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

  Antonio LeMay shook his head as he stripped off the plastic coverings, making sure blood and brain matter stayed off his nice suit. He had a feeling about this kid. Takes balls to commit vandalism when you've got so much to lose. He could have been a good little soldier. Ryan Bliss wouldn't get the opportunity.

  A shame really. But it's just another kid who disappeared off the streets and would never be seen again. Hundreds like him every year across the country. They'd blame drugs or girls or some other bullshit. A poor choice. Though he’d probably meet a similar end in whatever country he'd do his mission work in, some shithole south of the Church.

  "Sorry, Mr. LeMay," said Dave Kaid, the heavyset officer who brought Bliss to him.

  "You're a good man, Kaid. You tried to save him. That's honorable."

  "I failed him."

  Dave Kaid is a good cop who served the City of Provo for fifteen years. He grew up in the LDS Church, but never quite bought everything he was sold. A speaking engagement at BYU and a quick meeting with LeMay opened his mind. Later, Dave Kaid would open his heart. But open hearts are easily broken.

  "Dave, my father was a drinker. A nasty man with stone hands. His beautiful sister, my Aunt Alma, made me attend an AL-ANON meeting with her. The first thing they talked about were these three C's. The saying goes: I didn't create it, I can't control it, and I can't cure it. Well, I had a similar realization at twelve. I didn't need AL-ANON, but I learned to apply the same rules to the addiction of spiritual poison. These are people who would rather cling to the comfortable lie than stand with us and fight for the truth. You didn't cause it, you can't control it, but if we keep fighting, we'll cure it."

  Dave Kaid nodded and smiled. LeMay patted his thick shoulder, like a proud papa. Kaid is a warrior, trying to save as many as he could. This passion is why he is a good cop. LeMay owed it to men like Kaid. He had to fix this world.

  LeMay had work to do. The Provo Stunt, as he called it, was working well and, more importantly, allowed his men to set up in Provo. They needed to find the pages. Mr. Zion had a lead on Garces. Why LeMay ever trusted him is a question he still couldn't answer. It's not like he was terribly surprised a common thief would run off with stolen property. LeMay underestimated Garces. He had no idea Garces would understand the real prize was inside the frame, not the painting. Fortunately, Mr. Zion fixed the problem.

  As much of a disappointment as Garces was, Zion was the opposite. The organization LeMay worked with recommended him highly, and it paid off. Zion knew right where Graces would take the pages. But that required the entire operation to move quickly. The Church had the resources and the tribute to Mr. Lovecraft ready to go just in case they needed to manufacture a quick crisis.

  Zion's not a believer, at least not yet. He is a professional LeMay rented. When LeMay looked into Zion's eyes, he didn't see passion or fire. Only darkness. Zion is a nihilist, and while he may not have known the meaning of the word, this is indeed a man who didn't believe in anything. He is a creature that only existed for the moment. But he is the perfect tool, even if he didn't believe. Of course, it didn't mean LeMay would stop trying to save him. Though looking at his men try to clean up what's left of Ryan Bliss, he's going to have to be more gentle in selling the message to him.

  BZZZT

  Speak of the devil.

  "Mr. Zion," LeMay said, answering his phone.

  "We got a situation."

  XXII

  As the green F-150 tore down US Highway 185 heading northeast out of Provo, Jericho tried to regroup. Most travelers would take Interstate 15 North and pick up I-80 in Salt Lake City. Any good truck driver would've done the same. Which is why he chose the path through the mountain roads. Just in case they're following. He'd been on the road for forty minutes, and things seem clear. Not that he had any clue where he's going. At least not yet. I-80 ran from outside New York City all the way to San Francisco. It's one of the most effective ways to drive across the country, which looked like something he'd have to do.

  The wound in his leg still bled but not too bad. He tied an old t-shirt he found in the back of the truck around his leg to stop the blood loss. He probably needed a few stitches, but it's nothing a little super glue couldn't fix once the blood was under control. It would hurt like a bitch, but so did the beating he took.

