Assault Force. Don Pendleton

glanced at his comrade’s face reflected in the mirror across the bar. Clean-shaved as smooth as a newborn’s bottom, black hair closely cropped, the glasses a nice touch. Harmon turned his head, smiled at his swarthy companion and lifted his bottle. “Cheers. Here’s to the party.”

      Jarrod Harmon touched glass with the man he knew had a twenty-million dollar bounty, dead or alive, on his scalp.

      2

      Father Jose Gadiz was disturbed. It seemed to take all his energy just to cross the vast expanse of gilded, marbled lobby and forge deeper into this so-called Heaven on Earth they had built for themselves. What waited was difficult. The anxious anticipation of seeing him after so many years, knowing the man’s sins—which he made no attempt to hide, much less repent—broke his heart, sickened his soul.

      The priest believed whatever he said would echo through eternity. That in mind, he clung to hope. Salvation or damnation, he knew beyond any shred of doubt, was the only guarantee. Not that he ever had reason to believe otherwise. But if others knew, he thought, then shuddered as the tentacles of the living visions reached out, reality suddenly obscured when the memory boiled up, shaping into what he so feared. And had so desperately been trying to forget.

      He looked at all the handsome faces. They seemed to glow from pleasure indulged, rapture in the eyes, radiant auras. How their hearts, he thought, cloaked in the illusory shadow of satisfaction, the flesh kept sated by money, kept wanting more. Behind the smiles he saw lust, greed, envy, pride and a wrath that would trample anyone who denied them what they wanted.

      All the lost souls.

      It struck the priest their laughter was aimed at the world, perhaps what he stood for. A few of the more curious glanced at his white collar, the severe black clothing. Some appeared to shy away, as if embarrassed or afraid their hidden selves might be found out. Everywhere he saw bold desire, preoccupation with self, what they wanted. Had he expected any different? Why did he continue to live on in hope that he could somehow reach them, save, if only a few, from perdition?

      Perhaps present circumstances had rendered him too harsh and judgmental right then, but he thought not. Perhaps the train ride had simply wearied him. Nerves shot, burdened as he was by Isadora’s plight and suffering, heart crushed to agonizing pity as she urged this contact. Clearly, the way she had pleaded her case, it struck him she believed he was the last resort, the final hope.

      He feared she was right.

      And, just like that, it was as if he’d stepped into another dimension of time and space. Life slammed into a montage of freeze-frames. Somehow, he kept moving into the strange haze, aware he passed through white rays made ever more brilliant as they lanced through the stained-glass skylight. The living, such as they were, began lurching all about, faceless automatons. Their laughter swirled, hideous in ears that had heard the wailing of the damned, only the din now wasn’t anywhere near as infinitely terrifying. Except for the rare few children, there was no light in any of them, even their flesh appearing like so much dark jelly. The more he searched their faces, the more he dreaded the world was in such deep trouble, so many so gripped in the power of evil, he wasn’t sure if he was blessed or cursed, or strong enough to carry the message of what he’d seen.

      Repent.

      No human mind, he knew, could even begin to comprehend the depth and severity of the horror he had witnessed the past week. Not even he, a man of God—protected by divine guidance and assured salvation if he clung to his vows of chastity, poverty and obedience with unfailing perseverance—could fathom what he’d experienced.

      The mere pale shadow of the memory nearly dropped him to his knees right then, shrieking blasphemies. He was mortified beyond terror just to think of them, as he tried but failed to focus on other words just to mute the faintest echo from his mind. There was an abominable stench of raw human waste, sulfur and flesh so putrified there was no smell—if he could even call it that—on Earth to compare it to, putrid fumes that still clung to his senses, stirring acid bile in his stomach. He’d felt the vicious clawing of utter despair that knew no depths or bounds.

      Gadiz shuddered, became aware of his deep breathing, the strange looks as he marched on. Still, he felt disembodied, a man slogging through, then sinking into the sucking mud of a nightmare he couldn’t escape from. As he wanted nothing more than to flee all of this seething impurity, before he was contaminated beyond hope, he hastened the pace, flying between walls of gold, grabbing a fleeting specter of his troubled, bearded visage in mirrored pillars. The ostentation of their exclusive realm became an obscenity to him, as he passed over marble then carpet. Giant crystal chandeliers speared light into his eyes, forcing him to bend his head. There were massive frescoed mosaics of saints, the Last Supper, conquistadors, too, in bloody glory over fallen victims. It was a sacrilegious display that galled him, all manner of luminous grand landscapes promising paradise on Earth for the monied elite.

      Such a deadly illusion.

      He passed the bustling wide-open area that marked the shopping mall. Ahead, beyond the bank of revolving doors, he spotted the gold lion, what he thought of as their Babylonian idol, overlord of the playland. So sad, so much waste among so much excess. The sum of it all, he decided, in such stark contrast to his poor village—those souls who suffered desperate poverty in brave silence and unwavering faith. He wanted to weep for the world, for the man and his estranged wife, for himself, and his own failures, for those personal weaknesses he had nearly succumbed to, but knew would demand a final accounting.

      The faster he tried to reach his destination, the harder it became. Nearly racing for the doors, he spotted a fat man in a brilliant white suit and a blond woman in a leopard skin long-coat open to brazenly display a bikini underneath. She was young enough to be the fat man’s granddaughter. They were veering toward him. Arm in arm, they were laughing for all the world to hear, what struck his ears as a loud and hideous screech. Two grim-faced men in black suit jackets were on either side, watching him from behind dark sunglasses. Their faces, all four of them, flashed into screaming burned demon masks, living images, no less, of what he’d seen in Hell, there, then gone. Gadiz gasped, fleeing their laughter as he bulled through the revolving door.

      What was happening? he wondered, stumbling across the deck. Was he going mad? Had he been cursed by God? If so, why? Why did the blasphemies from the depths of Hell want to come shrieking through his mind, against his will? Was he to be tormented like this from now until the day he died and went to face his own judgment?

      An angry shout sent Gadiz wheeling. He saw two dark men, large black bags in their hands, their faces flaming with rage, teeth bared in predatory savageness. Apparently he had bumped into them without realizing it. He mumbled an apology. Staggering on, his mind crying out for God to save him, he heard vicious-sounding words hurled at his back, Arabic, he believed, cursing him he was sure.

      What seemed an eternity later, he was past the large group at the gold lion, the world still, jolting around him in lighting flashes, demon faces, here and there, laughter…fading…almost human.

      Trying to steady his breathing, he searched the tables, mentally counting off. Halfway down the bar, he spotted him, and Gadiz felt that invisible wall of ice envelop him once more. He felt a dark presence.

      Forging into the surreal mist, two more demon masks flared in the corner of his eye, then he saw human faces slowly take shape, forming themselves as if invisible hands were molding rubbery features. Two men, sitting at the bar, a short dark man in glasses, his companion with white hair, cut short—military-style, he believed—a black bag at his feet. Both so grim, he sensed hatred and dark defiance at vast odds with all the carefree madness. Passing them, the chill melted away, then Gadiz felt a smothering presence of rage and hate, as strong as ever. The white-haired man was watching him; Gadiz felt the stare drill into the back of his head.

      “How do you feel about including a padre on the roster?”

      Did he actually hear that? Gadiz wondered. French? Familiar, yes, with the language, only it could have been Spanish, what with sight and sound blending into a living force, it seemed, distorting everything. And then…

      He