It was 3:07 a.m.
The city slept beneath a cold rain, as if the sky itself were washing away the sins of the previous day. The streets were empty, except for one lone figure dressed in black, walking beneath the flickering yellow light of a broken streetlamp.
In his right hand, he carried a gun wrapped in white cloth, like a consecrated host. In his left, a small open Bible, with the Book of Romans marked.
— Rise, he said calmly. — You don't have much time left.
The man bleeding on the ground could barely breathe. He looked up. Recognized the eyes. The same eyes he had seen on TV, on the cover of Christian magazines. The kind face of Pastor Samuel Book.
But this was not the face he showed the world on Sundays. This was another. Darker. Older. Weary.
— Why…? — the dying man asked, coughing blood.
Samuel crouched slowly, like a doctor or a priest. Except his staff wasn't made of silver, but steel.
— Because you killed my father, — he replied without emotion. — And because today, my son, it's time to confess your sins.
The mobster tried to crawl away, but a gunshot to the shoulder stopped him. He screamed, but no one would come. No one ever came to this part of the city at that hour.
— Confess, said the pastor, pointing the gun at his forehead. — Confess Jesus Christ as your Savior… before it's too late.
— You're insane! — the man shouted, through tears and blood.
— It's not I who stands before death, — the pastor replied. — I am only the messenger.
A long silence followed. Raindrops struck the ground like funeral drums.
— I… I… I confess Jesus! — the man cried out desperately. — I confess He is my Lord!
Samuel closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
— Then, my son… go in peace.
And he pulled the trigger.
Hours later…
The sun rose timidly over the city, as if it didn't want to see what had happened during the night.
Inside the Church of Christ's Redemption, Pastor Samuel Book was finishing preparations for his weekly sermon. He wore glasses, a clean robe, and a warm smile. His hair was neatly combed, his beard trimmed, and he smelled of lavender soap.
A group of children ran joyfully through the halls, greeting him with affection. He returned their greetings with a pat on the back and a quick blessing.
— May God bless you, little David.
— Thank you, Pastor Book!
Outside, the congregation had already begun arriving — dressed in their finest clothes, Bibles in hand, souls ready to receive words of hope.
And Samuel had them. He always did.
He stepped into the pulpit. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.
— Brothers and sisters, he began, — today we will speak of the word of God… and how even in the darkest moments, He can use anyone to bring forth justice.
He paused. Looked at the congregation. All watched him with love. With faith.
No one knew that just hours ago, he had been the angel of death.
"For vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will repay."
— Romans 12:1