“Finish it!” he ordered his legion. They fell upon the house like rabid beasts, tearing and smashing it and each other in their frenzy until the sands were littered with blood-blackened timber.
He couldn’t go back to Lucifer. Not until he had Malak and Cael. Asmodai was no fool. He knew what his fate would be if he went back to Hell and announced his failure. Memories of Balam and Mephistopheles danced through his head, making him shiver.
No, he couldn’t go back.
Not yet.
Suddenly his three heads looked at one another, then laughed, bleating, bawling, and hooting together. He knew. He knew where to find them!
Sooner or later they’d show up at the door of the third Horseman. Asmodai knew they would figure out his identity. Personally, Asmodai suspected Heavenly interference. They’d found Balam and Mephistopheles far too quickly. In any case, that’s where Asmodai would find them, and that’s where he would take them down.
It was time to pay the third Horseman a visit.
Merihim, the Prince of Pestilence—better known as Big Tex, owner of the Cowboy Roundup, the fastest food in the wild, wild, west—needed to be warned.
“SON, IF’N you got business with me, I suggest you get down to it. I ain’t got all day.”
Big Tex sat behind his huge, curving rosewood desk, wearing his trademark white Stetson, a large cigar poking out between his fleshy lips. His hands were folded over his stomach, a huge gut that stretched the buttons on his fringed red cowboy shirt to their limits. Jeans, a large, oval, silver bull riding belt buckle, and a pair of handmade snakeskin cowboy boots rounded out his outfit. They were the only clothing he was ever seen in, no matter whether he was attending a ball or holding court in his posh office at the Roundup Headquarters in Secaucus, New Jersey.
It had been a relatively easy thing to possess the body of Big Tex. Merihim had slipped inside his body easily. Big Tex had been soft, an astute businessman but a lousy warrior. He’d hardly put up any fight at all. No one had even noticed the difference.
This Tex had never been to Texas, wouldn’t know one end of a horse from the other, the only bull he was familiar with was of the oral variety, and he’d learned his drawl by watching old Tom Mix movies. Interestingly enough, Merihim had absorbed bits and pieces of Big Tex’s personality, which helped complete the illusion.
Big Tex frowned as Asmodai paced back and forth in front of his desk working himself up into a fine tizzy, wasting Tex’s time. He’d been jawin’ for the better part of an hour, and the only reason Merihim hadn’t thrown him out on his ass—or better still in bite-sized pieces—was because he claimed he’d been sent by Lucifer. The more Asmodai talked, though, the more Merihim was beginning to doubt his word. Surely Lucifer wouldn’t put his faith in this barnyard reject, would he? Besides, he was talking nonsense. Something about a demon and an angel teaming up to stop Merihim’s plans. It was ridiculous.
Tex had more important things to do than sit around listening to a whiny little demon trying to tell him what to do.
“What is with you people? What do I have to do to get it through your thick skulls that these two are dangerous? They took out Balam and Mephistopheles, and they’re going to come for you next, Merihim!” Asmodai yelled.
My, but he was a sight, with his goat and bull heads all but foaming at the mouth.
“Horseshit. Ain’t no way these two varmints could figure out who I am. Big Tex has been around for a long, long time, son, not like Balam and ’Lees, who just popped up out of thin air! This face has been plastered on burger boxes and Styrofoam cups for twenty-five years! Shit, boy! Ain’t no way these two assholes are gonna figure out that I’m the third Horseman! Ain’t nobody that smart.”
“You don’t know these two. I think they’ve got an informant Upstairs.”
Tex leaned forward, resting his hands on the desktop, bushy brows knitting together. “Heaven don’t get involved with earth politics no more. Got their heads stuck too far up their celestial butts to see what’s going on down here. No way they’re feeding information to anybody.” He pointed a fat sausage finger at Asmodai. “Now you listen up. Everything is going according to plan. In the basement of this very building is a state-of-the-art lab that Tex has been funding for nearly twenty years. Those good ol’ boys were working on secret sauces and sesame buns and whatnot. Now they’re cooking up batches of the Roundup Virus. Gonna be done any day now.”
