Offspring: The Keys of Solomon

Word count- 4,200.

Offspring: The Keys of Solomon

The work of the devil will infiltrate even into the Church in such a way that one will see cardinals opposing cardinals, bishops against bishops. The priests who venerate me will be scorned and opposed by their confreres...churches and altars sacked; the Church will be full of those who accept compromises and the demons will press many priests and consecrated souls..."
--Sister Agnes, Our Lady of Akita Catholic Church, prophesying for the Virgin Mary, 1973

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And the angels, terrible and without pity, carry savage weapons, and their torture is unmerciful."
--The Ascension of Enoch from The Book of the Jews.

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Chapter One: East St. Louis, Missouri


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The building reeked of the enemy. The odor of sulfur and cat urine was stale, perhaps days or weeks old, but it was there nonetheless. Thomas Falco wrinkled his hyper-sensitive nose and looked around the dimly lit interior of the motel. Beneath the weak façade of cracked plaster and faded paint, potentially lethal black mold festered on the walls and floors, spreading the length of the lobby. Falco grimaced at the metaphorical significance. Such was the world. He moved to the front desk and set his bags upon the dirty tiled floor.

The desk clerk blocked a yawn with the back of his hand, then said, "‘Sup, man. What brings you to the murder capital of the western hemisphere?"


Falco said, "I thought Gary, Indiana held that distinction."


"Bullshit," replied the young man between more yawns. "Gary's got nothing but a bunch of posers and wannabe playas. Eastside is the real deal."


Falco completed the motel registration card and slid it across the desk to the scruffily dressed clerk. The young man had the sleepy eyes and broad, idiot grin of the terminally stoned, and Falco immediately both resented and pitied him. He wanted to snatch the fool by the back of his scrawny neck and shake some sense into him. Instead, Falco thought, really don't want to know why I'm here. So do yourself a favor, kid, and invest in another quarter-bag of whatever shit you're smoking. Trust me on this one.


"I'm just in town to visit an old friend and maybe do some sightseeing."


The word "sightseeing" seemed to trigger something in the stoner's hazy mind. He gave Falco a goofy, exaggerated nod, and a knowing wink. "Ah, sightseeing. Right. I'm tracking with you, now. Well here's a tip for you, my man. Don't let looks deceive you, know what I'm saying? We might be in the low rent district, but we know how to show our guests a good time. Know what I'm sayin'? You need anything, anything at all, you let me know." Another exaggerated wink. "So, how long you staying?"


"I'm not sure. A couple of days, maybe. I'll let you know."


The clerk gave Falco a third wink followed by another lazy grin, and dropped a plastic door card onto the sticky countertop.
"That's cool, that's cool. Room 112. As you walk out the front door, turn, umm, right. Yeah, right. Last room at the end of the walk."


Falco nodded, picked up the key and his suitcase, and started away from the desk. Over his shoulder, he called out, "No maids, no disturbances. Know what I'm sayin'?"

***

Once outside, Falco crossed the parking lot to the rental car and retrieved the rest of his luggage. On the way to the room, he chose a leisurely pace, taking care to thoroughly check his surroundings. Run-down strip mall to the left, mega-truck stop to the right. Elementary school across the highway. Not much traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not yet.


Satisfied for the moment, he kicked the snow from his boots and entered the motel room. The place smelled of cigarette smoke, sour beer, and more cat piss. The furnishings were sparse and in poor condition. Against the far wall, a swayback mattress lay atop a warped, metal frame. A funky little neo-modernist lamp leaned crazily atop a three-legged bedside table. A pair of ugly, vinyl-covered chairs flanked a rickety desk in front of the room's single window. Pleistocene era meets Art Nouvea.


A shrill bell sounded across the street, and the shouts of young children penetrated the thin walls of the room. It's not time for school to let out. I can't be running that far behind. Falco glanced at his watch. 1:45 PM. Good. Just an afternoon recess. I'm not too far off schedule.


He stepped to the window and looked out on a busy grade school playground across the street. A marked police car was parked along the shoulder of the highway, at the south end of the school property. Falco was certain another cruiser was similarly situated on the backside of the grounds. Prudent considering current events, he thought. Prudent, but futile. can't stop them, Mr. Policeman, sir. You and another ten thousand just like you can't stop them. Legion comes. Falco drew the curtains together and returned to the bed. It was time to prepare.


