Dancing on the Wind (23 page)

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Dancing on the Wind

“Amen.” The chorus was low and heartfelt and handkerchiefs were plied

throughout the crowd.

“But, my Brothers and Sisters, it takes a lot of love offerings to keep the word out

here,” he heard Bolivar say. “Nothing in this life is free except the blessings of our

Savior, Jesus Christ.”

“Amen!” the crowd responded.

“I hate to ask you to help me forward my ministry to those who are most in need of

it, but without your help and aid it could not be done.”

Heads nodded as hands moved to pockets and pocketbooks. The faithful knew

what was needed.

“So dig deep, I beg you, so I can continue to spread His word and His healing

among you.”

The choir broke into an upbeat tune as Bolivar slumped against one of her

bodyguards and he carried her to the only chair on the stage—a gilt-framed, red velvet

monstrosity that more closely resembled an electric chair than a throne. There she

slumped with a hand to her forehead, seeming to gasp for breath as her followers filled

the collection plates being passed among them.

Fallon snorted and left, walking out into the hot Georgia night. There were workers

milling around the tent and he thought they were most likely fifty-milers, green help

who hadn’t made a fifty-mile jump beyond where the tent was at that moment. That he

thought of them in carney language seemed right for that was exactly what this was—a

carnival with Bolivar talking up the marks, drawing them in to the show.

If he had thought the noise had been loud before the revival, the volume and

excitement had surely doubled as the marks made for their cars and trucks. The joy of

the Holy Spirit was upon their faces, the jubilation coming through in their voices. They

had seen the power of the Lord at work in the healings and they were still misty-eyed

from watching the fallen being redeemed once they’d professed their belief in God. Just

watching them made Fallon physically ill for he knew they were being bilked, duped,

and there had been nothing holy that had happened inside that tent. Bolivar was simply

using them and that rankled him so badly he wanted to spit.

He had not grown up with religion as a central part of his life, but he had come to it

late. His Irish heritage had taken him to a Catholic church and to a priest who had given

him one-on-one instructions in the faith of his father. At the age of twenty-five he had

been confirmed in that faith. He had embraced it wholeheartedly, but that faith was

constantly at war with the killing side of him. He had learned over the years to

compartmentalize the things he knew to be outside the realm of organized religion—

like
An Fear Liath Mor
—because he needed the peace and serenity only his adopted faith

could offer him. He knew there was never peace in a Reaper’s soul unless he embraced

something much larger than himself and overlooked the true evil that existed all

around him.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

What Bolivar was doing was twisting the emotions and the needs of her flock for

her own personal gain and that pissed him off to no end.

And there she was coming toward him with her four white-suited bodyguards

walking one in front, one behind and one to either side of her to keep the faithful from

coming near her. Those among the faithful who wanted to touch her, speak to her,

profess their love and respect for her were being stiff-armed aside as she walked with

head down and hands clasped demurely in front of her, the long skirt of her gold

sheath swinging gracefully with each step she took. Behind walked her Sensitives—one

beautiful girl in her twenties and a handsome young man about the same age, both

dressed in white.

Fallon pulled his hands from his pockets since he’d already spotted the operatives

from the Exchange making their way toward Bolivar and her entourage. He recognized

both of the men since they were often his sparring partners at the gym. A wicked smile

plucked at his lips.

“‘The coming of the lawless one will be in accordance with the work of Satan

displayed in all kinds of counterfeit miracles, signs and wonders’,” the burlier of the

two yelled at Bolivar. “Second Thessalonians, chapter two, verse nine!”

Bolivar winced but continued on, surreptitiously glancing at the bodyguard on her

right.

“And in second Timothy, chapter four, verse three, it says, ‘For the time will come

when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to

themselves teachers, having itching ears’,” the second man quoted from the bible.

“More like itchy palms with you. You are a harlot, a deceiver, a false prophet, Mignon

Bolivar!”

Three of the bodyguards broke away from Bolivar and started toward the shouting

men. Fallon stopped and folded his arms over his chest. This was going to be good.

One by one the bodyguards were soundly trounced by the two operatives, thrown

about the ground as though they were no more than chaff from wheat in a mighty

wind. Noses were bloodied, eyes blackened and not a single punch landed upon the

operatives who used their burly strength to break arms and jaws and severely roust the

next two bodyguards sent in to accost them.

“‘Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits, whether they are of

God…’ That comes from the first verse of first John, chapter four,” the first man shouted

to the group of horrified onlookers who had congregated around the fight. “This

woman is evil. She is not what you think she is. She is fleecing you!”

Several workers rushed forward but they fell like dominoes before the two bible-

verse-spouting men clad in plaid shirts and dirty blue jeans. A whirlwind of fists met

anyone who dared come too close or even looked as though they wanted to take

umbrage with what the men were shouting.

“‘And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on

the earth in the sight of men, and deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means

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Dancing on the Wind

of those miracles which he had power to do in the sight of the beast.’ Revelations,

chapter thirteen, verses thirteen and fourteen!’” the second man said, pointing a rigid

finger at Bolivar. “You will burn in hell for deceiving these good people!”

Bolivar was staring wide-eyed at the men, her remaining bodyguard blocking their

approach to her. She was looking about frantically, no doubt searching for one of her

people to put a stop to the taunts. Her gaze passed over Fallon, stopped then came back

to him and held.

Just as he knew it would since the subliminal message that he would be her savior,

her protector, that he had been sent, was even then weaving its way through her mind.

