Matt squinted. Walton had turned the back of his right hand to Matt. He was pointing to a large, chunky ring on his right index finger.
“A ring?”
“Not just any ring. Got a skull on it, with garnets for eyes. And it says ‘RAHOWA’ on the side. Worth a lot of money, this is.”
I bet, Matt thought. He’d seen junk like that in head shops on sale for twelve bucks. The word garnet always had two Ts and was followed by a copyright sign. “So that ring’s why you’re here?”
“No.” Walton slapped his hands down on the Adirondack armrests. “I’m here because for the first time in my life I’m worth something to somebody.”
Matt stared at him, then looked down at the ground swaying gently far beneath his feet. He felt a little seasick. A few comebacks came to mind, but what was the point? Suddenly his contempt for the kid dissolved into pity. Matt came from a small town, too, but his home was like Seattle compared to Wittman. Matt thought of the rusted-out trailer parks he’d passed on the way in, tried to imagine what it would have been like, growing up in a home where you were never given a single thing, going to a school where shame over your disability made you drop out. Then, when you’re rootless, without hope, living out of a truck, some published “author” comes along and tells you there’s a secret about you that no one knows: that you’re not only as good as everyone else, you’re superior…special…chosen. And all you have to do to embrace your destiny is put on a ring, get a gun, move in, eat up, and get ready for the racial holy war.
Hell, Matt thought. When you’ve got nothing else going for you…
“Hey, Walt.” Sig had appeared. “I can’t get the Internet to work. Would you take a look?”
“Yeah, okay.” Walton got up, walked passed Sig. “Keep an eye on him, though,” he said, jabbing his thumb at Matt. “I don’t wanna be the one to tell Mr. Kingman that he busted his head tryin’ to climb down.”
“Sure, sure,” Sig said, watching him leave. When the deck door shut, Sig watched it for a second, and then slowly, slowly turned to Matt.
And just like that, Matt knew he was in trouble.
“Havin’ a good time, bud?”
“Absolutely.” Matt noticed that Sig was carrying a duffel bag. For some reason, he knew this was bad news.
“You givin’ my buddy Walt flack?” Sig swaggered up to the control console and leaned against it with a deliberate casualness.
“Nope.”
“Hope not. You two get your panties in a twist, and I’ll have to separate you. Put you to bed. Sing you a lullaby.” He looked over his shoulder. Seeing no one, he put his hand casually on the control panel. He gave Matt a weird, lopsided grin. “Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?”
Matt stared at him. “Not…really.”
“Well, too goddamn bad. I gotta do something to keep myself awake. So here goes.” And he made an ah-ah-ah-ahem sound, like an opera singer getting ready for rehearsal.
Matt wasn’t liking any of this. And that was before he heard the song.
Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When he sang the word rock, Sig flicked the switch on and off, and Matt’s sky chair lurched forward and then jerked backward, nearly spilling him off the wooden-slatted seat.
“Hey!” Matt yelled, “Cut it out!”
But Sig just kept singing.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come Cahill, cradle and all.
On the final word, Sig quickly flipped the switch on and off again three times. The still-rocking chair snapped back and forth so wildly that Matt fell out—and the only thing keeping him from the muddy slope twenty feet below was the fact that his left hand snagged the cold aluminum bar that served as the sky chair’s footrest. He clung to it, feet sweeping the air, clutching his ax in his free hand.
Matt’s heart pounded like a trip-hammer. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.
“What’s it look like, Matt?” Sig drawled as he flipped the Airlift switch back into the on position and climbed into the first available sky chair. “I’m switching sides. I’m gonna join the winning team. And you’re gonna be my peace offerin’, just to make sure I get a warm welcome.”
Matt watched in horror as their sky chairs creaked away from the lodge and over the electric fence that protected Kingman’s camp from the rebel militia. His right arm ached painfully as he twisted in the cold night breeze. He attempted a one-armed pull-up and gave up immediately with a gasp. Not gonna happen.
