Assassins: Assignment: Jerusalem, Target: Antichrist

  While he felt bad about mistreating the others, something about this anger seemed righteous. Was it possible God had planted in his heart this intolerance for injustice for the sole purpose of preparing him to assassinate Carpathia? Or was he deluding himself? Rayford didn’t want to think he was losing his mind. No one would understand a man like him trying to rationalize murder, even the murder of the Antichrist.

  Rayford turned the dial to as hot as he could bear it and hung his head beneath the spray. His prayers had become entreaties that God allow him to do the unthinkable. How much was a man supposed to endure? The loss of his wife and son were his fault. He could have gone to heaven with them, had he been a man of faith and not pride. But losing Bruce, then Amanda, then Ken, now Doc—ah, why should he be surprised? It was a numbers game now. Did he expect to be among the last standing at the Glorious Appearing? He certainly wouldn’t be if he took a shot at Nicolae Carpathia. But he probably wouldn’t survive either way. Might as well go out with guns blazing.

  Rayford stepped out of the shower and looked at himself in the steamed-up mirror, a towel draped over his shoulders. As the vapor dissipated and his face became clearer, he hardly recognized himself. Even a year ago he had felt all right, and Amanda seemed impressed with his mature look. Now mature would be a compliment. He looked and felt older than his years. Everyone did now, of course, but Rayford believed he had aged more quickly than most.

  His face was lean and lined, his eyes baggy, his mouth turned down. He had never been much for ascribing depression to every blue period or downtime, but now he had to wonder. Was he depressed? Clinically depressed? That was the kind of thing he might have discussed with Floyd. And with the thought of his name came that stab in the gut. People around him were dying, and there would be no end to it until Jesus returned. That would be wonderful, but could he last? If he responded like this to someone he had known as briefly as Floyd, what would happen when, if, if . . . he didn’t want to think about it. Chloe? The baby? Buck? Tsion?

  This woman from the hospital, Leah, would she be worth talking to? Trying out a few ideas on a professional, a virtual stranger, seemed easier than raising the same things with anyone else in the house. In a peculiar way, Hattie knew him as well as the others. But she was still an outsider, even more than the newcomer was. He could never reveal his deepest thoughts to her.

  Of course, he wouldn’t say anything about his Carpathia plot to Leah Rose either. But he might get some insight into his own mind. Maybe she had dealt with depressed people, or knew doctors who had.

  Rayford realized as he dried his hair that he recognized neither the man in the mirror nor the man inside anymore. The schemes playing at the edges of his mind were so far afield from the Rayford Steele he thought he was that he could only imagine what Chloe would say. And she knew only the half of it.

  His new abruptness was hardly hidden from the rest of the Trib Force. They had all forgiven each other countless times for pettiness. All except Tsion, of course. It seemed he never offended, never had to be forgiven. Some people had the ability to live with grace despite untenable conditions. Tsion was one.

  But Rayford had stepped beyond selfish behavior in an enclosed environment. He had threatened the status quo, the way of life—difficult as it was. And he was supposed to be the leader. He knew he was in charge only in the manner of the manager of a baseball team. Tsion was the Babe Ruth, the one who won ball games. But still Rayford had a vital role, a position of authority, a spiritual responsibility of headship as an elder would in a church.

  Was he still worthy? Part of him was sure he was not. On the other hand, if he wasn’t going bats and if he really had been chosen of God to have a part in a centuries-old assassination plot, he was someone special after all.

  Rayford pulled on a huge robe and stepped out of the bathroom. So I’m either anointed or a megalomaniac. Great. Who’s going to let me know? The old Rayford Steele fought to jar himself to his senses, while the rage-filled, righteously indignant, grieving, depressed, frustrated, caged member of the Tribulation Force continued to entertain thoughts of grandeur. Or at least revenge. I’m a sick man, he told himself. And he heard voices downstairs. Praying.

