End of Days (15 page)

Moving past dusty theater props, Jericho opened the door and looked inside. It was a large storage closet. And except for a few racks of clothes, it was empty.

As Jericho stepped into the closet, a gnarled, wizened old man loomed from the shadows. His skin was like dry white paper, but his voice had strength.

“You wish entrance?”

“Yes.” Coming closer Jericho realized the old man was blind. His eyes had been sewn shut.

The old man barred his way, arms reaching. Jericho's hands came together, fingers inches from his Glocks.

The grotesque gnome lifted his skeletal hands as if they were eyes peering at Jericho, weighing him, judging him. “There is much vengeance and hatred in your heart,” the old man said with a hint of approval. “You may pass.”

The old man moved aside and Jericho saw the stairs. He descended carefully and found himself in a service tunnel. Phone cables, electrical conduits, and pipes snaked down the dimly lit passage. Jericho glimpsed Marge at the far end of the passage before she disappeared.

The rattle of a passing subway muffled the loud snap as Jericho locked a clip in his MP–5, and moved deeper into the bowels of the city. Hot, steamy air stuffed the narrow corridor.

Eventually the passage opened onto a subway tunnel. The foul breeze was mild relief compared to the stale haze of the corridor. But when he took a few steps into the subway tunnel, a familiar voice cut the quiet.

“That's far enough.”

Jericho stopped. He glanced back and saw Marge Francis staring down the barrel of her gun.

“Put it down,” she warned.

Jericho slowly lowered the modified machine gun and dropped it onto the tracks.

“Hands on your head.”

Jericho complied, keeping his wrist holsters turned away from her.

“Turn around—slowly.”

As Jericho turned to face her, he blinked in mock surprise. “Didn't I kill you already? Time flies when you're dead.”

She smiled triumphantly. “He gave me another chance. You can't beat him you know.”

“Others have.”

“He's stronger now.”

Because he's got you and Chicago and lots of others like you,
Jericho thought. “You were one of the good ones,” he said sadly. “What happened?”

Marge shrugged. “I found out life doesn't have to be hard. It's so much easier this way … I promise you. If you just give in, you'll wonder why you ever resisted.”

It's simple logic,
Jericho reflected.
If this evil exists—then God exists.
He locked eyes with Marge. “Because we were friends, I'll make you a deal. Tell me where the girl is—and I won't kill you.”

As he spoke Jericho shifted his hands behind his head, trying to grip the guns at his wrists.

“You think I'm some dumbass broad gonna fall for the same shit twice?” Marge asked sharply. “Open your fucking hands and show me your hideaways.”

Jericho paused, then slowly raised his hands. He had a gun in each one.

“Okay, toss 'em to me … one at a time,” Marge cautioned, voice tight.

Desperately, Jericho looked for options and saw the
HIGH VOLTAGE
sign on the third rail. He had two chances. Very carefully, Jericho tossed the first gun to Marge.

It landed near the third rail, about a foot away. Marge never took her eyes off Jericho as she bent down to retrieve it.

“Okay, the other one,” she ordered.

Jericho tossed the other one to her. It skittered along the ground … and came to rest against the third rail.

Marge started to reach for the weapon, then realized where it had landed. She regarded Jericho with grudging admiration. “Oh, wow, what a clever trick. Throw the gun against the third rail and electrocute the bitch. You do think I'm stupid.”

Jericho snorted. “This track's abandoned. The third rail is dead.”

“Yeah? Then you pick it up.”

“What?”

Fury clenched Marge's jaw as she slowly repeated. “If the track's not active, then
you
pick it up.”

When Jericho hesitated, Marge fingered the trigger. She didn't like being taken for a fool. Especially by a man she could have loved. And now she would make the arrogant bastard pay.

“What's the matter?” Marge demanded. “Scared? Why?” She sighted down her gun at Jericho's leg. “Tell you what … I can make
you
a deal. I can blow out your kneecaps, then put a hole in your gut. Probably take you oh … two, three hours to scream yourself to death. Or …
you can pick up the fucking gun!
”

Marge pulled the trigger.

The blast blew sparks off the track near Jericho's foot. “What's it gonna be?” she asked calmly.