“Hot damn!” Sig crowed from the sky chair swaying fifteen feet behind Matt’s. “That didn’t take long! Lookit them swarm! And they even brought their puppy dogs with ‘em!”
Matt craned his neck to look down the slope. His heart nearly stopped as he saw the headlamps of a big ATV come to life. With a roar, the vehicle began climbing the steep slope toward them, followed by four barking pit bulls.
“I hear they only feed them pits every three days, Matt,” Sig cackled. “How long you think it takes for them to strip a fella to the bone?”
A fury released in Matt, white hot at its core.
“Let’s find out,” he said, and switched hands so that his left gripped the cold footrest bar, freeing his right.
Sig shook his head, grinning. “Can’t say’s I see much of an improvement there, Cahill. After all, your right hand’s probably the strongest.”
“It is,” Matt gasped, picking up the ax with his free hand. “See?”
And he flung the ax.
With a shout, Sig recoiled from the humming disk of wood and iron that slashed toward him through the darkness.
The moon glinted off the spinning blade as it sailed harmlessly over the militiaman’s head.
But Matt hadn’t been aiming for Sig.
CHANK!
The blade bit deeply into the thin aluminum brace that connected the sky chair to its cable.
Chopped it in half.
With a loud squeal, the sky chair seat went from horizontal to vertical.
With a louder squeal, Sig toppled off and fell shrieking to the muddy slope twenty feet below them.
He didn’t go alone. Agitated by his fall, the cable joggled wildly—too wildly for Matt’s sweat-slick hand. Seconds later his fingers slid free of the footrest bar, and he, too, plummeted toward the hill below.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ka-THUNK.
The bad news was that Matt fell twenty feet onto a mudslick slope.
The good news was that that the ski slope was rated “black diamond,” and was so steep that instead of breaking Matt’s back, it merely knocked the wind out of him.
The bad news was that as soon as he hit its steep, slushy surface, Matt began to slide helplessly toward the blazing eyes of the ATV below, which lit the backs of the four charging, snarling pit bulls.
Gasping, Matt clawed helplessly for purchase, to no avail. The barking was getting closer.
Come on, come on!
Flipping onto his stomach, Mattjammed his fingers into the ground, digging ten furrows in the soft, slick earth. He began to slow.
Thank God. He groaned in relief.
But the groan morphed into a shout of surprise as Sig, sliding past him, snagged his ankle, dragging Matt down faster toward the brightening glare of the ATV.
“Sig, what the hell are you doing—?”
“Thought that was obvious,” Sig laughed over the rabid barking, his free right hand lifting up a familiar slant of blond wood, topped with an iron blade. “I’m gonna chop you into Kibbles ‘n Bits.”
He had Matt’s ax!
“Wrong answer.” As Sig slammed the blade down, Matt jerked his leg back. With a wet kutch sound the blade missed Matt’s ankle by six inches——and chopped off Sig’s left hand at the wrist.
Sig’s eyes bugged and he let out a scream as Matt grabbed the ax handle and pounded the sole of his Carhartt against Sig’s forehead, driving him down the slope
and into the snarling shadows of the four pits.
Matt struggled awkwardly to his feet. The ATV headlights nearly blinded him, but he could see enough to tell that two of the pit bulls had begun dismantling Sig, whose screams were swiftly devolving into wet gurgles.
But the other two dogs had taken a pass on the onehanded militiaman.
Were midair.
Were on him.
Massive jaws clamped onto Matt’s elbow. He kicked the beast in the gut and it released with a grunt. Pulled the ax free and lifted it just in time for the second dog’s jaws to snap onto the wooden handle. The dog’s face was so close to Matt’s that its wet nose brushed his own. Matt slung the ax to the side, flinging the dog back down the slope.
Crunch.
Followed by panicked yelps.
He whipped around. The ATV had ploughed over both Sig and the dogs that fed on him and was now just twenty feet away and closing fast.
Matt tried to run but he could barely stand. The slope was too steep, too muddy.
Fifteen feet.
Ten.
Five.
The roar was ungodly. The blaze of its lights was like looking into the sun.
