Messiahs, Matt Rogers [best 7 inch ereader TXT] 📗

Elias had never been in a fistfight before.

It had simply never materialised. Here in the commune he’d been forced to use his talents in macabre ways, but he’d never come up against a resisting opponent. He feared for his adversary on the day he did. Devoting his entire life to a single focus had sharpened him in ways he could barely fathom.

That’s how the Riordans had found him eight months ago.

He rarely trained in public, but on one of the occasions that he brought his mu ren zhuang to the local park in Cheyenne, a couple of passersby had spotted him and watched his hand speed and dexterity in awe. As chance would have it, one of those bystanders would go on to join Mother Libertas, and one night they mentioned what they’d seen to Maeve. She’d sent a couple of scouts to Cheyenne to track him down, and they’d found him easily enough.

Then she’d approached with an offer.

The rest was history.

He hadn’t left the commune in eight months, and he relished the role of “enforcer” for Mother Libertas. It charged him with a true purpose, something his past life distinctly lacked. Modern times create soulless, socially inept shut-ins, and that’s what he’d been until Maeve had set him free.

It had been difficult to shake his conditioning at first, considering his social ineptitude and inability to hold a conversation with a stranger. But over time he’d come out of his shell as he got to know the Riordans better. It’d have to be enough — he couldn’t get close to any of the disciples, for they came in with increasing frequency and the few that wanted out obviously couldn’t return to society and spill their secrets, so Elias was tasked with silencing them.

Which reminded him of the work he had to take care of tonight.

He charged his ki and delivered ten more consecutive strikes to the wooden dummy. It was built with expert craftsmanship, but it nearly splintered all the same. His power was becoming frightening, each ounce of muscle serving a kinetic purpose. He’d recently passed the ten thousand hour mark that symbolised mastery — an average of three hours a day training Wing Chun for the past nine years. Now twenty-eight, he had the physical abilities of a man in his athletic prime, and would doubtless become better and better with time as Mother Libertas expanded into its new role.

He was more than ready.

Sweat soaking his traditional Chinese outfit, he stepped away from the dummy and conducted fifteen minutes of transcendental meditation in the corner of the room that served as his training facility, lowering his heart rate to baseline. Then he rose, padded barefoot to the door, and opened it to survey the commune.

He spotted two newcomers.

They were following Brandon toward one of the bunkhouses on the opposite side. He caught their side profiles as they passed by. They were women in their early thirties, jaw-dropping to look at, carrying themselves with a grace that meant they were athletically gifted and took exceptional care of their bodies. After devoting his life to the same practice, Elias knew disguised power when he saw it. He made a mental note to find out more about them — by studying their movements and their anatomies as they walked past, he concluded they could hold their own in a fistfight against most of the male followers of Mother Libertas.

That was impressive, and might reveal more about who they claimed they were.

It was Elias’ job to sniff out liars.

Which, again, brought him back to the job that awaited him tonight.

He closed the door, sat back down in the corner, and returned to his meditative state.

He needed all his energy harnessed for the evening.

37

Brandon showed Violetta and Alexis to their room.

Everyone they passed was polite and respectable, but kept their distance. There was a clear understanding amongst the followers that the newcomers hadn’t been initiated yet. Until then, the followers would be wary of the invisible bubble. They wouldn’t get too close, wouldn’t grow too attached. They were devoted to the tribe of Mother Libertas, and nothing else.

They were a mixed bag. En route to one of the bunkhouses, Alexis nodded a wordless greeting to four Caucasians, an Asian-American couple, and an African-American woman. They ranged from their twenties to their forties, but no older. That was clearly a result of the screening process for potential victims, and revealed that eventually Maeve would put her devotees to use in ways that the elderly wouldn’t be able to manage.

Like a violent revolution, for example.

But that was a long way off. If Mother Libertas was a start-up company, it was currently going through one of the early stages — the accumulation of capital. More followers were more hands were more resources. And if all of these people gave Maeve and her husband their money under the guise of being “reborn” out of their old lives … well, that was a nice nest egg to fall back on.

That wasn’t to mention what Maeve could get from the outside world in exchange for Bodhi…

Wherever the drug was made, it wasn’t here. There were no facilities for lab work, unless they were somewhere else in the grassland, but purchasing those quantities of equipment would raise red flags. The more likely option was a pre-established lab in one of the major cities, paid gross sums of money under the table to manufacture and bottle.

Brandon reached the bunkhouse furthest to the east of the commune and said, ‘Through here.’

They went inside and found themselves in horrid conditions.

The air reeked of unwashed clothes — stale sweat and the hint of tobacco. Wet garments were strung up on coathangers in doorways, people moved in and out of their rooms like silhouettes in the poor lighting, and the walls smelled of damp rot, only adding to the disrepair.

Alexis didn’t mind.

In fact, she felt great.

She didn’t know why.

Brandon said, ‘Here’s your spot. It’s your