She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) (3 page)

            “Did you see her?”  Antonio asks in a weak voice
as he fades in and out of consciousness.

            “Did I see who?”  The enforcer asks quickly. 

            “The woman in the robe?”  Antonio demands
eagerly.

            “There was no woman,” the man replies
dismissively, “we need to get you a doctor.  The helicopter has been destroyed,
and everyone is downstairs.  What happened to Enrique?”

            “He went mad.  She makes you see things… that
aren’t real…”  Antonio mutters before passing out from blood loss.

            :: Begin Encoded Message ::

H.E.N.A.

D2vl3n McC4nn2ll6 3s N4 L4ng2r P1rt 4f H.2.N.1.

1tt2nt34n t4 1ll f32ld 4p2r1t3v2s, D2vl3n McC4nn2ll6 3s n4
l4ng2r fr32ndl6 w3th H.2.N.1.  645 1r2 t4 c1pt5r2 4r d2t13n h3m b6 1n6 m21ns
n2c2ss1r6 4r t4 5s2 d21dl6 f4rc2.  W2 1r2 4ff2r3ng 4v2r $100,000 3n b4n5s m4n26
t4 1n64n2 wh4 c1n br3ng h3m t4 th2 4p2r1t34ns c2nt2r.  1ll f32ld 1g2nts w3ll
r2c23v2 ph4t4s 4f th3s 1g2nt v31 s2c5r2 2m13l.  C4nt1ct 4p2r1t34ns 3f 645 g13n
s3ght 4f h3m 3mm2d31t2l6.  F13l5r2 t4 c4nt1ct 4p2r1t34ns f3rst w3ll r2s5lt 3n
t2rm3n1t34n. 

Maxwell Out

:: End Encoded Message ::

            Gloria walks across the patches of grass in a
local Chicago suburb, smelling here and there at the ground as she gets ready
to relieve herself after a day of waiting for Devlin.  The Golden Labrador is
special, having trained for six months in Auburn University’s vapor wake bomb
detection program.  The dog raises her head, smelling the air for threats.  She
picks up the scent of a woman’s perfume in a signature that carries over
one-hundred yards down the sidewalk to the left.  Her ears stand on end as the Labrador detects another unique odor that is uncommon to everyday life.  Over forty feet
away, across the street, a bottle of solvent has leaked through a cheap toolbox
into the trunk of an old car, but the dog soon dismisses this as not being a
threat.  After assessing the area, she soon finds a nice place to do her
business, while Devlin stares off into the distance.

            As the afternoon traffic passes them by,
Devlin’s hair stands on end, and he is filled with conflicting emotions.  Just
a week ago, he was in the employment of the CIA, working on a program to
isolate and monitor unstable people who might commit gun violence.  After the
movie theater shooting in Colorado, The Speaker of The House, Henri Edwards,
commissioned a team of experts to help gather data for The President. 
According to Henri, they would be creating the foundation for a new
organization similar to the TSA, but specializing in gun control screening. 

            He feels the sun and wind on his face, closing
his eyes for a moment of peace, trying to stay alert despite only sleeping two
or three hours per night.  The black leather leash tightens in his hand, and he
looks down with a smile at his furry protector.  Gloria is watching him with
her head turned sideways in a curious manner.  Devlin grins as he looks at her
face, feeling like this is her way of telling him to man up and stay strong. 
After taking a quick glance around the area, Devlin leads the dog back to the
hotel just fifty yards away.  He keeps his head down as they move, watching for
Gloria to signal that a threat is nearby.  The dog’s sense of smell is 44 times
greater than a person, because she has more than 220 million olfactory receptors
in her nose, whereas Devlin has only 5 million.  This means that Gloria can
detect scents for hundreds of yards, long after the odor has passed.  She can
even smell a urine sample to determine if it contains bladder cancer cells.

