Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

The last triplet turned and was hit full in the face with a paving stone. Knocked backward, he lay unmoving, skull crushed.

Leo stood over the last triplet, breathing hard.

"You…you throw like a girl." Rakkim laughed, as his legs gave out, sent him sprawling. "Leo…" He held his hand out. "Help me up."

Leo stared down at the dead triplet.

"Leo?"

Leo looked like he was about to cry. "I…I never killed anyone before."

"Well…you picked a good time to start." Rakkim lay back on the cold stones. Rainwater eddied around his head.

Lester Gravenholtz stared straight ahead as Malcolm Crews strutted across the stage of the grand amphitheater in Atlanta, posturing for the TV cameras. Crews was sermonizing his balls off, but Gravenholtz barely noticed, concentrating instead on not looking around for Karla Jean again. He about had a crick in his neck as it was. Enough was enough. You'd think no pretty girl had ever looked at him twice without being paid…which was pretty much the case, except for Baby, which was a whole nother story.

Gravenholtz shifted in the pew. Up until Baby gave him the look, he had been loyal to the Colonel, his strong right arm, and even if the Colonel held him back sometimes, gave him a talking to when Gravenholtz wanted to lay waste to the countryside, well, that was just the Colonel's gentility, his sense of Southern honor. No harm in that. The Colonel was fair and square, when most men in his position would have taken what they wanted with both hands. Besides, there were always plenty of badasses even the Colonel thought deserved killing, so Gravenholtz had plenty of room to work out his aggressions. Yeah, it had been some good times before Gravenholtz took up with Baby.

Gravenholtz glanced around…no Karla Jean. Fuck her. Fuck her.

Not that Baby hadn't been worth ruining his life over. He groaned thinking of her, and the old lady next to him scooted away from him. Seeing Baby in the morning light, those creamy curves…the sweetness of every inch of her…and that dirty mind…that had been what really sold him. He balled up the tract the ushers handed out, threw it on the floor. Over and done with. He might as well have been a tissue she blew her nose in, then tossed away. Oh, she acted like things were temporary, like any day now she'd show up in his bed and put him through his paces, but he knew better. He wasn't a fucking moron.

"I've been asked to tone down my rhetoric," said Crews, voice low, as though imparting a secret to the crowd and the millions watching him on television. "I've been advised, 'Pastor Crews, you best tone down your condemnation of Aztlan. Leave such things to the politicians, Pastor Crews, and tend to matters of God.'" The lights flashed off his pure white suit as he strode across the stage. "I've been told to tone down my defense of the Colonel, told to leave this good man to the tender mercies of those who know more than I do about, he spat the word, geopolitics. " He stood under the hot lights, arms outstretched, martyred, slowly shaking his head. "And brothers and sisters to that I say…"

The crowd leaned forward.

"I say, God damn the politicians."

People in the crowd jumped to their feet, applauding.

"God damn the appeasers."

More people stood, raised their hands over their heads.

"God damn those who attempt to silence your pastor."

The crowd thundered their approval.

Crews was talking dangerous stuff. Last night Jinx Raynaud, the president's wife, had Crews perform a private healing on her son, warning him afterward that her husband wanted Crews to quit stirring the people up against Aztlan, give him time to work things out with the Mexicans. Crews told her he answered to God Almighty, not man.

You ask Gravenholtz, Crews didn't answer to God or man, but his approval ratings were over 70 percent and rising, which was a lot more than the president could say. It was just like Baby had predicted. The Old One was probably ready to buy her a solid gold island in the South Seas. Lot of good it did Gravenholtz. His job was to keep an eye on Crews, make sure he didn't go off track, and wait for the Old One to give him something important to do. Anything was better than this…sitting here night after night while the whole country went nuts for Malcolm Crews. The man in white. What a fucking joke.

The crowd finally sat down, let out a collective sigh. Crews wiped the sweat from his face with a white silk handkerchief, bent down and gave it to a little girl at the edge of the stage. You'd have thought he'd cured her cancer the way the crowd reacted.

Gravenholtz had to force himself not to look around again for Karla Jean. Man had to hang on to his pride. She said she'd be here tonight, but that was just a lie. Some excuse to get away from him. He felt his face blister up thinking about her. There had been some moments there when he actually thought she was interested in him. Not 'cause she wanted something from him, or because she was scared of him, but because she saw something in him…something nobody else did. Shit, something even he didn't really believe was there. Instead, she was just like the others. His hands twitched. Somebody was going to get hurt tonight. Somebody who had no idea what was coming his way.

A light touch on his shoulder. "Is this seat taken?"

Gravenholtz looked up into Karla Jean's eyes. "You're late."

"I…I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Are you going to scoot over, Lester? Or you want me to stand out here forever?"

Gravenholtz made room for her. Inhaled her perfume as she sat down, her long hair brushing against him. "Afraid of what ? You got a problem with somebody, you let me-"

"You're the problem, Lester."

"Me?"

Karla Jean rested her hands in her lap, nestled among the folds of her pale yellow dress like a pair of white doves. She kept her eyes down. "I have feelings for you. First time…first time since my husband died. It's a little overwhelming."

Gravenholtz placed one of his hands over hers, covering it completely.

"I don't want to be hurt," said Karla Jean.

"I'd never hurt you," said Gravenholtz.

"Men always say that."

"I'm saying that. I won't ever hurt you, and I won't let anyone else hurt you either."

Karla Jean looked deep into his eyes. Leaned over, rested her cheek on his shoulder.

Gravenholtz felt a sense of peace that he had never felt before. There had never been a moment like that with Baby, not a moment that he wasn't boiling over. Karla Jean squeezed his hand and he could hardly breathe.

"If I agreed to stay silent, who would talk about the church burned to the ground in Corpus Christi?" asked Crews. "Would the president or the opposition leaders do more than pay lip service to this atrocity in the city named the body of Christ?"

"No!" shouted the crowd, as Crews's image loomed eighty feet high on the Jumbotron.

"Two hundred and forty-seven good Christians incinerated on a Sunday morning and yet the Aztlan ambassador is still invited to the White House for coffee and biscuits."

The United Nations had sent a peace envoy to Atlanta to try to work things out between the president and the Aztlan ambassador.

"Two hundred and forty-seven men, women and children roasted alive while they prayed to God, and now…now Aztlan says, hey, it's not our fault. It wasn't a sanctioned military action, even though a team of Aztlan commandos carried it out." Crews stalked the boards, hands flying. "Not our fault, says Aztlan, it was a single rogue officer. One bad apple."

People wept, shouted for vengeance, stamping their feet.

"Anyone here believe that? Anyone here believe Aztlan? Anyone?"

Karla Jean leaned close to Gravenholtz. "Lester…let's get out of here." She had a shy smile, like she hadn't shown it to anyone in a long time. "I want you to take me home."