“And because a few churches in Illinois and Indiana have shown sympathy to men and women whose only crime is to find a job, I should feel obligated to shelter murderers?”
Jonathan sighed as another cheer rose from the soccer field. “We’re not murderers, Father.”
From the far side of the church-the north side-an adolescent voice yelled a triumphant “Yes!” in English, instantly drawing Jonathan’s attention.
Jonathan stood. “Come with me, Father,” he said. Knowing exactly what he was going to find, he led the priest to the front corner of the church. From there, he could see Tristan mixing it up with the kids on the field. He was shirtless now, and barefoot, playing soccer in a pair of boxer shorts.
Jonathan shot a look to Boxers and got a shrug in return. “What did you want me to do?” the Big Guy asked.
“Where are his clothes?”
“Better half-naked than thoroughly blood-soaked, I suppose. Less of a buzzkill for the other kids.”
Jonathan turned back to Father Peron. “Forget about me,” he said. “Does that boy look like a murderer to you?”
Peron watched the children play for a few seconds, and then he looked at Jonathan. “You are welcome inside my church,” he said. “Your guns are not. You decide.”
With that, the young priest turned to his left and walked back through the sanctuary doors into the dark coolness of the church.
Jackie Mitchell’s gut seized when her phone rang. This was what her life had become. Her office, once so beautiful with its soothing blues and modern leather and glass furniture, had become her prison-the place she dared not leave. The caller ID read, BLOCKED.
She lifted the receiver. “God bless you.”
“Um, Reverend Mitchell?” The male voice on the other end sounded impossibly young.
“This is she.” Jackie’s sprits rose as she considered the prospect of dealing with something other than the violence she had wrought. “Who’s this?”
“My name is David,” the young man said. “David Border. I’m your IT manager here at the Crystal Palace.”
It took her a second to process “IT” as meaning information technology. “Of course, David,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, I don’t know if this is a problem or not, but Pam Vargas in the Security Department called me a few minutes ago to tell me that someone’s been trying to hack into our system.”
Jackie closed her eyes. This couldn’t possibly be anything but bad news. “What does that mean, exactly?” She was pretty sure she knew, but she’d long ago learned that in times of crisis, it was important to make sure you defined all terms.
David cleared his throat again. “Um, well, it means that someone was trying to get information off our system that they’re not entitled to have.”
“What kind of information?”
“Well, ma’am, that’s the thing. That’s the reason why Pam called me. Apparently, since the time of the, you know,
Jackie’s sense of dread blossomed to the size of a malignant basketball. “Any contributors in particular?” she asked, even though she felt certain that she knew the answer.
Again, he cleared his throat. “Well, yes, ma’am. He seems to be focusing on our most recent contributors.”
Exactly as she had feared. Just to be certain: “How recent?”
“Call it the past six weeks,” David said.
Jackie fought the urge to cry. She concentrated on keeping her voice firm and businesslike. “Can you give me names?”
Another throat thing. She realized now that it was a nervous tic for him. “Yes, ma’am. The biggest push seems to be on All American Industries and Global Transformations. Most of the others, too, but those are the ones under the greatest scrutiny.”
“Do we know what they were able to glean from these attacks?”
Now he fell silent.
“David?”
“Well, ma’am, they pretty much got everything we have. I frankly can’t imagine how the information could hurt the companies involved, but I thought you needed to know. In fact, the absolute value of the information wouldn’t even have prompted me to call you. My concern is the ferocity of the attacks. In fact, there were at least
Her heart hammering, Jackie kept it together. “Where are they originating?”
“We can’t trace that,” David said. “And that fact alone means that the hackers are very good at what they do.”
Jackie didn’t know exactly what it all meant, but it felt distressingly like the end of everything. “As we speak, have the attacks stopped?”
“Does that mean they gave up?”
He hesitated. “I suppose it could mean that,” David said. “But they really hit us hard. The smarter bet is that they got what they were looking for and they left.”
It was exactly as Jackie had feared, her worst nightmare. “All right then,” she said. “Thank you, David. Is there anything we can do to stop this sort of invasion in the future?”
“I’m not even sure how they broke through the firewall,” he said. “When I figure that out, maybe we’ll be able to stop it. But I’m telling you, Reverend Mitchell, that these were very sophisticated attacks.”
“God bless you for your efforts,” Jackie said. “Please keep me informed of your progress.”
She laid the receiver back on its cradle, but she kept her hand in place. She had to make another phone call, and it was the last number in the world she wanted to dial. How could things have spun so desperately out of control?
Tears pressed against her eyes, but she willed them away. She’d broken her vows to God, and now this was His will. She would suffer in Hell for all that she’d done, but there were others to think about right now, and they needed to be her concern. She needed to make the call to protect them.
Steeling herself with a giant breath, she picked up the receiver and pressed in the number from memory.
In the end, Jonathan had no choice. He left his arsenal in a pile outside the door, under Boxers’ watchful eye. All but his backup piece, a.38 revolver that he kept in a patch pocket on his right calf. Call it his little poker bluff with God.
“I’m back here,” the priest called from the darkness as Jonathan reentered. The sound came from a room off to the right-hand side of the altar. Jonathan strolled down the center aisle, between the two rows of chairs, and when he arrived at the foot of the altar, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking, then crossed himself and offered a shallow genuflect.
“You are Catholic,” Father Peron said from the shadows. He held a cup and saucer in his hand, stirring it slowly.
Jonathan could smell the coffee from thirty feet away. “More so than I usually behave,” he said.
“True of most Catholics from your country. May I offer you some coffee?”
The room off to the side wasn’t exactly a vestry, but it appeared to serve in that capacity. Call it a cross between vestry and bar. Built cheaply yet sturdily of what appeared to be local hardwoods, the room had a utilitarian yet homey feel about it. Jonathan just wished that he could turn up the light a little. Tall shelves lined two of the four walls, and when Jonathan noted the contents, he smiled.
Father Peron was not a teetotaler, and his tastes apparently ran toward single malt scotches, forming an instant bond with his parish’s latest visitor. Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin was a religious experience unto itself, and there it was on the top shelf of the racked and stacked liquor, just at eye level.
