Mark Stone - The Judas Line

“Oh, no,” I muttered, ripping open the bag, fear rushing through my body like a tidal wave. There, in the middle of all my clothes, was the cardboard cylinder that held the Silver, crushed and shapeless. “This isn’t good, man.”

Black fluid coated the bundles of hundred dollar bills, unholy water spilled from the fish bowl. I could smell an acidic tang as the foul liquid ate through the money like an evil acid.

“Morgan, I’m so sorry, I must have landed on it when Alexander tossed me at the bar.” Mike rubbed his lower back at the memory.

“No problem, man, but this, this is how he found us.” I tore into the crushed cylinder, careful not to touch the black fluid, and extracted the small black bag, dangling it in my fingers by the leather straps. “No holy water to mask its signature.”

“And that means what?”

“Means we run, and right now !”

Out the back and into the delivery truck. For the first time in I don’t know how long, panic had a good hold of me with icy claws and wasn’t letting go. Truck and axle nearly parted ways as I took a curb too hard and too fast. A trickle of blood ran down my throat from where I bit my lip, but the only thing I could think of was Get to Bend.

“What’s going on, Morgan?” Mike yelled while the truck bounced up and down. He was definitely a little green around the gills.

“It’s thirty miles to the church in Bend,” I hollered back. “That’s where we can destroy the Silver.” The truck smoothed out some and the noise level decreased. “Right now the Patron can track us because the Silver is out and we can’t afford to stay still for any length of time or we could be hip-deep in fiends. We have to get to holy ground ASAP.”

I could see Mike trying not to be skeptical, but he just shrugged and said, “What’s going on with Jim and Dale? How are they going to get rid of those bikers?”

“You realize the bikers aren’t a threat now, right? It’s what the Patron will send after us that’s the threat.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Morgan,” he said in a voice filled with gravel.

I knew that tone, was dreading the question and didn’t want to answer it. “Jim and Dale are at the Sun Spot Drive-In.”

“And what are they doing there?” he urged.

“Ambushing the remaining bikers.”

“What?!”

“After you went to bed last night, Jim and Dale called some family and friends and arranged a welcome for the remaining bikers at the drive-in. Seems like there were a lot of people willing to take a swing at the gang. The list of people included the deputy sheriff, who said he wanted ‘run those bastards out of town on a rail.’ ”

“What are they planning?”

“What do you think? A picnic? Some fish and chips and a screening of the new Batman movie?” I shook my head. “No, the gang’s pissed off a lot of locals from Terrebonne to Bend, and most of them want to join in on the action. I think at last count there were a hundred fifty people signed up and they are going to beat those bikers black and blue and trash their bikes.”

Silence. And more silence.

I risked a glance at Mike. He was stroking his ridiculous handlebar moustache. “Normally I’m opposed to violence, but the gang has done a lot of harm and if the sheriff won’t help, then I suppose the people must take matters into their own hands.” I was so shocked I nearly hit an old Hyundai chugging down the highway toward us. “But,” he continued. “I hope they don’t kill anyone.”

Shaking my head, I said, “No, the plan is to turn them from psychopathic bikers to beaten and bruised psychopathic pedestrians , and then run them out of town.”

He nodded reluctantly. “I just wish you would’ve informed me of your plans.”

“Sorry, man, I didn’t want to strain your sense of law and order.”

“Morgan, one thing you should know: the Church has been struggling with secular laws for as long as it has existed. I see no problem with using violence against evil when all other recourses have been exhausted.” He spoke as if we were chitchatting in a mall rather than in a truck zooming down the highway at seventy. I shook my head in wonder at Mike’s ability to surprise me even after fifteen years.

Smiling, I snagged the CB. “Dispatch, this is 183.”

“One-eight-three, go,” came Bernie’s staticky voice over the radio.

“Dispatch, be advised that we are en route to the Chamber of Commerce.” That was my way of telling Bernie he could pick the truck up there. It was merely a hop, skip and jump from there to the Holy Redeemer Catholic Church.

Squawk! “Be advised, Olivier,” Bernie said in a voice as cold as the grave. “You’re never going to make it.”

My insides nearly became my outsides as terror spiked through me. That wasn’t Bernie. Beside me, Mike crossed himself.

We’d been found.

Mike

Can’t say I was too terribly surprised that Morgan kept the ambush from me. Most people think priests are passive, pacifist bead rubbers. Most of the time we are, but in my case I had been a warrior, a man used to blood and death, armpit deep in both.

Moreover, most Americans don’t realize that the Church has a militant order, The Military Corps of the Order of Malta, part of the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of St. John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta (better known as the SMOM or Knights of Malta). The Military Corps of the Order has the official title of Auxiliary Military Corps of the Italian Army.

The Catholic Church may be a peace-loving organization dedicated to the teachings of Christ, but it’s not stupid. Faith is one thing, but I believe God does help those who help themselves.

When I heard the Voice emerge from the CB, its tone mocking and contemptuous, I decided it was time to fight fire with fire.

In the space between our seats rested our duffels, filled with none too fresh clothes and other small essentials. My hand reached for the floor where Morgan threw his weapons and emerged with a.45 ACP. A Kimber, nice, but I prefer the H amp;K. Along with the Kimber I found a Beretta (which I gave to Morgan) and two extra clips for both. In my bag was the manila envelope, which I stuffed in the inside pocket of my Danzinger’s jacket.

“What do you mean?” Morgan asked the Voice. “We’ve already won.”

“Boy, you must think I’m five kinds of stupid to fall for the ‘Oh, I’ve lost the Silver’ routine. Julian had an SS Team deployed in the area ever since the Baphemoloch became aware enough to recognize that the host he was eating carried the Grail, My associate found you near Las Cruces. With the host’s memories, it was child’s play to deduce what you were doing in the southwest, Olivier. This is the last time you will receive this offer; shoot the Holy Roller in the head, give up and rejoin the Family.”

“Understood, sir,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. Rolling down the window, he wrenched the CB off its moorings with one hand and threw it out of the truck. “Damn, his mouth runs like a fucking river. Pardon the profanity.”

“Pardoned.” I said, then, “SS Team?”

“Special Services Team. An elite squad, much like the Israeli commandos, but much, much worse. Basically Dagger Men Special Forces.”

Stomach hitting the floor, I stared out the window for a couple of seconds. “You think he’s lying? It’s what he does, you know.”

His look was bleak, barren of hope. “I don’t think so, Mike. The Patron is a Power and Intelligence like you’ve never encountered. Amp up Stephen Hawking’s brain by a thousand and you might come close. He’s touchy, mean, controlling and unimaginably evil, but he’s no dope. Yeah, I think we’re in big trouble, because he knows we’re going to a church to destroy the Silver.” He shuddered. “Down on the floor should be a small black shaving bag. Get it.”