JULY 13, 1977
SOUTH BRONX, NEW YORK
Hopper retraced his steps as best he could, remembering more of the headquarters layout than he realized. It didn’t take him long to reach the central block of offices, and, following the sounds of the gang’s search, he managed to locate Leroy’s team.
“Hey, man, any luck?”
Hopper shook his head, and glanced at the two others standing with his fellow infiltrator. He had to be fast, allowing no room for doubt.
“Someone’s seen something over in the west building,” said Hopper. He nodded at the two others. “You two, go grab Lincoln and his crew, head over to that side. Me and Leroy will go out into the street, come in from the back. That should corner them.”
The other two glanced at each other as they processed Hopper’s on-the-fly instructions. It was Leroy who stepped in. He clapped his hands.
“Hey, you heard the dude, let’s roll, let’s roll!”
This seemed to be enough. The two men slapped Leroy on the shoulder as they passed, picking up the pace as they headed down the hallway. Hopper waited until they were out of sight, then turned to Leroy.
The young man nodded, a wry smile on his face.
“So where is she?” he asked.
Hopper laid a hand on Leroy’s shoulder, pulling him in for a close conference.
“Her name is Lisa, and you need to get her out. She’s got important information for the feds, okay? She needs to get back to Gallup, safe and sound.” He looked Leroy in the eye. “You think you can get her out without being caught?”
“You just leave this to me.”
Hopper gave directions back to the old office as best he could, Leroy nodding along, saying he knew where to go. Hopper waved him off, then took a look around, getting his bearings. He was on the ground level of the main office area, Saint John’s office four floors above his head.
Perfect.
With Lisa hopefully on her way out to safety, Hopper felt a sense of relief, a weight lifting that gave him new urgency, new energy.
It was time to go take a closer look at the storage rooms.
Now recognizing the hallways of the central block, Hopper ducked into the first empty office he had seen before. The room was filled with the wooden crates, all neatly stacked in piles of six that reached about chest level. Now Hopper noticed that each crate was in fact stamped with some kind of identifying mark, but on every one it had been obliterated with a few haphazard strokes of black spray paint.
Hopper moved to the crate closest. It was nailed shut, and he was going to need a tool to open it, something like the crowbar he’d had back down in the warehouse. Turning around, he saw there was nothing in the office that was going to be of use. Cursing under his breath, Hopper ducked back out in the corridor and tried the next office, then the next.
He got lucky. Like the office he’d left Lisa in, this one still had an old desk in it, pushed into the corner. The top was wooden, but taking a closer look, Hopper saw the drawers on either side of the desk were metal. Pulling one out, he lifted it up to examine the construction. It was four metal plates, held together from the sides by four screws. The base was a flat sheet of metal, and rattled at his touch.
Hopper took the drawer back to the first office. Placing it on the floor, he held the back of the drawer down with the toe of one boot, and grabbed the drawer handle with both hands. Two hard tugs and the drawer buckled—enough for him to pull out the base sheet of metal.
The makeshift tool was better than nothing. Moving now to the stack of crates, he squeezed the corner of the metal sheet under the lip of the crate’s lid, alternately levering and sliding the sheet farther in until he had made enough of a gap to get his fingers under. The nails slid out freely after that. Hopper laid the lid against the side of the stack, next to the metal sheet, and looked inside the crate.
It was exactly as he had suspected. Inside, lying on a bed of straw stuffing, was a gun—more precisely, a Kalashnikov assault rifle, also known as an AK-47. Soviet-designed, manufactured somewhere in the Eastern bloc. Largely unchanged in the last thirty years, the AK-47 was surprisingly simple but highly effective, requiring little maintenance and little skill in its use, making it the number one black-market choice for guerilla groups all over the world and the big drug cartels closer to home.
But for a New York gang, it was some seriously heavy metal. Hopper lifted the weapon out, and gave it a cursory once-over. He didn’t need to employ much of his firearms knowledge to know he was holding the real deal. Hefting the ugly weapon in one hand, he checked in the crate. It looked like there were five more buried in the straw, making it six rifles per crate. He was standing next to a stack of six identical crates, and there were at least a dozen stacks filling the storage space. Multiply that by the other storage areas, not to mention the stacks of crates down in the warehouse itself, and the scale of Saint John’s operation was terrifying.
He wasn’t building a gang. He was building an army. An army led by a madman—a Vietnam vet who had gone to war and come back with an idea about how to change the world.
Who had come back apparently hearing not the voice of God, but of his divine opposition. Who now used that belief to persuade his followers that their time was coming, that a better world awaited them, one that they would be in charge of.
