The Paradise Prophecy (44 page)
Read The Paradise Prophecy Online
Authors: Robert Browne
Michael scanned the periphery of the club, looking for stairs or an elevator. He looked back the way he came and saw a cluster of sofas and chairs, where exhausted dancers rested their feet and drank exotic beers. To the right of that were the swinging doors he’d just come in through.
And farther to the right was an elevator.
Michael moved. Headed straight for his target. A couple of dancers got in his way, but he didn’t slow down, shoving them aside. He was still several yards away when a light above it flashed and the doors slid open.
And there inside were Zack and Jenna.
Zack had her by the hand, and when he pulled her out of the elevator, she stumbled slightly. Drugged. They looked for a moment as if they were about to step onto the dance floor, then Zack made an abrupt left turn and pushed through the swinging doors, dragging Jenna behind him.
They were headed outside. Fast.
Michael ran, barreling through the doors into the hallway. No sign of them. He picked up speed, slammed through the next door, and still didn’t see them. He flew down that hallway and up the graffiti-covered stairwell, then burst through to the room with the sewing machines—
—and stopped.
Froze in his tracks.
Zack and Jenna stood in the middle of room, facing him, Zack wearing a wide, shit-eating grin on his face.
“What’s your hurry, Mikey? You don’t like to dance?”
There were four more drudges with him. Two on each flank. Three men, one woman. And one of them was the Winnebago. They spread out to block Michael’s path.
“Yeah,” the woman said. “Come dance with us.”
She was covered with tattoos and piercings and looked as if she were completely willing to rip out your throat and feed it back to you without even the slightest hint of remorse. There was a swastika on the side of her neck, and her hair was black and spiky.
The other three didn’t have as many tattoos or as much metal sticking out of their faces, but they had enough muscles between them to start a gladiator show.
He’d been set up. The stamp on that dead girl’s hand had been deliberately put there to see how he’d react. And his presence here had proven to Beelzebub that Jenna was someone special. The someone they’d all been looking for.
Michael took his Roman from his waistband, kept his focus on Zack. “Step away from the girl.”
“Sorry, asshole. Can’t do it.”
“I really think you should reconsider. Ashes to ashes and all that.”
The tattooed chick edged sideways, moving to the pile of pipes to her left. “I sure hope you got a spare skin back home, ’cuz we’re gonna have some fun with this one.”
She snatched up some pipes and tossed them to the others. They hefted them in their hands and spread out, waiting for Michael to engage. Zack spun Jenna around and pushed her toward the sewing machines. “Sit down and watch, bitch.”
Jenna stumbled and grabbed hold of one of the machines.
“You really don’t want to do this,” Michael said, stepping toward them now. “Just let me take the girl and we’ll save the dustup for another day. I couldn’t care less about a worthless bunch of drudges.”
“Worthless?” Zack said. “You trying to hurt our feelings?”
“That would require you have a heart and a mind and a soul. And you’re oh-for-three at—”
The Winnebago roared and came at Michael, swinging the pipe hard, aiming for his head. Michael ducked with plenty of room, but the Winnebago swung again, going for another head shot. The pipe
whooshed
past Michael and he jerked back, watching it brush past his chin, a little too close for comfort. Then he sidestepped and spun and sliced the Winnebago’s gut with his Roman.
whooshed
past Michael and he jerked back, watching it brush past his chin, a little too close for comfort. Then he sidestepped and spun and sliced the Winnebago’s gut with his Roman.
A split second later, the guy vaporized, dust scattering violently in the air, blowing directly into the faces of Zack and the others, as the pipe he’d held clattered on the floor.
But Michael didn’t slow down. Not waiting for them to attack, he spun and swung, effortlessly knocking the pipe out of the tattooed chick’s hands, then doubled back and brought up the Roman again, the edge of his blade slicing through the swastika on her neck. She burst into fine ashes, her piercings scattering across the floor like jacks on asphalt.
Deciding he didn’t have time to waste on this nonsense, Michael ripped his Glock from his waistband and opened fire, taking out the two remaining muscle men with two quick shots.
Then he turned the gun on Zack.
Zack took one look at the bead rings, the nose hoop, the star plugs, the barbells, the ear studs, the nipple piercings and God knew what else on the floor in front of him and stumbled backwards, dropping his weapon, throwing his hands up. “Okay, okay, okay, man! I give! I give!”
Michael stopped, lowered the gun. “What do you do when you see a roach on your kitchen floor, Zack?”
Zack looked confused. “What?”
“Just answer the question. What do you do when you see a roach?”
Zack kept backing away. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know—I-I step on it. What do
you
do?”
you
do?”
Michael smiled. “Show it no mercy.”
Then he brought the gun up again and fired, the bullet piercing Zack’s chest, turning him to dust.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Michael crossed to the sewing machines, where Jenna stood frozen on the spot. Despite the drugs, there was a look of stunned disbelief on her face.
Had she really just seen all that?
“W-who
are
you?” she stuttered. “What just happened?”
are
you?” she stuttered. “What just happened?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said, grabbing her by the wrist. “There’s bound to be an army coming up those stairs any minute now and we need to get out of here.”
She jerked her arm, trying to pull free. “You’re a lunatic. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Michael held her firm and leaned his face toward hers. “Listen to me, Jenna. I didn’t want it to happen like this, but if you stay here you’re in danger. We have to go. Now.”
He could see that the drugs were still confusing her, that she didn’t know what to do, but she stopped resisting and he tightened his grip on her and pulled her toward the door. Without a backwards glance, they ran to his Buick, jumped in.
“Put on your seat belt,” he said, firing up the engine. Then he jerked the car into drive.
