Blood Tattoo (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 5)

by Jude Hardin

I set the cup on the dresser, knelt down and pulled out the crossbow. It was already cocked, the only way it could have possibly fit into a regular-size acoustic guitar case. It was black and ominous. It looked like a big lethal pretzel. I liberated four of the arrows from their slots and scooted over to the window. I pulled out the field glasses, looked down the hill and adjusted the focus. I was about to call Di and tell her there was still no sign of the Meyeleyon Koh when I saw something slightly blurry by one of the pine trees. The more I focused on it, the more I could see the outline of a human being. A transparent person.

  It was the freakiest damn thing I’d ever seen.

  “Wild Canary, this is Bullfrog. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Bullfrog, this is Wild Canary. Affirmative. Over.”

  “I currently have one target—wait there’s another one. I currently have two targets in my sights, but they’re practically invisible. They look like walking slabs of clear gelatin or something. Over.”

  “I’ll be damned,” she said. “They have optic camouflage. They’re wearing suits embedded with hundreds of tiny video cameras and hundreds of tiny monitors. What you’re seeing is a digital playback, in real time, of whatever’s directly on the other side of them. It’s an amazing technology, something I wasn’t aware they had. Can you see them well enough to take a shot? Over.”

  “I think so. Over.”

  “What about the Hotchkiss? Have they uncovered the cannon yet? Over.”

  “Negative. Wait, they’re doing it now. It was under some fallen pine branches and other organic debris. Over.”

  Even with those things cleared away, the cannon was still very hard to see. Someone had plastered what amounted to a ghillie suit onto it. Twigs and leaves and pine needles and clumps of dirt covered the barrel and wheels and crank and feeding chute, rendering the apparatus practically indistinguishable from its surroundings. It blended in almost as well as the men with their high-tech outfits.

  “I just got word that the motorcade is approaching,” Di said. “You need to eliminate the targets immediately. Over.”

  “Roger that. Over and out.”

  I knelt on one knee and grabbed an arrow and steadied the bow against the windowsill. The targets were about fifty yards away. Half the length of a football field. I peered through the scope and lowered the crosshairs on the invisible man on the left. I decided to name him Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number One. He was loading shells into the feeding rack on that side of the cannon. The other guy, Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number Two, had his hand on the crank, ready to start firing.

  2:33.

  “That’s a cool crossbow, Mr. Colt.”

  It was Terry again. I didn’t turn around. I kept my eye on the target.

  “Get out of here,” I said.

  “Now, is that any way to talk to your favorite student? I’ve been practicing, by the way. I think I have that lead part down pat. I’m sure I’ll have it by next Thursday.”

  “Terrific.”

  “What are you aiming at?” he said.

  “A target. That’s what I’m trying to con myself into believing, anyway. But that’s not the truth. I’m aiming at a human being, Terry. In a few seconds, I’m going to take his life. Then I’m going to take his buddy’s life. They’re not targets. They’re real men. Flesh and blood. They have people who love them. Parents and siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles. They have friends. Maybe they’re married, with kids of their own. In a few seconds, their world is going to come to an end, and I’m going to be the one responsible for making it happen.”

  “Cool.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “Because they’re very bad men. If I don’t kill them, they’re going to try to kill the president.”

  “The president?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “Good point.”

  I held my breath and pulled the trigger and let the arrow fly. It whizzed through the air and found its mark directly between Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number One’s shoulder blades.

  I grabbed the binoculars. The arrow’s steel tip must have shorted out his camo suit. I could see him clearly now. He turned slightly, and I saw that the shaft of the arrow had gone all the way through his body. The feather part was sticking out of his back, and the arrowhead part was sticking out of the center of his chest. It was a good shot. It had pierced his heart. He stood there for a second, looking stunned, and then fell forward.

  Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number Two ran to that side of the cannon and knelt down beside his fallen comrade. His suit wasn’t working properly either. He would appear for a second, and then become invisible again. He kept fading in and out like Casper the unfriendly ghost. Seeing what had happened, he started looking around frantically. At the same time, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and punched in some numbers. I cocked the bow and grabbed another arrow and drew a bead on him.

  “Bullfrog, this is Wild Canary,” Diana said over the radio. “The motorcade is starting to pass by now. The Beast will be in the line of fire in approximately thirty seconds. Has the problem been resolved? Over.”

  “Half of it has,” I said. “Preparing to take care of the other half now. Over.”

  “Do it. Over and out.”

  Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number Two looked up the hill. Naked eyes, no field glasses. It was possible he saw me now, although I was pretty sure the crape myrtles blocked his view. At least partially.

  The Meyeleyon Koh obviously hadn’t worried much about being seen from the residence. If the assassination had gone as planned, the Hotchkiss cannon would have only been exposed for a couple of minutes. Not likely the homeowner would have been looking down the hill at that time. And, even if she had, the cannon was impossible to see without some sort of magnification. Plus, with those optic camouflage suits, the assassins had cloaking capabilities that belonged in a science-fiction movie. Only someone specifically looking for them, like me, would be able to see them. And maybe, like me, they had intelligence that the homeowner was going to be gone while the motorcade passed anyway. They certainly had never expected someone with field glasses and the world’s best crossbow to be on top of the hill firing arrows at them.

  Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number Two went for his assault rifle.

  He aimed it up the hill. He still had time to shoot me, and then nail the Beast with the cannon. For a brief moment, success was still within his reach.

  But before he got a single shot off, my arrow whistled through the atmosphere at three hundred feet per second and drilled its way into the left side of his throat. He dropped the rifle and clutched the carbon shaft, trying to dislodge it.

  I wondered what went through a person’s mind in a situation like that. Did he think he stood a chance of surviving? Did he think it was just a matter of pulling that dreadful and excruciatingly painful foreign object out of his neck? It’s not that bad. It’s just a flesh wound. Everything’s going to be OK.

  I wondered.

  He managed to break the arrow in half, but that just hastened things. Blood started flowing from the hollow shaft like water from a faucet. He staggered around for a few seconds, and he actually got one hand on the cannon crank before collapsing to the ground. His legs convulsed a couple of times, and then it was over.

  “You got him!” Terry said.

  “Yeah. I think this calls for a celebration.”

  I got up and walked over to the dresser and drained the rest of the vodka from the coffee cup.

  I took a deep breath, let it out slowly through pursed lips.

  “I’ll be in the garage practicing if you need me,” Terry said, nonchalantly. “I’ll have my headphones on, so just kick me or throw something at me or something if you want to get my attention.”

  I nodded, happy to be rid of my imaginary friend for a while.

  I called Di on the radio.

  “Wild Canary,
this is Bullfrog. The threat has been eliminated. Over.”

  “Brilliant,” she said. “The motorcade is passing by now, so we’re almost in the clear. In less than a minute, the president will be completely out of harm’s way. Over.”

  “Should I proceed as planned? Over.”

  “Affirmative. Excellent job, Bullfrog. A clean-up crew will be there in thirty minutes to get rid of the Hotchkiss cannon and the bodies and any other evidence. Over and out.”

  I went back to the window and put the crossbow and the remaining arrows back into the modified guitar case.

  Then I went to work on the room.

  I scooted the piece of glass back under the window and smashed it with the metal end of the mallet, and then I chipped away at the glazing still in the window frame. When I finished, there were jagged edges all the way around, as though a common burglar had invaded the home and not a professional thief. That’s what we wanted the cops to think, that an everyday scumbag had busted in for a quick look around.

  I started pulling out drawers and tossing socks and panties and bras and T-shirts and other miscellaneous crap haphazardly around the room, like someone looking to score some cash or jewelry or maybe even a bag of weed.

  Or maybe even a gun.

