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  BLOOD OF HEAVEN

  BILL MYERS

  Electronic Edition Copyright © 1999 by Bill Myers

  First eBook Edition: 2011

  Amaris Media International.

  2060 Avenida de Los Arboles #734

  Thousand Oaks, CA 91362

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Myers, Bill, 1953–Blood of Heaven / Bill Myers.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version ®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.

  Published in the United States of America

  PRAISE FOR BILL MYERS

  THE GOD HATER

  “When one of the most creative minds I know gets the best idea he’s ever had and turns it into a novel, it’s fasten-your-seat-belt time. This one will be talked about for a long time.”

  —Jerry B. Jenkins author of Left Behind

  “An original masterpiece. The God Hater re-opens our eyes to God’s absolute justice and His unfathomable love.”

  —Dr. Kevin Leman, bestselling author of Have a New Kid by Friday

  “If you enjoy white-knuckle, page-turning suspense, with a brilliant blend of cutting-edge apologetics, The God Hater will grab you for a long, long time.”

  —Beverly Lewis, NY Times bestselling author

  “I’ve never seen a more powerful and timely illustration of the incarnation. Bill Myers has a way of making the Gospel accessible and relevant to readers of all ages. I highly recommend this book.”

  —Terri Blackstock, NY Times bestselling author

  “A brilliant novel that feeds the mind and heart, The God Hater belongs at the top of your reading list.”

  —Angela Hunt, NY Times bestselling author

  “The God Hater is a rare combination that is both entertaining and spiritually provocative. It has a message of deep spiritual significance that is highly relevant for these times.”

  —Paul Cedar, Chairman Mission America Coalition

  ANGEL OF WRATH

  “Bill Myers is a genius. Not only is ANGEL OF WRATH full of engaging characters and heart-stopping suspense, but underneath it explores thoughts and truths that will keep you pondering long after the book is closed.”

  —Lee Stanley, producer, Gridiron Gang The Voice

  “A crisp, express-train read featuring 3D characters, cinematic settings and action, and, as usual, a premise I wish I’d thought of. Succeeds splendidly! Two thumbs up!”

  —Frank E. Peretti, author

  “Nonstop action and a brilliantly crafted young heroine will keep readers engaged as this adventure spins to its thought-provoking conclusion. This book explores the intriguing concept of God’s power as not only the creator of the universe, but as its very essence.”

  —Kris Wilson, CBA Magazine

  “It’s a real ‘what if?’ book with plenty of thrills…that will definitely create questions all the way to its thought-provoking finale. The success of Myers’s stories is a sweet combination of a believable storyline, intense action, and brilliantly crafted, yet flawed characters.”

  —Dale Lewis, TitleTrakk.com

  THE FACE OF GOD

  “Strong writing, edgy…replete with action…”

  —Publishers Weekly

  FIRE OF HEAVEN

  “I couldn’t put the Fire of Heaven down. Bill Myers’s writing is crisp, fast-paced, provocative…Avery compelling story.”

  —Francine Rivers Siddons, author

  BLOOD OF HEAVEN

  “With the chill of a Robin Cook techno-thriller and the spiritual depth of a C.S. Lewis allegory, this book is a fast-paced, action packed thriller.”

  —Angela Elwell Hunt, author

  “Now this is innovative. Bill Myers has played the game of ‘what if?’—creating a compelling story of grace triumphing over judgment…A bold new twist on an age-old theme. Blood of Heaven is an enjoyable and provocative read. I wish I’d thought of it!”

  —Frank Peretti, author

  ELI

  “The always surprising Myers has written another clever and provocative tale.”

  —Booklist

  “With this thrilling and ominous tale Myers continues to shine brightly in speculative fiction based upon Biblical truth. Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal

  “Myers weaves a deft, affecting tale.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  SOUL TRACKER

  “Soul Tracker provides a treat for previous fans of the author, but also a fitting introduction to those unfamiliar with his work. I’d recommend the book to anyone, initiated or not. But be careful to check your expectations at the door…it’s not what you think it is.”

  —Brian Reaves, Fuse magazine

  “Thought provoking and touching, this imaginative tale blends elements of science fiction with Christian theology.”

  —Library Journal

  “Myers strikes deep into the heart of eternal truth with this imaginative first book of the Soul Tracker series. Readers will be eager for more.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  THE SEEING

  “Bill Myers novel…compels the reader to burn through the pages. Cliff-hangers abound and the stakes are raised higher and higher as the story progresses—intense, action-shocking twists!”

  —TitleTrakk.com

  “An entertaining novel, Bill Myers The Seeing is a great reminder of spiritual warfare and the impact of choices and is reminiscent of Frank Peretti’s This Present Darkness.”

