The Devil's Prayer: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 1)

by J. D. Oliva

  "What do you want?" Ryan whimpered.

  "Ryan, I want your help. You are a spiritual warrior. But you're fighting for a lost cause. We can give you true purpose. I can show you the way out of the darkness. I can show you the beauty of nothing. Fight with us."

  Ryan stopped whimpering. Maybe he was right? Ryan grew up in a strong home that believed in the teachings of Joseph Smith and Jesus Christ, but Ryan saw the hypocrisies and asked questions. When Christ was in the desert, Satan made him an offer, but he stayed firm. Doubt was the shadow that draped across faith, but he knew the truth in his heart.

  "Go to Hell," Ryan said.

  "I told you, you'd see the choices when they were laid out before you."

  "I told you to go to Hell."

  "Fair enough."

  BLLAAMMM

  Ryan Bliss would never have the chance to take his mission trip.

  XVIII

  Mila Jansen, the Kröller-Müller Museum tour guide, led Dana down to the other end of the museum where another painting was stolen. Much like the space in the Van Gogh Gallery, they approached an empty, white wall that used to house a work of art.

  "Tell me about this painting," Dana said.

  "It's called The Monk."

  Mila took Dana's phone and Googled the image. A thin, black-lined sketch of an old man drawn on a sepia-colored canvas, showed a heavyset monk with sad eyes.

  "The artist was a Czech painter named Ivo Prochazka. Not much else is known. They think the work was completed in 1897. The work was donated to the museum after the War."

  That's it? Dana thought.

  "Tell me more about this Prochazka guy?"

  "Nothing, This is his only known work," Mila shrugged.

  "I saw this painting. Last night in Amsterdam. It had a slash down the middle like someone cut it with a knife."

  Mila's face tightened. The thought of someone destroying a piece angered her. She really loved this world of art and imagination.

  "Thieves and murders. These monsters don't care about art," Mila said.

  "What do you think this painting is worth? In a theoretical black market."

  "If The Potato Eaters is invaluable, this is much different. It's a little known work from an unknown artist. It's worth nothing. The frame probably has more value."

  That didn't make sense.

  "Then why take it?" Dana asked. "Why put up this giant smokescreen with a super-famous painting only to take a lesser-known one and then wind up destroying the damn thing?"

  "Perhaps similar to what happened to Potato Eaters in '91. The thieves probably grabbed something after failing to take what they wanted. These creatures only care about money."

  "Maybe that's why the buyer killed the thief? When the guy showed up with a worthless painting, the buyer figured it wasn't worth all the risk and killed whoever took it," Dana said. The only problem, she didn't buy it. Even saying it out loud felt wrong.

  "That makes sense," Mila nodded. "Such violence around such beauty."

  "That's another thing. Why is everything so violent?"

  Mila looked confused. "Because they're criminals."

  "The thieves didn't open fire in the middle of the museum. Why did the security guards start shooting in an enclosed area surrounded by innocent people? Not very secure, if you ask me."

  Mila, still confused, "But—"

  "I know you got taken hostage, but they didn't want you. They wanted the Van Gogh. Did the thieves shoot anyone before the security guard?"

  "No."

  “I’m not sure about the Netherlands, but in the US we don't shoot thieves.” But in truth, she could name a lot of incidents where petty criminals were killed for lesser crimes.

  "But they would have escaped with the art!"

  "So what? Like you said, when it happened in the past, the thieves just dumped it. Why take such a risk? Innocent people could have been killed."

  "You're right," Mila admitted.

  "What about the guards? Did they seem like violent people?"

  "I didn't know any of them. The guards are provided by a private company."

  "Third-party contractor. Well, that's interesting. Do you know who?"

  Mila shook her head. Dana took another look at the big empty wall. A week ago, an unknown painting was stolen for reasons that no one was quite sure. Why would anyone take such huge risks if there weren't huge rewards?

  "What's crazy is that anyone who knows anything about this is dead. That's a lot of blood for no profit."

