Page 12 of The Cult

“Take care of what?” There was no way he could tell.

“Your fly is still down,” he said, grinning.

“Fuck you!” I said and marched to the car.

***

“Orcus will be at the Route 18 Roadside Diner at exactly six a.m., he’ll order biscuits and gravy with his coffee, and he’ll sit at the northeast corner of the café, where he’ll have his back against the wall, facing the door. He’ll finish his breakfast by six fifty-five a.m. and exit the cafe by seven a.m. That fucker is a creature of habit.”

Zero’s voice from last night replayed in my head. And as predicted, a black tinted Suburban SUV pulled in at six sharp.

A text from Zero pinged: Good luck.

I lifted the newspaper in front of my face while keeping a close eye on the newcomers. One by one, the doors opened, except the rear passenger side. Three guards packing Glock 26 handguns, wearing military fatigues and black V-neck shirts, perused the perimeter. One of the guys waited next to the closed SUV door, and when the driver nodded, he pulled the door open, revealing our target.

Excitement coursed through me. I lived for moments like this; the stalking of my prey, the danger, the adrenaline. All of it.

The bell above the door rang when all four men entered the café. They walked with purpose toward where Zero had anticipated. The series of events followed the script to a T, and I couldn’t have asked for a better vantage point. The booth where I sat provided enough of a view of Orcus without being too obvious. And because the café was located along a busy stretch of US Route 18, patrons like me didn’t stand out like sore thumbs.

At six fifty-five exactly, Orcus finished his breakfast. Five minutes later, he stood and flopped a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

“See you next Monday,” the waitress called as his entourage exited. None of the men in black, including Orcus, responded.

They marched to their SUV and, once they were gone, I fished my phone out of my pocket. They just left, I fired to Archer and waited two minutes before hopping into my rental parked at the back of the building.

The number of cars driving on the state route diminished the further we drove away from the closest town. Discreetly tailing the black SUV onto a secluded road, they suddenly came to a halt, blocked by a car with smoke coming out of its hood. I parked the car, keeping a close four-car-length distance behind the SUV. It’s showtime.

The driver and the other guard from the passenger seat climbed out of their vehicle and inspected the obstruction. “What the hell is going on here?” the driver loudly asked Heath, who was wearing a black cassock and standing next to his smoking car. “You’re blocking the damn road.” He peeked under the car’s hood, his hand resting on the holster of his gun.

“My apologies, son,” Heath said, extending his hand. “You don’t happen to know how to fix cars, do you? Because I could use some help right now.”

The driver appeared unaffected by the plight of a priest. “No, I don’t, but I need you to get out of our way.”

“That’s a shame,” Heath said, discreetly reaching into his pocket.

At that maneuver, a dart whipped through the air, hitting one of the other guards, who had joined the driver next to the car, in the neck.

“What the fuck?!” The driver whipped around; Heath grabbed his hand, tugging him closer, and plunged a syringe into his neck.

Once the two men went down, the rear door of the SUV opened. The remaining guard jumped out of the vehicle, his gun pointed at Heath. A gunshot cracked the air, hitting the guard’s wrist before he could fire. His gun fell to the ground, and he dashed toward the driver’s seat. Two more shots were fired from the tree line, hitting both tires on the driver’s side. Air hissed out of the punctured wheels.

“Oh shit!” The guard glanced at the backseat of the SUV, sweat dripping down his face that was etched with panic.

Archer, wearing his signature black hood, emerged out of the woods with a gun. Orcus tried to pull the open door shut, but Archer yanked it open.

Heath tackled the last guard to the ground, twisting the man’s hands behind his back then restraining his wrists with zip ties and stabbing his neck with a needle.

“Get the fuck out,” Archer ordered Orcus.

Orcus hesitated, but Archer grabbed his arm, twisted it, then pointed a gun at his face. “Okay, okay,” Orcus acquiesced. He reluctantly crawled out of the Suburban.

“Hands on your head,” Archer demanded.

“Who are you?” Orcus asked.

“We’re your long-lost friends.”

“What do you want?” I’d give it to Orcus: he seemed composed and collected for someone being ambushed. “Name your price.” They were all the same, thinking money could save them.

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