“She’s nearly compromised this mission three times already. We can’t let them know a kid survived,” said Tad. “She would have told.”
“But you just-”
Tad reached over and grabbed Felicity’s armpits; she wasn’t dead yet but would be soon. “Help me drag her over to the pavilion. No one will know.” She was trying to speak, but her head was jerking back and forth uncontrollably. It wasn’t pretty to watch. Tad continued, “We’ll tell Cole that Jones’s men got to her first. As long as we limit the number of autopsies, we should be all right. And we just won’t mention the kid, OK? He was never here. Remember, no survivors. Got it?”
Tad might tell too. He might mention the kid.
“Yeah,” said Sebastian, fingering the needle in his hand and eyeing the space between Tad’s shoulder blades. “No survivors. I got it.”
“They killed the woman. Injected her. I saw them do it. Then Sebastian killed the other American.”
Kincaid paused, reached into his suit coat, and produced a half-full syringe in a plastic bag. “Sebastian tossed the syringe. I’m not sure why I picked it up, but his fingerprints are all over it. It’s time the world knows exactly what kind of man Sebastian Taylor is.”
“Is the cyanide still potent, Father?’
“Quite. I had it tested just to be sure.”
Kincaid put the plastic bag away. “He was on his way back to Father’s cabin when the helicopters arrived.”
Then the Rangers and Green Berets showed up, and he had to disappear. Fast. If they saw him there, six other missions in two continents would go down in flames. And so, he never finished editing the tape.
All because of the kid.
“I knew some of the Temple members who came down to identify bodies. They took me back to America with them, said I was one of their children.”
Finally, Kincaid turned to look at his faithful son. “David, when I arrived in America, the media was saying the same kinds of things the looters had said about my family. The world has had thirty years to apologize, and no one, apart from a few fringe websites and a couple of self-published books, has tried to imbue compassion and humanity into their tale, has treated them with the respect and dignity they deserve as human beings, as children of our common God.”
“And that’s why the media leaders are going to pay.”
“Yes. That’s why they’re all going to pay.”
Governor Taylor looked at his face in the mirror. His was not the face of a murderer, but of a patriot.
That’s all he’d ever been. A patriot. A man who would do what needed to be done for his country. Just like the soldiers of the South had done in the War of Northern Aggression. They’d fought for freedom-freedom for states to make their own laws, to govern themselves. A real freedom. A true freedom.
He’d always done whatever he needed to do to promote freedom. That’s what a patriot does.
And now. What needed to be done?
It took him only a moment to decide.
He made the call.
“Yeah?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“It’s me. I have what you want. Meet me in room 611 tomorrow morning at the Stratford Hotel. Ten sharp, before the luncheon. We can take care of things then.”
“It’ll look like an accident?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it all planned out.”
Click.
Yes, Sebastian Taylor would do whatever needed to be done.
He was a true patriot.
He scribbled some notes onto the page and set to work finishing his speech.
69
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid’s jet pulled to a stop on one of the corporate runways skirting the edge of the Tri-Cities Regional Airport in northeast Tennessee. It was a small enough airport for him to bribe his way in without the proper paperwork, yet large enough to handle his jet. And it was close to Asheville, less than a ninety minute drive.
He stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac. Drank in the damp autumn air.
This was the last time he would ever use this plane. Well, it had served its purpose. Just as the ranch had. As Rebekah and Caleb had. As Jessica had. As his family had. Everything had a time and a place and a purpose. That was what destiny was all about.
David stood beside him, pocketing his cell phone. “Father, the house is ready.”
“Good. It’ll give us a chance to rest and prepare for tomorrow’s activities.”
Just then a van appeared on the edge of the runway and pulled to a stop a few feet from the hangar. The driver’s door swung open, and a slim, worried-looking man with trendy glasses stepped out, bowing reverently. “Father.”
“Theodore,” said Kincaid. “Has everything been arranged?”
“Yes. The uniforms are waiting at the house.”
David edged toward the van.
“And the shipment? Has it arrived?”
“Already at the hotel, Father.”
“Good.” Kincaid scratched at the scar on his wrist. “Now I believe it’s time to discuss Bethanie. She wasn’t dead when you left her, Theodore.”
A slight pause. “Yes, Father. I know.”
David slid into place behind Theodore.
“I gave you specific instructions.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“And so,” said Kincaid, “now you have a choice.”
He bit his lip. “A choice?”
“Would you like to do it yourself or have David help you?”
Theodore swallowed hard. “Father, please, I did my best.”
Kincaid waited silently.
“Please I-”
“All right, David then.”
David stepped forward and unleashed a barrage of tightly controlled kung fu moves that broke ribs, crushed the windpipe, and then snapped the neck of the young man who’d first invited him to join the family. It was over in a matter of seconds. Helping people make the transition was, after all, David’s specialty.
Kincaid watched the pulverized body twitch on the damp runway.
Thought back to the pavilion.
To the ones who lay down and never stood up again.
To the whirlpool.
To Jessica.
To the words of the Reverend Jim Jones: “To me death is not a fearful thing, it’s living that’s treacherous.”
“Put him in the back of the van,” said Kincaid. David and the other men obeyed, dragging the fresh corpse over to the back of the vehicle and hoisting it inside.
“Hide the plane,” said Kincaid. “Lock it in the hangar.”
Then he climbed into the van with his family and set out to fulfill his destiny.
