The Lost Rhoades Artifact

By C. T. Knudsen

In a devastating terrorist strike at Temple Square in Salt Lake City, four proletariat casualties become the catalyst for a political uprising against Chris Thomas and the Max AI.

Unbeknownst to Chris and the proletariats, the terrorists’ true mission is to seize an ancient weapon, the Lost Rhoades Artifact, hidden beneath the temple. This age-old weapon of mass destruction promises death on a biblical scale.

Called upon by Latter-day Saint President Matson Tolman, Chris and Orion’s Spear are humanity’s last hope, tasked to secure the artifact before it’s used to incite worldwide devastation.

Still reeling from the events of Vanguard, Chris must reconcile his government obligations and the critical mission handed to him personally by a prophet of God.

Facing battles on two fronts—against the fanatical terrorist Guthrie family and the Order of Baphomet—Chris gathers his Orion’s Spear team and an array of brave allies to retrieve the Lost Rhoades Artifact and quell growing terror threats.

As US President Mills plots against Chris and as civil war stirs in America, the Guthries wield the artifact, raining death upon millions. But when the Guthries believe they’ve defeated Chris and Orion’s Spear, the Order of Baphomet resurfaces, vying for global domination.

Against all odds, Chris and his team must pursue multiple villains in a global hunt while working to keep America from falling into civil war. The world’s fate hangs in the balance, dependent on Chris’s last-ditch plan. Can he thwart the enemy’s deadly plot and save the world, or is all lost forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. T. Knudsen
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201233761

Book preview

FACTS

This novel’s descriptions of the Lost Rhoades Mine and the mine’s various artifacts come from alleged eyewitness accounts. The mine is reportedly hidden deep in the southeastern slope of the Uinta Mountains in eastern Utah. To this day, it is rumored that heavily armed members of the Ute tribe guard the mine. Legend says the mine holds the lost treasure of Carre-­Shinob, rumored to be worth trillions of dollars.

In 2018, the US House of Representatives Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence released a detailed report on Russian intelligence operations that harnessed social media platforms such as Twitter and Facebook to disrupt elections, sow seeds of distrust between opposing political and social groups, and heighten racial violence in America.

It is a commonly held belief among evangelical Christians that the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem must be destroyed before the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.

Anonymous sources have reported that the United States military and intelligence community operates numerous underground bases beneath the continental United States and an untold number of underground bases outside North America.

Global conglomerates with vast financial means are known to contract with former special operations soldiers and CIA officers. Some of these organizations are reported to include the world’s wealthiest churches.

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PROLOGUE

UINTA MOUNTAINS, UTAH

1863

Porter Rockwell reluctantly placed his sawed-­off Colt Navy single-­action .36-­caliber revolver in his wool coat pocket. He then secured his miner’s lamp to his belt. Hugging a frayed rope, he looked down into the darkness of the rocky shaft and whispered, Here goes nothin’.

About forty feet down, the lamp, hanging precariously off Porter’s belt, illuminated the granite floor. Porter continued slowly until the last few feet and then let go of the rope, landing firmly. He pulled the lamp from his belt, removed the Colt from his pocket, and checked his surroundings. Running water faintly sounded from the other side of the chamber. When he moved toward it, the lamp shed light on an underground stream of black water that disappeared into an ice-­encrusted crag.

The water’s echoing played tricks on Porter’s ears. He thought he could hear Brother Brigham’s voice, and his mind turned to a conversation they’d had at the Beehive House’s expansive dining room table only a week earlier.

Brigham Young had recounted for Porter his first meeting with the great Ute chief Walkara. The prophet was shocked when Chief Walkara said that in a vision he’d seen Brigham coming over the plains—and that the Utes’ gold mine had been prepared by the great white god for the Mormons. This admission had confused Brigham until Caleb Rhoades, a trusted friend of the Utes, confirmed there was indeed a gold mine just a seven-­day ride east of Salt Lake City. Rhoades had sworn a blood oath not to reveal its exact location, but he reported that the mine contained enough gold to pave the streets of New York City and pay off the national debt.

The church’s leadership believed the mine must have been one of the Aztec leader Montezuma’s mines and swore to the Utes that the Mormons would not enter it. But when Caleb Rhoades reported on a particular artifact in the mine, President Young was willing to risk another open war with the Utes by sending Porter into its very heart.

