Armageddon - By James Patterson Page 0,31
said Dana. “He told you to eat Kentucky Burgoo?”
“Basically.”
“Best spiritual advisor ever,” proclaimed Joe. “Did he also suggest the Derby pie for dessert? Because it looks amazing. Like a chocolate-walnut candy bar wrapped inside piecrust!”
“He also told me that when the time comes, Abbadon will bring the fight to me.”
“Abba-dabba who?” said Mel.
“Abbadon. That’s the name Number 2’s given himself, so I did a quick Google search on it.” I tapped my head, indicating my built-in Wi-Fi access. “In the Book of Revelation, at the very end of the Bible, Abbadon is described as the king of the bottomless pit and the leader of a legion of beasts with locust wings and scorpion tails.”
Dana put down her spoon. “Like those things that attacked us on the bridge back in D.C.?”
“And probably would’ve torn us all to pieces,” said Emma, “if Mel hadn’t blasted them with those ultrasonic waves.”
Mel shrugged. “I improvised. You guys would’ve done the same thing.”
Dana was looking uncomfortable, so I figured it was time to change the subject. “Agent Judge? I’m a little worried about security. If Abbadon is going to bring the fight to me, he and his troops could come here.”
“Rest easy. My men have set up an impenetrable perimeter around the entire property.”
He gestured toward the matrix of high-tech security screens built into the dining room wall. We could see FBI agents armed with heavy alien weaponry patrolling the white fence line of the horse ranch.
The hulking navy cook came in from the kitchen, sporting a hand blaster strapped on under the strings of his stain-splotched apron. “You guys still have room for dessert, right?” said the chef.
“You bet,” said Joe.
“Always,” added Mel.
“Good,” said the cook. “Because an army marches on its stomach.”
“And retreats on its butt,” said Joe.
We had another laugh and, somehow, everybody at the table, including the cook, who sat down to join us, managed to find just enough room for a slice or two of Derby pie.
Things stayed pretty quiet until Joe scraped the pie plate clean with his fork and the rest of us leaned back in our chairs to digest the feast.
“Was the pie your wife’s recipe, too?” asked Emma.
“Yes,” said Agent Judge softly. “It was.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Emma said to both Agent Judge and Mel.
“Thanks, Emma,” said Mel.
“Did she pass away recently?”
Mel shook her head. “No. A long time ago.”
Agent Judge didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he turned to me. “I guess that’s something else you and Mel have in common.”
“Sir?”
“You both lost your mothers at an early age.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t ready for what he said next.
“And they were both murdered by the same beast.”
“Number 1?”
Mel nodded.
“When he was finished at your house,” she said, “he came to ours.”
Chapter 42
TO MAKE ABSOLUTELY certain Agent Judge and Mel didn’t suffer any more losses because of me and my presence under their roof, I took the gang on an after-dinner stroll around the ranch.
“I love taking a long walk after dinner,” Emma said, drinking in the cool night air. “The sky is so crisp and clear. Look at all those stars.”
“Hey, Daniel, I think I can see your house from here,” Joe said, pointing at a tiny twinkling dot on the eastern horizon.
“It’s so romantic,” Dana said, squeezing Willy’s hand.
Yes, the two of them were still holding hands.
“Not to be a downer, guys,” I said, “but we have work to do. I want to make one hundred percent certain security is airtight.”
We came upon two FBI agents on sentry duty.
“Evening, folks,” said one.
“State your business,” said the other.
“I’m Daniel. These are my friends. We’re double-checking Agent Judge’s security setup.”
“We’re locked and loaded,” said the brusque one, brandishing an RJ-57 tritium-charged bazooka powerful enough to drill all the presidents on Mount Rushmore new nostrils. “No one, alien or human, gets in or out without passing a checkpoint.”
“We have teams set up every hundred meters along the fence line,” said the other one, who was toting a high-intensity microwave pistol some alien outlaw must’ve dropped in a firefight with the IOU. “But I have to admit, our air defenses are a little weak. I wish we had more than a standard radar package and the HAWK surface-to-air missile system.”
“I wish we had a big glass dome,” said his gruff partner. “Like in The Simpsons Movie.”
I grinned. I loved that movie—and I thought the bazooka-toting FBI guy’s idea was brilliant! So while he hummed a few bars of “Spider Pig,” I closed my eyes and started thinking