THE OPERATOR

   Eric clicked the selector switch on his M16SP from safe to single fire. He’d done plenty of counter-terrorist missions in the Middle East and counter-narcotics ops in South America. There were even a few barricaded gunmen on base in California that his SRT had to deal with. But never had he even considered the possibility of assaulting American terrorists on home turf. That was a job usually reserved for the FBI’s HRT, or even a well-trained, well-equipped big city SWAT team. Well, at least they won’t stone us to death or hang us if we get caught, he thought. He stood up and started toward the target at a slow and steady pace as ordered.

   The Reverend lay on the hard floor and stared at the inside of his hood, still shaken by the beating that he had taken earlier. Being a man of peace, he was unaccustomed to committing physical violence, never having engaged in so much as a fistfight since he was at least twelve years old. However, he had been roughed up during the Civil Rights movement, even suffered the brutal beatings some of his fellow dissenters experienced. But that was many years ago. His body was young then and recovered quickly. He was over sixty years old now and didn’t take to pain so well.

   He’d vomited twice since Gentry’s unkind visit, and shivered uncontrollably off and on, though he didn’t know if it was from the cold or the fear of another beating. His wrist ached unmercifully, his head throbbed relentlessly, and every breath he took was extremely painful. Had Gentry broken his ribs, too? Reverend Johnson’s eyes watered. Closing them forced a drop to run down either side of his face. He was a broken man both physically and mentally, and soon one of his hosts would come to take him to some remote spot in the wilderness where he would be killed and left to rot, perhaps never to be found.

   He could hear the men in the living room, laughing and watching television. Wrestling was on; the Reverend could hear the almost comical dialogue as the wrestlers talked trash to each other and the audience. That entire violent action, trash-talking scenario was likely to raise their already jacked-up testosterone levels, he thought sadly. He opened his eyes again and wondered if this was how Jesus felt as he awaited his execution. Alone, scared, beaten and bruised, but still managing to trust in God the father, even though he knew that death was as close as one of the angry, drunken, and vicious hate mongers just outside of his door.

   The difference between him and Jesus was that if he had the option, he would call down the forty legions of angels to destroy the enemy and save him. But he didn’t have that option, did he? Reverend Johnson shook his head in response to his silent question.

   He rolled over onto his stomach and assumed the best prostrate position he could and began to pray. “Oh father, why hast thou forsaken me? Would you leave me to die at the hands of evil men who mock you and destroy in your name? Would you leave me to die as you did your own son? Have I not served you well? Have I not sacrificed enough in the name of the Lord? Have I not led enough souls to your merciful bosom? Have I not suffered enough beatings and humiliation in the name of justice and equality? Father God, I do not have the courage that Jesus had! I don’t want to die, Lord! Please, Lord, send your mighty angels to free me from the grasp of these evil men! Please o’ Lord, do not tarry! I beg of you!”

   “Shut the fuck up, nigger! You’ll be talking to God face to face soon enough so save yer fuckin’ prayer!” Ben, the man who had been outside of the room standing guard, laughed out loud and slammed the door shut.

   “Please, father, please!” Reverend Johnson nearly hissed. Silence was his answer. No thunder, no lightning. No legions of mighty sword-wielding angels with golden hair and flowing white robes appeared to annihilate his captors.  Reverend Johnson sobbed quietly as reality set in. He was going to die and that was all there was to that. He dug his fingernails into the wooden floor in frustration as he repeatedly recited the 23rd Psalm. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil...