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  “Yes, Imam?”

  “Who is the Devil?”

  Put on the spot, Muhammed’s initial panic gave way to confidence. “The white man is the Devil,” he answered with a playful smile.

  Davis snickered, casting Jackson a sidelong smirk. Earlier in the lesson, he’d asked why Abdul wasn’t considered the Devil, being half-white. Ibrahim’s assurance that Abdul’s black ancestry purged him of evil clearly failed to placate Davis. His expression of loathing warned Jackson of impending reprisal for last night’s embarrassment.

  “And why does the Devil keep our people illiterate, Jamal?”

  “So he can use him as a tool or a slave.” Jamal’s tone conveyed his resentment.

  “That is correct.” Ibrahim’s robes rustled as he paced across the Berber carpet. “Sulayman, what is the meaning of F.O.I?”

  “F.O.I. is the Fruit of Islam, the name given to the Army of Muslim men in North America,” Davis barked back like a Marine recruit.

  “Also correct. You have listened well, my sons. What is the duty of the captain, Abdul?”

  Jackson blinked. He’d been a Marine Corps captain for six years, but Ibrahim couldn’t possibly know that. “The captain gives orders to the lieutenant, and the lieutenant trains the soldiers,” he replied.

  “Indeed. And because you have mastered just Lesson One out of one hundred and twenty lessons, you are only soldiers. And you will remain soldiers, continuing to learn the lessons long after you have left this place until, one day, you will have all of the Supreme Lessons memorized.”

  Jackson fought to conceal his disdain. In his wildest dreams, he could not have imagined the nonsense and ignorant talk to which he and the others had been subjected this week. Ibrahim’s teachings completely negated the lessons of tolerance and forgiveness taught to them by Zakariya their first week here. Watching Jamal, Muhammed, Hasan, Shahid, and Corey drinking in the imam’s words like they were the elixir of life sickened him. Davis, he could care less about. But for himself, if he weren’t obligated to discover when and how Judgment Day would come about, he’d as soon stalk off in protest and find another way to give Ibrahim a wake-up call.

  “For the New World Order to succeed,” Ibrahim said, reclaiming Jackson’s attention, “you must be obedient to your superiors. Do you have any questions for me?” he asked with a searching gaze.

  Jackson averted his eyes and prayed one of the others would give voice to matters he sought answers to.

  Shahid spoke up. “Who are our superiors, Imam?”

  Good question. Jackson listened intently.

  “Once they were as you are now.” Ibrahim gestured at the men sitting before him. “They were poor, ignorant, and eager for power but not aware yet how to grasp it from the Devil. Today, they are lawyers, men of business, and political leaders. They have empowered the god within by heeding the Supreme Lessons and by helping each other.

  “During Friday night’s service, look closely at the men who walked these halls before you. They are now what you will eventually become—professionals, lieutenants, and even captains in the Fruit of Islam.” Ibrahim’s eyes burned with zeal. “Look at them and be inspired to follow in their ways. First you learn what it means to drive a truck for a living, to be responsible for your cargo and timely with your deliveries. While in transit, you will listen only to CD sets of The Supreme Lessons, and at the end of your shift your appointed mentor will contact you to quiz you and to discuss what you’ve learned. My lieutenants will counsel you and develop your strengths. In one year, you will take a written test of twelve hundred questions to prove your intellectual comprehension and worthiness.”

  Jamal groaned, and Ibrahim cut him off with a look. “Once you pass the test and are deemed a loyal follower,” he continued, “your mentor will introduce you to his successor, and together they will guide you to a better means of making a living.”

  At last, Ibrahim had said something that gave him a clearer picture of the NGE’s scope and framework. The cleric gave every indication that his army was a well-established entity, with a hierarchy of levels that extended well beyond the populous of Friday night worshippers. No wonder he filmed his services and posted them on his website. He probably had more disciples than could even begin to fit into the mosque. How many were there, Jackson wondered: Hundreds? Thousands? He swallowed uneasily.

