by Frank Lauria
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 …
CHAPTER 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.”
Jericho groaned and sat up. Chicago reached into the paper bag and took out a quart container of coffee. “There’s enough caffeine in here to kill an elephant. It should get you started.”
Wincing, Jericho took the container, then swung his feet to the floor. He awkwardly pushed himself erect, thick-muscled limbs stiff and aching.
“What’s today?” Jericho grunted, brushing past on his way to the kitchen.
Chicago followed, but stayed well back when Jericho opened the refrigerator. His partner hated to throw good food—or bad—away. Eventually things took on a life of their own and moved to a better place.
“Today we got Transport,” Chicago said, flashing a glossy black file.
Jericho pulled out some leftover fried rice and pizza, and dumped them into a blender. “Anyone special?”
“Just some Wall Street scumbag.”
“Why does he need all that protection?”
“He fucked over some people that don’t like being fucked over.”
Jericho opened a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. “I like scumbags—they pay better.”
Chicago watched with morbid fascination as his partner poured some Pepto into the blender with the leftovers—and added the steaming coffee.
Jericho turned and gave him a wicked grin. “They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
Then he pushed BLEND.
* * *
Despite the snowfall the night before, it turned out to be one of those crisp, clear days when everyone congratulated themselves on living in New York. Kids were tossing frisbees in the Sheep Meadow, adults were promenading along Madison Avenue, and tourists were gawking at the tree in Rockefeller Center, still festooned with holiday glitter.
A few feet from Tiffany’s elegant windows, a homeless albino prayed to a steaming manhole. His pink eyes rolled up as a shadow swept across the street.
A black helicopter circled low as police sirens whined in the distance. The white-skinned derelict turned back to his prayers, bowing to the gray puffs of steam bubbling from the manhole. He didn’t even look up when the wailing motorcade snaked past.
The black helicopter swooped down just ahead of the motorcade, dipping low enough for curious pedestrians to read the STRIKER PRIVATE SECURITY logo emblazoned on its side. The helicopter pilot, Sam Yates, calmly surveyed both sides of the street, then switched on his mike. “This is Sky Two. Rooftops one-two-five through one-three-six are clear. Repeat clear. Proceed with client.”
Seated inside a black Infiniti sedan trailing the client’s limo, Jericho Cane lifted his shirt cuff to his lips. “Roger Sky Two. Follow Alpha is on approach,” he droned into the small microphone clipped to his cuff. “ETA two minutes.”
At the wheel, Chicago glanced at his partner. Dressed in a crisp new shirt and sharply pressed suit, Jericho looked like the cool, highly skilled professional he was. A far cry from the vodka-soaked wreck I roused two hours ago, Chicago noted with grudging admiration. The Big Cat had remarkable recuperative powers.
As Chicago drove, Jericho’s deep-set blue eyes constantly scanned the street—windows, roofs, pedestrians, vendors—everything. His mind and body were on hyper-alert. At the same time Jericho methodically checked his twin Glock nine-millimeter pistols before slipping them into the quick-draw holsters strapped to both his wrists. The Glocks were holstered butt down—so Jericho could draw them both by bringing his hands together. Chicago had seen him do it. Or more precisely, he’d seen two Glock nines leap into the Big Cat’s hands out of nowhere.
The client’s limo was nearing its destination. Jericho kept his eyes on the street but he was uncomfortably aware of his partner. They’d worked, played, and fought together long enough to develop a silent form of communication. And Jericho knew Chicago was worried about him. Hell, he’s got good cause, Jericho brooded. I’m worried myself.
Jericho’s thoughts were cut short by the red flare of the limo’s brake lights ahead. As Chicago slowed down, Jericho opened the door and hit the ground running. “We’re exposed,” Jericho drawled into his cuff mike, alerting the helicopter. Chicago left the sedan and covered Jericho’s back as he trotted to the limo and opened the door. The limo driver, another Striker Security guard, got out and covered the street.
When the client emerged, he was met by four executives who’d been waiting for their honored guest in front of the bank building. Jericho stood to one side as the executives bowed and scraped, his intense gaze assessing each pedestrian and passing vehicle.
A metallic glint caught the corner of his eye and he glanced u
p. As the client walked toward the bank, Jericho scanned the old-fashioned brick building next door. Nothing.
Then he spotted it again—near the top of the fire escape, like sunlight glinting off a mirror. Most would have dismissed it. Instantly, Jericho sprang into combat mode.