Jericho shrugged. “Sure.”

As he crossed in front of her to pick up the gun, Jericho stepped on the third rail. Nothing happened. He reached down for the Glock.

Marge noticed a little smirk as he leaned over. “You son of a bitch!” She fired again, blowing sparks near Jericho's outstretched hand.

He froze, still bent over.

“The track
is
dead isn't it?” Marge gloated. “You were baiting me to get your gun back.”

Jericho's body seemed to slump.
“Shit,”
he hissed. He eyed the Glock less than a foot away.

Marge was already moving to scoop it up. She gave Jericho a smug smile as she grabbed the butt. Wrong.

She bolted straight up, her hair sizzling and eyes bulging wide as high-voltage electricity jolted her burning flesh, jerking her like a puppet. Convulsively she fired her gun, blasting six spastic rounds in her death throes before she collapsed.

Jericho kicked the gun free of the rail. His boot hovered over her wide, sightless eyes. “Rubber soles,” he confided.

He stepped over Marge's still-fuming body and recovered his weapons. He holstered his Glocks, then picked up the MP–5.

Hefting his weapons, Jericho peered both ways down the rusted tracks. In the distant gloom, he glimpsed the unmistakable flicker of torchlight.

Then he heard the chanting.

*   *   *

The demonic temple was as crude as His cathedrals were grand.

The altar was constructed of artifacts stolen from various churches, and stood as a mockery of worship. Obscene graffiti and satanic symbols were scrawled on the walls and the filth of past ceremonies littered the floor. The foul air carried the stench of rotted flesh, and on the altar a slimy mass of maggots covered the corpse of a mutilated cat like a writhing white wig.

But Christine didn't notice any of it. Deep in a sexual thrall, all she knew, or wanted, was her green-eyed master. The man led her triumphantly into the fetid chamber. There was an awed gasp when he entered with his bride.

If Christine could remember, she would have recognized the albino beggar, as well as the subway passengers who witnessed her hallucinatory visions—and also participated in them. However, her entire being was consumed by her master's presence. She thought of nothing else.

“Dignus sum non Domini…”
the man intoned, reciting the Latin prayer backward. Her unholy wedding mass had begun.

A sensual thrill slithered up Christine's thighs as her master took her hand. “The time has come to join the kingdoms,” he declared.

Somewhere above, a clock chimed the eleventh hour.…

“Satanus beati…”
the followers chanted. They repeated the phrase over and over in hypnotic counterpoint to the master's words. Christine began to sway to the droning rhythm.
“… Beati satanus beati…”

She felt the tingling blanket of her master's embrace. Then he kissed her and a moist, steamy warmth rushed inside her belly. The heat intensified, oozing like primal lava from the core of the earth. Christine's thighs parted and she thrust her hips, grinding with abandoned lust against her demon lover.

The droning chant rose urgently in the torchlit chamber as the followers crowded closer to the altar. Still chanting, they watched their master suckle his bride's pink breast, eagerly awaiting the consummation of their profane ritual.

“Satanus beati … satanus beati…”

*   *   *

The faint rise and fall of voices drew Jericho off the tracks into a labyrinth of service tunnels. A distant light flickered in and out of sight as Jericho tried to follow the sound.

It seemed as if the damp walls were whispering to him as he slowly made his way from one blind alley to another. The smothering darkness mocked his rising anxiety as the chanting echoes kept leading him astray.

He stepped through a passage and glimpsed the flickering light, nearer now. Eyes fixed on the glow, he carefully moved closer. As he did, the droning chant rose louder in the narrow space.

The passage curved slightly and opened onto a large service chamber that was part boiler room, part temple. Jericho hesitated when he saw the crowd of people dressed in black, robelike coats. Then he realized they were totally engrossed in the satanic ritual on the altar.

Hand on the MP–5 at his side, Jericho entered the chamber and peered at the illuminated figures on the surreal black altar. The candlelight heightened the ecstatic glaze on Christine's face as the man kissed her.

Jericho's face became an angry mask and he edged forward, hard blue eyes fixed on the altar. All around him the chanting voices grew louder as if urging their master to his unspeakable climax.

