End of Days (3 page)

For a moment, just before pulling him inside, Blake's gray eyes searched Jericho's face as if judging whether to drop him or take him aboard. Then he heaved Jericho through the door.

It was clear he wasn't welcome. Jericho could feel the hostility from the pilots he had just rescued. Jericho looked at Blake and grinned. “Thanks, Colonel. Mission accomplished.”

Blake didn't say anything.

Jericho looked around. “Where's Napa?”

Blake shrugged. “Didn't make it.” Jericho dropped his head, but he sensed that Blake was still suspicious.

“Why so long to blow the bridge?” Blake's quiet question cut like a razor. Jericho lifted his hands. They were stained with Napa's blood. “Two of them jumped me.” He glanced around. All four pilots were staring at him.

Blake gave him a small smile. “They picked the wrong SEAL.” After that everyone seemed more relaxed but Jericho stayed alert all the way back to base camp. People often fell out of choppers in Cambodia.

Although the Vietnam war was long over, the CIA still maintained a secret airstrip on the Cambodian border. Jericho's unit was given temporary quarters while they waited for transport back to Hawaii. Seven of them had gone on the mission, six had returned.
And one of them killed Napa,
Jericho reflected, as he lay on his bunk. He watched the others through slitted eyes, wondering who it was. Rick was with him so it had to be someone on Team B.
But why?

That night, while waiting to board the transport, Jericho noticed a number of crates being loaded. He walked over to the cargo area and bummed a cigarette from the guard. The guard grudgingly gave him a smoke. Jericho paused to light the cigarette and in that moment managed to get a clear look at the nearest crate. Stenciled on the side was the code GR1097 NapaCa. GR—
Graves Registration.
Jericho moved back to the passenger stairs. He knew better than to ask questions.

When they landed in Honolulu, Colonel Blake gave everyone seven days of R&R. Jericho checked into a hotel, then went back to the military airport where their transport had landed. He made sure he got there at chow time.

“They lost my duffel bag on the flight,” Jericho told the guards at the cargo area. “I was told they would have it back here.” Since his ID and paperwork checked out, the guards let him go back and take a look while they ate their meal. Jericho found the crates and hurridly opened the one marked NapaCa. Inside was a body bag packed in ice. Jericho unzipped the bag and saw Napa's boyish face. He looked back at the entrance gate and saw the guards were still eating dinner. Moving to another crate, he quickly pried it open.

It was another body bag. When Jericho unzipped it, he found it was a priest.
One of the priests on the bus,
Jericho thought. But as he started to close the bag, something blocked the zipper. Jericho shifted the body and stopped. For a long moment he gaped at the neat plastic bag beneath the priest's shoulder. Without hesitation Jericho cut a small slit in the plastic. The knife tip came out covered with white powder. The bitter taste confirmed what he already knew. Heroin.

He hastily replaced the lid and glanced at the entrance gate. The guards were laughing about something. Jericho rechecked Napa's crate and found the same thing—plastic bags of heroin beneath his friend's body.

“Hey, you find anything yet?” Jericho saw a guard walking over and closed the crate. He walked back to meet the guard. “Not here. Where's this shipment headed?”

The guard snorted. “This load is all stiffs. And they're headed to L.A. tonight.”

“Stiffs?” Jericho repeated, pretending surprise.

“Yeah. Didn't you hear? Communists in Cambodia blew up a busload of missionaries. It was all over the news.”

“Fucking brass never tell us anything.”

The guard gave him a sympathetic nod.

“Look,” Jericho said. “Can you tell me where that load is going in L.A.? Maybe they sent my bag ahead.”

The guard shrugged and checked the manifest. “LAX, Hangar 55. That's all I've got.”

It was all Jericho needed. He took the next flight out and when the military transport landed, he was waiting in Hangar 55. Jericho had taken a position behind a forklift and when the hangar doors swung open, he had a clear view.

A truck stacked with the crated bodies rolled inside. Jericho watched as the crates were unloaded and the truck rolled out. Within minutes, a black car entered the hangar. Two men got out and closed the hangar door behind them.

