The Lights of Tenth Street

  His partner jumped in his seat. “What?”

  “There.” The driver jabbed his finger forward. “See those girls … is that them?”

  His partner took one look, then scrambled out of the car. The driver turned the ignition key and pulled out of his spot, moving slowly. He whistled to himself in anticipation as he crept forward.

  “That’s our entrance, right there.” Doug pointed at one of several gates with various FBI signage. Through the heavily barred gate, he could see two agents waiting for them, deep in conversation. He checked to be sure no traffic was speeding down the street, and stepped off the curb. “Let’s go.”

  Ronnie heard running footsteps and turned her head. A man was advancing fast, his eyes intent, fixed on her. She gasped and pushed Tiffany ahead of her into the street, trying to run.

  The man clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her backwards, wrenching the Palm Pilot out of her hand. As he raised a truncheon to hit her head, she had a confused impression of Doug hurling his elbow at the side of the man’s face.

  Her captor dropped her, stumbling, and she screamed. In the middle of the street, a car had pulled up, and another man was wrestling with her roommate, a back door open and ready to receive her. Tiffany was scratching and biting, fighting like a cat, but losing the battle. Ronnie tried to run to her, only to be pushed forward with a mighty shove, propelled toward the melee and the waiting car. Shouts rang out from the gated complex across the street.

  Doug was crumpled on the sidewalk, the truncheon by his side. Panting with terror, she watched as the second man dealt Tiffany a sweeping blow across the face, stunning her, pushing her in the car. As Ronnie was dragged around the car, she saw men running from the FBI building … uniformed men … running from the gates, shouting at the attackers to stop, drawing weapons.

  The man holding Ronnie turned her toward the advancing guns. He opened the other back door of the car and pulled her in after him, squeezing her neck until she felt herself reeling.

  Caliel had his sword out, advancing with the other members of the heavenly host, slashing through the armies of darkness drawn by their henchmen’s call. Their blazing swords flashed with the urgency of those who wielded them, desperate to reach those in their care, desperate to overcome the unexpected strength of this onslaught. There was more at work here than they had realized—more dark prayers strengthening the arms of their foe.

  He watched Doug move weakly, lifting his head from the sidewalk, his lips moving in prayer. Beset by an unbreakable army, Caliel cried out to the Lord of Hosts. It all came down to this!

  A piercing bolt of purest light seared a path through the armies of darkness. The dark foes screamed, hands to their eyes, momentarily blinded.

  Shouting his gratitude, Caliel dove for the car.

  “Go! Go!” The man had his hand clamped around Ronnie’s neck as she gasped in pain and terror, tears blurring her vision. He shouted at the driver. “They’re coming! Go!”

  Ronnie could hear the squealing of tires, but felt no forward movement. The driver’s violent curses penetrated her fog. “It’s not moving!”

  “What do you mean it’s not moving!”

  Suddenly, she felt no pain, no terror, could hear no shouting or curses. The man still had his hand on her neck, but she felt no pressure. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion except for her. The FBI men had drawn nearer to her side of the car, but their words seemed frozen on their lips. She turned her head the other way, saw her roommate slumped on the seat beside her, and knew—somehow, she knew—that was the direction she had to go.

  Without thinking, without wondering how she was doing it, she slipped out from her attacker’s vise grip and moved across the seat, reaching over Tiffany’s unconscious body and gripping the door handle. She watched as the locked door opened under her hands and swung wide open at the barest push.

  She stepped from the car, reaching back and lifting Tiffany out, weightless as a feather. She closed her eyes, swamped with the oddest feeling.

  It almost felt like that day long ago when her dad had come up behind her as she tried to carry a heavy suitcase out of her room. She was saying good-bye, saying she could do it on her own, sniffling, tears streaking her face. Her dad had stood behind her, placing his hands over hers, holding both her and the impossible weight of the suitcase in his strong arms.

