The Resistance

by Terry E. Hill

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Set in Atlanta, The Resistance is a fast-paced thriller. Not everything is as it seems in the city’s upper crust…

Natalie Harris is the perfect politician’s wife, mother, socialite, and First Lady of Atlanta. She throws the best parties, is an attentive, hands-on mother, confidante, and advisor to her mayor husband, and a loyal friend. But…Natalie has another side. She is a former military agent and a trained assassin who heads an agency of female assassins: a preacher, a best-selling author, and a celebrity chef. Their mission is to rid the city of persons with power who harm the most vulnerable citizens.

Release date: August 25, 2026

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Huey!” Natalie called up the stairwell. “Darling, come on! You’re going to be late for school!”

“Mom,” Huey called back, “I can’t find my backpack.”

“It’s here in the foyer!” she yelled. “Angela,” Natalie said to the little girl watching cartoons in the solarium just off the foyer, “honey, please turn that off and put on your jacket. It’s going to be cold today.”

Natalie Harris glanced outside to a perfect spring day in Buckhead. Her corner of the secluded Atlanta enclave boasted towering maple, birch, and dogwood trees, winding wooded streets, imposing brick mansions, and a parade of luxury automobiles that spoke to the power and influence of the residents of the neighborhood.

“Angela, are you coming? We can’t be late.”

She hated to be late, and she wanted her daughter to learn the importance of punctuality. Fifteen years of marriage to a politician, and now as the first lady of Atlanta, she’d learned that being even a minute late could send a political message that could damage the Harris administration.

Huey bolted down the stairs, toting a gym bag on his shoulder and a soccer ball under his arm. “I’m ready,” he said breathlessly, waving a white slip of paper above his head. “I need you to sign this permission slip. Our class is going to the APEX Museum today.”

“Why am I just now hearing about this?” she asked, grabbing the paper from Huey as he ran by. “I’ll sign it in the car.” She followed closely behind as Angela ran to catch up with her brother.

They had plenty of time to make it to school, but Natalie left little room for error. She was the perfect politician’s wife, mother, and friend. She pulled it off with her relatability and warmth. She was up before five a.m. to do the daily forty-five minutes of Pilates and cardio before changing into her daytime favorites: khakis, Polo shirts, and comfortable Nike’s with crisp white laces. She engaged in age-appropriate yet intelligent conversation as she shuttled 8-year-old Huey and 5-year-old Angela to private schools where they participated in soccer, ballet, and extracurriculars designed to produce leaders, not followers. The moms in the school pickup line loved her. Imagine, the mayor’s wife dropping off her own children just like them.

By night, Natalie hosted or attended parties wearing designer gowns and discussing the most perplexing issues facing the city with the people who controlled its politics, money, and culture. She couldn’t help but outshine most of the other women in those gilded rooms with her exquisitely fit figure, beautiful burnt umber skin, and angular features. She could be on the cover of any glamor magazine, but that was not the path she’d chosen.

In every corner of the city, stories of Natalie helping a young mother into an apartment or advocating for a young man in trouble added to her legendary reputation. Relatability was the intended image. It’s what made the deep-pocketed donors write the fundraising checks, gained support in all her charitable ventures, and most importantly, made her husband, Mario Harris, one of the most beloved mayors even amid the city’s most turbulent and unprecedented crime wave.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Harris.” Bertha appeared in the foyer in her maid’s apron. “Will you and Mayor Harris be dining in tonight?”

“Yes, Bertha,” Natalie said, reaching for her keys on a console in the entry hall.

“Is there anything in particular you would like for dinner?”

“I promised Huey and Angela they could have burgers and fries tonight.” Natalie shoved her wallet, cell phone, and a container of hand sanitizer into her purse. “Please make mine vegetarian.”

“Yes, ma’am, and Mayor Harris?”

“Let’s make him a steak, medium rare, baked potato, and a salad.” Natalie checked her hair in a massive mirror hanging in the hall and tightened the black scrunchie around her ponytail.

“Mom,” Huey called anxiously from the front door, “we’re going to be late. Let’s go.”

“I’m coming, honey,” she urgently replied. “Thank you, Bertha,” Natalie called out over her shoulder as she sprinted out the door. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

As she made sure the children were buckled in, the phone rang. Natalie’s eyes narrowed when she saw the encrypted code on the screen.

“Sorry, darlings,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt. “I have to take this.”

“Mom!” Huey whined.

“I’ll only be a minute.” After she’d walked a safe distance from the car, she said, “Hello.”

“Hello, is this … The Resistance?” the male voice asked nervously.

