Under Cover of Darkness (9 page)

“What do you need, Brother?” the older cop asked softly. The fog flowed along the city street making the few pedestrians shadowy figures.

“A weapon,” I said, pressing the signet ring on my hand into his palm one last time.

“Done,” the man replied, sliding the Heckler Koch 9mm automatic from his holster and passing it over. Along with two spare clips from his equipment belt.

“Many thanks,” I sighed, tucking the mortal weapon into my clothing and out of sight.

The younger cop was flabbergasted. “You . . . you gave him your gun?” he gasped, a hand instinctively going for his own weapon. “Just what the fuck is going on here?”

“Ask the desk sergeant,” the older cop said. Then he glanced over a shoulder and barked. “I said ask the sarge, kid!”

“Yes, sir,” the rookie replied sullenly, shuffling back to the car and reaching for the hand mike clipped to the dashboard.

“New guy,” the older cop said in apology.

“No problem,” I replied, checking the clip, and working the slide. Even from a Brother, I always check a new weapon. We've had traitors before in the Freemasons, sad to say.

“Got a BTK?” he asked, pulling a small volume from his shirt pocket.

I shook my head, uncaring if it was a Christian Bible, Torah, or the Koran. There were many rooms in His mansion. The Freemasons accepted good men and women of any faith. “I'm not fighting a vampire,” I laughed, exhaustion giving my words a slightly hysterical tone. “Although it sure would be nice.”

“Oh, demons again,” the officer said, not posing it as a question. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a butane lighter and shoved it into my hand.

Now that I gladly accepted. A crucifix was the symbol of the Redeemer, the forgiver of our sins. That didn't do a lot of damage to hellspawn, in spite of what the movies say. On the other hand, monsters always ran from fire. That was the symbol of the Creator. “
Let there be light.
” “
And a hand of fire moved across the mountain . . .
” “
A column of fire led the Israelites out of Egypt . . .
” “
Reverently, Moses approached the burning bush . . .”
Fire was the sign of the One, The Creator, Great Architect of the Universe, She Who Must be Obeyed, the Big Cheese. Monsters were unable to stand the pain of His light. Back in my office had been a sealed ziplock bag containing a BTK soaked in gasoline. Nothing made hellspawn run like the fiery light of a burning holy book! But I never had a chance to use it, more's the pity. And there was no going back now.

Thanking the Brother of my sister organization in the name of the Father, I moved off into the fog, keeping a close watch on the shadows, making sure they weren't keeping a close watch on me. Somebody moved in a dark alleyway, and I pulled the HK 9 mm. As they moved away, I holstered the gun, and went to hitch up my belt—there was only the empty cloth loops of the damp pants. Frantically, I checked again, but my belt was gone. But who . . . how . . . ?
Inhuman hands clawing at fabric and flesh
. . .

Spitting out a forbidden Word, the sidewalk under my feet cracked. They had it! The demons had the Key! If Satan knew where the Lock-Of-All-Locks was located, then Armageddon may have already started. A cold sweat broke over my body, and I started running along the foggy sidewalk, checking the cars parked at the curb. No time to waste. I had to get to the nearest Freemason lodge and spread the word fast.

Passing an endless array of luxury cars: Hummers, Beamers, and a shockingly pimped-out Caddy, I sighed in relief at the sight of a Chrysler sedan. Touching the door handle with my signet ring, there came a hard click, and the door unlocked. Although long dead, Walter P. Chrysler had been a Freemason and made sure all of his vehicles were accessible to a Brother in an emergency. Henry Ford had done the same thing, and if I ever found a Model A flivver, with just a few special Words, any thirty-second-degree Mason could make it fly. Although not a Freemason, Walt Disney was a member of a friendly organization, the DeMolays, and had made a training film about how to fly a car, and then liked the footage so much he recut it into a family comedy starring Fred MacMurray. Also not one of Us, but a tremendous actor. Although, not quite of the same caliber as: Al Jolson, Harold Lloyd, Jack Benny, Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello, or John Wayne, of course. But not bad for a civilian.

Slipping inside, I spoke a Word of Power at the ignition, and the engine started with a soft purr. Pulling away from the curb, I raced across town toward my one chance, the last hope of the world.

