Covenant Page 6

  He tossed back his second shot. The cognac’s slow burn couldn’t match the tension boiling in his chest.

  “You’re making a lot of sense, and it bugs the hell out of me,” he said.

  “Think about it, Tony. We don’t advertise our wealth, and I know money doesn’t matter much to you, but the publishing industry mags have reported some of your recent book deals, haven’t they?”

  “They have.”

  “This Bob character could easily find all of that information online, too.”

  He gazed at his empty glass. Although he’d earned a substantial income from his books over the past five years or so, his self-image wasn’t based on the number of zeroes on his bank account statement. The money was there, he was thankful for it, and that was that. He knew as well as anyone the pitfalls in materialism—like a loved one, it could all be taken away in an instant.

  But could this be a set-up? An elaborate, cold-blooded con?

  I was there when they found your father’s body . . . I want to help you find out the truth . . . justice needs to be done . . . .

  He slowly shook his head. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on this one. This is real. I feel it in my gut.”

  She threw up her hands. “God, you can be so stubborn sometimes.”

  “Blame my dad. Got it from him.”

  “I don’t want to see you hurt. You’ve suffered so much already, more than anyone ever should in a lifetime.”

  “I have to see this through, Lisa. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “Maybe we should call the cops.”

  “No way. No cops. Until we know who’s behind this, we should keep it secret, like Bob said. As far as we know, the cops have something to do with it.”

  “Now you’re sounding paranoid.”

  “Am I? Sorry, but I can’t forget how quick the cops were to label my father’s murder a hunting accident and close the case.”

  “I don’t know.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ve never been one for conspiracy theories, secret cabals controlling the world, that sort of thing.”

  “And I’ve never been one for trusting the system.”

  She sighed with exasperation. “All right, you win—on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “If this guy says anything, no matter how subtly worded, about a payoff—“

  “Then I’ll break his face,” Anthony said.

  “I was thinking that we involve the police and nail him for extortion.”

  “After I break his face.”

  “Sure, break his face, fine. Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal.”

  She pushed away from the table, grabbed the bottle of cognac, and screwed the cap on.

  “Where are you going with that?” he asked.

  “If you’re determined to meet this Bob character tonight, you’ll need to have a clear head. You need to be in a state of mind to ask him some pointed questions.”

  “I suppose you’re going to help me brainstorm some of these pointed questions.”

  “You know me well.” She stored the bottle on the kitchen counter. “Grab a pen and a pad, Tony, and let’s hash this out together.”

  9

  A gigantic drive-in that had been a city landmark for decades, The Varsity was located on North Avenue, across the way from Georgia Tech and in the shadow of Atlanta’s skyscrapers. Their distinctive red neon sign, a giant “V,” blazed in the summer night, summoning drivers roaring along nearby Interstate 75/85, the Downtown Connector.

  Anthony parked on the top level of the two-tiered parking deck. As Bob had likely counted on, the restaurant was jumping with customers who pulled up to the drive-in bays, and others who headed inside the building to grab their Friday night grub. For one worried about being conspicuous, there was anonymity in numbers.

  A platoon of security guards patrolled the parking lot, maintaining order and ensuring that no vehicles remained parked beyond the allotted one-hour limit. Exceed an hour, the posted signs warned, and you would return to find a boot attached to your wheel.

  He read his watch. A quarter to ten. He waited behind the wheel, drawing deep breaths, as if he could exhale away the heavy emotions that weighed on his heart.

  His dad had used to bring him, Danielle, and Mom to The Varsity after they attended football and basketball games at Georgia Tech, his dad’s alma mater. Eating chili dogs, burgers, and fries amid the raucous crowd, talking to each other about whatever game they had just watched, people-watching, laughing and joking among themselves . . . those were some of his most vivid, cherished memories of his family before the walls had caved in on their lives.

