The Harvest Saints
Some faith demands blood. When violence, family history and buried belief collide, the past becomes something far more dangerous than memory.
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Los Angeles, 1982
The motel room hummed with a tired kind of life. Yellow light buzzed overhead. The ceiling fan squeaked with every rotation, like it resented still being alive. The air smelled like bleach over cheap aftershave. Clean on the surface. Rotten underneath.
Isiah “Zay” Cole sat in a tattered armchair, boots flat on the carpet. One foot tapped. Barely.
A bottle of off-brand whiskey sat untouched on the table.
He hadn’t come here to forget a damn thing.
On the wall, drilled clean into the smoke detector, a pinhole camera watched the room. Old school. Quiet. Reliable.
The door opened.
Gene Dunley walked in smiling like he belonged. Polyester slacks. Greasy mustache. Confidence built on bad habits. Behind him, a girl. Too young. Too slow. Her body moved, but her eyes didn’t follow. Faint needle marks ghosted along her arms.
Zay didn’t move.
“Evenin’, Slick.”
Dunley glanced at the bottle. “You ain’t drinkin’?”
“I’m working.”
Something shifted. Dunley felt it, didn’t respect it.
“This is her,” he said. “You wanna talk or get right to it?”
Zay stood. Slow. Controlled. No wasted movement.
“I wanna know if she knows where the hell she is.”
Dunley frowned. “What? What the fuck for?”
Zay stepped closer to the girl. His voice softened.
“You know your name, sweetheart?”
Nothing.
“What day is it?”
Silence.
“Hey asshole!….She’s quiet,” Dunley said. “That’s what the fuck you asked for.”
Zay stepped between them.
The room tightened.
“That’s not what I asked for,” he said. “That’s what you do. Drug ‘em up. Dress ‘em up. Sell ‘em off like they ain’t shit.”
The smile dropped.
“I knew you was a fuckin problem,” Dunley said. “Somethin’ off about you..”
“You should’ve listened to your gut.”
The blade flashed.
Zay moved first.
The room snapped into chaos. A body hit the dresser. The lamp shattered. Sparks spit into the dark. Steel grazed Zay’s ribs. Shallow. Burning.
“Son of a—”
He wrapped a motel towel around his forearm, caught the next swing, and drove his elbow into Dunley’s face.
Bone cracked.
Dunley stumbled back holding his nose, blood pouring, panic setting in. He looked at the blood on his hands then up at Zay and snarled.
“My face!!! You Mother fucker—”
He launched.
Zay didn’t let him.
The coffee table splintered under them. The knife went sliding and Dunley scrambled for it.
“Nope.”
A well laced tactical boot came crashing down on Dunley’s hand. The crunch was deep and final. Like every bone in his hand was turned to jelly under the sheer force. Dunley shrieked like a man in childbirth and tried to get up using his good hand.
Isiah scoffed and his leg was off the ground before the girl could see.
The kick landed clean.
Temple.
Lights out.
“Stay down.” It was commanding. As if chiseled onto stone tablets.
Zay stood over him, breathing hard, blood seeping through his shirt.
He looked at the girl.
She hadn’t moved.
The motel phone felt heavier than it should.
“This is Zay Cole,” he said. “Got your guy. Room twelve. Bring Narcan… and a fucking warrant.”
He hung up before they could say thank you.
◆ ◆ ◆
Early Morning
Zay’s apartment greeted him the way it always did. It was quiet, and honest.
African masks lined the walls. Carved figures stood watch. Jazz vinyl leaned against a shelf. A painting of a red church with no windows hung crooked, like it gave up trying to explain itself.
He opened the fridge.
One beer.
He stared at it a second.
Then closed it.
The board of photos waited.
Faces. Headlines. Girls who never made it home.
He pulled Dunley’s photo down. Folded it. Threw it away.
“Piece of shit.”
The phone rang.
He let it.
Then answered.
“Yeah?”
A voice on the other end.
“You got a father named Elijah Temple?”
The room went cold.
“…Who the fuck is this?”
“We need you back in Atlanta. Now.”