The Medusa Prophecy

by Cindy Dees

  She sat there for several seconds, catching her breath. The hostile should be off to her left. No telling how far he’d moved while she’d been flying down the mountain. She’d been too busy watching where she was going to try to spot him.

  She stood up, dropped her field knife out of its wrist sheath and into her right hand and glided forward. Time was of the essence. She had only a few more minutes until the caravan topped the ridge and came into weapons range. Moving from boulder to boulder for cover, she leapfrogged down and to the left. Please be Jack. Please be Jack. Each time she took up a new position, she stopped to listen. And each time, she heard only the whooshing sound of the wind sweeping ice crystals before it.

  But then she stopped again and heard another noise. A faint, rhythmic crunching.

  Bingo. Target acquisition.

  Chapter 8

  Oslo, Norway, March 4, 4:45 p.m.

  Jens pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting old. Didn’t deal as well as he used to with a lousy night’s sleep. He looked around the briefing room. Everyone was working extra hours and lots of his fellow cops just coming off shift looked bleary-eyed. Rough night?

  The outgoing shift commander stood up. “We’re getting preliminary reports from the Tromsö and Nordkapp areas of similar crime sprees erupting. Whatever’s going on in Oslo has spread.”

  Great. Jens wondered idly if maybe it had started up north and migrated south to Oslo and not the other way around. He’d have to think about that later.

  The briefer continued, “The mayor is monitoring the situation. If it continues to deteriorate, he may consider declaring a curfew or even a state of emergency. The folks in the labs tell us the Oslo crimes definitely appear related to drugs. If you have informants or contacts you can work to find out what’s going on in the drug scene, work them ASAP.”

  Jens frowned. Willie. Time to pay the little prick a visit.

  The briefing ended, and Jens headed back to his desk to call Astrid’s pal. He reached for the phone, but it rang under his hand, making him jump.

  “Detective Schumacher,” he growled.

  “Detective. This is Doctor Malchik over at Rikshospitalet University Hospital. The young prostitute who committed the murders has expired.”

  It took him a second to translate in his head. Oh. She’d died. Christ. The guy made her sound like a magazine subscription. “Did she ever regain consciousness? Say anything?”

  “No, no,” the guy said impatiently. “That sort of thing only happens on television programs. She experienced an intractable grand mal seizure that apparently involved her heart muscles. They did not respond to treatment, and we were not able to sustain vital functions.”

  “In plain language, please.”

  “She had a massive convulsion, her heart stopped beating, and she died.”

  And the bastard couldn’t have said that from the beginning? Why? Doctors. Always had to impress everyone with how much they knew.

  “Thanks.” Jens disconnected the call with his thumb and as soon as he got a dial tone punched in a new set of numbers.

  “Tromsö Police. How may I direct your call?”

  “Homicide.”

  “One moment.”

  A tired-sounding male voice came on the line. “Yurgen here.”

  “Good morning. Detective Schumacher down in Oslo Homicide.”

  “’Morning. Just got off the phone with some of your guys. I can’t tell you anything new about the murders. We’re seeing the same M.O.s up here that you are.”

  “Any idea where your drugs are coming from?”

  “We think our dealer must be living nearby, maybe coming into town from an outlying area and trading drugs whenever he happens to be here. The pills that we think are causing the problem seem to be showing up in spurts. Every two to three weeks a handful of them have been hitting the streets.”

  “Are you searching the local area for your dealer?”

  “Can’t. We’ve got a big military reservation nearby, and there’s some exercise running. The army won’t let us anywhere near it.”

  Jens swore under his breath. “Tell them to find your dealer, then, if he’s hiding out on their turf.”

  The Tromsö cop’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “The way I hear it, the FSK is running Special Forces exercises out there. I’d hate to be the drug dealer if they catch up with him.”

  Jens grinned. “I hear ya. Keep me informed of any new developments, and I’ll do the same for you.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Jens hung up again, and again dialed a new number as soon as he got a dial tone. Now for Willie. The kid would cough up the name of his supplier, or so help him, Jens was going to break him in half.

