CHAPTER 18

Stars dotted an inky sky when Albie finally skidded to a dusty stop in a deserted plain. He left the old truck’s headlights burning, illuminating a boulder next to a mature tree about a hundred yards away. Albie hopped into the bed of the truck and scampered atop the cab. He peered behind them.

“Let my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness,” he said, “and I’ll be sure we’re alone.” Satisfied, he hopped down the way he had gone up. “I used to be able to drop all the way from the top to the ground. But the ankle . . . remember?”

“The earthquake,” Rayford said.

“Not a high medical priority, all things considered.”

He motioned for Rayford to follow him to the front of the truck, where he squatted before a headlamp and reached into his paper sack. He produced a rectangular block of black metal that looked like a box. It was about ten inches long, five inches wide, and an inch and a half deep.

“Captain Steele, this is ingenious. It costs extra, but I know you will want it. Watch carefully so you can see how easily it is done. Unless you know the trick, you cannot do it. First, get the feel of this in your hands.”

Rayford took the block and was impressed with its weight and density. There were no visible seams, and the block felt solid.

“Open it,” Albie said.

Rayford turned it every which way in the light, looking for a place to get a grip, trip a switch, squeeze a spring, anything. He saw nothing.

“Try,” Albie said.

Rayford gripped the block at both ends and pulled. He pushed to see if the sides had any give. He twisted it and shook it, pressed around the edges. “I’m convinced,” he said, handing it back.

“What does it remind you of?”

“Ballast. Maybe a weight of some kind. An old computer battery?”

“What would you tell a customs agent it is when it shows up black and ugly under the radar?”

“One of the above, I guess. Probably say it’s for the computer I left at my destination last time.”

“That will work, because he will not be able to open it either. Unless he does this, and the odds are he never would.”

Holding the block before him horizontally, Albie put his left thumb in the upper left corner with his left middle finger on the back of the lower left corner. He did the opposite with his right hand, thumb on the lower right corner, middle finger on the back of the upper corner. “I am pushing gently with my thumbs, which forces my fingers to resist. When I feel a most delicate disengagement, I then slide my thumbs along the bottom edge, put my index fingers along the top edge, grip tightly, and pull. See how easily it slides apart.”

Rayford felt as if he were witnessing a magic trick from a foot away without a clue how it was accomplished. Albie had slid the block apart only an inch or so, then quickly snapped it back shut. “The seams seem to disappear because this was fashioned from a solid block of steel. Try it, Captain.”

Rayford placed his thumbs and middle fingers where Albie had. When he pressed slightly with his thumbs and felt the pressure on his fingers, he sensed an ever so slight give. He was reminded of his penny toys as a kid when he tried to make a BB drop into a shallow hole in a piece of cardboard by tilting it this way and that. It worked only when you tilted just so far but not too much.

He grasped the ends of the block as Albie had done, and the unit smoothly slid apart. In his left hand was solid steel in the shape of a large jigsaw puzzle that perfectly aligned with the heavy handgun in his right. Amazing.

“Is it loaded?”

“I was taught there’s no such thing as an unloaded gun. Many people have been killed by guns they were certain were unloaded.”

“Granted. But if I aimed and shot . . .”

“Would a bullet be fired? Yes.”

“Got anything you don’t care about that could be set atop that rock?”

“Just aim at the rock for now. It takes getting used to.”

“I was a fair marksman in the military years ago.”

“Only years? Not decades?”

“Cute. Insulted by my fence.”

“Familiarize yourself with your weapon.”

Rayford set the block on the ground and turned the gun over and over in his hand. Heavy as it was, it had excellent balance and settled easily into his palm. He worried it might be difficult to hold steady due to the weight.

“That mechanism,” Albie said, “is found in no other handgun. Only in high-powered rifles. It does not cock. It is semiautomatic. You have to pull the trigger anew for each shot, but it will fire off a round as quickly as you can release the trigger and trip it again. It is probably the loudest handgun made, and I recommend something in the ear nearest the weapon. For now, just plug your ear with your other hand.”

“I don’t see a safety.”