  He hadn’t visited the restaurant in fifteen years, but would feel a stab of anguish every time he drove past, a knife twisting in an open wound. Consequently, he tried to avoid driving past.

  He should have suggested that they meet somewhere else. He didn’t feel as if he had a good hold on himself there. He felt, literally, tears hanging behind his eyes, ready to spill out.

  Toughen up. You can do this.

  To refocus, he did a quick inventory of his gear.

  Although the night was warm, he wore a light windbreaker. He’d slipped a miniature digital voice recorder inside the breast pocket, a device he used when conducting interviews with experts for book research. He checked it to make sure it was functional, and decided to leave it in Record mode from that moment forward.

  Underneath his jacket, he also had the Beretta in his waistband holster. He double-checked that it was loaded. It might be a violation of the concealed-carry law for him to take the gun inside this place, but that was a risk he was willing to take.

  Blowing out a final, lung-clearing breath, he got out of the truck and walked to the stairs that descended to the ground level of the parking lot. The air was dense with aromas: hot dogs, hamburgers, grilled onions, fries. Music throbbed from cars, and laughter and conversation was everywhere, Atlantans out on a beautiful June night.

  As he walked, he scanned back and forth. No one took special note of him. He was just another guy dropping in for chow.

  Bob had not told him whether to wait outside, or to go in. He hung outside the entrance until his watch struck ten. After looking around again and seeing no one out of the ordinary, he went inside.

  The huge lobby was packed, over a dozen queues of customers streaming to the long, gleaming counter. He waited in an area that featured glass-fronted cases of Varsity memorabilia, trinkets for the tourists who’d made the drive-in one of their Atlanta must-sees. When no one approached him after a couple of minutes, he moved to stand in line, thinking he might buy a Coke, to pass the time.

  Someone bumped him from behind.

  He started to spin around, but a hand gripped his bicep and a man’s voice whispered close to his ear:

  “It’s Bob—don’t turn around. Buy something to eat and go to the counter with a view of the parking lot. I’ll be the one reading the Bible.”

  Bob released him, and sidled away. Anthony watched him in his peripheral vision: Bob was about six-two, lean, with gray hair. He wore a blue jacket, wrinkled white-washed jeans, and loafers, no socks.

  From the rear, he looked like an absent-minded college professor, not an oily scam artist or a demented, doomsday conspiracy theorist.

  Anthony hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, and his stomach was clenched so tight it had killed his appetite. Nevertheless, he ordered a chili dog, fries, and a Coke, the same meal he’d get during visits with his family.

  Carrying his meal on a plastic tray, he wandered into the crowded dining area. Bob was huddled at the long counter near the window. He sipped a cola and held a small Bible in one hand, idly turning pages.

  With his ruddy, weathered complexion and thinning gray hair, he might have been in his late-fifties or early sixties. He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses, and a pocket protector bristling with pens was clipped to his white, button-down shirt. If he weren’t a rumpled college pro
fessor, he certainly affected the appearance of one.

  Anthony made a show of looking around, as if searching for a seat, and casually moved to the counter, leaving a few feet between himself and the stranger. There were only a handful of other diners at the counter, and they were several feet away, engaged in their own conversations.

  Without turning to look at Anthony, keeping his gaze on the window, Bob spoke. He had a faint Georgia accent probably leavened by spending time outside the South, much like Anthony had lost his accent when he went abroad with the Marines.

  “Thanks for coming, Anthony, but we don’t have much time. I think they’ve followed me here—and if they have, your life is now in danger, too.”

  10

  According to their intelligence, the target of their mission had gone to an Atlanta dining establishment called The Varsity. Cutty exited the interstate and cruised eastward along North Avenue. The restaurant was ahead, a neon palace in the night.

  Cutty drove a late-model, black Chevy Suburban with tinted, bullet-proof glass, a supercharged engine, and reinforced steel panels. He could have selected any vehicle from their extensive fleet, but he’d chosen the Suburban because it was the largest available.

