Strike Back (Mason Sharpe Thrillers Book 7) by Logan Ryles

Author:Logan Ryles [Ryles, Logan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkubator Books
Published: 2024-07-14T00:00:00+00:00

35

Pleasant Hill Baptist Church didn’t sit on a hill at all. It sat in a valley, with foothills rising in the distance and about three acres of rolling green meadowland surrounding it. The architectural style was late nineteenth century. The lapboard siding was painted in faded white, the primary sanctuary set atop stone pillars with a bell tower rising above a grass parking lot.

There was a steeple atop the bell tower. A lonely wooden cross faded by the sun stood atop it. The windows of the church reflected the morning sunlight in a rippled pattern, a signature of lead-based glass that had lost its clarity over time. A single pickup truck sat parked in front of the church with a utility trailer hitched behind it.

The tailgate of the trailer was lowered. A lawn mower rumbled from the far side of the church, slicing down the late summer grass in the last cut of the season. The man operating the mower was black, and he wore a dust mask. I didn’t recognize him, but he looked directly at me as I stopped the Traverse on the two-lane.

I didn’t see anyone else. Certainly, no Nazis skulking behind the wheels of classic muscle cars. No cops either, but something in my gut warned me not to park in the church’s lot. I proceeded down the road instead, around the bend to another turnoff. Maybe the entrance of a personal driveway, or a mountain distillery for all I knew. I slid the Traverse far into the trees to conceal it from view of the road, then I walked back to the church.

The lawn mower’s engine rattled and clacked as I approached the property from the rear. A neat little picnic field had already been cut. There was a tether ball stand and a couple of concrete picnic benches. Two tire swings dangled from an oak tree, and a fresh coat of paint adorned a mini picket fence enclosing a playground. The playground was simple—one see-saw and a couple of plastic rocking horses—but everything about it looked fresh and orderly.

I met the lawnmower on the sheltered side of the church, and its operator cut the engine. He lifted his mask but didn’t rise from the battered old machine as I raised a hand in greeting.

“Good morning, sir. Sorry to disturb you. Is the pastor around?”

The man removed his work gloves and clambered off the lawn mower with a little grunt. He could have been fifty or seventy-five. I couldn’t tell, but he was certainly older than me. The mileage had left its mark in his dark eyes.

“That would be me,” he said, offering a hand. “Reverend Arthur Polk. Junior, if anybody’s asking. You must be Mr. Sharpe.”

I cocked an eyebrow, taking his hand. The grip was firm, but not overbearing.

“Lucile telephoned me that you were stopping by,” Polk clarified. “She didn’t say why…”

He trailed off. I inhaled a deep breath of fresh grass clippings. It was a comforting smell. Very domestic. It reminded me of

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