“There is none. You simply aim and fire. The rationale behind this piece is that you do not separate the block and produce it unless you intend to shoot it. You do not shoot it unless you intend to destroy what you are shooting. If you shoot at that rock enough times, you will destroy it. If you shoot a person in a kill zone from within two hundred feet, you will kill him. If you hit him in a neutral zone from that same distance, your ammunition will sever skin, flesh, fat, tendon, ligament, muscle, and bone and will pass through the body leaving two holes. Provided you are at least ten feet away, the soft hollow-point shell has time to spread out due to the heat of the firing explosion and the centrifugal force caused by the spinning. Rifling grooves etched inside the barrel induce the spin. The projectile then will be roughly an inch and a half in diameter.”

“The bullet spreads into a spinning disk?”

“Exactly. And as I told you on the phone, a man missed by the projectile by two inches from thirty feet away suffered a deep laceration from the air displacement alone. Should you hit someone from between ten feet and two hundred feet, the bullet will leave an exit wound of nearly six inches in diameter, depending on what body part is expelled with it. The thin, jagged, spinning bullet bores through anything in its path, gathers the gore around it like grass in a power-mower blade, and turns itself into a larger object of destruction. During the testing of this weapon a technician was accidentally shot just above the knee from approximately twenty feet away. His leg was effectively amputated, the lower portion attached by a thin ribbon of skin on each side of the knee.”

Rayford shook his head and gazed at the ugliness in his hand. What was he thinking? That he would ever dare carry such a monstrosity, let alone use it? He would be hard pressed to justify this as a defensive weapon.

“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?”

Albie shrugged. “I want you satisfied with your purchase. No complaints. I said you could go cheaper. You said you wanted performance. What you do with this is your business, and I wouldn’t even want to make it mine. But I guarantee you, Captain, if you ever have to use it on someone, you won’t have to use it twice.”

“I don’t know,” Rayford said, his haunches aching from crouching. He shifted his weight, picked up the other half of the block, and held it facing the gun to see how they aligned.

“At least try it,” Albie said. “It’s an experience.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

Rayford dropped the block again, stood between the headlights, spread his legs, aimed the gun at the rock, and steadied his shooting hand at the wrist with his other hand.

Albie covered both ears, then interrupted. “You really should put something in that right ear.”

Rayford dug in his pocket for the note Albie had written. He tore a piece from it, moistened it with his tongue, and crumpled it into a small ball. He pushed it into his ear and resumed firing position. “I wish I could cock it just for timing,” he said. “It’s as if the gun’s ready and I’m not.”

“I’m not hearing you,” Albie said, too loudly. “I’m afraid you’ll shoot when I take my hands from my ears.”

The gun was only slightly closer to Rayford’s protected ear. When he squeezed the trigger, the recoil drove him back against the hood of the truck. He slid to where his seat hit the bumper, but there wasn’t enough room to hold him, and he plopped in the dirt. The explosion sounded like a bomb and then like nothing, as he was temporarily deafened and didn’t even hear the echo. Rayford was glad he had not squeezed off another round when he flopped.

Albie looked at him expectantly.

“You’re right,” Rayford said, his ear ringing. “An experience.”

“Look,” Albie said, pointing into the distance.

Rayford squinted. The rock looked none the worse for wear. “Did I hit it?”

“You hit the tree!”

Rayford could hardly believe it. The bullet had hit the trunk about eight feet off the ground, just below the branches. “I need to see this,” he said, struggling to his feet. Albie followed him as he got close enough to see that a gash had been taken out of the tree that left less than half the trunk intact. The weight of the branches finally overtook the gaping hole and the top of the tree came crashing down, bouncing off the rock.

“I’ve heard of tree surgeons,” Albie said. “But . . .”

“How many rounds does it hold?”

“Nine. Want to try again and see if you can hit what you’re aiming at?”

“I’ll have to compensate. It pulls up and to the right.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You saw what I hit. I was aiming into the middle of the rock.”

“Pardon me, Captain, but the problem was not the gun. It was the shooter.”

“What?”

“In your profession they would call it pilot error.”

“What did I do?”

