Chapter 892

Alexander Pierce had made his decision: John Garrett was on his own.

From this point forward, HYDRA would stop sharing sensitive intelligence with Garrett’s faction. Whatever trouble Garrett got himself into, he would receive no assistance from the organization.

If he survived, fine. If he didn’t, even better.

Ideally, Garrett and Coulson’s team would destroy each other during the Clairvoyant investigation, saving Pierce the trouble of cleaning up the mess himself.

Under ordinary circumstances, Pierce would already have dispatched a team to eliminate Garrett and everyone connected to him. That was his usual approach to disloyal subordinates.

Unfortunately, the timing couldn’t have been worse.

Garrett knew too much. If an assassination attempt went wrong and drove him into open rebellion, he could expose everything he knew about HYDRA. The resulting damage to their plans would be enormous.

Pierce couldn’t afford that risk.

For now, he would watch and wait. Garrett could continue breathing for a little while longer. Once Project Insight was fully operational, Pierce would strip away every last layer of protection keeping Garrett’s people alive and eliminate them in one decisive move.

Victory was within reach. That was precisely why he couldn’t afford to become careless.

Pierce nodded to himself in his office.

Lately, an inexplicable sense of impending disaster had been following him everywhere. He couldn’t identify its source, but it had made him more cautious than usual. The last thing he needed was to create another enemy at such a delicate moment.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Eastern Europe, night had fallen.

Beside an abandoned harbor stood a dilapidated warehouse. Inside, a filthy, drunken man occupied a makeshift bed that looked as though it had been assembled from whatever garbage he’d found lying around.

There was nothing unusual about that. Abandoned warehouses were popular shelters for the homeless, especially when the alternative was freezing to death on the street.

What was unusual was that this enormous building housed only one man.

Apparently, the others had learned to stay away from him.

The man staggered upright and shuffled toward a crude table made from bricks and wooden planks. His entire body ached, his mouth was dry, and the only thing he wanted was the half-empty bottle of beer sitting on the table.

He reached for it.

Then a voice drifted through the darkness.

"Johnny..."

The bottle slipped from his fingers.

It struck the concrete floor and shattered.

The man stared into the shadows, his bloodshot eyes searching desperately for the source of the voice. He found nothing.

Then came the shrill screech of wheels scraping across concrete.

From beneath a pile of discarded junk in the corner, two flames suddenly burst into view. They raced toward him, revealing a pair of silver, punk-styled roller skates decorated with skeletal motifs.

Before he could react, the skates snapped onto his feet.

A heartbeat later, they propelled him out of the warehouse and into the night.

Faced with the impossible, the man didn’t panic. He swung his arms, regained his balance, and quickly adapted to the accelerating skates.

Then he began to laugh.

"You actually dare show your face again!"

There was no need to introduce him.

Johnny Blaze, the Ghost Rider, had returned to the road.

During the previous Son of Satan incident, Johnny had undergone a profound transformation. He’d discovered that although the power inside him had come from Hell, its true origin lay in Heaven. The spirit dwelling within him was something closer to an angel than the demonic monster he’d always believed it to be.

The experience had purified him.

The Ghost Rider’s savage rage had subsided, replaced by a holy spirit surrounded by brilliant blue flames. For the first time in years, Johnny had experienced something resembling peace.

He no longer had to endure constant torment from the entity inside him. He no longer lived in fear that he might suddenly lose control and reduce everyone around him to ashes.

Unfortunately, the peace hadn’t lasted.

The story went that the spirit had originally fallen into Hell after witnessing humanity’s depravity. Its mission to punish the wicked had gradually corrupted it, transforming its sacred fire into the flames of vengeance.

And humanity hadn’t become any less wicked.

People liked to believe that someone given a second chance would cherish it. Perhaps that was true for some. But there was another possibility: once someone had experienced corruption, falling into it a second time became much easier.

Johnny had barely enjoyed his new life before he noticed the change.

The holy spirit within him had begun to deteriorate, little by little. The blue flames that had once burned with such purity gradually darkened until, not long ago, they had become the familiar, raging fire of vengeance.

The Ghost Rider was back.

Johnny remembered the advice Evenson had once given him: pass the corrupted flames on to another suitable vessel, preserving his own purity and buying himself more time.

It might have worked.

But Johnny didn’t trust Evenson. Worse, he’d spent so much time avoiding other people that he hadn’t found anyone suitable to receive the power.

So he’d returned to his old routine of drinking himself into oblivion, surrendering to despair one miserable day at a time.

Until tonight.

There he is. That’s him. That’s my Johnny.

The voice lingered somewhere beyond his hearing, carrying him across the darkness.

Johnny had no idea how much time passed before the roller skates finally brought him to a desolate stretch of wasteland.

Without warning, their front wheels tipped sharply forward.

The skates slammed on the brakes.

Johnny was launched into the air, struck the ground, and tumbled across the dirt several times before finally coming to a stop.

"Johnny..."

The familiar, loathsome voice called to him again.

Johnny slowly pushed himself upright. He raised one hand and pointed behind him.

"You...!"