  —IDealinHope.com

  WHEN THE LAST LEAF FALLS

  “A wonderful novella…Any parent will warm to the humorous reminiscences and the loving exasperation of this father for his strong-willed daughter…Compelling characters and fresh, vibrant anecdotes of one family’s faith journey.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Other Works by Bill Myers

  The God Hater

  Angel of Wrath

  The Voice

  The Wager

  Soul Tracker

  The Presence

  The Seeing

  The Face of God

  When the Last Leaf Falls

  Eli

  Blood of Heaven

  Threshold

  Fire of Heaven

  The Bloodstone Chronicles (children’s fantasy series)

  McGee and Me (children’s book/video series)

  The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle (children’s comedy series)

  Blood Hounds Inc. (children’s mystery series)

  Secret Agent Dingledorf and his trusty dog, SPLAT (children’s comedy series)

  Faith Encounter (teen devotional)

  Forbidden Doors (teen series)

  To Jim Riordan, for his love and friendship

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many people have given their time and expertise to help me write this book. I’m sure I’ve still made a few mistakes, but these folks deserve credit for what I managed to get right. My grateful appreciation to Dr. Dennis Revie and the department of biology at California Lutheran University, Dr. Rick Stead, Dr. Murray Robinson, Dr. Jeff Hutchins, Kristy Woods, Fred Baker, Nebraska State Penitentiary administrative assistant Charles Hohenstein, Hugh and Beth Geisbrecht, my brother, Dale Brown, Marta Fields, Larry and Julie LaFata, Ed Penney, Sue Brower, Lori Walburg, Scott Wanamaker, Frank Peretti, and Angela
Hunt. Thanks also to Lissa Halls Johnson, Robin Jones Gunn, Carla Williams, Scott Kennedy, Lynn and Peggy Marzulli, Doug McIntosh, Dorothy Moore, Bill Myers Sr., Bob and Helen West, John Tolle, Bill Burnett, Gary Smith, Tom Kositchek, Cathy Glass, Criz Hibdon, and the rest of my “extended family” for their intercession. Also, to my agent and friend, Greg Johnson, and my editor, Dave Lambert, another friend who first heard me weave this yarn nearly a decade ago. Lastly, always, and most importantly, to Brenda, Nicole, and Mackenzie.

  For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?

  - The Apostle Paul

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  “YOU DISRESPECT ME.”

  There was no response.

  “You hear what I say? You disrespect me.”

  Michael Coleman didn’t have to look up from his Thanksgiving meal of turkey loaf and yams to know who was talking. It was Sweeney. Big, brooding, tattoos across the back of his bald head. As a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, he had been convicted for stabbing a Jew to death during last year’s Nazi rally in Omaha. He’d come onto the Row a week ago, and this was his move.

  “You hear me, Cole?”

  Imperceptibly, Coleman tightened the grip on his spoon. He cursed himself for not slipping a homemade shank into his waistband before coming to mess. He’d known a power play was coming; he just hadn’t expected it so soon. Still, if a spoon was all he had, then a spoon would have to do. Already his senses were tightening, sharpening. The contrast between the orange yams and the green fiberglass meal tray grew vivid. The eight other men stopped eating and looked in Coleman’s direction. In the sudden silence, the hum from the overhead heating duct grew to a consuming roar.

  “Sit down.” Coleman’s command came strong. He was grateful he didn’t have to clear his throat. That would have betrayed weakness, and weakness could spell death.

  Sweeney shifted slightly.

  Good.

  Coleman finally raised his eyes. But not to Sweeney. It was to the inmate sitting across from him. A young black man, almost a boy, who’d made the mistake of hitting a white man one too many times in a bar fight. He wouldn’t even have been here if he could have afforded a real lawyer. The kid quickly rose and moved out of the way so Sweeney could take his seat.

  This was Coleman’s gauntlet. If Sweeney obeyed, if he sat, that meant he honored Coleman’s position and really did want to talk. If he didn’t, then this was clearly a challenge of Coleman’s authority.

  Sweeney didn’t move.

  Coleman wasn’t surprised. His heart pounded — but not in fear. This was exhilaration. An exhilaration he would carefully hold in check until the perfect moment.

  Again Sweeney shifted, but this time to brace himself for what was coming. “You disrespect Garcia and me.”

  Hector Garcia was the weakest on the Row, which made him the most vulnerable. A bomb freak, he had inadvertently killed an elderly couple who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thanks to Oklahoma City, that put him near the bottom of the prison food chain, barely above a child molester.

  Sweeney had come onto the Row and immediately made Garcia his punk. No one seemed to mind, not even when he forced Garcia to shave his legs and start wearing jockey shorts dyed pink from cherry Kool-Aid. But after the boy’s third or fourth beating, Coleman finally drew the line. He knew Sweeney had clout: major outside heroin connections. In fact, he’d even heard that Sweeney was supplying one or more of the baton-wielding hacks inside, which would explain why they looked the other way during Garcia’s beatings.

  Still, enough was enough. Maybe it was the memories of his own childhood, his own father. Coleman wasn’t sure. But he had passed word down the chain of command that there would be no more beatings. And now Sweeney stood there, not only challenging his decree, but his position as well.