“You flinched.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You expected the powerful sound and action, and you caused the barrel to point up and to the right. This time, concentrate not only on not doing that, but also on planting your back foot and taking the recoil in your legs.”

“Too much to think about.”

“But try. Otherwise, you’re on the ground again and the tree has been put out of its misery.”

Rayford filled both ears this time, made sure his right leg was planted behind his left with the knee slightly bent. Indeed, he had to fight the urge to flinch as he squeezed the trigger. This time, not dazed by the sound and not driven back against the truck, his eyes were on the rock when a huge chuck of it was blown off the top. Rayford retrieved a piece at least ten inches in diameter and three inches thick.

“Who makes this thing, anyway?”

“Those who need to know, know.”

“There’s no signage on it,” Rayford said. “What do they call it?”

“People who know the weapon have nicknamed it the Saber.”

“Why?”

Albie shrugged. “Probably because the other piece could be called a sheath. When it’s pieced together it’s like a sword in its sheath.”

Albie showed him how to reassemble the block, returned it to the sack, and drove him back toward the marketplace.

“Needless to say, I don’t carry that kind of cash,” Rayford said.

“I got it on consignment. Can you get it to me in two weeks?”

“It’ll come from Mac.”

“Good enough. . . . Uh-oh.”

Rayford looked up. The road into the crowded commercial area was blocked by GC Peacekeepers, lights flashing. Albie took to the side streets. As he drew within sight of the café he stopped abruptly and sighed. Rayford sat forward, his head touching the windshield. The crowd was in the street, the café empty save for the table where Rayford and Albie had left the Tuttles.

Trudy sat in the same pose as when they had left, head nestled in her forearms on the table. But a huge chunk was missing from the back of her head and her arms were covered with blood that still dripped from the table.

Next to her, facing Rayford, sat the big, blond, freckle-faced Dwayne. His head had fallen back and his arms hung at his sides, palms up, thumbs pointing out. His forehead bore a neat round hole and his chair rested in a pool of his blood.

Rayford grabbed the door handle, but Albie’s fingers dug into his arm like talons. “You can do nothing for them, friend. Don’t reveal yourself to your enemies. Lend me your phone.”

In a daze, Rayford handed it to him, then pounded his fists into the dash as Albie backed out of the area and drove across the sand. He spoke quickly in his native tongue, then slapped the phone shut and set it on the seat next to Rayford.

Rayford could not stop pounding. His head throbbed, the heels of his hands shot through with pain. His teeth were clenched and a buzz had invaded his brain. He felt as if his head might explode. Instinct told him to pray, but he could not. His strength left him as if he had opened a drainpipe and let it escape. He slumped in the seat.

“Listen carefully to me,” Albie said. “You know whoever did that is after you. They will be lying in wait at the airport and there’ll likely be a fighter or two in the air somewhere. Can you fly that plane?”

“Yes.”

“I told my man there to announce that due to winds and curfews in surrounding areas he was shutting down the airport. He will give people ten minutes to leave before turning off the runway lights. He tells me no one is near your plane, but that the airport is busier than normal with pedestrian traffic. The place will be dark and hopefully empty by the time we get there. Still, to be safe, I will let you out before I enter the tower. Stay in the darkness until you reach the plane. When I hear your engines, I will light the runway for you.”

Rayford could not speak, not even to thank Albie. Here was a man who was not even a believer. But he was an enemy of Carpathia and willing to do anything to thwart him. He didn’t know Rayford’s situation and told him repeatedly he didn’t want to know. But he was risking his own life by trying to get Rayford into the air, and Rayford would never forget it.

They were within sight of the airport when the lights went off and a short line of cars snaked out of the lot. Albie stopped and nodded that Rayford should go, pointing wide to the right around the airfield, which was now a sea of blackness. Rayford grabbed the bag and started to leave, but Albie caught him and took the block out. He opened the gun and handed Rayford both pieces. He poured extra ammunition into his palm and stuffed it in Rayford’s pocket.

“Just in case,” he said, stuffing the bag beneath the seat.

Fury had again constricted Rayford’s throat, and he could not emit a sound. He slipped the gun in one pocket and the block in another, gathered up his phone, and thrust out his hand toward Albie. They squeezed hard and Albie said, “I know. Now go.”

