The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) Read online

  “Okay, Ellie. 313-338-7786. I got it.”

  Ellie said, “You too, Mallory. You need to remember it too.”

  “313-338-77—”

  “7786,” Arty finished for her as she stalled.

  “313-338-7786. Got it.” She tried to fix it in her mind, but she knew that she would forget.

  “Well done,” Ellie said. “Now. When we get to where we’re going, I want you to do whatever they tell you. No attitude. No lip. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Mallory said.

  “Arty?”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  They were quiet. Mallory might not be able to see where they were going, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She made sure she concentrated on everything else: how long they were travelling, the sounds that she could hear, the terrain that they passed over. The surface of the road was smooth for what she estimated was the first five minutes. Then, they rolled over a bump and then another bump, and she recognised the sound that the tyres on her car made when she crossed the railroad at the north end of town. They proceeded on asphalt for, she guessed, another ten minutes. When the van slowed down, the red taillights glowed through faulty housings, their light leaking into the back. They slowed right down, the axle creaking as they negotiated bumpy terrain.

  “What happened to Mr. Milton?” Arty asked.

  “He left,” Mallory said.

  “But he’ll come back for us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  THE VAN continued along the rough track for ten minutes, and then it swung around sharply to the right, the brake lights flashed again, and they slowed to a stop. The engine was turned off.

  “Where are we?” Arty asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Mallory reflexively tensed her arms against the cuffs, but there was no give there, and all the effort did was make her wrists sore again.

  She heard a door at the front of the van open and the sound of feet dropped down onto the ground. She heard footsteps and then voices.

  A woman’s voice: “You want to tell me what’s going on? Seth says we got a problem.”

  “In a minute, Magrethe,” answered a man.

  “Seth says you’ve got two dead bodies in the back plus the two Stanton kids.”

  “And an FBI agent. So, yes, Magrethe, I’d say Seth was right, we do got a problem.”

  “Where’s Morten now?”

  “Busy. Says he’ll be here presently. Probably on his way now.”

  “Then you better tell me what in God’s name is going on tonight.”

  “The agent and another man went up to the mine and arrested Michael and the boys.”

  “What other man?”

  “There was an Englishman in town, got into a brawl at Johnny’s a couple nights ago. Mallory Stanton set the whole thing up, the whole expedition into the woods. She roped the guy and the agent into it.”

  “We know anything about him?”

  “Name’s Milton. That’s all.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Morten’s got it in hand. He won’t be a problem.”

  “But he brought the boys back?”

  “That’s right. Morten heard it over the radio, went to the jail, and busted them out.”

  Mallory recognised the man’s voice. It was Morris Finch.

  “What do you mean, he busted them out?”

  “What I said: he busted them out. Lester was there. He shot him.”

  “He shot Lester?”

  “No choice, Magrethe. What else was he going to do? If he did nothing, everything would’ve gone to shit. Everything we’ve been working for. The militia, God's word. You reckon those boys would’ve been able to keep their mouths shut if the FBI had gotten hold of them? Shit, no. Not because they ain’t loyal, but because they ain’t the smartest. There was no choice. It was Lester or us, Magrethe. Morten did what he had to do.”

  Magrethe. Seth. Mallory thought hard about that. Magrethe and Seth. The only Seth she knew had a farm out on the edge of town and, the more she thought about it, she was sure that Seth’s wife’s name began with an M.

  “You know where Lars is?”

  “Morten didn’t say. You can ask him.”

  “He got a call before the lines all went down, took off like a scalded cat.”

  “Morten will know. Come on, we got stuff to do. We got to put the agent and the Stantons out of the way for a bit. You got space in the other barn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are we going to do with the bodies?”

  “We feed ’em to the pigs,” she said.

  “Wish I never asked.”

  Mallory heard footsteps splash through water.

  “Do what they say,” Ellie hissed.

  Mallory reached out with her leg and touched Arty’s knee with her foot. “Don’t do anything crazy, okay?”

  “Okay, Mallory. I won’t.”

  The handle turned, and the door opened. Morris Finch was standing there, water cascading from the brim of the wide hat he was wearing and his raincoat slick with run-off. He brought up a flashlight and shone it into the van. The beam shone into Mallory’s eyes, and she turned her head away.

  “Out,” Finch said.

  Mallory went first, getting her knees beneath her and then pushing up to her feet. She shuffled over to the door, stepping over the two bodies. Finch reached up and put his hands beneath her shoulders to help her jump down.

  The rain lashed onto her as Mallory took the chance to look around. They were in an open yard. A large oak tree was off to one side, a lean-to beneath the wide spread of its boughs. There was a farmhouse on the other side of the yard, old and in need of repair. There were lights on in the downstairs windows, and a yellow finger stretched out into the yard from the front door, which had been left ajar. Mallory didn’t recognise the building, but although it was dark, the place had the feeling of open ground.

  On the other side of the yard, opposite the farmhouse, was the track that they had followed to get to the farmhouse. Cars and pickup trucks were parked along the side of the road, and as she looked at them, she saw the lights of another car sweep across the barren fields as the driver turned off the main road. She could see the figures of people, just shadows in the darkness, hurrying through the rain.

