For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1 Read online

  Leona’s mind was running at full throttle. How many other innocents in the history of Chicago have felt the strong arm of crime crash down on their heads, heads which otherwise might be held high? This is the city of John Dillinger, Al Capone, and the Valentine’s Day Massacre. This is Upton Sinclair's jungle. This is Carl Sandburg’s “City of the Big Shoulders,” or more accurately the city that mercilessly hurls big shoulders to the ground and grinds them into gravel. These purse-snatching thugs on the Cheltenham platform are unknowingly extending a long tradition, she grumbled to herself.

  Leona walked past a currency exchange on her left and the 24/7 Coffee Shop on her right, both open for business. She walked past other storefronts with covered windows and wrought-iron gates with padlocks jailing the exhausted establishments. Even though the evening sun was still shining, she had the feeling of a gray day. The monotony of inner-city death seemed to be broken only by some noticeable activity at Good Samaritan Auto Repair on the corner of South Burnham Avenue. She turned left and headed south on Burnham.

  The harp ring on her iPhone drew her attention. Leona clicked. The name Angie Latham appeared on her screen. Even though Angie lived a time zone away in southern Michigan, she was still Leona’s closest friend. Leona hit “ignore” and walked briskly southward.

  2 Tuesday, Afghanistan, 5:00 am

  The rising sun colored the eastern horizon as the four door pickup truck rocked its way slowly up the stony road. In the crew cab of the Toyota Hilux rode four drowsy men, bobbling at each bump. The terrain did not look hospitable to the human race. Dry. Dusty. Foreboding. When the sun finally cleared the horizon and the temperature soared to a hundred degrees, the four riders closed the windows and continued their trek in air conditioning.

  The driver pulled off the road and parked the vehicle. Four doors opened. Four doors slammed shut. “I think this is the spot, Manuel,” said the driver squinting through his sunglasses, looking at a path that would take them up a hundred feet to a ridge. The driver was a tall, strapping and athletic looking man, perhaps in his early forties. Above his light-colored combat boots he wore khakis and a tan tee shirt. His garb along with his fair skin and short cropped blond hair with threads of gray made him nearly invisible in a background of sand-dusted shrubs and rocks.

  The stocky Mexican wore jeans and a neck scarf plus the leather cowboy boots he had specially made in Nogales. “Si, Gringo,” Manuel responded with a smile.

  “Grab your rifle, Manuel. We’ll see if you can bag your own prey.” Manuel pulled a M4 Carbine from the truck bed. Turning to the other two men, the driver barked, “Bring the backups.” Both reached into the truck bed and drew out finely stitched canvas carrying bags, long and shallow, zipped shut. The four began their hike up the trail toward the sky.

  Long before they reached the sky they stopped at the top of the ridge. What lay before them was a valley, and beyond the valley another ridge lower than theirs. This valley too was dry. Despite the bleakness of the landscape, they could see square dried mud houses with adjacent corrals and sheds holding wandering goats and chickens. Human activity seemed to be absent, giving the brightly lit and heated valley a ghostly feeling. The four were not tourists. They were looking for something specific. They did not see it. So, they waited.

  Each of the four took a turn surveying the landscape through binoculars. Later in the morning Abdullah Pashtun, the only Afghani in the group, reported that he could see some relevant activity.

  “Gimmie the binocs, Abby,” ordered the truck’s driver. After studying the dust wake of a pickup on the far ridge, a victorious smile grew on his face. “It’s almost showtime,” he announced. He continued to watch and report what he saw.

  An Afghan government issue pickup with two in the crew cab came to a stop on the ridge just above a small, apparently unoccupied, farm. Two men exited the vehicle. Both pulled out their binoculars and began to survey the same valley from the opposite direction. They stood side by side, in plain view, at an estimated distance of five hundred yards.

  “Okay, Manuel, there’s your target. The Kabul land inspector is the one on the left. I think he’s from the Afghan Eradication Force. No doubt he’s looking for poppy plants.”

  Manuel picked up his rifle and looked through the scope at the targeted person on the left. “Who es el otro man, Senor Jarrod?” Manuel asked in Spanglish to the foursome’s leader.