  XIX

  It's a quarter to 9:00. An average person would be spending the evening with family or maybe catching a little TV. Six months ago, Jericho would have been researching the next job, learning the strengths and weaknesses not only of the target, but of his client. Most of the time, the clients are as untrustworthy as the targets. But that was in the past. Tonight, he chose to roam his compound. The life and the job kept him away from regular relationships. They're liabilities easily leveraged by a potential rival. Without the job, it's just an empty house. Maybe it really is time to get a dog.

  Jericho paced around the dimly lit living room, trying to figure out what he could do. The boredom became too much. He shrugged and decided to knock out a set of 200s. 200s are a simple workout routine he picked up for times he couldn't get to a regular gym. Two hundred free squats, followed by two hundred high knee jumps, followed by two hundred burpees, for three sets. The workout was brutal back when he was in prime shape. With a little tire developing above his beltline, it was excruciating.

  For a normal person, Jericho would be considered in fantastic shape. For him, he was getting fat. Usually, the 200s are a good way to not only keep yourself in peak physical condition, but it allowed him to focus his mind while the body is in pain. Mentally detaching from physical activity is a must in the job and 200s are as good a mental training exercise as a physical. Many epiphanies were reached during this routine. But today, he had nothing more to think about than the pain of the workout and the regret of getting old and lazy. There is nothing to focus on but the burn in his quads and the taste of bile bubbling up from his stomach as his knees shot up to his chest during the jumps. By the time he reached the burpee phase, he wanted to quit, but he was too damned stubborn—or perhaps stupid—to give up.

  His body crashed to the floor, and he pushed himself up into a free squat, leaping into the air. When he hit the ground, something caught his eye. Right by the front door, a black, fold-up bag, an like an artist's portfolio, rested against a chair. Where did that come from? Probably belonged to the thief who tried to hire him. He wanted to stop and take a closer look, but that would be giving his weak mind a break. He might be retired, but it didn't mean he had to turn into such a little bitch. Jericho kept an eye on the case, which is nice because it gave him something to fixate on while he finished the training session.

  The workout became more manageable as he locked his eyes on the portfolio. What's inside the damned thing? Obviously, it wasn't too important or the guy would have taken it with him. Or maybe it was the opposite? Perhaps whatever's inside was too important and better off left in his place rather than in whoever’s possession. And possession being nine-tenths of the law, as the phrase goes, and whatever problems behind the zipped case are now his.

  On the two hundredth burpee, Jericho collapsed to the floor. He wanted to run to the case and unsheathe whatever's inside, but his legs and lungs had different plans. Instead, he lay face down in a pool of sweat. Best workout in a long time, he thought. Those quads are going to be very sore tomorrow. Good. He needed that. Jericho finally pulled himself back up to his feet after five minutes struggling to catch his breath. The legs were shaky, but it would pass soon. The real pain was coming later. Jericho pulled off his fifteen-year-old United States Military Academy Wrestling t-shirt and wiped his brow. With the wet shirt in one hand, he walked over to the front door and grabbed the handle on the portfolio case. He wanted to open it right then and there, but what if whatever's inside
was valuable? Gross workout sweat is the last thing it needed. Jericho took the case with him as he tread upstairs into his bedroom.

  He turned the light on in the bedroom, making sure the brightness was never above a dim setting. Early in his career, a flash-bomb went off near his face, and while he avoided significant injury, the flash burned his pupils, making his eyes remarkably sensitive to light. It also changed their color from brown to a translucent gray. Sunglasses aren't just a fashion statement, even if they made him look like a badass, they're a necessity. Living alone, none of the lights ever made their way above what most would call mood lighting.

  Jericho threw his wet workout gear into the hamper and turned on the seven-jet steam shower. He's a wealthy man who owned what his friends—if he had any—would have called a mansion, but he lived rather simply. The only extravagance he possessed was this shower. He justified it as part of keeping his body healthy, but it felt nice.

