The Silent Ones

by James Hunt

  Dennis kept flat on the bus floor, which rumbled with every jolt and bump along the path, tossing him between the seats like a rag doll.

  More bullets rained over them, exploding windows and raining glass over Dennis’s backside. Two miniature explosions rocked beneath the bus, and Dennis knew that they’d blown out the tires.

  Miles struggled to keep the wheel straight and his foot on the gas and was finally forced to sit in the driver’s seat, which exposed him to the sniper fire. He turned back toward Dennis, his face red and sweaty. “Brace!”

  Dennis tensed and then flew forward as the bus jolted from the hardened wire mesh, but it didn’t stop.

  “We’re through!” Miles yelled, hopping up and down in his seat, but a plume of smoke rose from the front of the hood, masking the view of the woods ahead.

  “Don’t stop!” Dennis said. “Plow through the trees!”

  Miles laughed with the same insanity as the rest of Dennis’s disciples, and the sound brought a smile to Dennis’s face. It was amazing to him how easily the human brain could be manipulated and controlled.

  And as they barreled toward the surrounding forest, the last thing Dennis heard was Miles’s scream as the bus plowed into a cluster of maples, bringing them to a violent and abrupt stop.

  A harsh ringing in Dennis’s ears woke him on the bus floor. Disoriented from the crash, he pushed himself to his hands and his knees and crawled over the bits of shattered glass. He worked his way toward the front of the bus, which was crumpled like an accordion, and he found Miles bloodied from a nasty gash that ran up his forearm.

  Dennis didn’t wait for him, shouldering open the crashed doors and stumbling into the woods, but Miles eventually freed himself and joined Dennis in the woods.

  “How far?” Dennis asked.

  “Less than a mile,” Miles said, his breathing labored, then gestured ahead. “Just over that ridge—Damn.” He looked to his arm, which was still dripping blood.

  Dogs barked from the compound, turning both men’s attention toward the commotion. Dennis grimaced, then looked at the blood dripping from Miles’s arm. With the dogs, it would leave a trail that even their human counterparts could follow.

  Without hesitation, Dennis shot Miles in the head, collapsing his faithful companion to the ground, the dog’s wild barking now matched by the howls of their human counterparts.

  Dennis snatched the keys out of Miles’s pockets and moved swiftly up through the woods, his legs burning from the rocky terrain and steep incline.

  But the trackers would move even slower with their animals, each of them burdened with the risk of ambush as they kept a logistical straight line throughout entire search area until Dennis was caught.

  Dogs, men screaming, the random pop of a gunshot meant to flush Dennis out of hiding only fueled him to move quicker.

  Another gunshot echoed behind him as he reached the top of the ridge, and this time Dennis allowed himself to turn back.

  Through the trees, he could see the several dozen officers still weaving their way up the mountain. Above, the whirl of chopper blades could be heard, but the tree cover was too thick for them to see anything, especially in the fading light of twilight.

  From the top of the ridge, Dennis saw the river below, but it was hard to tell where Miles had stashed the gear. He moved closer toward the bank and saw a chunk of red that Miles had left behind to make it easy for him to find.

  The harsh, rocky decline forced Dennis to slow lest he twist an ankle and tumble violently to his death just moments before freedom.

  At the bottom, Dennis splashed into the river, the water a shock of frigid cold. He stumbled toward the gear that Miles had stowed away. He ripped off the branches and debris that was used to conceal the gear and quickly donned the scuba tank and mask. There was a wet suit, but Dennis couldn’t afford the time necessary to put it on. He’d have to brave the cold without it.

  He checked the tank pressure and then waded into deeper waters as the frenzied barking of dogs grew louder.

  With rushing water past his waist, Dennis puckered his lips around the oxygen mouthpiece, took a quick breath, and then submerged himself into the cold waters of the river, which swiftly carried him downstream.

  Submerged beneath the rushing waters, the world evaporated to the few inches Dennis was able to see in front of his face, the waters cloudy from the rapid movement downstream.

