by James Hilton
Contents
Cover
Also by James Hilton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
1
2
3
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Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also available from James Hilton and Titan Books
Fight or Die (June 2017)
Search and Destroy
Print edition ISBN: 9781783294862
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783294879
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: June 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 James Hilton. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
This is for my Wendy, the centre of my universe.
PROLOGUE
Jeremy Seeber huddled in the doorway of the mini-mart, his raised jacket collar proving little protection against the chilling rain that beat down without pause. He glanced back over his shoulder, half expecting the man to be behind him. He’d spotted the same man four times that day, twice on foot and twice in a car. A small, nondescript guy, really, but it was his eyes that had caught Jeremy’s attention. Unblinking ovals with the colour and compassion of slate.
There was no one behind him. The breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding escaped in a soft whoosh of relief.
The London Eye, usually a looming presence, was all but invisible in the downpour. He cast another furtive glance up and down the street, then began a waddling run, half crouched as if that would protect him from the rain. Something that felt almost alive coiled in his stomach, threatening to bring back his lunch. Damn, what had he gotten himself into?
He was already pulling the padded envelope from under his coat as he approached the FedEx depot. Soon he was back on the street, empty-handed. Ten minutes later, he slipped his key into the lock of his front door. A glance each way along his road satisfied him that he was not being followed after all. He allowed himself a brief smile. He knew he was probably overreacting, but the events of the last few days had shaken him to the core.
Better safe than sorry, he thought, as he shook off his waterlogged overcoat. “Tess, I’m home.”
There was no answer. He called out again. All he could hear was the steady timpani of the rain lashing against the door. There was none of the usual bustle of his wife’s presence—no smells of cooking, no music playing softly. Just the damned rain.
“Tess…” The coiling sensation gripped his abdomen again.
The floor beneath him seemed to give way as he stepped into the kitchen. Tess was on her knees, surrounded by four men. Her hands had been secured behind her back and the gag that encircled her face stretched the corners of her mouth into a taut grimace.
Jeremy lunged forward, reaching for his wife. He heard the distinctive sound of the revolver being cocked. The gun was pressed against the back of Tess’s head.
Jeremy managed an impotent, “Please, don’t—”
The man with the slate-coloured eyes put a finger to his lips in warning.
The others closed in on him.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
1
Andrea Chambers watched the desert pass by through half-closed eyelids, her arm resting against the cool glass of the car window. She hadn’t stirred since they left the outskirts of Las Vegas earlier that afternoon, drifting in and out of sleep. The excesses of the previous night were really taking their toll. Her gaze slid to her brother Greg sitting up front, lounging in the passenger seat, a large map spread over his lap. His partner Bruce was at the wheel, hands in the textbook ten-two position.
“Where the hell are we?” asked Greg. The late-afternoon sun glowed as twin reflections in his mirrored sunglasses.
“You know where we are,” snapped Bruce. He shot him a scathing look, then returned his gaze to the road, endless grey asphalt stretching into the distance. Greg scowled back theatrically. Andrea smiled and closed her eyes. Best to leave them to it.
“If I knew where we were I wouldn’t be asking, butt-head.”
“Why did we come to Nevada, Greg?”
“I know why we’re here, I just don’t know where here is.”
“You’re the one reading the map.”
Andrea heard the sound of paper crumpling, then Greg’s mischievous laugh.
“How’s Sleeping Beauty?” asked Bruce.
Another laugh. “Three-quarters legs with a set of boobs and a head on top. And not much of a drinker!”
There was the sound of a cap being unscrewed.
“She’ll kick your arse,” warned Bruce.
“Maybe.”
“It’s your funeral.”
Andrea’s eyes opened, but too late. She let out a howl as ice-cold water soaked the front of her white T-shirt. Greg was twisted round in his seat, clutching a now-empty water bottle in one hand. She sat up, gasping, then slapped at her brother’s head with both hands.
“Greg, you idiot! You could have given me a heart attack!”
Greg giggled as he ducked to avoid his sister’s assault.
“For a so-called serious journalist, you’re very prone to exaggeration.”
Andrea felt a sudden surge of panic and her eyes snapped to her MacBook on the seat beside her. It was safe in its padded carrycase, only a few drops of water on the material. Relief. She wiped it with the back of her hand, then took a calming breath. “Where are we?” she asked, brushing yet more water from her torso.
“Ask Davy Crockett, he’s the only one who knows,” said Greg.
Bruce took his hands off the wheel long enough to spread them wide. “We’re in the great Tikaboo Valley on Highway 375… The famous Extraterrestrial Highway.”
To illustrate the point, he slowed the car as they approached a yellow diamond-shaped road sign. On it a UFO hovered over a cow, beneath which were the words OPEN RANGE.