One of the men was Colonel Blake. Jericho recognized the other one as the new man in their unit, Cronin. And Cronin had been on Team B.
The bastard killed Napa,
Jericho thought, his jaw knotted with rage.
This whole op was about drugs and money.

Jericho checked his weapons. He had a .45, a knife, and a grenade; all of which had made it past a civilian baggage check. He watched as Blake and Cronin opened the crates and loaded the plastic bags into the trunk of their car.

A loud knock broke the quiet. Blake opened the door and a second black car entered the hangar. Three men got out of the car. Two were big and burly, wearing black suits and ponytails. The driver looked like a gang kid. He had tattoos on both hands and a long scar along one cheek.

One of the ponytails carried an attaché case. The other carried an Uzi. The driver was unarmed.

Blake showed the man the contents of the trunk. One of the ponytails took a glass vial from his pocket and tested the heroin. The whole process took less than five minutes. Finally the ponytail shut the trunk and handed Blake the attaché case. Blake handed him the car keys. Then Blake and Cronin went to the other car and started the motor. It was a simple car switch. In a few moments they'd be gone.

But as Blake slowly rolled the car out of the hangar, a wheezing vehicle lurched out of the shadows and blocked his path. High in the driver's chair of the forklift, Jericho speared the grill with the steel forks and lifted the car off the ground. He could see Blake and Cronin staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and fury.

A bullet
pinged
off the side of the forklift. Jericho glimpsed a ponytail edging around Blake's car and fired twice. As one ponytail fell, the other came running. He fired wildly with his Uzi, but Jericho had dropped behind the forklift.

The ponytail and Cronin each took one side of the forklift and closed fast, guns blazing. But Jericho wasn't there.

Both gunmen stood confused, scanning both sides of the hangar. Abruptly, the air above them exploded, but they never heard it. Jericho shot them both from the top of a steel container.

When Jericho dropped to the floor, his eyes were on one man. Blake was running toward the other car. The young gangbanger was behind the wheel and he was backing the car away from the gunfire. Jericho sprinted after Blake, his blood pounding with a primal need for revenge. Blake was slowed by the leather case clutched in his fist.

The car stopped backing away, and Jericho could see the driver assessing the situation. The driver opted to scoop up Blake on his way to the exit. He leaned over, opened the car door, and stepped on the accelerator. The loud screech pierced the shuffling quiet.

Blake charged hard as the car roared near. When it squealed to a stop, he dove for the open door. But suddenly it slammed shut—as Jericho's bullet smacked the door! The bullet went through, wounding the driver, who opened his door and half-fell to the ground.

Rolling aside, Blake came up shooting. His first two bullets missed but the third grazed Jericho's arm. Jericho didn't seem to notice. He kept coming, his .45 blasting. His first shot grazed Blake's neck, cutting a bright red scar.

Both men stood their ground, guns extended like French duelists, and eyes glassy with primitive battle rage. Jericho's next shot hit Blake's shoulder and he fell back. But when Jericho walked closer, aimed at Blake's head, and pulled the trigger—it
clicked.
Empty.

Jericho numbly watched Blake lift his own .45 and point its ugly snout directly at his groin. Smiling, Blake pulled the trigger.
Click!
Empty. It was Jericho's turned to smile.
Fitting,
he thought.
Since Napa was killed by a SEAL knife.

Blake was tough but no match for Jericho's wrath. Jericho pounced like a big cat, drawing his knife as he dropped down on his wounded prey. The struggle was brief, and final. When Jericho stood up, Blake was dead. Jericho hopped back when he pulled his knife from Blake's heart, avoiding the bloody geyser that spurted from the gash in his chest.

A faint shuffle alerted his senses. Jericho whirled and saw the young driver limping—near a fallen Uzi. The driver glanced at it and froze. The Uzi was only a few feet away. The young driver could easily snatch it up and fire. Jericho could see the driver's scarred face twitching as he weighed his odds, one arm poised in the air like a tattooed lady justice.

Jericho locked on the driver's eyes. Slowly he lifted the knife and licked the blood. Then he slowly advanced on the horrified gang-banger. That's all it took to convince the young driver to abandon the weapon and run for cover. Scuttling like a crab on methadrine, he vanished between the stacks of crates and containers.

