4
The condemned man lived in the north metro suburb of Alpharetta, in a four-bedroom, three-bath home with stucco exterior. Entering the gourmet kitchen, Noah Cutty helped himself to the contents of the double-door refrigerator.
The wide shelves contained bottled water, orange juice, eggs, margarine, condiments, a cardboard box of left-over pizza, a container of milk past the expiration date, and a twelve-pack of Bud Lite missing half the bottles. Stored in the freezer were an array of Hungry Man frozen dinners, and a half-gallon tub of butter pecan ice cream.
Cutty removed the pizza, milk, frozen dinners, and ice cream and dumped them in the trash. He twisted the cap off each beer bottle and poured the amber fluid down the sink drain, lips curling as the corrupting stench reached his nostrils.
The body was a temple, and fatty foods and over-processed meals defiled it. Alcoholic beverages of any kind—with the exception of the Eucharist—were a lure of the devil, and had no place in a proper home.
The large kitchen island had a gleaming wood top. On it, there was a crystal bowl of fresh fruit: green apples, bananas, oranges.
He selected an apple and took a tiny bite. Taking small bites and chewing thoroughly before swallowing promoted proper digestion and kept the temple in peak condition.
Nibbling on the apple, he left the kitchen for the hallway.
The target was a divorcee with an adult son in college in Alabama. He lived alone, and until his arrival, Cutty was free to peruse the house at his leisure, as he often did before executing orders. He liked to become acquainted with his targets, to learn of their lives and, especially, of their sins, of which there were always so many.
In the hallway, afternoon sunshine slanted through the arched window at the far end of the two-story foyer and imparted a lustrous shine to the travertine floor. Framed photographs of landscapes—a desert at twilight, a snowy mountain summit at sunrise, a sunny beach with powder-white sand—hung on the walls.
According to the backgrounder Cutty had read on the man, the mark fancied himself an amateur photographer, and had presumably snapped these pictures. Cutty approved of the photos. God had created the earth, and his handiwork was worthy of admiration.
A room off the hall served as a library. As Cutty headed toward it, he passed by an oval, gold-edged mirror.
He paused, as he often did lately, to appraise his reflection.
He wore his division’s standard daytime uniform of white tracksuit and low-cut white sneakers. His pale skin contrasted only slightly with his snow-white raiment. His hair, too, was so blonde it was almost white, and was precisely trimmed in a buzz cut.
His eyes, however, were the luminous blue of a summer lightning strike. People often felt anxiety when subjected to his direct gaze.
His muscular, ripped physique was an instrument of power, too. He could bench press four hundred pounds for ten repetitions, squat with seven hundred for eight. His strength more than adequately compensated for his height: he was five feet two inches tall.
Legendary men were often short in stature. Napoleon Bonaparte. Alexander the Great. Joseph Stalin. Strength of character, not height, not even physical prowess, was the truest measure of a man.
He picked a piece of lint out of his hair, and entered the library.
It featured tall, built-in mahogany bookshelves packed with volumes. Two wing chairs fashioned of buttery burgundy leather. Mahogany end tables. A fine Persian rug.
He stepped to the bookshelves and studied the titles. There was a plentitude of Christian books, including volumes by C.S. Lewis and other approved writers.
Between the shelves, a gigantic, leather-bound Bible lay open atop a polished bronze pedestal. The edition looked worth a small fortune.
First placing the apple on an end table, Cutty lifted the Bible off the pedestal. The book was open to the first chapter in Job: There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.
He carefully turned the delicate, crisp pages to Joshua, another book of the Old Testament. He loved the Old Testament. Throughout numerous ancient accounts, and especially in Joshua, God was revealed as a ruthless deity who would not hesitate to command his faithful to carry out bloody conquests to further the kingdom’s agenda. Violence, when performed in the name of and for the glory of God, was not only righteous—it was expected.
Compare that to the New Testament. Love your neighbor. Turn the other cheek. Withhold judgment, lest you be judged. Those were wonderful lessons, to be sure, but what if you were facing an unrepentant sinner who deserved eternal torment in the lake of fire?
He read a few favorite verses about the valiant Joshua laying siege to the city of Jericho and slaying all the heathens within, and then he returned the book to the display stand.
On another shelf, he found a set of books that also appeared to be collector’s editions. They were bound in expensive leather, and each bore the title: The Lord of the Rings. It appeared to be a three-volume set.
He had never read the books, but he didn’t have to in order to comprehend that they were pagan works. He would discuss this matter with their quarry when he arrived.
He picked up his apple and crossed the hall to enter the great room—and before entering, slipped in front of the mirror for a moment to check his hair again. Okay.
In the great room, Maria Valdez, the underlying reason for his fussy concern over his appearance, sat cross-legged on the plush carpet. She also wore the uniform of white tracksuit and sneakers, but her skin was as rich and golden as his was pale. Her thick, dark hair was knotted in a ponytail that hung to the middle of her slender back.
Her eyes were closed in meditation. She drew slow, deep breaths.
A new member in their esteemed ranks, Valdez had been his partner for only a week. She was quiet, but that was fine with him. It was a pleasure to simply look at her.
In her late-twenties or early thirties, Valdez was a total bombshell. She had that silky black hair. Those ripe lips. Those dark, enchanting eyes. That figure—although her tracksuit fell loosely around her shape, the material occasionally clung to her curves when she moved quickly, and hinted toward a breathtaking form.
Valdez wasn’t married or otherwise attached. Marriage and dating were not allowed for servants in their position. Neither were children.
Beyond her presumed marital status, he knew nothing whatsoever about Valdez’s background, and he didn’t particularly care. His superiors had assigned her to be his partner, and he assumed they had made a wise decision, as usual. As it read in Hebrews 13:17: Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves . . .
Typically, women were restricted from serving in their division. Exceptions were occasionally made if a female servant possessed valued talents. Although he had yet to see Valdez do anything out of the ordinary, he was confident that she would prove her worth in due course.
The sound of a vehicle entering the garage drew his attention.
Valdez opened her eyes. They were the brown of late autumn leaves.
“He is here,” she said, in thick, Spanish-accented English.
“Indeed, he is.” He finished the apple and disposed of it in a wastebasket. “Take your position, please.”
Valdez rose to follow him. She was five-six, four inches taller than he. Somehow, the height advantage she enjoyed made her more attractive.
He moved to the right of the hallway that led to the door for the attached garage. Valdez took up position on the left.
From his shoulder holster, he withdrew a Glock semi-automatic outfitted with a sound suppressor. Valdez gripped a .38 revolver, the standard-issue rookie’s gun.
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.”