If they just obeyed him.
The Day of the Serpent—the day the devil himself would come to earth and take New York as his kingdom.
It was nonsense, a fantasy, of course. Saint John was a damaged man, but there was no way he believed in the devil. Spouting pseudo-Biblical claptrap was an easy way to elevate himself above his gang, and an easy way to keep control.
Because some people would believe any story if you told it in the right way.
But the Day of the Serpent? That was real. That was the day that Saint John would unleash his army in some kind of attack.
Hopper replaced the gun in the crate, fighting a wave of nausea and panic that began to boil somewhere deep inside him.
What was the plan? Where would they attack? Were the Vipers merely going to spill out of the warehouse, guns blazing?
No, that made no sense. Saint John was a planner. He’d been building up the gang and building up his arsenal slowly and carefully. Biding his time.
Readying his plan of attack.
And Hopper knew exactly where those plans were held.
He raced from the storage bays, heading for the stairs.
Heading up to Saint John’s office.
Hopper proceeded quickly but not without caution, but found the place deserted. The search parties seemed to have all moved into the west side of the headquarters, Leroy spreading word of Hopper’s false sighting, clearing the way to getting Lisa out.
He only hoped that Saint John had joined the rest of his gang, because if not, Hopper would have to scratch his plan of getting into the boss’s office. As he approached, he decided his backup plan would be to simply get the hell out. He had more than enough information for Gallup’s task force to make a move against the Vipers, not to mention whatever intel Lisa could add. True, he didn’t know what the Day of the Serpent was, and he’d gotten no closer to establishing a concrete link between the Vipers and the card homicides, but Hopper just had to trust that that would all come out in the wash once Saint John and his gang were in federal custody.
But Hopper’s luck held out. Saint John’s office was empty.
Hopper moved inside. The table still had the warehouse map stretched out across it, next to it a set of draftsman’s tools. Hopper took a moment to study the diagram, then quickly folded it and slid it under his jacket. The layout was sure to prove useful to the task force when they planned their raid.
Then he turned his attention to the wide file cabinet standing against the wall. It had six drawers, and all but the second from the top—which was empty—were locked. However, the drawers were not designed for security. Peering into the gap between the top drawer and the frame of the cabinet itself, Hopper could see the tooth of the flimsy lock mechanism.
He went back to the table, picked up a metal ruler that lay among the compasses, pencils, and set squares, and forced it into the gap above the drawer. Applying a little leverage, the lock assembly snapped, and Hopper yanked the drawer open, pulling it out far enough so he could stand beside it and look through the sheets layered inside.
They were blueprints, the traditional white lines on dark paper, crafted in meticulous detail. Hopper could make no sense of the diagrams shown, but searching the edge of the paper with his finger, he soon found the legend. He squinted as he tried to read the tiny text.
They were, apparently, plans for a turbine—a huge industrial unit from a power plant.
Frowning, Hopper leafed through the blueprints underneath. There were more of the same, and of similar devices—transformers and power systems. Underneath those were sheets of white paper, which looked, on the face of it, like street maps. It was only on closer inspection that Hopper realized they were circuit diagrams of something on a truly vast scale.
Hopper pulled out the sheets and dumped them all onto the table. Repeating his trick with the ruler, he opened the other drawers. There were architectural drawings and sheets taken from a ledger. Hopper didn’t know what any of it was, and there was no time to start poring over it.
Were these the plans for the Day of the Serpent? He had no idea.
He had to keep looking.
First, he checked the big desk. The drawers were all empty, save for the one on the top right—the drawer Hopper had seen Saint John check earlier. Inside was a silver crucifix.
Hopper frowned, but then he remembered the engraving on Saint John’s dog tag, identifying his religion as Catholic. Did Catholics keep crucifixes? Hopper wasn’t sure, and he didn’t know why it was in the drawer. But it wasn’t important, and it certainly wasn’t what he was looking for.
Next, he turned and opened the first door behind the desk—the file room that had been used as Lisa’s makeshift prison cell. Stepping past the small round table, he cast an eye over the metal shelving, then froze.
Lined up along one shelf was a set of big black file boxes, each marked with a label Hopper had seen before.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
WITHDRAWAL FORBIDDEN
The files from Hoeler’s secret apartment. They were all here.
Well, that was one mystery solved. Hopper didn’t know if it was important, but it would certainly form part of his report to Gallup. He continued to search the shelves, looking for anything useful that might have provided a clue to Saint John’s plan, but after a few moments he stood back, confusion clouding his mind.