Rayford loped across the sand and scrub grass in the darkness, hearing his own panting. When finally his vocal chords loosened, he moaned with each breath. Then he emitted a closed-mouth growl so loud and fierce that it dizzied him, and he nearly tumbled. He was within a hundred feet of the plane when he heard footsteps angling toward him and a shout. “Rayford Steele! Halt! GC Peacekeeper!”

Rayford gave off a guttural, “No!” and kept moving, reaching into his pocket for the gun.

“You’re under arrest!”

He kept moving.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Rayford felt that tingle in his back. Had it really been that very morning that he had eluded another GC gun? He whirled, his own weapon raised.

The faint light from the road in the distance silhouetted the GC man, closing on him, weapon aimed.

Rayford stopped. “Don’t make me shoot you!” he screamed, but the man kept coming. Rayford fired at his feet, hitting the ground a yard in front of the man.

A huge cloud of sand erupted and the man flipped over backward, landing on his stomach with a loud “Unh!” His weapon clattered free. Rayford made a dash for the plane, peeking over his shoulder to see the man lying motionless.

“God, don’t let him die!” he said, yanking open the door and diving aboard. He pulled the door shut, realizing he was drenched with sweat. “I don’t want to kill a man!”

Rayford jumped over the back of the seat into the pilot’s chair and fired up the engines. The fuel tank showed full, the other gauges danced to life, and the runway lights came on. He grabbed the radio. “All clear?” he said, careful to not mention Albie’s name.

“Two bogies six miles due north,” came the reply. They could be upon him in seconds, but they would look for him to head west and climb quickly.

Rayford looked far to his left just before reaching takeoff speed. The GC man had labored to his feet and staggered as if catching his breath and looking for his weapon. The Super J smoothly took to the air, and Rayford headed south, staying below radar level until he was sure he was not being pursued. Then he gave the craft full power, and the thrust drove him back in his seat as he set the nose to the stars and the west. All he wanted was to reach maximum cruising speed at optimum altitude and get home to his comrades in one piece.

It was just after noon in Illinois as Tsion Ben-Judah stood gazing out the upstairs window of the safe house. Summer was coming on. He had just enjoyed a light lunch with Buck, Chloe, the baby, and Leah. What a strange and wonderful, warm woman she had turned out to be. He did not know what bothered Rayford so about her. Tsion found her most engaging.

He had nearly finished his message to the faithful and would begin polishing it for transmission in a few minutes. In it he warned that the closer the calendar drew to September, the forty-second month into the Tribulation, the more likely it was that the death toll of the 200 million horsemen would reach a third of the population. The gravity of his missive weighed on him, and he felt a sudden need to pray for his old mentor and fellow countryman, Chaim Rosenzweig.

“Father,” he began, “I do not even know how to pray for my friend anymore.” Tsion quoted, “‘Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. Now He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God.’

“Thank you, Lord,” he said.

And when he opened his eyes he at first thought he was dreaming. Filling his entire field of vision through the window was an army of horsemen and their steeds. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of them, riding, riding. The horses’ heads were as the heads of lions, and from their mouths poured fire and smoke.

Tsion had written of these, had heard others’ accounts, secretly wished he might get a glimpse. But now as he stared, unblinking, wanting to call the others, especially Buck, who also had not seen these, he could not find voice.

In the middle of the day with the harsh late spring sun bathing the scene, the massive horsemen looked angry and determined. Their brightly colored breastplates gleamed as the immense beasts beneath them rumbled side by side, picking up speed from trotting to galloping to stampeding. It was as if their time had come. The occasional forays had been mere rehearsal. The demonic cavalry, limited only by God’s choosing whom they might slay, stormed across the earth for what would surely be their final attack.

“Tsion!” Buck called from downstairs. “Look out the window! Quick!”

Rayford had the Super J at peak performance on autopilot. Fatigue swept over him, but he dared not doze, regardless of the technology within reach. He picked up his phone to dial home when something caught his eye miles below. Fire and smoke, billowing black and yellow, rose from a boundless stretch of millions of horsemen and horses on the run across the ocean, heading for land.