The Devil You Know

by Sean Ellis

  They were waiting for him at the top.

  The Colombians had killed their lights and set an ambush. Their intimate familiarity with the trails cris-crossing the forest had enabled them to circle around to lay the trap. With their engines at a low, quiet idle and no lights showing, all they had to do was wait for the dancing beam of Kismet’s head lamp to get a little closer.

  The headlight speared up through the darkness like a searchlight as Kismet reached the crest of the hill and unknowingly entered the kill zone. He was just starting to accelerate when Capri let out a shriek. He felt her hands clutching fiercely at his waist, but then she was gone, yanked backward off the Enduro’s seat. Without thinking, he laid the bike on its side and rolled clear of its uncontrolled slide, just in time to see--barely visible in the impenetrable night--the last of the Dobermans closing on Capri; one of them was already menacing her, with jaws locked around her forearm. It was in that instant that the gunmen sprang their trap.

  In a curious sort of serendipity, the attack of the silently trailing dog pack had stymied the careful planning of the human predators. Their weapons were trained on the place they expected the mounted pair to be, not where the encounter with the canines had placed them. When the guns thundered from out of the trees, the bullets came nowhere near Kismet and Capri.

  The kukri flashed twice and the Doberman savaging Capri’s arm released its victim in order to emit a tortured howl. Deprived of its forelegs, the wounded animal writhed away in a panic, but its brethren were quick to move in. Kismet grabbed Capri’s hand, and slashed his way back toward the edge of the ravine, even as the two gunmen began to shift fire in their direction. A second Doberman went down, decapitated with a single swipe from the kukri, and then they were gone, tumbling down the steep embankment.

  Kismet knew they were a long way from being, both literally and figuratively, out of the woods, but when their downhill plummet ended in a tangle of bruise limbs, he risked a hasty question. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” she replied, gritting her teeth against the pain. “But I guess I’ll have to manage.”

  No sooner had she spoken than the sharp yelps of the remaining Dobermans, still doggedly chasing them, came rolling down the hill. A moment later, the roar of two separate engines drowned out the barking.

  One thing at a time, thought Kismet, as he got in front of Capri and brandished the knife.

  He met the canine charge with a swing of his kukri. The broad blade sliced into the skull of the foremost attacker, but as the mortally wounded beast scrambled violently away, the blood-slicked haft of the Nepalese fighting knife was wrestled from Kismet’s grip. The last remaining Doberman launched at his throat an instant later.

  He instinctively blocked with his forearm and felt the animal’s powerful jaws close like a vise, the needle sharp teeth sinking to the bone. The momentum of its charge bowled him over. With his free hand, he clawed blindly, searching for the dog’s eyes and ears, but found only its slippery coat.

  High above, the ATVs crested the hill and began the headlong descent, illuminating the battle between man and beast with their headlights. The two riders veered in opposite directions, an obvious flanking maneuver against which Kismet had no defense; his hands were full anyway.

  The dog’s teeth were savaging the flesh of his forearm, and no amount of punishment could persuade the animal to release its hold. Fiery agony spread from his fingertips to his elbow and only the narcotic effect of adrenaline kept him from taking refuge in unconsciousness. He was dimly aware of Capri, pounding her fists impotently against the dog’s torso, unwittingly exacerbating the injury to his arm by causing the animal to thrash back and forth. Meanwhile, the Colombians had reached the bottom of the ravine and were closing in like pincers from either side.

  With a heave, Kismet rolled over, pinning the twisting canine underneath his body. The abrupt move succeeded in loosening the Doberman’s grip on his arm, but that minor respite was incidental to what he had in mind. Reaching back with his left hand, he freed the Glock from its holster and shoved it against the beast’s rib cage. Twin explosions thundered beneath him as the weapon discharged. It was a risky shot; at such close range, the pressure of gas escaping the muzzle would do almost as much damage as the projectile, and there was no telling what might happen if the rounds deflected off bone or the hard ground underneath. The Doberman yelped violently, all thought of fighting gone, and squirmed from beneath him. Blood gushed from ragged wounds on either side of its torso, and even though it retreated with almost supernatural haste, its death was imminent.