  Ronnie held Tiffany’s weightless body, feeling strong loving arms about her, tears again streaking her face.

  Daddy …!

  In a rush, time snapped into place and shots rang out, sending Ronnie to her knees, screaming again, holding her roommate. Doug crawled over and lay across the two girls, pinning them down. More shots! People surrounding the car, shouting!

  Ronnie tried to tell Doug it wasn’t necessary for him to protect her, tried to look into his eyes and tell him that everything would be all right. But he was glassy eyed and distant, heavy. She felt something warm and damp seep into her shirt, and her breath caught in her chest.

  Running steps, helping hands, pulling Doug up and then laying him down, calling for a medic.

  “… pressure to that wound!”

  He flapped a hand feebly, trying to tell her something. She lifted herself up and scrambled over to him, tears flowing freely now, staring down in shock at the pain on his face … the man who had sacrificed himself for her. Such sacrifice … for her.

  “Doug!” She saw the red wetness in the middle of his coat. “Why, Doug? Why?”

  Another set of running steps, a man staring down at her. “Are you Ronnie? Is this Tiffany?”

  She nodded, torn, as many hands lifted her up and bore her away. She looked back amid the crush. “Doug! Tiff!”

  “We’ll take care of them, ma’am. We need to hustle.”

  She tried to protest, despair threatening to swamp her, but the many men around her were like a rolling brick wall, unhearing, inexorable.

  Just as they propelled her through the gates, a voice shouted after them. The man who led the pack stopped and looked back to see a female agent run up with something in her hand.

  “The male victim said this device was in the car.” She held out the Palm Pilot, its screen shattered. “He managed to gasp that out before …” she glanced at Ronnie. “Well, before he went unconscious.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Ronnie screamed. “He’s dead!”

  “I don’t know if he’s dead. He’s losing a lot of blood, and he’s unconscious. That’s all I know.”

  Ronnie allowed herself to be tugged into the safety of the building, around corners and through several offices, great sobs racking her body.

  Caliel dealt a swift, furious blow to the demon responsible and watched him vanish into blackness. Caliel knelt beside the man of God, his face as anguished as that of the humans feverishly at work about his still form.

  He looked up. “O Ancient of Days, spare this man. Spare his family sorrow upon sorrow.”

  The answer came back to him, and he placed his great hands on the small chest, bowing his head. All around him, his troops, weary and battle-scarred, rank upon rank, went to their knees.

  And Jesus stood among them. A thrill ran through the ranks as it had every time they watched, every time they saw the hand of the Healer at work.

  “It is not yet your time, little one.” The Lamb of God took the man by His hand, his voice solemn but deep with the breath of joy. “Awake. For you have much yet to do.”

  The man’s eyes opened, and he looked with wonder at the shining figures all around him … at the One figure that mattered.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “My Jesus.”

  The Lord smiled, caressed the dirt-streaked brow, and vanished.

  SIXTY

  Doug sat up, and the medic leaning over him shrieked and put her hand to her heart.

  “O Jesus, O Jesus.” The woman was panting, her eyes wild. “O dear God.”

  “You prayed, didn’t you?” Doug said.

  “I did—I alwa
ys do. But I didn’t think—O dear, sweet Jesus.” She put her hands to her mouth, tears leaping to her eyes. “I’ve never seen—I mean—I lost your pulse!” She gulped several times, almost hyperventilating.

  “Thank you.” Doug stood up, drawing cries of astonishment from the many people in the area. He looked down at her. “Tell these people what happened, what the Lord has done. I’ve got to get inside. I was told—” his eyes twinkled—“that I have much to do.”

  He left the woman stammering to explain what happened to dozens of people with stretched faces, willing to suspend disbelief in what they had seen with their own eyes. Doug advanced through the gate and came to the security area, where he explained who he was. While they made the calls, he looked down at his blood-saturated coat, fingering the neat hole, feeling his own firm skin beneath. In a few hours he would probably be really freaked out by all this. But right now he knew, somehow, that their work was urgent, that time was drawing short.

