He ran to the house, leaping over the shattered stairway and into the ruined building. There was an acrid taste to the air and the heavy scent of diesel from the truck, all of it mixed in with the common chemical smells of a recently cleaned home. Running around the perimeter of the enormous hole blasted into the floor, he found a kitchen on the other side. Within seconds, he had filled a tall glass with water. He ripped a thick curtain from a window and draped it over his shoulder. As he exited the kitchen, he heard an explosion, the sound clearly coming from the large breach in the floor. He looked down into it as he passed. There was a fog of smoke, but he thought he could make out a floor plan below. Doors. The VP’s fortified shelter? Was it actually real?
He returned to the car. Houston seemed eager to drink, but after a few swallows was too tired to continue. He placed the glass in the cup holder and covered her with the curtain. She reached up and grabbed his hand.
“Almost out of gas, Francisco. Hurry up.”
He kissed her softly on the lips. They felt terribly dry. “I love you, Sara.”
She closed her eyes, a half smile on her face. “Ditto.”
Leaving the window open, he closed the door and sprinted into the house. There was a rope tied to the large truck, and it was dangling deep into the hole. He wedged the Browning between his pants and belt. Unsatisfied, he unclasped the belt and tightened it a notch, strapping the weapon closely to him. He tried to remember another age, when as a young teen he had rappelled off a cliff face at camp. All I need now is to break my neck getting down there.
Approaching the edge, he stood over the rope, his back toward the smoking pit, his face staring into the angry grille of the vehicle. He grabbed the thick mass of fibers, draping it across his back, over his right shoulder, then bringing it down diagonally across his chest. Like this, I think. With his right hand, he led the rope between his legs, and leaned backward into it, turning his shoulder slightly to keep it taut.
“Here we go,” he said out loud to no one. Feeding the rope from his trailing hand, he stepped over the edge.
God save us.
61
The wraith walked slowly toward the last door. As he approached, gunfire erupted from the other side, the wood splintering and several bullets penetrating through and barely missing him. Interesting stratagem. Whoever was inside wasn’t going to wait helplessly to be attacked.
Standing to the side of the door, he raised his pump-action shotgun. With such a trigger-friendly opponent on the other side, he would not have the time to carefully unhinge the door. Instead, he began blasting it in the center. Shot after shot, pumping the empty shell out and mechanically loading the next, he opened up a gaping wound in the door the size of a beach ball. Whoever was on the other side would be ducking for cover, not firing back. Without taking a breath, he dropped the gun, removed a grenade, armed it, and threw it hard into the room. In these small spaces, there would be no escape for those inside.
There was a loud blast as some shrapnel flew out through the hole in the door. The wraith then threw his body weight into the barrier, the ruined wood giving way instantly. He crashed through, his momentum carrying him recklessly into the room. He careered toward the floor, turned the motion into a roll, and landed on his shoulder, springing up almost instantly, the machine gun in his hands.
He scanned the room. It seemed empty aside from a few comfortable leather chairs, a sofa, and the dead body of a Secret Service agent killed by the fragmentation grenade. Two doors were closed on the wall to the left of the door. He remained utterly still and quiet, listening.
Muffled sobs could be heard coming from the nearest door, and a harsh “Shut up!” from inside. The wraith stood up, walked over to the door, and tried the handle from the side. It was unlocked. His prey had forgotten in his panic even that modicum of security. Bracing himself, he drew his leg back like a coiled spring and kicked the door open.
The door swung wildly on its hinges, revealing a medium-sized yet luxurious bedroom. Two figures were kneeling next to the bed. One was an older woman in a nightgown, bent over as if in prayer. Next to her was her husband, the former vice president of the United States. He was dressed in silk pajamas, and in his right hand he held a gun. The weapon shook as he tried to aim it toward the door.
The wraith moved like a striking snake. He dove into the room as a wild shot exploded over his head and hit the wall. He rolled into a crouch and flung his shotgun at the head of the vice president, who was caught midway as he stood up and tried to aim the gun again. The move surprised the old man, and he flung his arms up to shield himself from the impact. In that time, the wraith sprung like a panther, and before the older man could regain his focus, his arm was grasped by a powerful hand, his wrist twisted painfully. With a scream, he dropped the gun to the floor, where it was kicked to the side by the wraith. The vice president, once perhaps the most powerful man on the planet, sat down helplessly on his bed. His wife continued to pray.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
The wraith ignored her and backed up several steps, drawing a large knife. The vice president’s eyes widened and then formed angry slits. He stood up and pointed his finger at his executioner.
“How dare you?” he yelled. His face flushed from anger. “Who do you think you are, you son of a bitch?”
Faster than the old man could react, the wraith flashed forward and slapped the man across the face with the back of his hand. The vice president nearly fell over, caught himself on the bedstead, and put his hand to his mouth. When he drew it away, it was covered in blood.
“I am the angel of death who has come to claim his own. I am Lucifer, once a bright light, then fallen into the pit of hell and remade. I am here for your soul.”
The praying woman shrieked, then continued the words, nearly screaming them to the heavens.
“Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us!”
The vice president snarled through a nearly purple face, the blood in his mouth not concealing the white of his gnashing teeth. He took several steps toward the wraith.
“You come into my home, kill my men, frighten my wife and threaten me!” His rage was nearly complete, his breathing ragged, the words choking in his mouth. “Kill me then, you bastard! Drive the knife! I’m not afraid of you! I’ve killed more of you than you ever will of decent people!”
The older man choked and grabbed at his throat. “You… You will…” Unable to get the words out, he doubled over, clawing maniacally at his chest. His color was a hideous purple, and he emitted a horrific gurgling sound as he fell to the floor. His face was constricted in a mask of pain, his eyes wild, his breathing erratic and forced. Suddenly, the breathing stopped, and he stared blankly toward the ceiling. He did not move again.
There was an anguished cry from the woman, who stared over at the nightmarish sight of her dying husband. She rushed over. “No! No, God, no!” She grasped at his shirt, slapped his face, and when he did not respond, raised her hands to the sky in frantic prayer.
The wraith watched the scene as one stricken. Dumbfounded, he straightened from his tense fighting stance, the knife still clutched in his hand. He looked down at it. All possible usefulness had drained from the object. He let it drop to the ground.
“You’ve killed him!” the woman moaned. “You’ve killed my husband!” She screamed it out and sobbed at the same time, glaring at the wraith like a woman possessed and then collapsed onto the chest of her husband.