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            Bishop Prince did not fear Thorne.  He feared no man.  Only God was worthy of fear.

            But, fear or not, he was prepared for Thorne.

            Upon the breach of the gates, Bishop Prince had retrieved two things: his sweet angel.  And a .357.

            As gunfire rang out across the grounds, he’d found the girl hidden in the closet in her room, shuddering, tears glistening on her cheeks.  Crooning to her, he’d picked her up and carried her out of there as easily as if she were a kitten, her arms slung around his neck, head snuggled against his chest. 

            He’d kissed her on her tear-damp forehead and taken her to his safe room.

            The door to the chamber was concealed behind a blast-proof panel of one-way glass in the master suite.  From the outside, it appeared to be a simple full-length mirror, but a corner of the bronzed frame flipped away to reveal a fingerprint scan panel.  Once the mirror-door swung open, a carpeted staircase ahead descended deep beneath the ground floor of the house.

            A holy man of God, the Lord’s anointed prophet, had to protect himself against the machinations of Satan’s minions.  In the event of a kidnapping attempt, bombing, or assassination plot, the safe room would serve as a refuge against the wicked, an oasis from the damned.

            The area resembled a penthouse apartment, and was as lavishly furnished as the other areas of the mansion.  A back-up power generator kept the lights, closed-circuit security monitors, cable-equipped television, and appliances running.  There was enough food in the pantry and freezer to sustain him for several weeks, a buried phone line to facilitate contact with the outside world, wall-panels reinforced with Kevlar—and a weapons arsenal in a steel cabinet.

            From the cabinet, he’d retrieved the Smith & Wesson .357 and loaded it with frangible ammo.  He returned to the top of the staircase, clasping the angel’s hand, pulling her along with him.

            At the threshold of the door, he stared through the window at his bedroom beyond, and waited.

            Weeping softly, the girl wrapped her slender arms around his waist, clutching him as if he were the only stable anchor in the world.  He stroked her silken hair.

            “Hush, my angel,” he said.  “You are in God’s unchanging hands.  You are safe.”

            The chamber was sound-proof; there was no danger that Thorne would hear them.  But her crying perturbed him, for it implied doubt in God’s promise of deliverance for his servants, and such doubt was sin.           

            He did not harbor any doubt whatsoever.  God had not appointed him as the leader of the Kingdom only to revoke the position before the work was done.  The Kingdom was young yet, and he was its crown prince.            

            Greatness was his destiny, glory his reward.