“Yes, it is. Who am I speaking with?”

“This is Archbishop Vinchensi,” came the whispered reply.

“Hello, Father.”

“The Catholic Church finds itself in need of your services, again. His holiness would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience.”

The only way a caller could access her phone with the secure code was if the number was provided to them by someone who was aware of the unique services she provided. Natalie’s phone was equipped with the highest level of quantum-resistant end-to-end encryption and automatic data wiping. It also had a kill switch for the camera and microphone to prevent eavesdropping and tracking. The extreme precautions were in place to ensure that no third party could listen in on her conversations.

“What is it the pontiff would like to discuss?”

“I am afraid I am not privy to that information. He only instructed me to inform you that the fate of the Church of Rome rests in your hands.”

“Then of course, I will not refuse,” Natalie replied, looking over her shoulder to make sure the children hadn’t exited the SUV.

“Sì, è buono,” came the caller’s relieved reply. “His Holiness will be pleased. The Vatican jet will be waiting for you at the Atlanta Hartsfield–Jackson International Airport. Are you available this evening?”

“Yes. After ten p.m.”

“Sì, è buono. His Holiness will be pleased. The plane will be ready for you. Grazie, signora.”

“Mom!” Huey called out from the car.

“I’m coming, darling,” Natalie called out after muting the phone. “I’m sorry, guys.” She jumped back into the driver’s seat. “Is everyone buckled in?”

“Yes, Mom,” Huey exclaimed impatiently. “Can we go now, please?”

The call had only cost her a few minutes, but rush-hour traffic was already beginning to clog the roadways by the time she pulled out of the long driveway.

“Mom, are you going to finish telling us about slave rebellions?” the little girl asked innocently from the back seat.

“Absolutely,” Natalie said, her eyes lighting up. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Natalie picked up from the last conversation she’d had with her kids on the subject. Although they were getting the best primary education money could buy, she still considered it her responsibility to educate her children about their very particular history.

“So remember we were talking about John Brown and slave uprisings last time, right?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Angela said dutifully. “The slaves were rebelling against the people who stole their freedom.”

“That’s right, sweetheart.” Natalie nodded. “Slaves plotted and carried out hundreds of armed revolts in the United States between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries. Uprisings were courageous, desperate, and often failed. But they always succeeded in dispelling the stereotypes of contented slaves happy to be under the care of a master, and they challenged the very institution of slavery.”

The kids were rapt as Natalie spoke, and a hazy sun continued to rise over the awakening city. She did her best to explain these historical facts in words her children could access, even though their reading and comprehension levels were far ahead of their respective classes.

“The first known slave rebellion happened forty-four years after the first slaves arrived in what we now call America. A group of White and Black indentured servants rebelled against the tobacco industry. But the plot failed, and four men were hanged. That rebellion caused tobacco growers to abandon the use of indentured servants and move to the practice of race-based slavery. This was the beginning of American slavery as we know it. Planters began purchasing Africans who had been kidnapped and brought to America by Dutch and English slavers. They didn’t have contracts, and their status as slaves was, by law, passed on to their children. These were the first enslaved people to arrive in the American colonies in 1619. Rebellions continued as more Africans arrived in the colonies.”

Natalie paused to quickly glance at her children’s faces as she spoke. They were smart kids, and they’d heard some of this before, but she wanted them to remember that they came from people who were not powerless, who had agency. And she wanted them to hear it from her.

“Remember Nat Turner?” she asked.

“Yes!” Huey said. “He was a preacher.”

“That’s right. Nat Turner was an enslaved preacher who organized the bloodiest rebellion for both Blacks and Whites. The rebellion lasted a day, and Turner and his followers killed at least fifty-five White people. Thirty Black men were executed after trials presided over by judges who themselves were slaveholders. Thirty-six others were attacked, tortured, and killed by Whites who suspected they were involved in the rebellion.

“Despite the failed attempts, lost lives, and brutal retaliation the slaves faced, they continued to revolt against insurmountable odds in the fight for their personal freedom and liberty. Slave rebellions kept a spotlight on the inhumanity of the institution. They also introduced an ever-present fear into the lives of slaveholders and those who benefited from the institution, a fear that still exists to this day. None of the rebellions accomplished what they had hoped for in the short term, but they were all successful, and every person alive today is the beneficiary.” She looked back at the kids, and their eyes remained trained on her. “That includes you, too, Huey and Angela.”

