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            Bolting upright like a coiled spring, Anthony swung his fist at Bishop Prince and connected solidly with the man’s jaw.  The crunch of shattering cartilage and bone was the most satisfying sound he’d ever heard in his life.

            The bishop tumbled backward.  An exotic-looking teenage girl at his side released a shrill scream. 

            Getting to his feet on wobbly legs, Anthony drew his gun. 

            The bishop crawled backward, gasping for air, a .357 in his grasp.  His eyes were stunned, as if he’d witnessed Anthony climbing out of a grave.

            “Body armor, man.”  Anthony tapped his chest.  “You think I’m crazy?”

            The bishop sneered.  He hugged the girl to his side.

            Then, he put the gun’s muzzle against her head.  She let out a thin mewl of terror.

            “Take . . . care,” the bishop said, words slurred by his injured jaw.  “You wouldn’t want me to . . . harm this sweet . . . angel.”

            “You wouldn’t hurt her.  She’s one of your prized girls.”

            “What do I . . . care?”  Bishop Prince grinned smugly.  “I have hundreds . . . like . . . her.”     

            Anthony did not lower his gun.  “You’re sick.”

            “Great men . . . of God have . . . great appetites.  But . . . what would you know of that?  Little men like you, weak in faith . . . nursing foolish vendettas.” Bishop Prince spat blood at Anthony’s feet.  “You envy the rewards . . . bestowed on the anointed.”

            “If you’re the anointed, I wouldn’t want anything to do with God.”

            “God doesn’t want you, either, Thorne.  Neither did he want your father.  Your father . . . he’s burning in the hottest furnace of hell.”

            Anthony shot the man in the shoulder.  The round knocked Bishop Prince flat onto the floor.  Shrieking, the girl scrambled out of his arms.

            “Leave,” Anthony said to her, and nodded toward the doorway.  “My friend is outside, and help is on the way.  They’ll take care of you.  Go.”

            Hugging herself, sniveling, she fled out of the room.  Bishop Prince called after her in a blood-choked gurgle that was a hollow imitation of his normally resonant voice, but the girl didn’t look back. 

            Bishop Prince turned his glare on Anthony.  Although his shoulder bled from the gunshot wound, defiance seethed in his eyes.

            “Strike me down, Thorne,” he said.  “Dare to touch God’s prophet, and see—“

            Anthony kicked him in the ribs, cutting off his lunatic rant.  The bishop winced and curled into fetal position.  He coughed up blood.      

            Anthony placed his boot at the base of the bishop’s long neck and pressed down.  Wheezing for air, the bishop squirmed like an insect nailed to a board. 

            Millions followed this vile man.  He would not have been fit to serve as the spiritual leader for a congregation of cold-blooded killers.  Anthony would have taken pure pleasure from placing a bullet in his brain.

            But there was something he had to know.

            “Who killed my father?” Anthony asked.  “You were behind it, but I want to know who pulled the trigger.  I want to know who I saw at the lake.”

            In spite of his agony, Bishop Prince managed a cruel smile.  “You . . . don’t know?”

            “Tell me who did it, asshole.” 

            Malicious pleasure brightened the bishop’s eyes.

            “A loyal . . . servant of the kingdom.”

            “Tell me!”

            “It could have been any . . . of my faithful servants.  I command . . . legions.”

            “You know who did it.”  Hot tears streamed down Anthony’s cheeks.  “You know!”

            Bishop Prince grinned, though half his face was red and swollen and blood wetted his lips.

            Anthony dropped to his knees and drove the muzzle of the gun into the bishop’s mouth, jammed it in so deep the bishop gagged on the steel, hands batting futilely at Anthony. 

            Anthony screamed at him: “Talk, motherfucker, tell me who killed my dad, you fuckin’ tell me, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you sick fuck!” 

            The bishop’s skin had begun to turn blue.  Yet his eyes, full of secret knowledge, were mocking.

            Anthony curled his finger around the trigger.  Although the bishop’s face was beneath him, he saw the shadowy figure darting away from the banks of the lake, and felt a rifle, not a pistol, in his own hands, felt his finger around the trigger, saw the mystery man in his sights, and all he had to do was pull the trigger and avenge his father, avenge him, do it for his family, kill him now . . .

            A stern command broke through the haze:  “Back off, Thorne.  Hands in the air.”

            Anthony blinked through his tears, sucked in a hitching breath.  His vision swam into focus. 

            Valdez was at the threshold of the suite.  She was backed by several armed FBI agents.  All of them aimed guns at him. 

            “Back off,” Valdez said in a softer, yet authoritative tone.  “It’s over, Thorne.”

            Mike edged around the agents.  “We did it, AT.  Right?”

            Anthony let go of the gun, the pistol still lodged in the bishop’s throat, and raised his hands. 

            Face bluish, Bishop Prince snatched the gun out of his mouth.  He clawed at his neck, choking and gagging, his suit jacket soggy with blood.

            Anthony rose and backed away a few steps.  He was aware of the balcony doors behind him.

            “Arrest . . . this . . . trespasser,” Bishop Prince said, spluttering.  “Assaulted  . . . me . . .”

            Valdez glanced at the bishop as if he were pure slime.  “We’re arresting you.  We’ve got paramedics outside who’ll attend to your injuries.”

            “It’s only a flesh wound,” Anthony said.  “He deserved a lot worse.”

            Valdez barked out a command to her team, and two square-jawed agents came forward, grabbed the bishop under the arms, and hauled him to his feet.  They began to recite his Miranda rights.  

            “What?  You can’t . . . arrest me,” Bishop Prince said.  “You have no . . . evidence of anything.”

            “There’s a white room down the hall,” Anthony said.  “That’s where he kept ‘his angels.’  You guys can start searching in there—one of the victims ran out of here a few minutes ago.”

            “We found her downstairs,” Valdez said.  “We’ll take good care of her and sweep every inch of this hellhole, see what else we can find.”

            “God will protect me from the snares of the wicked,” Bishop Prince said, on the verge of babbling as agents escorted him out of the room.  “He will deliver me from the hand of my oppressor.  I am his anointed prophet!”

            “Shut your snot-catcher,” Valdez said. 

            “When I speak to God, I’ll ask him to go easy on you unrepentant sinners,” Bishop Prince said with a leer, before they led him out.  

            “What a freak,” Mike said.

            “All right, Thorne.”  Valdez scrutinized Anthony.  “You get the goods?”

            He nodded.  “It was taped underneath the bed frame.  A flash drive.”

            “Of all the freakin’ places.”  Valdez rolled her eyes.  “Well, great work.  Hand it over.  We’ll take care of things from here.”

            Anthony looked from her, to Mike.  Mike glanced at the balcony doors, and inclined his head almost imperceptibly.

            Anthony took off running.  The other agents raised their guns.

            “Hold your fire!” Valdez yelled at her team.  “We’ll nab him at home.”

            Anthony kicked open the doors and raced to the edge of the covered balcony. 

            Outside, the clouds were breaking up, and the sun was coming out again.