  “Parece un Americano,” said Jarrod in his desperate Spanish. “Probably Army.”

  “Si le tiro al Kabul officer, el Americano pedira’ Cobra helicopters. Nos buscara’n,” complained Manuel.

  “Well then, let’s take them both out. I’ll take care of the American,” said Jarrod.

  “Mi carabina no es accurate desde aqui,” whined Manuel.

  Jarrod turned to Abdullah and the fourth man in the crew, an American mesomorph with a shaved head dressed in fatigues. “Open those bags and prepare the special M14s.”

  Jarrod turned back to Manuel. “These 7.62 millimeter M14s have been modified for the U.S. Marine Corps Designated Marksmen.” Manuel did not understand exactly what Jarrod had said, but he got the idea that they were getting an upgrade.

  The two weapons were assembled and placed on stabilizing rocks in front of the shooters. “These babies are good up to six hundred and fifty yards,” remarked Jarrod as he looked through his scope. “Take aim, Manuel.” The other American helped Manuel position his hands and look through the scope.

  The two shooters positioned themselves. They took aim. The two distant targets were concentrating on what they were seeing through their glasses. They did not notice the flicker of lasers on their chests. Jarrod counted. “Uno. Dos. Fire!” Both squeezed their triggers. The two shots sounded almost like one. Watching through the binoculars, Abdullah saw both targets drop their hands, spin slightly, and fall to the dusty ground. It was over.

  “With the government inspector gone, the land is yours, Manuel,” announced Jarrod. “You owe me.”

  “Muchisimas gracias,” responded the Mexican, smiling and revealing his gold tooth.

  3 Monday, Chicago, 6:56 pm

  Nearing the end of the block Leona arrived at Trinity Church. The building was a golden-bricked chapel with geometric stained-glass windows. Next to it sat an asphalt parking lot. Across the parking lot and opposite the church, yet on the same side of the street, stood a dirty brick house with a large windowless wall. The lower portion of the wall was covered with white painted graphite. In the back, behind the church and adjacent to the parking area, Leona caught sight of a second house, her house, the parsonage.

  I wonder if I still have time. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Gotta change quickly. She raced through the parking lot, hurried past the church, flew up the porch steps two at a time and, in her haste, fumbled unlocking the front door. Once inside she threw her purse and rumpled Cubs jacket on the couch in front of the picture window. This frowzled an otherwise tidy room, one that Leona had skillfully decorated within the budget confines of an inner city pastor.

  No time. No time. Leona zipped up the stairs as she unzipped her jeans. The suit bag slipped from her shoulder. As she reached the bedroom, the bag fell to floor while she made a 180 degree turn to hit the bed, bottom first, and hurriedly untied and removed her cross trainers, followed by socks and jeans. The black clerical shirt with white collar remained. She scrambled through the bag to find her new black A-line skirt and jacket, custom-tailored by a Hong Kong tailor in Chicago, a special gift to herself. They were made to fit her shapely, athletic physique as well as her professional role as the pastor of Trinity. The matching black pants remained in the suit bag, crumpled at the bottom, the second victim of the unfortunate incident at the train station.

  What a frazzled mess! No time to fix my hair. Hate being late. She slipped into her skirt, squeezed her moist feet into a pair of black pumps, and grabbed the new suit jacket.

  The doorbell rang. It rang again, impatiently repeating. She shot down the stairs, donnin
g the coat as she descended. No time to look into the mirror; no time to admire her new purchase.

  Through the screen door she saw Hillar, the fourteen-year-old boy who served as her personal Quasimodo minus the hump, always volunteering to help her around the church. With his lanky teenage frame and loosely tousled blond hair, Hillar did not look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But Leona could not wash the association out of her mind. Sometimes she called him “Quaz,” a nickname that Hillar owned as badge marking his special relationship to Leona. She forced herself to appreciate the grotesque vulture tattoo on Hillar’s neck and the twenty gage stainless steel hoop protruding from the teenager’s nose, testimony to his being an early twenty-first century youth. “Hurry, Pastor Lee,” Hillar stammered. “The church council meeting is starting. They’re waiting for you.”