  Arty jumped down. He stumbled in a puddle and bumped up against her. Morris reached across to steady him.

  “Come on,” Magrethe said. “I’m drowning out here.”

  Mallory turned in the direction of her voice and saw her just on the other side of the van. In one hand, she held a child’s umbrella open above her head, Minnie Mouse on the pink canopy. It looked ridiculous. In her other hand, she had a shotgun pointed down to the ground, the stock wedged up beneath her armpit.

  Finch reached into the van, caught Ellie beneath the shoulders, and pulled her out.

  “Come on, Morris,” Magrethe snapped. “Let’s go.”

  They walked on. The water drenched her, running down into her eyes and mouth, and since she couldn’t use her hands to clear it away, she had to duck her head instead. They went behind the lean-to, along a gravel path, around a waterlogged vegetable patch and then to one of two large barns that loomed out of the murkiness in front of them. One of the barns had been opened up, and a cascade of bright golden light poured out from the door. Mallory could see and hear people in the barn, and the figures she had seen hurrying from the cars in the lane trotted across and disappeared inside. To the side of the barn, Mallory could see the tractor cab of a large Freightliner semi. The trailer, if there was one, was out of sight behind the barn.

  Magrethe went to the door of the other, smaller barn and unlocked it with a key that she had in her hand. She opened the door and stood back a step. Finch raised his flashlight. Mallory saw agricultural machinery arranged around the inside of the large barn. There was a riding lawnmower, a plough attachment that would be towed behind a tractor, bags of feed and, wrapped in black polythene wrapping, bundles of silage.


  Magrethe levelled the shotgun. “In. Get.”

  “Can you take the cuffs off?” she asked.

  “All right,” Finch said.

  Magrethe scowled at him. “What are you doing?”

  “They’re kids, Magrethe. The shed’s secure, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “So there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Mallory turned so that Finch could get to the cuffs. He worked at them for a moment, and then the clasp opened and they fell free. He turned to Arty and released his cuffs, too.

  “What about her?” Mallory said, looking at Ellie.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Finch quickly frisked all three of them. He found the cellphone that Ellie had kept and pocketed it. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned them. “You’re out in the middle of nowhere. There’s nowhere to go. No one will hear you. You try to get out, we’ll just cuff you again, fix you to the wall. Understand?”

  Mallory rubbed her sore wrists.

  “Now,” Magrethe said. “Get into the shed.”

  Arty hurried across until he was alongside her. “Mallory?” he said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “What is it?” the woman snapped irritably.

  “He doesn’t like the dark,” she explained.

  She rolled her eyes. “You tell him to get in there or we’ll throw him in.”

  Mallory ignored her, the harshness in her voice, and turned to her brother. “It’s okay, Arty. I’m here, too. I’ll go in with you. We’ll go in together.”

  She saw the fear on his face as he nodded that he would do that.

  “Everyone says he’s simple,” Finch said to Magrethe as they stepped inside.

  “Simple?” she said disdainfully. “People walk around on eggshells when it comes to things like that. It’s better to call a spade a spade. He’s a retard, Morris, that’s what he is. A fucking retard.”

  The door clanged shut behind them, and they were plunged into total darkness.

  “Mallory!” Arty exclaimed fearfully.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m here. Stay where you are.” She shuffled her feet in the direction of his voice until she bumped up against him. “Here I am.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “I know it is.”

  Mallory waited for a moment, willing her eyes to adjust. There was a little grey light that came from the roof, and after a moment, she began to make out the outline of the equipment that she had seen from outside. She stepped ahead carefully, leading her brother, until they had crossed the shed and were up against the wall.

  “Mallory?” Arty said plaintively. “Mallory, I don’t like it in here.”

  She waited a moment to reply, waiting until she could control the quaver that she knew would be in her voice. “We’ll be just fine,” she said. “Sit down next to me.”

  He did as he was told.

  She lowered herself to the ground. It was dry, a minor blessing. She rested her back against the corrugated metal wall.

  “We’ll be fine,” Ellie said.

  “You feel okay?” Mallory asked. “Your head?”

  “Just a bit dizzy. It’s not a problem. You should both try to get some sleep.”

  Mallory waited for Arty to settle in beside her. He lowered himself so that he could rest his head in her lap, and she stroked his thick, dark curls. She said again, “We’ll be fine,” although it was under her breath and for her benefit as much as for his.

  The trouble was, she didn’t believe it.

  She wondered where John Milton was.

  Chapter 26

  SETH OLSEN had two big barns near the house. The Stanton kids and the FBI agent were in the one where he kept his old equipment. They had the spare nitromethane and fertiliser in there, too. The other barn was where Seth usually kept the hay bales, silage and feed, but they had emptied it out two months ago so that it could be used as the militia’s gathering space and armoury instead.

