San Francisco Night Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  CHAPTER 91

  CHAPTER 92

  CHAPTER 93

  CHAPTER 94

  About the Author

  SAN FRANCISCO NIGHT

  By Stephen Leather

  Copyright © 2014 by Stephen Leather

  ISBN: reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the copyright holder, Stephen Leather

  Layout design: Cheryl Perez, www.yourepublished.com

  Cover design: http://www.thecovercollection.com

  Jack Nightingale fights his battles in the shadows – in the grey areas where the real world meets the supernatural. But when he arrives in San Francisco to take on a group of Satanists bent on opening a doorway to Hell, the danger is out in the open and all too real.

  The Apostles – a Satanic coven using murder and torture to pave the way for a demon to enter the real world – realise that Nightingale is on their tail. And unleash their own brand of monsters to take him down. With Nightingale’s life – and his very soul – on the line, he has only days to stop The Apostles from bringing death and destruction to the entire world.

  Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade and Lastnight. He has his own website at www.jacknightingale.com He also appears in several short stories including Cursed, Still Bleeding, Tracks and My Name Is Lydia.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sister Rosa had five minutes of her life left when she opened her eyes. She had no way of knowing that, but she did know that her God had deserted her utterly when she needed Him the most. Her arms were stretched out on either side of her and she could feel ropes cutting viciously into her wrists. Her ankles were also securely tied. She tried to scream, but the gag in her mouth muffled all sound. She was naked.

  She could hear chanting, but in a language she had never heard before. A flickering light cast shadows on the walls and the air was filled with the tang of burning herbs.

  There were figures standing around her, dressed in long black robes, their features hidden by tall pointed black masks.

  The chanting stopped, and a deep, muffled voice spoke, though there was no way to tell which masked figure was talking. “Peter. It is time.’

  One of the figures moved nearer to where Sister Rosa lay spread-eagled on the giant cross. It stopped, facing her, then bent down to show her what it held in its hands. A hammer and four large steel nails. Sister Rosa tried to scream, but the gag muffled all sound. The hammer and nails were passed in front of her face again, and the figure walked to her left. Sister Rosa began to recite the Lord’s Prayer as she felt the point of the nail pressed into her palm, then her body arched in agony as the first hammer blow was struck. The first blow pieced her palm, but three more were needed to drive the nail all the way into the wood. Tears were running down her cheeks, but the gag efficiently stifled her sobs. The pain of her last minutes on Earth was far beyond anything she had experienced in her previous fifty years. She tried to focus on the words of the Lord’s Prayer but the pain drove the words from her head.

  The robed figure had now moved to her right hand, the nail was in place on her palm, and again the hammer came crashing down. Once more her body arched as it desperately tried to cope with the violence of the assault.

  Four more heavy hammer blows for each foot, and then the figure straightened up to survey its handiwork. The masked head gave a slight nod.

  Sister Rosa lay trembling, blood seeping from the wounds in her hands and feet.

  The figure walked to a small wood altar, where a silver cross stood upside down. It put down the hammer and picked up the cross before walking back towards the blood-spattered body of the helpless woman. The longer end of the cross, nine inches of smooth polished silver, was placed between her legs and held there. Peter moved it gently backwards and forwards for a few moments, then with brutal force rammed it hard inside the woman. The gag muffled most of her screams.

  Blood sprayed over Sister Rosa’s legs and her body gave one last enormous heave, before it could bear no more and she lost consciousness.

  Four more figures strode towards the cross, attached a heavy chain to a hook at the base, then hauled it off the floor with a pulley placed in the high ceiling. The end of the chain was fastened to another hook in the wall. The cross now hung three feet off the ground, with the nun’s head hanging downwards, blood flowing from her wounds and pooling on the floor.

  The chanting began again, this time with a feverish intensity to a gathering crescendo. One of the figures held both arms aloft, and there was instant silence. Again the command rang out.

  “Peter.”

  The figure of the tormentor walked back to the altar, picked up a short curved knife in its right hand, and a large plain bronze bowl in its left. The figure walked back to the center of the room and placed the bowl on the floor beneath the bound woman’s head. Peter held the knife aloft with both hands and shouted a Latin phrase. The robed figures chanted back in Latin.

  The knife flashed down across Sister Rosa’s throat, laying it wide open and ending her agony. Peter picked up the bowl in both hands and let it fill with the spurting blood. The chanting began again, as Peter pl
aced the bowl back on the altar and moved back towards the others.