  Coleman had several options. Talk it out, which would be read as weakness, or — well, there was really only one other choice. And by the electricity shooting through his body and the razor-sharp focusing of his senses, he knew there was no time like the present.

  Sweeney didn’t know what hit him. Coleman’s five-foot-eleven frame was off the bench and going at him before the man could move. Deliriously out of control, adrenaline surging, Coleman was a wild man, punching and stabbing and tearing and kicking in a euphoric, overwhelming rush.

  He barely noticed the hacks descending on him, pulling him off, doing their own brand of kicking and beating. Nor did he really care — although he couldn’t help noticing that at least one of them was Sweeney’s client. He saw Sweeney stagger back to his feet, flashing a newly acquired, toothless grin and brandishing a pair of aluminum knuckles. Coleman tried to move, but the hacks held him in place as Sweeney came at him. Apparently the man had more connections than Coleman had thought.

  There was some solace that it took two guards to hold him as Sweeney did his work. But even as the punches fell and consciousness slipped away, a plan was forming in Coleman’s mind. It would take more than this to oust him from power. This was child’s play. An excuse for revenge. And revenge would come swiftly. It always did. For Michael Coleman, revenge was not a dish best served cold, but rather piping hot, full of rage, and in a manner they would never forget. That was Coleman’s style. That was what made him great. That’s why they feared him.

  Dr. Philip O’Brien had a problem. His briefcase was packed with so many papers and files that it left no room for the framed picture of Beth and the kids. Now what? Here he was, CEO of the fastest growing biotech firm in the Pacific Northwest, and his brain was gridlocked over what to take and what to leave behind on a forty-eight-hour business trip. In anger and contempt over his indecision, he pulled the core group’s “Toxicity of Epidermal Growth Factor” out of his briefcase, tossed it on his desk, and scooped up the photo.

  He turned and headed out of his office toward the elevators. Tall, on the downhill side of his forties (though the gray hair made him appear closer to mid-fifties) he still had a boyish, Jimmy Stewart charm. Except for the quiet padding of his Nikes on the carpet and the occasional brush of blue jeans against his briefcase, the hallway was absolutely silent. Just as it should be. No one worked holidays at Genodyne. Except for Security, and the die-hard kids down in Research, the six-story complex would remain closed until Monday. So would the manufacturing plant a quarter mile away. That was O’Brien’s style, his vision from the beginning. Happy employees make relaxed employees make imaginative employees make significant breakthroughs in genetic engineering — a theory spawned in the brain of a Berkeley biochem student back in the early eighties. But after dozens of patents and one, soon to be two, products out on the market, it was a theory that had led to a hundred seventy-five million dollars’ worth of business last year alone.

  Biotech companies come and go. Of the fifteen hundred or so that had started, only fourteen had actually placed a product on the market. And for good reason. With the public paranoia over genetic engineering, as well as impossible FDA guidelines and innumerable tastings, it cost between one hundred and three hundred million dollars to develop a single drug. But, as Genodyne had proven, once a drug hits the market, it can become a blockbuster overnight.

  O’Brien passed on the elevator and took the stairs. So why was he here? Why had he, head of this flourishing, feel-good company, rushed through Thanksgiving dinner, leaving his wife and two kids alone for the remainder of the weekend? O’Brien arrived at the next floor landing, pushed open the door, and beheld his answer.

  “Glad you could make it.” It was a twenty-four-year-old kid, well built, with black hair that always hung in his face, and, according to Sarah, O’Brien’s twelve-year-old daughter, a major babe. “The freezer and lab equipment have already been loaded. The jet’s been on the runway half an hour. Where have
you been?” It was Kenneth Murkoski. Murkoski the Terrible. Murkoski the Ambitious. Murkoski the Boy Genius.

  “I had some pumpkin pie to finish.”

  The man-child didn’t smile. “Got a call from Lincoln. There was an incident on the Row.”

  “An incident?”

  “That’s what they called it.”

  “Was our guy involved?”

  “Big time. They said we should hold off a few days.”

  “And?”

  “I said, ‘No way.’ ”

  “Kenny …”He saw Murkoski wince. He knew the kid hated the name, so he used it only when necessary. He’d handpicked Murkoski right out of M.I.T. almost eighteen months ago. He was the country’s brightest, best, and most ambitious. He was also a showboat and publicity hound — a volatile combination, but O’Brien had decided to take the risk. Actually, he hadn’t had much choice. Having to continually oversee Research and Development, Manufacturing, Administration, Sales, Marketing, and Logistics had sapped all of O’Brien’s creativity. If the company was to survive, O’Brien needed a blue-skyer, some fresh blood (not to mention fresh brain cells) to run the Gene Therapy Division. In short, he needed someone who would think like O’Brien used to think back when he’d had time to think. Of course, that meant more than the usual amount of fires to put out and ruffled feathers to smooth. (Murkoski’s social skills were as underdeveloped as his humility.) It also meant losing control of more and more of the details — details that O’Brien occasionally felt Murkoski deliberately hid from him. Still, despite the risks and frustrations, the kid was worth it. Even now.