  Jens opened his car window. The rush of cold air felt good. The car’s heater was blasting him out. “Astrid!” he called to the girl walking down the sidewalk. The beige neo-classical buildings of Oslo University rose behind her.

  His daughter whirled, her backpack sliding off one shoulder. “Dad! What are you doing here?”

  “Get in. We’ll give you a ride home.”

  “I don’t need a ride. I’m enjoying the sunshine.”

  “Don’t argue. Get in. All hell’s broken loose and you’re not safe on the streets.”

  “It’s broad daylight! I’m perfectly fine. Besides. I’m over eighteen. I’m an adult.”

  Jens rolled his eyes. Did other teenagers actually get results by flinging that “I’m an adult” line at their parents, or was he the only parent in the world who didn’t care if she was eighteen or thirty-eight? She was still his little girl. Always would be. “You may be an adult, but I’m bigger than you and I’m carrying a gun. Now, get in.”

  He scowled as she ducked down to see if Ivo was driving. Yes, Loverboy was here. Jens gritted his teeth as that seemed to sway his stubborn offspring. She opened the back door of the unmarked car and slid across the back seat until she could look at Ivo in the rearview mirror.

  “Hi,” she said shyly to his partner.

  “Hi.” Ivo gave her a stunning smile.

  “Can you believe he’s picking me up from school now, like I’m six?” she groused, all smiles and flirty looks.

  Ivo replied seriously, “He’s right to be cautious. This crime wave is terrible. I don’t think a pretty girl like you should be out by yourself, either.”

  This earned his partner a perky pout followed by a brilliant smile. Jens clenched his jaw as she simpered, “But it’s so boring to be all cooped up inside at home with nothing to do but study.”

  Hell, even he’d caught on that she was angling to get Ivo to ask her out. Jens interjected, “You need to study if you want to get decent grades.” That earned him rolled eyes from the back seat.

  They got home and waved goodbye to Ivo. Astrid didn’t take her eyes off him as he drove off. Jens opened the kitchen door and shed his parka while Astrid put down her book bag.

  “Have a seat, honey.” He gestured at one of the kitchen chairs.

  Astrid sat down cautiously. “Are you gonna lecture me again about drugs? I swear I haven’t done any since you lectured me yesterday.”

  He sighed. “No lecture. Can I make you a cup of hot chocolate?”

  “Hot chocolate? What’s wrong?”

  Damn. She knew him too well. He sat down across from her and forced his hands not to fidget. This was hard to do with total strangers. It was damn near impossible with his own daughter. “Honey, I went to see Willie this morning. Just to talk. To ask him where he got those pills and what was in them.”

  “Dad—”

  He held up a hand, and uncharacteristically, Astrid fell silent. She must sense that something bad had happened. “I have some bad news for you.”

  She nodded reluctantly, clearly bracing herself. Except she had no idea what was coming next. He took a deep, steadying breath. God, he hated to do this.

  As gently as he knew how to, he said, “We think his roommate had a psychotic episode. The tall, skinn
y one.”

  “Nicklaus,” Astrid supplied.

  “Right. Willie and the other boy who lived with them—”

  “Randal.”

  “Yeah, Randal. He and Willie were both dead when I got there. We found Nicklaus at his girlfriend’s apartment. Both of them were dead, too.”

  Astrid went as still and white as a block of ice, her eyes enormous and dark. He reached across the table and took her icy fingers in his. No amount of chafing brought any warmth back into them.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

  In a heartbreakingly small voice, she asked, “Am I going to go crazy and die, too, Daddy?”

  Northern Norway, March 4, 5:00 p.m.

  Karen peered through her flexible periscope around the corner of a shoulder-high boulder. To her great disappointment, the target turned out not to be Jack. She’d so been hoping she could rough him up. Neither was this guy one of the Norwegian special operators she’d met.