  The rocky river bottom made the trip dangerous, but Dennis refused to stick his head up and expose himself until he could no longer stand the cold.

  Ten minutes later the current had slowed, and he broke the river’s surface, embraced by the warm night air. He swam toward the shore and dumped the tank and respirator once he reached the muddy bank.

  The journey and cold had sapped his strength, and his muscles cramped and spasmed on his trek out of the water, which finally forced him to collapse as he rolled onto his back. He’d done it. He was out.

  Dennis covered his mouth to stifle the laughter, but then realizing that the nearest person of authority was at least a mile away, he dropped his hand, his laughter challenging the babble of the river.

  Elated, he squirmed and wiggled in the mud, happy as a pig in shit. He was out. He was free. He had done what no one else had ever been able to accomplish.

  Dennis opened his eyes, the laughter fading as he stared up into the night sky and the few stars that had broken through the darkness. It was a sky he hadn’t seen in ten years.

  So much of his life wasted, rotting away in that cell, but what should have been the end of him only made him stronger. He had refused to yield to a lesser power.

  Because that’s what all of them were, the brutes toting their badges and their guns, and their laws of society. What were those to him? Nothing. Just one more obstacle for him to overcome, one more pillar to crumble beneath the might of his mind.

  Dennis sat up, the mud on his back sloughing off in thick sheets and plopping back onto the earth. He rose to his feet, his body shivering again.

  But the trembling was as much from as excitement as it was from the cold. Dennis spread his arms wide and then drew in a deep breath.

  Dennis trudged through the woods, trying to get his bearings, knowing that the vehicle was stashed on some abandoned dirt road.

  The faint whirl of chopper blades in the distance hastened Dennis’s pace, knowing that he needed to get out of the area before the search party moved this far west.

  Miles hadn’t had a chance to show him the map while he was incarcerated, but he had given him enough information to fill in the blanks, and with Dennis’s mind, it was more than enough to guide him if he was blind.

  The road where the car was stashed was an old logging road, and after the industry collapsed in the northwest, so did the need to travel and maintain the roads.

  But enough of the paths remained for a properly outfitted off-road vehicle to traverse, and after only a few minutes of separating himself from the river, Dennis stumbled across it, jogging through the slightly uneven path south until he saw the truck.

  Dennis stripped off the prison clothing along the way, naked by the time he reached the driver side door. He found two pairs of clothes inside, one for him and one for Miles. There was also a small medical cooler with extra syringes and insulin for his future shots.

  Dennis dressed quickly and opened the glove compartment, where he found a driver’s license, registration papers for the truck, a passport, credit cards, and ten thousand in cash.

  The new identity that Dennis had Miles create for him was for a Terry Hillman, slightly older with different eye color and hair than Dennis currently had, but the contacts and hair dye that were also in the car would take care of that quick enough should he need it.

  Once dressed, Dennis dropped the tailgate and flung the tarp off covering the truck bed, exposing the weapons that Miles had procured for him. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Dennis picked up the .308 Winchester with mounted scope, his heart ha
mmering against his chest. “It’s been a long time.” He lifted the scope to his eye, thrusting him into the woods, the world tunneling into the view of the crosshairs. He squeezed the trigger, dry firing the weapon, and then set it down.

  A hunting knife was placed next to the ammunition, and Dennis secured the sheath to his belt and got behind the wheel.

  He grabbed the keys to the truck and the burner phone that Miles had gotten for him, with one number already pre-programmed into it.

  Dennis sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and then drove down the winding, beaten path. He opened the contacts and then dialed the only number listed.

  19

  Before the chopper even had a chance to touch down at the prison, the news came in over the headsets about Dennis’s escape. Shock spread to everyone’s face except for Grant’s.

  “How long?” Mocks asked.

  “Ten minutes ago,” Hofster answered.

