“Not yet,” I repeated. “We bleed them first. Bleed them slow. I want every dime of the club’s side businesses running through our hands by Christmas. Let the Bastards wonder who’s stabbing them in the dark while we’re singing Silent Night on live TV. If they get desperate enough, they’ll turn on their own.” I sat, lacing my fingers on the table. “That’s when you go in. Quiet, surgical, no bodies.”
“Copy,” said Bart. He was already writing names in a spiral notebook, his penmanship small and tidy as gravestones.
Silas flexed his fingers, then pointed at the map. “What about the cop we bought?” he asked.
“He’s useful,” I said. “But disposable. Keep him on ice until we need a martyr.”
Silas grinned, showing chipped canines.
I let them have their moment. It built morale.
Bart finished his list and capped the pen with a click. “Anything else, Reverend?”
“Just one thing.” I leaned forward, letting the sunlight catch in my pupils. “If Axel gets anywhere near my daughter, you don’t bring him to me. You bring me his hands.” I waited for the silence to settle. “He can pray with the stumps.”
They laughed, which was what I wanted. The sound echoed up to the rafters, bouncing off the empty cross and the fake organ pipes. I pictured Christ in his niche above the altar, rolling his eyes and wishing he’d picked a better marketing team.
As the men rose, I gestured to the photos. “Take those with you. I want everyone on payroll to know his face. The first man who brings me something useful gets a bonus, double if he’s breathing.” I watched as Silas folded the pictures into his breast pocket, careful and deliberate.
Bart lingered at the door, clearing his throat. “If I may, sir?”
I nodded.
“Heard your girl’s not been herself. Rumor is, she’s falling behind in college. Missing shifts at the food bank.” He let it hang, like a worm on a hook.
I gave him nothing. “Worry about your own family, Bart.”
“Of course, Reverend.” He clicked his heels together—sarcastic, but only just. “Praise be.”
I waited until the sound of their boots faded, then let out a breath that was half prayer, half curse. I closed the door and stood alone in the mock-holy gloom, staring down at the rainbow blur of Lexington. When I pressed my palm to the map, the ink smeared, blue and black bleeding together, territory melting into uncertain lines.
They thought I was just another small-town fraud with a sermon for every sin. They were right, mostly. But I’d been running this game since the night I buried my wife and realized the only way to keep faith alive was to wring it out of people, one dollar at a time.
***
After a decade in ministry, I could tell when a house was lying to me. The walls flexed with the wind, the HVAC rattled its old bones, and the stairs kept a separate ledger of every foot that ever snuck across them. The Maple home was a colonial two-story with all the charm of a dental office, but it held secrets like a seasoned priest: quietly, with a tinge of resentment.
The clock in the foyer glowed 2:53. I sat in the parlor, lights off, reading by the stingy puddle of a banker’s lamp. My Bible was open to Luke 12, a warning about the hypocrisy of the Pharisees, though my eyes kept drifting to the grandfather clock’s slow, self-satisfied tick.
The window creaked above me, then a thump. Darla’s bedroom. My darling daughter, back from another night of whatever-the-hell college girls did after midnight.
I didn’t move. Not at first. She knew I was a light sleeper. She’d tiptoe, but the second landing was a trap—old houses like mine always kept a Judas step. It squealed, and she froze. I could picture her: breath caught, eyes wide, counting down the time until she thought the danger had passed.
I waited exactly twenty seconds, then clicked the lamp on.
She entered the foyer with all the stagecraft of a Broadway debut, purse slung casual, skirt crisp and unwrinkled, shoes gleaming. I scanned her for signs of sin: lipstick smudges, whiskey breath, the musk of some loser’s aftershave. Nothing. She was perfect, or close enough for government work.
She saw me and did the thing with her face—the one that made her look like her mother, that flutter of genuine surprise forced over whatever lie she’d prepped for me. “Dad! I didn’t think you’d still be up.”
I closed the Bible with a soft thump. “The Lord never sleeps, and neither do I.” I set it aside, making sure she saw the gold-leaf pages. “Library again?”
“Study group.” She didn’t even flinch. “Finals week. If I bomb economics, you’ll have to find another pastor’s kid for the outreach budget.”
I chuckled, low and dry. “Not sure there’s a waiting list.” I gestured her in. “Sit, Darla.”
She perched on the edge of the armchair, back straight, ankles crossed. A lady, through and through. It killed me that I was proud.
“How was the library?” I said, the words syruped with affection.