“Sky Two—fire escape southwest sector,” he called hoarsely.
Sam Yates tilted the hovering ’copter and peered down at the brick building next to the bank. Both its roof and grilled fire escape were deserted. “Fire escape negative…”
“You’re wrong!” Jericho barked. “Shooter! Evac! Evac!”
As Chicago and the driver fumbled for their weapons, Jericho grabbed the client by the shoulders, spun him around, and tossed him headfirst into the limo. A gunshot cracked, adding to the confusion. Jericho looked back. Suddenly his tailored suit jacket exploded twice in quick sequence as hollow-point bullets blasted him squarely in the chest. Falling, Jericho slammed the limo door shut.
The limousine took off screeching, knocking Jericho aside as it fled the scene. Chicago raced toward Jericho’s crumpled body while uniformed security guards rushed out of the bank. Amidst the frantic chaos, Chicago felt strangely calm. Jericho lay motionless on the cement. Chicago knelt beside him and fingered the gaping bullet holes in his shirt.
“Call NYPD and get an ambulance,” Chicago yelled into the tiny microphone wired to his cuff. He looked down, rough features tight with concern.
“C’mon … Get up, you pussy,” Chicago muttered urgently.
Jericho stirred. His eyelids fluttered open and he regarded Chicago accusingly. “I thought it was your turn to get shot.”
Chicago slowly exhaled. “No. I got it last time.” He reached out and helped Jericho to his feet. Jericho ripped open the front of his shirt. Both bullets were imbedded in his Kevlar vest.
“What a morning. I should have stayed in bed.”
Chicago squinted up at the brick building. “Too bad you wore the vest, man. You could have been out of your misery.”
The barb struck home. Ignoring the pain stabbing his torso, Jericho followed Chicago’s gaze. “Where’s the shooter?”
“Heading for the roof.”
“Then why are we down here?”
Before Jericho finished the question, Chicago was calling the helicopter. Immediately the craft descended, but it couldn’t land. Stalled traffic clogged the entire block.
Jericho didn’t hesitate. Nimbly he mounted the trunk of the nearest car, then leaped onto the vinyl roof. With Chicago close behind, Jericho raced across the jammed car rooftops until he reached the hovering copter. Both men stepped onto the skid and scrambled on board. Immediately the helicopter lifted off.
“There,” Chicago said, pointing at a white-haired figure climbing the fire escape of the brick building. They watched him through the side window.
The fleeing shooter climbed onto the roof and took a position behind a stack of crates. As the helicopter approached, he fired. The helicopter’s side window shattered in a roar of flying glass and rushing wind. The craft lurched, then steadied. Chicago and Jericho drew their sidearms, leaned out the broken window, and began pumping rounds at the shooter.
“Down!” Jericho shouted. “Get us closer!”
Struggling with the controls, Sam Yates circled lower, giving them a better angle. The shooter fired wildly from behind the crates. Jericho answered with seven quick shots that blasted the crates apart and flushed him into the open. The shooter started to run, then whirled, rifle aimed directly at the cockpit—but the shot never came. They saw the shooter toss the rifle aside, obviously out of ammo.
“It’s over,” Chicago said. He spoke too soon.
The shooter ran back and forth, looking for an escape route.
“Set us down!” Jericho yelled. “Hurry!”
Sam Yates shook his head. “There’s too much crap on that roof—we’d break the main rotor off.”
Jericho turned to Chicago. “Snap me in!” He glared at the pilot. “Stay with him.”
Skillfully Sam Yates descended in front of the shooter, cutting him off. The shooter paused, then started backing away as Jericho hit the safety brake on the winch and started trailing rope out of the open door.
The shooter weighed his options. Suddenly he turned and began sprinting for the edge of the building.
Chicago leaned out the window. “He’s gonna take a dive!”
“Not before I kick his ass,” Jericho grunted. He pulled the rope taut and edged out of the copter. “ON HIM!”
Eyes on their quarry, Sam Yates bounced the helicopter in a soft arc that dropped them beside the shooter. He kept the craft steady as the shooter charged headlong toward the edge. Dangling from the rope, skimming the roof, Jericho reached out for the shooter, less than a foot away. The man continued for the edge, arms and legs pumping crazily. Jericho reached for him, but missed.
Suddenly the roof fell away and a forty-story drop yawned beneath him. At that moment the shooter jumped. Reflexively Jericho swiped at him, and his fingers clutched something. A sudden yank almost tore it from his hands but he squeezed tight. Looking down he saw the shooter dangling beneath him, legs kicking.
