Another of the bull statures dominated the center of the chamber. At first I thought it was made of polished brass, but the more I stared at it the more I realized that it was gold. Maybe it was gold paint or gold plate, but somehow I got the impression that there was a serious amount of actual gold there.
And in a strange way it fit with the whole Moloch vibe. A demon who was the treasurer of hell. A creature who the ancient Ammonites and Phoenicians believed would guide certain men toward wealth. Would men like these — the financial kings of this city — have a false idol, one painted with sham gold?
No, I didn’t think so.
Somehow that made me a little more afraid.
This was looking a lot less like a frat stunt that got too serious and more like an actual cult. Or, I guess… a religion.
Did people really believe in something like this? Could they?
I mean… a cult that required human sacrifices wasn’t something you simply joined. Every man here risked life imprisonment or death row. At the very least this was felony murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, and a laundry list of capital crimes. I don’t care what kind of big-ticket lawyer they trotted out, everyone even remotely attached to this would go down for the hardest of hard falls.
And yet here they were, putting on robes, waving their chubbys around as they got ready to commit another murder.
What was the payoff that made this kind of risk worth it?
I mean… how could one member of the club ever sell this kind of thing to a friend?
Shit.
The thing that really chilled my blood, though, was the art on the walls. Spaced at regular intervals around the room were two-by-three foot posters in wooden frames. Women’s faces. All very young, all very pretty. Each of them looked absolutely terrified, some looked like they were in terrible agony when the photos were taken.
I counted them.
There were sixteen pictures. And empty frames for another ten.
I could only see a couple of the faces — and they were strangers, but I’m pretty sure I’d seen them before, but in pictures I’d seen none of them had their skin. Were these trophy shots, taken during rape or torture? Or at the moment of their deaths?
The wolf began to growl, low and with dark intent, deep inside my brain.
One man, a very tall, thin guy with prematurely white hair, kept glancing toward the door through which I’d entered and then down at his watch. He was probably wondering where the rest of his fellow worshippers were.
My time was running out. Bambi’s, too.
So where was…?
Suddenly a curtain in the back of the chamber opened and two burly guards came out, supporting Bambi between them. She was dressed in a little tunic that was made from the sheerest of fabrics and belted by a gold sash. The girl was able to walk, but even from across the room I could see that she was totally whacked out. Drugged on something. She seemed to float along with the men, her mouth slack, eyes glazed.
The gathered men all turned and began applauding. Some of them were still naked. They beamed smiles at her and gave her a thunderous great ovation, pounding their hands together with enthusiasm that was clearly genuine. One of them started a chant and within seconds the others joined in. Someone cut the tribal music and chants to allow this new mantra to dominate the room.
No real surprise what they chanted.
“Moloch… Moloch… Moloch…”
Balls.
But they were chanting like frat boys. “Moe-lock… Moe-lock…”
Made it sound a little silly, but for all that it was still scary as shit.
The man with the white hair nodded to the guards and they half-led, half-pushed Bambi up a short flight of steps in front of the golden statue. Then they used red silk scarves to tie her wrists and ankles to small rings set into the statue.
The gathered men applauded this, too. They were a happy bunch. They laughed and elbowed each other and hurried to pull on their robes.
White-hair looked at his watch again and spoke to one of the guards, nodding toward the door as he did so. The guard immediately began heading toward the door.
My time was up. If the guard went downstairs he’d see the three guys I’d trashed.
What choice did I have?
I stepped out of the shadows and pointed the gun at the center of the crowd. As I did so I yelled to the whole crowd, very loud and very clearly.
“Shut the fuck up.”
They did.
They actually froze in place, their chant snapped off like someone had hit a switch, leaving their mouths hanging open. White-hair pointed a finger at me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
It was a reasonable question.
Wasn’t one I wanted to answer, though.
“Cut the girl down,” I said.
They didn’t. They also didn’t move or speak. The whole bunch of them simply stood there and stared at me. So I swung my gun toward White-hair, aiming it at his face.
“Cut her down,” I repeated. “Right now.”
He didn’t even bother looking at the gun. Instead he looked at me and a slow smile formed on his face.
Smiles are not what you want to see when you have someone in your sights. You want to see fear and a cooperation born from a desire for self-preservation.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“The fuck does that matter to you?”
“You come in here, waving a gun, disrupting our religious services — we should at least know who you are and why you’re here.”
“I’m just here for the girl,” I told him. “I’m taking her out of here and I’ll blow a hole in anyone who so much as blinks.”
The rude son of a bitch actually blinked. Deliberately and repeatedly. Smiling all the time.
“You’re not a policeman,” he said.
“I could be.”
He shook his head. “We own the police.”
Ah.
“And you’re not FBI.”
“You own them, too?”
Another shake. “No…but they’re too smart to show up alone.”
“Now that’s just mean,” I said.
He chuckled. So did I. The other guys didn’t laugh, though there were a few tentative smiles. Most of them were still trying to figure out what was going on. Me, too. Only White-hair seemed to be comfortable with the way things were falling out. I didn’t find that comforting.
I cut a look at Bambi. She was still on her feet, but the glazed look in her eyes was intensifying. I wondered if they shot her up with something just before bringing her out. It looked like the drug was still hitting her system. She tugged at her bonds but instead of being alarmed at being restrained she seemed only mildly surprised.
“Look, chief,” I said to White-hair, “let’s cut the shit. Cut the girl down now.”
“Or—?”
“I thought we covered that. I shoot you and take her anyway.”
He nodded at my gun. “That’s a Glock 17 with an optional floor plate, which gives you nineteen rounds instead of the standard seventeen. That’s nineteen shots max and there are more than twenty of us, not counting the guards. Even if you dropped one man with each bullet — and I think we can both agree that’s unlikely — the rest of us will drag you down.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” he said.
“You won’t live to see it happen.”
“I don’t care.”
He looked like he genuinely didn’t.
“Bet you’ll feel different when your brains are on the wall.”
He shook his head. “If I die then I ascend to the golden halls of Lord Moloch where I will sit on a jeweled throne and have a thousand slaves bowing at my feet.”