  After a fifteen-minute shower, Jericho toweled off, and threw on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. Normally, he'd opt for shorts, but for some reason, he decided on jeans. Maybe he'd head out for a wild night in downtown Provo afterward. The thought made him laugh.

  Jericho walked over to the bed and grabbed the strange case. He unzipped and unfolded the portfolio. To his surprise, there was a stack of old, manilla-colored sheets inside. They looked like huge pages torn from some immense book. Flipping through the pages, he saw words drawn in dark, red ink, written in a language he didn't recognize. Foreign languages weren't one of his specialties, but it was easy to see it was created a long time ago. Something told him the language might be Latin. What the hell is this thing?

  Before he could take a closer look, a wire snapped across his neck. Instinctively, he reached up, feeling the binding and the hands wrapped around his throat. Someone was inside his house, inside his room. As Jericho struggled to breathe, he had to face the horrifying realization that retirement was over.

  XX

  Jericho wrapped his fingers not around the wire across his throat, but on the hand of whoever's behind him. The grip was too tight, and his fingers wouldn't be able to pull the wrapping away from his neck, and they might actually slice into his hands. When most people are being strangled, they panic and fight against the binds choking them, which makes them tense up. When the body goes into a state of flexion, the muscles need more oxygen to function and when the body doesn't get that oxygen, it panics and flails, meaning it uses even more oxygen, which it can't get. The body fades from exhaustion long before the effects of strangulation begin. It takes a lot of work to strangle a person, something Jericho learned firsthand. Whoever's behind him knew what they were doing, but underestimated who they were doing it to, which is a big mistake.

  Instead of struggling for breath, Jericho held his breath and didn't panic. He clasped his fingers around the attacker's wrist. Jericho turned a quarter step so that he faced away from the bed. Struggling to keep the attacker's wrists, Jericho slid his fingers inside the bottom of his gloves and tightened his grip. He dropped to his knees and popped his hips, making the attacker flip over the top of his head. A simple judo throw called a seoi nage, or arm throw in English. The attacker hit the floor, not the bed. With Jericho's fingers still locked inside the leather glove, he slid his knee against the assailant's elbow and jerked back, snapping the joint. He finally took a deep breath before moving his fingers down to the attacker's eyes. You can't fight what you can't see. Jericho jammed his thumb and middle finger into the attacker's eye sockets and dug inside till he felt them pop.

  The attacker screamed in pain. Chump-ass amateur should have shot him. Big mistake. This clown might have been an amateur, but Jericho wasn't. He also knew this guy wouldn't be alone. Looking at the blood-inked manila pages, he also had a good idea of why he was there. Jericho zipped up the portfolio and went to his dresser drawer, pulling out his trusted silver-plated Desert Eagle.

  Jericho needed to flee his own house. The compound was compromised.

  SNNK SNNK SSNK

  Three small daggers flew up the stairs. Jericho ducked as the second attacker ran up from the bottom of the staircase. He opened fire, striking the attacker in the face. Jericho threw the portfolio's shoulder strap across his back. He needed both hands.

  A swift kick landed across Jericho's shin. He didn't see it coming. Being this sloppy and out of practice is going to kill him. Jericho tried to aim the Desert Eagle, but a second kick came and caught him in the groin, dropping him to his knees. He couldn't breathe. There is a technique to fighting against strangulation, but not getting hit in the balls. Without looking, he chose to unload the gun until the chamber was empty. When he looked up, he saw the collapsed body of the third attacker. Who knows how many times he got hit? Enough.

  The clip was empty, and the extra cartridges were back in his room. The gun is useless now. Someone got the drop on him. Though he had taken out three of them, there's no guarantee he could fight against the rest. With numb legs, he struggled to regain balance and slid down the stairs. The front room is empty, and Jericho hobbled toward the entrance. He threw open the door and was greeted with another swift kick, this time to the chest. He flew back into the entryway. Pulling himself back up, he found a young, black man who stood around 6'8" with a shaved head and white track jacket. The word ZION was tattooed under his eye. Zion cinched down on a small, metal club. Why aren't they using guns?

