The Accidental Hero Read online

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  The hit was to go down at Pastor Rick’s own church during their Friday night revival meeting. A revival meeting? Seriously? But yeah, that’s what the sign said outside their church. Only, it wasn’t a church building, it was a renovated movie theater. Used to be an Edward’s Cinema.

  Big Pete meant to show up like he was a member of their congregation, but right away felt overdressed wearing a blue suit, a blue tie, and polished black shoes. He even went to a Christian bookstore, bought himself a big-old Bible and carried it with him as he entered the church.

  “Hey, man!” someone called out. Big Pete turned around and this short black dude was smiling so big, you’d think he was his best friend from High School or something. He came right over, looked up and shook his hand. “How you doing, my man? Good to see you!”

  Pete forced a smile. See, it’d been forever since he’d even set foot inside a church, so he had no clue how he should act. “Uh---Hallelujah! Jesus saves!”

  The greeter’s smile looked like it wanted to fade, but stayed frozen there for the sake of being polite. Then he reached up patted Pete on the shoulder. “Right on, bro. Right on. Welcome!”

  “Amen.” Pete’s ears were burning. Jeez, he’d lost count of how many people he’d knocked off, some with his bare hands, and here he was, sweating like a naked man covered in honey surrounded by a swarm of flesh-eating fire ants.

  The greeter was still shaking his hand. With every pump, the Glock inside Pete’s breast pocket shook and bumped against his ribs. “I—I’m just gonna go find a seat. Anything in the front?”

  “You bet.”

  “Pastor Rick speaking today?”

  “Of course, who else?”

  “Just checking.”

  “Aight.”

  “Later.” It would be simple. Pete saw the emergency exit sign just a few feet from the front of the stage. From there, he’d make his escape into the parking lot, after he’d done the deed.

  The door.

  Behold, I stand at the door and knock.

  Big Pete didn’t like being distracted by those Bible verses, minutes before he took out a preacher in cold blood. He shook it off like a mosquito sucking blood from his neck.

  The red carpeted aisle to the front of the auditorium seemed to go on forever. Where was that smell of candles, dust, and peeling varnish? What about steeples, pews, stained glass? This wasn’t church like he knew it. This was weird.

  So many smiling faces, hands to shake before he reached the front row. Pete had never felt so uncomfortable on a hit before, not even taking out gang leaders in the toughest parts of South Central L.A. This just didn’t feel right.

  But it was never about the feelings. It was always about the job. The reputation he had to uphold. Be professional. Do your job and split.

  Finally, he reached the front row.

  Empty, thank God. (Oh, wait.)

  Had to be the front row, because there would not be enough time to get up in the middle of the service, get close enough to fire the gun, and then cut out of the building into the parking lot for his escape.

  Bill and Tom’s prissy little faces kept coming up in his mind. It repulsed him that he was getting paid by bottom-feeding scum like them. But they’d found him by way of referral from Morgenstern, one of his best clients, so he couldn’t turn them down. That might hurt his reputation.

  The service began and instead of a pipe organ, a robed choir, and a choirmaster, a band came out. Guitars, drums, keyboard and vocals. They started playing some pretty good tunes, despite the cheesy, religious, “I love you, Jesus” lyrics projected on the screen.

  But in order to blend in, Pete had to sing the words, clap his hands, and lift them up to the Lord when the band leader prompted. Then the entire congregation vamped on one phrase. Over and over.

  “I surrender all to you, Jesus.”

  Hating every moment cuz he felt like a hypocrite, Pete put his hands up and shut his eyes just like everyone around him and sang:

  I surrender all to you, Jesus

  I surrender all

  I surrender all to you, Jesus

  I surrender all to you

  Where was that damned Pastor? They’d been singing and carrying on for at least half an hour.

  “All right,” said the worship leader (the lead singer with the Taylor guitar), “I want you to put your hands on your heart and repeat after me.”

  Everyone did so.

  When Big Pete did, he felt the Glock, cold and hard, pressing against his chest. Everyone repeated after the worship leader: “Thank you, Lord. You’re the God of second chances. Thank you that no matter how far I’ve strayed, no matter what I’ve done in my past, you accept me. You forgive me. You make all things new!”

  Even as Big Pete said the words, which he refused to allow through the concrete around his heart, something was happening. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but it was a mixture of sadness, anger, relief, worry.

  The worship leader started to vamp on that phrase.

  You make all things new, Jesus.

  You make all things new.

  The faces of the many people he’d killed came to his mind, the lives of people he’d snuffed out—innocent or not. Never before had he realized the gnawing feeling in his gut. But it was there. Oh man, was it there. For the first time in his life, he admitted to himself that he’d been wrong.

  Where was that pastor?

  The congregation started to sing, “What can wash away my sins? Nothing but the blood of Jesus…”

  That was the song Mama used to sing to him during those awful nights after Daddy passed and little Petey was too scared to sleep alone. Daddy had always put him to bed, read him stories, and often fell asleep clear till the morning next to him.

  Daddy was Superman, Spiderman, Ironman. Daddy was the kind of man Petey always dreamed of becoming. But that dream died when Daddy died.

  And only now did he understand.

  He’d been blaming God for that his whole life. He’d made all these terrible choices just to show God that if He was going to take Daddy away, then Pete didn’t want anything to do with a lousy god like that.

  The entire congregation entered a time of silent prayer. The keyboard played lush, sustained chords that floated like white silk over a flowing river of peace. The worship leader started to improvise, making up a song on the spot with the words from the old hymn, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.

  With his hands lifted up, his eyes closed tight, Pete felt a warm presence surround him. He had expected his one and only encounter with the Almighty to be at judgment day. An angry God would judge him unworthy and throw him into the fiery lakes of Hell, and Pete…Big Pete would go down, shaking a his fist.