Breaking a hundred traffic laws, I made it to the lodge in record time, my brakes squealing as I parked illegally alongside a fire hydrant directly in front of the Chicago Freemason Lodge.

At this ungodly hour, the door to the building was locked. Pulling a dollar bill from my wallet, I carefully rolled my thumb across the All Seeing Eye on the back of the American currency, then slid it into a crack along the jamb. There came a low hum, a series of clicks, and then a hydraulic sigh as the armored portal swung aside.

Rushing across the foyer and dining hall, I heard the front door close and lock as I burst into the temple. Dodging around the BTK in the center of the room, I dashed up the stairs to the chair of the lodge president, plopped down, and shoved my ring into a small recess. With an electric hum, the chair rotated around, and moved through the curtained alcove, the brick wall sliding back into place behind. The chair was still moving when I hopped off and dove for the alarm button on the Master Mason communications panel. Instantly, fifteen million Freemasons across the world suddenly got an electric jolt from their signet rings and rushed to their computers. We owned the Internet, as well as most other forms of mass communications. As the good book says, Know Thy Enemy. Or was that Sun Tzu?

Slowly, lights came on in the control room and in tagged stages hundreds of small video screens lining the four walls of the room pulsed alive. A wide assortment of faces stared at me in curiosity and wary annoyance.

“The Key has been stolen,” I announced bluntly.

“Which key?” an elderly man demanded sleepily. The label on his monitor read New Zealand. “The key of knowledge, or the key of power?”

“The
the
Key,” I replied succinctly.

Everybody gasped, and half of them went pale.

“You mean, the Key to That Which Should Never Be Opened?” Russia gasped in horror, tightening the towel about his waist.

“Yes. And it is probably being opened right at this very moment,” I added, glancing at the rooftop monitor. But there was no sign of a rain of fire, or crack of doom. Which meant that Satan didn't have the weapons yet. But when he did . . .

“Activate the homing beacon!” New York commanded. A soft knocking in the background was probably his knees banging together, or else a mariachi band warming up to perform.

“There's a tracking device?” Tokyo asked in stunned disbelief before I could.

“There has always been a tracking device on the Key,” Paris declared, brushing back her wild crop of uncombed hair. “But the Guardian didn't need to know. It would have made him lazy.”

“Oh, yeah, good thinking,” Mecca sneered, and Brazil agreed.

“Tracking beacon is alive,” London said, doing something offscreen. “All right, our satellites place the belt on a plane to Australia . . .”

“What flight?” Canberra asked, lifting a telephone into view.

“Shoot it down!” Rome demanded, shaking a fist.

Both were ignored. “. . . however, the Key is still in the United States,” London continued unabated. “Cen tral states . . . Illinois . . . Chicago . . .” His face lifted and he looked directly at me. “Brother, the Key is in the parking lot of your lodge!”

“Impossible!” the Apache Nation cried out.

“The demons have the Key, but don't know where the Lock is,” India cried out, slapping a palm to his forehead. “And so they assume . . .”

“. . . that the Guardian . . .”

“. . . would know the location . . .”

“. . . of both?”

Curses were snarled in every language on Earth.

“Run!” Beijing, Boston, and Bora Bora shouted in unison.

“Never,” I growled, pulling the HK 9mm and working the slide. “I'll keep them busy here while the rest of you send troops and gunships to protect the Door-of-Doors. If my death can . . .”

“But you're at the Armory!” Paris screamed, grabbing at her hair. “That lodge holds the Weapons of Heaven!”

Everything reeled for a moment, I had to swallow twice before words came out of my mouth. “What the freaking hell is it doing in the same town as me?” I demanded furiously. “The door should be . . .”

“On the other side of the world?” Iraq scoffed. “Then, if the clarion call sounds, the Guardian would have to fight halfway across the world through the amassed armies of hell before we could get the swords.”

Fury boiled within me, but then eased. The argument was sound, and there was a dull slam on the front door of the lodge. The demons were trying to get in. Well, hopefully, it was them. Satan had made his demons damn tough, but if the Dark One sent any of the Fangels, the fallen angels, that had stood by his side and declared war on God . . .

