End of Days (14 page)

Christine raced for the town car's open doors. Chicago waved her on. When she dove into the backseat, Chicago slammed the door behind her, then slipped into the driver's seat.

A moment later Jericho reached the town car and yanked the door handle.

Locked.

Roaring, Jericho bashed his fist against the window as the followers snatched at him like jackals. Chicago glanced back and for a second their eyes met. In that terrible instant Jericho knew.

It was a trap.

Burning rubber, the town car screeched away. Instinctively, Jericho ran after it, hounded by the black-booted followers. In desperation, he leaped headlong onto the car's trunk, fingertips clawing metal.

Chicago braked hard, and Jericho's face smacked the rear windshield. Jericho opened his eyes and saw Christine's face on the other side of the glass. The thin pane was all that separated them. Jericho glimpsed Christine's pleading expression and her fist beating against the windshield before rough hands yanked him to the ground.

Howling with fury, Jericho rolled and kicked against the horde of attackers that fell on him. He got to his feet and swung his massive arms. He felt the sweet crack of bone on bone, but there were too many. As some attackers went down, others charged him. Frantic hands stripped the guns from his wrists. Jericho kicked out blindly, but a garbage can sent him reeling off balance.

That's all it took. A kick caught his groin, and pain jolted his spine. He jackknifed and fell. Immediately the black boots pounded his ribs. Jericho twisted, grabbed someone's coat collar, and head-butted, breaking his nose. Shiny red blood smeared like jam across the attacker's face.

Someone clubbed Jericho with a bat, and someone else connected with a boot. Dazed, Jericho struggled to rise, but the boot stomped hard on his neck. The boot continued to press against his throat, forcing him down.

Jericho glanced up and saw the man, green eyes bright with triumph as he crushed Jericho's neck. Limbs thrashing, Jericho glimpsed his fallen Glock and scratched it off the ground. He fired blindly, spraying the man with bullets.

Smiling, the man reached down and plucked the Glock from Jericho's hand. Jericho squeezed the trigger, blasting a ragged red hole in the man's hand.

A moment later the wound healed.

“You should have taken my offer,” the man reminded him genially. “For once in your life you could have been happy.”

Snarling, Jericho lunged. The man's boot swatted his gut—hard. The kick lifted his pain-stunned body off the ground. Jericho hit the cement and collapsed.

Jericho groaned and raised his head, blood gushing from his mouth. “Let her go,” he spat, eyes glaring like welder's arcs. “Or I'll kill you.”

The man clapped his hands in silent applause. “So much anger, so much darkness and hate,” he congratulated. He stopped applauding and slowly extended his arms. “You're almost there. Just take the last step to me.”

Brain throbbing with agony, Jericho peered up and saw Chicago standing beside the man. Chicago smiled reassuringly.

“Give in to him,” Chicago urged. “He's everything you're looking for.”

Cold contempt edged Jericho's voice. “Not anymore.”

“God has abandoned you.” The man sighed. He put an arm around Chicago's shoulder and began walking to the car. “But don't take it personally. I hear He does it all the time…”

The man supervised from the town car while his followers tied Jericho's hands and feet, then threw the ropes over a fire escape and hauled his bruised body into the air, head down. When Jericho was properly secured, the man signaled his followers.

Using long, heavy sticks, they beat his defenseless body like a bloody piñata. Methodically they clubbed his limbs and torso for long agonizing minutes, some resting while others started fresh.

Beyond pain or consciousness, Jericho hung inertly, barely hearing the man's voice. “Beg to die…,” he taunted. “Beg to die.”

Jericho didn't respond, but the man's touch awakened his screaming nerves. “Sorry … it's not going to be that easy. You're mine. I want you to see what's going to happen.”

The man laughed softly and swaggered to the waiting car where Christine stood, her hands bound. Chicago lingered, his face furrowed with sadness. He checked Jericho's vital signs, then stared into his partner's glassy, unseeing eyes. Finally Chicago shook his head regretfully and joined the man at the town car.

Through the blurred, bloodshot veil clouding his vision, Jericho saw Christine's anguished face looking back at him as the car pulled away, lights fading into the throbbing darkness.

