The Soul Catcher - Alex Kava [16]
“No way,” the blondes said in practiced unison.
“My dad thought it would be cute since we’re from Virginia. Which, by the way, my dad would kill me if he knew I was attending this sort of thing tonight. He hates this kind of stuff.” This she said to Alice, and like the name thing, she made it sound like a challenge instead of a simple statement.
Justin watched for Alice’s reaction. This girl wasn’t exactly a prize recruit, and Justin wondered why Alice had even invited her to stay for the prayer rally. Already Ms. Ginny-my-name-is-really-Virginia was showing signs of doubt. That was supposed to be a big red flag. Next there would be questions. Father hated questions.
“We can’t always rely on our parents to guide us in the correct direction,” Alice told her with a smile, sounding like a mother herself, and the girl nodded, pretending to know exactly what Alice meant, because Alice was too cool to disagree with or contradict.
Justin crossed his arms over his chest. It was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes.
A scuffle at the bottom of the steps made them all jerk around, the girls rocking on ridiculous platform shoes while trying not to fall down the steps. Justin got to his feet, climbing a few more steps to get a better look. Down below, a James Dean look-alike was shoving at an older guy while he tried to yank the man’s camera out of his hands.
“Wow! He’s really cute,” the one called Ginny managed to say without a squeal.
Justin sat back down with a sigh of frustration that no one noticed. Leave it to fuckin’ Brandon to steal all the attention.
CHAPTER 8
Ben Garrison knew a thing or two about causing pain. The kid was younger and taller, but Ben knew he was stronger and definitely wiser. This hothead would last about five seconds if Ben shot a hand to his throat and squeezed in just the right place.
“No fucking reporters, Garrison. How many times do we have to tell you that?” the kid screamed at him.
He grabbed at Ben’s Leica, managing to yank the strap wrapped around Ben’s neck. The 35 mm camera was almost as old as Ben and probably tougher. Hell, it had survived a stampede of caribou in Manitoba and getting dropped in an Egyptian sand dune. It could certainly survive some pissed off religious freak.
“Why no reporters? What is your precious leader afraid of? Huh?” Ben egged him on. He knew this kid from the short visit he had paid to their camp at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains. Hell, he even kind of liked the kid. From what he had seen in the past, this kid, this Brandon, had a lot of passion, a lot of fire in his belly, but he didn’t have a clue as to what to do with it.
Brandon swiped at the camera again, and this time Ben gave him a shove that sent him onto his backside. Now the kid’s red face almost matched his red, goop-backed hair. He looked up at Ben like a bull, revving up and getting ready to charge. Ben could see his nostrils flaring and his hands balling into fists.
“Give it up, kid.” Ben laughed at him and snapped a couple of shots to prove the kid couldn’t rattle him. “Reverend Everett may have tossed me out of his hideout, but he isn’t gonna get rid of me that easy. Why doesn’t he send a real man to do a real man’s job?”
Brandon was back on his feet, his jaw and teeth clenched, his hands ready at his sides. Ben imagined little clouds of steam coming out of his ears like in the comic strips. The kid would need more than those accompanying bubbles of “Pow” and “Wham” to scare off Ben Garrison. Hell, he had survived an Aborigine’s blow dart and a Tutsi’s swipe of a machete. Like the Leica, he had seen a few death battles before, and this wasn’t one of them. Not even close. Poor kid. And with all his precious little friends watching. But there was no Reverend Everett to swoop in and save the souls of his little lost fools.
A crowd had gathered, hiking up the Jefferson Memorial steps to get a better look, but they kept their distance. Even the gang of young men, the redhead