1st May
The sun was beginning to set as Bishop Horatio Rycroft left the base and turned onto Nevada State Route 375 to begin his three hour drive back to Las Vegas.
The empty highway rolled away ahead of him for as far as his eyes could see, like a grey carpet across the yellow Nevada desert.
He had been driving for about ten minutes when he caught sight of something on the road in the distance.
As he approached, he could see that a car was parked across the highway. It had its bonnet raised, and a figure was bent over the engine.
Rycroft stopped his car a few metres away from the obstruction and got out of it into the cooling desert evening.
‘What’s the problem?’ he called as he walked towards the figure.
The man did not speak but simply pointed to something under the hood. Rycroft followed the man’s finger, stooping slightly over the engine compartment to avoid hitting his head on the raised bonnet.
Immediately, he felt a thump on his back which caused him to fall forwards onto the engine. The bonnet then fell down onto his back, pinning him such that he could not move.
At first, Rycroft assumed that that his current predicament had been brought about by accident. He then felt hands near his feet and realised that his ankles had been tied together. The bonnet of the vehicle was then raised, and a hand pushed him sideways – away from the engine.
Due to his ankles being tied, he fell onto the desert road.
Five minutes later, Rycroft was contained in the boot of a moving car with his wrists and ankles bound and a hood over his head. He had no idea as to the identity of his captor – he had neither heard him speak nor seen his face.
In the driver’s seat of the vehicle, Leadbetter congratulated himself on his second successful bishop kidnapping.
How simple it had all been, he thought. Hunter had given him the address of the apartment on the outskirts of Las Vegas in which Rycroft was staying. Hunter had also generously provided his own credit card details from memory so Leadbetter could book a flight and avail himself of sufficient funds for the trip.
Leadbetter always stored his passport and other important personal documents at his bunker for safe keeping, so he had been ready to travel straight to Heathrow.
When in Nevada, it had taken just a day for Leadbetter to hire a car and locate an isolated cabin for rent – near Ash Springs. After that, it had simply been a matter of following Rycroft until an opportunity had presented itself to kidnap him.
This morning he had followed Rycroft from Las Vegas to the road which branched from Nevada State Route 375 into the area of desert popularly known as Area 51. Leadbetter had ceased to pursue Rycroft beyond the “no trespass” warning signs.
Because the terrain was so flat, Leadbetter had been able to follow Rycroft at a significant distance, using binoculars to keep an eye on any turnings he might take. Leadbetter had arrived at the Area 51 warning signs five minutes after Rycroft, by which time Rycroft’s car could be seen well down the road into the restricted area.
Leadbetter had waited for ten hours in the hope of Rycroft retracing his route. He had eventually been rewarded when, through his binoculars, he saw the bishop’s vehicle in the distance, throwing-up dust as it approached.
After that, it had just been a matter of driving a few miles back towards Las Vegas and setting his road block.
It was completely dark by the time that Leadbetter had reached the cabin and relocated Rycroft to a chair inside.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Rycroft had demanded on several occasions.
Leadbetter did not reply until Rycroft was inside the cabin and tied to the chair – still with a hood over his head.
‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ said Leadbetter. ‘I have some questions for you, but we’re going to play a little game while I ask them. You see, I already know the answers to some of the questions – even some that you might not think anyone would know. If you give me a wrong answer that I know is wrong, I will shoot you immediately without asking further questions.’ Leadbetter pressed a section of water pipe against Rycroft’s temple in lieu of an available gun. Do you understand?’
Although Rycroft saw himself as the chief inquisitor for ARK – every bit as ruthless in the pursuit of the Lord’s work as his heroes of the Inquisition – he was not a brave man. He reasoned that the best chance of saving his life lay in telling the truth. It would surely not be long before the identity of his captor would be discovered, and ARK would ensure that this heretic would not live long enough to make use of whatever he had revealed.
‘OK,’ said Rycroft, sweating.
‘Right answer,’ said Leadbetter. ‘Now, question two. What are the initials of the secret religious organisation to which you belong?’
‘A. R. K.’
‘Who are the other Masters of ARK, other than Hunter and you?’
‘Summerland, Forrester and Holland.’
Leadbetter clarified further details and continued with his list of questions, ending with: ‘What were you doing in Area 51?’ and ‘What is the identity of Arkangel?’
There was more that he wanted to clarify, but Leadbetter had seen too many films and read too many books in which protagonists had not relayed critical information quickly enough before some unpredictable event had prevented them from doing so.
Also, by this time, Rycroft was breathing heavily and talking with much greater difficulty. ‘I’ve got chest pains,’ he said. ‘I have a heart condition.’
Leadbetter would not be distracted, and he reached for his phone to send a message, without delay, to the Great Lord Morrison.
As he finished typing the first sentence, however, the inky darkness which lay beyond the cabin windows transformed into a blinding whiteness that appeared brighter than the sun.
Then there was an explosion and, for Leadbetter, the whole world became dark.