He leaned back again, his eyes taking on a dreamy look. “Pretty soon every Cowboy Roundup burger is gonna have a new special sauce courtesy of those lab boys. Every french fry is gonna be salted with a whole new flavor. Every shake, every soft drink, in every restaurant I own is gonna get that little bit of extra flavoring. Got that new contract to provide airline food, and one to provide meat for the military. Before you know it, the whole world is going to be dancing the Big Tex two-step. Ain’t gonna stop there, though, no way, no how. Wouldn’t be neighborly to keep all the fun to our own selves. Gonna put a little dab or two in every large body of water on the planet. No more fresh water, no more fish….”
Asmodai had stopped pacing, and all three of his heads were staring at Merihim, riveted. “What kind of virus is it?” he asked.
“Ha! Just the most potent, nasty sumbitch ever cooked up! Makes the Black Plague look like a goddamn cold. Makes Ebola look like the sniffles! Kills in three hours, son. Three hours after eating one my burgers or fries, or swallowing a mouthful of shake, and their fucking organs will implode! Ain’t that sweet? Nobody will have time to figure out where the virus came from. They’ll be too busy with people dropping like flies to worry about finding the cause. Bodies piling up in the streets, rotting where they dropped, animals and insects taking a nip and spreading the virus even farther. It’s gonna be a beautiful thing.”
“You should still make preparations for when Cael and Malak—”
“For corn’s sake, son! Did you hear what I just said, or do you have potato farms growing between all those ears you’re sporting?” Merihim rose to his feet, gut and jowls jiggling. He didn’t have much patience to begin with, and Asmodai had used all of it. “Nobody can stop this. Nobody! The fellas downstairs tell me that all they need is another couple of days. Then… boom! It’ll be shipped to every operation I own simultaneously. There’ll be no stopping it. Before he can blink, Lucifer will have so many souls that they’ll have to take a fucking number to get into Hell!”
“But—”
“That’s it! This meeting is over. I got things to do, son. Important things, and you’re just taking up my time with nonsense.” Merihim walked past Asmodai, ignoring the angry noises his animal heads were making. “Go on and get. I’ll see you in Hell.”
He stalked out of the room, leaving Asmodai standing there with his mouths hanging open.
RAIN HAMMERED at the windows as a ferocious storm bore down on the farmhouse. The thin walls shook with each thunderclap, lightning flashing outside the windows, briefly illuminating the fields.
Inside the house, aside from the momentary bursts of lightning, the only light came from the computer monitor. It flickered almost imperceptibly, bathing Cael and Malak’s faces with a ghostly radiance as they stared at the image Cael’s nimble fingers had brought up.
The screen showed a close-up photo of an obese man wearing a white cowboy hat, smiling at the camera. In one hand he held up an old-fashioned six-shooter, in the other, a hamburger with all the fixings. The caption under the photo read, “Big Tex’s Cowboy Roundup Chain Beats All Records For Sales. Moves To Number One On Forbes’s 500 List Of Financial Giants.”
“You have to be mistaken. This company’s been owned and operated by the same guy for twenty-five years,” Malak said, leaning over Cael’s shoulder.
“Why not? Come on, Malak! You know how fond demons are of possessing humans! Ever see The Exorcist? Whoever the Horseman is, I’m willing to bet that he’s taken up residence in fat boy, here.”
“But it’s Big Tex! He’s got his pictu
re on lunch boxes, for crying out loud! Television commercials. Billboards. Cartoons! They’ve put his cowboy hat in the Smithsonian Institution!”
“I know. He’s perfect. No one would suspect him, would they? The third Horseman is pestilence, Malak. What better way to spread disease than through everyone’s favorite burger chain? What richer irony than to cause famine through cheap fast food?”
“How would he do it? They have food inspectors, laws….”
“Mephistopheles spelled the minds of law enforcement to look the other way. Hell, I’ve done it myself with our creditors, Malak. It would be easy.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Cael. It’s not right that we shouldn’t be paying our bills—”
“Malak, I think we’ve got bigger problems to worry about than our credit rating right now,” Cael said, rolling his eyes at him.