Sighing, Porter recalled the final words Brother Brigham spoke when he departed the Beehive House: Once the North wins the civil war, the US government will turn their attention back to us, and we’ll need the artifact to defend ourselves. With God Almighty as my witness, you must not fail, ol’ Port. President Young placed a worn map in Porter’s hand. Don’t ask me where I got it. Now Godspeed, brother.

In his periphery, Porter noticed a tunnel. In the breach, the rock had formed like rolling waves, suggesting the passage was a tube created by ancient lava flow. Raising his gun and lantern, Porter proceeded into the unknown.

After about a hundred feet, the tube opened into a vast, musty chamber that the lantern struggled to illuminate. Many rusted swords and shields lay scattered on the granite floor. As Porter peered along one side of the room, he jumped—a skeleton was propped against the wall.

Brigham didn’t tell me about no skeletons, Porter fumed. He spat and raised his lantern for a better view.

More skeletons were wrapped in intricately woven blankets and cedar bark, and some on the opposite side of the room wore what looked like Spanish armor. Pocketing his gun, Porter knelt to give one of the swords a closer look. He reached for its hilt, then froze. Something told him not to touch anything but what he’d been sent to recover.

Clenching his hand and standing, Porter spotted the narrow opening of another ancient lava tube. He reluctantly raised his lantern and continued into the mine’s mysterious depths. After another hundred feet, Porter emerged in a new chamber. The floor was scattered with weapons and other items, and a body lay in the center.

The dead man clenched a Book of Mormon in one hand and colorful beads in the other, and Porter knew it was Chief Walkara. The chief had passed eight years earlier, but the body was surprisingly well preserved. Feeling a sense of reverence for the old Ute chief, Porter knelt at his side. A scarf was tied around his jaw and knotted at the top of his head. His stone face was peaceful, as if he were merely asleep.

Against one wall were the bodies of Walkara’s wives and, Porter guessed, several slave children he’d heard about. A pile of large bones looked like it had probably once been Walkara’s beloved horse. The floor was littered with rifles, pistols, bows and arrows, medicine clubs, leather pouches, and blankets, all denoting Walkara’s vast wealth and importance.

Porter stood solemn for a moment in respect for the chief and his family.

Another narrow opening lay beyond the chief’s body. Above it, the stone was carved with several unidentified creatures that looked similar to griffins, along with an image of the sun. As he passed through this void, Porter gasped.

The next room was magnificent beyond description. The space was not only filled with golden artifacts and other items, but the walls, ceiling, floor, and nine stone pillars were plated in solid gold. In the walls, numerous openings led into rock-­hewn areas.

Porter placed his hand on the cool gold floor. A sense came over him that the room wasn’t plated in gold—rather, it was carved out of a massive, solid-­gold vein. The adjoining granite chambers were all full of refined gold bars, no doubt comprising the gold hollowed out of the main chamber.

Holding up the light to inspect the incredible treasure, Porter murmured, Caleb’s gold. Coming back to his senses, he moved into the chamber, taking care not to step on any masks, statues, or other treasures.

Hanging on the back wall were two enormous gold solar disks, each at least six feet in circumference, with finely carved suns emanating rays in their centers. Each sun held a cross like the ivy-­woven crosses Porter had seen on old Welsh churches on the east coast. Strange hieroglyphics of an unknown ancient language were etched seemingly at random all over the disks.

As he explored the room, Porter came across several open boxes made of pure gold. The boxes contained stacked golden plates etched with strange writing like the hieroglyphics on the sun disks.

Just as Brother Joseph told me, whispered Porter as he reverently touched the plates.

The boxes were about three feet wide by four feet long. Through the bottom of each box protruded several wooden poles with flat, carved ends, no doubt for lifting and moving the heavy plates. Porter marveled at the ingenious design, then raised his lamp. An assortment of precious stones lay all around the boxes, including emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and, strangely, seashells.

Just past the gold boxes, Porter’s lantern illuminated a granite throne with more unidentified carvings. The throne was the only thing in the room not made of pure gold. Elevated on a slab of gold, the throne sat before an intricately carved altar holding a sword of unimaginable beauty.

Porter shone the lamp down the sword’s length, and the blade appeared to be made of some mysterious steel. Porter touched his finger to it. Still sharp, he whispered.