The Boeing 757 approached Fiumicino–Aeroporto Internazionale Leonardo da Vinci on schedule at exactly 1:55 a.m. All incoming flights had been temporarily diverted, and the tarmac was cleared in anticipation of the private plane landing.

Only one of the six air traffic controllers on duty that night knew of the jet’s arrival. “Attenzione,” the controller’s voice crackled in cockpits approaching the airport. “A tutti I voli si prega di ritardare l’atterrag-gio e il decollo fino a nuovo viso,” was the instruction to all commercial flights to delay landings and takeoffs until further notice.

The Vatican jet could comfortably sleep nineteen, but Natalie was the only passenger. The aircraft was equipped with a communications satellite and state-of-the-art electronic countermeasures to jam external radar systems, making it one of the most secure and stealthiest jets on the planet.

Runway lights stretched the length of the deserted airstrip, welcoming the descending plane with glowing open arms. The screech of the wheels against the tarmac was followed by a slight jolt in the cabin. A perfect landing. The retractable stairway lowered, and Natalie appeared in the threshold wearing a tan belted trench coat and comfortable black shoes.

A tall, slender man wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie came forward to greet her. A black Maserati SUV with darkly tinted windows and a driver at the wheel waited thirty feet away with the engine idling.

“Welcome to Italy,” the man said, competing with the groaning jet engine. “I will take for you, if you have luggage,” he said in broken English.

“Grazie, no bags,” Natalie said, walking past the man without making eye contact. “I won’t be staying in Rome long.”

“As you wish,” the man replied, bowing his head and rushing past her to open the rear door of the SUV.

Air traffic was permitted to resume, but only after the SUV exited the airport. Neither of the men, as instructed, engaged the mysterious passenger. The car navigated through a late-night whirl of honking taxi cabs and beeping Vespa scooters. Natalie’s jaw was set, her eyes trained forward. The statue of Neptune riding his chariot over the Fontana di Trevi went unnoticed as did the concrete and sand ruins of the Colosseum. Echoes of gladiator swords clanking against shields, the roar of hungry lions, and the tortured cries of Christian martyrs that lingered over the city held no interest for her. The meeting would require no more than one hour of her time. Soon she would be flying back over the Atlantic to her comfortable Buckhead home.

The driver turned into St. Peter’s Square past two armed members of the Swiss Guard who waved him through. The car waded across the sea of red bricks, around the eighty-foot Vatican Obelisk, and stopped directly in front of the main entrance to Basilica di San Pietro.

Eight pillars stood guard at the bronze double doors along with six imposing members of the Swiss Guard wearing uniforms touched by the blue, orange, and yellow strokes of Michelangelo’s brush. Prefect of the Papal Household Archbishop Bartolomé Auguste Vinchensi stood in the center of the welcoming committee. Much too handsome for a vow of celibacy or poverty, Archbishop Vinchensi’s silver-streaked hair, muscular six-foot frame, and penetrating blue eyes greeted Natalie as she ascended the steps.

His black cassock billowed in the late-night breeze as he approached. “Mrs. Harris.” He extended his hand. “The Vatican is honored by your presence.”

“Archbishop Vinchensi, presumo?” Natalie asked without raising her hand.

“Sì, signora. Prefect of the Papal Household Archbishop Bartolomé Auguste Vinchensi,” he replied, slightly bowing his head. “Welcome to the Vatican. His Holiness awaits. May I first escort you to the apartment we have prepared for your stay?”

“That is very kind of you, Archbishop, but I will not be staying.” Her smile did nothing to hide her impatience.

“His Holiness will be disappointed,” Vinchensi said, barely concealing his relief. Both wanted this business to be done with. “If you will follow me. He is waiting for you in the papal apartment.”

Natalie’s soles squeaked on the gleaming marble floor and echoed through the cavernous vestibule. The equestrian statue of Charlemagne to her left and Bernini’s statue of the emperor Constantine to her right received nothing more than a glance as she walked purposefully forward. Statues of winged cherubs and lions tamed by Antonio Canova’s chisel, dead saints, and pontiffs adorned the hallways. The two walked side by side in silence through long, winding halls and catacombs never seen by the public, past statues and centuries-old masterpieces viewed only by the privileged Vatican inner circle. Her eyes did not linger on their beauty, nor did her soul bow in reverence.

“With all due respect, Archbishop,” Natalie said as they approached the twenty-foot-high double doors leading into the papal apartment, “I would prefer to speak with His Holiness alone.”

Vinchensi froze for a second as he reached for the door handle. “That is highly unusual.” He hesitated, his face reddening. “His Holiness prefers that I join him in meetings such as this.”