He opened his suitcase, carefully removing his clothing and equipment. He arranged the items in neat, separate piles on he bed, then began the ritual preparation. First, he inspected the night-vision monocular, a small cylindrical device that allowed him to see thermal imprints in total darkness. A quick self-test indicated that the battery was hot and the instrument was working properly.


Next, he removed a sound suppressor from its protective pouch and inspected the screw threads. Dry. He took a tube of waxy lip balm from his pocket, removed the cap and squeezed a liberal amount of the balm inside the threaded connector. He worked the greasy paste into the threads, then reexamined his handiwork. Much better. He laid the suppressor aside and opened a small polymer case.


Inside the case, surrounded by thick foam, was another primary tool of his trade; a Glock model 29 chambered for the powerful 10 millimeter cartridge. Falco inspected the weapon, then threaded the suppressor onto the barrel extension. Next, he checked the ammunition and spare magazines. He tapped each magazine against the heel of his hand to seat the shells, ensuring a proper feed into the semi-automatic handgun when the time came.


Finally, he checked his combat knife, a legacy item and constant reminder of his former life. The knife slid easily from the oiled sheath. Thomas thumbed the single edge of the Ka-Bar. If only men were as efficient, strong, and reliable.
Stifling a yawn, Falco inserted the knife back into the sheath and rubbed his eyes with thick, callused fingers. So tired. I could sleep for a week. Thomas shook head. For now a short nap would have to suffice "I can be tired when this is over." He resumed his meticulous preparations.



A half-hour later, after each tool had been thoroughly examined and the ammo counted and recounted, it was time to perform the Sacrament of Holy Orders, one of seven such Sacraments of the Catholic Church, and a requirement of the Codex by which Falco lived and served. This particular ritual was steeped in tradition and far older than the Brotherhood Falco served.


Many members within his sect had long argued against using the Sacrament of Holy Orders in favor of some other ritual. Yet in the end, use of the Sacrament was approved for servants of Falco's unique vocation. After all, The Sacrament of Holy Orders was intended to imbue a priest with the voice and authority of Christ in certain instances. How could any other ritual be more pertinent or germane to Falco's mission? Was he not, through his actions, speaking for all of Christendom? For all humanity?


The Sacrament was followed by another process, the Rite of Purification. This ceremony, based on New Testament scripture, had a two-fold purpose. First, it was designed to free the tools of any extraneous contamination. The second purpose, and one of much greater significance for Thomas, was to free the user from sin or guilt associated with using the tools. Thomas had never fully bought into the notion that any ritual could absolve him of his many sins, past, present, nor future. However, he faithfully performed the Rite before every mission. He decided long ago that in his line of work, it was best to cover all the bases.


Falco removed an ornate, leather-bound box from an inner pocket of his suitcase. From the box he took a centuries-old rosary and laid it aside. Next, he removed a white satin vestment stole, pressed it to his lips, then draped it around his neck and crossed the ends over his chest. Finally, he took the last item from the box, a small bottle made of jeweled cloisonné.


Falco knelt beside the bed and removed the cork stopper from the bottle. He dribbled some of the water into his palm and with his index finger, traced the outline of a cross upon his forehead. In a final act of consecration, he sprinkled droplets onto the grips of the handgun and combat knife. Bowing his head, he intoned the ancient, ritual prayer, much as it had been recited some eight hundred years, earlier. Minutes later, as he neared the finish, Falco raised his hands toward the ceiling and whispered, "Non Nobis Domine Non Nobis Sed Nomini Tuo Da Gloriam." Unto Us, O Lord, But Unto Thy Name Be Given Glory.



Monday 11:05 PM, Room 312

***

A puzzling and persistent noise nagged at Falco's tired mind from some distant place. He was sure he had heard the bothersome sound before and knew he should recognize it. e alarm? No. Phone? Turning over onto his side, Falco took a moment to readjust the shoulder holster, then picked up his cell phone from the rickety night table. He checked the incoming call and recognized the number.


"Hello."


A hoarse, raspy voice answered, "Hello, Thomas."
The voice was familiar but this was a time for extreme caution. The Enemy was treacherous and deceitful beyond imagination.
"Who's calling?" Falco asked.


There was a slight hesitation on the other end, then, "The First Shield.


You sound a bit disoriented. Did I wake you?"