  He heard a short beep in his breast pocket and realized with surprise that his cell phone was still there, undamaged, and that someone must have left him a message. He was listening to Mary’s voice mail about Jordan’s odd behavior when he heard the sound of running steps.

  The man who had taken Ronnie away burst through the turnstiles and just stood, staring at him in shock. He swore. Then swore again.

  Doug smiled, turned off his phone, and shook the man’s hand. “I think there’s something better to say at this point. I’ll explain as we go.”

  Ronnie sobbed in the arms of an uncomfortable-looking woman, a complete stranger. The female agent patted the young dancer on the back, saying “There, there” like a broken record. Her boss had left, running back toward the entrance, leaving them alone.

  Ronnie shuddered. She had gone to the Turners for help, and now Doug was dead, killed protecting her. And after such a miraculous, unearthly escape! How could she face Sherry … the kids … those sweet kids? Fresh weeping, hopeless tears. It was all so senseless.

  She heard quiet footsteps, heard a man’s voice soft, telling someone nearby that he’d like to speak with her alone for a few minutes. She felt someone crouching beside her chair.

  “Ronnie.”

  Something in the voice was on the verge of laughing. She jerked her head upright, then screamed in shock and delight, jumping up and hugging Doug with all her might. Almost as suddenly, she pushed him away, terrified.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I must have hurt you!”

  “No.” Doug had a strange look on his face. “No, you didn’t. God healed me, Ronnie. I can hardly believe it myself. But people were praying, and Jesus came and healed me.”

  Ronnie took another step backwards. “But your coat—the blood. There’s the hole right there! How could you be standing here? Take your coat off! I want to see!”

  Doug removed his coat and laid it on a nearby chair. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, his own hands stained with the blood that spread across its front. He held it open so Ronnie could see the smooth skin, unbroken.

  Shaking, she reached out a hand to touch where the bullet must have gone in. Nothing. She felt herself growing faint and looked up at his face.

  Doug smiled, and shrugged. “Someone else, long ago, wanted this sort of physical proof about Jesus himself, Ronnie. It’s okay. But soon—very soon—you and I need to have a serious talk. God is doing a lot to get your attention. He has chosen you to be in the middle of something very important, but I know what He wants the most is you.”

  Ronnie felt disconnected from reality. She could only nod as people began streaming into the room.

  “Yoo-hoo!” After the shortest of knocks, Jo poked her head into the house and looked around.

  “I’m in the kitchen!” Sherry’s distant voice carried through the sweeping front hall. “Come on in!”

  Sherry accepted a kiss on the cheek from Vance, and thanked Jo for the bouquet of flowers she’d brought.

  “Go put them in that vase, would you?” She gestured with her elbow, about the only part of her that wasn’t covered with flour.

  “What are you making? It smells great.” Jo looked over, curious, as she held the vase under the kitchen faucet.

  “Oh—well, I had a little time since Doug’s still down at the FBI. So I figured I should make a fun New Year’s Eve cake.”

  “Yum.” Vance tried to dip his finger in the icing bowl and got his hand slapped. “Hey!”

  Jo laughed. “So Doug’s still down there. How’s it going, do you know?”

  “He called me before they went into a big meeting of some kind—he sounded really odd. Said he had something amazing to tell me, but didn’t have time to elaborate before he had to go. He was turning off his cell phone for an hour or two, he said.”

  “So we don’t know when he’ll be back?” Vance said.

  “Nope. He did ask us to pray for them; said there were some weird things going on, and it seemed urgent. The FBI was taking the whole thing ultraseriously.”

  Vance looked at the clock. “I wonder if he’ll even be back before midnight.”

  Sherry gave her guests an apologetic smile. “Me, too. I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t worry about that,” Jo said. “We’re just glad we could be here.”

  Vance gave an emphatic nod. “I’d want to be here anyway, just so you’re not alone.”

