The Overseer (16 page)
The line went dead. Vince stared at the phone in his hand, baffled.
“What is it?” Drew asked.
“He hung up on me.”
“Is he calling off his action?”
Vince felt something like a spider crawling around in his stomach—a feeling that told him Devin Bathurst’s true motives. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Devin is going to pursue this thing—no matter what any of us say.”
“What are you going to do?” Drew asked, face serious.
Vince shook his head, disappointed in Devin Bathurst. “If this is as bad as Angelo is predicting, then someone needs to go and pick him up.”
Drew looked around to see if anyone was watching, then turned back to Vince. “Bathurst is a tough son of a gun. He won’t give this thing up without a fight.”
“Then make sure whoever goes after him isn’t alone—and be ready for a fight.”
“How far do we take this?” Drew asked, looking Vince intensely in the eye.
“What do you mean?”
“We have to decide now,” Drew said evenly, “how far are we going to go to stop Bathurst.”
Vince shrugged, still confused. “Follow him across the world if you have to. I’ll make the funds available.”
Drew cleared his throat again, leaning close. “What if our only choice is to kill him?”
Vince stared at Drew, not having fully considered the possibility until now. “Don’t hurt him if you can help it.”
“But if we can’t help it?”
Vince thought for a moment, then nodded. “Then do what you have to.”
Drew nodded. “Understood.”
Vince stepped away. He walked toward the conference room window and looked down at the Manhattan street below. He felt numb. Something he hadn’t expected. Somehow it all seemed so distant and surreal. Just a game.
J
OHN SAT AT
the deli, eating lunch, Bible open on the table. The pages were spread open to someplace in Psalms—his favorite book of the Bible—and yet he stared out the window at the foot traffic.
Things were going badly. Being Overseer was harder than he’d expected. He missed third-world countries and missions work. He missed the feeling of adventure and the stories he was living—stories he could tell when he came back to the world that others thought of as normal. He missed the smell of noodles cooking on the streets of Southeast Asia and the sweltering heat of the rain forest—so hot your clothes would cling to you in a sopping slick of sweat. He had told them when he left India that he would come back to visit someday. That had been four years ago—and he still had no plans to return.
John touched his forehead, a melancholy feeling flooding him. And there was Trista.
She had left the bubble of the modern world—had the adventures and experiences he had been missing. The thing that made him of most use to God, the thing that made him the most unique among other Christians—his travel—and in the last year she had done more of it than he had. And she had met someone—someone probably better traveled than himself.
He chastised himself for making an idol of her. For wanting companionship beyond that of God.
The situation at hand was dangerous, and Devin and Hannah were counting on him to back them up as Overseer. He had to do his job now and stay focused. He wasn’t used to this form of discipline—but he needed to grow and learn both as a Christian and as an administrator.
He thought of Trista—his distraction—and then he felt her. Somewhere out in the world he could feel where she was and what she was feeling.
She was thinking of him.
John smiled to himself for a second, then realized the depth of her thoughts. And her concern.
She was worried, and she was scared.
John stood, thrust his Bible into his bag, and pushed through the door out onto the crowded sidewalk.
Someone else was thinking about Trista too. With plans of intimidation and hostility.
He surged forward, ducking and shoving his way through the throng of suits and briefcases that marched like ants down the sidewalk. Someone shouted in protest, but John kept running— ducking and weaving through a dark forest of expensive business wear and honking horns as his path spilled into the street. A cab driver shouted angrily, shaking a fist.
That’s the trouble with living in the present, he thought— you’re always out of time.
He ran as fast as he could.
Trista listened to the sound of her own high heels clacking through the cavernous parking garage, moving swiftly toward her rental car. Not a soul in sight. Rows and rows of empty vehicles left by those working in the surrounding buildings. No outside sunlight—just the tangerine glow of dying overhead lights.
Someone needed to tell John what was happening. Maybe he wasn’t the right person for the job—maybe Vince was right…about everything. But it didn’t seem right. It didn’t
feel
right.
Trista fought herself—now wasn’t the time to be swayed by her feelings. She needed to stay solid in some sort of resolve. But she trusted Devin, and she had been impressed by Hannah. She wasn’t doing this for John; she was doing this for them— and the callings they were following.
There was something in her that felt like feelings. The kind that men and women have for each other every day. But it wasn’t the kind of thing she and John could ever share. He was too…
Trista struggled for the word. Weak? Yes, weak. And she was a different person when he was in her world. She was a strong woman of business and industry. A member of the Domani. A serious person with serious objectives and goals. But there was something about John Temple that made her forget reason and rationale, that made her trust feelings that made her too weak. There were times when she had wondered if her romance with John had lost her so much credibility with the others, not because she had crossed party lines, but because of the effect he had on her. He pulled her from the steady base of reason and reality and sent her hurtling into a world of schoolgirl daydreams and fantasies.
She moved toward the car—keys in hand. She looked up and stopped.
Angelo.
There was no conceivable way that he could have approached her like that without her knowing he was coming. Or was there?
He was every bit the description she had gotten from Vince at the meeting—dark stringy hair, long black coat, dark pants tucked into army boots. Standing in front of her.
She remained still, saying nothing. He said nothing either. Maybe he didn’t see her. Maybe…
Trista took a step toward the car.
Angelo mirrored her, stepping toward the car.
She stopped.
He stopped.
Trista felt the urge to tremble but swallowed it. She lifted her head, looking him in the eye. He spoke.
“Ms. Brightling, I know what you are planning to do.”
