State of Emergency

CHAPTER 72


Austin





Valentine Zamora limped slightly from the bullet wound to his thigh. Nothing vital had been hit and some antibiotic under a few wraps of tape had made him as good as new. The wound had given him the perfect opportunity to slip away—and he would have stayed away but for the fickle Yazid Nazif. If he’d only kept with their original plan, he and his brother would still be alive to carry on with their jihad. But they hadn’t, so there they were, dead on the grimy asphalt, along with their dreams.

Pastor Mike Olson stood grinning like a fool at the delivery entrance on the south end of the huge, drum-shaped building. He vouched for them with the overweight security guard at the loading dock.

“You have already given us so much, Mr. Valentine,” the pastor said, shaking his head in disbelief. “May I ask what is in the box? It looks heavy.”

Monagas wheeled the green footlocker containing Baba Yaga up the ramp, a forced smile on his crooked lips. Pollard slumped along behind, looking as if he’d been whipped.

“Merely some little gifts for the children,” Zamora said, flipping his hand.

“That is a large case,” Olson said. “But there are over three hundred in the chorus. Not to seem ungrateful, but I’d hate for any child to be left out.”

“Not to worry, my friend.” Zamora put up his hand. “College savings bonds take up very little space. There will be plenty for everyone.”

“I need to check it.” The security man walked toward them. Monagas’s hand drifted toward the pistol under the tail of his sport coat. Zamora gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

“And you, Officer ... ?” Zamora looked at him sweetly.

“Potts,” the security guard said.

“How about you, Officer Potts? Do you have children?”

The man shook his head. “I got a nephew.”

“Is he in the choir?”

“No.”

“No matter.” Zamora gave a flip of his hand. “I’m sure a thousand-dollar savings bond would come in handy. Stop by and pick one up for him after the performance.”

The corners of the man’s mouth perked with a hint of guile. “Well, okay,” he said. “I’ll see you after the show.” He walked away whistling to himself, no doubt already making plans on how to spend the new windfall.

“My goodness,” Pastor Olson sighed after Potts had gone. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Valentine. What have we all done to deserve this kindness?”

Zamora pointed to a series of thick concrete columns under the auditorium, motioning for Monagas to put the case there. He shot a glance at Pollard, who stared back with glassy eyes. “In my experience, Pastor”—Zamora clasped his hands together and held them to his lips—“at some point, we all get exactly what we deserve.”