Read Online Relentless by Patricia Haley and Gracie Hill - Free Book Online Page A

God to watch over his mighty fine vehicle.
    â€œBishop, how are you? God sure is blessing you,” were just a few of the greetings he received.
    Jones shook hands and puffed out, “Praise the Lord,” repeatedly as he moved toward the courthouse.
    At a faster pace, Maxwell continued up the steps with the intent of making a noticeable entrance into the meeting while intentionally avoiding the bishop outside.
    The conference room was packed with those whose voices sang out in conversation to pass the time, waiting for the meeting to start. Maxwell and his determination entered, being announced with every step as the heel of his shoe struck the floor. At least three clergymen were robbed of their voices when they recognized Maxwell. He watched one minister stop in midsentence and latch onto him with a cringing stare; just the effect he wanted to have. They knew who he was and feared why he was there.
    Maxwell claimed the last open seat on his side of the long table, reared back in the high-back leather chair, and pulled a gold engraved pen from his jacket pocket. Now the show could begin. He was ready, sitting in the premium seat near the head of the table. He was a little more than an arm’s length away from where he expected Jones to sit. There were a few nods and several glances directed his way but no one shook his hand or welcomed him to the table of community concern. Maxwell didn’t care as he drank in the familiar faces. There was no mask to hide their trepidation with a civil attorney who held a near-perfect win record sitting among them. Confident, Maxwell made visual contact with anyone who was willing to accept his challenge. In his mind only the guilty would have no peace. He smirked.
    Jones’s wide body filled the doorway as he paraded into the room flanked by the mayor. Jones sat at the head of the table while the mayor walked down to the other end shaking hands as he passed. Wiping his forehead with a monogram handkerchief, Jones shifted left to right, perhaps to prevent his body from spilling over both sides of the chair. A gust of cologne sat at the table with him. Maxwell brushed his index finger under his nose floating a wide-eyed glance at Jones.
    â€œGood morning and thank you for being here,” Jones began. “We’re here today with a joint mission. We all want to identify a plan of action that will help young men who are at risk as well as reduce the gun violence that is robbing our children of their livelihood. We can no longer allow our streets to be war zones with our children enlisted as soldiers.”
    Maxwell’s gaze rolled around the long table assessing the attentive group. He flashed back to the picture of the Last Supper that hung on his living room wall as a child. Half hearing what Jones was saying, he noticed the bobbing heads, scribbling pens, and the occasional amen that one or two men couldn’t refrain from spurting out. All of them were caught up in the spell that Jones cast with his thick, melodious voice. He promised to make a difference in the community by trading opportunities for headstones.
    Maxwell squinted, lowered his head slightly, and homed in on Jones, jumping in on the heels of his last words. “Bishop Jones, your interest is commendable; in fact, I applaud your efforts here today.”
    Jones turned his head toward Maxwell; his thick eyebrows sank down under the weight of the wrinkles that creased his forehead.
    â€œYou have one of the largest followings in Philadelphia, and I believe you have a large group of young people in your congregation.” Maxwell studied the blank stares of those near him but wasn’t deterred. “I’d like to ask a few questions about the success of programs you have underway.” A response wasn’t immediate which promoted Maxwell to continue tinkering with the subject. “You’ve surely managed some youth outreach programs that have already been successful. How many