  In one of the junk drawers, under some CDs and old greeting cards, there was a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum, very much like the one I kept strapped under our bed frame at home. Very much like it. In fact, it could have been my revolver’s twin. Same make and model, same nickel plating, same hardwood grips.

  I checked to see if it was loaded. It was.

  The .357 was a valuable gun. No thief worth his salt would have left it. I stuffed it into my backpack, and then I continued flinging things out of drawers until I’d gone through all of them. Near the end I found a hundred and three dollars rolled up in a sock. Nothing else of value. No diamond necklaces or Rolexes or anything. It would have been a rather disappointing day for a crackhead, except for the .357.

  I’d almost finished ransacking the place when Diana came back over the radio.

  “Bullfrog, this is Wild Canary. We have a situation. There’s been a snag. The presidential motorcade has come to a complete stop there on the highway behind the house. The word I’m getting is that there’s a mechanical problem with the Beast. Probably arranged by the Meyeleyon Koh’s inside man. A dozen Secret Service agents are out of the cars and on the street, armed and ready, physically guarding a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree perimeter around the president’s car. They’re standing by for now, but eventually they’re going to move the president to another vehicle, which means he’ll be somewhat vulnerable for ten seconds or so. I’m sure everything will be all right now that you’ve eliminated the threat, but could you keep an eye out just in case? Over.”

  “Affirmative, Wild Canary. Will do. This is Bullfrog, over and out.”

  I walked back to the window and grabbed the binoculars and looked down the hill.

  That’s when I saw Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number Three.

  Again, the ghostly blob moved about with vague blurry borders, the way the other two had done while their optic camo suits were working. Number Three had probably been posted somewhere as a lookout, and then had come running when Number Two made the call on his cell phone. That was my guess. He appeared to be unarmed.

  He checked one fallen man, and then the other, but there was nothing he could do for them. They were dead as a wet drum. He stood with his back to me with his hands on his hips, looking farther down the hill. Thinking. Asking himself what the hell went wrong. He stood there like that for a few seconds and then turned and started looking in all directions, probably wondering if the deadly force that had snuffed out his subversive brethren was still lurking nearby. Seeing the arrows, he might have thought hunters had taken the boys out. I couldn’t read his mind, but his movements seemed to denote confusion over what to do next.

  “Wild Canary, this is Bullfrog. We have another one. Over.”

  “Say again? Over.”

  “There’s a third member of the Meyeleyon Koh down by the cannon,” I said. “So far, he looks baffled, like he doesn’t know what to do. Over.”

  “You’re sure it’s one of them? Over.”

  “Affirmative. He’s wearing one of those optic camouflage suits, like the other guys. Over.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” she said. “Kill him. Over.”

  “Roger that. Over and out.”

  I opened the guitar case and pulled out the crossbow, along with two arrows. I couldn’t kneel down at the window this time, because of the broken glass everywhere. It would have cut my knee to shreds. I thought about grabbing the quilt off the bed and throwing it on top of the shards and slivers, but then the police would wonder why there was glass on the quilt. I tried standing back a few feet, but I couldn’t find the proper angle to get a shot off.

  Invisible Terrorist Asshole Number Three was fiddling with the cannon now, trying to figure out how it worked. Maybe he was new to the outfit. Maybe that’s why they had used him for a lookout.

  He reached into a pocket and produced a cell phone and started stabbing at it with his thumbs. He appeared to be sending someone a text message, probably trying to get instructions on how to finish what Number One and Number Two had started. On how to blast the Beast with a projectile that could penetrate the hull of a battleship.

  I had to take him out before that happened.

  From his position, the hill sloped off steeper on down to the highway. He could see the presidential motorcade, whereas I could not. The secret service agents wouldn’t be able to see him because of the optic camo suit, and they wouldn’t be able to see the cannon because of the natural foliage tacked to it, so right now the president was pretty much a sitting duck.