Falco felt none of the inner alarms ringing in his head. Still, he needed confirmation. It was highly unusual for a man of the First Shield's status to call a mere field operative, even if the two men were old acquaintances.


"I'm fine, Your Grace. Just a bit groggy. Guess the miles are catching up with me. It's a long flight out of Boston."


"Understandable, Thomas, quite so. However, you didn't fly out of Boston. It was Miami. And please, Your Grace seems too formal among old friends. If not Nicholas, then Bishop Gilbert will do."


Nicholas. Yeah, right. Falco relaxed, but only by small degress. "Just checking, Your Gra- Nicholas. I hope I haven't offended you."


"No, not at all. In fact, I prefer that you always exercise such caution. This call is encrypted but still, we live in very dangerous times, my boy, and prudence is a virtue. You know what happened to Cohlin Ridley only a month past.


Falco's jaw muscles twitched at the mention of his former partner. "Yes, I know."


"I--I'm sorry, Thomas. Of course you do. I know the two of you were very close." Arch Bishop Gilbert quickly changed the subject. "When do you expect to join your new partner?"


"If things go according to plan tonight I'll fly out tomorrow afternoon and arrive in Phoenix around 9:30pm."


Again, there was a hesitation, though Falco could hear the sound of labored breathing. Gilbert's bronchitis was acting up, again.


A long pause, Gilbert said, "Did you receive the packet?"


"Yeah. Lexis personally gave it to me just before I boarded my flight. I'm set unless there have been some last minute changes."


"No changes," replied Gilbert. "Our orders stand." Again, an extended silence.


Falco nodded absently. "I'll be in touch once I'm in the air and in route to Phoenix."


Gilbert coughed, then said, "Did you have a chance to catch the evening news? Depressing but telling. It seems things are heating up very quickly."


Falco was unsure how to answer. Of course, things were heating up! Why else would he be in St. Louis, preparing to kill...
Instead of wasting sarcasm on his well-intentioned superior, Falco simply said, "Yes, Nicholas, things are certainly heating up. That's why I'm here."


"Of course, of course. I'll let you attend your task, now. God speed, Thomas."


Falco disconnected the call and looked at his watch. Not yet midnight. I can catch another hour of sleep. But as soon as the notion of sleep entered his mind, he pushed it aside. Falco knew that there would be no more rest tonight. Rising from the bed, he dressed in the dark while the mission unfolded, playing out in his mind. Again and again, he mentally traced the route leading to a country estate just north of St. Louis. There, he would find and neutralize his target. He shouldered his nylon pack.


He unlocked the door, then paused for a moment, breathing in the night air. He closed his eyes and extended his senses. He was rewarded by an immediate tug on the fringe of his consciousness, the faint, yet unmistakable presence of his supernatural adversaries. Detecting the Enemy by use of his God-given gift was always unnerving.


While the gift was accurate, the range was limited. What he wouldn't give for another mile or so. This particular Enemy moved slowly from north to south, prowling the night for easy prey. A minor minion. At least Falco could be thankful for that. While minions were quick to kill, they usually claimed single victims before crawling back to the nest. The greater demons were another, far more serious matter. He quickly broke contact with the minion and closed his senses. Falco threw his pack into the passenger seat and folded himself into the compact. Thirty minutes later, he was outside of the city and headed toward the Bedford Country Club.

***


Falco was familiar with the long stretch of cracked asphalt. Every curve, every dip, every pothole was committed to memory. He exited the county road fourteen miles east of St Louis and turned left onto a freshly paved roadway. He drove along for several miles before cutting his headlights. Falco preferred to drive the final miles by moonlight and instinct, paying close attention to the odometer. When he drew within a couple of miles of his destination, he pulled the car off the roadway and into the tree line. Killing the motor, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. 2:55 am. Right on time.


He rechecked the Glock, then donned a black nylon hood and cinched the thin elastic cord around his neck. The tear-away material was lightweight and sheer, allowing him to breathe and see with minimal light while effectively concealing his face. With his small pack slung over one shoulder, Falco paused and tested the air.


The temperature was much colder out among the trees, away from the city. The air should have been fresher, sweeter. Yet, as he reached out with his senses, the stench slammed into his stomach like a fist. Falco bent forward and waited for the assault on his senses to pass. It took a few minutes longer than usual, this time.