The sword’s guard was also made of the same strange metal but inlaid with gold and with a ruby embedded in each end. The hilt’s grip was solid gold, and the pommel was another red ruby, this one the size of a baseball. A peen block appeared to pierce the bottom of the ruby, securing it to the gold grip. The peen block was also made of the metal Porter could not identify. Recalling Brigham Young’s description, Porter felt confident this sword was the artifact he’d been sent to recover.

Porter knelt in front of the sword. He grasped his beard and ran his other hand through his long hair. After several moments of contemplation, he cleared his throat. Well, here goes nothing.

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Back at the bottom of the cave entrance, Porter pulled a knife from his boot. He cut off the bottom four feet of the rope he’d left hanging and tied it to the sword as a carrying strap. As he climbed the rope, the heavy sword swung around, sometimes bumping against him. When he made it to the top, he untied his rope and caught his breath. Relief poured over him as he made his way to the front of the cave. Carefully he grabbed the edge of the opening and pulled himself up into the light.

When his eyes adjusted, he gasped. From every direction, warriors from the Ute tribe surrounded him. Many were still atop their horses, holding spears and rawhide shields. On the ground, the men closest to him aimed their bows, arrows nocked.

Porter felt the Colt in his coat pocket. He knew if he tried to draw it, he’d be dead before he ever got it out of his pocket. He raised his left hand in the air, as if surrendering. With his right hand, he pulled the sword out where the Utes could see it.

Some of the men pulled their arrows tighter and stepped closer to Porter.

I mean you no trouble, Porter called. I wish I wasn’t here.

A light flashed. In the next moment, a horse reared up in front of him. He flinched, fearing he was about to be trampled, but the horse pranced around him.

To his shock, Porter was now standing in the middle of South Temple Street in Salt Lake City, right in front of the Beehive House.

Get out of the road, you drunkard, yelled a buggy driver.

How in the world—?

Porter realized he was still gripping the sword. With his free hand, he rubbed the back of his head.

Brigham Young and several others rushed out from the Beehive House toward Porter. Despite his size, Brigham moved like a younger man.

Porter looked again at the sword, and his vision blurred. Just before he passed out, he heard Brigham Young yell, Get him in the house!

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CHAPTER 1

BRITISH EMBASSY

WASHINGTON, DC

Mike Mayberry ducked into a restroom adjacent to the embassy’s grand ballroom. He did a quick check of the stalls to make sure he was alone, then stood in front of a full-­length mirror that looked more suitable for a nightclub than a government building. He adjusted his cufflinks and straightened his black bowtie.

When the wrinkles around Mike’s eyes caught his attention, he frowned. The clash between his age and his profession was literally staring back at him in the mirror.

Knife, this is Vanguard, said Chris Thomas in Mike’s concealed earpiece. Comms check.

This is Knife. Prepping the microdot. Mike pulled a transparent envelope from his coat pocket, opened it, and gently pressed his finger on a tiny black dot. The micro-­GPS transmitter stuck firmly to his fingertip, and he raised it out of the envelope. Testing?

We’re online, said Vanguard. Transmitter is active.

Mike turned again to the mirror.

Chris said, You look fine, Cinderella. Now get in there before the clock strikes midnight. Embedded in the obligatory American flag pin on Mike’s tuxedo lapel, the 8K microcam gave the receiver almost as good of a view as the wearer.

Yeah, yeah. Mike moved toward the restroom’s exit. Next time, you do this. It would make more sense anyway.

Adjusting his cufflinks, Mike entered the lavish ballroom, with its grandiose crystal chandeliers, oversized marble pillars, and checkerboard floor. As he moved into the crowd, the Delta Force operator was not impressed by the pomp and circumstance and the strict British protocols.

Visuals up, Chris said. Max is scanning the room now. If the target is there, we should have her location momentarily.

A little more intel going into this op would’ve been appreciated, Vanguard, Mike murmured, trying not to look like he was talking to himself.

The intel arrived too late. Improvise, Knife.

Pursing his lips, Mike continued to scan the ballroom.

Stand by, said Chris. Receiving data now.

Moving deeper through the crowd, he almost ran into a waiter carrying a platter of drinks. Mike took a glass of champagne and raised it to his mouth.

