The Keys of Solomon (2 page)

Falco removed an ornate, leather-bound box from an inner pocket of his suitcase. From the box he took a centuries-old rosary and laid it aside. Next, he removed a white satin vestment stole, pressed it to his lips, then draped it around his neck and crossed the ends over his chest. Finally, he took the last item from the box, a small bottle made of jeweled cloisonné.

Falco knelt beside the bed and removed the cork stopper from the bottle. He dribbled some of the water into his palm and with his index finger, traced the outline of a cross upon his forehead. In a final act of consecration, he sprinkled droplets onto the grips of the handgun and combat knife. Bowing his head, he intoned the ancient ritual prayer, much as it had been recited some eight hundred years earlier. Minutes later, as he neared the finish, Falco raised his hands toward the ceiling and whispered, “Non Nobis Domine Non Nobis Sed Nomini Tuo Da Gloriam.”
Not Unto Us, O Lord, But Unto Thy Name Be Given Glory.

Monday 11:05
P.M
., Room 312

A puzzling and persistent noise nagged at Falco's tired mind from some distant place. He was sure he had heard the bothersome sound before and knew he should recognize it.
Fire alarm? No. Phone? Phone!
Rolling over onto his side, Falco took a moment to readjust the shoulder holster, then picked up his cell phone. He checked the incoming call and recognized the number.

“Hello?”

A hoarse, raspy voice answered, “Thomas?”

The voice was familiar but this was a time for extreme caution. The Enemy was treacherous and deceitful beyond imagination.

“Who's calling?” Falco asked.

There was a slight hesitation on the other end, then, “The First Shield. You sound a bit disoriented. Did I wake you?”

Falco felt none of the inner alarms ringing in his head. Still, he needed confirmation. It was highly unusual for a man of the First Shield's status to call a mere field operative, even if the two men were old acquaintances.

“I'm fine, Your Grace. Just a bit groggy. Guess the miles are catching up with me. That's a long flight out of Boston.”

“Understandable, Thomas, quite so. However, you didn't fly out of Boston. It was Miami. And please, ‘Your Grace' seems too formal among old friends. If not Nicholas, then Bishop Gilbert will do.”

Bishop. Heh
. Falco relaxed. “Just checking, Your Gra—Nicholas. I hope you aren't offended by my suspicions.”

“No, not at all. In fact, I prefer that you always exercise such caution. We live in very dangerous times, my boy. You know what happened to Cohlin Ridley only a month past.”

Falco's jaw muscles twitched at the mention of his former partner. “Yes, I know.”

“I—I'm sorry. Of course you do. I know the two of you were very close.” Archbishop Gilbert quickly changed the subject. “When do you expect William?”

“I'm scheduled to fly out tomorrow afternoon, and arrive in Phoenix around 9:30
P.M.
A freak snowstorm came through the area last night, but it's blown itself out. I doubt there'll be any airport delays.”

Once more, there was a hesitation, though Falco could hear the sound of labored breathing. Gilbert's bronchitis was acting up again.

After a long pause, Gilbert said, “Did you receive the packet?”

“Yeah. Lexis personally gave it to me just before I boarded my flight. I'm set unless there have been some last-minute changes.”

“No changes,” replied Gilbert. “Our orders stand.” Again, an extended silence.

After a moment, Falco nodded absently. “I'll be in touch once I'm in the air and en route to Phoenix.”

Gilbert coughed, then said, “Did you have a chance to catch the evening news? Depressing but telling. It seems things are heating up very quickly.”

Falco was unsure how to answer.
Of course, things are heating up! Why else would I be in St. Louis, preparing to kill …

Instead of wasting sarcasm on his well-intentioned superior, Falco simply said, “Yes, Nicholas, things are certainly heating up. That's why I'm here.”

“Of course, of course. I'll let you attend your task, now. God speed, Thomas.”