  He liked big things: big trucks, big guns, big buildings. Not because he was short in stature and attempting to over-compensate. Great size reminded him of the Almighty.

  God was bigger than everything, a hugeness that was impossible for the human mind to comprehend. To surround yourself with large items served as a reminder of God’s vastness, how you were so insignificant in comparison to the Divine.

  At the debriefing earlier that evening in the Armory, his superior had handed him a big mission, too. Their mark was a high-ranking member of their organization, a past leader in their division, but he was a Judas who sought to betray them in the worst possible way. Cutty’s superior had confided that this was such a crucial task that only one of Cutty’s caliber was worthy of the job.

  Cutty would not fail. Throughout his eight years of service, his mission completion rate was one hundred percent, a division record. When you were fulfilling your life’s true purpose, God blessed the work of your hands.

  Quiet as usual, Valdez sat in the passenger seat, watching the night-dimmed city pass by through the window. Like him, she wore nocturnal gear: black tracksuit, black sneakers. Her hair was so thick and dark it blended nearly perfectly with her clothing.

  Lately, he’d been entranced with her hair. He wanted to run his fingers through it and see if it felt as silky as it looked. He imagined snipping a tiny lock of it when she wasn’t looking, and keeping it on his person, to privately touch whenever the mood took him.

  She glanced at him, suddenly aware of his attention.

  “Is okay?” she asked.

  “Yes, everything’s fine. Here’s our turn.”

  He turned into the diner’s crowded parking lot. He had never eaten there, and he immediately decided that he never would. The cloying aromas of the artery-clogging junk food almost invoked a gag reflex.

  Growing up, he hadn’t been allowed to consume fast food of any kind. His family had lived on a communal farm in south Georgia. They had cultivated their own fruits, vegetables, and grains, raised chickens, and fished in a nearby lake. As a teenager, he’d once eaten a McDonald’s hamburger, and had suffered an upset stomach for two days.

  “Look at these heathens, Valdez, defiling their temples,” Cutty said. “Doesn’t it disgust you?”

  “Si,” Valdez said, scowling with displeasure.

  “Burgers, fries, hot dogs, shakes. All crap that destroys the temple. And they’re allowing their children to eat this garbage, too. No wonder our nation’s kids are fatter than ever.”

  She bobbed her lovely head in agreement. He raked his gaze across her body, which was concealed, frustratingly, by her loose-fitting clothing.

  “Do you ever allow crap like that into your temple?” he asked.

  “Ah, no,” she said, and made a gagging sound.

  He smiled. “I bet you don’t. I bet your temple is in fantastic condition.”

  She only looked at him.

  “Do you like my temple?” he asked. “I work out six days a week, perform lots of weightlifting and cardio, and I eat well, too, only wholesome organic food, no garbage like they serve here.”

  She appeared bewildered. Somewhere, he’d lost her.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s find somewhere to park in this grease pit.”

  After a minute of cruising, he found a spot on the ground level of the double-deck parking structure, in a corner not far from an exit.

  Intelligence had indicated that the Judas was due to rendezvous with an individual who might be assisting him in his treachery. Cutty’s first priority was to identify the man’s accomplice. Then, to detain the Judas for questioning, by force, if necessary.

  Cutty secretly hoped that the use of force would be necessary. He had not asked his superior about the nature of the Judas’ betrayal, hadn’t inquired how the man schemed to damage their organization. The details were irrelevant. Unrepentant disobedience to God’s authority was a sin, and harsh punishment was an appropriate response.

  The wages of sin is death. That was Romans, chapter six, verse twenty-three. Sin was not a game. God meant business.

  He retrieved a large duffel bag from the back seat. Among other things, it contained a lightweight gray jacket, baseball cap, and tinted eyeglasses, elements of a rudimentary disguise.