  “The woods,” Grant said, speaking his thoughts aloud, then he shut his eyes and exhaled a heavy breath. “He would have used the river. It’s close enough to make the journey on foot.”

  “He couldn’t have made it without a raft, and air support said they couldn’t find anything,” Mocks said.

  Grant shook his head. “He might not have needed one.”

  “The water’s sixty degrees, and some of the rapids on that river are class fours,” Mocks said. “I doubt he took a swim in it.”

  But Grant wasn’t so sure. Dennis was a man who didn’t mind going the extra mile and had a creative way of solving problems. It’s what made him so dangerous. “Have them do a close search of the bank of the river near the prison. He might have left something. And get divers ready to retrieve a body. I don’t think he would have killed himself after all of that effort, but you can’t be sure—”

  Grant caught sight of Hofster’s face, the pale complexion that he’d never seen the chief wear in all of his television appearances. He looked to have aged at least ten years in a matter of seconds.

  “Chief?” Mocks asked.

  Hofster shifted his eyes away from the screen of his phone and to the tips of his boots. “Williams is dead.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Mocks said.

  Hofster smashed his phone on the chopper’s floor, and then crushed it with one swift pound from the heel of his boot. “Goddammit!” The color in his cheeks returned to him in a flash, along with a trembling anger powerful enough to bring down the entire chopper. “How does this happen!”

  It was nightfall when they returned to Seattle, the chopper landing on the helipad on top of the police headquarters downtown.

  From the roof, the view of the Seattle skyline was beautiful. Nothing but twinkling lights and the light hum of traffic and the steady ocean breeze.

  Grant walked toward the roof’s edge and looked down at the city below. A city that was never truly safe, but in far more danger now that Dennis had escaped.

  The best-case scenario was the quick recapture of Dennis with no further casualties, but deep down, Grant knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  Dennis had outsmarted the best minds in the state. And he had done it from inside a cell at a maximum security prison. The man wasn’t just going to kill again. He was going to transform Seattle into a living nightmare. He was going to make people afraid. Because to make people afraid was to control them, and that’s exactly what Dennis had wanted.

  The only question now was how Dennis would attack. He’d evolved since the last time he was out of his cage, and he’d grown more sophisticated.

  Grant glanced down at the watch that Dennis had given him, the timer blinking zeros. Grant clicked it off and then looked out to the city one last time. It was the only home he’d ever known, and even when he did leave, he didn’t go far. He couldn’t separate himself from the city that had been as much a part of his existence as he was of it.

  The city that had embraced him, then scorned him, and seemingly forgiven him after his years in self-imposed exile.

  The city where he had married and lost the first love of his life. The same city where he had found the second love of his life.

  Life, death, rebirth. It was a cycle. An endless loop that Grant found himself caught up in. He had no idea where it would end, or where it was taking him now, but he knew that he had to keep fighting until Dennis was stopped.

  “Grant!” Mocks yelled over the fading whine of the chopper blades and waved him over to the stairwell.

  Joining Mocks, his phone rang. He reached for it, the number unknown, and answered. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Grant,” Dennis said.

  Grant stopped, Mocks frowning at him from the door. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” Dennis asked, his tone aghast. “I want us to finish our game, Detective. Because out of all the scenarios I imagined for myself ten years ago when I was a free man, I never expected you. You were the anomaly in the system, the fly in my soup. And you created an imbalance in my life, and now I’m going to correct it.”

  “Correct it how?” Grant asked, trying to keep him talking, trying to make him angry, to give him something out of the emotional frenzy that he was working himself into.

  “I’m going to make up for the injustice that was done to me,” Dennis said.

  “The State of Washington wouldn’t have called your stay in prison an injustice,” Grant said, the wind picking up on the rooftop, this time with an icy edge to it. “Neither would I.”

  Dennis laughed. “The mob rarely has the sophistication to recognize right from wrong. But they will know soon enough. And you’re going to help me.”