*   *   *

The news shook the Vatican like an earthquake.

The papal guard was doubled, and the pope's closest associates gathered in his frescoed chambers. They approached the frail figure in the gold wheelchair hesitantly, unwilling to burden the Holy Father with the tragic news.

Cardinal Gubbio's reckless crusade had ended in his murder, along with some of his monks. The signs of the impending apocalypse were everywhere. From remote corners of the planet came reports of rampant slaughter of nuns and priests.

The Holy Father's chief advisor wept as he gave his report. “He has the girl,” the advisor said hoarsely. “We have failed.”

Although worn in body, the pontiff's spirit burned intensely. He understood humanity might very well be doomed. But that was no reason to abandon His path. Even if they'd lost a thousand-year battle, the truth was eternal.

Death held no fear for him, nor did hell itself.

The fragile figure in the gold wheelchair lifted a skeletal hand, sunken eyes cold as diamonds.

“It is in our darkest hour that we must have faith,” he whispered, thin voice floating through the quiet like a trumpet.

*   *   *

Jericho's brain flickered like a defective light bulb. Consciousness focused and faded through the constant agony. He hung upside down like a sacrificial chicken, his blood forming puddles on the pavement. Slinking felines and rodents crept closer to drink.

Footsteps.

Jericho rolled his eyes and recognized Father Novak. Then blackness smothered his pain.

*   *   *

A haunting melody danced across his dreams. He heard whispers and the melody tinkled louder—the music box. A cool, gentle rain fell on his parched lips.

Jericho's eyes fluttered open. Someone was dabbing his wounds with a damp cloth. He looked around and saw it was someplace familiar.

The underground chamber beneath the church. He turned and saw the tinkling music box was actually the rattling of a nun's rosary beads. The moment Jericho tried to rise, a bolt of agony swatted him down.

Everything in his body felt broken, bloody, or ruptured. He looked and saw the purple bruises on both arms. When he tried to breathe, his ribs screamed with agony.

“So how long have I been out?” he grunted, looking at the nun.

“Most of the day,” a man's voice answered. Father Novak stepped into his blurred vision. “You're lucky to be alive.”

Nobody seems too happy about it,
Jericho observed, as his vision cleared. The faces around him all wore expressions of defeat, resignation, and despair, as if waiting for the ovens to fire up.

“The time … Is it…?”

They stared, hopeless and desolate. Upstairs the church was a slaughterhouse. And something had died inside of the survivors.

With great effort Jericho looked at the wall clock. “It's not too late,” he muttered.

Father Novak shook his head. “He has the girl.”

“But it's not too late,” Jericho repeated. Inch by agonizing inch he lifted his battered body until he managed to get on his feet.

Father Novak reached out to help him, then paused, hand in midair. Suddenly he had a glimmer of realization, of hope …

Their eyes met, and Jericho sensed the priest's flickering faith, like an ember in a hurricane.

“May God be with you,” Father Novak said.

For the first time since Amy's death, Jericho heeded the blessing.

*   *   *

The war room of Striker Security was located in a converted warehouse on the East River. Joe Kellogg, the chief dispatcher, liked his job.

Kellogg liked being in the command center, controlling two dozen security teams. He liked the hardware: the wall-sized digital map of New York City, the computer banks manned by his personal staff. And he liked the action.

What Kellogg didn't like was New Year's Eve. He didn't like it when he was a cop, didn't like it when he was a SWAT specialist, and he hated it now.

Not only did the hysteria and revelry hamper security, it compromised his agents. Even now, his high-paid hackers couldn't wait to put on their silly paper hats and guzzle champagne.
Meanwhile, half our clients could get blown away,
Kellogg brooded.

For that reason—and the fact that he had no other family except his security staff—Kellogg always volunteered for the New Year's shift. Just to make sure things didn't screw up. And they always did.

So he wasn't surprised when the entry alarm went off and the metal doors slid open. Kellogg knew that only team captains and his personal staff had access to the command center. But it took him a few seconds to recognize the battered, blood-caked, swollen-eyed figure who staggered inside.