“If he’s the third Horseman, which I still doubt.”
“He is.”
“He looks too fat to be Famine.”
“Lucifer has a wicked sense of irony, Malak.”
“I guess we’re going to Secaucus, huh?”
“Guess so. Let’s suit up.”
Casting a forlorn look at the rain pelting the windows, Malak sighed. “I hate flying in the rain. My feathers get soggy.”
Cael turned around and grinned up at him. “All part of the trials and tribulations of saving the world, darlin’. Look at it this way—it could be worse. We could be wearing tights and capes.”
“I don’t have the legs for tights.”
“When did you get so saucy?” Cael laughed. He stood up, pulling Malak into his arms. Malak melted into him, taking a long, sweet kiss.
“You’re a bad influence.”
“That’s the story of my life, hon. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with your legs. I like ’em. Especially when they’re wrapped around my waist.”
“You are a horndog.”
“And you love it. Admit it.” Cael grinned.
“And an arrogant horndog to boot.”
“Keep talking dirty to me, baby.”
“Come on.” Malak laughed, smacking Cael on the shoulder. “Let’s get going before we end up in bed again. We have things to do, worlds to save.”
Chapter Seventeen
IN CAEL’S humble opinion, the building that housed the Cowboy Roundup Headquarters was reminiscent of its owner—squat, wide, and possessing an overblown sense of self-importance.
The lawn in front of the building had been planted with bright yellow flowers in the shape of a huge lone star. Surmounting the star was a bigger-than-life-sized statue of Tex, seated on the back of the rearing black stallion that was the company’s icon. One bronze arm was raised in the air, as if he was leading an attack, but instead of a sword he held a triple cheeseburger.
The gray cinderblock building sat sprawled across several acres of land in the heart of Secaucus, surrounded on all sides by slaughterhouses. The reek of death was palpable. One could feel it on the skin, taste it in the air.
It was the perfect choice of location for a Horseman, Cael thought as he and Malak stood on the building’s flat roof, surveying the area. Surrounded by death, Big Tex—whoever he really was—should feel right at home.
Dim, they went unseen by the patrolling guards. They were armed to the teeth, Cael noticed, an odd choice of security for a burger conglomerate’s main offices. If Cael wasn’t mistaken, those boys were armed with semiautomatic weapons. Why? After all, it wasn’t as if they were guarding the World Bank. What was here to steal—Big Tex’s special secret sauce recipe?
Maybe it was worth the maximum security, Cael thought, if that recipe contained the formula to brew up the End of Days.
Next to him, Malak shook his wings, flinging water in every which direction. “Now what?” he asked, as his wings shimmered into invisibility.
“Now we find Big Tex,” Cael answered, wiping water from his eyes.
“And say what? ‘Hey, Tex? Um, you wouldn’t happen to be a demon, would you? Mind letting us in on your evil master plan?’”
“Yeah, something like that. Of course, if I’m using my little buddy here to ventilate his scaly hide while I’m asking, he might be more inclined to answer.” Cael grinned, patting the Škorpion that was cradled in the crook of his arm.
“You do realize there’s the possibility that Tex is only human and that you might be using one of America’s most beloved figureheads for target practice, right?”
“Yeah. So what’s the worst that can happen? I get damned to Hell?” Cael shrugged, checking his ammo.
“Point taken. Still, I don’t want to hurt an innocent, Cael.”
“Don’t worry, Malak. By the time I pull the trigger, we’ll know if he’s the Horseman.”
“How?”
“By exploiting the single sin that every one of Lucifer’s generals have in common.”
“What’s that?”
“Arrogance. All we need to do is drop a few insults, say how idiotic his plan is, and he’ll be foaming at the mouth,” Cael answered.
Flashing a devil-may-care grin at Malak, Cael tested a door that opened onto the roof. It was locked, but grunting, he tore it free from its hinges. They both cringed at the metallic scream of the door pulling free of its moorings.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just send up a flare and let them know we’re here?” Malak whispered. “Save you the trouble of tearing the building apart.”