“Be careful using your powers,” the Supervisor had warned him. “There could be a

receiver among her people. When you send, send only to your target and shield that

transmission carefully.”

“
You need me and only me. You can trust me and only me
,” Fallon directed to her.

She gave him a pleading look as she clung to her remaining bodyguard.

Fallon nodded slightly and headed toward the larger of the two disruptors.

“‘To the law and to the testimony—if they speak not according to this word, it is

because there is no light in them’,” the first man shouted, arms raised to the heavens.

“That’s enough,” Fallon said.

The burly man spun around to face Fallon. A mean look entered the man’s pale

gray eyes and he took a powerhouse swing at Fallon, who ducked beneath the punch

and drove his fist into the man’s solar plexus. A loud whomp of sound accompanied

the jab and the burly man bent over, stumbling back from the power of the hit.

What followed was a spectacle of pure masculine strength as Fallon used every

boxing, martial arts and street brawling technique he’d ever learned to take the two

men down. They rushed him and he stepped aside with a savage jab to a jaw or a

wicked kick. He used his fists like bludgeons to meet their own punches, blocking each

except one that landed brutally to the side of his face, staggering him.

But he didn’t go down beneath the dual onslaught. He executed the superb training

he had learned at the hands and feet of the burly man to defeat him—although the

outcome of the fight was a foregone conclusion even before it began.

Fallon was enjoying himself and his opponents were taking a beating that sprayed

blood and darkened eyes. He was working off the anger he felt toward Bolivar and her

sideshow, and the anxiety he felt at having left Keenan with Breslin. Toward the end, he

wasn’t pulling his punches and neither were they yet he still managed to put them

down—the last one with a roundhouse kick that sent the man to the ground.

From out of the crowd rushed six men he knew were operatives who waved away

Bolivar’s workers. They picked up the beaten men and started dragging them away.

“They’re not right in the head,” one man told Bolivar. “They’re our kin. We’ll see to

them!”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Where is the law when you need it?” a woman yelled from the crowd. “Them men

need to be put in jail!”

That was the last thing the operatives needed, Fallon thought, and if they were left

to Bolivar’s people, might not survive the night.

“The law is out there on the highway directing traffic,” someone said with a snort.

“That’s more important to them than seeing to Mother Bolivar’s safety!”

“Somebody run get a policeman,” a young African-American woman told them.

“You men leave those rabble rousers right where they are!” Her words were ignored.

The men who were taking the unconscious fighters away looked big and powerful

enough to make mincemeat out of anyone who tried to stop them, so people simply

moved out of the way, wedging back in a silent wave.

Fallon’s knuckles were bleeding, aching savagely and he shook them, put a hand up

to his cheek, knowing the skin had split when he’d been hit. He hoped no one noticed

the wound had healed almost instantly or would wonder when no bruise formed. He

couldn’t let anyone see his knuckles either, for in a matter of moments, they too would

show no signs of being injured thanks to his Reaper constitution. Looking around, he

didn’t see Bolivar, her untouched bodyguard or the two Sensitives. Gritting his teeth for

he hoped his performance with the two operatives hadn’t been in vain, he dusted off

the legs of his jeans and started for the parking lot.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he whipped around—shrugging it off as he

brought his fists up.

“Easy there, dude. I’m just here to deliver a message,” the man stated, hands up

and out to the side.

“Yeah, like what?” Fallon snapped.

“Mother Bolivar would like to see you.”

Fallon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“I expect she wants to thank you for your help and to see if you’re all right,” the

man gave Fallon a quick once-over. “You seem fine to me, but you know how women

are.”

Fallon pretended to think it over—turning his head toward the parking lot for a

long moment. He looked back at the man then shrugged. “I ain’t got nowhere to be and

no time to be there.”

“Right this way,” the man said, sweeping a hand toward the backyard.

Sauntering behind and to the right of his guide, Fallon swept his hooded gaze back

and forth, watching everything, taking in all that was around him. Those he passed

nodded respectfully to him and he knew already word of him was filtering through the

workers. A few men stepped well away, but every woman he passed batted her eyes

and licked her lips as though he were the main course at the evening meal.

“Damned lot lizards,” the man beside him quipped. “More trouble than they’ll ever

be worth.”

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Dancing on the Wind

“Some look to be possum belly queens to me,” Fallon replied. “Wouldn’t touch one

of ’em with a titanium-lined Johnny bag.”

“Where was your last show?”

“Out in cornhusker land,” Fallon replied. “Worked the motordrome circuit.” He

snorted disgustedly. “Last place was in Altoona, Iowa.”

“Well, now I would have pegged you for something different altogether.”

“I filled in on the goon squad if that’s what you mean, but I damned sure wasn’t

wearing no fucking white suits.”

The man laughed, stopped and offered his hand. “Ollie,” he said. “Ollie Rankin.”

He slapped Fallon on the back with his free hand. “I knew you were one of us. Could

smell the sawdust in your blood.”

Fallon half smiled as he shook Ollie’s hand but didn’t let it reach his eyes, which he

kept cold and lethal.

“Mother Bolivar lost her right-hand man a few nights ago, and the goons she’s got

shadowing her now are next to worthless,” Ollie reported, releasing Fallon’s hand.

“So I noticed. Anyone who could let a rube beat the shit out of him ain’t worth

much in my book.” He fell into step beside Ollie as the older man began walking again.

“What happened to her main man?”

“Nipped by the cops on a concealed weapons charge. Stupid fuck. He knew better.

Swears he wasn’t carrying, but it was his Glock he was carrying on him. Says he don’t