  It'd been a long time since Jericho was thoroughly defeated in hand-to-hand combat. Good thing they underestimated him. Might be the only reason he's still alive. But it wouldn't happen again. Next time they wouldn't take him so lightly.

  Jericho looked over to the portfolio in the passenger seat when a sickening realization hit. He was unarmed. Not only did he not have any weapons, but his ToughBook laptop and his suped-up work Humvee were back at home. Looking down to the pedals, Jericho realized he didn't even have on a pair of shoes.

  Fortunately, he grabbed the jeans with his wallet. He could find an outlet store or mall somewhere on the way to whereever the hell he was headed and buy some clothes and shoes. Weapons would be harder to come by. At some point, it'd be smart to pull over and change the license plates, to be safe.

  But he still needed to figure out where to go. He didn't have an extensive list of friends or associates to call on. That's the whole point of the entire operation. Work in the shadows with no oversight or attachments. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Sure there's many people across the country that owed him, for one reason or another. But Jericho couldn't say he trusted any of them. Especially when he's the one in trouble. Sometimes the plan works too well.

  The V8 engine needed to be refueled soon, best to not waste gas money on driving aimlessly. Jericho pulled off the highway and found a truck stop north of Park City at the I-80 interchange. He pulled up outside the Subway. Would Uber Eats deliver to a parked car? A twelve-inch meatball would really hit the spot. Lack of shoes would stop that from happening. It might bring some unwanted legal attention. Too bad there wasn't a drive-through.

  Jericho grabbed his iPhone, the closest thing he had to a computer. Siri failed to lead him to any concrete answers the first time. This time he manually typed art theft into Google. The first link caught his eye, and he clicked on an article from two days ago.

  Violence In Van Gogh Heist Hides Bigger Crime.

  It wasn't the headline that caught his attention. The byline was much more interesting.

  By Dana O'Brien.

  "I'll be damned."

  XXIII

  Zion didn't care about the bloodstains on his Moncler jacket. The fireworks still popping off in his vision were his number one concern. But he'd pretend it was something else in front of the client's men.

  The target escaped more than forty minutes ago. The boss' minions tore through the compound searching for the missing pages Zion knew weren't there. None of that mattered. Nor did the open wound still oozing out of his shoulder. All that mattered were his eyes. Zion was rather new to the business, but had already garnered an impressive reputation. He couldn't let this one target ruin everything. The eyes would be fine, they just needed rest. It's what he told himself over and over again.

  "What the fuck did you do?"

  Zion recognized the voice, though only from over the phone. This is the first time he heard the client in person.

  "Mr. LeMay," he said in his thick Cockney accent.

  "What happened here, Mr. Zion?"

  "Tell you what happened. We was set up. Team was too small, and we's under-prepared."

  "It was only one man!"

  "You ain't said nothing about this guy being a pro. Dunno who he is, but he took out three of my flankers, and then when I got close enough, brother opens up the fridge and tosses a flash bomb. I can't see shit."

  LeMay looked around the living room. The men from his Church turned over all the furniture.

  "Have you found anything?" LeMay asked a burly man in a black sweatshirt.

  "Just this." The burly man handed LeMay the silver-plated Desert Eagle handgun.

  LeMay pocketed t
he gun. "What about the pages?"

  "Gone," Zion said.

  "He doesn't even know what they are!"

  "If we was allowed to use some guns, maybe—"

  "No weapons! What happens if one of you accidentally shoots the pages? Then what? We're all fucked! You guys are supposed to be professionals—"

  Zion put his large hand on LeMay's shoulder, reminding him who's really in charge.

  "Like I said, brother's a pro, too. Garces left them pages. Don't take a genius to figure it out. And he's smart enough to know that they're his only way out. Question is, who the fuck is he?"

  "This is bad, Zion. This isn't what I paid for. Twice those pages have slipped away. Your job is to make sure they come back to me. What if he goes to the cops?"

  Zion put his finger against the client's lips. Just because this man was paying for his services didn't mean he could ream him like one of his dweeb followers.

  "He ain't going to no cops. He's gonna regroup and try to figure out what the hell he's got."