  Mac McCullum moved steadily along on his daily jog as the sun rose orange over the radiant city of New Babylon. He couldn’t get over the beauty and what a privilege it might have been to be there under other circumstances. State-of-the-art, first-class, top-drawer, all the clichés came to life when someone considered this gleaming new megalopolis.

  But with his secret conversion, Mac had become a mole, subversive, part of the rebellion. A lifetime of military training, self-discipline, chain of command, all-for-one-and-one-for-all thinking was now conflicted. Having reached the pinnacle as a career big-plane pilot, he now used every trick and wile he had ever learned to serve the cause of God.

  Whatever satisfaction came with that was akin to the satisfaction he got that he could still clip off six brisk miles a day at his age. To some that was impressive. To him it was a necessity. He was fighting time, gravity, and a malady of physical attacks that came with mere longevity. That’s just how he felt in his job. He should feel fulfilled, but the enemy was his employer. And as a valued, crucial plant for the other side, he should exult in the fact that he knew without doubt he was on the right side—the winning side.

  But fear precluded any joy. The second he began to enjoy his role, he was vulnerable. Living on the edge, knowing that the one slip that gave him away would be his last, took all the fun out of the job. A measure of satisfaction came with the knowledge that he was good at what he did, both overtly and surreptitiously. But to wonder constantly when the other shoe would drop, when you would be found out—that was no way to live.

  As the sun cleared the horizon and Mac felt the sweat on his weathered head and face, he knew that his exposure would likely be accomplished long before he was aware of it. That was the curse of it. Not only did he not know when or if he would be found out, but there was also one thing he was sure of: he would be the last to know. How long would Carpathia, Fortunato, any of them, let him twist in the wind, still trying to ply his trade when they already knew the truth? Would they let him hang himself, implicate the comrades he loved and served, allow him to make a mess of the precarious safety he tried to protect?

  It was possible he had been exposed already. How could one know? The end of a traitor is like the end of a star—the result is always seen long after the event has taken place. He would just have to watch for the signs. Would something indicate to him that he should run, flee to the safe house, put out the SOS to the stateside Tribulation Force? Or would he be dead by the time they knew he had been compromised?

  With a mile to go, he made the last curve, now with the sun at his back. His last encrypted message to Abdullah Smith had put the Jordanian right into Mac’s own boat: “Personnel will ask straight out about your loyalty to the cause, to the Global Community, to the potentate. Remember, you are a frontline warrior. Tell them what they want to hear. Get yourself this job by whatever means you can. You will be in a position to help thwart the worst schemes of the evil one and see men and women come to Christ in spite of everything.

  “If you wonder what to say, how to phrase it, just align yourself with me. Say without hesitation that you share Mac McCullum’s views of the Global Community and are as wholly committed as he is to the policies and direction of the leadership. A truer word will never be spoken.

  “I’m not saying it will be easy. The pay is exorbitant, as you know, but you will not enjoy one cent of it. The perquisites are like none you ever dreamed of, but you will constantly feel in need of cleansing. Praise God, that cleansing is there, because we are under assignment from the Almighty. It’s short-term work, because Tsion Ben-Judah is right: When the mark of the beast is required for buying or selling, you know it’ll be a requirement for being on the payroll here. We’ll go from senior members of the staff to international fugitives overnight.

>   “I need you, Abdullah, that’s all I can say. You and Ray and I cooperated in the past. This won’t be as fun, but there won’t be a dull moment. I’ll look forward to once again sharing the cockpit with a respected airman and a brother I can trust. All the best, Mac.”

  Buck sat next to Chloe on the couch. Tsion sat nearby, as did Leah. Here she was, brand-new in the house and already involved in a prayer meeting about their leader. Buck prayed hesitantly and not without guilt. Should they not have simply confronted Rayford? Wasn’t this akin to spiritually talking behind his back? Surely Tsion would approach Rayford in due time.