  Another word of command was given, and again the chanting stopped. The same muffled voice spoke, more softly this time.

  “Peter, you are now fully initiated amongst us. Disrobe, and present yourself to us, that we may welcome you to our number with the kiss of our master, and you may offer us the blood of the sacrifice to drink. As a full initiate, you are also required to provide Service to the Temple.”

  The reply came loud and immediate.

  “Thy will be my will, O Abaddon.”

  Peter stood in the middle of the group, removed the mask, shook off the robe and let it fall to the ground. Naked and confident, cheeks bright, eyes alive with excitement, a telltale flush at her throat, the tall, beautiful, young woman shook her red hair loose and presented herself to her fellow disciples.

  CHAPTER 2

  The young man known as Simon was the first to leave the temple, since he was not permitted to witness the Service to the Temple, or attend the drink and drug-fueled coupling that always followed a sacrifice. His real name was Lee Mitchell, but so far as he knew only Abaddon knew that. He changed back into his street clothes in the Robing Room. By the time he’d finished pulling on his Chinos and crew-neck pullover, a robed and masked figure had arrived and placed a black hood over his head. The figure took Mitchell by the hand and led him out of the door, across a graveled drive and into the back seat of a white Lincoln Town Car with blackened windows. Only full initiates were allowed to know the location of the group’s ceremonies. Mitchell heard a driver get behind the wheel, start the engine and drive away from the house.

  Twenty minutes later, the driver stopped the car in a side street on the outskirts of San Francisco. “You can take the hood off now, Simon,” said the driver. “After the next meeting we won’t need to do this any more. You’ll be fully one of us. Do not look back as you leave the car. Just walk away.”

  Mitchell removed the hood. There was a black tinted window separating the passenger seats from the driver. He said nothing, just got out and walked twenty yards to where he’d parked his own car, a black Porsche 911.

  Thirty minutes later, he was outside his house. He parked and climbed out to stare at the Golden Gate Bridge half a mile away, its lights flickering through a drizzly mist. He opened the front door, walked straight to the downstairs bathroom and vomited into the sink until there was nothing left in his stomach.

  He washed his face, then rinsed with mouthwash to get rid of the foul taste. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his skin was white and pasty, he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week, which was close to the truth.

  He walked down the corridor to his study, picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was answered on the second ring, but went straight through to voicemail. Mitchell cursed under his breath. He considered putting the phone down, but knew that he needed help and this was the only way to get it. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “It’s Lee,’ he said. “You have to come and get me. I can’t take this any more. They crucified a nun, a fucking nun. And it’s my turn next, you have to help me. I need to get out now. Call me back as soon as you get this.’

  He put down the phone and went over to his drinks cabinet where he poured himself a large whiskey. He was on his second gulp when the phone rang. He hurried over and picked it up.

  “You need to relax, Lee,’ said a slow Texan drawl. “Have a drink.”

  “I’m having a drink,” said Mitchell. “A big one.”

  “I need the names, Lee. I need to know who is in the group. And where they hold the meetings.”

  “They won’t let me see the house until I’m one of them.”

  “Then you need to wait.”

  “I can’t! I’ve told you what they want me to do. They killed a nun today.”

  “One more visit, Lee. We’ll fix you up with a GPS.”

  “Are you mad? If they catch me with anything like that, anything at all, they’ll kill me for sure.”

  “What about Abaddon? Have you learned anything else about her?”

  “No. And I can’t ask, can I?”

  “Have you seen anyone else? Anyone you recognize?”

  “Two so far. Look, you have to get me out of San Francisco. You said you could get me a new identity.”

  “And I can. But I need the names, Lee.”

  “No, not until I’m safe, it’s all I have to bargain with. Get me out of here and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Mitchell gulped down more whiskey.

  “Okay, the airport in two hours time. Take a cab to the station and change cabs there. You’ll be met at the Delta desk in Departures. A woman called Valerie.”

  “How will I recognize her?”

  “She’ll recognize you.” The line went dead.

