End of Days

by Frank Lauria

  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.

  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.