Bruce pointed at the sign. “Shouldn’t that read ‘open season’?”
“Holy crap, this is gonna be great.” Greg laughed again, and turned in his seat. Andrea rolled her eyes at him, but she shared his excitement.
She’d struggled to pick up jobs as a freelance journalist over the last year. It seemed London was saturated with freelancers, with an ever-increasing number of them clamouring for the few precious assignments each week. The competition was cut-throat and Andrea had only scored this job thanks to her friendship with the editor of the newly launched travel magazine, World of Adventure. A week-long trip to Nevada, all expenses paid, to report on the growing UFO-spotting subculture that buzzed around the outskirts of the legendary Area 51. The story was to be a double-page spread. That would pay the mortgage on her apartment for the next two months.
Andrea had told her younger brother about the trip, and Greg had promptly invited himself and Bruce along. The expenses didn’t cover Greg and his partner Bruce, but Bruce made a healthy living at a big music company and had paid for their travel without hesitation. She was glad of the company and Bruce had offered to drive. Mr Dependable loved the open road while she hated driving abroad.
She felt a pang of envy as Greg rested a hand on Bruce’s knee. They looked good together, comfortable. Greg was tall and a bit on the skinny side while Bruce was a little portly around the middle. The contrast seemed to suit them. She often warned Greg not to mess things up. Good men were hard to find, a fact she could personally attest to.
She peered into the sky. The sun was a dark orange and the distant mountains were reduced to a ridged silhouette. No houses, buildings or shopping malls to blemish the landscape and no mysterious lights in the sky—yet.
“Just remember I’m here to work. So keep quiet if I’m interviewing anybody.”
“Andrea, I’m just here for the hot dogs, beer and cowboys.” Greg waggled his eyebrows.
Bruce shot him a look.
“Relax those green eyes; you know I’m a one-cowboy guy.”
“Maybe he’ll take you out,” said Bruce, pointing to a bearded man at the side of the road. He was busy relieving himself against the rear wheel of his Toyota pickup.
He gave a casual wave as they passed but didn’t stop urinating.
“GBA,” said Greg.
“Huh?”
“God Bless America.”
“Hey, slow down.” Andrea pointed to a mailbox standing at the side of the road. “That’s the black mailbox. I read about it on the plane. That’s where a lot of the sky-watchers meet up. It’s the only landmark for miles.”
“Black mailbox? But it’s painted white…” Bruce noted.
“Yeah, there’s a story behind that,” Andrea waved her copy of The UFO Handbook at him. “The mailbox used to be black but one of the secret experiments over in Area 51 made it change places with its opposite in an alternative dimension.”
She saw Bruce raise an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror. “What a lot of crap. Somebody just painted it white; probably because the tin-foil-hat brigade kept hanging around.”
Andrea laughed, nodding. “I just said it was in the book. I don’t believe everything I read.”
“This from a journalist.”
“Shut up, Greg.” She pointed at a cluster of vehicles at the side of the road. “Hey, that looks promising.” A dozen or so shadows moved in the fading light and someone had lit a campfire. “Pull over.”
Bruce did as requested. Andrea was out of the rental car before the wheels stopped turning. She quickly brushed the front of her wet T-shirt and Greg laughed as she checked that her breasts weren’t too visible through the cotton.
The group definitely belonged to the UFO community. A young man sporting the traditional I WANT TO BELIEVE T-shirt waved as Andrea approached.
“To boldly go where no man has gone before.”
Andrea turned and frowned, all business. “Greg, you’d better zip it. I don’t want you getting clever with any of these guys out here. Just remember, we’re in the middle of nowhere, so if anything bad happens…”
Greg opened his eyes wide with innocence.
Bruce leaned over and gently kissed him on the cheek. “Behave.”
* * *
Two hours and a few beers later, the three returned to the rental Jeep. Greg was feeling buzzed and it was only partly the beer. Andrea was smiling to herself, reading through her notes. It was good to see her happy. Not that he’d say so out loud.
“You get anything good?” he asked.
She grinned at him and waved her notebook. “I got some great material, I can’t wait to write it up. A lot of urban-legend stuff, but that’s part of the appeal. I’m working the ‘what people are willing to believe’ angle. They were a friendly bunch. Most of their information is unusable—‘a friend of a friend saw something in the sky’ stuff. Nothing I can substantiate, just colour.” She pulled out her phone. “Damn. No reception.”
“Twitter addict. Guess your army of followers will have to survive without constant updates.”
Andrea punched him on the arm. “Right, like you’re any better? Your photo essays on the changing face of breakfast hardly set the Internet alight.”
