A JET FLEW FROM WASHINGTON TO LA. The real Madeline Cory — the President of America was in it, seated in thoughts and drinking a glass of gin. Agent Nolan approached her tactfully...

“Madam President, I got some bad news from the CIA — The Vice President is dead, and also, the Preacher’s rebels are winning — and they said, in a matter of hours — the whole city of Los Angeles will cede, and fall into the enemy hands.”

She nodded passively to Nolan, who left her alone to finish her drink.

The president was pleased that everything was going as planned — with the other earlier update intel, she received a moment ago, informing that the injured Preacher was cornered, and also, most of her invited millionaire guests from The Daughters of Oligarch, the new drug kingpin of drugs distribution into the major cities, had also been eliminated...

Cory picked up her cell phone and made the next stratagem call...

“General Fields, I am authorizing Code Thunderbolt...

“Unleash the Kraken!”

***

The flames were subsiding to non-threatening nature — after half-hour of razing in the ballroom. Michael and Peter were still shrouding behind the main stage, in the heavy smoke. The duo mettle from their hiding and stalked at the injured Doran, who ceded behind a pillar — that spot was also a firing distance of the government agents and Elite force...

“Peter, it has to be done. The future of the Holy Church depends on him.”

Peter took a deep breath — he closed his teary eyes and nodded reluctantly. Michael placed his hand on his fellow monk’s shoulder and said...

“Come, Peter, let’s go.”

Agent Wolfe was tended by an Elite soldier-paramedic for her hip and thigh gunshot wounds, sustained during the impasse moment. A Secret Service agent was with them, Wolfe bared her teeth to the shooting pain, while she spoke out to her...

“The Preacher — is he still fucking out there?”

Agent Wachowski responded observantly. “Yes Sir, he is hiding somewhere ahead behind the fire, but he is wounded — and maybe bleeding to his death.”

Wolfe lying on her sideloaded a new clip into her pistol — and commands to her posse, gritting her teeth bearing to her own injuries...

“Good, the fucker should not escape — as he did in New Orleans. The Preacher must die tonight!”

Doran was in a seated position behind the pillar, in pang, bleeding profusely from his shoulder — staring at the exit door’s emergency red-light. He gazed a blurry focus of a brilliant ball of pinkish brightness — with Sister Lisa Marie, Mother Superior and the dead nun and monk-boys’ presences, coming beside him. Everyone was smiling dearly down at him, as he faded to his death — staring at another brighter, glow within.

The delusional Preacher spoke to those faces...

“I have commanded my spirit unto you, my Heavenly Father — I will join you all in Paradise, by the end of this day, my Lord and Master...”

He heard Sister Lisa Marie mellifluously saying into his ear. “Our Father waits for you in Heaven, Doran — you are His noble and a great soldier of God. You are always so special to us all.”

Doran smiled — and nodded back to her sadly, tears were filling his eyes. A hand touched his arm and Doran turned over, to see Michael and Peter beside him...

Coming back to reality, he now could not understand why both of his brothers insisted hard to come along with him, on his suicide mission. He was in pathos, regretted also that he was in no position to protect them both — but he was glad — that he could say his last confessions before he died shortly.

“Doran, are you okay?”

“My body is numb, I can't...move my arm,” Doran whispered back, with his half-closed eyes.

Peter who had some recent medical familiarity, since helping out the humanitarian Red Cross’ doctors without borders, and he had seen similar situations with the wounded from New Orleans — he jabbed morphine into Doran’s arm...

“Michael, maybe some of his nerves may have been damaged by the gunshot — and he is going into a shock. We have to get him real medical treatment now, or else he dies.”

The three of them heard a bellowing, at the far end of the ballroom...

It was Agent Wolfe...

“Doran, do you hear me, you she-fuck — come out and face me, you coward!”

“Wolfe...is calling me.”

His eyes opened again, and Doran heard more beckoning calls...

“Yes Doran, let us finish this right-here-right-now, Son — come out and face me!”

“My...hand, I can't move it. I can’t feel...my fingers, Michael — but I need to...fight her.” The Preacher whispered back...

Doran saw his dead mother standing behind Michael, dressed in burnt nun’s black habit. The heinous apparition spoke while he was in his delirious state from the analgesics...

“Yes, you abomination — go now, and sacrifice yourself — for all your unforgivable sins that you have brought on this earth — then come to Hell, where I will await you...”

He was feverish from the massive loss of blood. He further hallucinated that Michael was completing the spoken sentences of his mother...

“...yes, Doran, you have to finish what you have started — you must avenge the death of all those who have perished at the Convent. You still remember that don't you — Wolfe killed Sister Lisa Marie and the others!!?”

“Kill the beast! Go now, kill the wolf!”

Doran heard his mother howled out like a wolf — while he struggled to stay conscious...

“Yes Mother, I...remember, I must go and...face the bad Wolfe.”

He clanged, held on to Peter’s robe and mustered his last vigour of strength, “Peter, help me up...”

The monk stood him on his feet with his back resting against the pillar. Doran panted hard — and grimaced in pain. Michael nodded to Peter...

He obediently took out another medical syringe. He bit the cap off and exposed the needle...

Peter stabbed the sedative into Doran's open neck...

Doran was staggered to realize that the monks — had betrayed him in his suicide mission — and denying the honour for him to die tonight — as a sacrificial martyr, alongside with his resurgence AOG soldiers...

“Peter, why — have you...forsaken me?”

He was losing his consciousness fast — the voice of his mother’s lamentation bewailing was swirling around his head...

“No! What have you done? You are meant to die tonight!

“The Beast was meant to die tonight!”

The Preacher gaped powerlessly back at Peter and Michael before he slowly closed his eyes — dropping in a limp forward towards Peter's waiting arms. Michael picked up Doran's rifle — and he pulled up the hood of his robe, to conceal his identity.

Peter heard the last words of Michael saying...

“God’s Will be done, Peter — now take good care of our brother.”

Michael soon dashed out into the open. Li Chi and Sanchez noticed a silhouette profile running forward, crying out Wolfe's name. They both assumed it was Doran moving ahead — and they counter-fired at the shooting agents. Wolfe and the Secret Service anticipated the monk robed-figure running forward, into the burning flames in the middle of the ballroom hall...

All the agents opened fire. The robe conflagrated, but the monk continued to trigger the automatic rifle when he advanced...

Wolfe shrieked out...

“Die! Die, you filthy dog of god!”

The fusillade of bullets assailed the monk — and the storming figure then collapsed, into the burning flames and his fallen body was consumed — immolated beyond recognition.

Li Chi and Sanchez were distressed deeply by the plight — as the two surviving AOG rebels witnessed, ‘the Preacher’s death’ in the inferno, in front of their eyes...

Agatha Wolfe was heard laughing nefariously out aloud.