“Archbishop,” Natalie said, covering his hand on the handle with hers, “I must insist.” She looked sternly into his liquid blue eyes.

Vinchensi felt a chill he’d never experienced in his entire thirty-two years of service to the church. He pulled his hand away and instinctively took a step back from the door, clearing the path for Natalie.

“Thank you for understanding,” she said as she entered the papal apartment and closed the door, leaving Archbishop Vinchensi standing alone and oddly afraid in the hallway.

The 267th pope stood in the center of the living room wearing a white zucchetto skull cap, white flowing cassock, and white Prada slippers. A jewel-encrusted silver pectoral cross of the Good Shepherd hung from his neck and guarded his chest like a warrior’s breastplate. A whiff of burning sage in the air crossed Natalie’s nostrils as she observed the concern behind the pope’s narrow smile and weary eyes.

The large room’s decor harkened back to the 1950s. Four hunter green wingback chairs sat in the center. Equally dark green velvet curtains, deep mahogany wood, and sun-paled mint green carpet lent an air of gravitas. A fifteenth century masterpiece of the Madonna cradling the cherubic Messiah hung over a massive oak mantelpiece with a fire gently crackling in the inner hearth below.

“Thank you for coming so far. I trust your flight was pleasant,” the pope said wearily. “Your presence is appreciated. Please know that I would not have requested you come all this way unless it was of the utmost importance.”

“I assumed as much,” Natalie said, removing her coat and draping it over the back of the closest wingback chair. “Which is why I did not hesitate to come.”

“Please sit down,” the pope said, directing Natalie to one of the chairs.

The two sat facing each other. A 1611 King James first-edition Bible rested between them on a large mahogany coffee table. The Vicar of Christ proceeded in the gravest of tones. “As you are aware, the Church of Rome for the last two decades has been consumed by its most serious crisis in five hundred years. A crisis that has posed a threat to our very existence.”

His Holiness averted his eyes from Natalie’s emotionless stare. He clutched the bejeweled crucifix dangling from his neck, took a deep breath, and continued. “In the last month, the most heinous case of clerical sexual abuse has been brought to my attention. If this new case were to come to light, it would leave the world in shock. I fear the Church would not survive.”

He searched Natalie’s face for a reaction but found none. “It involves a parish priest in your great city of Atlanta. So far, we have identified thirty-four victims who have been abused by this monster, but I have been warned that upon further investigation the actual number will most likely be much higher.

“Under normal circumstances the church has mechanisms in place to handle these types of situations.”

“Threats and intimidation, or payoffs for silence,” Natalie coldly interjected.

“Yes, but only in the rarest of cases,” His Holiness conceded. “Regardless. My point is we have become quite adept at making the problems go away quickly and quietly. This instance, however, I am afraid is more complicated.”

“And why is that?”

“You see, the fiend has had a crisis of conscience. He has made it known that he plans to turn himself in to your local authorities in the coming days and confess to two decades of his deplorable crimes.”

Natalie read the furrows in the pontiff’s brow and detected there was more to his story. “With all due respect, Your Holiness, surely the Church’s two-thousand-year history can survive even a scandal of this magnitude,” she stated, hoping to shake free more details of his tale of woe.

The pope stood slowly, walked to a set of French doors overlooking St. Peter’s Square, and gazed over the eerily silent piazza. He could almost hear the masses chanting his name. The sweet aroma of burning sage tempted him to retreat behind a wall of piety, but there was no refuge from the grim reality facing him.

“I don’t think even two thousand years of feeding the poor, healing the sick, casting out demons, and clothing the naked can absolve this sin.” He turned and faced her. “You see, Natalie, in his confession he revealed that he not only violated the innocence of his young victims, but he also killed four of them. I will spare you the horrific details of his crimes, but in my quietest moments even I question whether our Father can forgive him of his sins.”

Silence fell between them as the gravity of the situation consumed the oxygen in the room. “What is it that you want from me?” Natalie finally asked.

He turned once again to the window, unable to look at her as he uttered his next words. “I want you to kill him. Kill him before he is able to confess and shatter what is left of the fragile foundation of the oldest institution in the Western world. And while I, as the successor to St. Peter whom Christ appointed, sit at the head of His church.”

“‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’”

Hattie Williams’s father’s worn leather-bound Bible lay open in front of her on the dining room table. A cup of coffee sat steaming close at hand but untouched. It was that time of day again. The sun reached its hands slowly over the horizon, gently nudging the city awake.

She continued her prayer aloud. “‘Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.’”

Hattie took her first sip of. . .