Somehow he’d grabbed the shooter’s coat. Shoulder straining, he lifted the shooter with one hand and squeezed the rappel brake with the other, pulling them up. They swung onto the skid and the helicopter rose in the air, turning back toward the roof. Without warning the shooter kicked at Jericho’s crotch, then yanked a small handgun from his ankle holster. Jericho’s eyes went wide as the muzzle came up to his face. “Not today, baby,” he grunted, snatching the shooter’s wrist.
Unfortunately he let go of the rappel brake.
Both men tumbled off the skid and began a sickening free fall to the concrete forty stories below. The rope whistled through the rappelling harness as the ground rose up to meet them. Frantically Jericho swatted the pistol away and grabbed the brake with one hand, while holding the shooter with the other. Jericho squeezed the brake and the rope screeched to a jolting halt. For a moment the shooter hovered forty feet above the street, arms spread like a skydiver. Then the coat slipped out of Jericho’s hand.
Jericho watched the shooter hit the side of a sloping glass building, ten feet below. The canopy shattered and the shooter fell into a newstand, landing in a pile of magazines and candy bars.
He banged the side of the copter. “Take me down!”
“I can’t land in the middle of a crowded street!” the pilot croaked, starting his descent. The shooter saw them coming and painfully pushed himself up.
“Fuck it,” Chicago shouted at Jericho. “It’s a police problem now.”
“Bullshit,” Jericho snapped. “He wanted me, he gets me.” He stepped onto the skid and watched the shooter lurch toward a subway station.
Aware of the dangling rope, Sam Yates dropped as low as he dared, but too high for anyone to jump. Jericho couldn’t wait. He jumped anyway. He hit the broad roof of a passing bus and rolled off as it passed the subway station. Jericho scrambled down the metal stairs in time to see the shooter duck into a dark passage marked EMERGENCY EXIT.
Without hesitation Jericho followed. His heart and lungs heaved against his bruised ribs, his shoulder ached, and one knee had twisted when he jumped. But he charged after the shooter with relentless intensity, ignoring everything except his quarry.
The dark passage opened onto a wide, dimly lit tunnel, steam vented from dirty pools of water between the rusty tracks. Jericho heard something and saw rats scurry toward him. A moment later the sharp clap of gun shots sent him diving for cover.
Jericho rolled and fired blindly, bullets whining into the darkness. A thick silence blanketed the tunnel. Jericho got up and stepped into the open. He paused a moment until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Then, moving as stealthily as a cat, he crept down the tunnel. He heard the distant rumble of an approaching train. The tracks rattled and the overhead lights flickered as the rumble grew louder. It felt as if a train were
rushing past on the other side of the wall. Except there was no train.
In the strobing light Jericho glimpsed the shooter. The white-haired man stepped out into the open and raised his hand. “Heed me, Jericho,” he bellowed above the roar. “The thousand years are over. The Dark Angel is loosed from his prison. There’s nothing you can do to stop him.”
Jericho’s skin prickled at the sound of his name. How does the crazy bastard know who I am? he wondered. Without waiting for an answer he stepped out and fixed the shooter in his sights.
“Get down on the ground,” he rasped breathlessly. “Hands behind your head! Now!”
The shooter ignored him. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”
As he came closer, Jericho could see the messianic fervor glazing the shooter’s wide gray eyes. In the strobing light he resembled a gaunt Biblical prophet, long hair swept by a divine storm.
Jericho stared down the barrel of his gun. “Get down—or I’m going to put you down.”
The shooter stalked closer. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”
Jericho changed the angle of his shot and fired. The shooter screamed. At the same time, the lights blinked off. In that long moment of total blackness Jericho felt an icy dread slither across his belly. He shivered, dimly aware the train was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
When the lights blinked on, Jericho cautiously approached the shooter. He was mildly surprised to see he had stitched two bullets in the shooter’s leg. He was even more surprised when he opened the man’s shirt to help him breathe.
The shooter was wearing a priest’s collar under his shirt.
Weird, Jericho thought, going through his pockets. He found a wallet. Empty. He searched the other pockets and found a matchbook. The name on the cover read Mullin’s Bar.
He heard footsteps and labored breathing behind him. Chicago had finally caught up. Jericho showed him the matchbook.
“This guy can’t be all bad … At least he drinks.”
Chicago gave him an exasperated look as Jericho pocketed the matchbook. “Maybe the cops would like to have that. I think it’s called evidence.”