  CHAPTER 5

  Rayford hated feeling isolated from the others. With his dream of eliminating Carpathia (even temporarily) he ironically had more in common with Hattie than with anyone. It was his own fault for losing control and making them tread carefully around him. But what was going on downstairs at midnight? All of them praying together always encouraged Rayford. But did this constitute a meeting of the Trib Force without him? Should he be offended?

  Of course they were free to meet in any combination of brothers and sisters they wished. It wasn’t like they were conducting business. What was the matter with him? When did he start caring about such trivia? Rayford tiptoed down so as not to disturb them. Sure enough, they sat on the couch and in chairs in the living room, heads bowed, praying. Everyone but Hattie.

  Rayford was moved and suddenly wanted to join them. His motive wasn’t pure. He wanted to reconcile with them without having to apologize again. Inserting himself in a spiritual exercise would speak volumes. He could even pray for forgiveness for his outbursts. . . .

  As he slipped into the living room, Rayford’s conscience was suddenly crushed. What a fool! How small! To be so blessed of God despite wrenching pain and then to want to use prayer to manipulate. . . . He nearly retreated but now wanted to join them for the right reasons. He didn’t even want to pray aloud. He just wanted to agree with them before God, to be part of this body, this church. He knew he would feel worthy to lead them again only when he realized that he was not worthy aside from the gift of God.

  He was the object of the prayer meeting. First one, then another, mentioned his name. They prayed for his strength, for peace, for comfort in his grief. They prayed for supernatural contentment when that was humanly impossible.

  He could have been offended, to be, in essence, gossiped about in prayer. But he was ashamed. He had been worse than he had feared. Rayford knelt silently. Eventually the emotion and fervency of the prayers so humiliated and humbled him that he was powerless to hide anymore. He pitched forward onto his elbows and wept aloud. He was just sorry, so sorry, and grateful they believed him worth the effort to restore.

  Chloe was the first to rush to Rayford, but rather than lift him, she merely knelt with him and embraced him. He felt Buck’s tentative hand on his back and wished he could tell his son-in-law not to worry, that his support meant everything. Tsion laid his warm hand on Rayford’s head and called on God “to be everything this man needs you to be during the most difficult season anyone has ever been asked to endure.”

  Rayford found himself sobbing for the second time that night, only now he did not wail the mournful cries of the hopeless. He felt bathed in the love of God and the support of his family. He had not given up the idea that God might still use him in the comeuppance of Nicolae Carpathia, but that was—at least briefly—less important than his place within the group. They could handle his not always being strong. They would stick with him when he was human and worse. They would support him even when he failed. How could he ever express what that meant to him?

  It was not lost on Rayford that Leah, though she had understandably not felt comfortable enough to touch him, had prayed for him. She did not pretend to know the problem, only indicating a recognition that he was apparently not himself and needed a touch from God.

  When the prayers finally fell silent, Rayford could muster only “Thank you, God.” Tsion hummed a familiar tune. First Chloe, then the others, sang. Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love. The fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.

  The four of them rose and returned to where they were sitting. Rayford pulled up a chair. “Thought I was getting voted out of the club,” he said.

  Tsion chuckled. “We would not even let you resign,” he said. “I would like to ask you, Leah, if you would mind waiting until tomorrow to tell us your story. I think we have all been through enough for one day, and we would like to give you our full attention.”

  “I was going to suggest the same,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any aversion to staying where Floyd used to sleep?” Rayford said.

  “Not unless anyone else has a problem with it,” she said. “And I know this sounds weird, but I won’t sleep well unless I have a sense of the rest of the place. Could I get a quick tour, just so I know where everything is?”

  “Chloe and I will be happy to show you,” Rayford said, hoping to start a connection that would facilitate conversation.

  “I’ll check on the baby,” Buck said.

  Tsion rose wearily. “Good night, all.”