God, he's strong! Just--hang on. It'll pass... it'll pass.


A full minute later, the nausea began to fade and Falco relaxed. Taking up his gear, he set out on foot. It took almost half an hour to cover the final distance through the dense underbrush. No wasted motion, no noise of any kind. Falco silently recited the assassin's credo. Quick and silent in, quick and silent out. It sounded good, but he knew all too well that things didn't always work out that way. Nogales had been messy. Buenos Aries had escalated into a full-fledged fire fight.


As he crouched inside a thick patch of weeds and vines, Falco surveyed the area with the monocular. The estate was in reality a compound, and consisted of a main ranch house, surrounded by several large bungalows. Guard posts surrounded the perimeter of the grounds.


According to arial photos and intel reports, a sprawling golf course flanked the southeast edge of the estate. The riding stable was situated just to the north and west of the main compound. The target expressed a great love for golf and the outdoors, thus he explained his unusual choice for a vacation spot to his superiors. Falco knew better. The country club, once a weekend hideaway for the Midwestern affluent, was now a haven for the Enemy. A nest.


Falco scanned the rest of the grounds. The largest of the bungalows was situated well away from the others, just beyond the periphery of the brilliant security lights. It was also farthest removed from the stables. Falco knew placement of the bungalows was no accident or coincidence. The horses, if any still remained, would not, could not abide such an abomination in close proximity. He would be surprised if a single animal remained on the premises.


Sweeping the night-vision instrument over the rest of the area, Falco detected two thermal outlines, most likely guards, he thought. Neither figure moved for several minutes, suggesting that one or possibly both were snoozing on the job. If only he could be so lucky, he thought.


Falco kept to the shadows as he crept toward his destination. When he was within twenty yards of the first guard, Falco holstered the Glock and drew the sleek combat knife. Gripping the knife with the blade held down and along his right forearm, he inched forward. The guards were sitting on opposite sides of the front porch, heads down and breathing deeply.


The rear of the building appeared unguarded, striking Falco as odd and more than a little disturbing. If they had gone to the trouble of adding security, why wouldn't they cover the rear of the building? His anxiety grew. He glanced up and made a mental note of the heavy mesh security screens covering the windows of the bungalow. The layout smacked of trap. Not that it would stop him from complete ling the mission.


Falco crept to within striking distance of the first guard, a thickly built human thrall with bullish shoulders. Falco willed his own muscles to relax, took a deep breath to infuse his blood with fresh oxygen, then exploded forward.


With the heel of his left hand, he struck the guard high on the bridge of the nose, snapping back his head and exposing the throat. The knife hissed through the air and opened a gaping wound below the man's double chin. On the backstroke, He buried the blade diagonally in the soft, exposed hollow between collarbone and neck. The double-strike had taken less then two full seconds and left nothing to chance. The guard dropped in a disheveled heap, body quivering in the morbid manner of the mortally wounded.


The second guard stirred, coming alert much quicker than Falco had anticipated. The thrall spotted his fallen partner, then Falco. Time froze for an instant. The delay was all Falco needed. Falco closed the distance between the man and himself in an economical blur of motion, drove the pommel into the man's solar plexus and was rewarded by an instant gush of putrid air smelling of raw sewage and ammonia.


As the guard doubled over, Falco cupped his hand behind the man's head and pulled down sharply. Knee met face with an audible crack. Falco caught the guard as he pitched forward, and slid the blade into the back of the man's brain, just above the first cervical, or Atlas vertebra. Another threat neutralized. His luck was holding. A double kill seldom, if ever, went so smoothly.


Falco stepped over the thrall's body and moved onto the low porch and tested the simple latch. The door was unlocked and swung open on well-oiled hinges. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The interior of the bungalow was dark and Falco used the monocular to scan the room. He located a second interior door and moved silently across the room.
Reaching the interior door, Falco paused for a few seconds in order to allow his pulse to drop to an acceptable level. Then, he pressed his ear to the cool wood and listened for sounds from within. Nothing. He drew the Glock from the holster, opened the bedroom door, and crept inside on the balls of his feet.



The bedroom was dark as pitch. The stench of living corruption clung to his skin and clothing like intelligent raw sewage with bad intentions. Falco again used the monocular. The spacious room was empty except for the lone figure lying on the canopied bed. He moved to the bed and stood over his target. Despite loathing for both the target and his task, there was no last minute struggle to reconcile duty with morality.


