Read Dancing on the Wind Online
Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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Dancing on the Wind
“Amen.” The chorus was low and heartfelt and handkerchiefs were plied
throughout the crowd.
“But, my Brothers and Sisters, it takes a lot of love offerings to keep the word out
here,” he heard Bolivar say. “Nothing in this life is free except the blessings of our
Savior, Jesus Christ.”
“Amen!” the crowd responded.
“I hate to ask you to help me forward my ministry to those who are most in need of
it, but without your help and aid it could not be done.”
Heads nodded as hands moved to pockets and pocketbooks. The faithful knew
what was needed.
“So dig deep, I beg you, so I can continue to spread His word and His healing
among you.”
The choir broke into an upbeat tune as Bolivar slumped against one of her
bodyguards and he carried her to the only chair on the stage—a gilt-framed, red velvet
monstrosity that more closely resembled an electric chair than a throne. There she
slumped with a hand to her forehead, seeming to gasp for breath as her followers filled
the collection plates being passed among them.
Fallon snorted and left, walking out into the hot Georgia night. There were workers
milling around the tent and he thought they were most likely fifty-milers, green help
who hadn’t made a fifty-mile jump beyond where the tent was at that moment. That he
thought of them in carney language seemed right for that was exactly what this was—a
carnival with Bolivar talking up the marks, drawing them in to the show.
If he had thought the noise had been loud before the revival, the volume and
excitement had surely doubled as the marks made for their cars and trucks. The joy of
the Holy Spirit was upon their faces, the jubilation coming through in their voices. They
had seen the power of the Lord at work in the healings and they were still misty-eyed
from watching the fallen being redeemed once they’d professed their belief in God. Just
watching them made Fallon physically ill for he knew they were being bilked, duped,
and there had been nothing holy that had happened inside that tent. Bolivar was simply
using them and that rankled him so badly he wanted to spit.
He had not grown up with religion as a central part of his life, but he had come to it
late. His Irish heritage had taken him to a Catholic church and to a priest who had given
him one-on-one instructions in the faith of his father. At the age of twenty-five he had
been confirmed in that faith. He had embraced it wholeheartedly, but that faith was
constantly at war with the killing side of him. He had learned over the years to
compartmentalize the things he knew to be outside the realm of organized religion—
like
An Fear Liath Mor
—because he needed the peace and serenity only his adopted faith
could offer him. He knew there was never peace in a Reaper’s soul unless he embraced
something much larger than himself and overlooked the true evil that existed all
around him.
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
What Bolivar was doing was twisting the emotions and the needs of her flock for
her own personal gain and that pissed him off to no end.
And there she was coming toward him with her four white-suited bodyguards
walking one in front, one behind and one to either side of her to keep the faithful from
coming near her. Those among the faithful who wanted to touch her, speak to her,
profess their love and respect for her were being stiff-armed aside as she walked with
head down and hands clasped demurely in front of her, the long skirt of her gold
sheath swinging gracefully with each step she took. Behind walked her Sensitives—one
beautiful girl in her twenties and a handsome young man about the same age, both
dressed in white.
Fallon pulled his hands from his pockets since he’d already spotted the operatives
from the Exchange making their way toward Bolivar and her entourage. He recognized
both of the men since they were often his sparring partners at the gym. A wicked smile
plucked at his lips.
“‘The coming of the lawless one will be in accordance with the work of Satan
displayed in all kinds of counterfeit miracles, signs and wonders’,” the burlier of the
two yelled at Bolivar. “Second Thessalonians, chapter two, verse nine!”
Bolivar winced but continued on, surreptitiously glancing at the bodyguard on her
right.
“And in second Timothy, chapter four, verse three, it says, ‘For the time will come
when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to
themselves teachers, having itching ears’,” the second man quoted from the bible.
“More like itchy palms with you. You are a harlot, a deceiver, a false prophet, Mignon
Bolivar!”
Three of the bodyguards broke away from Bolivar and started toward the shouting
men. Fallon stopped and folded his arms over his chest. This was going to be good.
One by one the bodyguards were soundly trounced by the two operatives, thrown
about the ground as though they were no more than chaff from wheat in a mighty
wind. Noses were bloodied, eyes blackened and not a single punch landed upon the
operatives who used their burly strength to break arms and jaws and severely roust the
next two bodyguards sent in to accost them.
“‘Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits, whether they are of
God…’ That comes from the first verse of first John, chapter four,” the first man shouted
to the group of horrified onlookers who had congregated around the fight. “This
woman is evil. She is not what you think she is. She is fleecing you!”
Several workers rushed forward but they fell like dominoes before the two bible-
verse-spouting men clad in plaid shirts and dirty blue jeans. A whirlwind of fists met
anyone who dared come too close or even looked as though they wanted to take
umbrage with what the men were shouting.
“‘And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on
the earth in the sight of men, and deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means
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of those miracles which he had power to do in the sight of the beast.’ Revelations,
chapter thirteen, verses thirteen and fourteen!’” the second man said, pointing a rigid
finger at Bolivar. “You will burn in hell for deceiving these good people!”
Bolivar was staring wide-eyed at the men, her remaining bodyguard blocking their
approach to her. She was looking about frantically, no doubt searching for one of her
people to put a stop to the taunts. Her gaze passed over Fallon, stopped then came back
to him and held.
Just as he knew it would since the subliminal message that he would be her savior,
her protector, that he had been sent, was even then weaving its way through her mind.
