Holding a torch in one hand, the Colt .45 in the other, he walked openly through the catacombs, alone. There was no way to catch this creature unaware. He couldn't move silently enough, nor were shadows that inked the corridor more than shades of gray to its keen eyes. At least with the light of the torch Cassius could see it when it closed—a small advantage because it was a small distance, but better than no reaction room at all. Hyper-alert to react—like a boxer inside his opponent's reach—Cassius prevented his mind from wandering. But after he had made the first circuit of the closest corridor—empty and secure—he began to surrender to the mistake every sentry makes when the night is cold and silent and dead but for wind and stars. He began to think—only fleeting shadows of thoughts at first—of what had brought him to this hour of reckoning. He stood upon Golgotha, always upon Golgotha, for he would never leave Golgotha ...
