End of Days (2 page)

The sole light came from a TV screen on the floor. Flickering images rolled unseen in the gloom: faith healers babbling in the desert, politicians discussing the coming millennium as if it belonged to them, local news footage of a torched church, a documentary on signs of the Apocalypse, a potato that resembled the Virgin Mary, an image of Christ on Mars, Indian mystics whose self-inflicted wounds healed instantly, the pathetic violence of
The Jerry Springer Show …

Oblivious to the electronic Tower of Babel a few feet away, Jericho Cane sat on the edge of his bed, drowning in a solitary bog of self-pity.

Jericho's living quarters reflected the bleak, loveless quality of his life. Although he was barely forty, Jericho's apartment looked like the flat of an old man who had given up hope. Water stains darkened the bare, peeling walls, and pizza cartons and empty vodka bottles gathered dust beneath the bed frame, while Jericho sat hunched over on the soiled mattress, still dressed in a black T-shirt, military fatigues, and motorcycle boots. His sculpted, square-jawed face had the aspect of an exhausted gladiator. The faint tinkle of Christmas music drifted from a neighbor's apartment.

The only sound in the room was the metallic
click
of a gun hammer being cocked.

The gun was a Glock nine-millimeter. It was fully loaded.

And Jericho had the muzzle pressed against his skull.

The cold steel against his sweating skin abruptly pulled his mind back in time. Back to his season in hell …

*   *   *

Jericho didn't know exactly why his SEAL unit had been called into the Cambodian jungle. They were dropped in one night, black parachutes against a moonless sky.

Although a veteran of various skirmishes in Africa and Central America, Jericho hadn't been blooded in battle yet. He was young, strong … and stupid. He still believed the gung ho bullshit about the flag and the elite few. He still believed he was some sort of modern knight, instead of a brute hired killer.

So his nerves were bristling with anticipation as he gathered his parachute, and buried it, using his field shovel. In many ways the folding shovel was more useful than the electronic gear he carried, except for the experimental laser sight they were testing on this run. For Jericho it was love at first sight.

Jericho heard a soft whistle. He moved toward the sound and spotted a few shadowy figures in the darkness. Silently he rejoined his unit.

There were seven of them on the mission. A full bird colonel named Blake headed the unit. Their objective was to free a group of American pilots who were being held for ransom by river pirates.

A tall, wiry figure nodded a greeting as Jericho neared the group. The man's pale blue eyes had a familiar glint. Jericho was glad to see Napa had made the jump okay. The rangy blond farm boy from California had been his chief competitor during SEAL training. Lately their paths had crossed on a couple of missions.

Jericho nodded back, then took a quick head count. All seven men were down and in position, establishing a tight perimeter. They were all dressed in black tights that made them look like spandex ninjas. He crouched behind a tree, and scanned his sector. Nothing moved in the thick jungle foliage.

Jericho waited long moments, eyes peering into the darkness, before hearing a low whistle. At the sound he carefully pulled back. The others did the same.

They formed a low circle around their leader. Colonel Blake checked his watch and grunted approval. They were a few minutes ahead of schedule. Blake produced a map and a compass. “Napa,” he hissed. “There's a road about a click back. Due north. Set the road to blow if anything heavier than a cow tries to cross. Move.”

Napa turned and melted into the thick foliage around them. Jericho knew the Californian was an expert with mines and explosives. He had finished second to Napa in Demolition School. Jericho could handle explosives but his real specialty was face to face, hand to hand, knife and gun combat. He finished Top Gun in Assassin School.

“We rendezvous at O510, at Sector 5,” Blake said tersely, tracing his finger on the map. As Jericho noted the spot, he wondered why Blake hadn't told Napa.

“Walls.” Jericho looked up when he heard his nickname. Actually Napa had started it, ribbing him about the Walls of Jericho. It had stuck. “Walls and Rick will go inside with me, the rest will take position around the camp once we cross the river. Let's move.”

The unit had been well-briefed, but Jericho's heart beat loudly in the dense silence. He'd been well-trained but except for a few firefights, this was his first Black Op.

Blake found a trail and they followed, each keeping a careful distance until they reached the river bank. They waited in the trees until Blake signaled. Then one by one, they ran to the river, and slipped into the dark, clammy water.