  Which meant he was more likely than not a hostile. And for some bizarre reason, that sent a surge of intense satisfaction through her. Maybe she’d get to pound the heck out of someone after all. It didn’t really matter who she unleashed her pent-up anger on at this point. This guy was as good as any.

  The hostile peered around his own boulder toward the valley floor below. What was he up to?

  Patience, Karen. The rules of engagement the Medusas had agreed upon for their reconnaissance sorties today was that they wouldn’t harm or kill any stranger who showed no intent to harm members of the caravan. They would merely capture and question anyone they came across. However, if they ran into anyone who did demonstrate hostile intent, the rules of engagement were to kill on sight.

  Karen had trained to kill like this for the past year. Now, faced with a man she might very well have to execute in cold blood, the idea ought to be daunting. But it wasn’t. Not at all. She relished the idea, even.

  If it came down to him or her, it wasn’t a hard choice. If it came down to him or her teammates, or even him or the Sami people, it wasn’t a hard choice either. No matter how much she was jonesing to kill something right now, she would…not…kill for pleasure. With great difficulty, she forced herself to set aside her unnatural glee and settled into the cold, emotionless focus the moment required.

  There. The first reindeer team and sled had just topped the mountain pass. Her target lurched. Stared intently through his binoculars at the caravan. The second sled—with Misty jogging alongside it, rifle clearly visible—came into view.

  Her target spun fast and dropped to the ground behind his rock. Crap. He was facing right at her. She didn’t even have time to pull back the periscope. Now she’d have to stay perfectly still and hope he didn’t spot the distinctively man-made circle of the lens next to the ragged outline of her boulder.

  Her heart surged into high gear, practically pounding its way out of her chest. What was up with that? She was in better physical condition than this. And her adrenaline wasn’t that out of control.

  She froze every other muscle in her body, standing perfectly still, and watched her quarry. Breathe in. Count to four. Breathe out. She counted in a slightly slower tempo than her heartbeat, willing it to relax. Slow down. Be calm. Gradually, her pulse responded, slowing to a more sensible rhythm.

  Hostile or not hostile? Capture or kill? She waited with the infinite patience of a predator, already tasting its prey, her unblinking stare riveted on her target. Slowly, she got a firmer grip on her knife. Any second now he’d show his cards. And when he did, she would make her decision and spring into action in an instant. She allowed her muscles to coil into relaxed readiness, prepared to spring into battle. Breathing or not, this guy was going down in the next few seconds.

  Because she didn’t know if he was alone or not, she’d have to take him out in total silence. Not a problem, just a slightly more violent method of attack required.

  The hostile fumbled in his backpack and pulled out a long, thin, black tube. Time shifted into slow motion as she identified the object. That looked like the barrel of a sawed off shotgun.

  If he pointed that thing at the caravan, he was dead where he stood.

  This guy didn’t carry himself like a killer. He was nervous about how he handled the weapon. She bided her time, waiting for the final, damning act that declared him hostile. She wasn’t about to off someone on anything less than ironclad evidence of criminal intent.

  He fumbled with the weapon’s safety, shrugged on its shoulder strap, and psyched himself up to shoot, exhaling hard several times. Amateur. In the first place, the Medusas never carried a weapon in anything but the ready-to-fire position. Second, if she had to pick up a weapon and ready it to fire, she could do it in a single smooth, blindingly fast movement that sacrificed nothing by way of accuracy.

  Finally, he rose to a half-crouch and turned around to lay his rifle barrel on the rock before him. His finger reached for the trigger. Bad decision, buddy.

  She pounced.

  It was over in about one second. Knife held chest-high in front of her, she took three running strides forward. With her free hand she grabbed his parka hood, and with the other hand, her knife hand, she slashed powerfully across the guy’s throat. Her strike had the same cold efficiency and deadly effect Anders’ had had the day before.

  The hostile dropped to the ground. Blood soaked into the snow, dissipating like syrup into a snow cone. And she felt nothing but cold satisfaction.

  Then he was still.

  She pushed back his glove and felt for a pulse in his wrist. Nada. Dead.

