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.”