hung loosely on his gangly frame.  Acne was scattered across his café au lait complexion, and he was struggling to cultivate a goatee.    

            Entering the room, Anthony looked around to see how Reuben had further desecrated it since his last visit.  In his youth, Anthony had used to keep the room neat, but Reuben had little inclination for tidiness.  Wrinkled clothes covered the bed.  Boxes of sneakers were scattered across the floor.  Empty bags of fried pork rinds and cans of Red Bull were everywhere.

            The walls were plastered with so many posters they might have been a new form of wallpaper.  Glossy pictures of tricked-out Bentleys, Lamborghinis, Range Rovers.  Magazine spreads of voluptuous, nearly naked women in provocative poses.  A full-length shot of the hot rap star of the moment, the guy snarling at the camera, clad in a wife beater t-shirt to best display his prison tattoos, platinum chain, and air-brushed muscles.

            The only organized area was the computer desk.  A desktop PC, a large, flat screen display, and a laser printer occupied the smooth plane of cherry wood.     

            “Have a seat,” Reuben said.  He slapped a bag of pork rinds off a nearby chair, clearing the cushion, and settled into his swivel chair in front of the desk, long legs sprawled in front of him. 

            Anthony took the seat.  “I called here a short while ago, but no one answered.”

            “My bad, man, guess I didn’t hear the phone ring.  Been listening to my music.”  He bobbed his head in sync with the muted beat.

            “Where’s your mom?  I’ve been trying to reach her for hours.”

            Reuben shrugged.  “Probably hangin’ with some dude, you know.”

            Anthony knew.  Danielle often disappeared for days on end, leaving Reuben at home to fend for himself.  Occasionally, the kid would stay with Anthony and Lisa when Danielle was out of pocket, but if Danielle found out she took offense, ranting that she could raise her kid on her own and didn’t need his help.

            She needed help from someone, because Reuben was headed down a troubling path.  He was an intensely bright kid, a quick study, but his grades were marginal, and he’d been suspended numerous times for tardiness, or ditching class altogether.  He had no interest in athletics, extracurricular activities, or working a summer job.  His friends, if you could call them that, were similarly apathetic, concerned only with impressing girls and appearing cool.

            In Anthony’s view, the root of most of the issues was Reuben’s lacking a father figure.  Reuben had never met his biological father—some loser who had vanished before Reuben was born and had never resurfaced—and Danielle had yet to marry or form a lasting significant relationship, and if her track record of choosing worthless men was any indicator, she never would.

            Anthony tried to do his part to be there for the kid, as a positive male influence.  They sometimes went to Hawks games, played hoops at the local park, and went head-to-head on X-Box.  But as Reuben had gotten older, he’d grown less interested in hanging out with Anthony, as if being in the presence of an adult branded him as completely uncool.    

            Anthony didn’t know what to do about the boy, or if he could do anything at all that would help.  Hell, every day he wrestled with his own emotional issues.  How was he fit to be Reuben’s surrogate dad and keep him on the straight and narrow?

            And Lisa wondered why he didn’t want children.

            “I was stopping by to see if she wanted to go to the cemetery with me,” Anthony said.  “Did she say anything to you about that earlier?”

            “Nah, man.” 

Figures
.  “Do you know what today is?”

            Reuben scratched his head.  “Friday the twelfth, right?”

            Anthony stared at him.  Was he serious?

            “It’s the anniversary of your grandfather’s death, Reuben.”

            “Oh, snap.”  Reuben cupped his hand over his mouth.  “Sorry, Unc.”

            “I’m going to visit his grave, and your grandmother’s grave, too.  You’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”

            “Nah, that’s all right.  I’m kinda busy here, you know.”

What in the hell can be more important than paying your respects to your grandparents?
Anthony wanted to shout at him. 

            But he kept his mouth shut.  The kid didn’t know any better.

            Reuben swiveled to the computer.  His fingers danced across the keyboard.

            He was a whiz with computers.  Anthony had bought the machine for him last Christmas, an upgrade over the PC he had acquired for him a few years ago.  He wanted to encourage his nephew’s talents in a useful direction.

            Last year, Reuben had created a program for him to track his book royalty statements.  It worked far better than the Excel spreadsheet Anthony had been using for that purpose, and Anthony had actually considered licensing it to sell to other writers.  He was convinced that Reuben had a great future ahead of him as a software developer, but the boy had to
want
to do it.