  She lifted the shotgun out of his hands and backed away from him, her gaze still wary upon him. Never trust a tango to be dead until the meat wagon has hauled him away. She’d learned that one from Jack. He’d played possum on her once. Had about broken her ankle as she’d turned away from him and he’d grabbed her foot.

  Propping the weapon against her hip with her finger on the trigger, she used her left hand to key her microphone.

  “I have one hostile down. I’m at the bottom of the pass, thirty yards to your left as you come down the mountain.”

  The effect on the slope above her was tremendous and immediate. Reindeer sleds scattered in all directions. The Samis dived into the snow and behind boulders, disappearing from view in a matter of seconds. Dang, they were good at blending into the scenery! Must be all that hunting they did. Had she not seen them go, she’d never have guessed nearly fifty men, women, and children ranged across that mountainside.

  Vanessa transmitted tersely, “More hostiles?”

  Karen replied, “None sighted.”

  “Medusas, spread out. Fan formation. Anders will stay in the area with the Samis to guard them. Python, say status of hostile.”

  “Dead.”

  Vanessa didn’t question her decision to kill the guy. It went without saying that Karen wouldn’t have taken him out if he hadn’t shown violent intent. All her boss said was, “Threat is high, ladies.”

  Karen knelt and searched her kill. His face was already a ghastly shade of blue-gray. No identification. No radio, just a cell phone. She flipped it open, and a message on its face said it wasn’t receiving any signals. The cell phone the Samis had with them in case of an emergency wasn’t operational, either. Must be the mountains interfering with the signals. She pocketed the phone. She’d try it on the next mountain peak.

  The guy had enough gear to stay out here for a couple days. Must be cave-camping because he had no tent. But, he had a good sleeping bag, food and water, maps, assorted survival supplies, and a handful of ammo. Idiot! What person came out here with a weapon and only a couple of dozen shells to fire from it? The Medusas commonly carried several thousand rounds of ammo for their weapons.

  She threw the shotgun sling over her shoulder and moved out, carefully clearing the rock-strewn hillside nearby. God, it felt good to have a loaded weapon—a real one—in her hands again. An almost sexual thrill shuddered through her. She frowned. What was wr
ong with her tonight?

  The Medusas combed the valley for over an hour looking for more hostiles before Vanessa finally called the all clear. Karen’s guy had been alone.

  But the Samis refused to come out of hiding until Karen personally hiked back up the mountainside to where they were hiding and told them herself that it was safe. Then they came out. Ahh, the downside of being a god. Everyone wants a piece of you.

  Anders emerged as well. He was carrying one of the Sami rifles, and danger fairly oozed from him. He strode up to her, all business. “Who’d you kill?”

  “Single male. No identification except a few pages torn out of a book. They look like Arabic verses. Koran, maybe. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark body hair. He pulled out this baby—” she held out the shotgun “—and aimed it at the caravan as soon as he saw one of the Medusas.”

  He nodded tersely. No questions asked. Apparently, he trusted her judgment. And for that, she was grateful. At the moment, as weird as she was feeling, she wasn’t sure she trusted her own judgment.

  Anders said, “We need to retrieve the body. My headquarters will want to ID it.”

  Karen nodded and led the way back to the corpse. She took the dead man’s feet and Anders took his shoulders, and the two of them carried the body down to the valley floor. The Samis weren’t thrilled to have to repack their sleds to make room for this new, grisly cargo, but they did it when Karen asked them to. The dead man’s more useful supplies were distributed among the Medusas, and the rest packed with the body.

  The caravan set out once more.

  Nobody complained when they traveled much longer than had been originally planned. Everybody wanted to put some distance between the caravan and the site of the killing. The really deep freeze of the night had settled in before the siida-isit finally called a halt.

  Anders translated. “He says the reindeer are exhausted and can go no further. We will stop here for the night.”

  “Here” was a small, sheltered valley with sheer vertical cliffs rising some three hundred feet at their backs and to one side. A good, defensible position. A watch rotation was set up, two Medusas and three Samis at a time—with an operational weapon for each.