  Ibrahim wasn’t finished. “Having mastered the First Supreme Lesson, you are worthy to introduce yourself to just one of my lieutenants this Friday.” Jackson was just thinking he’d get the names of as many service attendees as possible. “Choose the man you are most drawn to and tell him what you have learned here. Your words will identify you as a willing soldier. In good time, this man will become your mentor. Yet, it is important that none of you share the same mentor. Only one can offer you his guidance and teach you how to develop in stature and power until you fully realize your potential.”

  Why only one? Jackson wondered, but then he realized Ibrahim wouldn’t want any lieutenant developing a following of his own. Competition wasn’t good for any ruler.

  An awe-filled silence had fallen over the group. Studying his peers out of the corners of his eyes, Jackson was struck by the eagerness shining in their faces, all but Corey, who merely looked thoughtful. He couldn’t believe their willingness to put stock in Ibrahim’s words.

  Questions vied for articulation in his mind. He raised his hand, loath to draw attention to himself. But here was his chance to discover why the Taskforce hadn’t managed to intercept communication between Ibrahim and his followers.

  “Yes, Abdul?”

  “If we on the road all the time, how we s’posed to talk to our mentors?” he inquired, striving for a humble tone.

  Ibrahim’s eyes focused on him intently. “Before you leave here, I will be issuing each one of you a new iPhone.”

  A gasp of appreciation swept through the room.

  “Accepting it means you are committed to becoming a full-fledged Five Percenter. On the final Friday in the program, you will pledge yourselves in an elaborate ceremony and seal your commitment to the Nation of Gods and Earths, forever.”

  Jackson itched to hear more. But rather than take more questions, Ibrahim turned his back on the group, saying, “That is enough for today. You are dismissed to enjoy your supper.” He pulled the door open. “Tomorrow we will discuss the Second Lesson.”

  Stunned and thoughtful, the men filed wordlessly out of the office.

  Falling in line at the cafeteria doors, Jackson chafed to update Ike about the details of Ibrahim’s vast, personal army. While choking down a dinner of tripe soup, cuscus and lamb, he watched Ibrahim speak amicably with Zakariya. If the lesser imam wasn’t a Five Percenter, how could he be so blind as to overlook that Ibrahim was one? Or did he just accept it?

  Polishing off his glass of milk, Jackson’s thoughts shifted to another source of disquiet: Lena and her ill-conceived ruse to coax a confession out of Davis.

  His pulse quickened as he realized his interview was a mere two hours away. He knew he shouldn’t go. Ike would chew him a new ass if he knew Jackson had disobeyed the order to stay away from her—not just once but several times, already. Only, the opportunity to engage in another battle of wills and come out the victor, this time, was too tantalizing to overlook. The prospect of enjoying her company for an uninterrupted period of time unleashed a flood of hormones. He tried to minimize his arousal by coming up with the best possible strategy to gain Lena’s trust. Her trust was what he really wanted. And not even the Fruit of Islam Army could keep him from trying his best to earn it.

  **

  “Excuse me,” called out a red-faced woman standing at the counter.

  Preoccupied by thoughts of Jackson Maddox and whether he would show up for his interview, Lena had failed to notice her customer. This was the second time her obsession with that man had distracted her from her duties.

  Abandoning the coffee dispenser, she hastened behind the register to ring up the w
oman’s milk. There were no quarters left in the tray, so she inexpertly cracked open a new roll. Coins scattered in all directions, several falling to the floor.

  “Here you go. Sorry.” Handing the customer her change, she waited for the woman to leave then stooped to collect the coins that had fallen.

  “Everything okay here?”

  The closely spoken, male voice startled her so badly she reared straight up, striking her head on the open register. Ow! Lena straightened, rubbing the knot rising on her crown, and found herself staring into the watchful gaze of Deputy Doug Hazlewood. This was his second evening babysitting her but his first time to come into the store.