  "Give me the pages," Zion said with a guttural British accent.

  "Go fuck yourself."

  A normal person would have handed over the portfolio and prayed for these contract killers—and that's what they were—to leave. That's not going to happen. As soon as they got their hands on the bag, Jericho was going to die. Might as well make them earn it.

  Zion reared the club over his head, but Jericho kicked him in the knee, buckling his leg. Jericho regained his footing and tried to drive his knee into Zion's ribs, but his own foot got swept out from underneath. The two rolled across the floor, with Zion reaching out for Jericho's throat. His fingers clawed out for the jugular. In all his years, Jericho never felt this kind of raw power, at least not from anyone human. Zion's pinky finger moved a little too close to Jericho's mouth, so he did what any rational person fighting for their life would do and pinched his teeth down on the finger. Zion screamed. Jericho released his grip and stood. With rage in his eyes, the intruded towered over Jericho. This is more than just a business interaction now. Zion swung the club, but Jericho dodged each strike. One caught him in the side of the jaw, dropping him back down to the floor. Crawling on the ground, Jericho moved toward the kitchen, with Zion just behind. A few more kicks found Jericho's midsection. It had been a long time since he'd gotten his ass kicked by only one man, but it was happening. Every time he tried to get back to his feet, he got met with another kick or shot from the metal club. This is getting ridiculous, but he had to reach the kitchen.

  For years, Jericho lived his life by the words of the samurai master Yamamoto Tsunetomo. In the Hagakure, Yamamoto-san writes, Even if it seems certain that you will lose, retaliate. Neither wisdom nor technique has a place in this. A real man does not think of victory or defeat. This is how he stayed alive for so long. He never tried to win, just survive. But it had been a long time since he thought like a samurai. Jericho just needed to reach the kitchen.

  "Where you going, little bitch?" The intruder asked laying kick after kick into the retreating warrior.

  Jericho didn't answer. Instead, he kicked Zion's ankle, which brought him back to the floor. Jericho entered the kitchen. On top of a butcher's block was a knife stand. Jericho hobbled to the block and pulled three knives. Zion followed and was met by the blades flying toward his face. Two missed the mark, but the third caught him in the shoulder. Without wincing, the man pulled the handle out and flung the knife back toward Jericho, catching him in the leg. Jericho dropped to the floor but kept crawling toward the refrigerator.

  Blood now stained Zion's white j
acket as he came up from behind.

  "Gimme them goddamn pages!"

  Jericho opened the fridge and reached inside. The intruder paused, expecting him to pull out another gun from some hidden compartment. For a second, Jericho caught a little fear in Zion's eyes. He cracked a smile and removed a single egg.

  "Again. Fuck you."

  He threw the egg at Zion. Confused, he caught the egg before it hit his jacket.

  "What the—"

  The egg detonated in his hand, sending an intense blast of white light in Zion's face. Jericho's own experience with flash grenades inspired this little security device. With Zion temporarily blinded, he hobbled out of his back door and limped toward the hangar.

  "There he is!" Shouted a voice from the darkness.

  Jericho didn't bother turning around. Another group of assassins were coming. It didn't matter the number, one is too many. With blood dripping from the wound in his leg, he slammed the door of the hangar. The nearest vehicle isn't his trusty Humvee, but instead, he found the green 2004 Ford F-150 that he used to drive up the mountains. Good, this is also much less conspicuous. He opened the door and turned the engine over. The hangar door would stay shut, at least until whoever's on the other side blew the doors off, which is coming, he was sure. By the time they made their way in, the F-150 would be long gone, headed up through a mountain pass. Jericho drove the truck through an underground tunnel that he jokingly referred to as the bat cave.

  While driving through the tunnel, Jericho looked at the portfolio case in his passenger seat. What was on those pages, and why did an art thief named Garces have them to begin with? His quiet days in the mountains were over.

  "Siri, tell me about any recent art heists."

  XXI