50

            Cutty instructed Valdez to park in front of a high-rise condominium called The Summit.  A surveillance camera posted across the street had observed Thorne and his wife entering the building only ten minutes ago.  

            He didn’t know why they’d come there—perhaps an accomplice of theirs resided in the place—but it was irrelevant.  He would eliminate them, and anyone who dared to assist them.

            “Circle to the other side of the block and keep an eye on the parking garage exit,” he said.  “They try to run out, drive away, whatever, you stop them.”

            “Okay,” she said.  

            Holstering his gun, he climbed out of the truck, and Valdez pulled away. 

            In the vestibule, a keycard reader restricted entry.  He removed a laminated card with a special magnetic strip from his wallet, and slipped it through the device. 

            The system flashed a green light, and he was inside.

Knock, and it shall be opened to you.  God rewarded his loyal servants with the keys to the Kingdom.

            “Good morning, mister,” an elderly doorman said from behind a desk.  His name tag read Jim.

            Cutty gave the guy and his desk a quick, appraising glance, and saw the book lying at the man’s elbow.             

            “Great book, isn’t it, Jim?” Cutty asked.  “I’ve read that one eight times, and all his others more than ten.”

            “Is that so?”  The man’s eyes danced.  “Bishop Prince is the prophet, he sure is.  I been serving the kingdom six years now, myself.  Best years of my life.”

            “I’ve been serving for twelve wonderful years.  Praise God.”

            “He’s worthy to be praised, ain’t he?  Deserves all the glory.”

            Cutty had been prepared to show his fake U.S. Marshall badge, but it would not be necessary here in the company of a fellow kingdom servant.

            “A young man and woman entered about ten minutes ago,” Cutty said.  “Did you see them?”

            “Sure did.  Didn’t catch their names, but the young lady, she’s a sister of one of our residents.”  He grinned.  “Pretty young thangs, both of ‘em is.”

            “Which unit does the sister occupy?”

            “Lemme look here.”  Jim pushed up his bifocals on his nose, licked his finger, and paged through a three-ring binder.  “All right, here it is.  Nine oh-seven.  Ninth floor, that is.”

            “God bless you, sir.”  Cutty hurried to the elevators and punched the button to summon a car.

            Jim shut the binder, dark eyes troubled.  “Mister, is you some kind of police officer?”

            “A police officer?  Yes, of a sort.”  Cutty smiled.  “Better to consider me a faithful servant like yourself, humbly doing the Lord’s work.”

            Leaving the old guy with a befuddled expression, Cutty boarded the elevator, and got off on the ninth floor.  He checked both ways along the corridor, and then stalked toward unit 907.

            He kicked in the door.  It flew away, smacked the wall.

            He charged inside, crouched low, sweeping the gun around the shadows, finger tingling on the trigger. 

            The unit was quiet, and felt empty.

            Nevertheless, he checked every area, switching on lights: kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom, closets. 

            Thorne and his wife were gone.  They’d departed so recently that he could still smell them.

            “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouted.

            His cell phone vibrated.  He read the number: it was division headquarters.

Fuck.

            “Cutty speaking,” he said.

            The Director’s gravelly voice greeted him.

            “We need to talk.”