The Assignment Begins
The sun had only just begun to rise when Officer John Slow, now undercover as a preacher, arrived at the small, isolated town nestled deep within the Appalachian foothills. The air was thick with a kind of unease that clung to the skin like mist—silent, invisible, yet undeniable. There was something about the stillness of the streets, the way the curtains barely parted from behind windows, that told him this was a place living in fear. And that fear had a name—T-Boy.
His mission wasn't just military. It was spiritual, tactical, psychological. He had volunteered to go in unarmed, without any overt sign of military affiliation, choosing instead to walk the path of a man of faith. He was there to win souls for Christ—and ultimately, one very specific soul: the young man responsible for the town's distress.
The cab he had hired from the city finally pulled to a halt near the edge of town. Two of his former trainees, now posing as traveling companions, stepped out alongside him. Officer Slow, now referred to as "The Preacher" by his team, spotted a young man leaning near a rusty old lamppost, chewing gum and watching the horizon nervously. The Preacher approached with a calm expression, Bible in hand, hoping to make a peaceful impression.
"Hey there, brother," he said gently. "Excuse me—could you help me out? I'm new here. Looking to rent an apartment, nothing fancy. I'm here for—"
"Whoa, hold on, Pastor-man," the young man interjected, taking a cautious step back. His eyes darted toward the Bible and, seeing no threat, his stance softened. "You really don't wanna stay on this end of town. You go any further down that way, you'll hit T-Boy's turf. Guy runs the place like a ghost. He'll find you, rob you clean in your sleep—hell, he might even kill you if he's in the mood."
The Preacher waited, letting the man continue.
"But—listen—there's a safer place, up north side of town," the stranger added, pointing uphill. "There's this nice little white house, got trimmed trees in front. Used to belong to an old military vet—real old-school. He passed away, but his wife and son still live there. His son's Army too, so T-Boy keeps his distance. No one messes with that side. You should check there. Might find a place for rent."
The man turned to walk away, but The Preacher reached into his pocket and offered him a folded fifty-dollar bill.
"For your time, and your kindness. May the Lord bless and keep you," he said sincerely.
The young man blinked, stunned. "Dang, for real?" he muttered, taking the bill with disbelief. "Man… thank you, Pastor. That's lunch money, game money, and survival money all in one. Gonna grab some bread, maybe hit a bet, and definitely stock up on instant noodles. Never thought a preacher would actually give, you know? Appreciate it, man."
With that, he smiled—genuinely—and left.
Turning back to his team, The Preacher spoke in a hushed but firm tone. "This place is unstable. The atmosphere is charged. I'll be safer alone. You two head back to the city and wait for further contact. But first, let's secure the apartment he mentioned and get some household supplies. I'll need a base."
The driver followed the directions. Soon, they arrived at the house described—neatly trimmed shrubs, white-painted fencing, and a faint American flag waving gently near the porch. The place had an aura of order amidst chaos.
They knocked on the door and were greeted by a woman in her late sixties—sturdy, sharp-eyed, and visibly tougher than most her age. She didn't waste time.
"I don't do leases longer than eighteen months," she declared without preamble. "And if you've got family drama or don't know who your roommates are, solve it before you pay. I don't want no nonsense. If you change your mind within the first month, I'll refund you. A minute past that, I won't give you a penny back. It's $1,500 a year for the one-bedroom unit. That's final. Think carefully before you commit."
After showing them the available flat, The Preacher took a breath and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'm staying alone. I'd like to pay for two full years in advance."
"You're a man of God, huh?" she asked, eyeing the Bible in his hand. "Didn't think I'd miss that. I may not go to church every Sunday anymore, but I know a good heart when I see one. You know what—give me $2,750 for the full term, and we'll call it square. Consider it a discount from one believer to another."
He smiled. "Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate the gesture."
Payment was made. The two officers helped him settle in and returned to the city shortly after. Alone in the apartment, the Preacher spent the next two weeks deep in prayer and scripture. He studied the Word with intensity, preparing not just mentally but spiritually. The following two weeks were spent immersed in hymnals and gospel music, his voice filling the small apartment like incense.
Each day passed like clockwork—reading, singing, praying. He was laying a foundation, not just for his mission, but for his soul.
After a full month, he finally felt ready. The next morning, he would begin walking the town, introducing himself as a minister, offering hope where there was fear, peace where there was pain.
That night, however, his heart was burdened. He tried to pray but found the words escaping him. So instead, he turned to song. Softly, he began to sing:
"Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land.
I am weak, but Thou art mighty,
Hold me with Thy powerful hand…"
His voice was low, almost trembling—filled with more plea than melody.
"Bread of Heaven, Bread of Heaven,
Feed me till I want no more…"
His head slowly dropped until it rested on the small wooden desk that held his Bible. Surrounded by silence, beneath the glow of a single lamp, he drifted to sleep—unaware that the next day would begin the most dangerous phase of his assignment yet.
To Be Continued...