Jo Robertson - The Avenger

Arriving at the turnoff a few minutes later and following the rutted asphalt road for a mile, they spotted an SUV with rental plates. It'd been pulled off to the side and leaned dangerously close to the edge of a one-foot ditch embankment.

"I recognize the vehicle. Jack's been here." Slater pulled the squad car alongside the Blazer, ran a quick check to confirm the Blazer, and jumped out. He looked around and spied another smaller dirt road that wound westward into the trees and brush. "It's his. He's gone that way." He pointed toward the dirt road.

"Why did he leave the car here?" ADA Torres asked.

"Because," Warren said grimly, "he didn't want Randolph to hear him approach." Because he's the most brilliant agent I have, he thought silently, and sick as he is, he runs on all cylinders.

While Torres placed a call for backup and Higgins clutched the medical bag, Slater started in the direction indicated by the teenager. The Sheriff drove fast on the one-lane, rutted road, clearly worried they wouldn't get there in time.

"If anything happens to Olivia," Slater said, flashing Warren a meaningful look, "I'll look for who's to blame in this mess."

Warren didn't have the luxury of worrying about the woman. He had to prioritize his objectives. First, get the antidote to Jack. Second, kill the DLK. Then, rescue the doctor.

In that precise order. And his conscience be damned.

How dare she challenge him! Randolph opened his mouth to speak, raised his hand to strike the impudent whore whose voice demanded rather than begged. But he looked again at her face, her imperial manner, her majesty.

Maria, not Olivia. She struck his heart with the stark purity of her gaze. Surely she was the Mother of God. He'd chosen well this time, and of course, she was correct. The clouded veil over his mind lifted.

Suffer not the woman to behold her nakedness. Had he read that somewhere in the Old Testament? Or had he made it up? No matter, the words were profound, and as God's true, pure messenger, he had inherited the call to compose scripture.

He picked up a hooded cloak that lay on the cathedra positioned behind the altar, and wrapped it around her shoulders, tying the tassels loosely and slipping the hood over her dark head. The luminous pools of her eyes stared at him briefly before dipping in modesty. Good, she understood her role in the miracle play they'd begun enacting.

He hadn't yet decided to keep his original intention and sacrifice Maria as the others had been. He glanced sideways at her. After her earlier burst of fury, she appeared submissive. Had she fallen under the strength of his righteousness, under the power of God's will?

Or was she trying to trick him? Evil abounded everywhere and suspicion ran high in his nature as was the nature of any true Avenger of God.

Whichever, Maria was magnificent, small, with long dark hair. The Mother of the Lamb of God descended from the Tribe of Judah. To imagine her as blonde was blasphemy. The Mother of God was darkly regal like this woman, his Maria.

He hesitated briefly. Except for the green eyes. They disturbed him in a way he didn't comprehend. He pushed the thought of those blazing emeralds aside. She might carry the child… then who could deny her nobility proved by immaculate conception?

He raked his eyes over her again, imagining the naked body beneath the robe, the luscious breasts, the supple arms and legs. Briefly he imagined himself enveloped in that embrace, lying between those legs, thrusting…

No! Blood pounded in his head and he pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. Was she the mother of God? Or a Jezebel who tempted him to break his own vows?

Part of him longed for the former while a powerful rage of desire tormented him. He clenched his fists at his sides. If she turned out to be other than who she pretended to be, by all that was holy, he'd extract an awful penance.

He thought of the package he'd bought at a drug store on the way here. When he required her to perform the test, he'd know for sure. If she didn't now carry a child, if the test was negative and she was barren, her falseness would be proved by the results.

When they reached the parking lot of the abandoned church at 10098 Winding Ranch Road, Warren pulled a weapon from his shoulder holster and advanced to the front of the building. Slater followed closely.

"They're in there." Slater had drawn his own weapon and it dangled at his side.

"Seems so."

"Olivia's my friend," Slater said. "I'm not waiting for backup."

"I figure the two of us are enough."

Slater squinted and looked over at the slight form of Higgins standing some yards way.

Warren glanced at his assistant. "Let's just say some folks fare better behind a desk."

"Let's do it then," Slater said without argument.

With Jack's keen hearing he detected the rattle of wind and whisper of voices, and in the distance the scream of sirens. He judged how far away by the wailing that rang in his sensitized ears. Seventeen minutes, two patrol cars.

The Judge's bullish scent reached Jack's nostrils strong and clear. So Warren had come and was close by. Not that it mattered. The whole situation would be over before anyone had a chance to enter the church.

Olivia's higher-pitched but soft voice tinkled through the musty air like chimes in a breeze, and it was followed quickly by the oily sound of Randolph's words. Jack moved stealthily toward the source of the sounds, his knife blade clenched between his teeth. The sweat of the hunt slicked his flesh and he flashed back to the jungles of Africa and his last mission. It might all end here, he thought.

The aroma of incense and smoking candles wafted through the building as he edged carefully through the dim room. The hollow slap of Olivia's bare footsteps and the much heavier tread of the killer's shoes resounded through the church.

Jack darted behind a sleek column and peered into the large vault of the church's interior. Randolph held Olivia's left hand. Although her eyes had a heavy look, she appeared unharmed. Her bare feet showed from beneath the hem of a brown robe that covered her body and fell to the floor. In a single moment, she looked up and then quickly away as he jerked behind the column.

Good. She'd seen him.

He removed the knife from his teeth and hefted it once, twice. Grasping the knife by the blade, he raised his hand over his head and aimed for the vulnerable eye socket where the tip would pierce the brain and bring instant death. He darted another look around the column. Olivia stood between him and the target, an inadvertent barrier protecting Randolph.

He hesitated.

In the moment that he wavered, the quiet creak of a door opening in the foyer alerted him to someone entering the church. The Judge.

Stupid move. There was a reason Warren avoided field assignments at his age.

Howard Randolph reacted to the sound immediately, pulling Olivia in front of him and using her as a human shield. He eased backward one pace at a time. Jack stepped from the shadows in full view, his back to the foyer of the church. Olivia strained against the vise of Howard's arm around her waist.

"Bitch!" Randolph snarled and cuffed her hard on the face with his free hand.

From the pocket of his robe, he pulled a.32 caliber Baretta and pressed the barrel against her temple, his left arm still secure around her waist. The weapon was so small it looked like a toy, but Jack knew its lethal capacity.

"Back up, Agent Holt," Randolph ordered.

Had the threat to Olivia been a knife to her throat, Jack would've thrown his dagger straight for Randolph's exposed eyes. And he would've enjoyed watching the life drain out of the man as the blade penetrated the frontal lobe of the cerebral cortex. He was that sure of his skill.