  “The only thing I’m going to do is hunt you down and put the cuffs on you myself,” Grant said. “And then I’m going to reserve my front-row seat at your execution. Hell, I might even try to see if they’ll let me put the needle in you. I bet I could arrange that. That way I’ll know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’re finally done.”

  “There it is!” Dennis shouted, his voice joyous. “That’s what I wanted to hear!” He laughed and then let out a relief-ridden sigh. “You had me worried, Detective. I was beginning to think that you couldn’t play the game anymore, or worse, you didn’t want to play the game. I’m glad to hear that isn’t the case.”

  “No,” Grant said. “It isn’t.”

  “But do you see now?” Dennis asked. “Do you see why I had to do this? I needed to make sure that you were still the detective from ten years ago. You’ve been away for so long. You just weren’t hungry anymore, Detective. But I was. I am. And now you’re hungry again too. We’re going to play more games together now. The stakes will be high, higher than they’ve ever been for either of us. The hunt has started, Detective. And I promise I’ll give you my best. I can take anyone, Grant. Anywhere. Anytime. No one is safe. No one is immune. The city has been allowed to grow untethered and without check or balance. I have the city in my crosshairs, Grant. And you know I never miss.”

  Grant tightened his fist so hard his knuckles popped.

  “Oh,” Dennis said. “And be sure to give my best to Samantha.”

  The call ended, but Grant kept the phone by his ear as Mocks approached. It was the way Dennis had said her name that twisted his stomach into knots and catapulted his heart into his throat.

  “Grant?” Mocks asked. “Was it him?”

  “I need a car.” Grant stepped past Mocks, heading for the stairwell, Mocks trailing close behind, phone to her ear.

  “This is Lieutenant Mullocks,” she said. “Patch me through to the unit watching Sam Cohen’s apartment.”

  Grant shouldered open the door and hurried down the stairwell.

  “She’s at the apartment, they’re going to check on her now,” Mocks said.

  But the news was little consolation. Until he saw Sam, until he held her in his arms, Grant knew that she wasn’t safe. Hell, she wasn’t safe until Dennis was six feet beneath the ground.

  They took the elevator down, knowing it wou
ld be quicker than the stairs.

  The car was already waiting for them when they stepped from the first-floor lobby and into the cool crisp air of night. It was the first sign of fall that the city had experienced, and the first sign that summer had ended.

  The downtown buildings were bathed in red and blue as Grant tried Samantha on his phone. Three times it went to voicemail.

  “The door’s locked, and she’s not answering,” Mocks said, phone glued to her ear as she spoke with the officer on scene.

  “Get the bomb squad,” Grant said.

  Downtown faded, and the cruiser slowed outside Grant’s apartment building. He was out of the car before it came to a stop.

  The bomb squad was coming out, the sergeant leading them removing his helmet. “Door’s clear, but we don’t know what else might be inside—”

  “No devices?” Grant asked.

  “No, but—"

  Grant darted past him, reaching into his pocket and removing his keys as he hurried up the staircase, forgoing the slow elevator that sometimes refused to work.

  A few officers had stayed behind on the third floor, and Grant spotted them outside of his door. None of them stopped him when he passed them and struggled to put the key into the lock.

  Grant missed twice, finally landing the third try, and turned it quickly, shoving the door open and rushing inside. His mind was moving so quickly that he was blinded by adrenaline, and it took him a second before he saw Sam lying on the floor.

  “I need a medic!” Grant shouted back toward the door on his way to the floor as he scooped Sam into his arms. “Sam? Oh, God.” He checked her pulse, his own heart racing, but his fumbling fingers were unable to feel hers. He shut his eyes and tried to calm himself. He pressed his fingers to the soft section of her flesh, and this time he felt a pulse.

  Grant exhaled, relief flooding through his veins as the paramedics rushed inside, followed by Mocks. But while the medical team wanted to try and get their hands on Sam, Grant wouldn’t let go.

  Ignoring the medic’s requests to take his fiancée, it was Mocks who had to peel his hands off her.