            As they get near the hotel, Devlin pulls the
leash to the left, even though the dog is trying to maneuver right.  He wants
her to smell the car again, ensuring that no tampering has taken place since
they were gone.  When they approach the stolen black Escalade, the dog takes a
short lap around the SUV with Devlin in tow, wagging her tail to show that she
doesn’t detect any danger. 

            Now that he is satisfied with the vehicle,
Devlin signals the dog back onto her original course, heading for a side door
entrance of the hotel about thirty feet away.  He admires the foliage and fresh
smell of the grass after a recent rainstorm, enjoying everything around him,
and trying to avoid arousing suspicion. 

            Soon Devlin and the dog reach their familiar
hotel room door, a nice, solid white oak with inlayed wood and a brass handle. 
After inserting his card, he steps into the entryway with Gloria, seeing that
she is clearly excited to be home, wagging her tail briskly as he undoes the
leash from her collar, allowing her to roam free in the room. 

            Devlin steps over to the edge of the bed near
the window and leans down to an ice chest where he retrieves two bottles of
cold water.  He then pours one bottle into Gloria’s dish, and places the other
bottle against his neck, feeling the soothing moisture and cool plastic.  As he
sits down on the corner of the bed, Devlin realizes how much he misses his
wife.  This is the first time in over a year that he has been away from the
lovely brunette Russian since he was serving the Army in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Although they talked a few days ago, he feels stressed thinking about her
now.  His mind wanders a bit to what Henri could be plotting against the love
of his life, but he decides not to consider it anymore. 

            He unscrews the cap from the cold bottle of
water, taking a much needed drink, and breathing deeply to calm himself.  The
sound of the dog lapping up the fresh water near him is strangely soothing, as
if he isn’t so alone.  Devlin unzips his black Armani jacket and tosses it
toward the opposite side of the bed near the closet.  He then sets the bottle
of water on the floor and lies back on the mattress. 

            The orange silk shirt and red tie are a bit too
warm on his body at this time of the day, but under the circumstances, he
elects to be prepared rather than comfortable.  Devlin stares up at the blank
white ceiling, remembering the events that brought him here.  Thinking again about
his lovely wife Yulia, he wonders if he has made the right decision.  Just a
week ago, he had financial success, a great home, and a job with Level IV
Security Clearance.

After his eight-year stint in the
military, Devlin had come home with a lot of problems, and drinking was
becoming his soul means for dealing with those problems.  Unfortunately, after
enough drinking, he found himself slapped with a third-degree felony for DUI
and another for assaulting a police officer.  The court was lenient due to his
posttraumatic stress disorder, but he still served over ninety days in jail. 
It was right after his release from jail that Henri approached him to work with
his team of ‘rejects’ on a CIA project to gather intelligence data for gun
control.  Devlin was listed as a civilian contractor, but given top secret
access to the database of criminal behavior so that he could perform analysis,
and help to develop the program.   

            His mind ventures back to the insanity that took
place just a few days ago.  It always seemed odd that Henri wanted to hire
convicted felons for his operations.  Devlin never questioned the fact that he
was logging into the CIA database with credentials belonging to someone else
when he needed access to Level IV classified information.  He also never asked
why every member of the team seemed to have some type of baggage or misconduct
in their history.  But after having seen Henri for what he truly is, and now
fully understanding his need to hold power over people, the team of rejects
makes perfect sense.  Henri had been able to secure a group of talented people,
including Devlin, that were all thrown away by the armed services for
misconduct.  They were veterans placed in high-paying jobs, many of them so
grateful to provide for their family, that they would do almost anything for a
paycheck. 

            He turns on his side, staring out the window,
watching the breeze blow the cheap cotton drapes here and there.  In this
silence, Devlin lets out an angry sigh, knowing that he is doing the right
thing.  He forces himself to remember the beast and the blind woman.  His
stomach becomes nauseous, wishing he could scrub his eyeballs after witnessing
the devout sickness of Henri and his followers.  As Devlin continues to think
about Henri and his colleagues at the CIA, he considers all the people they
have tracked, monitored, and apprehended over the past few months.