Falco disconnected the call and looked at his watch.
Not yet midnight. I can catch another hour of sleep.
But as soon as the notion of sleep entered his mind, he pushed it aside. Falco knew that there would be no more rest tonight. He dressed in the dark, the mission unfolding, playing out in his mind. Again and again, he mentally traced the route leading to a country estate just north of the city of St. Louis. There he would find his target. He shouldered his nylon pack and headed for the parking lot.

He unlocked the door, then paused for a moment, breathing in the night air. He closed his eyes and extended his senses. He was rewarded by an immediate tug on the fringe of his consciousness, the faint, yet unmistakable presence of his supernatural adversaries. Detecting the Enemy by use of his God-given gift was always unnerving.

While the gift was accurate, it also meant the Enemy would be nearby. What he wouldn't give for a bit more range, say, another three or four miles. This Enemy was prowling the night, thus it was most likely a minor minion. At least Falco could be thankful for that. While minions were likely to kill, they usually claimed single victims before crawling back to the nest. The demon lords were another, far more serious matter. He quickly broke contact with the minion and closed his senses. Falco threw his pack into the passenger seat and folded himself into the compact. Thirty minutes later, he was outside of the city and headed toward the Bedford Country Club.

*   *   *

Falco was familiar with the long stretch of cracked asphalt. Every curve, every dip, every pothole was committed to memory. He exited the county road fourteen miles east of St. Louis and turned left onto a freshly paved roadway. He drove along for several miles before cutting his headlights. Falco preferred to drive the final miles by moonlight and instinct, paying close attention to the odometer. When he drew within a couple of miles of his destination, he pulled the car off the roadway and into the tree line. Killing the motor, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. It was
2:55
A.M.
Right on time.

He rechecked the Glock, then donned a black nylon hood and cinched the thin elastic cord around his neck. The material was sheer; it allowed him to breathe and see, yet effectively concealed his face. With his small pack slung over one shoulder, Falco paused and tested the air.

The temperature was much colder out among the trees, away from the city. The air should have been fresher, sweeter. Yet, as he reached out with his senses, the stench slammed into his stomach like a fist. Falco bent forward and waited for the assault on his senses to pass. It took a few minutes longer than usual this time.

My God, he's strong! Just—hang on. It'll pass … it'll pass.

A full minute later, the nausea began to fade and Falco relaxed. Taking up his gear, he set out on foot. It took almost half an hour to cover the final distance through the dense underbrush. No wasted motion, no noise of any kind. Falco silently recited the assassin's credo: Quick and silent in, quick and silent out. It sounded good, but he knew all too well that things didn't always work out that way. Nogales had been messy. Buenos Aires had escalated into a full-fledged fire fight.

As he crouched inside a thick patch of weeds and vines, Falco surveyed the area with the monocular. The estate was in reality a compound consisting of a main ranch house, surrounded by several large bungalows. Guard posts surrounded the perimeter of the grounds. A sprawling golf course flanked the southeast edge of the estate. The stables and polo grounds were just to the north and west of the main compound. The target expressed a great love for golf and the outdoors, thus he explained his unusual choice for a vacation spot to his superiors. Falco knew better. The country club, once a weekend hideaway for the Midwestern affluent, was now a haven for the Enemy. A nest.

Falco scanned the rest of the grounds. The largest of the bungalows was situated well away from the others, just beyond the periphery of the brilliant security lights. It was also the farthest removed from the stables. From experience, Falco knew the placement of the bungalows was no accident or coincidence. The horses, if any still remained, would not, could not abide such an abomination in close proximity. He would be surprised if any single animal remained on the premises.

Sweeping the night-vision instrument over the rest of the area, Falco detected two thermal outlines, most likely guards, he thought. Neither figure moved for several minutes, suggesting that both were possibly asleep. If only he could be so lucky, he thought.

Falco kept to the shadows as he crept toward his destination. When he was within twenty yards of the first bodyguard, Falco holstered the Beretta and drew a sleek combat knife. Gripping the knife with the blade held down and along his right forearm, he inched forward. The bodyguards were sitting on opposite sides of the front porch, heads down and breathing deeply.

