Assault Force. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 was heavier by fifty pounds or so than he remembered. The man was five years his junior, but the face he saw was old and tired, heavily creased but flaccid from the good life. There was laughter, faded as it was, in the dark eyes, but a cold emptiness betrayed to Gadiz a soul weary of the world but wanting to still indulge all of its pleasures. The gray suit was silk, the diamonds and gold on his fingers and around his neck the best his wealth, he was sure, could afford. Gadiz watched as he drank from a bottle of beer, swallowed a shot of whiskey, lining it up beside three empties, then gestured at the empty chair, snapping his fingers at the same time for a waitress. While the man lit a cigarette, Father Gadiz sat.

      There was silence, then the man said, “How long has it been, Father? Five, six years?”

      “At the very least.”

      “Father. Considering we never had one…that has a very strange ring to it, don’t you think?” He paused, trying to comprehend something, then bobbed his head, a strange smile on his lips. “Father. Or can I still call you brother?”

      3

      Michael Charger saw them coming, all mouth and drunken swagger, but planned to sit tight, let events unfold as they would. Come what may, the tab could never be squared from where he sat. Still, all things considered—the coked-out temper tantrums, head-lopping of writers, directors and other key staff who were expected to make gold out of crap, what with the star himself barely able to throw a believable punch without umpteen takes, slow-motion choreography or computer graphics added postproduction—he figured to enjoy a live show where life might well imitate art.

      The former United States Navy SEAL captain gave his two twenty-something buddies a grin, shook his head. The two knuckleheads came into focus from the east quad. It was crystal clear where they were headed and the object of their scorn. Roy Barnwell and Jimmy Rosco fidgeted, scowling. Charger could understand their dilemma. It was called job security.

      Charger knew life in the fast lane of Hollywood was their only battlefield to date. At their tender age—with their fat paychecks—he suspected they feared the all-night parties with beautiful groupies and noses dug into conveyor belts of cocaine might skid to a screeching halt. Obscure in their profession, at best, he was sure they would be first in line to get kicked off the gravy train if something should happen to Bret Cameron.

      The drunks in question cranked it up another decibel, pointing and laughing at Hollywood’s latest hunk as they bridged the gap. Sid Morheim, Cameron’s agent, became a human cannonball, shot out of his leather throne. The local groupies followed his mad dash for the photographers with squeals of delight. The tabloid flunkies smelled blood, no question, ready to cash in from the anticipated fracas.

      Maybe the agent had arranged a publicity stunt to sell more tickets for the guy’s latest sequel, Charger thought. As a soldier who knew the score in the real blood-and-guts world, this bunch came straight from planet Phony. In his experience there were no decent human beings in the movie business.

      Were it not for who he’d been in real life, it might have bugged him to no end being the guy’s stunt double. He was often mistaken in public for the star by beautiful young barracudas. There was some resemblance in physique, but the faces didn’t quite match other than lean and mean hawkish. Age, for one thing, not so much in years, but wear and tear of grim experience under the fire of live rounds. Scars around the eyes and jaw from the kissing end of bullets were another problem, requiring touching up in the cutting room with computer graphics often switching mugs for any shot other than long. To keep Bret Cameron on top, superhuman tough for the world to behold, took three of them, and he figured they’d shared more concussions, burns, broken bones and torn ligaments, more stitches scalp to foot than many of the surviving war victims he’d seen in both Gulf wars, and beyond.

      Charger could see his comrades growing more agitated to help Tyrell and Guamo run interference, but two things most likely kept them glued to their seats. One, they looked up to him, as the right stuff who had СКАЧАТЬ