All of the metal shelves were full, but Hopper couldn’t make sense of the collection of books Saint John had gathered. There were large, fat hardcovers on psychology and psychiatry—academic textbooks, Hopper assumed. There were books on military history, and practical manuals on bushcraft. On another shelf was a motley collection of older tomes, each one a different size, some leather-bound with gilt page edges, others bound in what seemed to be plain cloth. The writing on the spines of several volumes was not in English; Hopper recognized the Latin, and made a guess at Greek for some others. The ones he could read gave him little clue as to the contents: The Key of Solomon. The Calvacan Grimoire. The Word of the Eye.
Turning on his heel, Hopper scanned the rest of the shelves. More books, new and old. More files—these in binders, the spines labeled alphabetically below a printed sticker:
ROOKWOOD INSTITUTE
Hopper paused. That was where Lisa said she and Saint John had first met, but there was no time to investigate now. If the contents of Saint John’s little library were important, fine, but he couldn’t take anything with him, not now. He’d seen enough.
Time to leave.
That’s when he heard movement from the office. Hopper stilled himself, then silently stepped backward until his back was pressed into the corner of the room by one of the metal shelves. He waited, listening, willing himself to become invisible—or, at least, for nobody to come into the file room.
He heard another door open, and close, and then quiet settled once more. Hopper counted in his head, and then moved cautiously to the door. There was no sound from beyond, so he risked looking around the doorjamb.
The office was empty. The paperwork he had piled onto the table was still there, untouched.
Stepping out into the office, Hopper thought about what he had heard, the sound of the other door. It wasn’t the main office door—that was still open. It must have been the other one, the second door, leading to what he assumed was another file room.
Hopper slipped along the wall behind the desk, and tried the second door. It was unlocked.
The room beyond was as he had expected, the dimensions identical to those of the first. Here, though, he was surprised to find the space occupied by a large freestanding closet.
Hopper opened it. Inside were a couple of empty coat hangers, and one from which hung a long, hooded black robe made of some cheap stiff cloth.
Hopper shook his head, aware of how time was slipping away from him. He closed the closet and went back into the office.
And heard a bang from somewhere over his head, like something very heavy had been dropped on the floor. Looking up, Hopper realized that the only thing above him was the warehouse roof itself, and as he stood in the middle of the office, he now heard more noises. People moving around over his head.
Lots of people.
He had to find out what was going on.
Hopper emerged onto the roof and flattened himself against the wall of the stairwell block, grateful for the easy cover it offered as he crabbed sideways until he could peer around the side to see what was going on.
The roof of the office block was a flat, square expanse that stood above the roof of the warehouse itself, which was a football-field-sized array of angles stretching out on Hopper’s left. From up here, the lights of the Bronx shone brightly in the warm air of the summer night. The warehouse complex seemed to be the tallest structure around for several blocks, although ahead were the lights of apartment buildings. Taking a quick scan around, he saw that the sky behind him was a brighter blaze as the lights of Manhattan painted the scattering of clouds above in brilliant orange. Even from this distance, the glowing tower of the Empire State Building was clear, along with the other tall landmarks of Midtown; farther still, the red lights that topped the spire of one of the World Trade Center towers blinked on and off, on and off.
But Hopper had no time to enjoy the view. He turned to watch what was happening on the office roof, careful to keep himself out of sight behind the stairwell block.
The rooftop was filled with people—the Vipers, of course, although Hopper wasn’t entirely sure he could be certain of that fact, given that every member was now wearing a long white robe, their heads covered with hoods. They were lined up in several straight rows, facing away from him.
Standing in front of his—what, congregation? Coven? Hopper had no idea what to call it—stood a man in a robe identical to the others, except it was black.
Saint John. He was facing Hopper, but while the rooftop was fairly well lit by the surrounding glow of the city, Hopper was fairly sure he was invisible in the shadow of the stairwell block.
Saint John had his arms raised, his fingers splayed as he addressed the gang.
“My brothers! Oh, my sisters! We gather here in the black shadow of our dark master and we give thanks to Him! Yes, we give our thanks, like we give our blood, and our life, and our souls to Him. Hear me!”
Saint John lifted his head. His face was lost in the shadow of his hood, but Hopper saw, even now, the light glinting from the silver aviator sunglasses he was still wearing.
“We stand here at the dawn of a new day. Of our day. The day of our reckoning. The day of our awakening. The day carved into the fabric of our souls from the moment we were born and lost to the darkness. Hear me! The day has come. The Day of the Serpent is now!”