But suddenly, that bright blaze silhouetted a thin black strip that seemed to drop down out of nowhere. Matt stared at it stupidly as the ATV bore down on him. And only when he heard the words “Be grabbing on, bee-otch” did he realize what it was (a chain), and what to do (grab it—now).
He did.
Immediately, he was hauled off his feet. He looked down to see the black, spiked, RAHOWA’d hood of the ATV roar harmlessly beneath him. Baldy’s jigsaw face gaped in amazement to see Matt levitate out of harm’s way. As he passed above, Matt drove the steel toe of his Carhartt into the guy’s brow and watched his head snap backward. The ATV slewed off to the side and began the long sideways slide down the black-diamond slope.
Matt looked up. He was rising swiftly toward the sky chair, in which two shadows awaited, one small and one huge. The huge one silently pulled on the slim chain that Matt clutched, hand-over-hand lifting Matt up with no more effort than a fisherman reeling in a small perch.
Squatting next to him, his painted black lips peeled back in delight, Arkady, the smaller shadow, let out a woodpecker laugh and chanted, “Busting rhymes like a chef break eggs, I am having mad skills like a frat got kegs. Yo, G, be speaking truth: Jasha and me, we saved ya like a savior, right?”
“Word,” Matt said, grinning, as he rose toward the stars.
As the sky chair was pulled by the squealing cable back toward the lodge, Matt’s eyes left the welcome sight of the half dozen militiamen gathered around the control box, their sniper scopes scouring the hillside, and turned to his two companions.
Jasha, the silent giant, took up the entire sky chair, and the cable groaned beneath his weight. Matt, panting with fatigue, sat on one of his huge thighs like a kid in Santa’s lap.
Arkady perched on the sky chair’s armrest, his eyes bright with chaos, his grin a white, maniacal slit separating the black-painted lips. His thick blond dreads gave off a funky cocktail of greasepaint, ganja, and something brown.
“I want to…thank you guys,” Matt panted. “Wish I had something to give you, but I’m broke as a joke.” Jeez, he thought. He’s even got me rhyming now.
“No need, my brutha in arms. ‘Cause we just paying you back for playing it straight up for our little sis, right, Jasha?”
Jasha, his eyes covered by his bowl cut, said nothing. Then he did. Or rather, his lips moved, though no sound came out.
But Arkady didn’t have any trouble understanding him. He nodded and rattled off something in Russian. Jasha then pulled a necklace off his neck and held it toward Matt.
“My bro, he be wishing to give you something.”
Matt looked closer. It was a long loop of leather with a three-inch bear claw hanging from it. He took it, felt the tip of the claw. Razor sharp. “Thanks,” he said. “But why the
gift?”
“Is not a gift, yo? Is being like a trade.”
Matt looked from Arkady to Jasha. “A trade? For what?”
“My brother, he is wanting your ankle bracelet.”
“Ankle bracelet?” Matt stared at him blankly. “I don’t wear a…” He looked down.
And almost threw up.
Wrapped tightly around his ankle, ragged and red, was Sig’s hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“It seems I owe you an apology, Matt.”
“Please.” Matt held up a still-shaking hand, blocking out Charles Kingman’s face, which he couldn’t bear to look at. “No apologies necessary.” His voice was thick was sarcasm. He winced as Roma, who was sitting next to him on the bed, wiped the blood off his brow with a wet towel.
“If it’s any consolation, Sig’s defection was completely unforeseeable. He was one of my most trusted—”
“Oh, give me a break.” Matt lowered his hand, glared at Kingman. “It isn’t a consolation. I’m not consoled, Chuck. I talked to that freak for five minutes, and I wouldn’t have trusted him to take out my garbage. You want to give me consolation? Pick up the fucking phone, call 911, and get some police out here so I can get the hell out without getting shot or run over or eaten alive. Or is that too much to ask?
“Unfortunately”—Kingman pursed his pointy lips and steepled his fingers—”it is.”
Matt stared at him in disbelief. “What?!”
Kingman sighed heavily. “You see, as of fifteen minutes ago, Alastair activated a scrambler, so we have lost the ability to access the Internet or make cell phone calls.”