Falco was mildly surprised when his target spoke. "So, you've come for me, now, have you?" The man had a love for pain killers and expensive brandy. He should have been dead to the world at this hour. He would be very soon.


Falco had once known this man, studied at his side, and considered him both friend and mentor. Despite his anger, he needed to look into the man's eyes a final time.. If there remained any sign of humanity, any possibility of redemption... He dropped the monocular into his pants pocket and retrieved a small LED flashlight from a vest pocket.


Bishop Everett Hollingsworth lay partially covered by satin sheets. He was dressed in a silk nightshirt that bore an embossed monogram, the emblem of his office. The Bishop's expression was one of weary amusement, his eyes dark, calculating. There was no trace of fear... or repentance.
Falco's sense of duty was concrete and unassailable, but the target's casual tone struck him like a stinging slap across the face.


Falco struggled for a brief moment to find the words, then said, "I think you knew I would come. Why did you wait? You've only made it easy for me."


The tainted priest laughed and said, "Oh, Thomas. Do you not think I've prayed for death on a daily basis? Waiting for you has been something of a relief. If I've assisted you in fulfilling your duty in any way, perhaps it is my way of atoning for past mistakes.

Falco wasn't fooled. The man's tone held no such resignation. Given any opportunity, he would kill his former pupil and feed the corpse to the nest.


Anger surged through Falco like wild bolts of summer lightening and for the first time in many years, his emotions took over.


"Discipulus Daemonism! You casually dismiss your deliberate transgressions as a... a mistake? That's more than adequate reason to kill you. But worse, oh, so very much worse, you've committed the second greatest act of heresy in all creation. You willingly provided a demon with sanctuary and sustenance. You offer up your mind and body as a living vessel for the most corrupt essence in all of Creation. For this, you'll endure an eternity of endless deaths, each far worse than its predecessor."


The priest chuckled softly. It wasn't a pleasent sound. "Pretty words, my boy. Bold words from such a hypocrite. You forget that I know you. I know what you are and what you've done in the name of your God, the King of Liars. I also know your puppeteers, that pompous house of arrogant degenerates.


"And here you stand, self-appointed champion of almighty God. What has He ever done for you, Thomas? And what makes you think yourself a worthy champion in the first place? Is it your love of the Church? That miserable haven for murderers, thieves, and molesters of small children! God Himself knows how I indulged while wearing the robes. By what right does such an institution pronounce any degree of self-righteous judgment upon me or my masters? You've no right to damn me, murderer!"


Through clinched teeth, Falco said, "The Church has little to do with this. As for damning you, by virtue of your betrayal and my oath, it is my right, my duty, to do exactly that!"


"Then to hell with us both!" The Bishop's breathing grew raspy, deeper, more forceful. His eyes pulsed in the dark with an ugly yellow aura and Falco fought the urge to step back. Throwing back the sheets, Hollingsworth started to rise from the bed.


The priest was in th twilight of his years, and ordinarily no match for someone of Falco's military training and physical prowess. But Hollingsworth held an ace. He had the physical might of Legion coursing through his veins.


t let him get to his feet!


Falco shoved the Glock's heavy barrel into the man's face and drove him back onto the pillows. Stout fingers fueled by a murderous evil clawed at Falco's eyes and throat, but the former priest-turned-assassin brushed them aside. Planting a knee into Hollingsworth's sternum, Falco double-tapped the trigger. Two sub-sonic silicon-tipped slugs tore into the old man's brain, pronouncing earthly judgement for crimes against God and humanity.


Falco steeled himself for the inevitable aftershock and nearly fell as the room tilted, and spun violently. The episode, familiar yet always disorienting, was over in seconds. As the vertigo receded, Falco looked down upon the ruined face of the man he had once called Father. He searched Hollingsworth's lifeless hand for the ring, the signet of the office of Bishop Coadjutor. He tugged the ring free and dropped it into his vest pocket. Falco paused briefly to genuflect, then took a final look at his former mentor's lifeless body.


"Yeah, you knew me. Knew what I am," he said. "And now you know the wrath of my God. Peace be still."
<br>
End of Chapter One


***

This concludes the first look at Offspring: Keys of Solomon. (First chapter, second draft of three.)
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