T
wo minutes later, they were blasting down Wilshire, weaving in and out of traffic, and the girl had come out of her stupor enough to realize how scared she was.
wo minutes later, they were blasting down Wilshire, weaving in and out of traffic, and the girl had come out of her stupor enough to realize how scared she was.
“What’s going on?” she cried. “Who are you?”
“That’s hard to explain.”
“How do you know my name? Did my parents send you?”
“No. They don’t know anything about this.”
“Then what’s going on? What happened to those people back there? They just ... disintegrated.”
“There are things in this world that are hard to understand, Jenna. And I can’t give you an explanation that’ll make a lot of sense to you. Not like this. So right now you’ll just have to trust me.”
“Trust you? I don’t even
know
you. You’re just some gross old man!”
know
you. You’re just some gross old man!”
She seemed more alert now, which might have had something to do with the speed of the car and the wind rushing through her hair.
“Pull over,” she said. “Let me out of this thing.”
“I can’t do that, Jenna.”
“Pull over! Or I swear to God I’ll—”
Suddenly they heard shouts and the revving of engines as two cars pulled up on either side of them, packed with drudges from the dance club. One of the drudges scrambled out of the back passenger window and sprang onto the trunk of the Buick.
Jenna screamed, and another one leapt from the car on Michael’s side, diving into the Buick’s backseat. Pulling himself upright, he wrapped his hands around Michael’s throat.
As Michael struggled to breathe, the first one went for Jenna.
Grabbing his Roman, Michael swung out, slicing him across the face, and a shower of dust blew back and away, disappearing into the sky.
Jenna screamed again.
Then the second one tightened his grip, and Michael’s vision narrowed. It was a miracle he was even able to drive. Fumbling the Roman, he grasped for it and missed, and it tumbled into the backseat. He tried to grab hold of his Glock, but he fumbled it, too.
He grasped Jenna’s arm. “My gun,” he croaked. “Find my gun...”
Jenna’s face was pale with panic. Her eyes wild.
“Do it!” Michael croaked. He hammered a fist at the drudge’s head, but the guy didn’t let up.
His vision was almost gone, the street in front of him a dark blur. He felt Jenna moving around beside him, but had no idea what she was up to. Then, just as he was about to black out, Jenna screamed again, a shot rang out—
—and the pressure on his neck disappeared, the drudge disintegrating behind him, sending a swirl of black dust into the air.
As Michael’s eyes came back into focus, Jenna dropped the gun to the seat as if it were contaminated, and started to tremble, tears springing into her eyes.
Throwing his arm across her, he told her to hold on, then jerked the wheel, taking them into a hard right turn down a side street. The other cars faltered only slightly, then regained speed, once again pulling up alongside the Buick.
Then the driver on the left side jerked his wheel hard and slammed into the side of the Buick. The jolt hammered through Michael but he didn’t slow down.
The car slammed into the Buick a second time with brutal force, the impact knocking Michael’s hands off the wheel.
The Buick careened toward the sidewalk but was cut short by a row of parked cars. Metal screamed as they came to an abrupt, jarring stop, pitching Michael forward. His face hit the wheel, pain rocketing through him as blood burst from his nose and the world started spinning around him.
Suddenly there were drudges swarming all over the Buick, and Jenna screamed as hands grabbed at her, ripping her seat belt free and pulling her out of the front seat.
Dazed, Michael lifted his head, his vision blurred, as another car pulled up alongside them.
A black limousine.
The rear passenger window rolled down and Beelzebub signaled to the drudges. “Bring her to me.”
Jenna struggled as the drudges dragged her over to the limo. “Let go of me!”
As she got close to the window, however, Beelzebub reached out and took her hand. A gesture that calmed her a bit.
“It’s all right, my angel. I won’t let him hurt you.”
“Who are you people? What do you want from me?”
“We have time enough to talk about that. But first we need to get you somewhere safe.”
Michael tried to move, but his legs were pinned under the dash. “Leave her alone.”
Beelzebub ignored him. “What do you say, Jenna? Would you like to come back home with me? You’ll be safe there. Not a thing to fret about.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Michael told her. “You can’t trust him.”
Jenna looked confused. She glanced at Michael, then returned her gaze to Beelzebub. “He killed Zack. Just shot him point-blank. It was awful.”
“I know, my angel. But don’t you worry, God will punish him. Why don’t you get in and I’ll take you home?”
Jenna hesitated, then finally nodded. The door opened, the drudges released her, and she climbed inside, disappearing from view.
Then Beelzebub turned to Michael. “See how easy that was?”
“Don’t think it’s over,” Michael told him.
“Oh, I certainly hope not.”
And as Michael struggled to free himself, Beelzebub’s window rolled up and the limousine pulled away.
43S
t. Giles’ Cripplegate was one of the few medieval churches in all of London. It sat on soil that was believed to have held holy structures as far back as a thousand years. In the middle of the Barbican, London’s now-thriving cultural arts center, it was the only building left standing—although damaged considerably—when the area was destroyed by the blitz during World War II.
t. Giles’ Cripplegate was one of the few medieval churches in all of London. It sat on soil that was believed to have held holy structures as far back as a thousand years. In the middle of the Barbican, London’s now-thriving cultural arts center, it was the only building left standing—although damaged considerably—when the area was destroyed by the blitz during World War II.
It had also managed to survive the Great Fire of 1666, and Batty didn’t think these were insignificant facts.
The church was an imposing structure, constructed of Kentish ragstone in the fourteenth century in the name of the hermit Giles, the patron saint of cripples—although, ironically, the name Cripplegate had nothing at all to do with this. It featured a high bell tower, and the churchyard was bordered on one side by a surviving piece of the Roman wall, which had been erected several centuries earlier to protect the port town of Londinium from interlopers.
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