CHAPTER FIVE HUNDRED and FORTY-TWO
Monday early morning — 4:00 a.m.
Kayenta, Arizona, at the hotel on the Navajo Reservation
Blane stepped out of the hotel. From where he stood, he could see men wearing archaic armor lined up along the force field he had created.
They were intimidating in some deep ancestral way. Their costumes, and even their beards, were innately familiar. They were the “good guys” in every movie and book. They are the Templars. As a Catholic, he had heard his fair share of stories about their power and brilliance. Even the red cross on the men’s chests stirred something inexpressible inside Blane.
They believed that they were doing the Lord’s work.
He wasn’t a lapsed enough Catholic to not have that mean something to him.
Abi always said that his best defense was his averageness. No one was going to suspect that he was something to be reckoned with.
Remembering her words, he yawned as if he were bored.
He pulled on the leather gloves, stuck in his hands in his pockets, and walked forward.
He stood there for what seemed like forever.
An elderly man in front of him shared the same look as Pierre Semaines, Nelson’s father. He was about the same height and build. His face bore the deep wrinkles, almost scars, of a life of self-righteousness. And still, the man was familiar enough to make Blane smile.
Another man stepped up to the one with the sword. This man, clearly the leader, looked so much like Nelson that he could be Nelson’s twin. Although Nelson was taller and bigger that this man, they had nearly identical faces and similar intelligent eyes. This man moved close to the other in a way that indicated, at least to Blane, that they were lovers.
The man who looked like Pierre Semaines stuck a sword through the force field.
Blane grabbed the blade of the sword and yanked. The sword easily came out of the elderly man’s hand. The force field healed.
Blane looked at the sword for a moment. He set the point of the blade on the ground and twirled it by the handle.
The Templars were screaming and pounding on the force field.
Behind Blane, he heard a kind of scrambling. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Tres Sierra ran to his side. Tres swung a baseball bat into his other hand in threat to the Templars. Blane gave Tres a questioning look.
“I couldn’t let you face them alone,” Tres said. “Came out my window.”
Blane grinned at Tres before turning back to the Templars.
“We can take them,” Tres said.
Blane shot him a look.
“We only want the traitor,” the man who looked like Pierre Semaines. “Bring him to us and we will leave!”
“Who are they talking about?” Tres asked.
“Nelson,” Blane said, in a low tone. “He is their prize.”
“Fuck you!” Tres said and pointed the end of the bat at the men. “You cannot have him.”
Raising his eyebrows, Blane turned to look at Tres.
“Well, they can’t,” Tres said.
Blane grinned. Hearing the door to the hotel open, Blane turned to see the people, his family, moving out of the hotel.
The Templars pounded on the shield.
His family behind him waited for him to do something.
“What are you going to do?” Tres asked.
Denver Cereal continues tomorrow…
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