Jericho and Rick went in after Blake. The water was as warm as the steamy air and Jericho realized he was sweating even as he swam. The current was in their favor, but the automatic rifle strapped to his back started weighing him down halfway across. If it hadn't been for the new laser sight, he would have dumped it.

Gratefully he crawled up on the opposite bank and waited for Rick and Colonel Blake to emerge from the water. He scanned the area. From their pre-mission briefing he knew they were outside the camp perimeter. But he didn't know how far outside.

Then he glimpsed something moving about thirty yards away. Jericho crouched, tracking the movement through his rifle's scope. He heard a soft scrape behind him and whirled.

It was Blake. The Colonel seemed upset that Jericho heard his approach. Jericho put a finger to his lips, then pointed. When Blake spotted the movement, he nodded and drew a finger across his throat.

Jericho hesitated, then pulled his knife from its scabbard. He moved swiftly through the sparse brush, and paused at the tree line. He had taken an angle that brought him slightly ahead of his target. As he waited, a man wearing a turban strolled into view. The man had a cigarette in one hand and an Uzi in the other. He stopped to take a long puff.

Jericho opened the man's throat with one quick slash. Blood and smoke gushed from the ragged wound as Jericho lowered the man's body to the ground. The pungent scent of blood remained with him as he hurried to rejoin Colonel Blake and Rick. Immediately, insects began to swarm, attracted by the blood on his hands. Jericho was aware of a vague exhilaration. He had broken his cherry.

Suddenly a blazing yellow shaft speared the darkness across the river. A moment later a flat boom bounced across the water. Jericho heard shouting. In the dying glare of the explosion he spotted men running across a footbridge toward the flames.

“Now!” Blake grunted. “We're going in.”

Blake led as they sprinted to an encampment about two hundred yards away. It was a makeshift compound of bamboo huts and tents. Many of the men housed there had crossed the footbridge to investigate the blast. But a good number had stayed, and remained on full alert, prowling nervously, weapons twitching at every sound.

Rick took out the first guard with a classic ploy. He tossed his knife on the ground. When the guard bent to pick it up, Rick pounced, clubbing the man with his rifle. A moment later the man was dead. Rick gave them the high sign.

Blake and Jericho took out the next two guards with the same textbook precision. They each clamped their hands over their victims' mouths to muffle any outcries and killed them with a single knife slash. They exchanged a mad glance, then trotted through the compound.

Blake seemed to know where he was going. He stopped outside a bamboo hut and motioned to Rick and Jericho. They stopped and looked at him. Blake lifted his hand and made a mock pistol with his thumb and forefinger. For emphasis he wagged his finger. Jericho got the message. He slid his knife into its scabbard and gripped his rifle.

The entrance to the bamboo hut was narrow, allowing only one man at a time. Blake pointed at Jericho. Without hesitation Jericho moved to the door and stepped inside.

Four men were seated at a wooden table, drinking and playing cards. All sat with their weapons on their laps. The moment Jericho entered they reached down. Jericho's rifle chattered like a sewing machine, stitching bullets across the table. Cards and shattered glass flew into the air as the men dove to the floor. A bullet
snapped
past his ear and Jericho realized they were firing at him. Then he saw two of the men jerking like puppets as his gunfire filled the room. A moment later it was silent.

A strange wailing floated up in the smoky quiet. At first Jericho thought it came from one of the men scattered across the bloody floor. But then he saw Colonel Blake push the wooden table aside and reach down. Blake pulled open a large trapdoor made of steel bars. When Jericho moved closer, he saw it was the door to a prison pit. Trapped below were the four American pilots.

They sure don't look like military pilots,
Jericho thought, noting the tattoos and earrings sported by a couple of them. Judging from their hefty condition, they hadn't been imprisoned long. He watched as Colonel Blake and Rick pulled the pilots out of the pit. The hairs on his neck prickled and he heard a soft sound behind him. Jericho whirled in time to see a turbaned figure in black pajamas step into the room and start shooting.

The intruder managed about three rounds before Jericho brought him down with a short burst. Blake gave Jericho a curt nod of approval, then pointed at the door, saying “Move out!”

