Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

“There are things in this world that are hard to understand, Jenna. And I can’t give you an explanation that’ll make a lot of sense to you. Not like this. So right now you’ll just have to trust me.”

“Trust you? I don’t even know you. You’re just some gross old man!”

She seemed more alert now, which might have had something to do with the speed of the car and the wind rushing through her hair.

“Pull over,” she said. “Let me out of this thing.”

“I can’t do that, Jenna.”

“Pull over! Or I swear to God I’ll-”

Suddenly they heard shouts and the revving of engines as two cars pulled up on either side of them, packed with drudges from the dance club. One of the drudges scrambled out of the back passenger window and sprang onto the trunk of the Buick.

Jenna screamed, and another one leapt from the car on Michael’s side, diving into the Buick’s backseat. Pulling himself upright, he wrapped his hands around Michael’s throat.

As Michael struggled to breathe, the first one went for Jenna.

Grabbing his Roman, Michael swung out, slicing him across the face, and a shower of dust blew back and away, disappearing into the sky.

Jenna screamed again.

Then the second one tightened his grip, and Michael’s vision narrowed. It was a miracle he was even able to drive. Fumbling the Roman, he grasped for it and missed, and it tumbled into the backseat. He tried to grab hold of his Glock, but he fumbled it, too.

He grasped Jenna’s arm. “My gun,” he croaked. “Find my gun…”

Jenna’s face was pale with panic. Her eyes wild.

“Do it!” Michael croaked. He hammered a fist at the drudge’s head, but the guy didn’t let up.

His vision was almost gone, the street in front of him a dark blur. He felt Jenna moving around beside him, but had no idea what she was up to. Then, just as he was about to black out, Jenna screamed again, a shot rang out-

– and the pressure on his neck disappeared, the drudge disintegrating behind him, sending a swirl of black dust into the air.

As Michael’s eyes came back into focus, Jenna dropped the gun to the seat as if it were contaminated, and started to tremble, tears springing into her eyes.

Throwing his arm across her, he told her to hold on, then jerked the wheel, taking them into a hard right turn down a side street. The other cars faltered only slightly, then regained speed, once again pulling up alongside the Buick.

Then the driver on the left side jerked his wheel hard and slammed into the side of the Buick. The jolt hammered through Michael but he didn’t slow down.

The car slammed into the Buick a second time with brutal force, the impact knocking Michael’s hands off the wheel.

The Buick careened toward the sidewalk but was cut short by a row of parked cars. Metal screamed as they came to an abrupt, jarring stop, pitching Michael forward. His face hit the wheel, pain rocketing through him as blood burst from his nose and the world started spinning around him.

Suddenly there were drudges swarming all over the Buick, and Jenna screamed as hands grabbed at her, ripping her seat belt free and pulling her out of the front seat.

Dazed, Michael lifted his head, his vision blurred, as another car pulled up alongside them.

A black limousine.

The rear passenger window rolled down and Beelzebub signaled to the drudges. “Bring her to me.”

Jenna struggled as the drudges dragged her over to the limo. “Let go of me!”

As she got close to the window, however, Beelzebub reached out and took her hand. A gesture that calmed her a bit.

“It’s all right, my angel. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“Who are you people? What do you want from me?”

“We have time enough to talk about that. But first we need to get you somewhere safe.”

Michael tried to move, but his legs were pinned under the dash. “Leave her alone.”

Beelzebub ignored him. “What do you say, Jenna? Would you like to come back home with me? You’ll be safe there. Not a thing to fret about.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Michael told her. “You can’t trust him.”

Jenna looked confused. She glanced at Michael, then returned her gaze to Beelzebub. “He killed Zack. Just shot him point-blank. It was awful.”

“I know, my angel. But don’t you worry, God will punish him. Why don’t you get in and I’ll take you home?”

Jenna hesitated, then finally nodded. The door opened, the drudges released her, and she climbed inside, disappearing from view.

Then Beelzebub turned to Michael. “See how easy that was?”

“Don’t think it’s over,” Michael told him.

“Oh, I certainly hope not.”

And as Michael struggled to free himself, Beelzebub’s window rolled up and the limousine pulled away.

LONDON, ENGLAND

St. Giles’ Cripplegate was one of the few medieval churches in all of London. It sat on soil that was believed to have held holy structures as far back as a thousand years. In the middle of the Barbican, London’s now-thriving cultural arts center, it was the only building left standing-although damaged considerably-when the area was destroyed by the blitz during World War II.

It had also managed to survive the Great Fire of 1666, and Batty didn’t think these were insignificant facts.

The church was an imposing structure, constructed of Kentish ragstone in the fourteenth century in the name of the hermit Giles, the patron saint of cripples-although, ironically, the name Cripplegate had nothing at all to do with this. It featured a high bell tower, and the churchyard was bordered on one side by a surviving piece of the Roman wall, which had been erected several centuries earlier to protect the port town of Londinium from interlopers.

Stepping onto its grounds was like stepping through the looking glass into another time and place.

Batty and Callahan had arrived in London early, and were forced to wait until well past nightfall to approach the church grounds. The streets here seemed only slightly less crazy than those in Chiang Mai, and as the unruliness continued, the police did their best to keep it contained.

They had spent the day holed up in a cheap hotel nearby, Batty fidgeting like a teenager, unable to sleep or eat, just anxious to do what needed to be done. He tried to bide his time by reading sections of the Milton manuscript and Steganographia -both of which he carried in the book bag-but his mind kept wandering, remembering his vision.

Only those whose motives are pure can read the pages without fear of the curse, Milton had told him. But were Batty’s motives pure?

Was anyone pure?

Part of what had fueled him, what had taken hold of him in Sao Paulo in the first place, was his desire to know who had ripped Rebecca out of his life. And when he found out, he had been filled with a rage and anger he hadn’t felt since the day she died.

Yet when he’d put that bullet in Belial’s back, when he saw what McNab had done with his sniper’s bullets, Batty had felt nothing more than relief. Relief that Belial had been stopped-if only temporarily-from destroying more lives.

So did that make his motives pure?

No way to tell, unfortunately.

And now, deep into the night, he and Callahan made their way across the churchyard to the main entrance. It was locked, as expected, and if there was any kind of security guard, he was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly spooked by the pandemonium in the streets these last couple days.

Or maybe joining in.

Callahan checked for alarms and found none, then got through the lock with little effort. Fortunately, she didn’t use her foot this time.