  LeMay got the hint. The tough guy demeanor started to slip. That's good. Zion didn't want to call the Big Boss and tell him he went and killed the client again.

  "Think he'll make a deal?" LeMay asked, almost hopeful.

  "No chance. We shoulda tried to make a deal right away. We fucked up. There's only one way out now."

  LeMay looked around the impressive compound and wondered who Paolo Garces tried to turn to for help. It certainly wasn't a friend. But after tonight, he was an enemy of The Church of the Golden Sun.

  LeMay turned back to the burly man in the sweater. "I want you to comb this place thoroughly. I want a name. I don't care if it's his name or a family member's name. I want something to go on."

  "This is place is clean. This is like those model houses. Like it's made up to look like people live here, but no one actually lives here. No photos, no prescription bottles, no mail, no real records of anything that we can find. The only thing we've found is this."

  The burly man in the black sweatshirt handed LeMay a small, discarded piece of torn paper. LeMay unfolded the sheet and found half a voided check.

  "I think he's the guy, this ALCONTRA."

  "Shell corp. Guarantee it's got a fake name attached to it, too," Zion added.

  "How do you know that?"

  "Cause I got one."

  LeMay shrugged. Zion had a good point. Having an actual checking account with your name on it is stupid.

  "What's RainyDay?"

  "Dunno. He tried to pay someone off. Someone who didn't want his money."

  The burly man interjected. "Who doesn't want money?"

  "People who don't like where it came from," LeMay nodded.

  "There's your leverage. This tosser thinks he's a ghost. But he got friends and family somewhere. E'ryone does. I'll find 'em," Zion said, still unable to focus on anything.

  "Gentlemen, seems like we have an enemy. We burn our enemies." LeMay turned to the burly man. "Torch the place."

  XXIV

  Flames engulfed the Provo compound. The secret home of Cherry Vale Security is awash in a sea of embers. Antonio LeMay lit a cigar, watching the blaze from atop a mountainside with the remaining members of The Church. Zion approached, his eyes shielded behind sunglasses. Even from that distance, the fire hurt his eyes.

  "We're going to hold off on the ribbon-cutting at the Cthulhu monument. We need to let things quiet down a bit. What's your plan?" LeMay asked.

  "Need a few days. Got some associates I gotta speak with."

  "Does it really matter who this guy is?"

  "It does. Tells me where he's going and what he's gonna do with them pages—"

  "I'll pay whatever he asks. We'll cut him a check," LeMay interrupted.

  "A'int gonna matter. We made this personal."

  Zion couldn't watch at the flames push into the dark blue mountain skyline. But he smelled the burn, and he heard the Provo Fire Department rushing to the scene. His senses had to be top-notch in this business. But without his eyes, he is a dead man walking. It's only a bit of time before the target found out who he was and came after him. He needed to be healed by then. But while he recovered, the client had to be sure Zion still had value.

  "Then we keep it personal," LeMay said watching the fire.

  "Didn't let me finish," Zion said. "He's gonna destroy 'em."

  "What?"

  LeMay hadn't considered that option. That's good. Fear of uncertainty is Zion's friend. After all, what's the client paying for, if not some kind of insurance policy against the uncertain?

  "Oi. Calm yourself, Mr. LeMay. My job is to make sure that don't happen. People talk. I'll know who he is a few days. Then you can get your little book back."

  "You better hope, Zion," LeMay said before chucking the cigar off the mountainside.

  Zion's eyebrow crept over the sunglasses. What could this poofer do to him?

  LeMay got the hint, Zion didn't take him seriously.

  "I'd hate to bring the Prince in on this."

  "Relax, mate. It ain't the end of the world."

  XXV

  Dana O'Brien stood in the customs line, dejected. She made substantial progress over the past few days. Or at least that's what she thought. This morning she got a call from Kelly Randich, her editor at BuzzClip News.

  "Do you know anything about the name Paolo Garces?" Her editor asked.

  "Yeah, he's a name that keeps coming up. I think he's working with these thieves."

  "He's dead."