  There was only one thing for me to do. I had to get to a higher position. I had to get up on the roof somehow and take my shot from there. I figured it would be quicker to do that than to try to clean up all the shards of glass in front of the window. And, if I did pick up the glass or scoot it out of the way, there would be no way of getting it back like it was. There would be bits of glass everywhere, and the cops would know the job had been staged.

  I opened the front door and looked left and right, scouting for the best place to climb onto the roof, and then I ran back to the kitchen and opened the door to the garage. Terry was sitting on a stool playing his guitar. Eyes closed, soulful expressions.

  “Is there a ladder in here?” I said.

  He couldn’t hear me with the headphones on, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t real, so he couldn’t actually do anything for me anyway. But that was OK. I didn’t need his help. An aluminum extension ladder was mounted to the wall behind him, right there in plain sight. I walked over and grabbed it, flipped the switch to open the garage door and headed outside.

  I fully extended the ladder and propped it against the roof on the front of the house and started climbing. When I made it to the top, I unloaded the crossbow and the arrows onto the composite shingles and pulled myself up. The field glasses were on a strap around my neck, and they got snagged on the top of the ladder as I mounted the roof. I stumbled and came close to falling fifteen feet to the ground. I got lucky. I probably would have broken a leg, or maybe even a neck. I grabbed the weapon and climbed to the peak and scooted down to a vent pipe on the other side. I stood, hooking one foot around the pipe for stability, and peered down into the valley through the scope.

  Number Three was still texting. His back was to me. I aimed and fired.

  And missed.

  The arrow punched into a tree a couple of feet to the villain’s left. He put his cell phone away and looked up the hill.

  It was a good thing I’d brought an extra arrow; it was a bad thing I was down to one last chance at taking this thug out.

  One last chance, and now I needed to cock the crossbow again, which was the equivalent of dead lifting a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Not an easy task
under normal circumstances, and nearly impossible on a steep incline. The crossbow had a hand-actuated winch on the stock, but it took a couple of minutes to cock it that way. I didn’t think I could afford the time.

  I sat down and put my foot in the stirrup and tugged with all my might, but it was no use. I didn’t have the strength to cock the bow at that angle, and there was no way for me to stand and do it on the pitched roof. I started cranking furiously on the winch, thinking bullets were going to start whizzing my way any second. I cranked and cranked and cranked, sweat dripping into my eyes and the muscles in my arm on fire.

  Finally, the bowstring locked into place.

  Nearly exhausted, I loaded my last arrow and took a quick peek down the hill with the binoculars. Number Three had picked up one of the assault rifles and was running toward the house.

  My muscles trembled with fatigue as I aimed the bow and tracked the moving target with the crosshairs and gambled my life with one final shot.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 27

  Nicholas escaped from Orange Park Medical Center. I got the call early this morning. Hospital security searched the entire building and the surrounding campus, but they could not find him. Now the police are involved. I told them to call me the minute they locate him, no matter what time of day or night it is. So far, nothing.

  The nurses are in trouble—the nurse assigned to Nicholas, the charge nurse, and the nursing supervisor. Nicholas had been Baker Acted. There was supposed to be a sitter in the room at all times, making sure he didn’t try to go anywhere. This never should have happened.

  I’m so worried about my darling.

  I drove to the studio earlier, and to the Airstream, but there were no signs he’d been at either place. Yesterday, I contacted all his students and let them know that their guitar lessons were suspended until further notice. All of them seemed concerned, but I didn’t go into any detail. Nicholas would not want them to know that he is mentally ill. I’m sure of that.

  Jet called a while ago and asked if I would like to have a late lunch/early dinner with her, and then give her a ride home afterward. She was on her way to her physical therapy appointment, via county transportation, so I agreed to pick her up at the clinic and go to lunch from there. Her treat, she said, because I had been so nice to her these past few weeks. It made me feel good to know she appreciates me. Those are the best words a nurse can hear.