Covenant by Brandon Massey Page A

room.        There were six urinals, but none were in use.  Four toilet stalls stood along the wall.  The doors to all of them hung open, except the one at the end.
                He knelt to the linoleum floor, checking for a pair of legs in the stall with the closed door.  He saw none. 
                He grabbed the metal trash can and levered it underneath the door handle.  He withdrew his Glock and, angling the muzzle toward the ceiling, stalked toward the corner stall.
                “I know you’re in there, Judas,” Cutty said.  “You must answer for your betrayal.”
                Cutty kicked the door.  The cheap dead-bolt lock broke from the impact of the kick, and the door banged open.    
                The stall was empty.  But the toilet was full—of urine, and crap. 
                Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had reconnoitered.  The Judas must have visited earlier, set up the locked door, and left behind the disgusting mess in the toilet, a bold thumbing of his nose at Cutty and the organization. 
                An ordinary man would have sworn and been overcome with rage, but Cutty was better than that: a godly man was slow to anger.  He channeled his energies into his work.  Years of prayer, self-denial, and stringent discipline had armored him with an unflappable composure of which he was quite proud. 
                Holstering his gun, he kicked aside the trashcan from the door and hastened out of the restroom.  He spotted the women’s restroom across the corridor, and realized at once how the Judas had fooled
    him a few minutes ago.  He’d merely entered the ladies’ room, knowing that Cutty would make the natural assumption that he’d gone into the men’s lavatory.
                He didn’t bother searching the ladies’ restroom.  The Judas would be out of the building by then, and they were going to lose him if they didn’t act fast.
                He radioed Valdez and got out of there, ramming like a tank through the crowd.
     

13
     
                Hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Anthony hurried across the parking lot and to the concrete staircase that led to the upper level of the parking deck.  As he ascended, he had the distinct sense that someone was watching him, a sensation like a feather lying against the back of his neck.
                He glanced over his shoulder.
                A stunning Latina woman was climbing the stairs, too.  Dark hair pulled away from her golden, porcelain-smooth face, she wore a black tracksuit, black sneakers, and a lightweight cream-colored jacket.  She held a cell phone to her ear and was speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.  
                She noticed his attention, and smiled.       
                But it was a smile that said only, yes, I know I’m gorgeous, and I know you like what you see, and I’m acknowledging your existence because it’s the polite thing to do, but sorry, I’m not really interested in you, so please keep moving.   A smile that beautiful women paid to men a dozen times a day. 
                But something about her bugged him.  Gut instinct.
                He reached the top of the stairs and went to his Tahoe.  At the driver’s door, he acted as though he was fumbling for his keys in his jacket, but he stealthily moved his right hand to the butt of his Beretta.
                In the corner of his eye, he watched the woman stroll past.  She was still on her call, gesturing excitedly, but then she looked in his direction.  It was intended to be a meaningless, oh-there-he-is-again look, but he felt as if he had stuck his finger in an electrical outlet.
    She’s one of them, too.  She followed me up here to see what car I was driving . . . maybe to check my license plates . . .
                He