  "What?"

  "Yep. Killed in an airport bathroom in Provo."

  "Provo, Utah?" She checked to make sure she heard correctly.

  "That's right. It was messy, but somehow no one saw anything."

  Isn't that the way these things always go? No one ever seems to see anything. Even deep in the heart of Mormon country.

  "Dana, we're pulling the story."

  "Kelly, c'mon. I'm making really good progress over here," she pleaded.

  "Sorry. The paintings are fine, and all the thieves are dead. It's a business deal gone bad. We already told the story, and we've got someone back here closing up with Garces' murder."

  "But, Kelly, I really think I'm close to something. There's a lot more going on than—"

  "You can keep working on the story by yourself. If you break something, we'd love to pick it up later, but the site can't fund this anymore. A ticket back to O'Hare's waiting for you. Flight leaves tonight."

  Dammit.

  That was the conversation. She could keep turning leads on her own dime, but between being in the Netherlands and not getting paid, it would eat away at the bank account quickly. She could call Dad and ask—nope. That's not going to happen. Neither of them wanted that.

  Dammit.

  Dana packed her bags and caught the first Uber back to Schiphol. She didn't say a word to anyone. She popped her AirPods in and tried not to focus on the failure. It'd been a while since she tasted it. Six months on top is pretty impressive for any journalist, especially one who likes to fashion herself as a no-nonsense guerrilla writer.

  The worst part is, now she had nothing to distract her from the book she's supposed to be writing. Not that she figured out how she was going to write about a werewolf serial killer without calling it that. The truth is always an option, not that anyone would believe her if she wrote it. Plus, she made a promise, though looking back, it was more of a threat.

  The plane boarded, and she kept her AirPods in the whole time, ignoring the attendant's safety message. If the plane crashed in the ocean, a floating seat isn't going to save her. She closed her eyes and listened to Halsey instead.

  Somewhere over the North Sea, Dana realized she was no longer in her chair. Halsey's melodic tunes eventually faded into a strange hum that sounded like cicadas on a summer night. She is alone in that plane, just the way she liked it. The cabin went dark and black. The whole world silent except for the music in her mind.

  Dana unbuckled the belt strappe
d across her lap and pulled herself to her feet. At the front of the plane—she is still on the plane, right?—was a dangling light. The way it swung back and forth called to her.

  The last thing she wanted to do is listen to something whispering in her ear, but she was a good girl and always did what she was told. She took a step down the aisle and headed for that swinging light. Cicadas chirped in the distance, and as her tiny child legs took steps toward the moving light, their call got louder. They were beckoning her to come to see them.

  She stopped and put her hand over her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs burrowing in her throat. Her face felt puffier than normal. Her skin a tad softer. When she pulled her hand off her mouth, Dana saw how tiny they looked. She's still Daddy's little girl.

  Daddy grabbed her hand, and the two of them took another step toward the swinging lights. She saw what they were hiding. It was him. The Monk. Except he wasn't a thin, black line sketch. It was a man. He sat behind the light, staring down into the darkened depths of the floor. He didn't look up toward them, but he knew they were coming. He looked so sad. Why is he sad?

  Dana stopped again. But her eyes never left the Monk. As the light swayed, the shadows draped and dragged across his face, she couldn't take her eyes off him. She didn't want to get any closer.

  Daddy tugged on her hand, but she still didn't move. She didn't want to play with them. This time Daddy jerked on her hand and pulled her forward. She looked up to his face, but only saw darkness. Her eyes moved down to the fingers encircling her hand. Daddy's hand looked red with long, black talons that dug into hers. She didn't feel the blood trickling out. She tried to pull away, but Daddy kept pulling her toward the light.

  She tried to pull away, but Daddy's just too strong. Dana threw herself to the floor, trying to deadweight him, but Daddy drug her legs on the ground. She wanted to kick and scream but couldn't. Instead, she stood and walked nicely next to Daddy. She didn't mind his monster claw. Except she did mind. She didn't want to go to the Monk, but she had to be a good girl this time. Maybe if she was good this time, she could play with them?