  Lundquist took Seth and Magrethe to one side. He told them what had happened to Lars. Seth clenched his jaw, the crinkles that appeared around his eyes the only indication of the impact the news must have had. His wife sobbed, just once, Seth reaching out to take her shoulder, but she shook him off. She snapped that she was fine, but the colour had drained from her face and her eyes were filmed with tears that didn’t spill. Magrethe was tough. They both were. Lundquist knew the news would set them both implacably to the cause. He led them in prayer for a moment and then made his way inside.

  THE BARN had been decorated. A mural of a crowned sword bisected by a Z-like slash, the emblem of the Sword of God, was emblazoned on the wall behind his pulpit. A Nazi battle flag was hung on the facing wall. This church’s crucifix was a sword with an Iron Cross on its hilt, the handiwork of a disciple named Kenny Woichek. A portrait of Saint George and the Dragon hung from the pulpit. One of the dragon’s horns was topped by the Star of David.

  Lundquist had needed a headquarters for the militia, and the farm had been perfect. It was out of town and impossible to approach without giving good warning first. Seth had eight hundred acres of land, a huge expanse that meant that there was plenty of space for them to train without any fear that they would be seen or heard. Lundquist had worked his men and women hard, preparing them for the role that the Lord had prophesied for them. He had turned it into a guerrilla training camp, complete with firing ranges, stockpiles of weapons and ammunition, and accommodation for everyone who needed it. They had built a facility they called Silhouette City, where his soldiers could fire at targets of Barack Obama, Jeh Johnson, and Janet Yellen. There were checkpoints, and a log cabin served as a guardhouse along the only road that offered access.

  When the time came, when the final trumpet was sounded, the farm would be an Ark for God’s people.

  The men and women of the militia were all gathered inside, bundled in ragged clothes and military surplus jackets. The barn was lit by lanterns that Seth had hung from the rafters. The light was warm and golden, the flames flickering this way and that, sending dancing shadows against the walls. He climbed into the pulpit and looked out at them all.

  There were thirty of them, and they had turned out with impressive alacrity. That was some good discipline right there, Lundquist thought, complimenting himself, damned impressive. He had drilled them well, made them understand how important it was that they operated as an effective, cohesive unit. He used the things that he had learned himself during his career in the army, and his lessons were being learned. The word of God he had been working to fulfil demanded unswerving, absolute loyalty and obedience. This was as good a demonstration as any that they were on the right track.

  The night ahead would present further opportunities to prove that.

  He cleared his throat and raised his voice to address all of them. “What we have here is our first real test since the Lord spoke to me. The first test since we started to work on delivering the Word of the Lord, working towards His prophecy to take our country back. We’ve had the federal authorities in town for a week, and we just about saw them off. We would have done it, too, until a fellow who was passing through got involved, went up into the woods, and brought our boys back down again.”

  “The Englishman?” Barry Forshaw asked.

  “That’s right, Barry. The Englishman. His name is John Milton.”

  “Who is he?”

  “We’re looking into that.” He stared out at the sea of expectant faces, all of them hanging on his words. “Now, I’m not happy with how easy our boys made it for him to bring them back, but that doesn’t mean we should underestimate what this fellow is capable of. From what Private Callow and Private Chandler have said, he’s extremely proficient. He knows how to operate in the wild, and he knows his way around firearms. That’s about all we have on him right now, except to say that he’s caused us a whole heap of trouble.”

  “Is the sheriff dead?” Vernon Smith
interrupted. “I heard that he was dead.”

  “Milton delivered the boys to Lester, and the FBI agent was about to call the marshals to come and pick them up. That would have been an end to our chance of bringing God's word to fruition. Couldn’t have that happen, so I took action. What we are doing is more important than one man and, like we all know, there was no way Lester would have understood us and what we are doing. So I shot him. God have mercy on his soul.”

  One of the men, Percy Fisherton’s boy, let out a loud whoop, a few of the others sniggering at it.

  “Quiet. Lester was a good man, and what had to be done gave me no pleasure. The Englishman should be dead, too, but he killed Private Sellar, Private Sturgess, Private Olsen, and Private Pelham.”

  The atmosphere changed as if at the flick of a switch. Some of the men went slack jawed. Others mouthed “four” with disbelieving expressions.

  “That’s right, four. That’s how serious this is. How serious he is. He’s killed four men, and then he got away into the woods. And we can’t let him stay out there. We need to find him.”

  There were murmurs of angry assent.

  “We know he’s tough and resourceful, but we also know that he’s injured. I put a shot in his shoulder. Now, a man with a wound like that isn’t going to be able to cover long distances, plus it’s night, and he doesn’t know the woods like we do. So, you ask me, what he’s going to do is find himself somewhere to shelter from the storm out there, hunker down, try to fix his arm, and then make his move tomorrow. The state police will have a cordon in place by the time he can get to the boundaries, so he’s not going to find it easy to get out. He’s going to be hiding in hills and woods no more than twenty square miles across. And we’re going to have thirty armed men and women who know those woods going in there after him. Bearing those things in mind, you want to tell me how in God’s green earth that son of a bitch is going to get away from us?”

  No one demurred.

  “That’s right. He isn’t.”

  “What about the police?”

  “What about them?”

  “If they get him first?”