Two men in jean vests, one thin, one heavily muscled, both with bare arms adorned with tattoos, burst through the church doors. Unlike Greg, these men with their gaunt, hardened faces simply pushed the remaining parishioners aside as they moved into the church. “Father Peter?” the larger one shouted again. It wasn’t Father Peter or even Father Carter who stepped forward, but the other man, the one in the double-breasted suit jacket. “Calm, Pike,” Greg heard the pastor say. There was a new sort of energy in the air, one not of salvation this time, but of something else; something more sinister. The man named Pike stepped forward despite the pastor’s words. “Who the fuck are you?” the thin biker with a ponytail shouted, eying Pike. The other churchgoers, sensing that something was going to go down, either quickly left the church or crouched back into the pews.