Matt couldn’t think of anything to say. He just sat there, feeling his heart start to pound like he was still back on the hill with the ATV bearing down on him. “So what’s the game plan?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Kingman sat down next to Matt, setting an open laptop on his knee. “This is the game plan.”
The laptop screen was split into four quadrants, each of which contained a live video feed. In the upper right-hand corner of each was an all-caps digital identifier. THOR’s quadrant showed a dim, grainy view of branches being slowly pushed aside by a gloved hand. LOKI’s quadrant showed a worm’s-eye view of a sun-bleached deadfall being crawled over by someone with Mylar boots. ODIN’s showed a night-vision view from halfway up a tree. And FREYA’s showed the muzzle of an AK-47 brushing aside prickly loops of wild raspberry brambles.
“Four of our best remaining militia,” Kingman said proudly, gesturing to the screen. “Each one a master of invisible reconnaissance. All of them sent out by me through a secret opening in the electric barrier to steal covertly past Alastair’s forces, make their way into town, and alert the authorities. I expect them to fulfill their directive by dawn.”
“Sure. Great.” Matt kneaded his temples with one hand. What a fucking nightmare. Then something occurred to him. A separate set of words he’d seen on that very laptop, just before everything went to hell.
He looked up. “So, Charles—you said ‘by dawn,’ right? How’s that jibe with the message that Alastair sent you an hour ago—the one that said ‘BY MIDNIGHT TONIGHT OR ELSE’?”
Matt had seen footage before of sharks, how before they went in for the first bite, a nictitating membrane slid over their eyes to protect them from blood and viscera. Something weirdly similar happened to Kingman as his eyes glazed over. His reassuring smile became tight, became fake. Slowly his ancient head rotated ‘til it faced Roma.
“Roma, my dear, I’d like to speak to Mr. Cahill privately now.”
Without a word, she stood up and strode lithely out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Matt stared wistfully after her, already missing her gentle touch, her humanizing presence.
Once the door had closed, Kingman set the laptop on the bed, rose to his feet, and began to pace.
“Alastair’s message, Mr. Cahill, is simply a bluff. My forces may have deserted, but they would not dare attack the compound. They simply need time to pr
ocess the fact that Roma’s presence here is not a rejection of my life’s work, but its fulfillment. Which is obvious, when you understand her actual ancestry.” He paused and gestured toward Matt with a professorial gesture. “Let me ask you this: do you remember the section in my book where I explained the origin of the Aryan race?”
“I think I may have skipped that chapter.”
“Pity. In it, I clarify a common misconception; namely, that all Aryans are merely “white people.” In fact, Aryans are those who are directly descended from the Ob-Ugrians, the Uralic branch of the Indo-European family tree. The Ob-Ugrians migrated to Europe from northeastern Siberia. They conquered wherever they went, going as far west as Ireland and Iceland and as far south as Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and northern India. In all these places they subjugated the lesser races and created great works of art and architecture and mighty civilizations.”
“Is that a fact.” Matt’s head was beginning to pound. Keep him talking. “So you’re saying that all the people from Dublin to Tehran are Aryan?”
“Were Aryan, Matt—were, until they intermingled with the blood of Picts, Huns, Semites, and Subcontinentals, and so bastardized their pure bloodline through miscegenation. A process that I, in choosing my bride, have chosen to reverse.”
Matt just stared at him. “And how do you reverse…”
“Would it surprise you to know that lovely Roma is not only Aryan, but a princess of the proto-Aryan Nivkh tribe? That she was born in the northeastern tip of Russia, on Sakhalin Island at the mouth of the Amur River, the very cradle of Aryanism? That she herself, at the age of seventeen, on May Day, like her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother before her, was ritually married to Ursus Major, the Great Bear god? Making her, in essence, a goddess of Aryanism?” Behind his rimless glasses, Kingman’s eyes gleamed with madness, and spittle had collected in the corner of his mouth. The red, wormlike fissures beneath his skin squirmed and darkened with every word.
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