37

            Cutty had fooled Thorne. 

            He’d instructed Valdez to park the SUV around the corner, and they’d returned to Alfaro’s property on foot, entering via the back door to stay out of sight of the house where Alfaro’s jeep was garaged.  When they’d entered the home and determined it was empty, in spite of the burning lamp in the bedroom, he suddenly realized the game Thorne was playing.

            The cunning ploy would have deceived a lesser man.      

            He had turned off the light.  Then he’d hunkered down in a dense block of holly ferns at the front of the property, hood drawn over his head, the Remington balanced on a collapsible bipod.

            Like a mouse catching the scent of cheese, within twenty minutes, Thorne had emerged from around the home where Alfaro’s jeep was stored.  He moved right into Cutty’s telescopic sight. 

            It should have been a textbook case—one head shot, one kill.  But the turbulent storm had conspired to throw off the bullet’s intended trajectory.  He’d succeeded only in blasting Thorne’s gun out of his hands.

            “Shit, shit, shit,” he said, and was thankful that Valdez was not near.  He had ordered her to remain in the house until he radioed her.  The use of foul language was sinful, but he would seek penance later. 

            As he prepared for another shot, Thorne fled to the street and took cover behind a sedan parked at the curb.  

            Rain pounding onto him, Cutty placed his eye to the scope, and waited.  Sooner or later, Thorne would have to move—and next time, he would not miss him. 

            “The devil can’t protect you from me,” he whispered, face pressed against the cool, adjustable cheek piece of the rifle stock.  “God is delivering you into my hands.”

            A barrage of thunder sounded as if it would split the earth in half.  Whips of lightning lashed the night.

            Cutty shivered.  God’s awesome power, channeled through the intense storm, charged him with such a holy fervor that he felt as if he could take hold of the next thunderbolt God delivered and hurl it like a spear toward Thorne, blowing him apart and plunging him straight to hell.

            A van grumbled down the street, coming in Cutty’s direction, tires spewing water.  As the vehicle passed by, obstructing his line of sight, he shifted aim to the left, anticipating Thorne using the van’s passage to make a run back to the house in which he and his Jezebel had taken refuge.

            Instead, Thorne broke across the street, fleet-footed as a cheetah, and by the time Cutty pivoted the rifle in his direction, he vanished around a tree, taking himself beyond Cutty’s range. 

            To get Thorne in his cross-hairs again, he would have to move.

            “Fuck!”  He knocked away the rifle.

            Valdez’s voice crackled in his earpiece: “Is okay?”   

            He realized that he hadn’t shut off his radio.  She had heard his numerous obscenities.  He was setting an exceptionally poor example of proper Christian behavior throughout this mission, and if he continued, might give Valdez cause to doubt the purity of his heart and reject his imminent proposal.

            “I’m sorry for the language I used—but Thorne broke away from the house,” he said.  “I can’t see him.  I think he’s coming our way.”  

            “Need help?”

            “No.”  He withdrew his Glock from the holster.  “Sit tight.  I’ll handle him on my own.”