The man paused and rolled his eyes upward. “You cast me out,” he taunted. “Banished
me.
And now I banish
you
from this world! How does it feel?”

The crowd of followers moaned as their master slowly stroked Christine's naked breasts. Jericho saw her shiver like a butterfly on a pin, completely swept up by sexual ecstasy.

Silently, Jericho moved to the altar and lifted his MP–5.

“My greatest achievement was convincing the world I didn't exist,” the man crowed, savoring the moment. As he bent Christine over the altar, his triumphant gaze swept the crowd.

“You
once asked me to bow to them. But now they will bow to
me.”

“But not today!”

Startled, the man turned.

The instant their eyes met, Jericho fired.

Bullets blasted the man's skull, spewing brains and blood across Christine's skin. The man staggered back … and smiled. But the momentary disconnection snapped Christine's trance.

Screaming, she bolted from the altar. The followers grabbed her, dragging her back until Jericho fired into the ceiling. Everyone froze. Jericho reached out and pulled Christine to his side.

Christine blinked, teetering between confusion and relief.

“Jericho!”

He pressed his gun against her head.

“What are you doing?” she squealed indignantly.

His mouth brushed her ear. “Trust me.” Then he looked at the crowd. “Nobody move … or I kill the girl,” he warned. “She had last rites twice. I doubt even you could bring her back.”

“You wouldn't hurt her,” the man said calmly.

Jericho shrugged. “You said it yourself. I have a dark heart.”

“Then stand with me.”

The man's voice was gentle, reasonable, and rang with promise.

Jericho wasn't swayed. “I'll tell you what. You let us walk out of here, and I'll stand wherever you want.”

The man moved closer, but Jericho pulled Christine away.

“Step back,” Jericho ordered, “or I pull this trigger.”

“I didn't want to kill you, but you've left me no choice.” With a regretful sigh the man motioned to someone in the crowd. A familiar figure stepped into view, his gun leveled at Jericho.

“Let her go,” Chicago said wearily.

Jericho shifted his aim to Chicago, eyes blazing with anger and betrayal.

Chicago knew what he was thinking. “You'd be amazed at what you agree to when you're on fire.”

“Don't do this, Bobby. You're better than this—better than him!”

Chicago's weapon didn't waver.

“Besides,” Jericho challenged. “You'll never get the first shot off.”

Chicago knew it was true. Jericho was lightning fast. He also knew his partner had found something even stronger.

Faith. Chicago missed it profoundly. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man glaring. Cowed, Chicago squinted down the barrel of his gun. His eyes met Jericho's and suddenly he realized something.
Why doesn't he kill Jericho himself?

Fighting back the fear, Chicago lowered his gun.

“Bobbeee…,” the man called. “We had a deal.”

Defiantly, Chicago shook his head.

At that precise moment, a breeze of fresh power blew through Jericho's pain-stiffened limbs.

“Very well, the deal's off,” the man snapped, visibly annoyed. He reached out and brushed Chicago's arm with a finger, as if striking a match.

Chicago shrieked in agony as his arm burst into flame. Within seconds his entire body was on fire, skin bubbling and sizzling as he spun madly, yowling for death. The hot stench of his burning flesh sent a surge of nausea into Jericho's throat.

“No!” Jericho bellowed in helpless rage. He jammed a red grenade into the launcher and fired.

The grenade imbedded itself in the man's chest. For a nanosecond the man gaped at the finned object protruding from his heart like a small red shark.

Then it exploded. The hot, jolting blast ripped his head, shoulder, and one arm from the rest of his torso. In the roaring chaos, Jericho grabbed Christine's wrist and pulled her through the smoke and confusion.

The followers scattered as Jericho hustled Christine to the door. Reflexively, Jericho turned to cover their retreat. He locked another grenade, his launcher aimed directly at the burning altar … and icy shock clubbed his brain.

Frozen with awed terror, Jericho watched the man's head and arm scuttle across the floor like a one-clawed crab—and reattach to the mutilated torso at the base of the altar. As the ragged chunks of flesh merged and healed, the man cocked his head at Jericho.