  “I’m coming!”

  Leona slipped past the young man. With a long reach Hillar closed the parsonage door behind her and felt it lock. The two marched down the cement stairwell into the church basement.

  Hillar and Leona wound their way through the kitchen, passed partially-covered trash cans and recycling bins, heading for Fellowship Hall. Leona’s nose caught a faint scent of rancid yogurt. Her gait slowed to an unexpected stop. Her mind carried her uncontrollably into another time and another place. A gruesome scene appeared on the stage of her mental theatre. As if in a dream, or more accurately a nightmare, she stared into the face of a man in a blood-soaked shirt lying lifeless on a gurney. She riveted her eyes intently on his, hoping in vain for acknowledgement, for contact. The dead man’s eyes were static and empty, his last gaze before three well-placed bullets robbed him of his being.

  The pungent odor had drawn Leona to the scraps basket in the kitchen. The pastor separated the flaps of the plastic bag, revealing globs of discarded yogurt.

  Hillar’s shouts brought her back to the moment. “Don’t stop, Pastor. Come on. They’re waiting.” Hillar grabbed Leona’s arm and guided her into the Fellowship Hall.

  4 Monday, Chicago, 7:10 pm

  At the far end of the Fellowship Hall the tables were arranged in a large U. Next to the south wall sat a banquet table set lovingly with a pale yellow tablecloth, a flower arrangement of homegrown asters and snapdragons in the center, and a coffee pot accompanied by a variety of mugs in all sizes and colors, donated by members of the congregation. Sugar, sweetener, and powdered creamer accompanied a generous spread of brownies, oatmeal with raisin cookies, and chocolates. Seeing this array reminded Leona of how little time she had anymore for such simple tasks like baking cookies.

  The council members were already seated, sipping coffee and nibbling on sweets. Bud Stevens, manning the obvious seat of authority, stood up and with commanding volume in his voice announced, “Welcome, Pastor Lee. We were just about to begin.”

  Leona found the only remaining empty chair—next to the one Hillar had taken—on the end of the left U arm. She wiggled into her chair. “Hi, everybody,” she said with a smile of greeting. Her eyes darted around the table acknowledging each person, a guilt reaction for being late.

  Multiple “Hi’s” echoed around the table. Eyes stared, expressing a bit of puzzlement.

  “Are you okay, Pastor?” asked Bud so that all could hear. Bud’s burly build testified to decades of physical labor in the steel mill. His deep voice sounded like falling gravel, exuding power while eliciting a sense of grandfatherly comfort.

  “Of course. Thanks.”

  “But you look like you may be bleeding. Are you sure you’re okay?” Heads swiveled back and forth, watching the dialogue between council chair and pastor.

  Leona felt her damp cheek. Her hand grabbed a napkin from a nibble plate and swabbed. She looked at the crimson blotch on the napkin. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she announced. “I had a little accident disembarking from the Metra. I’m gonna be fine. Thanks.”

  “It looks like a lot more than merely a little accident to me,” said Thora Stevens, Bud’s wife, sitting directly to her husband’s right. “Should you see a doctor?”

  “No, no,” replied Leona with an element of stress in her voice. “It’s just fine. Really.” Her inner voice chanted a litany of self-criticism. Why didn’t I take two minutes to look at myself in the mirror? My hair is probably a mess. How bad are those bruises? Worse than they feel? Blood must be visible if Bud mentioned it. So much for the new black suit. The professional dignity associated with this specially-tailored suit would be eclipsed by her disheveled appearance. Too late to do anything about it now. Leona wanted the attention turned away from her and back to the business of the council. “Please go ahead.”

  With a look of reluctance on his face, Bud called the meeting to order, shifting the focus to the agenda before them. “Let’s begin with a word of prayer. Thora?”

  Thora could be relied upon to oblige almost any impromptu request from her husband, or from anyone in the congregation for that matter.