  “Didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “I came in when the lady left,” he added, explaining why she hadn’t heard the door chime.

  Without a word, Lena picked up the last lost coin as she sifted through her impressions of him. The officer was forty-something with a doughy face and a round belly that strained the buttons of his uniform. While his slovenly appearance and his partiality for talk radio made him seem like a lazy cop, his gimlet eyes hadn’t missed one detail of her startled reaction. The man was more perceptive than he looked.

  “You all right?”

  “Of course.” She smiled at him as she dropped the coins into the tray.

  “I hear you’re a real hit with the boys across the street,” he stated.

  She shut the tray with more force than necessary. “Is that why you park out front?” she asked, propping her elbow on the counter and her chin on her hand. She batted her lashes at him. “To protect me from the parolees?”

  With most men, her rapt look was all it took to turn them into stuttering idiots.

  Deputy Doug stared right back at her, seemingly impervious. “Those men might claim to have changed their ways, but you can’t take the stripes off a zebra,” he declared.

  Having listened to Muhammed and Jamal spill out their guts and express their hopes for the future, Lena disagreed—except where Davis was concerned. One thing she was certain of, if she didn’t get rid of Deputy Doug, Davis might never come to his appointed interview. She had to convince the deputy to abandon his dutiful post.

  “What can I get for you?” she asked him sweetly.

  He ordered two chili dogs, nachos, and a large soda, all of which explained why his belly bulged over his belt.

  “May I ask you a question?” she inquired as she took his money. Leaning closer, she exposed an extra inch of cleavage.

  “Sure.” Only, he didn’t even look down.

  “Whose idea was it for you to waste your law-enforcing talents just sitting outside these doors? Don’t you have criminals to arrest?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” With a thin smile that told her he saw straight through her, he slapped a five dollar bill on the counter. “Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he quipped, turning toward the soda fountain. “Keep the change, darlin’. Dinner’s on the county.”

  Lena sighed with defeat and mumbled a greeting to the next customer stepping through the door.

  Now, on top of all the obstacles she faced, she was being chaperoned by the only sentry in the world she couldn’t manipulate.

  **

  Jackson gave the wide steel door at the back of Artie’s a smart rap and stepped back. Every one of his senses was sharpened by the adrenaline pumping through him. He could easily make out the words of the talk radio show the deputy never ceased listening to, pouring out of the cruiser parked on the other side of the building. The dumpster nearby reeked of stale milk, and the asphalt under his thin leather soles still baked from the heat of the afternoon, even though the sun had already set. The sound of approaching footsteps made his heart race.

  He positioned himself directly before the peephole. Hopefully she recognized him. In the dark, his skin tone could be a blessing or a curse, depending. Nor was she expecting him to show up at the back door. Why draw attention to himself by entering through the front wearing a fitted cap?

  At least he knew the rear room was secure. Toby had broken into Artie’s before dawn, nabbing the files Lena had denied downloading from her pendant—little liar. Sweeping the space for bugs and cameras, Toby had declared the space secure. But there was still a risk that Lena had replaced her pendant with another spy camera. Funny how that didn’t alarm Jackson the way it used to.

  He could sense her gaze on him, affecting him like a heat rash, but she still didn’t open the door. “Let me in,” he whispered. If he was going to win her trust, they needed to be alone together.

  Lena had wondered all day if Jackson Maddox would actually show up for his interview. Regarding him through the peep hole, she pressed a hand to her palpitating heart. Should she let him in, or not?

  Considering all the man had done to frustrate her efforts, he deserved to be left standing in the muggy night air. Except that every atrocious thing he’d done was meant to protect his undercover status. After all, he was a special agent of the freaking FBI, a fact that continued to astonish her, though Peter had divulged his news twenty-six hours ago. He wasn’t the ex-con she’d thought he was. Plus he kissed like a dream. So, how could she not let him in?

  With a bracing breath, Lena pushed the door open.