Jericho Cane.
Of all fucking people.

Kellogg had just received a police APB on Jericho.
From the looks of him he got gang-banged by the entire NYPD,
Kellogg observed.

The computer staff gaped as Striker Security's legendary team captain dragged his ravaged body to Kellogg's desk. They were awestruck at the level of physical abuse Jericho could endure. Kellogg was impressed, but not quite amazed. Jericho had always been strong-willed. That's why he was always in trouble.

“Jesus,” Kellogg greeted with mock disgust. “Whadja do? Get hit by a truck?”

“No. The truck missed.” Jericho tried to grin but couldn't.

Kellogg waved the APB. “You know the cops are looking for you?”

“They'll have to wait,” Jericho said calmly, limping to the main computer. “There's something I gotta do.”

Well, I told him,
Kellogg noted.
If the cops want him, it's their job.
He knew better than to mess with Jericho Cane. The bastard was as lethal as C4 when aroused.

The other staff members looked at him questioningly, but not one of them would dare object. Kellogg went over to see what Jericho was punching up.

Jericho typed an ID on the keyboard and a small red dot began to blink on the digital map. He was putting a trace on one of their security vehicles. The one Chicago had signed out.

“I cannot get caught doing this,” Kellogg whispered. “We'll both be out on our asses.”

“Pray we're around long enough to worry about it.”

Pray?
Kellogg reflected, watching Jericho head for the armory.
Never heard him use that word before.

When Jericho unlocked the armory and stepped inside, he felt like a kid in a candy store. The room was filled with a cache of the latest armaments. He eyed the rows of weapons and selected a modified MP-5 with an attached grenade launcher. Then he slid two fresh Glocks into his quick-draw wrist holsters. With rapid, precise movements, he snatched magazines, ammo belts, and other gear from the fully stocked racks. He also took extra grenades; a few yellow ones and a few red ones.

Finally he strapped the modified machine gun down tight against his side. It felt like part of his body.
The part that doesn't hurt,
Jericho thought grimly, heading for the door.

When Jericho emerged from the armory he looked like a battle-scarred tank.

Even Kellogg's stony-faced cool dissolved as he watched the bruised, damaged killing machine lurch toward the exit. “Where the hell are you going?” he croaked.

Jericho didn't look back. “To save the world.”

C
HAPTER THIRTEEN

The Millennium 2000 celebration was in full swing around the world. But judging from the images on various storefront TV screens, the carnival was turning ugly. In Paris, Berlin, Milan, London, Tokyo, and Hong Kong the revelry had escalated into rioting.

As Jericho cruised the outskirts of Times Square, he could see the hungered frenzy in the faces hurrying past. He spotted Chicago's town car at the spot marked on the digital map. From where he sat it looked empty.

Jericho left the company car he'd borrowed, adjusted the weaponry strapped to his body, and slowly walked to the town car. In a strange way he felt cleansed, beyond pain or fear. There was only his quest.

The side street was deserted. Jericho checked inside the town car. Nothing. Jericho checked his watch: 10:45, almost an hour before midnight. He was about to go back to his car when a police cruiser rolled around the corner.

Jericho ducked back into a storefront, aware he was wanted, and fully armed. The police car stopped in front of an abandoned movie theater across the street.

The door opened and a familiar figure got out. Jericho's jaw dropped as he watched Detective Marge Francis walk toward the movie theater. He shook off his initial shock and left the storefront.

I killed her just yesterday,
Jericho reflected, trailing her.
Some insurance plan.

The abandoned theater was actually an old porn palace, judging from the torn posters behind the wooden boards. Jericho saw Marge slip inside the front door. He quickly crossed the street and entered the theater.

It was dark inside. What little light came from behind the movie screen. Jericho paused and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He glimpsed someone moving behind the movie screen, and followed.

Behind the screen lay a dark labyrinth of narrow corridors and doors. Jericho stopped and listened hard, eyes closed. A shuffling noise drew his attention. Finally able to see in the murky gloom, Jericho hurried toward the sound and saw Marge Francis enter a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
.