  Kismet did not pause to savor the victory. He rolled over and fired from a prone position, emptying the automatic in the direction of the ATV approaching from the left. Behind the glare of the Bombardier’s twin headlights, he could distinguish random sparks and knew the driver was returning fire. When the slide on his pistol blew back for the final time, Kismet grabbed Capri’s arm and propelled her away from the point where the off-road vehicles would cross their path. He then stood erect at the exact midpoint between them, as if waiting for the axe to fall.

  It was, strangely enough, the safest place he could have chosen. Neither gunman dared fire on him, for fear of shooting his comrade; likewise, if either driver shifted course to run him down, they would risk a head-on collision. It was a classic game of chicken, and Kismet wasn’t about to blink.

  With less than twenty yards between them, the man Kismet had shot at, and possibly wounded, suddenly veered away from the impact zone. As if reacting to a telepathic signal, the other driver swung the front end of his Bombardier toward Kismet, but the latter was already moving; as soon as the first driver had relented, Kismet had sprinted after him, maintaining his position between the two. When the ATV cruised by, he leaped at the driver and snared the collar of the man’s shirt. The Colombian was wrenched off his seat, and he and Kismet went tumbling in a tangle of limbs. The ATV, equipped with a safety tether brake, stopped abruptly to form an impromptu barrier between the two men and the remaining vehicle.

  Because he was prepared for the impact, Kismet recovered from the bruising crash faster that his adversary and quickly wrestled control of the man’s machine pistol. His foe’s struggles were halted when Kismet clubbed him alongside the head with the captured weapon. Just as quickly, he scrambled closer to the abandoned Bombardier and took aim at the remaining assailant. A burst from the Skorpion knocked the rider backward off his mount, and when the ATV stalled a moment later, the night was plunged once more into silence.

  Capri came to his side. Her carefully manicured exterior was gone, replaced by a costume of blood and dirt, and her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the carnage all around. Kismet knelt to retrieve his kukri then took her arm. “Come on.”

  Disdaining the ATVs, he led her back up the hill to the motorcycle. As they climbed, he made a cursory examination of his wounds, then turned his attention to his companion. Her suit had borne the brunt of the Doberman’s furry. Beneath the shredded fabric, her wounds amounted to nothing more than bruises and a few abrasions. Kismet’s injuries were a little more severe--there were deep punctures on his forearm that would require medical attention to prevent serious infection--but he had been through worse. The bullet wound to his shoulder was barely a graze, for which he was thankful.

  Without the constant threat of pursuit, he was able to pay more attention to the trail, and oriented himself toward the edge of the property. As they closed on the wood line however, the sound of gunfire was once more audible in the distance. He put the bike in neutral and coasted to a stop at the edge of the forest. They found themselves on a short hill overlooking the paved driveway. The battlefield below was surreal in the orange glow of the overhead street lamps.

  Turino’s limousine had almost escaped the property, but had been forced to stop by an impromptu barricade of two vans that were now parked where the wrought iron gate had stood. One of the cars that Turino’s wiseguys had used to storm those gates had careened off the
road and slammed into a light post; there was no sign of the other. A trail of bodies--some mafia, some cartel--led from the wrecked vehicles to the gatehouse.

  Turino and his two bodyguards were still standing, and as Kismet watched, he saw them exchange fire with the two remaining Colombians. Negron’s men, perhaps overconfident in their superior firepower, wasted their ammunition, while their opponents directed their single shots with more care and precision. One of them went down with a gaping hole between his eyes, and his sole remaining comrade scrambled behind the vans.

  From their vantage, Kismet and Capri could see both sides of battle. The lone Colombian hugged the corner of the van, obviously looking for help that would never come, while the Don began gesturing decisively, directing one of his men to circle around and take the enemy from the flank. It was a classic infantry assault drill, and as that one man headed for the trees, Turino and the other bodyguard began a steady barrage of gunfire to keep their foe pinned down.