  “Sure. Let us pray. Our Heavenly Father, thank you for the blessings you have showered like rain on our community of faith here at Trinity. Open our eyes to see the needs of the needy and our ears to hear the voices that cry out. Fill our little church with love, grace, and hope. In the name of Jesus Christ, we pray. Amen.”

  A cacophony of half-whispered “Amens” reverberated around the table. The next moment was given over to coughs and the sound of folding chairs scraping on the tile floor. Finally, everyone’s attention was directed to the council president.

  Bud spoke. “You can see we have guests for this evening—actually three guests. Maybe all of us should introduce ourselves first.”

  Leona had taken note of one particular guest, the one in the last seat on the U arm across from her. She fixed her gaze on an African American man with radiant skin, golden brown reminding her of cappuccino. Perhaps in his mid-to-late thirties, built like an athlete, perhaps a quarterback. Quite handsome, she thought. No. Hot! Damned hot! But Leona criticized herself silently again. She turned her attention to the council round robin.

  “Bud Stevens, president of the congregation and council chair. Former steel worker.” Bud smiled, nodded, and glanced to his left. Introductions continued: J. Carter Hansen, a wiry seventy-something retired steel worker, with frameless glasses and gray hair; Kathleen Mortensen, an attractive brunette in her forties who contributed her CPA skills as church treasurer; and Brad Kuhn, a young, blue-eyed Germanic who proudly announced he had just been accepted into service as a patrol officer with the Chicago Police Department.

  Leona scrutinized the debonair newcomer as he looked directly into the eyes of each speaker, making contact without being intrusive. Mmmm. Aplomb.

  The baton passed to a shy and fidgeting Hillar, the youth representative on council. He was the only one in the room under twenty-five and the only one showing body piercing. Hillar looked downward as if introducing himself to the worn linoleum tile, “I’m Hillar, and I help Pastor Lee with youth work and stuff.”

  Leona smiled affectionately at Hillar while he spoke. Then she turned to the group. “As you know, I am Leona Foxx, pastor of this faithful congregation and I am delighted to see new faces around the table.”

  Leona was followed by Thora, whose visage and soft voice conveyed the sensitivity one would hope to find in a nurse at bedside. Next was Harriet Bolstad, a plump, slightly graying woman in her sixties, giggling as she identified herself as baker of the evening’s goodies.

  To Harriet’s right were two of the evening’s visitors: two slender, poised African American women, both fifty-ish, professionally dressed, displaying a respect for tonight’s invitation. The first woman spoke in soft, deliberate words, “I’m Ruth Williams. This is my sister, Orpah Tinnen. We are joining Trinity this coming Sunday. Mr. Stevens invited us so we could meet you all, and get to know a little about how the church works. I’m a check-out clerk at the Jewel on 79th and I live on South Marquette just off 81st.”

  “Hi. I’m Orpah,” announced her sister. “And please don’
t confuse me with Oprah!” Orpah’s strong voice and throaty laugh gave everyone permission to laugh along with her. Leona secretly chuckled inside as she reminded herself that these were the names of sisters, Naomi’s daughters-in-law. Straight out of the Book of Ruth.

  “As long as I have the floor,” Orpah began with a soothing authority in her voice. “My sister and I are grateful that we’ve found Trinity Church. We look forward to making Trinity our church home and making you our family in the Lord. Now, I’d like to take a moment to express my personal thanks to Pastor Lee. What Pastor Lee did for me and what remains of my family was so meaningful. She was by my side through everything.”

  “Would you tell us what ‘everything’ is?” asked Bud. “I know, of course, but it would be good for all of us on the council to hear.”

  “I mean the memorial service for my son. You see, he was a Navy Seal. We received news that he had died in Afghanistan. Somehow he was in a village house when a bomb fell and the roof caved in. His body was so dismembered, we were told in a letter that he could not be shipped home for a funeral. We received a military urn of ashes, which we were told were his cremated remains. I was shattered. So was Ruth. Pastor Lee held our hands. She prayed with us and walked us through the details of the memorial service. I’m so glad we could hold the service here at Trinity. It was two weeks ago Tuesday morning. It was nice to see Mr. Stevens there.” Turning to look at Leona, she added, “Thanks, Pastor.”