The Judas Line

would be over. Hurry Mike, I thought, Running out of options. As I levered myself upright, I shouted a Healing and Vigor, going for the gusto but they were poor imitations of their potential. I’d used too much magic and it was beginning to drag me down, a spiraling descent into Backlash.

One commando fell, brains splattering the inside of his helmet as I twisted and spun, spraying bullets. I felt a blow to the ribs like the kick of a horse and I knew the potion was done for. The next ones would tear me apart.

It started as a low-pitched whine, a deep vibration that hit the edge of perception, teasing the ears. Slowly it built into a bone chattering buzz that held a wealth of anger and frustration, rage translated into sound.

I knew what that sound was.

It was over, done. I’d won. Or, I should say, we had won, Mike and I. My only regret was that he would soon follow me in death. But I’d probably take the express elevator down, down, down to a reward that no soul had ever been subjected to. I had no doubt that the Patron would set aside a special place for me in Hell.

It didn’t matter. “You did it, Mike,” I cried victoriously.

A ragged furrow appeared on my chest as the gunman to my right, the one I wasn’t able to kill, fired his weapon. I held out my arms like a benediction, mirroring Christ on his cross behind me. It was time.

In tones of righteous fury, I heard Mike shout. “Thou Shalt Not!” I spun to see him stand up from behind the altar, tall and proud, a vision of anger and judgment, the Grail cupped in one big hand. He stared at a gunman, who emptied a full clip at the enraged priest.

Every bullet missed. Instead the altar shredded apart, splintering into a thousand pieces, as if the hand he held palm outward in front of him had shoved the bullets aside. The commando, no fool I guess, dropped his emptied weapon and hightailed it out of there.

More wood splintered around Mike as he turned, the Grail in one hand, the other still stretched out before him. I thought he was a blazing pillar of wrath in New Mexico, exorcizing the first demon we encountered, but that was a flickering candle compared to the bonfire that burned behind the shattered remains of the altar.

His black flattop fairly gave off sparks as it waved slightly, as if affected by an unseen ocean current. Thin shoots of silver colored his otherwise night-black hair at the temples, while his presence, always a commanding one, drew the eye like a magnet and gripped the mind with implacable golden fingers.

Behind me an SMG roared and I knew I was a dead man, but the only thing that happened was the formation of new craters as the bullets slammed into the wall behind Mike.

“What the fuck!” Annabeth breathed from behind me.

I couldn’t help grinning, although she couldn’t see it. “Kind of puts the Patron into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Mike’s eyes bored into mine and I felt an electric thrill. “Run.”

I stepped forward. “Hey, man, I can’t do that!”

His voice became a Command. “Run, my friend. They will not stop you.” His smile filled me with hope. “Go now, out the back.”

My feet refused to obey my orders, instead following Mike’s. I risked a look behind to see Annabeth and three more commandos; all staring in rapt fascination as Mike slowly descended the stairs to the aisle toward them.

Out the back, still taking the lead, my sneakers slapped on asphalt then dry, brown grass. A couple hundred feet directly ahead was a fence, a barrier between the church property and track housing, and from behind and above, the helicopter, a UH-60 Black Hawk.

Heart thudding, I ran toward the fence line, hating myself for abandoning my friend but knowing I had no choice. At fifty feet from the church parking lot, the first round grazed the outside of my left thigh, leaving a burning trail of blood. The second powdered the earth in front of me, throwing up a softball-sized divot.

Face and chest hit the ground at the same time as 50 mm rounds stuttered across the area around my body. Whoever was firing was either playing with me or had orders to bring me in alive. Since mercy wasn’t in Dagger Man, or Family, vocabulary, my guess was on the former.

With a growl, I rumbled into grass, the Language of Earth tumbling from my lips like stones and the smell of hot metal overcoming the scent of dry grass and dust. Faster and faster I gabbled, pleading, begging as the helicopter circled above me. I could almost feel the 50 cals sights on the back of my neck.

Surprisingly, Earth responded much quicker than I had anticipated with an interrogative shake of the ground around my navel.

Thwap, thwap, thawp … The copter started to land and I risked a glance. A helmeted commando sat at the open port training the muzzle of a 50 cal at my head, the three rotating barrels ready to spit a quick and messy death. I tried not to piss myself.

Earth rattled, shaking under my prostrate form, demanding a startling price. A steep price, but at that point I was in no position to negotiate. Firing back an affirmative, Earth shook harder as the Black Hawk landed not more than twenty feet away, spraying me with sand and grit.

Suddenly, the ground swallowed me whole.

BOOK TWO

Second Man

Chapter Twenty

Mike

I opened the manila envelope once more with every intention of finishing Jude’s, now Morgan’s, tale. I wondered if he was well.

A Forest of Trouble

Of course, back before I stole the Silver, I didn’t know the term Anti-Christ; that came later after Mike gave me a copy of the Bible. Instead, our prophecies spoke of the Redeemer, the vessel for the Patron and I knew there was no way I wanted to be anyone’s damn vessel. The thought of losing my free will was abhorrent to me. I would tolerate it no more than a parent would put up with an unrepentant, enthusiastic child rapist teaching in a grade school.

Eyes full of the Words that thudded against my gray matter, I held out the Silver to Julian, arm shaking with the stress of holding the coins. Julian took them from my hand and poured them back into the pouch.

The moment the Silver left my palm, the Words oozed away, all thirty of the malignant things, flushed free from my overburdened brain. Let me tell you, I nearly swooned with relief. Apparently those Words were too powerful to be permanently placed in the mind of man. “S-six,” I stammered, eyes glued to the floor. “Six Words.” Please, please, please, I thought. Please be satisfied with that. Not quite a prayer, more of a desperate plea to anyone but the Patron.

Julian beamed, the first time he’d ever thrown a smile my way. The Voice was conspicuous in its silence.

“Well done, Olivier,” Julian said, sounding … happy. That alone nearly made me wet my pants. “Your grandfather controlled the Reich with just four, the weakest four at that. With six you can destroy nations.”

The Voice spoke up sounding mildly disappointed. “I had expected more, Olivier. I expected so much more.”

“Sorry to disappoint, sir.” Please, oh please, be content with six Words!

“Oh, well, Julian, there’s always Burke.” If that was meant to provoke a reaction, it didn’t work. I’d half expected the response, so I managed to school my expression into something resembling rage and frustration.

Julian moved his lips into an unkind smile. “Don’t worry, Olivier, you have so much to offer the family. With all twelve lesser Words at your command you will rise far in the Sicarii, most likely to the rank of Dagger Man Grand Commander.” He sounded as if he were throwing me a bone instead of informing me that I could be the leader of all