Bruce flapped his arms placatingly. “Okay, children, let’s just agree that you’re both the cream of the Twitterati. Now. Where next? Back to Vegas?”
Andrea grinned and tossed her useless phone on the Jeep’s back seat. “I got a tip from one of the older sky-watchers. According to ‘Darrell from Seattle, aged forty-six’, the Power-lines Overlook is nearby. It’s high up; you can see right into Area 51.” She turned to Bruce. “It’s up a pretty steep hill, rough terrain. Think the Jeep can handle it?”
Bruce puffed out his chest. “Point the way.”
The vehicle didn’t disappoint them, but the going was slow as darkness fell. The pitted track up the hill made the Jeep rock violently. Andrea clutched her laptop close.
The overlook was formed of a natural plateau some thirty feet in circumference on the summit of a wide peak. Rows of power lines stretched into the distance, each connecting pylon weathered to a dull grey. The ground was rock strewn and hard underfoot. Surrounding Joshua trees cast eerie shadows as the Jeep’s headlamps illuminated their spiny boughs, pointing toward the sprawling Air Force base at Groom Lake—Area 51. Stepping from the Jeep, Greg stared at the lights below, and wondered how many of the tales were true. Did the highly classified area really hold crashed UFOs, the Spear of Destiny, or the Ark of the Covenant? He wasn’t convinced, but they were still great stories.
He watched as Andrea walked to the edge of the plateau, her laptop bag swinging at her side. He held Bruce back, sensing that she would want a moment to herself. The constellations were bright above their heads, much brighter than back home in London. But he wasn’t really one for stargazing. He pulled his iPod from his pocket. This view needed some accompaniment.
“Would you look at that,” said Bruce.
“Yeah, it’s really something.” Greg didn’t raise his eyes from the player.
Bruce swatted the iPod. “Would you put that away! We’re supposed to be enjoying our quality time together and you’d rather listen to Miley friggin’ Cyrus.”
The player slipped from Greg’s hands. “Hey, you’ll break it!” He bent over to pick it up. “And it’s Beyoncé, if you must know…” He glanced up at his partner.
Bruce was looking at the centre of his shirt, his hands held in angry claws. The look on his face was something Greg had never seen before, a mixture of agony and shock. Like one of those weird Japanese Kabuki masks.
What was his problem? Greg opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. A dark crimson butterfly was spreading across his shirt. “Bruce?”
Bruce took one step forward, then collapsed face down.
“Bruce?” Greg’s voice jumped an octave.
Greg fell back against the side of the Jeep, his head whipping round desperately towards Andrea. She was staring out over the valley below
, her back to him, hands on hips.
He tried to shout her name.
2
Danny Gunn opened one eye. The view was much the same as when he’d fallen asleep; dark hills and a straight highway that stretched into the distance. He glanced at his watch. He’d only been asleep for twenty minutes. He stretched his shoulder, which emitted an audible pop, and sat up fully in the passenger seat. The windscreen of the Winnebago was huge, and the dashboard console below had more dials and digital displays than most aircraft.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
“I haven’t heard that in a long time.” Danny grinned over at his older brother, who was driving. “I would kill for some real eggs and bakey, though.”
“I’ll pull over in a couple of minutes. There’s an abandoned casino up ahead. We can stop there for the night.”
“Abandoned casino?”
“Yeah, it looks kinda spooky but there’s plenty of parking space.”
“Is there a diner nearby?”
“No, but I’ve got a month’s worth of food in the back. You’ll just have to put up with my cooking tonight. I’ve got enough steak and eggs to feed a football team.”
“Sounds good to me.”
A few minutes later, Clay Gunn steered the large Winnebago off the main highway and allowed it to roll to a gentle stop. Danny peered out. The jagged silhouettes formed by the buildings appeared somehow medieval in the failing light.
“Is that the casino?”
“Yeah. It’s been empty as long as I can remember.”
Danny shook his head. He’d never heard of a gambling joint going out of business before.
Clay leaned forward on the steering wheel. “I guess it couldn’t compete, with Vegas just an hour away.”
“Suppose.” Danny opened the passenger door and stepped down. “Nature calls.”
“Don’t be pissin’ on my wheels, y’hear?”
Danny thumbed his nose in mock annoyance and headed towards the derelict building. He recalled something his drill sergeant used to say: “If you want to find a man or a dog just look for the nearest tree and they’ll be pissing on it.” And, sure enough, his feet gravitated towards the wall. When nature had run its course, he scooped up a handful of rough sand and rubbed his palms together; an old trick he’d learned in his army days when water was in short supply. He smiled and clapped his hands to disperse the dust. There was a top-of-the-range RV a few metres away that offered better amenities than his house back in England, yet here he was pissing in the sand. Old habits died hard.