  But it was nothing like that now. He felt…loved. Accepted.

  Forgiven.

  Warm tears streamed down his face.

  Just then, an older, deeper voice came over the speakers as the soft, heavenly music continued to flow. “This is a holy moment, church. Let’s just stay in the place a few more minutes.”

  Pete opened his eyes.

  Up on the stage stood Pastor Rick. A modest looking gray-haired man. In the back of Pete’s mind, a distant voice whispered, Take him out now. Do it fast, or it’s all over for you.

  But that same voice that he had come to depend on, that had guided him to murder dozens of people throughout his career as an assassin, now seemed like some kind of alien voice; cold, dark, dangerous.

  Pastor Rick started to speak. “How can God ever forgive me, you ask, when I’ve done this, or that? But I say to you, there is nothing God cannot do. And you know what? He wants to forgive you. He gave his only begotten Son for you. There’s someone out there right now who is ready to come in from the rain.”

  He wasn’t looking directly at Pete, but his words pierced his chest like a sword. It was all Pete could do
to choke back a sob.

  “This is what Jesus said, ‘Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.’”

  Pete looked straight at the Pastor. All the years of pain that had boiled to the surface faded away like steam. He had a chance to do the right thing.

  Kill him now. This is just a mind game.

  The pastor now was looking in Pete’s direction. “If anyone wants to come home, God has his arms open wide for you. He’s waiting to receive you like the prodigal son. If that’s you, I want you to come up to the altar. We’d like to pray with you.”

  Pete sniffed wetly.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d do. By instinct, he stepped forward. The killer’s autopilot instinct was kicking in. Pete stepped up to the foot of the stage. Pastor Rick had come down to meet the half dozen people coming up for prayer.

  Pete reached into his breast pocket.

  Gripped his gun.

  The idea of coming home, in from the cold, the rain drew him like a moth to a porch light. And yet, the part of him that was so natural, so ingrained compelled him to finish the job. Don’t get taken in. You’re just getting emotional.

  He was sobbing now, but it didn’t draw any undue attention. The other people coming forward were also weeping. Tears of joy, tears of repentance. Something amazing was happening to them.

  And something horrible was happening to Pete.

  His mind, his soul was being torn in two.

  He thought of his hatred for God.

  He thought of his love for his father.

  Without thinking, but sobbing shamelessly, Pete pulled out the Glock.

  Screams went out. People spread out away from him like oil from a drop of dish soap.

  Burly security guards rushed forward.

  But then Pastor Rick shouted, “Wait!” Somehow he knew.

  Stunned, the guards stopped.

  Pete fell to his knees, holding the gun by the muzzle and offering it to anyone who would take it. “I’m sorry! God, I’m so sorry!” The gun fell to the floor with a quiet thud.

  Burying his face in his hands, he rocked back and forth and felt something deep in his spirit—a place he didn’t know was there and yet, he always knew.

  Peace flooded it.

  Right there, right then, Big Pete prayed with Pastor Rick, and asked The Big J into his life. He’d never known peace like that in his whole life, because he knew he’d been forgiven.

  Big Pete felt so much joy because that day, when he set out to kill a man of God, he found his redemption. It wasn’t hard for him to turn himself in and confess to the judge and jury all the crimes he’d committed because he’d already made the big confession.

  So he pled guilty to twelve counts of murder and didn’t bother to appeal. The judge sentenced him to death. But he did some good, my man Pete. A whole lotta good, you know? He turned in all those people who’d hired him for murder, and that wasn’t all. For the nine years he’d been here on death row, he’s become the most respected and feared inmate in Salton Sea State Penitentiary.

  And not only that; he’s helped over a hundred and fifty men, young and old, find the same peace and forgiveness he has. Some gang members here really turned it around through his help, even went back into the real world and have become ministers, and youth workers helping kids avoid the same mistakes they made.

  Big Pete speaks once a month at the chapel and says, he needs to pay for his crimes here on earth, it’s only right. But he knows that he’s been forgiven—even someone with as rotten a past as his. And one day, like the prodigal son, he’s going to go home to where all things will be made new.

  So right now, I’m looking at Big Pete. He’s smiling at me, even though he’s in chains about to be led into the execution chamber where they’re gonna pump him with a lethal cocktail.

  “You okay, Big Pete?” The words snag in my throat like a hook.

  “Yeah. Don’t worry about me, B. I’m good.”

  I reach over and hug his neck, bash knuckles with him, and try not to cry, but I can’t help it. Big Pete’s been like a father to me. He turned me around from an angry, violent kid, to someone who’s helping other inmates find their redemption. “You’re a good man, Pete.”

  He shakes his head. “I only pray that those families will find it in their hearts to forgive me for what I’d done. But even if that don’t, I’m ready.”

  Pete stands. The chains around his feet jangle as he meets the guards at our cell door. He’s about to walk the Sunset Mile, that long orange corridor to the chamber. His eyes light up. “Don’t worry, B. It’s not goodbye. Not forever.”

  The cell door slams shut. I watch as he strides with his head held high past cells and cells. All the inmates that Big Pete has reached, too many to count, stick out their hands, pat his back, his shoulder. They all call out their good wishes, some of them—big tough men—their voices breaking.

  “Goodbye, Big Pete!”

  “We love you, Big Pete!”

  “You da Man, Big Pete!”

  Big Pete stops for a moment. The guards just wait. He turns around and smiles, his eyes shimmering. “Y’all be good. I’ll see you all there, on that day.”

  Then he takes a deep breath, turns to face the corridor,

  And walks the Sunset Mile.