The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination Read Online Free PDF Page A

was a patch of nano-tube mesh capable of absorbing small-arms fire and blows from a fist, club or knife. It had several pockets, straps and epaulettes that could be seen and probably other features that couldn’t.
    The pilot kept an eye on the crowd as he wrestled on an extremely old-fashioned, double-breasted wool topcoat, in the pale grey-blue and unembellished style of the old Pennsylvania State Police. He shivered and pulled its huge collar up over his ears, the lapels flopping across his chest. Only his root-beer brown eyes and a shock of auburn hair could be seen of him. The Peregrine fell silent, but the menace remained.
    He looked uneasy as he approached. The town was divided into two obvious groups. One was mostly women and a few old men, likely natives. The other was all men, with the look of veterans.
    The veterans watched the flint-hard yet broken man in unspoken recognition. Broken as any of the soft-hearted men standing here, but with something different about him. He still had his dignity.
    Pastor Scott stepped into the street with his hand out. “Welcome to Lily. I’m Pastor Scott Stephens.”
    The pilot smiled, to everyone’s relief. “Trooper MacIan,” he said pleasantly.
    “Fred, here . . .” Fred emerged, Max at his heels. “They found a dead man up on the mountain. An upright citizen, by the looks of him.”
    “This is my son, Max,” said Fred.
    Max shook MacIan’s hand clumsily, a guilty smile wavering across his face. He was glad he was not wearing his new red coat, but instead his father’s tattered navy pea-coat, which caught MacIan’s eye. This unnerved Max right down to the holes in his shoes.
    “Let’s have a look,” said MacIan, heading toward the Peregrine.
    The three civilians stood paralyzed — did he mean for them to come along? Max grabbed his father’s elbow and steered him toward the Peregrine. Pastor Scott watched them moving away, glued to the spot.
    “For Christ’s sake,” Gina’s harsh voice bellowed from the spectators. “What’re you waiting for, you old fart?”
    Pastor Scott shuffled after them as best as his overburdened legs allowed, tossing a befuddled look over his shoulder.
    No one in Lily had ever seen a bigger grin.

5
    T homka and Murthy always met with Arch Bishop Virginia McWilliams Hendrix and her reclusive husband, Petey, immediately after Sunday services. Their mansion stood inside what was once the vast UN General Assembly Hall. Many called it the real estate deal of the millennium. It had the floor space of a soccer field and a magnificent view across the East River of old Brooklyn. Beautiful sunrises.
    Thomka and Murthy loved being here.
    The four-story, post-info-modern mansion occupied most of the great hall, and was clad in cor-ten steel — a gift from the Walled City of Pittsburgh. The austere design and oxidized steel melded perfectly with the empire gothic marble and exotic wood trim of the original 1950s décor. The east wall had been removed and replaced by a glass enclosure that gave the impression that a crystal meteor had struck the hall and engulfed the entire UN Sculpture Garden. The mansion was surrounded by a maze of office cubicles filled with computerized attendants transferring donations from the Flock to The Church. Most of it would be instantly changed into Chinese Yuan, the only currency Petey could buy gold with. Petey believed in gold. He was an old-school investment banker who’d learned his lesson.
    Security was the indispensable architectural element here, so the buffer zone of cubicles was a functioning labyrinth. Only those of Petey’s inner circle knew the way through.
    A matronly receptionist sat outside the front door in the unfashionable plain brown uniform worn by The Church’s administrative employees. She nodded a mild hello and waved Thomka and Murthy past the guards, who were permitted no familiarities.
    They passed through a foyer that doubled as a scanner, and emerged in the voluminous receiving room.