  There was little possibility that the Judas would identify him. The traitor had left their division prior to Cutty’s recruitment, and as agent in the most covert unit, Cutty’s identity was known only to his superior and the few others who had served alongside him. To all others, he was only a voice on the telephone, a username on the network.

  But he had advanced as far as he had because he believed in taking extra precautions. He found the zipper along the seam of the black tracksuit pants, yanked it down, and snatched the bottoms away to reveal the blue jeans he wore underneath. He swapped the tracksuit jacket for the gray one, and donned the cap and the eyewear.

  He lifted his arms. The jacket adequately concealed the bulge of the pistol that lay holstered against his ribs.

  “I’m going to check out the scene inside, see if I can locate our guy,” he said. “Sit tight. I’ll radio you with further instructions.”

  A tiny, flesh-colored earpiece was wedged in his ear, as well as in Valdez’s, and miniature microphone transmitters were affixed to the collars of their shirts. The communications system enabled them to stay in contact when separated by up to a thousand yards.

  He opened the door, paused. “Want me to grab a burger for you while I’m inside?”

  She frowned. “Ah . . . no.”

  “That was a joke,” he said.

  “Ah! Funny, very funny.” She laughed, but it was one of those obligatory laughs that people offered out of courtesy, not out of genuine amusement.

  He did not understand women under most circumstances, and this Valdez was a total enigma. Perhaps, if they could enjoy a long, productive partnership, they could establish a rapport . . . and perhaps that rapport could lead to something more.

  The thought gave him a warm jolt of pleasure.

  On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, an elderly panhandler in a wheelchair beseeched passerby for money. He was a pathetic sight: rheumy eyes, cracked lips, wooly gray hair and beard that desperately needed trimming. He wore torn, soiled clothes that looked salvaged from a trash heap.

  Although Cutty had urgent business inside, he approached the man.

  “God loves you,” Cutty said.

  The man squinted. “Huh?”

  Cutty opened his wallet, found a twenty-dollar bill, and offered it to the beggar. The man opened his mouth in a grin that showed diseased-darkened gums and rotted teeth.

  “God loves you,” Cutty said again, “and so do I.”

  “Oh, God bless you!” the man said.
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  “May God bless you as well, my friend.” Cutty removed a card from his wallet and pressed it into the man’s grime-covered fingers. “The gates of the Kingdom are open. Those are the times and locations of our Sunday services, and you may also view our programs on television or listen in on the radio.”

  “I’ll do that, brother. I sure will.”

  Cutty smiled and gave the man’s frail shoulder a friendly touch. One should never overlook an opportunity to minister to the downtrodden. For he that is least among you all, the same shall be great.

  His smile fading, he headed inside.

  11

  I think they’ve followed me here—and if they have, your life is now in danger, too.

  Standing beside Bob, Anthony could not resist the urge to turn and stare at him.

  “You’re serious about this,” Anthony said. “I mean, really.”

  Bob did not look at him, but his thin lips were drawn into a solemn line. He either was gravely serious, or had the best poker face Anthony had ever seen.

  Swiveling back to the window, Anthony picked up his chili dog and took a bite. Although he and Lisa had brainstormed questions that he’d memorized during his drive to the diner, his mind had gone blank.

  “I chose this location for our meeting because the security is tight, and it’s noisy enough in here to drown out our conversation,” Bob said. “Keep your voice down a notch or two and keep looking out the window, and we’ll be fine.”

  Chewing, Anthony nodded.

  “Have you told anyone what I’ve shared with you thus far?” Bob asked.

  Anthony shook his head.

  In the window’s reflection, Anthony saw a smile touch Bob’s face. “Come now, Anthony. You’re a married man, happily so, from what I’ve researched. You’ve told your wife.”

  Anthony swallowed, sipped his Coke. “Maybe.”

  “She would eventually find out, anyway. Wives have a sixth sense for knowing when their husbands are hiding something from them. I was married once, seventeen years.”

  “My wife thinks you’re a scam artist.”