  Mitchell put down the phone and raised his glass to his lips. He flinched at the sound of a car in his driveway. Doors opened and slammed shut and he heard footsteps on the gravel. His heart began to race and he put down his glass with a shaking hand. He hurried to the living room window and peered through the blinds. There was a black SUV parked behind his Porsche. He turned and ran for the french doors and sprinted across the garden. His neighbor’s Rottweiler barked as Mitchell scrambled over the fence. He heard shouts behind him but he didn’t look back as he ran.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jack Nightingale frowned as he emerged into the Arrivals hall. On a list of things he hated, airplanes ranked just behind elevators, but nobody ever needed to spend four hours sitting in an elevator without a cigarette. Flying economy across a continent at two hours notice was no way to spend a day. He stopped walking and looked at the mass of people waiting to meet passengers, some holding up scrawled notices, others with iPads held aloft, the name neatly printed. He saw nobody he recognized amongst them.

  “Jack.”

  Nightingale turned and saw a tall, slim, black woman, dressed in what was probably a very expensive dark-blue pant-suit. He nodded at her. She didn’t smile.

  “Valerie. You’re looking lovely as always.”

  “Welcome to San Francisco,” she said. “No suitcase?”

  Nightingale held up the small black leather holdall he was carrying. “I travel light,” he said.

  “This way,” she said, and walked away.

  Nightingale followed her as she threaded her way through the crowds, out through automatic doors, across a road towards a white limousine parked by the curb, engine running and a black man in a gray suit sitting behind the wheel.

  The driver got out to open the door but Nightingale beat him to it. He held the door open for Valerie. She flashed him a tight smile and slid inside. Nightingale followed her.

  The car drove off in the direction of the private aviation terminal, through a security barrier and out onto the apron to stop in front of a gleaming white Gulfstream jet. Valerie climbed out of the car and walked up the stairs to the plane’s open front door. Nightingale followed her inside.

  Anyone seeing Joshua Wainwright for the first time might not immediately have jumped to the conclusion that he was a billionaire. Not that a billionaire wasn’t entitled to wear a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap if he chose to, or be sitting back on a white leather sofa with his python-skin boots up on the table in front of him. The huge cigar he was smoking worked well for a man of extreme wealth, but Nightingale could never get over how young the perpetually smiling, slim, black Texan always looked. Mid twenties, maybe. Thirty at the most.

  “Come on in, Jack,” said Wainwright, “take a load off. I guess you might be needing a cigarette right about now. Thank you Valerie, if you’d like to wait in the car Jack should be leaving in thirty minutes.”

  Nightingale took the white leather armchair that Wainwright had waved him to and lit a Marlboro as Valerie headed out of the cabin. Wainwright let him smoke his way through half of it before breaking the silence. “Jack, you look like shit.”

  “Flying cro
ss-country does nothing for me or my clothes. I need a sleep and a shower. And I need to know what’s so urgent that I couldn’t have driven. You know I hate flying. Especially in economy.”

  “Sorry, Jack. Last seat on the plane, that’s what Valerie told me.”

  Nightingale smiled tightly. “First class was pretty much empty.”

  Wainwright shrugged, then pressed the call button and a tall blonde appeared. She was wearing a stewardess uniform, though it looked to have been designed with more thought for form than function. The short skirt, tight jacket and high heels wouldn’t have passed muster with Delta, but it obviously worked for Wainwright. And Nightingale.

  “Another Glenfiddich for me please, Amanda. You, Jack?”

  “Coffee will be fine. Splash of milk.”

  “Certainly, sir,” replied the woman.

  Amanda had a South African accent and a spectacular rear view, which Nightingale enjoyed as she walked away. She was back in a minute with the drinks, then disappeared to the rear cabin. Wainwright took a sip of his whiskey and lifted the glass to toast Nightingale. “Been a while, Jack.”

  “I suppose it has,” replied Nightingale, “Too good to last. Still, always a pleasure.”

  “How you been?” asked Wainwright. “How was Louisiana?”

  “Hot and sweaty,” said Nightingale. “Why am I here?”

  “Got a little job for you, Jack. A task.” Wainwright lifted an attaché case onto the table and opened it. Nightingale was no authority on attaché cases, but he thought it had probably cost more than his last car.

  Wainwright pushed three sheets of paper across to him. “Take a look at these.”

  Nightingale studied the sheets for several minutes. They each bore a photograph and a list of personal details. Names, ages, occupations, descriptions, addresses. Time and place where last seen. Name of the person who had reported them missing, and to which police precinct. Sister Rosa Lopez, schoolteacher and nun, aged fifty-three. Suzanne Mills, college student, nineteen. Michael O’Hara, retired, eighty-three.

  “Missing persons? You want me to find them?” asked Nightingale. “All by myself in a city of nearly a million people? Isn’t that what the cops are supposed to do?”