“You know, I think there’s a little too much of me in you now,” Cael sniffed. “You’re supposed to be the good one, remember, angel?”
“I am good. You’ve said so yourself on numerous occasions. And as far as I’m concerned, there’s never too much of you in me,” Malak replied with an impish grin. “Neither too much or too often.”
Cael blew Malak a kiss and then stepped into the darkness of the stairway that led down into the belly of the beast. The internal door opened easily, leading to a plain cinder block hallway lined with steel doors on each side.
“Wow, Big Tex sure didn’t spend much on interior design, did he? This place looks like a bunker,” Malak whispered as they stepped through.
“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s exactly what it is,” Cael answered, giving Malak a pointed look. “A bunker… or a fallout shelter.”
Remaining dim, they made their way down the hall, checking each door in turn. Most were stockrooms, filled to the rafters with empty crates. Bags of packing straw and Styrofoam peanuts were stacked like kindling, along with bundles of collapsed boxes.
“Gee, wonder what they’re getting ready to ship out?” Cael asked, cocking an eyebrow at Malak.
“Doesn’t prove a thing, Cael.”
Damn, but Malak was stubborn. Cael was certain, absolutely positive, that Big Tex was the third Horseman. He could feel the evil in the air, and it was only getting thicker as they moved deeper into the building.
The next door he tried opened into a long, wide storage area that was crammed ceiling to floor with weaponry. Rifles, handguns, submachine guns, a few rocket launchers, and boxes upon boxes of ammunition side by side with flamethrowers, hand grenades, and bricks of plastic explosives. In addition, there were boxes filled with dehydrated food and bottled water, and rows of gas masks hung neatly along one wall.
“Okay, so maybe Big Tex is into survivalism,” Malak said weakly. Obviously, even he didn’t believe what he was saying.
“Yeah, and maybe I moonlight as the Tooth Fairy. I’m thinking that these are weapons and supplies for his human mercenaries. He’ll need them to take out the few humans who survive the plague.”
One door led to a community bathroom, while the rest of the rooms on this floor were barracks-style bedrooms—four sets of bunk beds and four footlockers. Reaching the end of the hallway, Cael led Malak down another flight of stairs to the main floor of the building.
This floor had been decorated to impress. Cael and Malak stepped into a large reception area, where polis
hed brass fixtures accented rich dark wood paneling. Plush sofas and chairs of butter-soft dark brown leather were arranged in intimate groupings. The floor was marble.
There were people milling about, dressed in suits and carrying briefcases instead of submachine guns. It was nearing quitting time, and they all seemed in a hurry to go home.
Cael sniffed delicately at a man as he passed close by but couldn’t detect the sour stench of brimstone on him. They were just humans, without the slightest idea of what was really going on behind the scenes at Cowboy Roundup.
Another hallway extended out from the reception area, ending at a massive pair of double doors. There was no nameplate, but it really wasn’t necessary. Anyone who looked at those intimidating mahogany doors with their brass horse-head knockers would know immediately that there was only one man whose office would warrant such an impressive entryway.
“Overcompensating, you think?” Malak whispered in Cael’s ear.
Stifling a chuckle, Cael tossed a stern look at Malak. “Knock it off, Malak. Time to get serious.”
“Yes, mommy.”
“Not funny, Malak.”
“Cael, if he’s the Horseman, we may not make it out of that office in one piece. I don’t want our last words to each other to be ‘lock and load.’”
Feeling a sudden lump in his throat at the thought of losing Malak, Cael ducked in for a quick kiss. “I love you,” he whispered. “How’s that for last words?”
“Much better.” Malak smiled. “I love you too.”
“Good. Now, lock and load,” Cael said with a grin.
They cracked open the doors and slipped inside the office.
Big Tex’s office was reflective of his persona. Everything in it was oversized and overstated, from the beautiful rosewood desk and the overstuffed leather chairs that sat in state in one corner of the room, to the floor to ceiling bookcase that lined one entire wall.
Dancing on the Head of a Pin Page 11