  “Thanks.” Sherry hugged both friends in turn.

  “And while we’re thinking of it,” Vance added, “let’s pray for a minute.”

  Standing in the kitchen, amid the scattered pots and pans, flour and spices, the little group again approached the throne of grace.

  Jordan’s Mercedes sped down the street, piercing the late-afternoon rays like a black bullet, his face calm and deliberate. The two men followed him in a different car, ready to be sent off or pressed into service at a moment’s notice.

  Jordan’s manner was deadly calm, but inside a voice was rising, raging that the plan was coming apart, that something had to be done.

  He screeched around a few corners, then pressed redial on his cell phone.

  “I’m almost there. We’ll know in a minute.”

  On the other end of the line, Jordan could hear Tyson shouting for someone in the background to hustle. He came back on the line. “Let me know what you find. And I just got the final word, Chief. Unless—well, unless something goes wrong, we’re set for tonight. The networks’ schedules are final; the ad is locked in place for one minute after midnight; the code is ready for broadcast. Just six more hours.”

  Jordan nodded as he watched two frantic pedestrians leap out of his way. “Six more hours. The supplications will carry us through. Nothing will go wrong. We’ll see to that.”

  The supplications will carry us through?

  What did that mean? What was up with this guy? Tyson rolled his eyes, glad Proxy couldn’t see him.

  “Uh … sure, Chief. He’s got no reason to suspect you. Call me back once you know.”

  Jordan clicked off his phone and pulled into the subdivision, into the appropriate driveway. He watched in his rearview mirror as the other car found an empty spot on the crowded street with a direct view to the front door.

  He got out and motioned for the men to stay put for the moment, then walked calmly up the path and rang the doorbell.

  A young boy answered the door.

  “Hello, Brandon. Is your daddy home?”

  Tyson had barely hung up the phone when it buzzed again. One of his lieutenants.

  He listened in growing fury to the news. The replacement shift had arrived at the FBI, only to find the street in chaos, the sound of gunfire ringing through the early evening. The men had run down the sidewalk, getting as close to the action as they could, mingling with a growing crowd. Their colleagues’ car, recently riddled with bullets, was in the middle of the street, agents swarming everywhere. It looked like a man was down on the other side of the car, being worked over by paramedics. They couldn’t get a good view; didn
’t know who it was.

  Tyson clenched his eyes shut as if he could make the nightmare disappear.

  “Could it have been one of our men?”

  “Unclear. They thought our guys might have been inside the car, but couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead.”

  “And no sign of the girls?”

  “Not that they could see.”

  “So we don’t know how our men were found out, or what they saw before all this happened?”

  “No, sir.” The lieutenant had a note of satisfaction in his voice. “But I do have one piece of good news for you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “They got close enough to see a woman agent retrieve that device you were looking for—like a Palm Pilot—from the car and run it inside.”

  “And why is that good news?”

  “Because it was shattered, completely destroyed. Bullet must’ve hit it—or our guys broke it on purpose when the gig was up. The replacement team left the scene to call in the news when they saw that.”

  “Tell them to get back there and keep watch.”

  “Already done.”

  Tyson hung up and his eyes narrowed as he considered the ramifications, a cold excitement again beginning to build in his core. The FBI might have the girls—probably had the girls—but they didn’t have the file. What damage could the whores really do spilling their guts for hours?

  He started smiling, glee breaking out on his face for the first time in twenty-four hours. This was a gift from the gods! It was perfect! The girls would have quite a story to tell. The meticulous men and women of the FBI would take their statements and keep them there, talking, questioning them, for hours … and hours.

  And they only needed six.

  It was going to work!

  Tyson pulled up his e-mail account and typed out an urgent prearranged message to the members of the S-Group. They would all be wrapping up their affairs, finalizing their financial arrangements, making ready to head to the airport … and would wing off into the darkness as the corrupted land exploded into chaos.