They were ready.
But first, they had to deal with the betrayer.
—
With four men working together, they hauled Mishra from the truck, stripped him naked, and lashed his wrists and ankles to the ringbolts set into the punishment wall.
They left the traitor standing alone while the Messenger’s People went to the river to collect stones. They stood at the water’s edge, selected water-worn rocks, weighed them in their hands. Larger rocks for the men, smaller rocks for the women, smaller still for the children. Three each.
The rain had stopped and it was a fine day, but people did not laugh or smile. It was a solemn occasion. They were addressing a grave breach in their community. The punishment must fit the crime. Sosaid the Protocols. The community must survive. Even if one of the members did not.
They carried their stones up the hill to the punishment wall. They arrayed themselves in a semicircle around the bound man, their stones at their feet. The Messenger stood before them and expressed his sorrow and regret at what must happen.
The failure was his own, he said, for placing his trust in such a weak vessel. He knew the other members were not weak. They were strong, especially together. As he spoke, he made a point to look at each of them, one by one, man, woman, and child. When the Messenger’s eye met Hollis’s, he felt again the electric force of the man, and a profound gratitude for being included in his vision.
Then the Messenger stepped away from the wall and into the semicircle. “Now is the time for punishment,” he said, his voice rising. “Who will cast the first stone?”
Hollis had chosen one slightly smaller than a baseball, round and smooth from the river. He didn’t like being a part of the punishment, but he’d signed the Protocols, too. It was his duty. More than that, as the Messenger’s right hand, he needed to set an example.
He stepped forward and threw.
Four hundred stones followed. Then eight hundred more.
It was the principle of the firing squad, the Messenger had explained to them all early on. No single person was responsible for the punishment. Instead they bore the weight together, in the old way. The ritual was powerful. Rather than divide the community, it brought them together.
Mishra was not the first man who had been tied to the punishment wall. Nor would he be the last. Anyone who broke the Protocols was subject to punishment. Four men had been found stealing community property. A fifth had thought that his wife should be exempted from the Messenger’s personal initiation, no matter that he’d signed theProtocols that enumerated the Messenger’s privileges. Two other men had tried to leave with their families. Hollis had found those punishments especially difficult, because of the women and children.
But not all crimes were capital crimes. Others, such as laziness, greed, or excessive drunkenness, led to beatings. Depending on the severity of the offense, the Protocols dictated the diameter of the stick and the number of blows. Then, as evidence of the Messenger’s mercy, the punished would be received into the bosom of the community again, his wounds salved. If he had no man or woman to share his bed, one would be given to him until the scabs fell away. None of those punished had ever offended again.
It was proof of the Protocols, of the vision, of the Messenger himself. The way of the future.
The Dark Time was coming. It was inevitable.
—
Sitting in the Rivian in the office building’s parking lot, Hollis finished his fourth cigarette and stuffed the butt in his pocket. A spot had opened up next to the blue minivan, so he’d moved to occupy it. He glanced at his watch. Four forty-five. It wouldn’t be long now.
There was a knock at the window and Nickels’s cousin Vance slipped into the passenger seat. The SUV’s springs sank with a groan. Vance was a big boy, and not a bit of it fat.
Nickels climbed into the back. “We parked five blocks away, like you said. What’s the plan?”
Hollis told them.
“In broad daylight?” Nickels asked. “On a busy street? Just the three of us?”
Vance turned to look at him and Nickels shut up.
“The clock is ticking,” Hollis said. “We need to take some players off the board. We have another journalist sniffing around. And weneed those damn black-tips you lost. This thing won’t work without that armor-piercing ammo. Unless you got a better idea?”
Nickels shook his head. “No, I’m in. Anyway, I got my own axe to grind.”
Hollis stared at him. “This isn’t personal, Nickels. This is about the Movement.”
Vance spoke for the first time, his voice like gravel in a gearbox. “Everything is personal, Hollis. Especially the Movement. But don’t worry. It’s just more motivation.”
The office building’s door opened and a sturdy brown man stepped out, eyes roving alertly. A moment later, he gestured and a woman and young girl followed him into the parking lot.
“This is us,” Hollis said. “Remember, we need them alive.” He pulled up his mask, picked up his pistol, and opened his door.