“Be careful using your powers,” the Supervisor had warned him. “There could be a
receiver among her people. When you send, send only to your target and shield that
transmission carefully.”
“
You need me and only me. You can trust me and only me
,” Fallon directed to her.
She gave him a pleading look as she clung to her remaining bodyguard.
Fallon nodded slightly and headed toward the larger of the two disruptors.
“‘To the law and to the testimony—if they speak not according to this word, it is
because there is no light in them’,” the first man shouted, arms raised to the heavens.
“That’s enough,” Fallon said.
The burly man spun around to face Fallon. A mean look entered the man’s pale
gray eyes and he took a powerhouse swing at Fallon, who ducked beneath the punch
and drove his fist into the man’s solar plexus. A loud whomp of sound accompanied
the jab and the burly man bent over, stumbling back from the power of the hit.
What followed was a spectacle of pure masculine strength as Fallon used every
boxing, martial arts and street brawling technique he’d ever learned to take the two
men down. They rushed him and he stepped aside with a savage jab to a jaw or a
wicked kick. He used his fists like bludgeons to meet their own punches, blocking each
except one that landed brutally to the side of his face, staggering him.
But he didn’t go down beneath the dual onslaught. He executed the superb training
he had learned at the hands and feet of the burly man to defeat him—although the
outcome of the fight was a foregone conclusion even before it began.
Fallon was enjoying himself and his opponents were taking a beating that sprayed
blood and darkened eyes. He was working off the anger he felt toward Bolivar and her
sideshow, and the anxiety he felt at having left Keenan with Breslin. Toward the end, he
wasn’t pulling his punches and neither were they yet he still managed to put them
down—the last one with a roundhouse kick that sent the man to the ground.
From out of the crowd rushed six men he knew were operatives who waved away
Bolivar’s workers. They picked up the beaten men and started dragging them away.
“They’re not right in the head,” one man told Bolivar. “They’re our kin. We’ll see to
them!”
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“Where is the law when you need it?” a woman yelled from the crowd. “Them men
need to be put in jail!”
That was the last thing the operatives needed, Fallon thought, and if they were left
to Bolivar’s people, might not survive the night.
“The law is out there on the highway directing traffic,” someone said with a snort.
“That’s more important to them than seeing to Mother Bolivar’s safety!”
“Somebody run get a policeman,” a young African-American woman told them.
“You men leave those rabble rousers right where they are!” Her words were ignored.
The men who were taking the unconscious fighters away looked big and powerful
enough to make mincemeat out of anyone who tried to stop them, so people simply
moved out of the way, wedging back in a silent wave.
Fallon’s knuckles were bleeding, aching savagely and he shook them, put a hand up
to his cheek, knowing the skin had split when he’d been hit. He hoped no one noticed
the wound had healed almost instantly or would wonder when no bruise formed. He
couldn’t let anyone see his knuckles either, for in a matter of moments, they too would
show no signs of being injured thanks to his Reaper constitution. Looking around, he
didn’t see Bolivar, her untouched bodyguard or the two Sensitives. Gritting his teeth for
he hoped his performance with the two operatives hadn’t been in vain, he dusted off
the legs of his jeans and started for the parking lot.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he whipped around—shrugging it off as he
brought his fists up.
“Easy there, dude. I’m just here to deliver a message,” the man stated, hands up
and out to the side.
“Yeah, like what?” Fallon snapped.
“Mother Bolivar would like to see you.”
Fallon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”
“I expect she wants to thank you for your help and to see if you’re all right,” the
man gave Fallon a quick once-over. “You seem fine to me, but you know how women
are.”
Fallon pretended to think it over—turning his head toward the parking lot for a
long moment. He looked back at the man then shrugged. “I ain’t got nowhere to be and
no time to be there.”
“Right this way,” the man said, sweeping a hand toward the backyard.
Sauntering behind and to the right of his guide, Fallon swept his hooded gaze back
and forth, watching everything, taking in all that was around him. Those he passed
nodded respectfully to him and he knew already word of him was filtering through the
workers. A few men stepped well away, but every woman he passed batted her eyes
and licked her lips as though he were the main course at the evening meal.
“Damned lot lizards,” the man beside him quipped. “More trouble than they’ll ever
be worth.”
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“Some look to be possum belly queens to me,” Fallon replied. “Wouldn’t touch one
of ’em with a titanium-lined Johnny bag.”
“Where was your last show?”
“Out in cornhusker land,” Fallon replied. “Worked the motordrome circuit.” He
snorted disgustedly. “Last place was in Altoona, Iowa.”
“Well, now I would have pegged you for something different altogether.”
“I filled in on the goon squad if that’s what you mean, but I damned sure wasn’t
wearing no fucking white suits.”
The man laughed, stopped and offered his hand. “Ollie,” he said. “Ollie Rankin.”
He slapped Fallon on the back with his free hand. “I knew you were one of us. Could
smell the sawdust in your blood.”
Fallon half smiled as he shook Ollie’s hand but didn’t let it reach his eyes, which he
kept cold and lethal.
“Mother Bolivar lost her right-hand man a few nights ago, and the goons she’s got
shadowing her now are next to worthless,” Ollie reported, releasing Fallon’s hand.
“So I noticed. Anyone who could let a rube beat the shit out of him ain’t worth
much in my book.” He fell into step beside Ollie as the older man began walking again.
“What happened to her main man?”
“Nipped by the cops on a concealed weapons charge. Stupid fuck. He knew better.
Swears he wasn’t carrying, but it was his Glock he was carrying on him. Says he don’t