Jericho decided to let him live. He had accomplished his mission. Retrieving Blake's fallen attaché case, Jericho got into the car. He sped out of the hangar to the spot where he had parked his rented Corvette. Before he drove off with the case, Jericho set a grenade on a ten-minute fuse and dropped it into the heroin-filled trunk. As he drove off toward a nearby freeway, Jericho heard the faint wail of police sirens. He never did hear the grenade blast Blake's heroin to black ash.

*   *   *

The leather case contained a half million dollars.

Jericho gave most of it to Napa's young widow. He kept some to set himself up in New York after he resigned from the SEALS. The Navy offered to make him an officer and a gentleman if he re-upped, but Jericho no longer believed in the honor of war.

Four years later he was a highly paid security expert, with a family—his wife Emily and his daughter Amy.

Four years.
That's how long it took for the gangbanger with the scarred face to track him down. Jericho was away on assignment. His wife asked him to stay home for a while but Jericho's best client, a senator, needed a personal escort for a Caribbean cruise. A fat fee and a tan, what could be better? After that he planned to take Emily and Amy on vacation.

It never came. When Jericho returned, he had no family.

Intruders had bypassed his own security system and broken into his home. They took their time with Emily and Amy before they murdered them. The graphic police report continued to haunt Jericho.

The killers left behind a knife—special issue SEAL.

What Jericho hadn't known was that the tattooed gangbanger was actually Mr. Big. It was his money—and his heroin—that Jericho blew away. The gangbanger knew nothing about Napa, and his only code of honor was revenge.

A month after the funeral Jericho took a leave of absence. He flew to L.A. and rented a sunny apartment in Santa Monica. Then he started hanging around East L.A., scoring small amounts of dope. Eventually he became considered a regular. He was even rousted by the police a few times. Soon he had a name—Mr. Earl.

One day he saw Mr. Earl, all decked out in shades and leather, cruising through the 'hood in his cherry red Caddy. It was the same man Jericho had let live four years before.

It hadn't been easy. First he had to kill two large, highly motivated bodyguards. Then he had to keep himself from killing his enemy too soon. Mr. Earl had taken his time with his family, and Jericho wanted to return the favor.

Jericho left Mr. Earl's head on his red caddy like a hood ornament.

*   *   *

Since then Jericho had been on a ten-year binge: women, booze, drugs. But he couldn't forget and he wouldn't die.
God knows I tried hard enough,
Jericho reflected grimly.

In his work as a security specialist, he always volunteered for the dangerous assignments. Unfortunately his instincts and skills always pulled him through.

Not today,
Jericho thought.
Today is the first day of my death.

He took a deep breath, steadied the gun against his skull and tightened his finger around the trigger …

C
HAPTER TWO

The muscles cording his forearm trembled as his finger caressed the trigger. Jericho's muscular chest heaved beneath his sweat-soaked T-shirt. His jaw knotted and he squeezed.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The loud, insistent knocking at the door stilled his finger on the trigger—but not his decision to end it all. Sweat glistened on his face as he tried to find the strength to put a bullet in his brain.

There was a jingling of keys. A slash of light slid across the floor when the door opened, then receded as the door closed.

“Honey … I'm home.”

A dark-haired man holding something in his fist came into the room. Jericho dimly recognized Chicago, his partner and best friend.

“C'mon, Jer, we're gonna be late.”

Reluctantly Jericho released the hammer and put the gun aside. “I was just pulling myself together.”

Chicago squinted through the gloom. “That might take a lot of pulling.” He moved to the window and opened the venetian blinds. The sudden glare revealed the apartment in all its squalid sadness. One table, one, chair, no pictures, no Christmas cards, and an ever-babbling TV on the floor. Jericho himself looked as pale as an eggshell about to crumble. His muscular frame seemed hollow, and his deep-set cobalt eyes were as empty as the Stoli bottle on his night table.

“You're looking real sharp.”

Jericho fell back on the bed. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. You've got five minutes to change.” Chicago rattled the paper bag in his fist. “We're gonna be late.”