I swear we’ve met before, said a female voice from his periphery.

Startled, Mike lowered the glass and faced the woman. She was tall, an inch or two shy of his six feet. Her skintight black dress accentuated her athletic figure. Mike guessed the dress was a Louis Vuitton or Donna Karan—at any rate, clearly expensive. Her eyes were wild and stunning. Her silky black hair shined in the ballroom’s brilliant light, underscoring her angelic features.

Mike’s heart raced uncharacteristically. Sweat sheened his palms. I’m sorry? he stammered.

I said, I feel like we’ve met somewhere before. I’m Abigail. Abigail Guthrie.

Look alive, Knife, Chris said in his earpiece. The target just found you.

Staring at the woman, Mike cursed the simple plan. All he had to do was covertly place the microdot transmitter on the target, and then he could head home for a self-­congratulatory Bud Light. But no plan survived first contact. Now, Mike almost wished for a firefight rather than a conversation with the stunning woman before him.

Mike extended his hand. I don’t think we’ve met. I wouldn’t forget someone so beautiful. Sorry for saying that. I’m just an old cowboy, not very woke.

Abigail smiled and blushed. A Texas cowgirl will always take a comment like that as a compliment.

Mike smirked. Texas? No, I don’t think we’ve met before.

After an awkward pause, Abigail asked, What do you do for a living?

Embassy security. Well, actually I audit embassy security. I work for the state department. The lines came quick and sounded practiced, because they were.

Sounds boring.

Pardon me, madam. A proper-­looking British naval officer appeared from the sea of overdressed people, stepping between Mike and Abigail. May I have this dance?

I’m with him. Abigail reached around the sailor and grabbed Mike’s hand, pulling him reluctantly toward the dance floor. Mike handed his empty champagne glass to the Brit, who scowled.

As they reached the middle of the dance floor, the lights lowered and the twenty-­one-­piece band played some waltz-­sounding music Mike couldn’t place. Abigail moved in close to Mike. It had been years since he’d been this near a beautiful woman, and he forced himself not to freeze up.

Abigail moved her right arm around Mike’s broad shoulder and, with her left, took Mike’s hand and began to slow dance. Reluctantly, Mike placed his hand on her lower back, which was exposed by the low-­cut dress. The touch of her soft skin felt heavenly.

Abigail looked into Mike’s eyes. Thanks for saving me from Captain Boring. Oh, and speaking of boring, you were telling me about your embassy security job.

Not much to tell, really. An expert at controlling his emotions in even the most desperate combat situations, Mike now felt lost in the wonderful smell of Abigail’s hair.

I’m going to be straight with you, said Abigail. I think you’re lying about your job.

Easy, Mike. Watch your heartrate. Chris’s voice brought him back to the reality that he was on an op.

Sheepishly Mike asked Abigail, Why do you say that?

Flipping her long hair back over her shoulder, she moved in closer. If you’re a spook, you’re doing a good job of hiding it. Unlike all the other spooks here pretending not to be spooks.

I spent some time in the military.

She gave his face a closer examination. Obviously. I can see it in your eyes and the rugged lines of your face. You remind me of my brothers. Handsome, but your past is written in your countenance. You’re a man who’s seen more than his fair share of war and death.

Mike tightened up. Abigail moved in even closer. Mike felt as if she were peering into his soul and reading his thoughts.

What do you do for a living? he asked, trying to deflect.

I work in my family’s charity.

Mike, the microdot, said Chris into his earpiece.

Taking control, Mike led her across the dance floor. Abigail smiled, and Mike covertly pressed the microdot onto the small of her back.

What type of charity work? he asked.

I spend most of my time working with Christian orphanages in Southeast Asia. We also—

Abigail, a man said from behind Mike. The couple turned to him. Excuse me, but we have a flight to catch.

Mike, this is my brother, Rand Guthrie.

Sir, said Rand, nodding.

Nice to meet you, said Mike.

I’ll be right there, Abigail said to Rand. Mike eyed Rand as he moved off the dance floor.

Abigail turned back to Mike. I need to go. Red-eye flight.

I’m sorry to hear that, said Mike. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Guthrie. Thank you for the dance.

Abigail beamed like a grade school girl with a crush. Call me Abigail. She reached into a concealed pocket and handed Mike a business card. Then she moved her lips to his ear and put both her arms around his neck. Text me, OK?