  “Hi,” he said. His gaze traveled with evident appreciation over her clingy black blouse and matching skirt to the scarlet-tipped toenails peeking out beneath the straps of her high heeled sandals. Her impractical footwear felt suddenly worthwhile.

  “I’m surprised you kept your appointment.” He had even dressed up for it, she noticed, putting on his white shirt and gray slacks—for her? “I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with my book.”

  Her comment elicited a snort. “Right. We need to talk. You mind if I come in?”

  At his curt tone, she was tempted to slam the door shut in his face, but curiosity got the better of her. “Fine,” she acceded, admitting him into the cramped space.

  The heat seemed to enter with him, and his scent, as he eased past her, gave rise to memories of Monday night’s kiss, weakening her. Through eyes that finally saw him for what he was, she watched him absorb the details of the storeroom as if he were taking snapshots with his mind. The cinderblock walls, cement flooring, and wall-to-wall refrigerators were all noted and summarily dismissed. His gaze lingered longer on the square table pushed into the corner under a low-wattage light bulb where two chairs faced each other cattycorner, and his lips thinned.

  Was he picturing Muhammed or Jamal sitting so close to her that their knees practically touched? Or Davis?

  Transferring his gaze to the monitors over the store’s computer, he noted the absence of customers in the building, crossed to the door that separated the store room from the front, and flipped the bolt. That simple action turned Lena’s palms moist. Just what did Jackson have in mind that they required total privacy?

  He turned to look at her. “Did you replace the pendant?” he asked.

  Her resentment came surging back. “In forty-eight hours? I don’t think so. That mini-camcorder was a gift, by the way. It cost over two thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll see that it’s returned one day,” he surprised her by promising earnestly. “Just answer me this: are you filming me now?”

  “Of course not.”

  He seemed to take her at her word because he nodded. “Good,” he said, visibly relaxing.

  Lena tried taking control of the conversation. “Would you like a drink?” Her bracelets tinkled as she gestured to the refrigerators. “Something to eat?”

  His gaze drifting over her had an effect similar to hot oil rolling down her body. “No, thank you. You look lovely, Magdalena.”

  The way he said her name, with that faint Islander accent of his, made her weak in the knees. She cleared her throat. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Not particularly. Why haven’t you taken me up on my offer and left?” His blunt question ripped away the pretense that he was here for
an interview.

  “How am I supposed to trust you without knowing anything about you?” she shot back. If he were just up front with her about his own identity, maybe then she could trust him in return.

  His jaw muscles jumped. “As much as I’d like to tell you everything about me, that’s not an option for me.” He took a step in her direction, notching her awareness of him higher. “But I can promise you that I’ll help you find the missing boy, the one who saw your sister get into Davis’s cruiser.”

  “Curtis Vandaloo.” He seemed to know everything about Alexa’s murder. “Thank you, but I doubt you’ll have much luck. None of the PI’s I’ve hired were ever able to find him. His parents said he disappeared while neighbors swore he went to live with relatives in Pennsylvania. Personally I think Davis killed him to keep him from testifying.”

  “And you’re going to cloister yourself in a room with a man who would do that?” One of his dark eyebrows edged above the other. “I have news for you, Lena. Davis isn’t going to confess with that deputy parked outside.”

  “Oh, so you did have a hand in that.” She tossed her head and sent him a bitter smile. “I thought you might have.”

  “Davis knows cops can listen through walls because he used to be one,” he continued, ignoring her remark. “He’s not going to tell you anything.”

  “All true. But he’ll talk if the cop isn’t here,” she pointed out.

  “And how do you propose to get rid of him?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll think of something. I usually do.”

  He briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m trying to tell you that you don’t have to. I know I haven’t told you everything about myself, but I need you to trust me. Please.”

  Lena swallowed back the confession that she already knew who he was.

  “I swear I can help you, Lena. In two and a half weeks when this program is over, we’ll find the evidence together.”