  “This will be over soon,” observed Kismet, speaking over his shoulder. If Capri was troubled by watching her grandfather in a life and death struggle, she gave no indication.

  Then something changed.

  It felt as if all light and warmth had suddenly drained out of the world, or at least everything in close proximity to the gun battle. Kismet suddenly felt very heavy, and for some reason, no matter how he directed his eyes, he found himself looking at a spot just behind the blockade. It was like staring into a black hole in space. There was a crackle like electricity, then Turino’s man was flung backward, past the limousine, to crash into the trees beyond.

  The two mafiosi gaped at their stricken comrade, but were likewise unable to divert their attention from the dark entity that glided out from behind the vans. It was Negron, and the Judas Rope at his waist was a vortex, devouring the light.

  The remaining bodyguard--it was Salvatore, the man who had pulled Kismet off the tracks of the LIRR--raised his revolver and pumped three shots into the dark monk. The bullets plucked at the fabric of his cassock, then exited with scant resistance. Negron appeared unhurt, but he reacted nonetheless, raising his gnarled fingers then swiping down in a clawing motion. A wave of chilled air radiated from the Judas Rope and Sal was blasted backward. Turino stood alone before his nemesis, his pistol pointing impotently at the ground as he waited for the inevitable.

  “Do something!”

  He knew that Capri was screaming in his ear, but her voice sounded distant, as if they were separated by a wall of ice. At that moment, the last of Negron’s minions burst from his hiding place and ran toward the fray. He leveled a burst at the dazed Sal, killing him instantly, then turned his assault rifle toward Turino.

  Kismet shook off his paralysis and twisted the throttle. He squeezed the clutch as the front wheel dropped onto the nearly vertical face of the cliff, letting gravity accelerate them faster than the engine could have in such a short distance. The Colombian sensed their approach an instant too late, swinging around to face them as the Enduro’s front tire rammed into his leg. The gunmen was thrown back into the limousine, but the impact twisted the wheel and tore the handlebars from Kismet’s grasp. The motorcycle went down on its side and the two riders were pitched headlong across the pavement.

  Dazed, Kismet struggled to his feet. On the other side of the limousine, Turino knelt before Negron like a penitent as the dark monk proffered his lethal blessing. The Mafia boss’ eyes were bulging from a face purple with trapped blood, and his mouth gasped soundlessly for breath. Kismet remembered that feeling, remembered the despair and helplessness suffered by the dark monk’s victims. Negron was omnipotent; he had the power of the devil in his hands, and the only thing that could oppose him was something that Kismet did not possess.

  Faith. You fight the devil with faith. But I don’t believe in....

  Then it hit him. He knew exactly how to defeat Negron.

  He ducked inside the limousine and emerged from the opposite door directly in front of the dark priest. He thrust the Glock toward the shadow beneath the cowl, where Negron’s face ought to have been. “Let him go.”

  Negron hissed then, astonishingly, let his captive fall. Turino dropped like a felled tree and Kismet did not dare look away from his nemesis to ascertain whether the Don was still alive. The satanic monk then turned the full might of his black gaze on Kismet. Before the latter could squeeze the trigger, Negron disdainfully backhanded the pistol, knocking it from Kismet’s hand with a blow that felt like a blast of liquid nitrogen. He stumbled back almost falling, then rebounded off the limousine. Negron raised his arms, as if in supplication, and began murmuring a strange twisted language. It was Latin, spoken backward.

  Kismet felt all life and light drain away, sucked into the vortex of the Judas Rope. His hand felt numb, locked it seemed in a manacle of ice. Every move was a struggle, but all he had to do was make two broad gestures.

  He reached up to his forehead then brought his hand down to the level of his waist in a vertical swipe. He then moved his hand up halfway, reached left and moved horizontally. It was the sign of the Cross.

