The Holy Assassin
There were no unbelievers in the Prophet's compound. Cell-sized neurochemistry modulators under precise software control made sure of that. As for me, the death of my family hadn't changed my vague, unarticulated unbelief; when the Colonel recruited me to infiltrate the compound I had agreed out of duty, not zeal.
The military scientists made subtle retroviral alterations to my brain's DNA they were polite enough not to pretend to explain, and flushed out my immune system and replaced it with one trained to defend my brain from biochemical Revelation.
The scientists' commanders should have known the Prophet had too many eyes in too many places and too much money to move too many hands. All the walls they had programmed inside my body crumbled almost willingly as the Prophet's preaching biotech. By the time the compound attendants presented me to the Prophet as His new bodyguard, I knew myself in the unquestioned presence of God.
The scientists' commanders, it turned out, had known I would - and they had known how I'd feel about Him. His guards were fast but my rewired brain had made me faster and the last thing I ever saw was the fear in His eyes.