She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then strutted toward her brother. Mike was beside himself, but he caught sight of the microdot on her back, looking like a tiny, innocent mole.

Vanguard, be advised, he said. Package delivered. Exfilling now.

Copy, Knife. The package is transmitting. Vanguard out.

Still standing in the sea of dancing debutantes, Mike looked down at the business card and then in the direction where Abigail vanished. He sighed.

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CHAPTER 2

THOMAS ESTATE

HEBER, UTAH

Chris Thomas shot straight up in bed, grasping his chest.

Momentarily disoriented, he tried to focus his eyes and find his bearings. The rising sun pierced the wooden slats of the room’s plantation shutters, struggling to illuminate the expansive bedroom.

Home, Chris thought to himself. The new home.

Waking up confused and disoriented from a bad dream was becoming more common than Chris liked to admit. Next to him, Leah Thomas still lay peacefully asleep. Her chest rose and sank rhythmically, and he could scarcely hear her breathing. Her face was cherubic.

Chris reached for his Timex Ironman watch—a gift from Mike Mayberry—and then looked back at his wife. There were many things to envy about Leah. Her ability to sleep through almost anything was one of many gifts God had given her, and it was the one gift Chris envied most. Fortunately, his sudden jolt awake hadn’t disturbed her peaceful slumber.

A familiar pain rose from Chris’s sacroiliac joint, growing as it shot up his spine. He wondered if the pain was left over from his crash landing on the roof of the Hancock Building in Zurich or from his crash in the TR-­3B in the African desert. Maybe it was from both.

Since Chris’s brush with death at age nineteen on the streets of Miami and subsequent six-­month coma, normal sleep had mostly alluded him. In those rare times when his exhausted body won the war of wills with his troubled mind and let him fall into deep REM sleep, the welcome unconsciousness brought little relief—in fact, it usually brought sheer terror.

His dream-­filled mind always replayed similar events. In last night’s sequence, he first fell through the air over Zurich, tethered helplessly to Mike Mayberry. Next, he stared into the hollow eyes of Benson Hancock, the Order’s leader, as he plunged a knife forged by his grandfather’s hands into Hancock’s carotid artery. From there, time seemed to fast-­forward to the Oval Office, where Chris negotiated the x-­cryption deal with President Barrington. He then stood in a secret underground laboratory, learning about the TR-­3B spacecraft and its alien gravity reactor. The final vivid scene placed Chris back in the secret Orion’s Spear facility in New York City, where he pled with Elle Danley as she sacrificed her life in a terrifying battle high above the streets of Manhattan.

Don’t fail, Elle had said. Her final words were a command rather than a plea, and they seemed to echo in his head constantly.

Still sitting on the bed, Chris swallowed, but his throat and lips were dry. As his eyesight cleared, the ever-­present Adamic math formed like an old DOS computer program booting in his vision.

The pain in his spine was now migrating into his neck. It narrowed at the base of his skull, feeling as if it were shooting from his brain stem into the center of his basal ganglia. Chris lay back and closed his eyes.

He didn’t fall asleep, but he somehow started dreaming again. A light formed, from which a being emerged. Chris’s breathing quickened as he saw his naked body floating in space. The being came forward and grabbed Chris’s chin. It was saying something, but Chris couldn’t hear the words. His back arched as he screamed out in horror.

Chris’s eyes exploded open. In a panic, he threw back the sheets, lost his balance, and fell off the bed, landing hard on the soft carpet. Even with all that commotion, Leah still didn’t move.

The pain in Chris’s head was gone as fast as it arrived. He sat up, shook his head, and rubbed his eyes. Just as he started leveraging himself up from the floor, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.

Hello, son, a voice said. Chris reluctantly turned his head toward the hall leading to the bathroom. A personage of inexplicable light stood in the passage. Chris’s eyes went wide, and he dared not move.

It’s happening today, the personage said.

Grandpa? Chris whispered.

Yes, son. Remember what I told you. You must not fail.

Chris blinked, and his grandfather disappeared.

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Later that morning, Chris found Leah and Jada seated at the farm-­style table in the kitchen. Leah appeared to be scrolling through a news feed as she nursed a glass of fresh-­squeezed orange juice. She was decked out in black yoga pants and a tight tank top that showed off her toned midriff. The sheen of sweat on her skin told Chris that, like every other morning, she’d just finished one of Amal’s brutal HIIT workouts.

