wouldn't mind, my boss thinks it's time we all met up and talked about things.'
'Quentin, there's a little girl'
'Ruby. Yes, I know. You don't want to go charging up there right now to save her. You really, really don't.'
'What did you see?' Hollis asked him.
'Something I don't want to see again. Ever. I'll explain, but right now we need to go. We don't have much time, because our pilot can't be AWOL more than an hour or so.' He stepped back and gestured.
They exchanged glances, and Sawyer holstered his weapon, Tessa returned to the dining room long enough to pick up the bag that still held a sleepy poodle, and Hollis grabbed a jacket. Then they followed Quentin from the house.
After hearing that there would be a pilot, Sawyer wasn't all that surprised to find, awaiting them in a clearing no more than a couple hundred yards from the house, a sleek green and white helicopter. His first thought was that it was a M.A.M.A chopper: one of the Mountain Area Medical Airlift choppers seen fairly often carrying patients from accidents and smaller hospitals to the major medical center that was Asheville.
His second thought was the recognition that this was a much more powerful and unusual machine, and also that it was a hell of a nifty idea to make the aircraft look like one residents in the area wouldn't think twice about if they looked up and saw it. Most people would make an idle mental note to check the news and see if there'd been an accident but wouldn't be surprised if no later news report was forthcomingpatients were regularly ferried from one hospital to another, and that seldom made the news.
He was surprised at the almost eerie quiet of the machine, though it explained why they'd heard nothing. The rotors beat the air rhythmically, but that was virtually the only sound, and even that was oddly muted.
'Military?' he asked Quentin.
'They wish. Let's go.'
Sawyer was the last to climb aboard, and it wasn't until he settled into his seat and accepted the headphones Quentin offered that the pilot turned his head and offered a very faint smile.
It was Reese DeMarco.
Sawyer exchanged looks with Tessa, hoping that his eyes weren't as wide and baffled as he felt, and then hastily put on his headphones as the helicopter lifted into the air and headed north, so low it was practically skimming the treetops.
'What the hell?' Sawyer demanded. 'He's on your team?'
'Afraid so.' Quentin sounded amused. 'I know he makes a rotten first impression, but given time you'll warm up to him.'
'I doubt that,' Sawyer snapped.
Tessa looked at Hollis, who merely shrugged.
'I've never met him,' the agent told Tessa. 'Knew we had somebody else on the inside, but that's as much as Bishop would tell me.'
Through the headphones, Reese DeMarco's voice was cool. 'And that was more than you needed to know.'
Hollis shot him a none-too-friendly look, then shrugged again. 'Looks like all the secrets are coming out today anyway.'
After that, the passengers and pilot remained silent for what turned out to be about a ten-minute flight to a very large house perched high above Grace on the side of a mountain. What appeared to be a flat-roofed multicar garage sported a clear heliport, and DeMarco set the chopper down with a featherlight touch and switched off the engine.
Sawyer was in no mood to be impressed. He ignored their pilot as he helped Tessa out and then walked beside her across the landing pad, following Quentin, Hollis, and DeMarco into the building.
As soon as they stepped inside, Sawyer knew they were in someone's home rather than any sort of government or corporate structure. The rooms were open and expansive, towering windows provided spectacular views of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the furnishings and artwork were, clearly, both expensive and tasteful.
They passed through a huge living area, seeing a gleaming state-of-the-art kitchen off to the left, and then into what was obviously an unusually large study. A massive conference table occupied the center of the space, while at least three discreet computer workstations were scattered around the outer areas of the room, each with a stunning mountain view.
Sawyer thought the room was deserted. For an instant.
He came out of nowhere, a big man whose powerful single punch knocked DeMarco to the floor without warning.
'You shot me,' the big man bit out.
DeMarco didn't attempt to get up. Instead, he pushed himself onto an elbow and gingerly rubbed his jaw with one hand. He eyed the man standing above him with more than a hint of wariness. 'Galen'
'You fucking shot me.
By the time Ruth left him, Samuel felt considerably better. Not fully energized, of course, but strong enough so that he could conduct the planned afternoon ritual with a few of his Chosen.
After that, of course, he would be fine.
He needed the cleansing of the Ritual, especially after remembering her. Not that she mattered, really. What mattered was that he had truly come of age that day, discovering that he could master his God-given abilities
It had required more long years of effort and practice, of course, before he learned to be confident. Years more before he began to cautiously explore his limitsonly to discover that with enough time and power he could do almost anything.
Almost.
He didn't meditate again, because he wasn't strong enough to endure the trip back into his complete past, but he did remain in his quarters for a few more minutes before joining those in the church for lunch.
He thought about the Prophecy.
That had been given to him nearly two decades ago, long after Maddox had found his own bloody end on the path. Samuel had gone on, but not alone. Ruth had been his first disciple. Loyal through all the years since, it was Maddox's daughter who quite often discovered and recruited the very best of Samuel's Chosen ones.
She had helped him through the test God had given him the previous summer, the test of his control over the Beast, though he thought she probably wouldn't have if she had not witnessed, all those years ago, God reaching down to touch him a second time, his gift the Prophecy.
After that, she had never doubted him.
And he had taken giant steps, this past year and more, toward becoming the perfect sword of God's wrath. He was almost there. Almost.
Only a bit more sharpening of his sword was needed, and then he would be ready.
Then the Prophecy would be fulfilled.
Then the world would be blasted clean by the pure white heat of God's chosen warrior. And the Chosen few would go on.
Soon.
'You should be glad I did,' DeMarco retorted. 'At least I knew where to put the bullets. Either of the guys with me would have gone for head shots, and not even
For several beats, it seemed as though Galen was in no mood to be reasoned with, but finally he swore under his breath and extended a hand to the man he had just decked.