A figure had appeared in the darkness.

The sight was horribly familiar.

He wore clothes resembling a priest’s cassock. His silver hair was meticulously combed, his aged face carried a nauseating smile, and his eyes glittered with the sly malice of something that had never once considered humanity worth saving.

In one hand, he casually twirled a cane topped with a crystal skull.

Mephisto.

One of the Lords of Hell, appearing in his preferred business attire: the stern, respectable old man who looked perfectly suited to negotiate a contract before ruining your life.

"You still dare show yourself in front of me?"

Every misery Johnny had endured could be traced back to this devil.

Rage surged through him. He was briefly puzzled that the Rider inside him hadn’t emerged, but the thought barely registered before he charged.

Johnny swung a fist.

Mephisto vanished.

His punch struck empty air, sending him stumbling forward until he crashed to the ground.

The devil reappeared behind him.

"You really never learn, do you?"

"Save it!"

Johnny sprang to his feet and charged again.

"I have your contract!"

Mephisto produced an ancient parchment, holding it up with enough force to crease the brittle material.

Johnny froze.

The moment the document appeared, an invisible weight settled over him. His muscles locked, and he found himself unable to move.

Mephisto examined the parchment with a sidelong glance.

Five wisps of black smoke curled across its surface.

"Well, that’s more effective than I expected."

In the past, he would have struggled to exert such direct control over Johnny while operating in the mortal world. Things were different now. The other five Lords had contributed portions of their power, dramatically strengthening the contract’s binding force.

Mephisto waved the document impatiently.

"This should have been a simple arrangement. I cure your father’s illness, and you surrender your soul and agree to serve me. I held up my end of the bargain."

"You killed him the next day!"

"Technically, I cured him."

Mephisto rolled his eyes.

"His cancer was disgusting, by the way. You have no idea how unpleasant it was to reach inside his body and pull out that enormous, blackened mass of diseased tissue."

He shuddered theatrically.

"And let’s not pretend you negotiated a guarantee on his life span. You never asked for one, and I never promised one."

Johnny glared at him.

"At least your father didn’t die in agony in a hospital bed," Mephisto continued. "He died comfortably, feeling better than he had in years, while doing what he loved most."

His smile widened.

"I made him a hero, Johnny. A martyr. If you had any sense of perspective, you’d be grateful."

Then his expression soured.

"But you disappointed me."

He shook his head.

"The only task I ever gave you was to kill Blackheart and recover the Contract of San Venganza. And you failed."

The parchment rustled in his hand.

"The contract disappeared, and Blackheart wasn’t killed by you. In fact, I heard you eventually sided with him. You caused a considerable amount of trouble for one of my other agents."

Mephisto waved the matter away.

"Still, I’m a magnanimous fellow. My objective was achieved in the end, so I’ll generously consider your assignment complete and declare the contract settled."

He spread his free hand.

"That means you can reclaim your soul and return to your ordinary life. A quiet little existence, free of supernatural complications. Doesn’t that sound lovely?"

He tilted his head, apparently considering the possibilities.

"If you’d accepted that arrangement back then, you might even have a son by now. And, who knows? Perhaps I could have arranged for your father’s soul to be reincarnated in the boy. Your family would be reunited. Everybody wins."

For a moment, Mephisto seemed almost sincere.

Then his expression twisted.

"But no. You had to get arrogant. You rejected my generosity, refused to surrender what belonged to me, and even tried to turn my own power against me."

His features briefly contorted, revealing the hideous thing beneath the respectable disguise.

"That is one of the most egregious breaches of contract I’ve ever encountered. I’ve half a mind to file a complaint in federal court."

He gave Johnny a poisonous smile.

"Although, what did you actually accomplish? Did you stop me? Did you cause any meaningful inconvenience?"

He spread his arms.

"You still ended up doing my work, helping me send Roxanne’s tormentor back to Hell, and suffering through the burning agony of your own power. All of this misery was your own doing."

Johnny fell silent.

He wasn’t an entirely selfless hero. He’d regretted his decision more than once.

Sometimes he wondered what might have happened if he’d swallowed his pride and returned the Rider’s power to Mephisto. Perhaps the endless suffering could have ended. Even if the devil had cheated him and killed him the next day, as his father had died, that would still have been preferable to the life he’d endured since.

But Johnny Blaze was stubborn to the point of absurdity.

He’d rather suffer than admit defeat.

"Did you come all this way just to gloat?" he asked bitterly.

"I turned down three murder cases and canceled dates with seven gorgeous women to come mock a miserable drunk?"

Mephisto shook his head.

"Of course not. I have a new job for you."

"Let me guess. You want me to recover another contract full of damned souls?"

Johnny’s answer was immediate.

"Forget it."

His eyes hardened.

"I know what that contract means. It would let Hell consume the mortal world. I’m not helping you do that."

Johnny might regret his past decisions, but he wasn’t about to help Mephisto bring Hell to Earth.

Even if the devil promised to return his soul, what would that matter if the world itself became a living Hell? Johnny would still be trapped in the same nightmare, only with billions of other people for company.

Mephisto stared at him.