  Rayford was impressed that Chloe knew enough to ignore the cellar. She started in the back of the duplex, where Leah had come in. “There’s nothing in the other flat,” she said. “It was more structurally damaged anyway. You came through the nook area here. This has been rebuilt since the earthquake when a tree smashed it and killed the wife of the owner. Her husband was at our church at the time and died when that collapsed.

  “Then the kitchen, of course, and off to the left the living room. Then the dining room, where we never eat but a lot of us work. Past the stairs there is a bathroom and the front room where Buck and I sleep with the baby.”

  Upstairs they showed her the other bath, Rayford’s room, Tsion’s, and Floyd’s.

  “Thanks,” she said. “And where did Ritz stay?”

  Rayford and Chloe looked at each other. “Ah,” he said, “I wasn’t aware you knew he had lived here.”

  “Was it a secret?”

  “The whole place is.”

  “I’m not supposed to know he lived here? I knew Dr. Charles and Mr. Williams and Hattie lived here.”

  “I just didn’t know you knew, that’s all,” Rayford said. “I hope it doesn’t make me sound suspicious.”

  She stopped. “Of what? You want to examine my mark? Something gave you the confidence to bring every emergency my way. If I wasn’t trustworthy, would I have risked my life for all of you?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Really, Mr. Steele. If I was working for the GC I could have tipped off the potentate when his lover miscarried his child while I attended her. I could have reported Dr. Charles when he incinerated the remains rather than follow legal procedure. I could have tipped off the authorities when your son-in-law got me to release Ritz with a gaping head wound. You think I didn’t know who you people were and why no one could know where you lived?”

  “Miss Rose—”

  “It’s Mrs. Rose, and frankly the reason I assumed Ritz lived here was because I knew the airport had been virtually demolished. And, in case you don’t remember, he was with you when you brought Hattie in. Was I to assume you came from your hiding place and he rendezvoused with you from somewhere else?”

  “You’re right. I’m just—”

  “There’ll be infiltrators, Mr. Steele. I don’t know how they’ll do it, but I wouldn’t put anything past the GC. But until they perfect some sort of a foolproof replica of the sign we can see only on each other, I can’t imagine a spy foolish enough to waltz in here. Run me through any grill you want, but I’ll thank you to never again admit you’re suspicious of me just because I assumed a man lived with you whose first name I don’t even remember.”

  Rayford looked pleadingly at her. “Would a tough day be an excuse?”

  “I’ve had one too,” she said. “Tell me you’re not afraid of m
e before I turn in.”

  “I’m not. I’m sorry.”

  “I am too. Forgive me if I overreacted.”

  So much for bonding, Rayford thought. “Don’t give it another thought.”

  “You trust me then.”

  “Yes! Now go to bed and let us do the same. Feel free to use the bathroom before the rest of us.”

  “You’re telling me you trust me.”

  Rayford could tell even Chloe was losing patience with Leah. “I’m tired, Mrs. Rose. I apologized. I’m convinced. OK?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Chloe said. “I have to get to bed.”

  “You think I’m blind or stupid or what?” Leah said.

  “Excuse me?” Chloe said.

  “Where’s the shelter?”

  Rayford flinched. “You don’t want me to be suspicious and now you ask about a shelter?”

  “You don’t have one?”

  “Tell me how you would know to ask.”

  Leah shook her head. “This is worse than your thinking me subversive. You think I’m daft.”

  “Not anymore I don’t,” Chloe said. “Tell me how you know there’s more here, and I’ll show it to you.”

  “Thank you. If I hid out in a safe house, I’d assume its security would one day be compromised. Either you have a place to run to on a moment’s notice, or this place turns upside-down. Plus, and this is so obvious it offends me to have to raise it, am I to assume Hattie sleeps outside?”

  “Hattie?” Rayford said.

  “Yeah. Remember her? No seal on her forehead, but fairly visible here until you all get spiritual? Where does she sleep?”

  Chloe sighed. “Go to bed, Dad. I’ll show her.”