When I hired Amal as your bodyguard, I didn’t realize she’d double as your personal trainer, snarked Chris. Maybe I should give her a raise.

You probably should. Leah smiled. She’s also one heck of a good cook.

Just then, Max sounded in Chris’s ear. Sir, I have a report on Abigail Guthrie. She landed at the Provo, Utah, airport alone thirty minutes ago. She is now driving northbound on I-­15 in a Mercedes-­Benz rental.

That’s odd, Chris said.

You don’t think she’s a good cook? asked Leah.

Sorry, I was talking to Max. He’s looking into something for me.

As Chris waited for his toast, he noticed Jada staring at the back of a Capt’n Crunch cereal box. Some things never change, he thought. Jada was still in her SpongeBob pajamas, and her curly bedhead hair sprang from every root.

Through a mouthful of cereal and without looking at her adopted father, she said, Good morning, Chris.

Leah’s eyes shot to Jada and then quickly darted to Chris. Carrying a plate with two pieces of dry toast and a glass of orange juice, he made for the chair next to his daughter. When he reached Jada, he kissed her on the head. Can you call me Dad?

Jada said nothing. When Chris sat, she took her bowl half full of milk to the sink.

Jada.

She turned to Chris without a word.

What did zero say to eight?

Tilting her head, Jada shrugged.

Nice belt.

Chris could tell it was taking everything the little girl had to not burst out in laughter at his stupid dad joke. Before she couldn’t stand it any longer, she ran off toward her room on the opposite end of the new home.

Don’t forget to clean your room, yelled Leah.

Chris and Leah stared at each other from across the table. Give it some time, Chris, said Leah, breaking the awkward silence.

Chris took another bite of toast, saying nothing.

Her therapist says she’s struggling with the idea of calling you Dad because her biological father tried to kill her. She’s scared. She has deep-­rooted PTSD. It’s going to take time for her to come around. Just keep loving her and be patient. It will happen.

Yeah, I know, Chris conceded.

Leah’s face brightened. So, what do you have ahead of you today?

I’m meeting Scott at Nav. We’ve got a lot to discuss. Lots of moving parts, you know?

Moving everyone to Utah has been a lot of work, Leah said. I can only imagine the stress Scott is under with everything else going on.

Feeling guilty about Scott, Chris said nothing. He tapped his mouth with a napkin and made his way toward the sink with his plate and glass in hand. You going anywhere today?

I was planning to meet my sister at the outlet mall in Park City. Leah was again staring into her phone. Gap’s having a sale.

Chris set his dishes in the sink. I’ve got a strange feeling about something, he said reluctantly. Do you mind staying home just for today, as a favor to me?

Chris could tell she was reading his body language and tone. Matching his expression, she asked, Is everything OK?

I don’t know. It was just—well, this morning . . . He looked down the hall toward their bedroom and ran his hand through his hair. Never mind, it’s kind hard to explain.

The two stared at each other for a moment. Then Leah said, Sure, honey. I guess that’s fine.

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CHAPTER 3

RICHARDS COURT TOWERS

SALT LAKE CITY

Naomi Guthrie glared through the Leopold scope mounted atop her suppressed Sig Sauer AR-­15 carbine. She had a perfect view of South ­Temple Street from the tenth-­floor penthouse located in the posh west building of Richards Court Towers.

Right on time, she said, peering through the scope. In the unseasonably hot weather, a crowd of angry protesters flooded the streets of downtown Salt Lake City.

The protest against the LDS church was triggered by a press release from LDSTruthWiki.com that local and national media quickly picked up. The website claimed it possessed evidence that the LDS church had secretly funded a wildly unpopular Republican candidate who had run against now-­assassinated President Barrington.

The press release included emails purportedly sent between members of the First Presidency. One email indicated that church leadership was aligned with the neo-­conservative candidate’s abhorrent views on race and his desire to support new, more stringent crime legislation. Another email discussed asking the candidate to commit to a severe federal crackdown on state cannabis legalization. A third email contained an admission by the LDS church’s prophet that he wished the church could reverse its liberal policy on illegal immigration but that he