national security. Do you have any idea how valuable your 'gift' could be? But that's beside the point. If you didn't cooperate, where did she get the photo of you? It's an old one, so someone had to give it to her.'
Mark stifled a yawn and scrubbed his fingers against his scalp. 'I have no idea. It's kind of funny, actually. The picture is one of the first taken with the camera.'
'You mean the special camera? I thought only you used it.'
'Not long after I came back from Afghanistan, I had the camera sitting on a counter in the studio while I was doing a commercial shoot with a few kids for an ad. One of the kids picked up the camera and caught me off guard. I meant to send that picture to my mom because she complained that I'm a photographer, but she never had pictures of me.' He shrugged even though Jim couldn't see him. 'I never got around to giving it to her though.' He put his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them as he searched for the TV remote in the cushion of the couch.
'So how did the reporter get it?
Damn, Jim was like a dog with a bone. 'How the hell should I know? I haven't seen the picture since I got out. I figure it disappeared with just about every other thing I owned.' He couldn't resist that last dig.
'Mark, I'm sorry if this is coming off like I think this is your fault. I know it's not. It just makes me really nervous to have one of my guys in the spotlight.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mark felt their presence before he heard them. He bolted awake. Hands-it seemed like dozens of them- yanked him to the floor. The covers tangled around his legs and a vise-like grip in his hair immobilized his head. He lashed out with his feet and arms, feeling impacts and hearing grunts, but there were too many hands.
Panting, he swore, the torrent of words erupting as a harsh growl. The blows landed on every part of his body, but he ignored the pain as terror fueled his efforts. A hand brushed his face and he lunged at it, biting hard. The metallic tang of blood washed over his tongue, but he only released when forced by a hard kick to his ribs. Frozen in agony, he couldn't resist as they dragged him away from the bed and hauled him to his feet.
His eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he flinched when three shadowy forms swarmed on his right and grabbed at his arms. The shadows, loose hoods hiding their faces, surrounded him. More of the hooded figures converged on his left and slammed him against the support beam in the center of his loft. They held him tight.
'It's no use, Taylor. Stop fighting, and it'll go easier for you.' A face loomed above his own and Mark recognized it. Pale light from the streetlights reflected off the snake eyes.
'No! Let me go!' Mark arched his back, every muscle straining to escape, but the intruders didn't relent.
'Uuuhhhh!' He sagged, his breathing ragged and harsh. It filled his ears. 'Wh…what do you…want?'
Kern laughed. 'We want to see if it's true, Mark.'
A bright light shone in Mark's eyes and he squinted against the intensity. 'See if…if what's true?'
'If it's true that you're the second coming.'
A soft chortle followed the comment, but the flashlight prevented Mark from seeing anything except vague shadows. He picked out the tallest one and tried to focus on him. 'What? That's…that's crazy!'
'Oh, but is it? See, I've been doing some research on you, Mr. Taylor.' He paused to smile, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. 'It seems like you have saved a lot of people. Hundreds, if the tally is right. You have a 'gift' for saving people.' Crossing his arms, the leader leaned back slightly. 'And isn't that what Jesus did? He saved people? He's the Savior, right?'
Mark shook his head back and forth. 'No! It's not like that! Th…that's insane! You're all insane!'
Grinning, the man stepped close to Mark. 'We shall see. I have a little…test for you. Just to see what happens.'
'I'm not doing any damn test!' In blind panic, he fought to escape. His muscles screaming in protest as he raged against the arms that held him. His tee shirt ripped, and he could feel fingers and sharp nails biting into his skin. In his frenzy, he managed to free one arm and used it to claw at the nearest person, grabbing onto the hood. The dark cloth fell back and even the darkness couldn't hide the bright blond hair or the delicate features.
Stunned, Mark's arm dropped and someone immediately grabbed it and restrained him once more. 'Judy? I… don't understand.'
'I'm sorry, Mark, but it's beyond my control. This is where I belong.' And then she smiled. 'It'll be okay.'
'Let's get on with it people,' Kern snapped.
Mark's hands were wrenched behind his back and bound. Another rope circled his neck like a noose. He tried to resist again, but a sharp tug on the rope tightened it enough that, instinctively, he stilled.
His captors urged him forward with a pull and he had no choice but to comply. He stumbled down the steps and out the back door of the studio. A light snow drifted down, and he gasped at the pain of the snow on his bare feet. The rear doors of a large van opened and the holder of the rope stepped in, yanking Mark in behind him. The rest of the group piled in the side door. Mark knelt on the floor while one of the members held his leash.
Chills wracked his body, and he fought to control his trembling. He remembered the horrifying details from Judy's ordeal. There had been that pole, and he recalled the ropes attached to it. Feeling sick to his stomach, he swallowed hard.
Far too soon, the van pulled into a deserted alley behind an old building. Mark had no idea where they were and he tried to look for landmarks when he staggered out of the van, but a jerk on the rope tugged his head forward.
'Ahhhhgh!' He struggled to breathe and sank to his knees as his vision dimmed. A roar filled his ears.
'Loosen the rope! We can't have him dying out here. That would ruin everything.'
A rush of air poured into his lungs and Mark sucked it in as fast as he could. Hands clamped onto his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, the lead rope left mercifully slack this time. A door opened and the group quickly entered, maintaining their almost complete silence. With the exception of Judy and Kern, no one had uttered a single word during the whole ordeal.
A long hallway opened into an empty warehouse. A bonfire blazed in the middle of the room. A half dozen black clad members of the cult greeted the new arrivals with bows of their heads. Someone threw a piece of wood onto the fire, sending a cascade of sparks shooting into the air. Broken windows high on the walls ventilated the room and the fire flared as a cold breeze swept the space.
A make-shift wooden cross loomed over the room. A small ledge jutted out from the bottom of the pole. Mark stopped in his tracks and even the tugging on the rope couldn't get him to budge. His trembling intensified, and he uttered a hoarse, 'No.'
Kern approached him. 'Oh yes, Mark. How else can I test my theory?' He looked to the cross and back at Mark with a mocking smile. 'Be grateful we didn't make you haul it in here.'
Hands tightened on his biceps and jarred him into action. Spinning suddenly, the grip on his arms slipped and he lowered his shoulder, plowing his way through the group. Two people fell and Mark made a break for the hall. He hadn't gone three steps when the rope tightened, snapping his head back. His legs flew out from under him and he crashed hard on the cement floor, his skull cracking with a dull thud on the pavement. Sparks shot through his sight. The impact knocked the wind out of him and pain rocketed through his back and shoulders. The rope bit into his neck and when he tried to breathe, his diaphragm spasmed.
There was nothing left to do but pray.
The cult members dragged Mark, face up towards the cross. He closed his eyes; barely registering the movement. Flashes and snippets of his childhood and adolescence played in his mind like a movie on fast-forward. His thoughts filled with images of his parents. It bothered him that he couldn't remember exactly what he had said in his last conversation with them. Had he told them he loved them? Maybe he'd told his mom, but probably not his dad. His dad didn't go much for expressing his feelings. What his dad lacked in verbal expression, he made up for with handshakes and claps on the shoulders. Mark's mom had no qualms about telling Mark she loved him and no visit ended without lots of hugs and kisses.
Vaguely, he heard clatters and clanks, but ignored the intrusion into his thoughts. He concentrated on the kaleidoscope of images swirling in his brain; his first bicycle, first home run in Little League, and later, the first time