            The young man sits up in bed, feeling a sudden
need to take inventory of all his actions.  He thinks back to his check-in at
the hotel, and the stolen driver license that he used to get this room.  His
gut scrutinizes the cash transaction, and he realizes that the CIA could soon
be connecting the dots that he stole the man’s driver license.  He puts his
head down in shame, pressing his thumbs tight between his eyebrows, realizing
his foolish mistake.  After one more night in this room, he would look at
renting duplexes and private residences on a monthly basis to stay off the
grid.  No background checks, credit checks, or anything else the agency could
use to nab him.

            He feels panic creeping up in his throat,
realizing it may be good to leave the Escalade as well, deciding that a stolen
vehicle would be viable for less than forty-eight hours, even if it were taken
from the airport’s long-term parking facility.  Devlin decides that public
transportation is best for now, along with payphones, prepaid cell phones, and
anonymous email addresses.  Stealing a car would only be done in the case of an
emergency.  He closes his tired eyes, trying to put these thoughts out of his
mind to get some rest, but they continue to bombard him with anxiety.

            After he realizes that any effort to sleep is
futile, he gets up from the bed and moves over to the small pinewood desk near
the television on the opposite side of the room.  He takes a seat and uses a
piece of hotel stationary to write a letter.  Devlin smiles to himself as he
realizes that calling it a letter would be making light of the situation.  The
document before him will more likely become his last will and testament. 

            Beneath the cradle of a godless, bloody red sky
Joshua Warnholt labors more intensively than ever in his life.  Through the
rays of a brilliant sunset, tears of agony stream down his face shamelessly
from the corners of his bright blue eyes, despite his former proud stance of
manliness and independence.  His expression shows defeat below tufts of curly
brown hair and he appears much older than his true age of fifty-two.  Joshua’s
clothing has been stripped from him and his white body is badly sunburned,
covered in canola oil and white sand from the beach he has been detained on
these past few days.  His pelvis is shrouded by a red ceremonial garment tied
loosely around his buttocks.

            Joshua winces with the strong alabaster horns of
hell pressing deep into the flesh of his thigh muscles; the burning sting of
two prongs continually stabbing his inner legs.  He staggers slowly, carrying a
heavy stone with both hands, watching the wind blow fine, white dust off the
top of the stone’s surface, whilst drops of sweat from his brow and blood from
his legs saturate the hot, white sands below.

            As he carries the stone, a group of Mexican
natives watches from either side of him.  Several of them are solemnly drumming
on small, wooden cylinders covered in leather while he makes his way across the
ten-yard span toward the priestess.  The natives are also wearing red
ceremonial loincloths, glaring up at him with mob justice in their eyes as they
kneel at both sides of his treacherous path. 

            Joshua closes his eyes in an instant of teeth-grinding
pain from the calcite horns digging deep into his thighs as he presses
painfully forward.  He stops moving for a moment, breathing heavily, looking
down at the leather ropes tied firmly around his leg muscles to secure the
alabaster stakes of torture to his inner thighs. 

      The stakes penetrate over
three inches into each of his thigh muscles, sliding in and out of his flesh
every time he moves.  Each of the white stakes is made of fire-tempered alabaster
with the long pieces protruding eight inches past his knees, pointing at the
ground.  At the top of each stake is a sharp end pointed straight up the inside
portion of his thighs toward his genitals. 

      While the short pieces of
the stakes are extremely painful digging into his thighs, they have been
whittled down to a thin base so that they can easily break away.  Joshua bows
his head for a moment, looking down at the stakes, his body starting to
convulse with fear as he feels his legs getting weaker.  He closes his eyes
wishing he could be anywhere else right now, and then stares down in disbelief
at the instruments of his demise.  If he loses his footing, the long end of the
stakes will hit the ground, breaking off the small end of each piece inside of
his thighs, and sending the large end of the alabaster shaft up through his
genitals and into his abdomen.  Falling backwards or sideways is not an option
either as there are six alabaster spikes mounted around his upper torso.  They
form a strong, cage-like frame around his shoulder blades and up underneath his
arms, ensuring that if he falls on his back; all six spikes will be driven into
his upper back and underarms. 