  Negron’s rumbling invocation faltered.

  Kismet then brought out the object he had been concealing behind his back in his left hand. It was a bottle filled with clear liquid. Before the dark monk could move, Kismet began splashing the contents onto his cassock.

  “With blessed water I anoint thee,” he said in halting Latin. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost I baptize thee, and cleanse thee. Your sins are forgiven.”

  A pinprick of light pierced Negron’s shadowy countenance as realization dawned; realization of his sins and his defiance of the Almighty entity he had once been wholly devoted to. That tiny fracture, like a hairline crack in a dam, was all it took.

  Negron’s power fell away in streaks, as if the water of his baptism was literally washing him clean of the evil that had corrupted him for more than a century. His face, hollow and ancient was revealed beneath the cowl and Kismet saw only the pleading visage of a rheumy old man.

  It was the curse of Judas. Just as the original betrayer had sought to redeem himself with the sacrifice of his own life, only to be thwarted by an act of chance and eternally damned, so too his modern acolyte, faced with the possibility of his own redemption, had been deserted by his dark master at the moment of his greatest need. As the dark force that sustained him fled away, the burden of his unnaturally long life settled upon his flesh.

  Negron bent double, as if an unseen hand was folding him over, and then he crumpled onto the pavement. He managed to raise his eyes heavenward, pleading for mercy from his original lord and master, but his orbs had already turned to dust in their sockets. Kismet caught a last glimpse of his skeletal grimace, then the cassock deflated into a shapeless mass.

  Kismet sagged against the limousine for a moment, feeling as if Negron’s demise had taken part of his own soul along in the process, but then pulled himself erect and hastened to Turino’s side.

  The old capo was still conscious. “Where the devil did you get holy water?”

  “From your bar.” Kismet turned the bottle to display the Evian label.

  “I don’t understand. If it wasn’t really blessed, how did it stop him?”

  “He believed it was. His faith in relics and miracles is what gave him his power, but it was also his Achilles’ Heel. His absolute belief in the power of God was stronger than his desire to serve the other side.”

  Turino laughed again, but was overcome with a coughing fit. Blood streamed from between his lips. Though bruised and battered, Capri hastened to his side, but he shook his head. “Too late for me. You two get out of here before the police come. No need for this to ruin your life.”

  “No!” Panic seized Capri. Though her relationship with the old man had been troubled, he was her last living blood relative. “We can get you to a hospital. There’s time.”

  The last statement seemed more a question, and her gaze jumped to Kismet
, pleading for him to agree, but he knew better. Crimson had already soaked the front of Turino’s shirt beneath his jacket, and a dark pool was spreading around him. A bullet had pierced him through the left lung near the heart, possible nicking a vein, and his chest cavity was filling up with fluid. It was only a question of whether he would bleed to death or drown in his own blood. He shook his head imperceptibly, then looked Turino in the eye. “You’re Prometheus, aren’t you?”

  “You think I made it this far in life on my good looks?” Another scarlet-tinged chuckle.

  “You were the one who called Capri and told her to contact me. Why?”

  “I knew you could protect her.”

  “What makes me so damned special?” Kismet felt his fingers tightening on the dying man’s arm. “Why can’t you just trust people with the truth? What is Prometheus? What do you want with me?”

  “That is one oath I will not break.” A wry smile crossed Turino’s bloody lips. “Take care of her Nick. Promise a dying man.”

  There was nothing he could do to change the old man’s mind about revealing his most treasured secret, no effective method of coercing someone who could measure the rest of his life in seconds. “You have my word.”

  “One more thing,” he croaked. The spark of his life force was almost visibly guttering. “A benediction.”

  Kismet winced. “I’m no priest.”

  “Your blessing would mean more to me than any last rites.” His voice was now barely audible.

  Kismet gripped his shoulder. “Godspeed, my friend.” Strangely, even though he himself was not a believer, he found the words deeply profound, as if he had somehow tapped into the other man’s faith.