The gang was silent. Saint John dropped his arms and dropped his head. Nobody moved, or spoke.
Then Saint John lifted his head again.
“I have your back,” he said, almost too quietly for Hopper to hear. “And you have mine.”
At this, the gang roared, throwing closed-fist salutes into the air as they repeated the familiar phrase. Saint John lifted his arms again, gesturing to his followers to increase their volume, their fervor.
The Vipers obliged. Hopper sank down onto his haunches, shaking his head.
“Hear me!” Saint John yelled over the chorus of the gang. “Hear me! We have but one more task! One more act before all will be ours, before the master of the night descends to bestow His dark blessing upon us. One final sacrifice, and the darkness shall come, the night, serpent black!”
Hopper jerked his head as he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. He sank farther back into the shadows as two more white-robed Vipers appeared from the side of the roof, dragging with them a woman in a red dress, her dark hair flailing as she struggled to free herself.
Hopper felt his chest go tight, his breath leaving his lungs as he stopped himself from making any movement, no matter how small.
Lisa. They’d caught her.
The two men pulled her toward Saint John. Lisa gave it her all, but she was held firm. Dragged into position, she looked around, the expression of fear on her face making Hopper’s blood run cold.
This is my fault. This is my fault. I should have gotten her out myself.
Saint John stepped up onto the low wall that ran around the edge of the roof. From somewhere he pulled out a silver object that glinted in his hand—the crucifix from the office drawer. He grabbed the stem of it and pulled, revealing the shaft of the cross was actually a blade, the scabbard now shining in his other hand.
Hopper swore under his breath. He scanned the rooftop, his heart ticking along at approximately half the speed of light.
But it was hopeless. It was him against a hundred. There was nothing he could do.
Seeing the knife, Lisa cried out and pulled at the arms holding her again. As the two men fought to keep hold of her, the hood of one of them was thrown back.
It was Leroy.
Hopper felt the bile rise in his throat.
What have I done?
Lisa was pulled around until she was standing right in front of Saint John. He looked down at her from his position on the wall, his arms outstretched once more, the dagger in his right hand. He was talking, but Hopper couldn’t hear it.
And then, Lisa stopped struggling. She stood tall, and as Saint John gestured, Leroy and the other man let go. Lisa’s arms fell to her side. Saint John held his hand out to her and she took it, stepping up onto the wall beside the gang leader and turning around to face the others.
One of the acolytes handed a silver goblet to Saint John. The leader took it, then held it out to Lisa. Hopper heard the next word quite clearly.
“Drink.”
Lisa took the goblet, almost without looking at it. She raised it to her lips and then—
She paused. She swayed a little. Saint John supported her back.
“The time is now,” he said. “It is as it has been foreseen. You know that. You know what to do.
“Drink.”
Hopper had to do something. He didn’t know what was going on, and he didn’t know what he could do, but there was no way in hell he could just stand by. He had to intervene. Even against these odds, even though it was hopeless, suicidal even.
He had to try. If nothing else, he had to try.
He adjusted his footing, falling into a crouch, ready to power out of his hiding place.
Then Lisa dropped the goblet. It clattered onto the rooftop.
Hopper moved forward, breaking his cover, his only advantage being the fact that the gang members were all—Saint John aside—looking the other way.
Saint John, and Lisa. As he stepped out from the stairwell block, she looked up—looked at him, he was sure of it.
And then she took a step backward and disappeared over the edge of the roof, her red dress billowing as gravity took over.
“No!” Hopper yelled. The gang turned around in surprise to look at him. At the head of the group, Saint John lifted his arms.
“The darkness has come! The Day of the Serpent has dawned!”
Behind him, the lights of the Bronx went out.
Hopper felt his breath catch in his throat. He looked around, the warehouse now surrounded by nothing but a black void in three directions. He turned toward the orange glow behind him, Manhattan, a glittering jewel in the night.
And then the lights began to go out there, too, starting at the top of the island. Blocks of color vanished, almost in a zigzag pattern, as the power failed, the wave of darkness sweeping down toward Midtown.
Hopper watched as the Empire State Building vanished. A moment later, the lights of the World Trade Center blinked out of existence.
New York City was caught in a massive blackout.
Hopper turned; the rooftop was now lit only by the moon. Standing on the edge of the roof, Saint John laughed, and then he pointed with both robed arms at Hopper.
“Get him!”
That was when Hopper felt a hand in his, pulling him back. He turned around.
Martha looked him in the eye.
“Quit dawdling, start running,” she said.
Hopper obeyed.