Before leaving, Rick tossed a grenade into the hut. The flaming blast helped light their escape, but it also made them easier targets. As they ran toward jungle cover, a sudden shower of bullets spattered around them. One pilot suffered a flesh wound, forcing them to drop and find cover.

The gunfire was coming from a half-dozen men on the other side of the footbridge. The men kept advancing over the ridge, guns spitting deadly fire.

“Stay down!” Blake yelled.

Jericho switched on the laser sight. The thin red beam cut through smoke and shadow and pinned the lead attacker squarely in the chest. Jericho brought him down with one shot. He kept firing and watched the rest scramble away from the dancing light. He saw one straggler go down, hit in the leg.

“Walls—cover us and blow the bridge!” Blake yelled. “Everybody move out.”

Jericho fired a long burst as the others ran into the jungle and vanished. Then he jacked a fresh clip in his rifle and slowly advanced to the bridge. Crouching behind one of the thick wooden stakes that anchored the bridge, Jericho peered across.

One dead pirate lay in the middle of the narrow bridge. Another pirate lay further beyond. Jericho saw him moving, as if trying to crawl to the other side. He also saw two men creeping toward their wounded comrade.

Suddenly Jericho remembered Napa. If he blew the bridge, Napa wouldn't be able to keep their rendezvous with the helicopter.

The pencil-thin laser beamed through the darkness and found both would-be rescuers. Jericho took them out with two quick shots, then sprinted across the bridge, rifle blazing. As he ran past the wounded man a loud
crack
split the darkness. Before the man could get off another shot, Jericho turned and blew his chest open.

Jericho kept firing short bursts as he ran, until he reached the other side. Once across he dove to the ground and rolled, expecting a hail of gunfire.

It never came. The remaining pirates had decided to cut their losses and retreat. Recklessly Jericho charged towards the flickering glow that marked Napa's road kill.

Napa had set his charges well. The burning remains of a Mercedes bus lit up both sides of the road. The bomb had split the vehicle neatly in two, spilling its human contents like so many egg yolks.

Jericho moved off the road and searched the area for a sign of Napa. The rangy SEAL would have left behind some equipment when he bugged out. Then Jericho spotted him. The young Californian was lying at the base of a tree. When Jericho neared, he saw the knife handle protruding from Napa's bloody sternum. There was something familiar about the knife. Stunned, Jericho realized it was an official issue SEAL combat knife.

Napa had been assassinated by one of his own.

Abruptly Napa's eyes opened. When he saw Jericho he tried to speak. “Easy,” Jericho grunted reaching for his medical kit. “Bus…” Napa groaned.

“It's okay,” Jericho whispered. He jabbed the morphine needle into Napa's arm. Immediately Napa's features relaxed and he managed a smile of thanks as the pain ebbed.

“Bus…” Napa repeated. “Pree…” Then he died.

Emotions churning, Jericho stood up and carefully approached the burning bus. The front had blown forward, and the rear section twisted sideways. As Jericho glanced at the victims splayed across the road he froze, paralyzed by cold shock.

The bus had been carrying priests and nuns.

Through his confusion, Jericho's survival instincts took over. He checked his watch. Less than ten minutes to get to the chopper.
Figure it out on the way home,
Jericho told himself.
This is no place to play detective.

Jericho retraced his path to the footbridge and sprinted across. This time he encountered no resistance. In the light of the single burning hut, he could see the compound was deserted. To cover himself, Jericho set two grenades on slow fuse on either side of the bridge. They exploded as he ran into the jungle. He didn't bother to turn around and admire his work.

As it was, the chopper had already loaded all survivors and was lifting off four minutes ahead of schedule when Jericho reached the rendezvous point. Instinctively he knew Colonel Blake wouldn't hold the chopper—and he was right.

Even as he dashed across the clearing, Jericho could see Blake staring at him from the open door, but the chopper kept lifting higher off the ground. Jericho dropped his rifle and raced toward the departing craft, legs pumping wildly. At the last moment he dove and grabbed the skids. For a dizzying second he swung in mid-air as the chopper lifted higher. Then a strong hand clamped his wrist. Jericho looked up. It was Blake.