Then he laughed.

At first, it was a quiet chuckle. Within moments, it had become a full-throated roar.

"I... I honestly have no idea where you get these ridiculous notions!"

"Don’t try to deceive me, devil."

Mephisto’s laughter stopped.

"Do you know how many people die every day?"

His voice suddenly cracked like a whip.

"Open your eyes and look at the world! There are more than seven billion people alive today. Roughly two people die every second. That’s a hundred and twenty every minute, seven thousand two hundred every hour, and a hundred and seventy-two thousand eight hundred every day."

He leaned toward Johnny.

"Even if only one person in a hundred goes to Hell, that’s nearly two thousand souls a day. A little over two thousand, actually. Enough to fill the equivalent of two Contracts of San Venganza every single day."

Mephisto’s face twisted with genuine frustration.

"And yet, despite all those souls, the mortal world remains the mortal world, and Hell remains Hell!"

Johnny stared at him.

He was at a loss for words.

Evenson had once made a similar argument, suggesting that the Contract of San Venganza wasn’t nearly as important to Mephisto as Johnny believed. Johnny had refused to accept it. He’d assumed the sorcerer had some private arrangement with the devil and was deliberately misleading him.

Now Mephisto himself was making the same point.

Of course, the devil couldn’t be trusted either.

But he was backing up his argument with statistics.

Somehow, that made it harder to dismiss.

Mephisto lifted his cane and pointed it at Johnny.

"You misunderstand why I value the Contract of San Venganza. It’s not about the number of souls it contains. It’s about the fact that it’s a contract."

His lip curled.

"An outstanding debt. An obligation that remains unresolved. A black mark on my reputation."

He tapped the parchment.

"And you’re exactly the same sort of problem."

Johnny’s expression darkened.

"So now I’ve become an unpaid invoice?"

"Precisely! And I’ve decided to give you an opportunity to settle your account. Help me resolve this matter, and I’ll return your soul."

Johnny let out a cold laugh.

"Right. A devil’s contract must be honored. But contracts bind both parties, and one agreement doesn’t automatically erase another. I broke the original contract, so you can’t simply return my soul, even if you want to."

He narrowed his eyes.

"What gives you the authority to offer me that deal?"

"Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t."

Mephisto smiled.

"But we can sign a new contract. It will state that you perform this task and I return your soul. The new agreement will conflict with the old one. Their binding clauses will cancel each other out, and neither contract will remain enforceable."

Johnny stared at him for a moment.

Then he understood.

"No binding clauses means no obligation for either side. You’d be just as free to ignore your promise as I would be."

He shook his head.

"I’m not interested."

Mephisto’s expression hardened.

"I don’t want your soul, Johnny!"

The devil’s voice boomed across the wasteland.

He took a slow breath, then continued with barely restrained contempt.

"What would I gain by returning it? You’re a human being. A fragile, short-lived human being."

He looked Johnny up and down.

"You smoke, you drink, your nerves are a wreck, and you have little regard for personal hygiene. Even without accounting for accidents or the countless other ways a human can die, how long do you think you have left?"

Mephisto gave a dismissive shrug.

"I’ve existed for longer than you can comprehend. I can afford to wait. I have no intention of damaging my reputation over a soul that will expire on its own soon enough."

Johnny couldn’t argue with that assessment of his lifestyle. Without the Rider’s supernatural resilience, he suspected he would have died of alcohol poisoning or some other self-inflicted disaster years ago.

"So who do you want me to kill?" he asked. "A bunch of demons who’ve escaped from Hell?"

"Unfortunately, this time, I need you to kill humans."

Mephisto paused.

"A great many humans."

Johnny stared at him.

For a devil, that was an unusually direct request.

"Two billion people are going to die," Mephisto continued. "If you don’t eliminate them for me, then at some point in the future, the world will lose two billion people in the space of two hours."

Johnny’s expression changed.

Mephisto raised a hand before he could speak.

"I enjoy collecting souls, but there’s no pleasure in a death on that scale. No corruption. No temptation. No betrayal. No drama. Just death for the sake of death and slaughter for the sake of slaughter."

He grimaced.

"I find the whole prospect thoroughly distasteful."

For a devil, the explanation was almost reasonable.

As for why Mephisto wasn’t telling Johnny the whole truth?

Well, even a Lord of Hell had some dignity.

Being forced to sleep rough in the wilderness wasn’t exactly something he wanted to advertise. Why would he tell a human about that humiliation?

He had a reputation to maintain.

"Now," Mephisto ordered, "get yourself to Washington, D.C. and wait for my instructions."

He leaned forward, his eyes burning with malicious intensity.

"If you encounter anyone shouting ’Hail Hydra,’ kill them immediately."

Johnny’s expression tightened.

Mephisto jabbed his cane toward him.

"And I don’t mean merely killing them. Use your Flames of Vengeance to burn their souls away completely. Do you understand?"

His voice rose to a furious shout.

"Burn their souls to nothing! That’s the important part. Remember it, memorize it, and repeat it three hundred times if you have to!"

The devil’s grin returned.

"Not a trace left behind."