The rear of the building appeared unguarded, striking Falco as odd and more than a little disturbing. Perhaps there was no backdoor, no exit. His anxiety grew. On the one hand, with only the single front door, Falco could easily cover his escape route. On the other hand, if things went badly, he could find himself blocked in. He glanced up and made a mental note of the rows of heavily barred windows. No help there. In fact, the layout smacked of a trap.

Falco crept to within striking distance of the first guard, a thickly built man with bullish shoulders. Falco willed his own muscles to relax, then exploded forward. With the heel of his left hand, he struck the guard high on the bridge of the nose, snapping back his head and exposing the throat. The knife hissed through the air and opened a gaping wound below the man's double chin. On the backstroke, he buried the blade diagonally in the soft, exposed hollow between collarbone and neck. The double strike had taken less then two full seconds and left nothing to chance. The guard dropped in a disheveled heap, body quivering in the morbid manner of the mortally wounded.

The second guard stirred, becoming alert much more quickly than Falco had anticipated. The man spotted his fallen partner, then Falco. Time froze for an instant. The delay was all Falco needed. He closed the distance between the man and himself in an economical blur of motion, drove the pommel into the man's solar plexus, and was rewarded by an instant gush of putrid air smelling of raw sewage and ammonia.

As the guard doubled over, Falco cupped his hand behind the man's head and pulled down sharply. Knee met face with an audible crack. Falco caught the guard as he pitched forward, and slid the blade into the back of the man's brain, just above the first cervical, or Atlas vertebra. Another threat neutralized.

Falco moved to the door and tested the simple latch. The door was unlocked and swung open on well-oiled hinges. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The interior of the bungalow was dark and Falco used the monocular to scan the room. He located a second interior door and moved silently across the room.

Reaching the interior door, Falco paused for a few seconds in order to allow his pulse to drop to an acceptable level. Then he pressed his ear to the cool wood and listened for sounds from within. Nothing.

He drew the Beretta from the holster, thumbed off the safety, opened the bedroom door, and crept inside on the balls of his feet.

*   *   *

The bedroom was dark as pitch. Falco again used the monocular. The spacious room was empty except for the lone figure lying on the canopied bed. He moved to the bed and stood over his target. Despite loathing for both the target and his task, there was no last-minute struggle to reconcile duty with morality. This was war.

He was mildly surprised when his target spoke. The man had a love for pain killers and other barbiturates. He should have been dead to the world. He would be very soon.

“So, you've come for me now, have you?”

Falco had once known this man, studied at his side, and considered him both friend and mentor. Despite his anger, he needed to look into the man's eyes a final time. He raised the flashlight. If there remained any sign of humanity, any possibility of redemption …

Bishop Everett Hollingsworth lay partially covered by satin sheets. He was dressed in a silk nightshirt that bore an embossed monogram, the emblem of his office. The bishop's expression was one of weary amusement, his eyes dark, calculating. There was no trace of fear … or repentance.

Falco's sense of duty was concrete and unassailable, but the resignation in the target's voice struck him like a slap across the face. Falco struggled to find the words.

“You knew I would. You've made it easy for me.”

The priest laughed and said, “Oh, Thomas. Do you not think I have prayed for death on a daily basis? If I've assisted you in your duty in any way, perhaps it is my way of atoning for past mistakes.”

Anger surged through Falco like wild bolts of summer lightning and for the first time in many years, his emotions took over.

“Discipulus Daemonism! You casually dismiss your transgressions as a … a mistake? We know you aided the Enemy in defiling the Veil outside Knoxville. That's more than adequate reason to kill you. But worse, oh, so very much worse, you've committed the single greatest act of heresy in all creation. You willingly provided a demon with sanctuary and sustenance. You offer up your mind and body as a living vessel for the most corrupt essence in all of Creation. For this, you'll endure an eternity of endless deaths, each far worse than its predecessor.”

“Bold words, Thomas, but you forget that I know you. I know what you are and what you've done in the name of your God, the King of Liars. I also know your puppeteers, that pompous house of arrogant and degenerate hypocrites.