      He closes his eyes tighter,
shaking, trying not to break down.  The weight of the stone in his hands and
the heat on his back are helping him to accept that the end is near. 

      Joshua imagines his wife
back in The United States; the lovely, plain girl he met in Virginia at college. 
His face manages a half-smile as he thinks about when he asked her to marry him,
despite the rainy day that nearly ruined his perfect plans.  He recalls her
grabbing his hands and pulling him close to her, saying yes to his proposal
amidst the chaos, the cold, and the thunder.  Joshua’s smile instantly fades to
defeat when he realizes that he will never touch her soft face again.  As this
thought enters his mind, he shakes his head as though something foul has just
invaded his mouth and nostrils. 

      He stops shaking his head
and opens his eyes, staring straight at the Mexican priestess in front of him. 
His eyes glaze over desperately with humanity, begging her for mercy from this
torture that has made him feel more alone than a comet drifting endlessly
through space. 

      The priestess glares back at
him with a demure melancholy; a fierce look of ancient ruin and ritual, unmoved
by his plight.  Small waves of smoke rise up from just below her ears where
long, fluted earrings hold large pieces of burning incense just two inches
above her shoulders, giving her the appearance of both necromancer and goddess. 

      Joshua looks over her strong
body in dismay.  She is wearing his clothing, her arms folded across her chest
with the small skeleton of a bird clutched in her right hand.  Joshua’s white
dress shirt is two sizes, too large for the athletic, Mexican priestess, but it
is tucked neatly into his jeans, which she has cinched tightly around her waist
with a leather rope.  Most of her beautiful face is covered in white clay
except for dark, greasy black circles painted around her eyes, and two black,
skeletal anvils on her nose.  There are ten black stitches painted across her
lips, expanding slightly onto her cheeks.

      Her cold stare is cast upon
Joshua through unflinching green eyes, and he begins to sob, taking in the
reality of her owning him, and showing it by wearing his clothing.  She
observes with ruthless pride, waiting for him as each step gets closer to his inhumane
death.  He looks back at the large pile of stones behind him, noticing the
lifeless stares of the tribe as they meet his gaze.  There are easily over
one-hundred stones at his back that he will need to move to earn his freedom. 
The tortured man returns his gaze to the front where he notices that there is
no other living thing behind the priestess; just coarse spans of rock cliffs
covered in the whimsical colors of sunset.  Below her bare feet, he focuses on
the small formation of stones that have been placed through his arduous and
painstaking efforts; an attempt to build a wall in exchange for his life. 
Without counting, Joshua knows that there are exactly twenty-eight stones laid
on the small foundation, barely enough to take the shape of a wall.  The tears
of failure flow hard from his eyes now, and he drops the stone as the sunset
fades to its deepest hues of faint evening orange and red.

      The priestess smiles at his
defeat with a face full of wisdom and justice.  She immediately raises the
skeleton of the small bird horizontal in front of her body and snaps the spine
in half, then casts the broken bones at Joshua’s feet.  When the skeleton hits
the ground near him, Joshua is shocked and terrified as his legs go immediately
limp against his will.  A sickly terror grips his throat as he stares at the priestess
in hateful awe; the alabaster stakes hitting the ground, pushing upward under
the leather ropes and into his abdomen through his pelvis. 

      Soon his crying turns to raw
animal screams as the sharp calcite pushes into his body; making his lower jaw
tremble with repulsed dread.  He flails spastically into the space before him,
reaching out desperately toward nothing, trying to pull himself off the stakes
with the air itself.  Within less than a minute, his convulsions of terror and
raucous screams come to an end, and his body falls lifeless onto the sand. 

      The young priestess gestures
toward the thick drops of blood draining into the earth beneath the fallen
businessman.  She then turns her palms up toward the sky and raises her arms
high above her head; a gesture of ceremonious respect.