End of Days Read Online Free PDF Page A

change.” Chicago rattled the paper bag in his fist. “We’re gonna be late.”
    Jericho groaned and sat up. Chicago reached into the paper bag and took out a quart container of coffee. “There’s enough caffeine in here to kill an elephant. It should get you started.”
    Wincing, Jericho took the container, then swung his feet to the floor. He awkwardly pushed himself erect, thick-muscled limbs stiff and aching.
    â€œWhat’s today?” Jericho grunted, brushing past on his way to the kitchen.
    Chicago followed, but stayed well back when Jericho opened the refrigerator. His partner hated to throw good food—or bad—away. Eventually things took on a life of their own and moved to a better place.
    â€œToday we got Transport,” Chicago said, flashing a glossy black file.
    Jericho pulled out some leftover fried rice and pizza, and dumped them into a blender. “Anyone special?”
    â€œJust some Wall Street scumbag.”
    â€œWhy does he need all that protection?”
    â€œHe fucked over some people that don’t like being fucked over.”
    Jericho opened a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. “I like scumbags—they pay better.”
    Chicago watched with morbid fascination as his partner poured some Pepto into the blender with the leftovers—and added the steaming coffee.
    Jericho turned and gave him a wicked grin. “They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
    Then he pushed BLEND .
    *   *   *
    Despite the snowfall the night before, it turned out to be one of those crisp, clear days when everyone congratulated themselves on living in New York. Kids were tossing frisbees in the Sheep Meadow, adults were promenading along Madison Avenue, and tourists were gawking at the tree in Rockefeller Center, still festooned with holiday glitter.
    A few feet from Tiffany’s elegant windows, a homeless albino prayed to a steaming manhole. His pink eyes rolled up as a shadow swept across the street.
    A black helicopter circled low as police sirens whined in the distance. The white-skinned derelict turned back to his prayers, bowing to the gray puffs of steam bubbling from the manhole. He didn’t even look up when the wailing motorcade snaked past.
    The black helicopter swooped down just ahead of the motorcade, dipping low enough for curious pedestrians to read the STRIKER PRIVATE SECURITY logo emblazoned on its side. The helicopter pilot, Sam Yates, calmly surveyed both sides of the street, then switched on his mike. “This is Sky Two. Rooftops one-two-five through one-three-six are clear. Repeat clear. Proceed with client.”
    Seated inside a black Infiniti sedan trailing the client’s limo, Jericho Cane lifted his shirt cuff to his lips. “Roger Sky Two. Follow Alpha is on approach,” he droned into the small microphone clipped to his cuff. “ETA two minutes.”
    At the wheel, Chicago glanced at his partner. Dressed in a crisp new shirt and sharply pressed suit, Jericho looked like the cool, highly skilled professional he was. A far cry from the vodka-soaked wreck I roused two hours ago, Chicago noted with grudging admiration. The Big Cat had remarkable recuperative powers.
    As Chicago drove, Jericho’s deep-set blue eyes constantly scanned the street—windows, roofs, pedestrians, vendors—everything. His mind and body were on hyper-alert. At the same time Jericho methodically checked his twin Glock nine-millimeter pistols before slipping them into the quick-draw holsters strapped to both his wrists. The Glocks were holstered butt down—so Jericho could draw them both by bringing his hands together. Chicago had seen him do it. Or more precisely, he’d seen two Glock nines leap into the Big Cat’s hands out of nowhere.
    The client’s limo was nearing its destination. Jericho kept his eyes on the street but he was uncomfortably aware of his partner. They’d worked, played,