18

            Cutty had commanded Valdez to stop the Suburban in the middle of the street.

            “Thorne’s around here somewhere, Valdez,” he said.  “I can feel him.”

            Cutty perched on the edge of the passenger seat, clasping the Glock.  After their failed attempt at preventing Thorne from leaving his residence, he had ordered Valdez to drive so he could have his hands free to shoot. 

            En route to Thorne’s residence, he had used Gen to dig up Thorne’s home phone number.  The number was unlisted, but the system spat it back to Cutty within seconds of his request.  He’d hoped to get Thorne on the phone, to confirm his presence at home and talk to him for a few minutes—until he arrived and put a gun to Thorne’s head and demand he explain his role in the Judas’ treachery. 

            By running, Thorne gave Cutty license to kill him.  Only a man guilty of sin sought to avoid God’s justice, and the wages of sin is death.

            Gloved fingers clenching the steering wheel, Valdez was silent, rosy lips pressed together.  In the pursuit, she’d handled the big truck with considerable, unexpected finesse, and he wondered what other skills she possessed.  

            He opened the glove box and removed a pair of night vision binoculars. 

            He hadn’t received the results of the background check on Thorne, but he was growing antsy to get it.  Thorne wasn’t behaving like the typical gutless sinner who rolled over at the first sign of violence.  The guy had an unusual amount of daring.

            “Make a U-turn and go by the driveway we just passed,” Cutty said.  “I want to get a closer look at what was in all that thick undergrowth.”

            “Okay.” 

            She executed a textbook U-turn.  A handful of houses stood along the street, homes that appeared to have been built decades ago, with trimmed shrubbery and well-tended lawns.  The homes were in good condition except for the one on his right, a lot so overgrown with weeds, shrubs, and trees that the residence itself was almost completely concealed. 

            A crumbling driveway gave access to the back of the property, and that was where he wanted to inspect more closely. 

            He lifted the binoculars to his eyes. 

            Like a chariot commandeered by the devil himself, Thorne’s SUV thundered out of the darkness.  The high-beams flashed on, searing the interior of the Suburban.

            Blinded, Cutty dropped the binoculars and fumbled for the Glock.

            “He has gun!” Valdez shouted. 

            She slammed into Reverse, flinging Cutty forward in the seat.

            Although disoriented by the sudden glare, Cutty saw it, too.  Thorne had opened the driver’s side door and popped around the side, and he was gripping a gun in both hands and holding a stance like he knew what he was doing.

            Who was this guy?

            Gunfire shattered the night.  Rounds hammered the grille and windshield, and thank God, the vehicle was equipped with bulletproof glass, or else Cutty knew he would have taken one in the head.

            But he thought he heard a tire blow.  When he felt the truck veer hard to the right and heard Valdez’s anguished cry, he knew his suspicions were correct.

            They hurtled across the street, vaulted the curb, and sideswiped an elm.  Valdez brought the truck to a stop before they mowed down a picket fence in someone’s front yard.  

            The commotion alerted the neighbors.  Porch lights switched on at a few residences, and a house-robed old woman with wild hair wandered onto her front porch with a phone pressed to her ear.

            The prospect of nosy neighbors calling police didn’t concern him.  The understaffed and overworked Atlanta Police Department typically took nearly an hour to respond to emergency calls.  Cutty

would need only to notify his dispatcher, and the dispatcher would see to it that law enforcement’s response would be further delayed.  When you were doing God’s work, all obstacles were removed from your path.   

            Ahead, Thorne climbed back into his vehicle and exploded down the street.    

            “Go, go, go!” Cutty said. 

            She mashed the gas, and the Suburban leaped forward.  

            Cutty opened the sun roof.  He rose through it, planted his arms on the roof, and fired at the truck from a distance of about fifty yards.  His first shot grazed the vehicle’s rear bumper, and his second and third shots missed entirely.

            The Tahoe hauled around the corner, tires screeching.

            Cutty dropped back into his seat.  “Stay on him, Valdez!”

            “But the tire—“

            “Forget the tire!  Keep driving!”

            “Si,” she said, voice taut. 

            Rubber flapping from the ruined tire, the exposed steel rim ringing as it ground against the pavement, Valdez gave chase.   

            “I need more firepower,” he said.  He reached into the back seat and snagged his rifle, stored in a black nylon case.

            Before his current assignment, he had been a member of the sniper unit, and like he was everywhere else, he’d been the best.  He’d once nailed a target between the eyes from half a mile away, a record in the division that still stood.

            He unzipped the case.  It contained a Remington 700, the police version, a bolt-action rifle outfitted with a Leupold riflescope that gave it an effective range at night in excess of three hundred meters—the length of almost three football fields.  A zippered compartment held Winchester .308 match grade ammo. 

            “Keep him in sight,” he said.  “I’ll take care of the rest.”