She said nothing, turning her car keys in her hand, holding them in her fist to use as a stabbing weapon if she needed. Angelo seemed to notice—a look of fear and panic crossed his face, then quickly soured into something…
…wild.
He stepped toward her, ominous and threatening. Her fist tightened around the keys. The plastic fob dug into her skin as he marched toward her.
“Angelo!” someone shouted.
She turned her head—John Temple stood behind her, approaching, breathing hard like he’d been running. Sweat covered his face.
“Angelo,” he said again. “Leave her alone.”
Angelo tipped his head slightly, like a confused dog—then took another step toward Trista.
“I’m ordering you,” John exclaimed. “As Overseer, I demand that you leave her alone.”
The confusion on Angelo’s face became more noticeable. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll listen to you,” John said, stepping up next to Trista. “I’ll hear whatever you have to say. Just leave Ms. Brightling out of this.”
Trista watched John step ahead of her, inching his way between her and Angelo.
“I can’t do that,” Angelo said, shaking his head, slightly more lucid, but still with a rabid edge.
“I am Overseer, and I’m ordering you.”
Angelo glanced at Trista, then back to John. He shook his head. “You’re not Overseer,” he declared.
John turned toward Trista, looking at her, then back to Angelo. “What?”
“There was a meeting,” Angelo said, as if all of this were something John should know but had stupidly forgotten. “They voted. You are no longer Overseer.”
There was a moment of quiet through the expansive garage, then John turned to her, looking Trista in the eye. “Is it true?”
She glanced at her shoes for a moment, then looked up. “Yes,” she said hesitantly, “it was decided that you are no longer the person to fulfill the role of Overseer.”
John looked confused and hurt. “How long have you—”
“Moments ago,” Angelo interrupted. “You are no longer Overseer, and your instructions no longer need to be heeded.” Angelo took another step toward them. “But
she
intends to help Devin Bathurst and Hannah Rice—and I cannot allow that.” Angelo’s lucidity seemed to continue slipping.
Trista watched John take a step back, then turn to her, speaking swiftly and quietly. “Get in the car,” he ordered.
“John, you have to—”
“Do it,” he replied firmly, positioning himself as an obstacle between her and Angelo. She didn’t budge. “Do it
now
!”
Angelo was approaching again. John stood his ground.
She reached out with the keys, pressing the button on the fob with her thumb. The locks snapped upward with a mechanical pop. The door opened, and she began to step in—
The sound of some hideous violence resonated, and she glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see John’s body slam into the back window of the car with a ghastly
thud
.
Trista jammed the key into the ignition and turned. John stood in the rearview mirror, then was thrown aside—Angelo standing directly behind the car, face filling the mirror.
The engine made a shrieking sound as she tried to start it again—momentarily unaware that the virtually silent car was already on. Her hand flashed over the gearshift. Reverse. She jammed her high-heeled foot onto the gas and watched as Angelo’s body slammed into the hatchback end of her rental. Her foot came down equally hard on the brake, and he tumbled away with the momentum.
Trista leaned across the center console and opened the passenger side door with her fingertips. John was on his knees, propping himself up—battered looking.
“Get in!” she shouted, watching Angelo rise from the hard garage floor. John glanced toward the back of the car. “Do it!” she shouted again.
John Temple stood, grabbed the door, threw himself into the passenger’s seat. He slammed the door.
Trista worked the transmission. Forward. Angelo rushed at the car again. She spun the wheel and punched the gas.
The tires screamed, breaking loose, the car surging forward. Angelo tried to keep up—running fast alongside the car for a split second, then falling behind. He lashed out in desperation— splitting the glass with the side of his fist. John shouted orders at Trista with an edge of fear and frustration. Laying on the gas, she didn’t hear what he said.
She saw him pointing forward to the cement wall ahead where the straightaway ended.
The tires shrieked as she worked the wheel, nosing to the right—toward the down ramp. It cost her speed and time, Angelo gaining from behind, following the wake of burned rubber she left on the pavement.
“He’s behind you,” John said, twisted in his seat and looking back.
“I know,” she shouted, temper short.
The car made it around the corner, moving fast, Angelo disappearing from view.
John shook his head emphatically. “He’s still trying to follow.”
“We’re driving too fast for him to catch up.”
“He’s trying to cut us off.”
Trista slowed as she made another turn. “Then we’ll deal with it.”
John looked around, trying to spot Angelo. “So,” he grunted, “when was someone going to tell me I was fired?”
Trista worked the wheel, navigating the garage. “I was on my way to tell you when you showed up.”
“Good thing I did,” he said.
She shook her head. “I would have been fine, I’m sure.” Trista watched as the exit gate approached—two cars ahead of her in line.
“You’re welcome,” John growled sarcastically.
Trista seethed for a moment, the car rolling to a stop as they waited their turn. She relaxed but still maintained her standard professionalism. “Thank you, John.”
“I’m sorry I snapped,” he said, shaking his head. “I just can’t believe everything that is happening…” He paused, turning his face to her, deeply concerned.
“What?” she asked.
“We can’t wait here. This is taking too long.” He looked scared. “Angelo is catching up.”
“Where?” Trista demanded, looking around with equal concern.
“The stairwell,” John pointed past her, and she looked, seeing the stairwell exit just past the chalky-white splintering where Angelo had hit the window.
“How long?” she asked, watching the next car in line pull up to the gate.
“Too soon,” he stammered. “We have to ditch the car, make a run for it!”
“We can’t,” she replied, trying not to lose her cool. “We’ll never outrun him on foot.” The car ahead of them paid, rolling out as the gate lifted.