The pounding got louder. The entire building shook. A couple of the monitors wavered and went dark.

Muttering a prayer, I pressed the cold barrel of the police gun to my forehead. Maybe if the demons found me dead on the floor they might go away. Reluctantly, I eased down the weapon. No, they'd only tear the place apart in frustration, and find the Door.
Think, man, think!

“Are there any weapons here?” I demanded hopefully, sweat trickling down the back of my neck. “Any thing I can use to hold back the demons while the rest of you send troops?”

“There are already a thousand Brothers surrounding the lodge you're in,” Chicago replied proudly. “Mostly police, firefighters, and doctors.” Then the man frowned. “Although I am not in radio contact with anybody at the moment,” he muttered unhappily.

Then if the demons had reached the front door, my Brothers were no more.
A thousand Freemasons dead
, I realized coldly.
That was just the beginning of the slaughter to come.

“All right, F-22 Raptor jet fighters are on route from Edwards Air Force base in California,” Los Angeles replied, setting down a red telephone. “They're armed with holy Sidewinder missiles, and blessed tactical nukes. ETA, sixty minutes.”

“There's nothing closer?” Poland demanded.

Hunching her shoulders, Los Angeles scowled. “Noth ing that will stop a Fangel.”

“Brothers, we have no choice,” London stated. “The Guardian needs weapons, and the request cannot be denied. Insert your signet rings into your control panels and turn on my command. Ready . . . set . . . mark!”

A dozen of the men and woman on the screens turned their arms, and there came a deep metallic sigh from behind me.

Spinning around fast, I saw the southern wall of the lodge iris open, and there were granite racks of weapons, swords, shields, lances, halberds, bolos, katanas, and war hammers.

“Send more Masons!” I shouted over a shoulder, dashing out of the control room.

Sprinting through the temple, I raced past the pretty antiques and thankfully found some modern weapons. Stacks and crates of revolvers, automatic pistols, assault rifles, combat shotguns, machine pistols, land mines, rocket launchers, and grenades.

A shadow filled the doorway of the armory, casting me into darkness, and there came the stink of a burning sewage plant.

Grabbing a couple of revolvers off the wall pegs, I turned and pulled the triggers. Automatic weapons could not be stored away fully loaded, or else the springs inside would get weak and they'd jam. But revolvers could be loaded and safely placed aside for a hundred years, always ready for instant use. I was gambling everything that my Brothers had a couple of wheelguns ready for action, just in case of an emergency.

The twin S&W .357 Magnums roared in booming thunder, stilettos of flame extending from the big bore muzzles toward the hulking demon tromping closer. The hellspawn screamed as the silver bullets hit, but I kept firing until the hammers clicked on empty shells.

Lowering the guns, I could see that the demon was still standing. Then it sighed, dropped the bloody mace in its gnarled fist, and fell over to shatter into a million pieces on the concrete floor.
Ah ha! Silver bullets save the day again
. That Masked Ranger down in Texas and his faithful Apache companion had shown us the way to kill demons lo those many years ago. Why else would they have carried silver bullets?

Tossing away the revolvers, I grabbed a brand new US Army M60 machine gun from a rack, ripped off the plastic protective coating, and flipped open the breech to lay in a long belt of silver-tipped .308 ammunition. Each cartridge was marked with an Egyptian hieroglyph, Buddhist pictograph, Christian cross, Mogan David, Moslem Moon, pink stars, and lucky clovers.
Perfect
. That was when I noticed on the nearby wall a red box closed off with a pane on glass. Break in case of emergency?
Yeah, well, the downtown fire department wouldn't be of too much help at the present moment, let me tell you
.

“Look out, Brother!” Chicago shouted dimly from across the lodge. “I have a report of a . . .”

Just then, the entire left panel of monitors went dark, and a clawed hand punched through the glass and electronics, clawing the opening wide, and a Fangel crawled into the building, eyes glowing red from the hellfires burning inside his veins and heart. Obscenely fat, the nude Fangel stepped to the litter-covered floor and spread his wings wide. Every feather was adorned with a different sin, and the overall effect was like an LSD trip in Las Vegas.